Category: Information

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Give me an F. Give me an E. Give me a B.

Well, that’s enough of that.

Yes, February has arrived. Today is the first day of our shortest month. At least, it’s the shortest month in the U.S. It’s also Black History Month. Feb. has several holidays embedded in it and will be home to Superbowl LVII. Not bad for a short month from the sticks.

I personally like February. Not because it’s short, or the holidays, nor Black History Month, but because I can feel that transition from winter to spring begin in Feb. Daylight spreads into more hours with earlier sunshine in the morning and later sunsets at night. The air warms a few traces, and a feeling of hopefulness arises. That’s just me, I suppose.

It’s also Wednesday. Now 32 F outside, the sky is bluish and rich with sunny promise. Sunrise was at7:24 AM but it was nice walking into the living room at 6:40 Papi Standard Time and be able to see and walk about without problem because natural light was squeaking in through and around the window blinds. Sunset comes ten hours after the sunrise was noted, giving Ashlandia’s first ten hours of daylight in 2023. More to come, I hope.

Fuel is in the morning mental music stream with “Hemorrhage (In My Hands”. The song was released back when the century rolled over from the 1900s to the 2000s. It’s one of those that I often heard while commuting to work. I later read that the songwriter’s inspiration was his grandmother’s death from cancer, which made me listen more carefully to the song. Today it’s here in my head due to one string of lyrics: “Memories are just where you leave them, drag the waters, ’til the depths give up their dead.”

And no, that’s not about my life but about plotting, writing, and characters.

Stay positive. Make February a month which counts. My coffee has been swallowed and the bottom of the cup lays bare, damp, and sad. Here is Fuel. Cheers

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Tuesday’s Wandering Thought

“Listen,” he said. “I need to eat now. See, I need to take of myself so I can take care of you. Who will take care of you if I’m not here?”

The cat meowed back.

He wasn’t sure if his message was received.

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Fabfloofist

Fabfloofist (floofinition) – 1. Someone who makes up stories about animals.

In use: “Sarah was just three years old, but she was already a fabfloofist, regaling her relatives with adventure tales featuring the family’s cat and dog.”

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Tuesday’s Theme Music

A taut white sheet covers the valley sky. Sunlight finds a small rent and slips through like an exploring cat.

It’s Tuesday, January 31, 2023, and 30 degrees F outside. Inside, the furnace keeps us at 68. Black coffee warms me more, a solid antidote for the morning’s cold impressions. That sun popped in at 7:25, duping the cats and me into thinking we were up for a sunny day. Now the clouds have dropped. But in the way of weather, the clouds signal a warm front and higher temperatures. We’re heading for a high in the mid-fifties as the Arctic blast shifts east. Sunset will be one minute short of ten hours after sunrise.

Local news reports our Mayor has resigned. Then a city council member designed. No clarifying comments were made by either for their reasons. The city will now go through the replacement process for each. It’s already fired up political bases. They’d just calmed down after the November results were swallowed and digested. We never believed the calm would last. The budget debate is ongoing, as are the homeless challenge, drought and its impact, along with our local economy, of course. Our economy depends on snow in the winter for skiing and full rivers, clear skies, and fresh air in the summer for outdoor activities like hiking and boating. Little snow and prolonged drought, tourism has suffered for several years before the COVID load was put on it.

The other big industry here is the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Before COVID, wildfire and smoke spiked performances and revenues as the air was deemed unbreathable or dangerous and performances were shut down. Restaurant and hotel businesses fell like dominos. It’s been about five years since we’ve had a healthy economy and the budget has suffered.

Over in my head, The Neurons have planted “It’s My Life” by Talk Talk from 1984 into the morning mental music stream. I know it from hearing it on the car radio as I drove around the island of Okinawa, where my wife and I lived at that time. It has that 80s tech feel to it. Seeds for the song came about as I was trying to make decisions and ended up chatting to myself about my life. This was one of several songs that floated in and out of the conversation but its volume went up later, so here we are.

Stay positive. Get ready for February, because if you didn’t notice, it’s here tomorrow. Here’s Talk Talk. Cheers

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Moanday’s Theme Music

6:37 Papi Standard Time. 22 degrees F. “Let me out,” the ginger floof bellows while prancing around on his tippy toes, tail up.

I walk along, explaining to the walls that it’s 22 degrees outside, too cold for Papi to go outside, but I open the door for him. Papi steps up, looks out, takes a breath, steps back. “Let’s try the front door,” Papi suggests. We do, just to satisfy him. Open-step up-breath-back in. “That’s not what I want,” Papi says. “Feed me.”

I feed him, along with Tucker, who is a savvy fellow and saw where this was going. Then I’m back to bed. See, I went through this once four hours earlier with Papi. Except he went out that time. Stayed out for almost twenty minutes before hammering the door for re-entry. He blasted through the house when I opened the door, living up to his nom de floof, Thunderpaws.

I, of course, went to the bathroom. My bladder said, since you’re up. Sure. Somewhere in there, The Neurons began singing “Lucretia MacEvil”.

Hello, Monday.

It’s January 30, 2023. 9 AM now, the temperatures has climbed the heights to 27 F. Other than the cold, it’s a fine sunny day, complete with blue sky, and frost free, too. Sunrise came at 7:26 AM and the turning away will remove sunshine from our visible range at 5:23 PM.

“Lucretia MacEvil” is a funky, brass dominated song by Blood, Sweat, and Tears, released in 1970. I have no idea why it’s circulating the morning mental music stream. I’d dreamed, yes. Women were featured, yes. But the dreams and women were all pleasant. Who knows the ways of The Neurons? Not I.

The ‘MacEvil’ part of the song’s title always puts me in mind of McDonald’s, right? I say ‘MacEvil’ and I have that little Micky D theme song follow it. I figure it must be some kind of adult meal. It’s not on the menu and you must know the code word to order it. It’s only sold to adults, and you must provide ID. Totally worth it, though, I imagine.

I have my coffee. Countdown has commenced. We’ll soon have liftoff. Stay positive. Happy Moanday. Here’s the mood music. Cheers

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Floof Over Matter

Floof Over Matter (Often abbreviated as FOM or F.O.M.) (floofinition) 1. Ad hoc policy that a household or organization’s care of animals is paramount.

In use: “He planned to make some changes in the house, but they were immediately terminated because of F.O.M., as his wife said, ‘You can’t do that. It’ll upset the cats and dogs.’ He could have argued that, but they’d been married over a quarter of a century. He understood floof over matter. It was only the floofs and their health and happiness who mattered most.”

2. Magic talents used by animals to make the impossible appear to happen.

In use: “She never understood how her cat got into the places which seemed impossible. Then she read a blog post about F.O.M. — Floof Over Matter — and began to understand that animals had powers which were beyond human comprehension.”

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Sunday’s Wandering Thought

My cat, Tucker, has developed a method of meowing without opening his mouth. Lately, the sound coming out sometimes sounds like he’s saying my name, “Michael. Michael.” Today, after I put food into his bowl, it sounded like he said, “Thank you.”

I’m awaiting further developments.

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The Running Dream

A young man once again in my dream, thirty-something, I was staying at a sprawling hotel, enjoying a reunion with friends. Suite doors were open, and we were freely intermingling, chatting, drinking, eating, whatever moved you at the moment. Coming into one unit, four RL friends, military officers not seen in over thirty years, told me they were going for a run and asked me to come along.

Well, I protested, I’m not in running gear and I have nothing suitable to wear. Another old friend came up with something, though, so I agreed to go running. The newcomer was going to, so he waited for me to change. The others, meanwhile, jogged away. As I continued changing, the other guy announced he was going to start running now, too, because he didn’t want to fall too far behind. “Go on,” I answered. “I’ll catch up.”

I was almost done changing by then, and I started jogging a just a few seconds after he began. I caught him quickly.

We were running outside but on the cement balcony that connected our rooms, which were located on the inside of a courtyard. As we ran, we frequently had to dodge non-runners, people go in and out of rooms or standing and chatting or eating. I saw many friends among them.

We were catching the others, but I was impatient with the slow pace. When the opportunity came, I surged forward. Catching the first four easily, I went around them and set out at a faster speed. They laughed, shouting that I was a showoff and predicting that I’d soon tired out. But I found the running invigorating. As I rounded a corner and turned right, I saw a long, straight stretch empty of people, and pressed myself into a higher gear. I was almost flat our sprinting. People were talking about this and watching.

Sweat plastered my hair down and slathered my face. My breathing was hard. The running felt good, so I decided to run as fast and hard and long as I could. Entering into an all-out sprint with others cheering for me, I finished a lap and caught the first running group and passed them. I felt that I couldn’t go much longer and slowed, but then told himself, no, you’re not done, you have more, and forced myself into a max sprint again. I managed to complete another lap as the others stopped and returned to the room where we started. As I finished a third lap, drenched in sweat and cheered on by almost everyone, my original four friends shouted, “Stop running, you show off. It’s time to eat.”

I ran into the room and stopped. Talking about how much I was sweating, they were laughing. Others came in and urged me, take a shower, but someone pressed a plate of food on me, saying, “I made this for you. Eat.”

I started eating. Dream end.

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Thursday’s Wandering Thought

Midnight was riding up when he slipped on his slippers and fleece. Out the front door he went into a cold, inky night, a cat at his heels.

He closed the front door. The cat galloped ahead. Hard stars ruled the blackness. Stopping a dozen feet from the house, he stared up until Saturn’s yellow spot was located, and then watched until he found the green comet, C/2022 E3. He watched it for a few minutes, imagining the comet’s journey, pleased that he’d seen it.

Until next time, he told it with a small wave and then returned to his house, holding the door open until the cat ran back in, too.

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