Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Floofpaper (floofinition) – 1. Essay, blog post, circular, or information site focused on information pertaining to animals.
In use: “Perhaps inspiring greater interest in animals and their treatment and rights, many digital floofpapers have sprung up on the net.”
2. A paper put down for an animal’s use, or taken over by an animal.
In use: “Many people discover that as soon as they open a newspaper on the table or floor, a pet — especially a cat — will turn it into a floofpaper.”
Stumbled across this post I wrote about future uncertainty in 2017. Bannon is gone from the WH. The novel coronavirus pandemic has heightened the uncertainty surrounding many of my other future uncertainties. I’d say that time will tell, but given what’s happened, it’ll take a long time to resolve these future uncertainties.
Steve Bannon faces some future uncertainty. Comments by the POTUS caused the uncertainty.
I feel for Mr. Bannon. His dire situation prompts me to confess: I, too, face an uncertain future.
I’ve been uncertain about whether to go public with my future uncertainty, but my uncertainty has been mounting. I’m so uncertain about my future, I’m not certain what I’ll have for lunch, or whether I’ll have a beer tonight. I’m also uncertain about the source of pain in my head. I’m uncertain about whether the current W.H. occupant will start a nuclear war or another American Civil War.
I know that I’m not alone in my future uncertainties. People are uncertain if they can find something to eat today or a safe place to sleep. They’re uncertain that they can survive another day of pain. Black Americans are often uncertain whether they’ll survive a traffic stop. Police officers are…
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Listening to the news from various places but mostly the U.S., I’m hearing a lot of calls to open up businesses and start up the economy. I thought they needed theme music. I’m recommended the Rolling Stones with “Start Me Up” (1981).
As a point of order, I’m not in favor of most places in the U.S. starting up. Insufficient testing is in place, tracing has huge gaps, and not enough is known about COVID-19 at this point. It seems like many places are taking a shrugged shoulders, fingers crossed, half-assed approach. While plans don’t need to be perfect, half-assed rarely succeeds. History will be our judge.
Check out the moves from Jagger.
Mötley Floof (floofinition) – American heavy floof band originating in Floof Angeles.
In use: “With songs like “Doctor Feelfloof” and “Barfin’ in the Boys Room”, Mötley Floof has sold over 100 million albums worldwide.”
Medifloof (floofinition) – 1. Animal who cares for sick animals.
In use: “The big Saint Bernard was a natural medifloof, staying beside sick and injured cats, birds, and dogs, comforting, cleaning, and protecting them until they were recovered.”
2. Internet slang for veterinarian or animal medical assistants or techs.
In use: “PJ (Pearl Jam, sometimes just Pearl or Jam) was acting listless and not eating, which was worrisome for an animal who are eight to ten times a day, forcing Craig to take PJ to the medifloof.”
I sit down to write each day with little idea of what’s going to happen. This terrifies me.
Then I read a sentence or two of what I’ve written the day before, sometimes a little more, and the story takes off. In the space of ninety minutes to two hours, I’ll add two to three thousand more words, then stop and edit a little. Few changes are required; the story is coming to me so fully complete, I’m just the typist.
I know where and how the story started and where it’s supposed to be going. I lack all clues about how to get it there. I just followed the muses. They’ve presented this character that I don’t understand. He’s erratic. I know the reasons he’s erratic, as more of his backstory comes to me after I’ve written about him. After I write, I walk away and think, why did he do that? What’s wrong with him? He’s so inconsistent, I worry about it; I want to fix that, and make him consistent. But I suspect that if I attempt to fix him, he’ll just stop and the muses will walk away.
So…I let it ride, accepting my role as typist. The story sometimes entertains me, but more often baffles me. I’m writing mostly to see what happens next.
It’s a weird, odd role, being the typist. I know some writers insist that what I’m describing is complete bullshit, muses and characters don’t just take over.
Yeah, but here I am, with my coffee, about to do it again. It really is writing like crazy. It’s gotten me to seventy-seven pages so far. Guess I’ll just hang on and try to enjoy the ride.
Onward.
Don’t recall what was going on earlier in this dream – it’s all hazy and splintered – but I reached a point where I sat down to eat.
It was dark, with strings of colored lights overhead. I was seated at a long table with many other people. (I seemed to know them all but didn’t recognize anyone from my life.) Someone set a plate down in front of me. On it was this huge, loaded cheeseburger, along with a salad, and some onion rings. Laughing and talking with others, I took a big bite. OMG, it was so good. I was very happy.
Then, in a dream shift, eating was over. I was in another room, my wife beside me. Sitting in a little conversation nook, we were chatting with friends (no one from my rea world). My wife and I jumped up and suggested that we take their girls to get ice cream. The friends were surprised. They asked their daughters if they wanted to go. The little girls declined.
My wife and I went out and got ice cream. Sitting down on a brick wall in sunshine, we began eating, but we were disappointed that the little girls didn’t come. As I was eating my berry-flavored ice cream, I saw one of the little girls. She was inside, watching through a window. I went back in and asked her if she wanted ice cream.
The dream ended.
I was ravenous when I woke up. Still am.
Stumbled down nostalgia lane this morning. Probably a combination of mood, weather, and personal struggles, the sort of thing that sometimes takes most of us. It ended up with a stream of what I used to do and used to be. That invited the 2008 Coldplay song, “Viva La Vida”, into my morning’s mental music stream.
It’s not a dance number but the way the song’s layers build always rouses me. It is at once a contemplative and reflective song about what had been, and a song that reinforces my will about what I will do. Does anyone else experience an effect like that? No? Well, maybe it’s the coffee.
