“get down on your knees and pray to the muse”
Oh, yeah. Better than blood sacrifices, but if that doesn’t work, open any vein.

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Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
“get down on your knees and pray to the muse”
Oh, yeah. Better than blood sacrifices, but if that doesn’t work, open any vein.

View original post 134 more words
I lament that there doesn’t seem to be any good Thanksgiving songs in America. Christmas songs are being played in many stores. Why didn’t those Pilgrims and others write some good Thanksgiving songs? What happened to, “Hark, the herald Pilgrims sing, Thanksgiving has come again?”
Nobody sang, “I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, if only in my dreams.”
Nobody marched to the chant, “I don’t know but I’ve been told, the Thanksgiving dinner is getting cold. I don’t know but I concede, roasted turkey makes me sleep.”
Disappointing.
Perhaps, per my wife’s view, Thanksgiving doesn’t deserve a celebration because of all the Native Americans killed as they took over the ‘new world’.
I lament that I don’t know much about Christmas in other countries. It’s been a few decades since I was overseas for the holidays. Are Christmas songs being played in stores in Japan, Europe, Australia, et cetera, already? Do other countries have their versions of Black Friday and Cyber Monday? Do citizens in other nations have any idea what I’m writing about?
I lament that my rear end falls asleep so easily. By ‘falls asleep’, I mean it becomes uncomfortable and grows numb. I want to know: have studies been done? Does writer’s butt affect other writers besides me?
I lament that I have but one lap to give to my cats. Tucker is a big fella and takes up the entire lap. That doesn’t stop Quinn, a small fellow, from making the attempt. If Quinn is already occupying my lap, Tucker will go high and attempt to perch on my chest or shoulder. Not comfortable.
Our two recent rescues, Boo Radley and Meep, haven’t demonstrated any lap interests. Boo likes sleeping alongside us, following the standard cat practice of tucking up against a leg or hip. Meep keeps his distant. He’s not socialized to co-exist with humans well. We’re working on it.
I lament that so much fake news and false information permeates the Internet. Worse than relying on this information, when it turns out to be false, or worse, deliberately false, it undermines other information. I come more and more to distrust news on the net. It requires greater due diligence on my part to vet information, and that’s just damn wearying. It’s nice to impossible to fix false information once it’s out there. Stories that were proven false as far back as 1998 get some cosmetic updates and become circulated as a new truth.
Of course, I lament that I tend toward globalization. When one corporation or politician is caught lying, I tend to brand them all. But then, there is a rich history of corporations and politicians lying to us and misleading us.
Likewise, I lament that there seems to be some seriously flawed understanding of the star system, when people give one to five stars to hotels and restaurants.
You know how writers are. Maybe I’m assuming too much. Permit me to note that writers are moody. Weather affects them. News. Food. They’re so overly sensitive and moody, staring into space, or hunched over a notebook, typewriter or keyboard, or swilling coffee, tea, or libations. What’s going on in their heads mystifies normal humans. Only animals seem to understand, and other writers.
Well, Ashlandia is dripping with wintry cold precipitation today. Kind of a ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ or Blind Melon ‘No Rain’ day. It’s Monday, drawing out the Mamas and Papas, the Carpenters, or Burt B and raindrops falling on my head.
Screw that noise. We’re here to write. It’s all about the words, buddy, to paraphrase Meghan Trainor. Keep that in mind as she sings, ‘All About That Bass’. It’s all about the words. And move your booty and get some exercise. Seriously. It’ll do your heart, mind and soul good.
A circumstance beyond our control, oh oh oh oh
The phone, the TV and the news of the world
Got in the house like a pigeon from hell, oh oh oh oh
Threw sand in our eyes and descended like flies
Put us back on the train
Oh, back on the chain gang
~ ‘Back on the Chain Gang’, Chrissie Hynde, The Pretenders
So many words of these song resonate with me, making a natural as a theme song when walking around, alone, wondering, struggling. That she wrote it after her band-mate, twenty-five years old, died of a drug overdose, adds poignancy to the words.
The powers that be
That force us to live like we do
Bring me to my knees
When I see what they’ve done to you
But I’ll die as I stand here today
Knowing that deep in my heart
They’ll fall to ruin one day
For making us part
Super advice here. It’s challenging to develop something that makes sense within the novel’s future/alternate/fantasy structure. As part of doing this, I’ve taken to ancient languages and then modify them by one or two letter changes, As always, keeping up with decisions is a challenge. I keep a novel bible for that. The bible for ‘Long Summer’, sequel to ‘Returnee’, is 7,000 words, all in outline form.
I needed a song that captures memories and wistfulness, because that’s the day’s mood, but is easy to sing.
‘Me & Bobby McGee’, Janis Joplin.
An accumulation
of youth and dreams
An accumulation
of tests and trust
A dust of words
A film of touch
A clutter of scowls
A handful of sighs
Restless gazes
Furtive moves
Spooned bodies
Spent juices
A faint memory
A wistful hope
A pondering of time
A vacant ache
Moments alone
Walking and sitting
Thinking and wishing
Longing and holding
An accumulation
Of smiles and laughs
An accumulation
Of being and ash
The words don’t care
How much you wrote
The words don’t care
If you’re rich or broke
The words don’t care
You didn’t sleep last night
The words don’t care
If they don’t sound right
The words don’t care
What you’re trying to say
The words don’t care
If you’re having a bad day
The words don’t care
If you have writer’s block
The words don’t care
If the story seems stock
The words don’t care
What you’re trying to do
And they don’t care
What you’re trying to prove
The words don’t care
The words don’t care
The words don’t care
It’s just you
The time.
The rain.
A book.
The rain.
A coffee.
The rain.
A coffee shop.
The rain.
The bliss.
The rain.
The time.
“One, two, three, what are we fighting for?
“Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn.
“Next stop is Vietnam.”
Yeah, Country Joe and the Fish, for you protest connoisseurs, a flashback to when we were saying the same thing about Vietnam that we said about Iraq and Afghanistan.