Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Heavy snow fell. Watching it, he said, “Alexa, will it snow in Ashland today?”
“Snow is not expected in Ashland.”
His wife joined him. “Alexa, is it snowing now?”
“It is not snowing in Ashland now.”
“Alexa, then what is that white stuff failing from the sky?”
“There are reports of a dusty white wet material falling in Oregon.”
They laughed. Alexa was trying to gaslight them again.
Heavy snow fell this morning for thirty minutes. Thick mythological flakes twirled and spun, building to a fast two inches. But the temperature was 36 and the sun cracked the clouds, and lo’, it melted in minutes. Now it’s wintingery again, dashing dark clouds, determined sunshine, uncertain winds chasing leaves.
It’s Feb 26, 2023, a Sunday. Sun’s warm light surmounted the southeasterly elevations at 6:51 this morning. We’ll stay in its presence until 5:57 PM.
Winter warnings are issued. The weather nerds say snow and rain every other day this week. Highs in the 40s to 50s during the day but pushing the mercury down in the mid-twenties at night. Last night’s low was 28 F. It’s now 42, which is our high.
Interesting news from sis-in-law. One, QVC is talking about a deal with her for her product, the CranioCradle. Two, she was in a car accident and now has a bad hip and can’t walk. They’re telling her she’ll probably need surgery. Her insurance company is taking care of everything, and she has Medicare to cover other costs. Still, it’s a pain.
We were out shopping in the changing conditions. — had to – Book Club in March, you know, K is hosting, you know — apparently the President and significant royalty from around the world is showing up, to judge from the planning and preparation — and I somehow between the axis of K’s zealous planning and the changing wintingery situation ended up with The Neurons plugging “Shelter from the Storm”. Guy named Bob Dylan sung it originally. Came out on one of his albums in the 1970s.
Stay pos. The shopping expedition flushed my energy away. It’s a lot of tedious standing around for me. It was just raining, then sleet, then snow. Now it’s sunny. The wind has gone on up the road. Monday is coming.
Here’s the music. Have a magnifico Sunday. Cheers
He felt like a raiding barbarian as slashed his way through the manuscript. He’d overwritten so much in that first draft, trying to learn the story in all its elements, especially the characters. Now he cut, cut, cut.
Next draft, he would probably need to work on continuity and coherency after all this slashing. But that was for the next draft. He was committed to finishing this one.
Saturday in Ashlandia. February 25, 2023. Plenty of sunshine heading our way. People walk dogs by the house. A few tightly encased joggers take the hill. A robin patrols the backyard. Scrub jaws hop the front lawn. Cats lap up sunshine in living room pools.
It’s 37 F now, up from sunrise’s 29 F. The sun’s entrance was 6:53 AM. Exit from Ashlandia is expected at 5:52 this evening, after we’ve gone into the fifties. About 97 percent of our local snow is melted. Icy pockets remain in hollows, dips, and shadowy places where the sun don’t shine.
The Neurons are playing “Bitter Sweet Symphony” by the Verve in the morning mental music stream. My wife and I heard it in the car while running errands yesterday. The song came out in 1997, after I’d been retired from the military for over a year, after I’d bought a new car, and was basically living a new life. The song was right for the time, which found my circumstances improving. When we listened yesterday, K asked about part of the song. “It songs like he’s singing ‘moan’ to me.” No, it’s mold, as in this is how I’m molded.
Papi wants out to scout the terrain and inspect his environment. Stay pos. I’m off for coffee and breakfast. I’m thinking about making savory oatmeal. Here’s the Verve. Cheers
He worked on a chapter, again, then again. Boredom sank its teeth in him. He found himself chasing clickbait on the net.
A muse slapped him. “Hey. It doesn’t work. It’s not needed. Delete the chapter, fool.”
Well, there it was. He did so, but saved it as a doc. Just in case.
We’ve shifted back into standard Ashlandia winter mode. Dropping into the twenties at night, forties to fifties, all Fahrenheit, during the day.
It’s Friday. It’s Feb. 24, 2023. Sunshine broke in at 6:54 this morning, lighting up two fresh inches of snow. Was 29 F then. Now we’re up to 34 and the snow is melting. I saw the snow falling and accumulating as Papi made his usual declarations about being an outdoor animal and needing to leave the house, then changing his mind and demanding to come back in because he’s domesticated. The weather wizards inform us that we’ll see 46 F before the sun whisks away over the horizon at 5:55 PM.
Up north in Portland, friends share videos of heavier dumps, like ten inches. Meanwhile, a buddy down in Santa Cruz shows photos of several inches in his area. February is made for snow this year.
I had words in the head sometime in the last twenty-four heures that went, “Bring it on, here we are, win or lose.” I was contemplating the snow and drought and snowpack, and the associated variables that accumulate into our annual regional water concerns. Hearing my thoughts, The Neurons said, “Hey, we know that song,” and inundated my morning mental music stream with Float On by Modest Mouse from 2004. Jeremiah Green, the Modest drummer, passed away on the last day of 2022, cancer, 45 years old. I think of him because I enjoyed his drumming in this song. Reminders of our mortality are everywhere.
Stay positive. Carpes Friday. I’ll do the same after chugging some strong black roasted bean water. Here’s the tune. Cheers
Nofloofphobia (floofinition) – When someone suffers fear or anxiety about not having the company of an animal.
In use: “The worse part of vacations was not being with his fur pals. Nofloofphobia inevitably struck as he worried about them being okay and missed their sweet interactions with him and one another.”
First, I was leaving a white building on a bright and sunny day. An older woman, who I know to be a writing instructor, was talking behind me, but addressing me. “I have an older student who is trying to be a writer. He doesn’t have it. He’s not going to succeed.”
I was panicking. I thought she was referring to me. I replied, “Do you tell him?”
“I’ve told him very directly. He doesn’t want to get the message.”
Those words ringing in my ears, I shouted good-bye to her and fled down the street. Two lanes wide or more, it was blocked off, so we could walk straight down the street.
I picked up a silver-gray shorthair cat and her kitten along the way. The cat seemed ill. I decided I would find a house and get her help.
I walked into an apartment building and knocked on a door. When there was no answer, I discovered the door was unlocked and entered. The apartment had an unusual layout, with a set of steps rising to a loft along one wall of a great room, and rooms directly off the great room on the opposite side. The kitchen was up in the loft. A television was on, its volume very high, showing an old television show but in color.
I set the cat down. She was very listless. “What is it? I asked her.
“I need a box,” she replied in a weak voice.
“I’ll get you one.”
By ‘box’, I assumed she meant something like a litter box. With that in mind, I hunted for anything that would work and then put her in the bathtub. That worked for the cat. I cleaned the tub and then went to the kitchen and found us some food.
The front door opened. An elderly woman entered. She demanded to know who I was but went on without letting me answer, “This is my house. You shouldn’t be in here.”
I agreed and tried to explain my emergency. She wouldn’t listen, insisting that I leave and turn myself into the constable. I agreed that I would, which was a lie; I wasn’t turning myself in.
The cats and I left and went down the street. We found a brown house and went in. I saw a red sweater and put it on. The end.
Sketchy snow paints Ashlandia. Less than an inch in most places. A fine job has been done on the streets, walks, and drives. They are all white perfection, a canvas for car and animal prints.
Enough snow effect has settled that ambient noise is muffled. Footsteps, rolling tires, motor sounds, barks, snap out, intruders on the silence.
Winting in Ashlandia. Familar as summer wine.
Today is Thursday, 022323, the only time it’ll be 022323 for another hundred years. 27 F, a few wavering steps up from the overnight’s 23 F, ten steps away from the suspected high 37 F. The sun’s appearance was at 6:56 AM. Its light dazzles off the whites. Weather gnomes inform us the sun will shine on Ashlandia for forever or until 1753, whichever comes first.
The Neurons have slotted “Hanginaround” by The Counting Crows outof 1999 into the magic morning mental music stream. Came to me as I was in the coffee shop, editing, slashing, and pillaging a manuscript. Pausing to consider other regulars and their energies, I thought, man, this group hangs around here a lot, thirteen strangers united by a place. The Neurons fired the song up in memory within seconds and here we are the next morning.
Ah, it’s 32F now. Almost 10 AM. Sun has melted off the hard surfaces, but man is that reflected light bright from the rest. Stay pos. Pursue your Thursday activities and dreams. A cuppa coffee and I’ll learn to run. Here is the music.
Cheers
