Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Some know the feelings of exertion
the rivulets of sweat plastering hair to head
and clothes to bodies
the film on skin
the drops running off nose and chin
and revel in the results of their efforts
wearing it like emotions on a sleeve
Some shun this sweat
hiding in air-conditioning and shade
fanning themselves against heat
flinching back from the sweaty
noses turned up in disapproval
mouths twisted with disgust
at the others’ sweaty presence
as though their sweat is unnatural
Sometimes, someone mentioned something that I did or said, and I respond, quite intelligently, “What? I did?” Then I’m required to think back, struggling through the murkiness of memory to determine if they were right. What’s weird is how it sometimes feels like I’m rewinding a tape, going backwards in my head until the moment springs up and provides me with the Eureka moment.
Happened a few nights ago when someone said that I’d mentioned a book and the movie made from the book. After rewinding, I came across the point when I’d mentioned Freakonomics to him.
The turn I’ve encountered with my muse and the characters develops into a complex scene. I struggle to see the setting and put the pieces together.
It’s not writing block. This is like trying to solve a complex logic puzzle by assembling and analyzing disparate bits of information. Part of me is bucking against the muse, because it’s work, and I feel like I should understand it before I write it, while the muse just encourages me, “Don’t worry, just type.”
Part of this is laziness of the whiny, I-don’t-wanna immature sort. It’s groan-inducing work to think about how this fits into what has happened and seeing how these twists and turns affect the ending.
Part of it is annoyance of the sort experienced when you think you’re almost done and then experience a last-minute delay.
A friend comes by. I haven’t seen him in a few months. He apologizes for interrupting me,. I brush that off, and we chat. (His interruption secretly relieves me.)
His wife died of lung cancer almost two years ago. He’s been at a loss and he’s now seeing a grief counselor. He’s visiting his son and grandchildren, and his brothers. One brother lives down in Healdsburg, he said, which surprises me. I thought this brothers live in Chicago and New York. Yes, the one that lives in Ithaca still has a place there, and still teaches one semester a year at Cornell, but has decided to live in California for most of the year.
We chat further and exchange offers and promises. Who knows if we’ll keep them?
Returning to writing, I realize that his interruption was fortunate. As my muse knows, I over-analyze. Part of my issue when I do that is I fall into the weeds of the details. Down there, I can’t see the larger parts and picture.
I know and recognize this from my days as an analyst. It was always useful, after being presented with a problem, collecting and compiling information, to walk away and let my subconscious mind work on what it’s seen without the interference of my conscious mind and its foibles. Because I knew that worked, I cultivated the methodology and was successful with it. Collect, compile, regard, walk away, and then come back. The break always allowed me to see with sharpened focus and new clarity.
It happened today with the writing as well. Resuming, I understand where the muse is taking me and what I need to type. Lesson learned, once again.
Now I can write like crazy, at least one more time.
To the left of the back door onto the patio is a black widow’s residence. She builds her web every night.
To the left of the back door, leaning against the wall on the patio, is our broom. Every morning, I take the broom and knock down the black widow’s web.
Last night, I went out to call a cat. Turning on the light, I saw the black widow feasting on an insect in her web.
I thought about knocking the web down, but I reconsidered. Who am I to insert myself into this process that is the foundation of nature?
I fear the black widow and her bite. I doubt she thinks about me. Regardless, this is part of our life cycle. I can’t let fear of her direct my actions. No, I’m not comfortable with it, but should my comfort decide my actions?
I let her web be.
Each day, I realize that I don’t know much. I can’t even say that I know much about a particular subject. I tend to know a very little bit about very few things.
Each day, I re-discover things that I’d learned and forgotten. I discover things that I learned when we thought we knew better, but have to learn again because more has been learned. Really, I’m just learning to keep up.
Each day, I learn how much things change between each day and person. I’ve learned that we’re very inconsistent about what we think we know. We like to have what we think we learned validated to verify that we learned what we think we learned.
Each day, I realize how much there is to learn, not just about complicated or esoteric subjects or unfolding scandals, but about myself and the small area of existence that is my world.
Each day, I realize how much I enjoy learning. Sometimes — hell, many times — it wears me out. But with each day, I realize how fragile learning and knowledge really are, and how knowledge can be tortured and twisted.
Each day, I set out, one more time, with a cup of coffee and try to learn just a little bit more.
And some days, I remember it.
She doesn’t know who first called her Seven. She knows that’s who she is. They all have the same name because they think of themselves as the same person, even though they know that they’re different.
She exists everywhere, but there are only seven of them, so she only exists in seven places and times at once. The seven were certain that there were no more than them.
When we say everywhere, we refer to every dimension, and every time and place. Only one of the seven are ever there. Only one person there can see and communicate with her when she visits someplace. It may not be the same person if and when she returns to a place.
She has been the same age during all of her existence. She has no memory of a beginning, and she wonders if she has an end. The seven of them have their own minds and memories, and they can talk to one another, regardless of where they are. None of them have ever died, that any of them ever knew, and she really doesn’t know how she looks. She’s never seen her reflection.
Other than those things, she’s just like everyone else, except she’s happier.
She’s Seven.
a twinge
becomes an ache
an ache grows into a throb
the throb develops as a relentless pain
the pain
becomes a fear
the fear grows into a concern
the concern develops as a constant worry
the worry
becomes a visit
the visit grows into a routine of meds
the meds develop as a constancy of life
the life
becomes a bore
the bore grows into apathy
the apathy develops as a decision
the decision
becomes a moment
the moment grows into a goal
the goal develops as an ending
Your silence tells me
something must be wrong
I can’t tell by your face
It’s blank as stone
It bothers me to hear you
staying so still
No matter what I say
Emptiness is all I feel
My words run dry
trying to dig something out
I don’t know where to turn
so I just walk out
there’s a distance in the feet between us
that can’t be measured or crossed
I feel my efforts are wasted
and our time has been a loss
There’s a trio of nursing students who have been coming in and quizzing one another on terms, symptoms, treatments, etc., this week and last week.
Today, they were asking one another questions about ischemia, strokes, and other cerebral vascular events. I’m usually pretty good at zoning out and blocking out others’ conversations and exchanges, but today, their comments penetrated my walls and took me back to my time with coronary and peripheral angioplasty start-ups.
One of them hired me after I retired from the U.S.A.F. I began as the customer service/sales operations manager with a coronary angioplasty company developing coronary stents mounted on angioplasty, ended up a product manager, and then went into marketing services with a start-up trying to develop devices to treat chronic total occlusions. I worked with some terrifically intelligent and energetic people, and wound up wandering the Google “where-are-they-now?” path. I was only with those companies and that industry for a few years – 1995 to 2000 – before moving on to Internet security, but it was an exciting time. I learned a lot, and appreciate the opportunity that I had.
Okay, now that I’ve gotten that out of me, time to return to writing like crazy.
Is it just me, or does anyone else want to strangle those people who proudly announce that they don’t vote, and have never voted?
Yeah, it’s probably just me.
Michael Seidel, writer 