Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Quadrafloofic (floofinition) – of, or relating to, four housepets.
In use: “Life with his animals was often quadrafloofic as the three dogs and single cat — the ringleader, if you must know — surrounded him, regardless of his activity. This made using the toilet particularly challenging.”
Whenever I read about the stages of coping with grief, aging, or ASD, I think more generally about spectrums. My overall philosophy is that everything in existence is on a spectrum. Those spectrums generally have multiple sub-spectrums.
Fer instance, my body is on several spectrums. The spectrums are about my body shape, physical age, genetics, and conditioning. Some of the things are on spectrums that I can’t do anything about (genetics) and knowing this helps me adjust my other efforts and expectations.
The spectrum of time is fun to think about because now because the past in the same instant that the future becomes now. What a spectrum!
Emotions and socializing have multiple spectrums, too. I think of Johari spectrums instead of Johari windows. Nothing wrong with the windows, except for the conceptions that some have that these things are fixed within those panes, but my impressions are that we slide along, changing through the day, depending on circumstances, like whether we’re supervising, socializing, working alone, etc., but also circumstances such as who we’re dealing with, and our what’s going on with our body. Yes, it’s complex.
Naturally I think of these spectrums while writing. I appreciate that I have multiple spectrums about my work in progress and my writing prowess in general. My writing spectrums include ranking my grammar and punctuation, word-smithing, story-telling, and creativity. There are also spectrums for how well I create characters, portray action scenes, create settings, etc. Yes, it’s complex.
Think about it came about because on the editing spectrum for my novel in progress, I feel pretty damn good. Meanwhile, on my story-telling spectrum, I feel far less confident. I’m anxious and worried about whether the story I’m trying to tell will emerge from how I tell it. I’m in the middle regarding its creativity and settings, because I see how I’ve built from the foundations that others have set.
But again, thinking of these things regarding my writing as spectrums enable to visualize my strengths and weaknesses, and helps me assess where I need to improve.
Enough of this stuff. You may say that I’m overthinking, over-analyzing, and over-complicating things. You may be right. It works for me, however, so who cares? Find your way — or don’t. It’s your choice.
Time to write edit like crazy, at least one more time.
He ran ahead with his tail up, as I’ve so often seen him do.
Then, stopping, he looked back and meowed, as I’ve often witnessed him do.
Smiling, I waved and called his name. He turned and went on.
Still smiling, I turned aside.
And I went on, too.
Bofloofcious (floofinition) – a remarkable or noteworthy housepet.
In use: “The bofloofcious pittie puppie soon demonstrated she was a bofloofcious friend to the family’s children on her way to becoming a bofloofcious adult member of their sprawling family.”
Well, to elaborate on the last first, you probably read that and thought, I don’t know. How much are you starting to hate it?
I expect a learning curve with any change. But when I follow the process and it doesn’t come out as expected, forcing me to begin trouble-shooting, only to discover there isn’t any trouble-shooting to do, leaving me unable to post what I want when I want to post it, then I begin to hate the application.
Like, that whole thing with blocking a paragraph to work on it is irritating. So is the inability to use MS Word commands that I’m used to having.
Yes, I’m getting old and cranky. So what’s your point.
All this leads me to my real question: how do I return to the previous editor? That’ll be this weekend’s project.
I spy little dreams
secreted behind the schemes
coming and going today
Little dreams
hiding in the dark
fearing the people
that break them apart
Some dreams
aren’t meant to be
but who could say which one
Some dreams
are down to essentials
like
I just want to live
and find love
Listening to sudden sirens outside, he wondered where they were going, and what sort of emergency prompted the sirens during the night’s darkest trenches. He didn’t know, and would probably never know.
What he knew, he thought, wasn’t much, about anything. He knew a little, pretended to know more, and bullshit about knowing much more. But when reviewing what he knew while staring into the dark hours dedicated to sleeping, he knew he didn’t know much. Didn’t know what was going on with his body, his mate, his house, or politics, nothing really, not even when more was revealed. In fact, he decided, he could probably fit what he knew into the tip of one little finger.
He didn’t know if it would fit into the right or the left better. He assumed they were pretty much the same, but he didn’t know.
I’ve been dreaming, but most of it’s been the standard surviving storms, climbing mountains, and flying stuff. This dream last night was odd, so I thought it worth thinking more about, which translates to writing about it.
I was creating a greeting card. Nothing special about that. It’s something that I’ve done off and on on computers for decades. In this one, though, I was creating a greeting card with the outline of Oregon on the cover. It was a cut-out showing a photo of me with my wife.
Trying to figure out what should go inside, I realized I didn’t know the card’s expected recipient. Closing it to think, I looked at the card’s front and saw that I’d printed, “Wish you were here.” I realized the photo was of us when we were younger.
That made me laugh. Someone was calling me (off dream, if you will). I said, “Just a minute. I’m not done.”
Then, looking at the card, I thought, that could be the basis for a clever line of cards.
End dream.
I woke up smiling.
It happened on a Monday
I thought it was a Sunday
not the change I sought
When it came Thursday
it was supposed to be Tuesday
the man told me, that’s what I’d bought
I hunted Friday and found Saturday
a tattered day if I ever knew one
So I hung onto Wednesday
the only real friendly day
drunk like another day doesn’t matter.
Michael Seidel, writer 