Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
If you’re ever been off to do something and then get distracted and forget what you were on about, you’ve experienced catention. Essentially, your attention span is reduced to that of a cat distracted by everything going on around them.
Don’t let it get to you. Just remember to be cool, look good and not care about what anyone else might think of you.
You’ve probably experienced catpetite once in a while during your lifetime. Catpetite happens whenever someone else brings food into a room. Although you’re not hungry or have already eaten, you want to know what they’re eating, just in case you’re suddenly hungry or the food they’re eating will satisfy a craving that you didn’t know you have.
Cats, of course, are always ready to eat, hungry or not. Their catpetites are huuuuggge.
Little Quinn weighs a shockingly light seven pounds, six ounces. He’s mostly fur. Yet, he manages to grow larger as we sleep. In this process, called catflation, cats begin gaining physical size and mass as they sleep beside you or on you. The longer they sleep, the more they grow. Quinn ends up exploding like a popcorn kernel in size. I think he gains fifty percent more weight. I’ve tried weighing him but once a cat awakens, they revert to normal size.
As for big Boo the Bagheera, or mighty Tucker the Enigma, they become enormous. Boo awake comes in about sixteen pounds. Tucker, at fifteen pounds, is the lightweight of the two. But both easily weigh fifty pounds or more and are as big as me once they’re asleep on me or beside me for a while.
At least it seems that way when I try to move them.
I think sometimes I experience a day or two of writer’s fatigue. I know what to write but I my writing reserves are low. As they say, even someone who loves eating steak could still become weary of all steak, all the time. I still do all these things that Kyle Massa suggest. My most recent go-to project to ameliorate writer’s fatigue.
by Kyle Massa
Writing’s always fun when you have something to write. But when the well runs dry, you might find that you’ve got writer’s block.
But what is writer’s block? Is it even a real phenomenon? And if it is, what can we do about it?
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The same Hospitality esteem’d among them as a principal Virtue, is practic’d by private Persons, of which Conrad Weiser, our Interpreter gave me the following Instance. He had been naturaliz’d among the Six Nations, & spoke well the Mohock Language. In going thro’ the Indian Country to carry a Message from our Governor to the Council at Onondaga, he call’d at the Habitation of Canasetego an old Acquaintance, who embrac’d him, spread Furs for him to sit on, plaid before him some boil’d Beans & Venison, and mix’d some Rum & Water for his Drink. When he was well refresh’d, and had lit his Pipe, Canassetego began to converse with him, ask’d how he had fard the many Years since they had seen each other, whence he then came, what occasion’d the Journey, &c. &c. Conrad answer’d all his Questions, & when the Discourse began to flag, the Indian to continue it, said, Conrad, you have lived long among the white People and know something of their Customs. I have been sometimes at Albany, and have observed that once in Seven Days they shut up their Shops, and assemble all in the great House; tell me, what is it for? what do they do there?—They meet there, says Conrad, to hear and learn good Things. I do not doubt says the Indian, that they tell you so: They have told me the same; But I doubt the Truth of what they say, and I will tell you my Reasons. I was lately to Albany to sell my Skins, & buy Blankets, Knives, Powder &c Rum &c You know I us’d generally to deal with Hans Hanson, but I was a little inclin’d this time to try some other Merchant; however, I call’d first upon Hans, & ask’d him what he would give for Beaver. He said he could not give more than four Shillings a Pound; but says he I cannot talk on Business now; this is the Day when we meet together to learn good Things, and I am going to the Meeting. So I thought to my self, since we cannot do any Business to day, I may as well go to the Meeting too; and I went with him. There stood up a Man in Black, and began to talk to the People very angrily. I did not understand what he said; but perceiving that he look’d much at me, and at Hanson, I imagin’d he was angry at seeing me there, so I went out, sat down near the House, struck Fire and lit my Pipe, waiting till the Meeting should break up. I thought too that the Man had mention’d something of Beaver, & I suspected it might be the Subject of their Making. so when they came out, I accosted my Merchant, Well, Hans, says I, I hope you have agreed to give more than four Shillings a Pound. No, says he, I cannot give so much; I cannot give more than three shillings & sixpence. I then spoke to several other Dealers, but they all sung the same Song. Three & sixpence, Three & sixpence. This made it clear to me that my Suspicion was right; and that whatever they pretended of meeting to learn Good Things, the real purpose was to consult how to cheat Indians on the Price of Beaver. Consider but a little, Conrad, and you must be of my Opinion. If they met so often to learn Good Things, they would certainly have learnt some before this time. But they are still ignorant. You know our Practice. If a white Man in travelling thro’ our Country, enters one of our Cabins, we all treat him as I treat you; we dry him if he is wet, we warm him if he is cold, we give him Meat & Drinks that he may allay his Thirst and Hunger, and spread soft Furs for him to rest & sleep on: We demand nothing in return. But if I go into a white Man’s House at Albany, and ask for Victuals & Drink, they say, where is your Money? and if I have none; they say, Get out you Indian Dog. You see they have not yet learnt those little Good Things, that we need no Meetings to be instructed in, because our Mothers taught them to us when we were Children: And therefore, it is impossible their Meeting, Should be as they say, for any such purpose, or have any such Effect. They are only to contrive the Cheating of Indians in the Price of Beaver.
From Benjamin Franklin’s remarks concerning the Savages of North America, 1782-1783. h/t to The Tribal Way. As we see hundreds of years later, many white men are still not learning Good Things but continue to learn and work upon on how to cheat others.
He’s an inky pool of sinuous shine
and he’s very likely in recline,
always watching, rarely speaking,
that’s the bagheera in our bedroom.
All my cats know what no means.
They know their names, and they know the other cats’ names. That they know so when the others are summoned, they can come to me instead and cat-block their fellow felines.
All my cats have learned the sounds associated with food – certain doors, drawers and cupboards opening, the sounds of can openers on cans, or can pop-tops, the rustling of food bags.
They know the sounds of us going to bed, and getting out of bed.
None of them know that the sound of rain on the roof or windows means it’s raining outside. It’s always an event that astonishes them.
They’re very selected about what they know.
To dream that you are cleaning indicates your ability to make situations more positive and to solve pressing problems. You are learning how to replace pessimistic views and beliefs with those that are more uplifting and pleasurable. This can suggest your desire to seek inner peace and enlightenment.
To dream that you are cleaning an object means that you want to improve a certain part of your personality or character. If you are cleaning the refrigerator or oven, then it implies that you want to tackle an issue head on rather than trying to solve it gradually. Perhaps you feel as if you have reached a stagnant position in your life and you are unsure of where to go from there.
To dream that you are cleaning out a desk implies that you have decided to shed unfavorable pressures and instead follow a new path. You now comprehend the fact that you have options and choices to make; you are not stuck in the same rut.
h/t to dreamforth.
I dreamed I was cleaning last night. Once again I was returned to military life, where I enjoyed the structure. Expectations were clear and you were rewarded for doing an outstanding job. I liked that.
In this dream, I was rushing to get dressed in the military. Part of a large building, I hurried to find my gear and then to a shower to clean and shave. Finding one, a person of lessor rank, someone who I knew, confronted me and told me I had to clean the shower.
I was outraged. Number one, why should I need to do that, now, without expectations established? Number two, who was this person of lower rank to tell me that I was clean this shower? Why not one of the many other people milling around there?
I was furious. Nothing like the wrath of an experienced senior NCO. We knew how to do angry and focus it like lasers.
I did so in my dream. Everyone shrank away, the cleaning supplies left behind. This pissed me off, too. Feeling it needed to be done, angry that others had shirked their duties, I began cleaning. Unfortunately, as I cleaned, I saw how filthy it was. I was resigned; I was cleaning it, so personal ethics insisted I do an outstanding job.
So I cleaned and cleaned, scrubbing away mold and soap scum. Then, I found something that belonged to me. Oh, was I surprised. With more cleaning, I found more of my materials there. I then began to see that the person who confronted me was trying to explain it was my doing, something I refused to accept and understand. Instead of trying to understand, I was brow-beating them with rank.
On waking and thinking about the dream, I realized that this was another recurring dream. I have dreams about being in the military, but I also have specifically oriented dreams about those periods. Cleaning a common room, like the shower, was one such dream.
The question, why do I continue to dream about cleaning in the military, led me to dreamforth. Is it correct? I don’t know. I was surprised to awaken in a surly, low-energy, blackheart mood. Considering that cleaning in dreams might be a way of trying to tell myself that I needed to seek new balance or improve was my dream entity’s way of trying to help me cope.
As I wrote about my dreams and my personal life today, I drifted through thoughts about my characters. I’d worked hard to develop each to be unique but each has their own hook.
Handley, the space pirate, is embroiled with inner disappointment and dissatisfaction with who she is and what she’s become. She wants more but doesn’t know what she wants. She thinks herself brave. Physically, she is brave. Morally, she’s a coward.
Pram, the colossus and employed terraforming supervisor, is self-assured and relaxed. The changing situation challenges him in ways he never expected to be challenged, which leads to self-inspection and growth, but also causes a hardening against trusting others.
Brett, the footloose fourth-waver, hates dying and being resuscitated, regenerated and resurrected, but he also dislikes life. His alienation had been growing throughout his life. He’d never noticed because he’d taken refuge in memory and sex. Both are artificial, external constructions that are extensions of his personality; they’re not real, but they’re safe. Eventually, as it happens so often, his familiarity with them and they with him breeds a contempt that drives him to actively seek a change. Even he’s unaware of how the depths of his needs.
Philea is a trained scientist. She loves her math, her physics, her learning. People aren’t a need nor desire. She’s enamored with the puzzle of the situation. ‘Doing right’ is secondary to ‘finding answers’.
Forus Ker, a Travail, is the most complex character on the surface. He changes the most as he actively seeks to understand himself and develop his skills and talents while embracing the role his people (or destiny – or is it a God?) has thrust upon him. He never wavers from trying harder and doing more.
Then there are others. Monads, who believe in their manifest destiny and are contemptuous of others in their species and in other species who don’t recognize and accept their superiority. There are the Sabards and the complex role they’ve established for themselves and the altruism they consistently demonstrate. And there are the other Travail, who have come the farthest in grasping how wrong their understanding of existence is and how little they truly understand.
On some days, before I begin a new section, I need to consider which character is in the lead for those scenes, and what they know and when they know it, and then, the overarching characteristics and behavior that drives their decisions and actions. Few of them are pure in their intentions. Sometimes their emotions (save Philea, so far) dictates behavior counter to their best interests. Other times, especially with Handley and Forus Ker, they’re following orders that they don’t understand, but which they decide they must do.
Then, as other characters, are space, time and technology. Things break down, evolve, or dissolve with sudden revelations. They are also considered as each new scene is begun. Sometimes I realize that I’ve overlooked one aspect or another and go back to rewrite on the floor. I feel like I’m looking at sprawling mosaic that’s telling the history of a complex encounter. I slip in to get the closer look necessary to see, hear and explain to the reader what’s going on. But once in a while, I get trapped in the mosaic and find the need to extricate myself and gain distance once again to see the other parts.
Once separation is established and clarity is recovered, I take a deep breath and go back in.
It’s one of those days when voices scratch like annoying sounds in my psyche. Everything seems to be fracturing and falling to pieces. A demon within rises, screaming, “What’s the fucking use? Who the hell cares?” I try rallying myself to respond, I care, but that vessel is empty. Someone holed my bottom. All my energy has drained out. All that remains is self-indulgent self-pity and bitterness.
What the hell happened overnight that brought me to this state? I know my inner personality has an affinity for the dark side but how do those tentacles reach out and seize me so quickly? How do they pull me in so fast and hold me so securely that I grow tired in its grip and just want to escape, crying, “God, where can I escape?”
Logically, I understand how much better I have than so many others. This isn’t logic. This is raw emotion. Emotions don’t embrace logic. They spread, dark horses of anger, bitterness, depression, weariness and frustration, roaring across my plains of consciousness, trampling coherent thinking. I know it’s ‘that time of month’ for me. I know this is a temporary state. The state will likely pass within a few days. I will survive and emerge. Always have.
But the ride along the way is shitty hard.
Michael Seidel, writer 