Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Imflooftu (floofinition) – to make a spontaneous decision to adopt an animal as a housepet.
In use: “He’d never considered himself a dog person, but the young beagle’s quiet, sad gaze initiated an imflooftu decision, and so his love affair with beagles began, with a quiet one named Single.”
Briefly, in last night’s dream, I was barefoot, but also in a blue uniform. I wouldn’t describe it as a military not a sports uniform. I thought it was a uniform because I wasn’t alone in the dream, and we were all wearing the same outfit. They didn’t numbers, ranks, or anything that distinguished one of us from another.
We were outside on lush fields of cut, dark green grass. To one side was a white building. I thought of school when I saw the whole thing, but I don’t know what it was.
I couldn’t say how many were in the fields in blue uniforms, but it seemed like a large number. Among us were people in the same uniform monitoring activities. The main activity was for us to run. We would run for about eight yards as fast as we could. As far as I could tell, no one was testing us. Someone would shout, “Run,” and we would all complete an eight yard dash. Most of us would laugh after we did it. It seemed like a lark.
This went on for a bit. I felt confused but not winded. Others were starting to complain. One observer, a black man in a blue uniform strolled past me and said, “Run.” I did. “Again,” he said. I did. “Again,” he said, circling me, saying, “Again,” after I did it.
A peer came out, a black youth in a blue uniform, but he was holding shoes. “What are you doing?” he said to me.
“Running.”
“Why? Are you practicing?”
I shook my head but didn’t say anything because I was being told, “Run,” again. I was bothered, though. Why was I alone being told to run?
The youth walked on. Alone with the observer, I asked, “Why are you having me do this?”
He said, “You’re doing more than the others but you’re not using the potential that I think you have, so I’m going to push you to do more.”
The dream ended.
A few things struck me as I thought of the dream while doing my morning activities. While I was alone running as directed, I felt conspicuous, because I was the only one the observer was telling to run, so I was the only one now running. That made me stand out, and brought attention to me. I don’t like getting attention. The whole idea of being the center of attention makes me nervous and anxious. But if I’m going to achieve my potential, I’ll need to run alone, and accept getting attention.
I wondered, though. We were only running eight yards. I thought, does that mean it’s a shorter distance than I realized? I also thought, eight is so often featured in my dreams. Then, more whimsically, I thought, I’m only going eight yards, but do I need to go the whole nine yards?
Dreams, always giving me more to think about.
Sitting down at the coffee shop to write on this Thanksgiving Day in America, I pause to give thanks for how lucky I’ve been. I frequently complain but most of these are first world blues or the general venting against how the world functions in this life-experience-reality-existence.
I could enumerate the many ways that I’ve been lucky, but I don’t think that’s needed. Little of it has been within my control. I’m thankful for the strokes of luck that made and keep me fortunate. That doesn’t mean that I’ve not had bad times, but that I’ve always been able to recover. I wish others the same sort of luck, and that you have the security and health to pursue your dreams.
Now, I have my coffee. With that brief word of thanks, it’s time to write and edit like crazy, at least one more time. Sure, it’s a holiday, but the muses gotta write.
Noifloof (floofinition) – something obnoxious or offensive to housepets; housepet activity that is offensive to people.
In use: “The garbage truck’s weekly roar was a noifloof interruption to the popuflooftion’s idyllic routines, sending the cats and dogs into anxious hiding.”
Popuflooftion (floofinition) – all the housepets in a particular home, house, or apartment.
In use: “The ranch-style home included two adults and a popuflooftion of three cats, two dogs, and one each, bird, turtle, gecko, and hamster.”
A little humor, a little Arlo Guthrie, a little Thanksgiving Thursday throwback theme tune. Pretty good alliteration, doncha’ think?
“Alice’s Restaurant” (1967).
Have you ever noticed that no matter how much you beg and plead for silence, once your stomach starts making noises, it’s just about impossible to get it to stop? You just have to wait for it to go back to sleep.
I thought I’d post a reminder to myself not to overeat, and share it with you, telling you not to overeat, if you’re celebrating Thanksgiving this Thursday. But I hear people think that’s body-shaming, so I’m going to refrain.
I was reminding myself not to overeat because it’s not good for my general physical disposition. As I’m in my sixties and know my family history on Dad’s side, cardiovascular problems challenge the males. Overeating doesn’t help, especially when it’s food that I enjoy, like cheese and buttery mashed potatoes, washed down with wine, followed by pie with ice cream and whip cream. Dad is still alive and doing well at eighty-five, but I lost a cousin to a heart-attack when he was forty-three, an uncle has had several bypasses and stents (starting in his mid-thirties), and Grandpa died of a massive coronary when he was sixty-five.
But I don’t want to body-shame anyone, especially myself, so I’m not going to remind you or me not to overeat this Thanksgiving. Of course, the one accused of body-shaming, Sarah Michelle Gellar, added a throwback lingerie shot of herself with her reminder. I’m not going to post such a photo, because I don’t have any decent shots of myself in lingerie. Something goes horribly awry with the camera whenever I take one. I don’t know why. I guess it’s fate.
I will also not mention how I grimace with guilt and sadness when I think of our Thanksgiving traditions of over-indulgence in a world and country where so many are starving and suffering, or that we’re giving thanks for being safe when so many are displaced by war and natural disasters.
Whether you overeat or not, or celebrate Thanksgiving or not, I hope you’re not one of those suffering, and you have a wonderful day today and Thursday, and hell, let’s go for broke and wish you a great life. I also hope that you don’t suffer from being body-shamed, and that you realize that you’re more than your body.
This has not been a public service announcement.
The memory stream plucked this blast from the past and delivered it straight to my head.
I don’t mind. “Golden Years” by David Bowie (1975) is a song that I enjoy. I’m going into my golden years, I’ve decided. They’re not the golden years of many people’s thinking, which translate to twilight years, but good years. Unlike the Bowie song, I’m not running for the shadows, either. Life’s taking me somewhere, angel. I’m just a hazel-eyed optimist.
