Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
He and I ramble
He, holding onto a leash
Me, allowing him
Tummy being rubbed
Unleashes a primal urge
The hand is attacked
Machfloofnations (floofinition) – 1. A housepet’s scheming or crafty action or artful design intended to accomplish some end; 2. People’s scheming or crafty action to deal with a housepet.
In use: “Every time Bo saw Papi leave through the pet door, the big black cat would run over and lie down in front of it so Papi couldn’t return, part of the machfloofnations Bo employed to keep the little ginger out of the house.”
Warning the squirrels
Fantasizing about birds
A day as a floof
I was streaming this song this morning as I walked through the damp early day. Weather, like many things in life, is on a spectrum of several sliding scales. Weak sunshine was trying to warm us up but had a long way to go, and the wind was being coy about which way it’d blow.
Love and relationships are other spectrums of existence. When you meet someone who attracts you sexually or stimulates you mentally, where will it go? It’s not usually a steady movement. Sometimes it all works, and it comes together, and then…their spectrum shifts. Suddenly, you find that they’re no longer in love with you. They’re having an affair. Although they haven’t told you, they’re moving on.
And you find it out in an unplanned way that sears your heart and numbs your senses.
This song tells a story of one such slide along the spectrum, the part of the spectrum after discovering the betrayal, the part where you’re trying to find a way to go on.
Dean Lewis, “Be Alright”, 2018.
Flooflist (floofinition) – 1. shopping list for items required to buy for housepets. 2. A list, record, index, or advertisement of animals available for fostering, rescue, lost, or found.
In use: “Each day, she perused flooflists from regional shelters, searching for her lost dog, but had no luck. However, she fell in love with one mature, unwanted dog and decided that she would adopt him. The day after he moved in, her lost dog, Esmerelda, returned.”
This one is from last year. One chorus is streaming on loop this morning.
Mama said don’t give up, it’s a little complicated
All tied up, no more love and I’d hate to see you waiting
[Chorus]
Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Shooting for the stars when I couldn’t make a killing
Didn’t have a dime but I always had a vision
Always had high, high hopes
Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Didn’t know how but I always had a feeling
Yes, it’s Panic! At the Disco with “High Hopes”.
He’s seven feet tall and chalky white with an unlined face. The sandy hair that’s swept to one side never seems shorter or longer. His eyes are as black and soulless as the eyes I’ve seen on a shark when I was underwater in a cage. They’re eyes that don’t judge or care; they only see.
This is what he is. His long fingers with their trimmed, polished nails lack whorls and ridges. Blinking seems beyond him. Speaking isn’t done, nor is touching. He’s always wearing the same blue jeans, sandals, and black and red flannel shirt. Smiles, as are other expressions, never find his face.
My friend, Emily, calls him a white hole, a person who takes everything in and puts nothing back out. True, except for his piano playing. When he sits and plays, we hear songs that seem to transcend our existence. When he’ll play, what he’ll play, why he play, these things are more mysteries. He shows up, and stands beside the piano until he’s given leave to play. Then he plays, and then he leaves. If we’re fortunate, we’re there to hear.
That’s why I decided that I needed to follow him. I wanted to know where he lives and who he was. It wasn’t my first mistake in life, but it was my biggest.
Michael Seidel, writer 