Centrifloofgal

Centrifloofgal (floofinition) – Proceeding or acting in a direction toward an animal that is the center or axis for all activities.

In use: “Many households organize along centrifloofgal patterns as pets (and their relationships) to their people dictate (or limit) plans.”

“Centrifloofgal force often stalled laundry days as pets climbed into baskets of freshly-laundered clothes and napped, too sweet to be disturbed.”

Thursday’s Theme Music

It was a rainy night so I started humming the Eurythmics song, “Here Comes the Rain Again” (1983). So sorry they broke up but bands have their own cycles of life, death, and creation.

I enjoyed the construction and sensibilities of these lines in the song:

Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion

I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you?

h/t Metrolyrics.com

I happened to be walking in the open wind and remembering walking in the rain, alone, something that I enjoy. A sharp cold wind was knifing across my cheeks, and I breathed it all in with joy, satisfaction, and nostalgia. Then the clouds broke and there was that brill full moon, coming on like a spotlight. With clouds skipping past the moon’s surface and the wind quickening, it seemed like the moon sprinted across the sky, a trick of the mind. Clouds closed over the moon, and the rain came again.

Is it raining with you?

Coffee House Rules

My home office is a comfortable place. Got a big desk, chair, books, all that stuff, with easy access to the kitchen and coffee.

You’d think it’d be ideal for writing. Cats, spouse, neighbors, and generalities seem to conspire against it working. If I had to name one as the greatest offense, the cats would take the spot. They’re like, “Hey, I hear him typing. I better go put a stop to that by getting on his lap or the keyboard.” (This is called an interflooftion.) Just doesn’t work for me.

So I like coffee houses for my writing endeavors. I abandoned my previous favorite (management changes, and they treated former employees (who are family) like garbage, so I’m gone). The search was on, causing me to remind myself what I was looking for. Also, people ask me, “What are you looking for in a coffee shop for your writing?” or “Why do you go there?”

So — no order, really, but numbered for convenience.

  1. Tables with chairs and access to outlets.
  2. Good coffee.
  3. Some space.
  4. Decent prices.
  5. Location – must be in Ashland, OR.
  6. General ambiance.

A nice staff also helps but I must say, in fourteen years of frequenting Ashland’s coffee houses, I’ve not encountered a nice (code for friendly and engaging) staff.

These are subjective things. (Right? Most things are.)  I settled on Noble’s after trying a few places. Noble’s has all of the above (plus excellent scones and muffins (although I try not to indulge, right?) except their coffee costs one dollar more. After deciding on the place, though, I then had to pay attention to its ebb and flow, cause, you know, those tables, chairs, outlets, and space aren’t unlimited.

As with most places, you either must arrive early (typically before 8:30) to beat the morning rush. The next break generally arrives at ten. With Noble’s, I found the best time to arrive for my writing is 11:30 AM. The place empties. Most tables (with outlets) are available, so I have a choice of places. There’s then a forty-minute lull before they experience a lunch rush. I can settle in and write for a few hours. It’s great.

The start time pushes back my time, so I need to adjust either ends. Of course, this is winter; things will be different in other times of the year.

It probably won’t surprise you, but I ran into friends everywhere I went in to have coffee and write. (“Oh, you’re writing here now?”)

Alright now. Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Butterfloof

Butterfloof (floofinition) – 1. An animal with fur the color of butter (also known as butterfur).

In use: “Everyone who saw the cat exclaimed, “What color is his fur?” To which she replied with a pleased smile, “He’s a butterfloof.” That explained it all.”

2. An animal which enjoys flitting from flower to flower.

In use: “Exploring, the puppy was a butterfloof, going about the backyard and sniffing everything that he found, pausing with each as if he was savoring new knowledge.”

3. Animals who enjoy the taste of butter.

In use: “A true butterfloof, the cat would hunt down anything that was buttered and begin consuming it. One had to be on constant guard.”

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Checking out a faded stop sign, I thought, man, that thing has lost almost all its color. If it wasn’t for its shape, I wouldn’t know what it is. So, yea for the shape of a stop sign, serving its purpose to let you know what it is in all sorts of conditions.

Winding along the road further down, I thought that I’d been on that road a few times the past week, chuckling to myself about it. Between that thought and the sign, the Sheryl Crow song, “Every Day Is A Winding Road” (1996), crept into my thinking stream.

Yeah, every day is a winding road. Few stay as straightforward as planned. I always think of going with the changes and shifts as, riding the wave of the day. I’d like to think the roads are taking me somewhere, but sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in the Dichotomy Paradox, where you keep going half the distance left to go, but never get to the end. In theory, it’s impossible because a journey would then take an infinite number of steps and never end.

Yeah, that pretty well sums up my publishing efforts.

 

The Waves Dream

Dreams last night were like energetic kittens wrestling and playing: lot of action and motion, and not too linear. 

But one sequence’s sharp focus overpowered memories of the rest. I’d gone upstairs in a house to shave. We lived by the ocean on a bluff. Wanting to look out at the day (and the sea), I raised a white blind. When I did, I saw a huge blue wave breaking. The wave was the windows height, and splashed against the glass. Startled by its height, I lowered the blind and left the room.

Rushing downstairs, I told my wife about the huge wave. It impressed because our house was set back from the bluff’s edge by over twenty feet. For the wave to travel across that distance and still break on the second story window was amazing.

I ran back up the stairs to the bathroom. Raising the blind again gave me time to see another enormous bright blue wave racing toward me. Taller than the last, I realized it was going to break over the house.

Before I could close the sash, the wave broke. The house shuddered with the impact. I expected the window to break, but it didn’t. Halfway through shaving, I went to check on the property. Everything seemed fine, except my car, a 1968 Chevrolet Camaro, was gone. The wave took it, I thought. Other than those enormous waves, it wasn’t storming, but calm.

That dream sequence ended.

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