The Plague

When it was almost one, I thought the thoughts would soon be done.

Then it was past two, and there were still a few.

When the clock showed three, I got up to pee.

Then, at four, I peed some more.

Seeing five, I fought to close my eyes.

Then it was six, and there was no fix.

When I saw seven, I mourned the dawn,

and realized at eight, I was going to be late.

I hit the road before nine with a tired head,

now it’s ten, and I want my bed.

At eleven, I stole a nap in my ride,

which did nothing for my back, neck, or side.

Dragging myself back in at twelve with sunken eyes,

I sucked down coffee just to feel alive.

At one, I splashed my face.

At two, I realized I had three more hours of this place.

Striking three, the coffee made me pee.

But at four, I drank some more.

Then it was finally five, and I’d somehow survived.

Home at six, I got ready for a party mix.

Seven found me with my friends, ready to go.

When it was eight, we got some food on a plate.

Then at nine, we paid the dime.

Ten found me at a club, having fun.

By two, I was heading home, tired and happy, but wishing it was one.

At three, I laid down in bed,

and then the thoughts returned,

plaguing my head.

 

 

Sweet Meow

Do you ever listen to the start of Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” and think that it sounds like a cat saying meow with a prolonged techno accent? Listen to the video and see if it doesn’t sound like, “Mee-oowww,” at about the seventeen second mark.

No? Is it just me?

 

#@$!

Don’t you love it when you’re trying to create an account, and a password is required, and you create one according to its rules but it keeps telling you the same thing again and again, “Your password must be between 8 and 10 characters and include numbers and letters.”

Thanks a fucking lot. You are a wonderful site.

The Character Mix

Philea’s voice remains strong. She retains control of the story boards, dictating what’s going on. I’d prefer some shortcuts so I can finish the novel (and series, Incomplete States). 

Not going to happen. The characters know what they want to say to convey the scene’s meaning to them and how they want the scenes to portray them. Kanrin is straightforward when he speaks and pragmatic in his actions, but likes to keep his speaking to a minimum, letting others fill the gaps. He doesn’t ask questions, but wait for people to volunteer insights without being prompted. He knows that many people like to give their opinions, and within these opinions are some aspects of the truth, or enough to give him direction. His story telling tends to be direct and shorn of observations. He’s also very patient.

Handley is more scattered. She tends to do free-association streaming of thinking and interaction. She gets angry at people and hold grudges without sharing why with them. She’s also troubled more than the rest by the entire series and its concepts. They don’t make sense to her, and even while she experiences them, she’s attempting to either rationalize them or reject them.

Meanwhile, Pram has become more physical, aggressive, and belligerent. He’s also awoken to the awareness that he was used and that most people don’t consider him a nice person. Yet, is it really him? Or are his interactions being manipulated to drive him to a specific end? Impatient to be free of the circular complications, he’s always asking the others for information.

He also knows from his external memory that he wasn’t always like this, but he’s trying to unwind the cause and effect to better understand how and why he changed.

Because of his experience in Returnee, Brett is more philosophical about the situation and open to ideas about what might be going on. His experience taught him that systems and perceptions can’t be trusted, and that we often only have a sliver of the available information. Brett is also a rememberer, able to recall and understand his other life-experience-reality-existences with greater clarity than the rest, giving him deeper insights into the struggle they’re all enduring.

Richard, another rememberer, is less talented as a rememberer than Brett. When it comes out eventually that Brett is actually Richard’s replacement, Richard becomes bitter and sullen. He wants the others to want and need him, and is desperate to do and say things that will raise his esteem.

Then we have Philea. A scientist in most of her life-experience-reality-existences, she’s the most intelligent of the group. Her intellectual prowess (and technological breakthroughs like her time-traveling machine, Wrinkle), enhanced her value as a target for the organizations, species, businesses, and other entities who seek to master and control the forces that this group have encountered.

Although Philea isn’t a scientist (or engineer) in her current incarnation, her thinking style and logical expression remains similar, but less practiced. Fleeing and jumping the Wrinkle as hostile forces close in and try to take them, her new experiences awaken greater insights in this part being written now. I always knew and respected this piece existed, and that it would come to be written at the right moment. That moment seems to be now. Her revelations awaken the group to greater depths of involvement and complexity.

Still, I was surprised with her introduction and references to Kything. While writing like crazy during the past week, I wondered how this was all going to tie together even as I typed and edited it. Philea dropped the reveal on me at the end of yesterday’s writing session.

Good to write all that up. Permits me to think through the craziness and reassure myself that I’m keeping up with developments.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Catalect

Catalect (catfinition) – feline dialect. Cats develop unique catalects to communicate with the cats and people closest to them. These catalects often vary from house to house. Some evidence suggest that broader catalects exist by breed.

In use: “Mrrp in our household catalect is a greeting similar to “hello” that the felines in our household use to greet their humans.”

Undeterred

Went out to cut the grass. It started raining. I hustled my equipment into the garage and went into the house. Looking out, I saw the rain stop. The clouds parted and let blazing sunlight through. Went back out to cut the grass. The skies darkened. Drops began falling.

Refusing to be deterred by the weather, I went back into the house, opened a bottle of wine, and poured a glass. Then I went out onto the covered porch and watched the rain-shine show.

See, I wasn’t deterred. I adjusted. When life gives you lemons, open a bottle of wine.

Beat Up, Shut Up

I traveled one of those mornings where I felt like I was walking the valley of the despised. Well known self-descriptions about being inadequate and passive, smart enough to know I’m not too smart, talented enough to appreciate that I lack real talent, bright enough to recognize I’m really not that bright, rushed through me with the power of a swollen spring river. Following that period, some self-flagellation was indulged: it’s all a show of mute head-noddings and quick smiles to show I’m in on it, too, when it all flashes past with a hurrying hummingbird’s speed.

That done, I shower and engage in a transformation. Looking in the mirror, I see no changes, but I feel them inside. I know what I went through, just a ninety minute tour of the personal hell I sometimes send myself to (tell me, do you have one, too?), but emerged, almost alright, close enough to that mark to get it done, at least. Then I scrambled to go on with anything and everything, just to ensure I was going on.

Time to write like fucking crazy, at least one more time.

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