Barbookians. That’s what people who ban books should be called. Barbookians.
They’re one level below barbarians. Might even be below savages.
Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Barbookians. That’s what people who ban books should be called. Barbookians.
They’re one level below barbarians. Might even be below savages.
Another hill to climb.
Sweat plagued his eyes. He sniffed and swallowed, wishing for water. He’d been going since sunup. Heat and humility built around him. It seemed determined to crush him like a grape.
Giving up was considered and dismissed. He was here and going to do it. Doubt about whether he was following the instructions kept bouncing through, confusing him about what the little thing told him. Half-asleep, he wasn’t sure if it was a robot, tiny human, or something else, like an elf or fairy. They hadn’t introduced themselves. Maybe it wasn’t even real. Just his imagination.
Without preamble, “Just My Imagination (Running Away with Me)” derailed his thinking. Didn’t matter. He’d reached the hill’s crest. Signposts were ahead. An intersection. Down this hill and up another. Stepping faster, he was there in less than ten minutes, perspiring with more vigor, and breathless. He didn’t think he’d need water for this. Not for a dream. Didn’t think it’d be sunny, or like a day in any way.
The signpost was in the center of a large gold-bricked circle. Arrow shaped signs. About a hundred of them. No, more than that. Maybe a thousand. Different colors, languages, and printing styles. Looked crude. Homemade.
His little nocturnal visitor sounded like an irritated teacher when they said, “I’m tired of you sitting around, whining, waiting, and wishing, so I’m doing you a solid.”
They pointed. “See that?”
Slow because he was half-asleep, he pressed to see what the little one meant even though the little one was still talking. “Get in there and turn left for the past, right for the future, or straight ahead to another existence. Whichever way you go, you’ll come to a signpost.
“You better hurry if you’re going to do it. The portal will close and fade, and your opportunity will be gone.”
“Wait, what?” He sat up. Yawned. Stretched. Rubbed his eyes. Massaged his genitals. Considered peeing. Frowned. “What?”
His small visitor was barely a fading memory. The opening remained where there was usually a wall. A portal? Thinking, I must still be dreaming and I’ll wake up at any moment, he entered the opening. Fearing the future, regretting his past – too many things to change there and who knows how it would turn out – he’d gone straight.
He stared up at the signs. Words emerged. Animals.
A frown creased his face. What was that about? He’d always liked cats and they liked him. He admired birds. Dogs were okay…
He stepped in the cat’s direction with slow, short steps. Shivers tickled him. Changes took place. His fingers were gone. Paws halfway through construction had replaced them. Looked like he’d be a black cat.
He backed up. More shivers traveling him, his fingers returned.
Did he want to be a cat? He looked back down the road he’d followed to come here with the thought, maybe he should have gone to the past to see what he could have changed. He might have been hasty.
The road was gone. Nothing was there. Gray nothing.
He walked toward it. The gray nothing stopped him from advancing. Like trying to wade through stiffening tar.
Well, what the hell. This was only a dream.
He turned back to the sign and read the offerings. No doubt, that’s what they were. Unicorn. Whale. Elephant. Dog. Kracken. Dolphin.
Dragon, he saw.
Dragon. It’d be so cool to be a dragon, even if just in a dream.
But bravery wasn’t in his personal inventory. He stood, staring, considering, flounder, eel, coral snake, eagle – eagle would be fun. Puma. Tiger. Heron. Emu. Alligator.
No. With all of his fears and hopes, the best thing he could become is something fantastic.
Happy with his decision, he turned and advanced, shivering and coughing as he grew and changed until at last he walked out of a high mountain cave into a purple dusk. Spreading his golden wings, he released a fiery roar and felt the world’s fear. Yes, being a dragon was going to be so cool.
Even if it was just in a dream.
Infloofdescent (floofinition) – Growing in the number of floofs.
In use: “It began innocently, let’s get a dog, but then their daughter wanted a cat, a turtle was requested by their son, and a pregnant cat showed up begging for food, and that was it, the infloofdescent was on.”
Among the many differences between him and his wife were how the butter knives were put in the dishwasher. She always put the He figured that since the dishwasher utensil basket’s design dictated that the spoons and forks had to go in handle down, putting the knives’ handles down made sense. All handles down. Uniform, standardized, and probably the ay to get them clean, since that’s how it was set up for the other utensils to be cleaned.
She always put the butter knives in with the handles up. He pointed out his reasoning. She responded, “It doesn’t matter.”
Probably didn’t, but he remained mildly annoyed.
Just mildly.
Delicious weather in Ashlandia today. Spring at its best. 67 F at the mo, 75% humidity. 88 F expected later, and thunderstorms. Yesterday was delightful, too, relaxing, comforting, an invitation to sit and enjoy yourself for a while. It’s so floofriendly. Tucker has settled but open doors and happy weather invites Papi to prance in and out. He steals up to me, stares up, gets an ear rub from moi, then dashes out, only to return. Sometimes I chase and hide, which he loves doing.
The election is over. We await the outcome. 15-214, which absorbed our attention and discussion, is predictably tight but votes are still being counted.
Today’s music fell into my lap. I’d been sent a video link about tiny computers a teacher was asking my beer group to buy for their class. This video was off to the right. “Two of Us” from 1969 is by the Beatles. The song is pretty lazy but I enjoyed the footage of the lads from Liverpool and others laughing, joking, talking. Nostalgia caught The Neurons, so here we are.
And the coffee has arrived to great cheering from the body and its various elements. Most vociferous cheering is heard from the brain, where neurons are stamping their feet, chanting, “Coffee, coffee, coffee.” The foot stamping is off-putting to the ears, who are gesturing with annoyance at the brain. But in general, it’s a festive air.
Stay pos. Assess, adjust, advance. Here’s the tune. Cheers
He was working on a DIY project but could not find his putty knife. It was also time to prepare dinner so he’d gone out to get fish out of the chest freezer in the garage. Opening it, he first began looking for the putty knife. Realizing what he was doing, he closed the chest, turned to his workbench, and looked for the fish.
Just one of those moments.
It’s election day in the U.S., one more time. The culmination of hopes, dreams, ideas, complaints, arguments, debates, and discussions about spending, revenue, who is charge, and what’s going to happen next but on a smaller scale than then ‘national’ elections.
They, the omniscient bureaucrats, put it into motion years ago and now we are here, on Tuesday, May 16, 2023. Ashlandia is enjoying lovely sprummer weather. Top temps struck 88 in my slice of the realm yesterday. Late afternoon showers put a damper on that. Timer and settings were for set for four minutes and light to moderate, so that rain was gone almost before you could smell the petrichor. Then thunder boomers commenced. Tucker was unbothered but Papi did a concerned low to the ground jog into the house, sitting down by me to keep him safe. Poor fellow.
It’s 62 F now, 8:30 in the AM. The usual routines have been fulfilled. Coffee is brewed and awaiting entrance into my alimentary canal, which I shall do as soon as the cooling is enough. Sunrise was well before six meows. Not true, really. Papi was in and out, meowing each time for assistance. It’ll be 84 F today, sunny and cloudy.
My biggest news was my cougar sighting. Happened at 10:45 PM. I like going out in the late evening to breathe the air and admire the celestial existence above me. Don’t turn on lights because that would ruin the moment — enough lights already on along the street, thanks — but do carry a small flashlight. This time, when I walked out, I saw an animal in the street start and do a lazy trot up the hill, a cat-like trot but waaayyy bigger than any cat I’ve known. About twenty feet away. Totally silent. Did I mention big? What was really striking was it’s looonnnggg tail.
I flashed the light at them but was too slow. They’d gone up around the corner. My concerns were for my cats. The front door was open behind me. Tucker was saunter-washing — two steps forward, pause to wash a paw, continue two steps — so I closed the door before he was out. Papi was already out, so I called for him sotto voce because I didn’t want the cougar to respond to my whistles, kissing sounds, and name-calling.
As I did that, I thought, did it look like the cougar had something in its mouth? Papi is just a little fourteen pounder. Amuse bouche for a cougar.
Then I went back in, related all to my wife, who was in bed, reading, and got my sword. I figured that if I’m to save Papi from a cougar, a sword would be useful.
I’d bought the sword a few years ago for Halloween. It’s made of wood about half an inch thick, thirty inches long. Stupid me gave away my ball gear, including bats, because I was no longer playing and some youths would make better use of it. Now what was there to ward off a cougar? A broom? Well, yeah…but, you know…image. The sword was better.
Papi didn’t return for hours, but he finally did. Found him on the back patio. He looked like he had a story to tell, seemed ready to spill on an adventure, like, “Damn, you wouldn’t believe the size of the cat I saw. They must be giving him a lot of treats. Cat that size probably just takes his own treats. I wish I was that big. Then I’d show that little dog next door.”
Cougar sightings aren’t unusual for Ashlandia. They’ve been spotting all over town, along with their kills, and kills being made. All is well, for now, though.
Today’s music arises from errand running yesterday, dropping off ballots — Oregon is all ‘mail-in’ but with drop boxes — pick up library books, mail a bill, and buy romaine. Meghan Trainor’s 2022 song, “Made You Look”, came on the car radio. Spouse turned it up with the comment, “I like this song. It’s fun.” I agree. Nice throwback doo wop vibe to it. Short, though, but fun. The Neurons liked it enough to loop it through the mental music stream. Thought it a good song for a cougar sighting — “I made you look.”
Stay pos and carry forward. The coffee has just been tested and The Neurons are pleased. Here’s the music. Cheers