Sundry Sunday

  1. Typing with one hand is a challenge. Fortunately, my right hand is dominant, and it’s okay. Also fortunately, this isn’t permanent. Tedious process, though. Seven hundred words a day is my current limit. Meanwhile, the muses are running amuck with story ideas. I considered (and haven’t discarded) the idea of writing with a pen in a notebook. Anything to keep the tales moving, hey?
  2. Haven’t been drinking coffee. First, wanted to rest and sleep. Second, read to avoid caffeine to promote healing broken bones. So, no coffee, no alcohol, and no chocolate. Had dropped the latter from my diet after I discovered what it does to my prostate. Thinking about drinking coffee tomorrow, as I’m weaning myself off the Percocet. Only had one Perc today, three yesterday. Four are prescribed.
  3. My walking has declined. Been spending most of my time abed. Reached eight thousand steps for the last three days, ten thousand on the last two. I have a long way to go.
  4. Poor spouse. She’s doing such a terrific job, doing everything, and complaining. This is my fifth trauma in our fifty years together (boyfriend and hubby). In order, cut off tip of my toe, mono, broken neck, dislocated wrist, and this. She should’ve vetted me better. In fairness, I had mono when stationed in the Philippines, and she wasn’t with me. One trauma a decade average; is that normal?
  5. The cats on that first night and morning were so sweet. I usually feed them. With daybreak, I asked my wife to do that, but the cats refused to go and eat. She brought the food in to them. Nope; they weren’t eating. Wasn’t till I got up a few hours later that they ate. Number one and two cat continued to stay with me through the day. Their loyalty and concern flatters me.
  6. I feel for the rest of America, enduring a heat wave. Our temps are brushing ninety in Ashland, quite bearable, as night temps fall into the mid-fifties.

Wednesday: Four Things

  1. The weather continues to provide talking points. The temperature been as up and down as a roller coaster this year, and often plays the contrarian. Today’s high on July first, when we normally anticipate nineties and beyond, will be seventy-seven. Not that we’re complaining; just commenting. It’ll be a good day to paint some more walls once I’ve finished my writing.
  2. My annual urology follow up went well yesterday. Peed fine, no issues. All this was initiated by some trouble in peckerville traced to enlarge prostate in previous years. No follow up actions required. I’ve tried to become more mindful as I’ve matured. Now I’m being more mindful in my peeing. Of course, my mind must riff on the old Caddy Shack Ty Webb (Chevy Chase) meme: “Be the ball.” I’m trying to be the pee.
  3. I think one of the reasons for my success with peeing was decreasing my sodium levels. I was diagnosed with very high blood pressure (230/130) during my pecker issues. I’d noticed my sodium was a little high on my blood work (141 mmol/L), so I began checking out sodium levels of whatever I was eating. Definitely an OMG experience. Can’t believe the amount of sodium in processed foods, condiments, salad dressings, and the like. The sodium in canned soup was at surreal levels. So was anything with cheese and any sauces. After reading and verifying it on my blood test results, I recognized that I also needed to increase my potassium levels. Learning that magnesium can draw sodium out, I also increased my magnesium levels (hello, bananas!). The other thing that I’d learned affecting my enlarged prostate gland was chocolate. When I ate more than a little chocolate, my stream diminished. So, chocolate was severely curtailed. Another negative influencer is gluten. Controlling my gluten intake and monitoring it, I verified to my own mind that gluten causes me to bloat and swell. The final element was increasing my water to help flush sodium out. Amazing how it’s all interconnected. I appreciate having the net to help me learn, and sites like WebMD.
  4. Cautious Independence Day planning is afoot. Friends have a tradition of consuming root beer floats while watching the fireworks from their deck. They like us; we like root beer floats, so we’ve become part of their tradition. Looks like we’ll do it again this year, while social distancing, just three couples. There will be floats, but not fireworks.

Got my coffee. Ready to write, but the first requirement will be to update the bible for The Constant, which is the current novel-in-progress. Then I’ll write like crazy, at least one more time.

The Restaurant Dream

What I remember of this vivid string of dreams began with me at home. This home wasn’t one that I’ve ever lived in, but a big, rambling, new place.

My cats were busy being cats but the neighbor’s cat broke in. She ate, which didn’t bother me, but then peed on the floor. I had to chase her down and put her out.

(Note: this has a lot of foundation in real life. The neighbor’s cat used to have free reign, but now, on her last legs, has constant runs, so she’s banned, the poor dear.)

Back to the dream, where my wife is in another room bathing. She’s hollering through the wall, something about how she can’t finish because I’m doing something. I don’t understand at all. Trying to communicate with her wearies me. I flee to my car.

It’s a black sports car. The day is gray and overcast, a sky associated with rainstorms. I drive to a winding section of road in a small town, park and enter a restaurant. It’s a busy old place. The waitresses are young and friendly. I order and eat (nothing that I remember) and then drink a cup of coffee. I’ve been chatting with the waitresses throughout. As I’m waiting for the bill, a woman comes over and asks me out. Surprises me. While she’s attractive, I decline, telling her, I’m married.

I get my bill. There are few customers left. Most are in line to pay. A long line, all the people in line are men. The cash register is on a small knoll outside. It’s a crazy-looking system. For some reason, I now put on my shoes. As I’m doing this, a waitress comes over and chats with me. Then she asks me out. Flattered, I decline. She’s probably a third of my age. I ask her where she would’ve taken me. She tells me to see a movie, Dora. We laugh about that and talk about that movie.

The staff asks if I can help them move some things and clean because the restaurant is changing locations tomorrow. Although I have things to do and don’t want to help, I do what I can. It’s only a few things, and there’s still a line to pay.

The line winds down. I take my leave and go to pay. The owner is the cashier. I hand him my bill, which is on a clipboard. He shows me a receipt and tells me, “It’s already been paid.”

Well, cool. I don’t know how or when, but I’m thankful. There’s no clues on the receipt, and everyone is now gone.

I return to my car. It’s still a gray day. The car is blocked in by trucks. I figure if I back up a hill, I can then leave by going down the other side of a hill. I don’t know how I figured that out. But when I go do make that maneuver, I discover my car is facing the right way. All I do is release the brake and put in the clutch and I’m going down a hill and onto the road, on my way. I do so with truckers standing around, watching me.

I drive off. The dream ends.

Diversity Fail

Saw an article today: “Friends Creator Marta Kauffman Tearfully Says She ‘Didn’t Do Enough’ for Diversity”.

No kidding, right? Black characters were few on that show. Past that, though, I thought, now there’s a timely sitcom: “Diversity Fail”. It would be about all the ways that diversity fails, and would feature a diverse cast, not just of races, but sexual identities and genders, sexual preferences and fluidity, and religion. It’d be a broad, rambling show focused on one person struggling to grasp it all without offending everyone. I’m thinking it’s more like “Fleabag” than “Friends”, though.

Got to stop thinking about it. It’s a distraction to the novel in progress. I’m already distracting myself with side stories trying to understand my characters. Gotta get more coffee. Then it’s back to writing like crazy, at least for a while longer.

Annual Week in Review

Yes, it’s Sunday, and time again for my recurring segment, the Annual Week in Review.

In politics, shit storms continue around the world. This week, the POTUS tweeted about Obamagate, an expression never heard or seen until the POTUS’ tweets, leaving everyone baffled about WTF he was talking about.

Arguments abound about whether social-distancing, masking up, and sheltering-in-place are worthwhile. A lot of false information is being spread. Vetting everything takes time.

My 401(k) is down about six percent (fifty-five thousand) but my personal brokerage account stayed up, as I have a big chunk of Costco in it that I bought a decade ago. My wife’s 401(k) is down about twenty-five thousand. All those accounts are investments, and aren’t needed right now, so it’s an annoyance more than anything, for which we’re fortunate. I’ve checked with family to ensure they don’t need any financial help, and have given to some charities.

Personally, I’ve been painting the inside of the house. My wife has always complained that the house is too dark. Three years ago, we painted one bathroom and the guest room with Homestead Resort Parlor Taupe. It looks nothing like taupe to me, but ecru, but, you know, marketing. Pleased with the result after three years of study, we (I’m employing the couple we here) are painting more areas.

That paint color had been discontinued, so getting more of it required having the color analyzed and mixed. It worked, though, thanks to modern technology.

I began with the foyer and progressed through one hallway, usually painting three hours a day. Much of the time was spent taping the baseboards and door jambs (which are both brilliant white) to keep it all neat. (There were seven doors in the foyer and hall, including the front door) As it looks great, two more gallons of paint were ordered on Monday and picked up yesterday (which required a masked visit to Lowe’s, known locally as thunderdome). I’ll be continuing with more rooms.

Besides painting, we acquired more plants.  My wife’s initial efforts with arugula, leaf lettuce, and basil went spectacularly well. I’d already weeded, turned and fertilized the raised beds, so last Saturday, we masked up and headed to our local Grange Co-op for more plants. They were well-organized there, and over ninety percent of the people we encountered were socially respectful and distanced themselves. (Somehow, I expected that from gardeners.)

Three tomato plants (of different varieties), lemon cucumbers, and zucchini were planted in the raised bed, leaving space for us to add more. More lettuce (including our fave, Romaine) was planted in our ‘green beds’ and positioned in the sun on the patio.

I’ve also been doing yard work, trimming the trees and bushes, conducting the annual battle against blackberry brambles, weeding, and cutting the grass.

Haven’t been blogging much, because I’ve been writing a lot. With or without a global pandemic, fiction writing is my escape. I’m having fun writing like crazy each day. I often don’t know WTF I’m doing, other than following the main character’s leads. I often cringe because I don’t know where it’ll all take me, and I’m constantly learning about him. Sometimes he seems like the Hulk to me (without the green skin, and he doesn’t return to being Bruce Banner). His Qiqz addiction informs his thinking and behavior; I’m still understanding Qiqz and his origins.

Meanwhile, other surprising directions include understanding the Plies (who are people who accept a specific role in society) and the egg people (who I’m just starting to explore). Did I mention this is dystopian? Yeah, I’m drawn to dystopian fiction; to me, it offers the same large canvas of mystery and exploration that murder offers crime victims, or love offers romance writers.

I usually write three to four hours a day (although goofing off (to shift into the mood) is included in that time).

My wife cooks dinner for us six out of seven nights. I cook on the other night, and sometimes try to help in the kitchen, depending on what we’re making. I have grilled us plant-based burgers a few times, and grilled chicken for myself (she’s a vegetarian). We’re each responsible for making our own breakfast and lunch. She’s also baked for us a few times.

Exercising has been more challenging. Walking is my primary source of exercise. Before COVID-19 arose in March in our area, I was walking about ten miles a day, with eleven or twelve reached a few times a week.

I now go out walking once or twice a week, going up the southern hills where people are rarely encountered (I have a mask on when I’m doing this), but otherwise run in place in the house, or use the Stairmaster. Inspired by my cats and interested in increasing my pulse each day, I’ll do a few minutes of mad dashes, racing around the house like a crazy cat. I usually pretend that fast zombies are after me or that I’m running football pass routes. Whatever works, right? But I’m only getting about seven and a half miles per day.

I’ve had three beers to date since we began sheltering-in-place nine weeks ago, and no wine or other alcohol. Not a deliberate choice, so much as I’m not interested in drinking.

I do have a cuppa coffee each day, though.

My wife has been Zooming with others. She takes a morning exercise class three times a week and a belly dance class twice a week. She has Zoom tea with friends with one group every other week, does book club once a month with Zoom, and visits with friends catching and giving support to one another via Zoom once a week. Yeah, she’s the social side of our couplehood.

Beyond all that, I kill time. I’m working on another jigsaw puzzle, fifteen hundred pieces, featuring a Corvette. Time is spent on social media and reading blogs. I feed, groom, and play with the cats (and clean their litter box and clean up their gaks), play computer games, read books, and stream television. Streaming is down; we finished “Counterpart”, which I enjoyed, and began “Upload”. I’ve been watching “The Last Kingdom Again”, building back up to the new episodes released this year, and watched the new season of “Bosch”, and a few movies and documentaries. I read a lot of news, though. Of course, I call and chat with Mom and Dad.

We have gone on two shopping expeditions, one day to local stores, and yesterday to Costco and Trader Joe’s. Since we’re over sixty, we could have gone in during the early ‘protected’ hours; we didn’t, because we were advised otherwise. It was bad intel. If we go out again, it will be during the protected time.

Oh, yes, and we voted, by mail. By mail is the Oregon standard; it is the only way that it’s done.

That’s all from my niche of existence. I know this all sounds pretty self-congratulatory. We are damn lucky, in multiple ways that I often take for granted. Hope you’re all doing well out there in cyberland. Stay well.

That is all.

The Typist

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.

Tuesday’s Theme Music

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.

Special Edition Theme Song

Had a doughnut, thought about having another. The little devil on my shoulder started singing, “Go ahead and do it, do it, do it till you’re satisfied.” Now the 1974 B.T. Express song, “Do It ‘Til You’re Satisfied”, is stuck in my mental stream, distracting me from my writing and pushing me toward eating a second doughnut.

The doughnut does complement the coffee, though…

 

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