Category: coffee

What Do They Wear?

I used to sing this ditty in the evening during my corporate existence:

“What shall I wear tomorrow? What shall I wear tomorrow? What shirt should I don, what pants should I put on? Oh, what should I wear, what should I wear?” I added more verses over the months, and then some dance steps. It became a whole Gilbert and Sullivan thing.

My wife hated it. I don’t blame her. She has good taste. Her only lapse is me.

The cats also weren’t pleased, giving me the look shared when they deem the food in their bowls unworthy of being eaten.

A confrontation is happening on the Wrinkle. I’m dressing my aliens as part of the scene, as it’s their first full on appearance, forcing me to regurgitate my old song. What do my aliens wear? Novel and movie aliens I’ve known, loved and despised darted through my thinking. My aliens are pretty uniform, partly be genetic exercise, so should they be uniformed? How much clothing is sufficient clothing for these travelin’ space people?

(Could Travelin’ Space People be a punk folk group? “She was on my ship; I shot from the hip. She had four eyes; they were full of surprise.”)

Dressing aliens isn’t an easy exercise, requiring thought about the many roles clothing can play an how these roles are parlayed into their mighty structure.

I think I need more coffee for this. Add some Irish whiskey to the four shots of espresso, please. It’s time to write like mad.

5

Sex, Memory & Imagination

You’re living a long time. One hundred and five is now the average age of a human. That average is creeping up. We’re all living longer as medical technology monitors and addresses issues 24/7. People aren’t being born, and some children are being kept as children.

Thereby is an argument: if a child is kept physically, emotionally and intellectually at six years old because that’s the age their parent(s) prefer them, but they’ve been alive for forty years, how old are they? Most planets, corporations and governments hold that if they’re maintained at an age, they count at that age if it’s an age whereby they’re somebody’s wards or in a protected status. So, for example, some are adults (which varies mightily in the future) but look like they’re twelve, because they liked how they looked then, so they’re counted as their true age. But if they’re twelve and are treated as twelve years old even though they’re fifty, they’re treated as twelve.

Civilization is more complicated in the future.

One decision many face is what to embody. As memory is augmented to provide greater storage and enhance recall abilities because people are living longer, people typically embody their memories as an avatar that can be compiled as a physical presence. That way, instead of just engaging in internal dialogue with themselves, they can call out their memory and invite them to have a drink or share a meal while they discuss their recollections. Brett’s memory is a tanned blonde woman in a red dress (who doesn’t have a name) and Handley’s memory is a pirate named Grutte Piers, based on the real Piers Gerlofs Donia. These aren’t their first memories but they’re their current memories in ‘Long Summer’.

Something similar has evolved for sex. Many people have decided that fake sex with an avatar of their design is more enjoyable than having sex with another actual person. People have foibles. Foibles can be very irritating. The foibles can be mitigated to some degree but people are a bit unpredictable. Many people have learned that they don’t like their sex partners to be unpredictable.

To solve these issues, people often create one (0r more) sex avatars (sexatars?). Like the memory, it’s an embodiment that’s compiled to exist for a period. People can decide exactly who they resemble and how they’ll act. If they want, they can create animal avatars and have sex with animals as a human or compile or modify themselves to be animals and enjoy their sex. Whatever creepy depravities humanity enjoys can be indulged by creating sex avatars. A few people have married their sex avatars. Avatars are people, too, my friends, except they have different rights.

Sex and memory are the two main items people have embodied as avatars but a few people create others. Some have their intelligence or imagination embodied as an avatar that they can call out for visits. Brett has created an embodiment of his personal computer and communications systems, and calls it Carl. Others have gone the good and evil routes, creating twins of the opposite end of their moral spectrum (as they see it). A few enjoy themselves so much that their have avatars that are exactly like themselves created so they have themselves as company. Most find this doesn’t work well, that as people, they’re not the wonderful companions they thought they are.

All of the avatars are as that as anything humans create. Maintenance is needed or the avatars break down and cease functioning.

With all these facets acting in parallel, the population of humanity is slowly cresting, and the average age is creeping up. The oldest humans are upward of three hundred years old. Despite proliferation of new communication technologies and people living longer, people are living more and more in isolation, with only their memories, sex and other embodiments as avatar companions. Sometimes, they miss family or friends and have ideal avatars of them created, too. It makes for happier holiday meals. Meanwhile, Mom, Dad and Sis are alive on other worlds but never hear from Bro.

Yes, it’s an interesting and complex civilization, in the future. Another day of writing like crazy is in the books (ha, ha).

This post has been brought to you by coffee. Coffee: it’s good for thinking (and bowel movements).

4

A Vicious Compulsion

A question often asked between writers is, why do you write? Strangely, I don’t encounter it from non-writers. Non-writers seem to understand that I’m a writer. Writers (and potential writers) want to understand why.

The flip answer is that I must. I’m compelled by nature or desire. Sometimes I think it’s an escape and an addiction. Writing about other characters, worlds and situations permits fight from my life blues. Those are shallow answers.

In truth, I follow a few cycles. One cycle is that I enjoy reading. Reading entertains and educates me. Reading fertilizes thought and wonder and introduces me to new mysteries and solutions, and helps me keep growing. Reading is enjoyable, and I admire writers that can tell stories. I want to emulate them. So that cycle is that I read and I want to be like those who wrote what I read, so I write, and then I read more.

The second cycle cascades from that first cycle. The thought, that would be an interesting story initiates the second cycle. Headlines, images, comments, trends and observations all trigger that simple five word thought engine.

‘That’ is often just a concept, though. Behind the concept are complicated questions to link it all together through words. The questions are about characters, motivations, situation, setting, and dive into emotional and logical issues of the story, and then dealing with the novel challenges of pacing, structure, arcs, climax, denouement, along with grammar and punctuation, and ‘truth’. The story must be truthfully told in that it must be faithful to the premise created and the established parameters. If I’m going to lie to the reader to create an ending, I have to establish early that I’m lying. This is the gospel that I developed as a reader who was disgusted after discovering the writer lied to me, or left something out, or didn’t really end the story.

All of this requires thinking. Gosh, I love thinking, especially the abstract thinking embraced in the promise of, “What if…?”

It’s this process that compels me to write. Once a character merges into my thinking, and their situation and setting evolve, it’s difficult to just dismiss them. I prefer embracing them and asking all the questions about them and what’s happening, pursuing them until this mystery is resolved and told in a story.

I suppose I can think through those things without writing it down or typing it up. (In a Steven Wright aside, why do we ‘write down’ but ‘type up’?) To put that another way without the distraction of those expressions, I suppose I can think through those matters without recording outcomes. Perhaps this is where the compulsion actually begins, to add the answers to these questions to the stories being told.

Sipping coffee, my preferred stimulant, and reflecting anew on the process and compulsion, I grasp how I see it as a painting. I grew up drawing pictures, sketching and later painting, breaking off from career paths involving art because everything I created was too mundane and traditional. Now I can glance back and understand that I was impatient and restless. Whereas I should have attempted new directions, I merely stopped and sought other creative avenues. In writing, though, I’ve found the challenge to improve and find new directions to be invigorating and stimulating, puzzles to be solved.

In a sense, puzzles summarize what it’s all about for me. I enjoy Sudoku and logic problems, and when I was employed or in the military, I enjoyed solving problems, and organizing processes. Writing envelopes all of these facets for me.

After that writing and thinking, then, I come back to the kernel of my personality that I tried denying, that I write because I must, because I need a creative outlet. Were it not writing, it would need to be something else.

It is a compulsion.

So here I am, at the computer again with my QSM, ready to write like crazy…one…more…time.

1

Hungry Today

My wife and I are on day eight of the ten day green smoothie cleansing fast. I’ve modified mine for my writing needs, permitting myself my mochas. Purists will be disgusted that I’m allowing myself sugars, milk, coffee and chocolate. I accept their umbrage. My weakness humbles me. I’m disgusted, too. But I need to write and this is part of it. That’s a shameful confession.

Other than that, I’ve been dealing okay with the smoothie fast. We are allowed raw vegetables, nuts and seeds as a snack on it. This is my third time this year doing it with my wife. Three days were endured the first time (for me, while she went for forty-one), five days the second time (she went for ten). Now I’m going for ten with her. It’s been cool so far but suddenly, today, I’m hungry. Pizza, sandwich and pastry visions are torturing me.

Meager strength comes from recognizing this is my choice. I’m doing it to support my wife. She suffers RA. Foods create imbalances, and imbalances cause flares of pain, inflammation and stiffness. That’s just the surface stuff. Other things are happening under the skin, heightening stress and anxiety, because we don’t know what will manifest itself next.

It’s cleansing for me, too, and I need cleansed. I’ve had a typical American middle-aged diet of too much processed food for too long and celebrating too frequently and too much. Then I erred and ate the same thing everyday. That is not actually good. Although my breakfast meal of choice was organic oatmeal with walnuts, and blueberries or other fruit and berries, that extended diet (I followed it for over a decade) caused digestive problems. My body needs variety to stay balanced.

Of course, it’s bizarre and ironic but appropriate that we have people starving elsewhere, searching for anything to eat to sustain themselves while we pursue this smoothie fast. Appropriate because this is the state of the world, isn’t it?

Ironic, too, that I write about having the same diet everyday and sit here, drinking my customary quad shot mocha. Not ironic, but pathetic, yes? The day may change but the saboteur is often me damaging myself despite my self-awareness. And damages aren’t limited to what I eat and drink, but thoughts born of low self-esteem, waning self-confidence and worldly weariness.

So I’m hungry, hungry for change. The fast and those cravings are symptoms of a deeper malaise. Author, fix thyself.  Continue reading “Hungry Today” →

0

Here You Are

Need more coffee. Need that caffeine fix. Oh, it’s not what you think, what you might think, no, you think I’m addicted, but I’m not, not really. I guess…if I stop and think about it, I could claim that I am addicted, I’m as addicted as you, I’m addicted to you.

Makes me giggle. You don’t understand, you don’t understand, you have not a clue. And you ask, explain, but you don’t want to know, you think you want to know, but you don’t, not really, because this will break up your little –

Okay, then, okay. I’ll explain. Let me…sip some coffee…and compose myself. Hah. And I will tell you.

It…started so long ago, long before I started drinking coffee. I was a child.

Yeah, weren’t we all? Snark. Well…maybe not….

I was a withdrawn child. Illnesses kept me isolated and alone. Nothing terribly contagious nor of a terrible nature. I was prone to respiratory illnesses and would end up feverish and in bed for weeks, summer, fall, winter, spring. Naturally, these spells would cast their influence over others. Parents would decide…maybe…something is wrong with him, that he’s always so ill. Perhaps you’d better not play with him, Johnny, Alice and Suzy, because I don’t want you to catch anything.

Ignorance. Prejudice. Fear.

So I was alone. I devoured books. We weren’t rich so Mom brought them to me from the library. She worked as a telephone operator, so she often couldn’t go, and they only let her check out a few at a time. Dad was out of the picture. I don’t know if they were actually divorced by then or just separated and working out the paperwork. He was in the military and stationed overseas in Greece, Turkey, Germany, Vietnam. Birthday and Christmas cards reminded me of his existence. Sometimes he came, driving a shiny new Mustang, Thunderbird, or Riviera, but he was only there long enough to for a ride and a dinner and admiration of his new car.

My older sister would sometimes get more books for me, but my older sister was an older sister, developing interests in becoming a woman, which then meant learning fashions of hair, music, clothing, nails and jewelry, and understanding her body and why men suddenly looked at her differently. Yes, she told me about them sometimes, after her friends’ fathers suddenly had a new light in their appraisals of her. It scared her.

I watched television but this was the late sixties, early seventies. We received the big three  networks and PBS. Not much was on that interested a sickly prepubescent boy.

In that time came a cat, a little feline, Tiger, yes, original, a stray young feline who must have belonged to someone else. She came to the porch one warm summer morning when I ventured out to taste the air. Purring, mewing, rolling on her back and rubbing up against me, she was clearly interested in being permanent friends. So I begged Mom. I cried. I confessed about how terribly lonely I was, working hard to make her feel guilty until she surrendered after the usual promises that I would feed and take care of the cat, make sure she has fresh water, yes, yes, yes, I swore to it all.

Taking care of Tiger wasn’t a problem. She liked doing her business outside, always reminded me when she was hungry, and drank from the sink whenever I went into the bathroom. She was a curse and blessing, as they say.

Tiger liked staying with me wherever I settled myself to endure my attacks. We played but she mostly spent her time sleeping or grooming herself. Yet, I noticed she would be grooming and then suddenly just pause and stare at space. Or she would be asleep and awaken with a jump, twisting her head around to stare. And she would keep staring, like something was there, staring and motionless.

After this happened so many times, I began wondering, what did she watch? What did she hear? Why was she staring? I convinced myself that something must be there.

And I read short stories and novels about cats seeing other things….

So….

So.

I began training myself to fall still and watch the space where Tiger looked. I learned to slow my breathing and heartbeat and shut out every distraction. I learned to listen and see….

So I saw them coming.

You might have called them ghosts. That’s what I thought they were, at first. A trick of light that vanished under my fear. I chased the fear away, stealing myself to be stronger and braver. After all, if this little cat beside me could be so brave and watch these others, so could I.

I thought at first they were ghosts and I tried addressing them as ghosts, asking them, “Why are you here,” “Why do you haunt me,” and things like that. I thought they were ghosts because their style of dress was similar to our fashions but dated sometimes, similar but different sometimes. But none seemed injured or dangerous. They just came…seeping in….

One day, one was a little girl. I was on the living room sofa. Bored with ‘Let’s Make a Deal’, I’d turned off the television.

I hated being sick. I wanted friends. I wanted to be able to get up and do things.

The living room featured a large ‘picture window’ as Mom called it. It looked out onto the quiet suburban street. This was a planned housing development. Tiger was staring out the window, as she liked to do. The little girl, long dark hair tied back, in a sundress, was walking down the street. The sundress had no color. Her feet weren’t visible enough to say what she wore. I don’t mean that I couldn’t see her feet because something blocked my vision. I’m trying to explain that her strong little slender legs slowly tapered into nothing at about her knees. She appeared to be walking without feet and wasn’t touching the ground.

“Ghost,” I whispered. Tiger and I kept staring. The little girl passed without looking at me. As she walked by, she gained feet. She wore generic white tennis shoes, as we called them then. Her sundress became blue. Her skin became whiter. I recognized then, I’d been able to see through them to some degree, and now I could not.

I watched her walk down the street. Then, a few minutes later, a woman came down the street. She turned toward the house on the other side, where the Lanceys lived. John had once been my best friend, back when we just played with Hot Wheels. But now he played baseball, which I couldn’t do.

Like the little girl, the woman was semi-translucent and had no feet, but like the first apparition, she gained substance and color, becoming an attractive twenty-ish blonde woman in a tangerine pants suit. She wore sunglasses that covered her upper cheeks as well as her eyes. Large hoop earrings dangled and bounced, catching the sun.

But I was certain…she’d not been wearing sunglasses and didn’t have earrings before, just as she didn’t have feet. Now she had them all.

Now she turned and went toward the Lancey’s cement driveway. Now she entered it and went toward the brick ranch style home. Now she –

Awareness jolted me, awareness like I’d never known. I stared longer at the Lancey house, ignoring the woman. The Lancey house was different than it had been yesterday. I was certain of it but I couldn’t what was different. But watching the woman again, I realized, the Lanceys were no longer neighbors to the Silvermans. Another house separated them, a brick split level that hadn’t been there before.

The woman entered it.

The little girl came out.

The double wide garage door went up. An orange AMX Javelin backed out.

I knew cars. Mom bought me Sports Car Graphic, Road & Track  and Car & Driver when she could. I would have known if that orange car was on our street.

I would have known if that house was on our street.

I mentioned it to my sister when she came home from wherever she’d been with her friends Tracy and Linda. She looked deeply puzzled. “Are you talking about Heather, the little girl across the street? She’s lived there six years. She was born there. Don’t you remember? I went over to see the new baby but Mom didn’t think you should go.”

No, I did’t remember that. That was a vicious twist to the moment. I didn’t remember that at all. That left me to wrestle, which perception was right? Neither fit the parameters for making sense. I couldn’t believe that I’d not noticed that house and car before.

I mentioned the car to Debby. She laughed. “Yes, you love that car. You’re always going on about its engine and wheels and horsepower and stuff.” Giving me a funny look, she walked away.

What she said sounded right but what she said wasn’t true. I knew Heather had not been born in that house because that house hadn’t been there the day before. Yet, after Debby told me that, I remembered, yes, that’s right, they wouldn’t let me into the house.

And then I remembered…walking down the street…and looking at the houses…and deciding, here is where I’d like my house.

I remembered, I would like a friend, and I remembered, I would like a sister.

Then I wanted…a cat, and lo…there was a cat.

I knew I was on the verge of discovering something tremendous. Holding my breath and closing my eyes, I thought, I want to play baseball. And knowing what to expect, I opened my eyes and turned my head.

There was my Micky Mantle autographed bat and my Roberto Clemente glove. My father had given them to me.

I remembered walking down the street. I remembered, I would like a sister, and there was Debby.

But Debby didn’t like me. Debby didn’t want me. I remembered her saying, “You’re always so sick.”

And then…I was always so sick.

Yeah, I know, you’re saying, what? What are you trying to say? I don’t believe this. This guy is crazy.

Sure, say what you will. But a few minutes ago, I said, I want some coffee, and then I thought, I want a computer, and then I thought, I want to write something and put it on the Internet and have someone read it.

And now…here you are….

 

7

The Writing High

I’ve been working hard on three separate chapters in ‘Long Summer’, the sequel to ‘Returnee’. These chapters were all about the pirates.

It’s been stressful and challenging. Research and heavy thinking were demanded. I was putting together how the pirates interlock with the larger story. It was like trying to weave with spider webs sometimes.

The first chapter was exposition and interactions aboard the Narwhal as the new crew learned about one another. We were introduced to the main pirate character, Handley, her memory, Grutte Pier, and her parrot, JR. Handley’s background of being shaped by a reboot of ‘Serenity’ was included, and the ongoing debate among this loose confederation about being called pirates versus being called freedom fighters.

My use of ‘we’ in ‘we were introduced’ was deliberate in that last paragraph, as I met her and came to know her through the organic writing process. We’ve become pretty close.

The second chapter was about the pirate ship’s hunt for targets and increasing acrimony and dissatisfaction among the crew with the captain. None of them know him, and he’s a swearing doom and gloom machine. It seems like he’s always pissing on them.

The final chapter was the most satisfying to write and edit as the pirate ship Narwhal encountered the Intrepid and Missouri. Editing, revising, proofing and polishing led to that most glorious of experiences, a writing high. I sit back, so damned pleased with how the scenes were unfolded, meshed and finished. It’s one of hundreds of tasks required toward a finished novel, but it was a big one, and it feels awesome. This is absolutely why I write.

Now, though, wistfulness shrouds me. Half of my coffee remains and I think, what’s next? I’ve only been writing ninety minutes. My rear end isn’t even numb yet but I’ve emerged from the creating fog. Slowly the high drains behind the demands to continue. The novel isn’t finished.

Weeks, maybe months, of writing, editing, et al, remain. For now, I’ll enjoy the high, or more correctly, given my nature, try to enjoy it.

My coffee is cold anyway.

Cheers

3

This Is It

I’m wearing a green shirt because autumn is slinking in. Jeans have replaced shorts. I’ve added a sweatshirt as an outer garment but other than that, little has changed. I’m still drinking my quad shot non-fat, no-whip mocha. No pumpkin spice lattes for me, thanks. Lattes always remind me of a “what’s the use?” A WTU is non-fat, no-whip and decaf, without much coffee in it. Tastes like steamed milk to me. Really, WTF, WTU? Yes, I know, drinks are personal matters for humans, and how a person drinks their coffee is between them and their barista. I know many are appalled by my QSM, or abhorred that, ye gods, I have coffee and chocolate mixed together. My preference is a twelve ounce cup of this, so there’s little milk in it. It’s mostly chocolate flavored espresso.

Some people read that and shuddered. I felt it all the way over here.

Yes, autumn arrived a few weeks ago in the world’s northern half, in theory. Although leaves began changing while summer was indulging us with heat and sunshine, green is now saying, “Let’s make like a bird and get the flock out of here.” So I’m wearing green, as a small compensation for nature’s attitude.

October, while not my favorite month, is an important month for me. I can’t say I have a favorite month. I’m too hunkered down to properly celebrate holidays and seasons. I’m working on it but the celebratory gene seems to have skipped me.

October gained its status for me because of choices. I went on military active duty in October, left in October, returned in October, received several promotions in October and put in my military retirement papers in October. Two out of two houses were purchased in October. First airplane flight was in October, etc.

I feel something about October. Regardless of what else transpires globally, October re-invigorates my personal mojo. October may not be my favorite, but I love October.

Here we are, then, in October again. This is it. Time to plunge back onto the CSC Narwhal and the battle between the Narwhal, Intrepid and Missouri. It’s an exciting, intense place for me to be as the writer. The characters, scenes and development haunted and shadowed all other activities yesterday, impatiently tearing at the borders maintained between the writing life and ‘the rest’. I’d take a bite of food, nod at another’s comment, and realize a sentence to add or a detail to include. Those of you who write will understand.

Time to drink coffee and write like crazy, at least one more time.

13

Drinks in a Cone

Some clever folks have come out with coffee in a cone. Which, you know, immediately raises interest in, what kind of cone, and why coffee? Why not beer, or wine in a cone?

The coffee in a cone uses a waffle cone. The problem of coffee leaking through the cone quickly arose. The entrepreneur addressed the issue by adding four layers of chocolate to the cone. If you’re not a chocolate lover (I can’t believe those words can even be true), then you might think, doesn’t entice me, thanks. I don’t like chocolate. But surely other coatings can be applied to the cone. Like caramel or maple, or something. I don’t know. Don’t ask me, I just think here.

Returning to collateral ideas, I brainstormed about what kind of cone I can use to hold my beer, and what I should coat it with. Cheese?

Pardon me a moment while I address my gag reflex.

I like beer and cheese but I canna wrap my brain around drinking beer in a cheese coated cone. Hmmm, wine…maybe.

Can you imagine ordering? “Hi, I’d like a red blend wine cone.”

“Which red?”

“Three Vineyards Oregon blend.”

“What kind of cone, sir?”

“Do you have anything gluten free?”

“Yes, we have a pretty nice olive and rosemary rice cone. I have samples here. Would you like to taste it?”

“Oh, yes, thanks. Oh, that’s good. And that’s gluten free? Okay, I’ll try that.”

“Yes, sir, what size?”

“Grande.”

“And what kind of cheese would you like as your coating?”

“Hmm…I’ve having a red wine…do you have sharp cheddars?”

“Yes, we have several cheddar variations, including white. There’s the list, up here behind me.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see that. Hah. If it was a snake….”

“Would you like to sample any cheese?”

“Yes, let me try that Face Rock sharp white  cheddar, thanks. I always like Face Rock’s cheeses. Yes, that’s good. I’ll go with that.”

Fifteen dollars and a few minutes later, you have your grande cheese wine cone. Of course, even with the coating, the coffee dissolves its cone cup in about three minutes. I believe we’d have a about the same amount of time for the wine cheese cone. Chug, chug.

Going back to the beer cone, we can probably have an entire sandwich in a cone, you know, like turkey with Swiss cheese. Using a rye flour cone, we’ll wrap the innards with the turkey and layer it with hot melted Swiss cheese. Then we’ll deep fry that sucker, fill it with beer (“What beer do you want, sir?”) and sell it at state fairs. And then, someday in the future (which, I know, is a bit redundant, but I’m selling an idea here), we can have National Drinks in a Cone Day.

Next: Pizza in a cone. And then stir-fry in a cone, and burritos in a cone….

Isn’t progress amazing?

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

 

2

Coffee Morning

Got my head out of bed

And my ass across the floor

Staggered through the hall

Hit my face on the door

 

My eyes were still closed

Couldn’t see where I was

Couldn’t even think

I needed a coffee buzz

 

Fumbled into the kitchen

The cats almost tripped me

Made it to the counter

And started huntin’ them beans

 

Found leftover grounds

But that weren’t much

My mind began howlin’

For its caffeine touch

 

The can was empty

So was the bag

There wasn’t even Sanka

This mornin’ was becomin’ a drag

 

I sucked on a used filter

To see me through

And licked up the dregs

Left from yesterday’s brew

 

My heart beat was flailin’

My thinkin’ gave out

And then my legs

And I started floppin’ about

 

The cats all gathered

But they was no help

The situation was dire

I began to yell

 

Then my wife came in

And bent down low

And said, “We’re out of coffee

But I guess you know.

 

“So I went to Starbucks

To get you a cup

‘Cuz I knew without it

You wouldn’t be much.”

 

I thanked her with tears

And sat up straight

And then drained the grande

And began to feel great

 

Then the horrible truth struck

‘Cuz my need was laid bare

I needed a second cup

But do I dare?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

The Progressions

I awaken, and experience a progression of guilt.

I called Mom last week. Reaching her answering machine, I left a message that I would call again later in the week.

I didn’t call, hence the guilt. I haven’t spoken to her in several weeks. The exact date is progressing into the unremembered past.

But I’m in the writing zone. I’ve caught the big wave. Big waves are rare. I jealously guard the ride, not wanting to do anything to upset the balance. Sorry, Mom. I’ll call when the ride is over. She’ll understand.

Marking the sunshine’s progression through the blinds, I gather it’s time to leave bed. Feeding the cats take me through the next progression. I fill their bowls, and watch their behavior and motion, and then return to their bowls when they’ve walked away, to see how much they’ve consumed. Nothing triggers a worry watch.

Going through the morning’s progression of eating, cleaning up and dressing, I peruse a mental list of items. It’s a copy of a list my wife and I made the other day. We began a process of cleaning, organizing and simplifying last July, and listed what remains during breakfast last Friday. I compare the list with the weather forecast and other chores to decide what I’ll do this day.

The bathroom mirror takes me through a progression of assessments about my hair, weight, skin and body tone. I progress through disappointment and dismay to rueful chuckling acceptance.

The morning’s walk to the coffee shop takes me through more progressions. Regardless of what I saw in the mirror, I feel young, energetic and happy as I walk. Autumn has arrived and the air is progressively cooler each day, as the days are progressively shorter, with night arriving progressively earlier. The trees are proceeding through their own progressions, with the leaves changing color but not yet beginning to fall.

All the town’s schools are in session. Encountering university students, who just began classes this week, I judge from their expressions that they’re progressing from starting classes to being dazed or numb to their new adventure. High school has been in session for a month already. Their marquee announces the Homecoming Ball next month. That, and cigarette smoke clinging to other pedestrians, transport me to youthful memories of high school and smoking co-workers and friends. I progress to wondering where those friends might be now and what became of them.

Last night’s dreams return to me. I dreamed I was asked by others to drive their dilapidated bus. Their request amuses me. They seemed to think it was very important and challenging, while I took it quite lightly. I easily agreed. The subsequent drive was a dream’s blink between beginning and ending, with some short vignettes of visits with passengers asking me more about my background. Nothing untoward had happened. Being grateful for my service, they’ve prepared a gift basket and present it to me when we’re off the bus. The gift basket is a plastic storage container with a bow. Fun size candy bars have been collected and put into plastic baggies, along with other food stuffs, such as cookies, muffins and brownies, including red and green peppermint cheese pizza. I’m never had it before. There is also electronic junk and toys in the storage box. I’m touched because all of this means much to them. Telling them it’s too much, I ask them to take whatever they want. They close in and take many items. One man asks for the peppermint pizza. He explains, he has a sore throat, and the peppermint soothes it.

We then enter a city square of faded, low brick buildings. The community is poor and the town is sparsely populated. I join others at one cafe. Its decor amounts to an eclectic assortment of bare tables and chairs and robin’s egg blue walls. They’re eager to please me. Their eagerness and obsequiousness embarrasses me. I work hard to make us all feel at ease. A small but pleasant party begins as we relax. They pour ale into a jar for me. There is nothing more I remember from that dream.

My progress is tracked through landmarks. I’ve passed the one mile mark. One mile remains until I reach the coffee shop. My thoughts progress through my writing plans of where I was, what I dislike and like, and what I need to change and how I might change it. I progress from that back to other plans. Friends are meeting for beers at 4:30. It’s downtown, a two and a half mile walk from my house. I calculate what time I’d need to leave, and how much time I have for yard work after walking home after my writing session. The timing will be compressed but it is doable, if I’m disciplined.

I reflect upon the differences in energy requirements between having a beer with friends and chatting with my mother. It’s like accounting and budgeting, in that these energies come from different buckets. I begin writing this post in my mind.

I progress to an acceptance of being disciplined about the timing, and then I’ve arrived at the coffee shop. Business is light. Madi saw me coming down the street so she has my quad shot mocha prepared. We chat about her college classes. She’s majoring in poli-sci and history, and plans to be a lawyer and prosecutor. Naturally, we discuss the presidential debates.

Then I’m at my table, at my laptop, with my coffee, opening the document, embracing the moment. I compose this post. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

I’m making progress.

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