Eyes open, I dream
of cold
water
sprinklers
rivers
lakes
watermelon
ice cream
sorbet
beer
breezes
What cold dreams does the heat sow in you?
Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Eyes open, I dream
of cold
water
sprinklers
rivers
lakes
watermelon
ice cream
sorbet
beer
breezes
What cold dreams does the heat sow in you?
I don’t want to edit my novel.
Not because I don’t love my novel.
My novel is like a brightly shining star.
That can be taken many ways. If it’s a star, its light must travel great distances. That takes a long time. If the novel’s words are the light, its light will not reach people for a while. So what’s another day or two?
If the novel is a star, it’s unique and alike, like snowflakes, beers, cats and people — and novels. It’s remote and unattainable, but inspiring and bright, a thing of beauty and mystery, something to be parsed, studied, watched. Something for wonder.
I don’t want to edit my novel.
And my brain is very happy with that. Come, let us write other stories, my brain says. It’s a beautiful day to start a new story, or to continue one you set aside. Remember that novel about the bookmarker? You want to write it, don’t you, I know you do.
Yes, I want to tear into that novel like it’s a fresh, warm piece of blueberry pie with a scoop of ice cream.
But I am strong, and I resist!
What about that other novel, the one about the woman and equations? You really want to write that novel, don’t you?
Yes, I want to write that novel like it’s a mug of cold ale on a molten lava day.
But I am strong, and I resist!
What about that other novel you’ve been thinking about, you know, the one about the weapon system that impairs people’s memories so people end up with other people’s incomplete memories, and try to live others’ lives? If you don’t want to do that one, you can work on the next novel in the Lessons with Savanna series, Personal Lessons with Savanna. You were writing a chapter in your head this morning while you were weed whacking. There is also the novel about when time fractured —
Enough, brain, enough. I am strong, and I resist! I will edit.
I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.
Oh, but to sample a new novel, to dip myself into those places and characters and let their chi flow through me.
I will edit, I will edit, I will edit.
I will edit.
Really, I will edit.
He wakes up
the usual time, after a usual night of sleep
with the usual shifts and movements
falling asleep to the usual thoughts
He does
the usual things,
feeds the cats the usual foods
in the usual order
He checks
the usual items,
the temperature outside and in
the forecast
the stock market
the news
the blogs
And he eats
the usual breakfast
drinks the usual coffee
shaves his usual face
dresses in his usual clothes
and embraces his usual self
on a usual day.
Yeah, it’s not pretty but it happens.
I have cats. They vomit.
Yeah, bleah.
Three cats live with me. Two others that belong to neighbors make my house their de facto home.
Five cats. Each display distinctive traits and personalities in everything. Eating, of course. Quinn is finicky. So is Meep. Meep will just sigh (so it seems) and shake his head in disappointment and disapproval (so it seems) and leave it, but Quinn will back away and stare with brooding sadness that this food is so terrible, and then turn and state his displeasure by pretending to cover it, like its feces he’s found. Although he will return a little later and eat it, after the initial dejection faded. It’s usually less than ten minutes.
Boo will eat anything but likes to take it out of the bowl to consume it. Tucker likes having the food presented to him and follows a ritual leading up to the moment, and then he wolfs it down with intent focus. Pepper eats anything, usually licking the bowl clean. She’s like Mikey, from the old Life cereal commercials. YouTube it if you don’t know the reference.
Meep, the neighbor’s cat, brought in for weather protection during the heavy snowstorms last year (because he’s not permitted in their house…WTF…), has a weak, high-pitched broken meow. It sounds like a stretched meep. (Yes, that’s how he came by his name. We’re not real original feline namers.) Quinn is a cat whisperer, whose soft noises often sound like wounded coos. Tucker, probably owing to his rough history (we assume it was rough from his state of health when he found us), has an old man’s husky baritone, “Mrere-oww,” even though he doesn’t seem that old. Boo Radley’s meow is a straightforward and honest, “Meow,” as matter of fact and no-nonsense as him.
Miss Pepper, who lives next house over but sleeps on our porch and begs us for food, is a beautiful black and brown long-haired calico with a Queen’s demanding, insistent, sharply ruling, “Meow.” It’s LOUD, like ROCK CONCERT LOUD. Her meow can be quickly strident, startling all, including the other cats, who keep away from Her Majesty. Which is fine with her. If she was a superhero, her meow would be her primary super power. (“Here, let me put that fire out. MEOW.”) That, and eating.
Cat puking is likewise unique for each. In bed, in sleep’s clutches, I can guess which cat is vomiting from their sound – except Tucker, who likes to employ stealth puking. If there is a feline upchuck in the house and I didn’t hear a noise, he’s the prime suspect. Quinn has an elaborate noisy production, accompanied by whole body heaves as the sound builds like a thunderstorm coming closer.
Other factors can be examined to learn who puked, necessary to follow up and ensure the cat is okay. The contents and presentation is significant. If there’s a hairball that looks like a dark mouse amidst the results, it probably originated with that perpetually grooming long haired handsome fellow, Quinn. If the splatter pattern appears like the cat was backing up as the puking was accomplished, that’s Tucker. Straightforward puddled mess on the porch points to Meep.
It’s important to know these things, not just as one of the gauges of the cats’ health, but also to keep you on your toes, you know, so you avoid stepping in one of these presents. Nothing makes a night time trip to the bathroom more delightful than stepping in a pile of this, which might be warm or cold, but strikes me as disgusting either way when it squeezes up between my toes or clings to my heel.
This has all been learned from observation, of course, from hearing the noises while awake, investigating what’s happening, and witnessing the behavior and results. Cats have owned me for decades.
I’m starting to tumble onto their ways.
I’ve been meditating for years. While once it was a formal variation of transcendental meditation I began back in 1976, my methodology now isn’t formal, but quiet, mindful thinking . I conduct it while walking (which is especially conducive), sitting, laying, whatever. Sometimes I’ll meditate when my sleep is disturbed. The meditation process puts me back to sleep.
My focus in recent years was about finding balance and not being negative. I considered being imbalanced and negative as by-products of working for IBM, so I meditated not to be angry, bitter, frustrated, despairing…you know, negative stuff. But nature doesn’t like a vacuum. Something needed to be injected in the place of those negative energies, otherwise they rushed back in. So I sought balance, trying to bring in positive energies, mostly through being more mindful about my reactions, decisions and behavior. I vowed not to permit others, including bosses and co-workers, to master me, but that I would master myself.
It’s been a challenge.
More recently, writing science fiction and thinking about time, reality and existence, I explored energy. It was also related to a modern mystery I was penning. Trapped, a person believes she is facing death, and examines her life, preparing herself to address her death. That pushed me to think about myself in terms of life and death, and how energy plays into being and consciousness. I figured, I have physical energy, but I also have mental and emotional energy. Of course, everyone says. Isn’t that obvious?
Oh, yeah, and creative energy. Yes, right, right.
And healing energy.
I can’t forget psychic energy.
And spiritual energy.
And actually, there are several types of mental energy…right…?
Thinking of spiritual energy diverted me into thoughts of God and religion. Ranging from agnostic to atheistic, but thinking there is something out there, just not a person or creature so many religions espouse, I accept I can have spiritual energy without worshiping a God or practicing a religion.
My meditations became about healing, repairing and restoring my energy. I decided while addressing the energies, I’d also attend to my third eye, figuring it had something to do with these energies, and also worked on cleansing my aura. I discovered that physical energy breaks down into more disparate types of energy. It probably won’t surprise you that as I conceptualized these energies, I thought of chakras and began exploring them.
Not having previous experience with chakras, but having some inkling about what they were (at least from posters, book covers and websites), naturally, I thought, the chakras are probably all about channeling, managing and coordinating these energies. Asking, why re-invent something if it already exists, I searched and read about chakras.
Chakras aren’t as straightforward as I believed. First, from what I’ve read, there are commonalities among chakras but not ‘standard’ chakras. But what I read resonated with my philosophy. I think of life, reality and my being as an individual as systems within systems, and that, from my opening examinations, is a large part of what the chakras are about.
All of this naturally extends from simple observations of life. Think of light, for instance. When considering light, we think of the visible light that we, as humans, see. But light visible to human is just one sort of light. Light has properties. The properties affect how we interact with that light, and how it interacts with us. Consider the sources of light, and how different each are, from the sun to a light bulb (which type of light bulb, you might respond) to your television and computer screens.
Fun thinking about such things. Add in thoughts about time (are you sure there’s just one kind of time, and that it’s uniform through everyone’s existence?), and you got yourself a par-tay.
But it’s a meditation party, and sort of quiet and introspective.
Time for coffee, and to write like crazy.
HP Envy is the computer’s brand name but don’t envy people for having or using this piece of shit, this contraption that freezes and unfreezes on cryptic whims.
Chrome pauses and won’t load. Opera hangs. Vivaldi acts stupified. Edge blinks with puzzlement. Explorer can’t open folders. Task Manager yawns like a sleepy cat.
All is well, the diagnostic systems declare. This is a great machine! Were that so, my darkest urges to take this piece of shit outside and slam it onto Siskiyou Blvd would not be riding so high. Oh, wouldn’t that be great, to slam it down onto the hot asphalt, once, twice, three times, and then watch the Chevys, Subarus, Toyotas and BMWs ride over it, spreading its plastic and metal into unfathomable road debris.
It’s Windows 10 causing your problems, some expert forums tell me, which is so much better than Windows 8.1, itself light years over 8, which was far better than 7, Vista, and XP. What a great machine you have. Admire the screen’s clarity as you count the minutes and wait for something to happen. Look at those awesome applications, available through HP’s fabulous TouchSmart technology, which, believe me, would really impress you, if any of the applications actually worked. Here, try, see if they’ll work for you.
“Well,” a stern Internet trouble forum harrumphs, “it sounds like you need to do a hard reset.” Done. Done before, done many times. “Check your security. Maybe that’s blocking it.” Nope. “Look at your logs. What do they show?” Nada. “Then maybe you need to re-install — ”
Which one do I need to re-install? Windows 10 again? Chrome again? Vivaldi? Kaspersky? Which one, please tell me, oh great computer overlords.
Nah, blame it on my attitude. I’m disgusted with this HP Envy Piece of Shit, and it knows it.
jack and jill wanted to be good little entrepreneurs so they went up the hill to sell a pail of water but no coin was made ‘cos no one wanted to climb that big ass hill in the summer to buy water with a metallic aftertaste that hadn’t been chilled or bottled or had a […]
via water supply (the rise and fall of jack & jill inc.) — unbolt
Perfect, I think, 71 degrees F in the house, perfect, I think, with a cool breeze laden with soft tinctures of damp grasses sweep in through the office window, an unexpected delivery. Outside, the sun is flexing its blaze, awing the blue sky. Outside promises heat, the kind dreamed of during frigid winters.
My perfection doesn’t align with my wife’s idea of perfection. When 78 degrees inflamed the office and the windows were closed against the 92 degree heat outside, my wife declared her pleasure with the heat. “I’d rather be too hot than too cold.”
Yes, all of it is a spectrum, I speak to myself. Nothing seems absolute. Everything in our existence seems to be on a spectrum. I toy with the spectrum of spectrums that merge and blend into a spectrum of reality and existence.
Is truth somewhere on a spectrum? No, but our understanding of truth exists on a spectrum, the understanding, interpretation and application of truth and facts through spectrums.
Spectrums and cycles. I travel cycles of darkness and light, balancing along spectrums of happiness. Spectrums of determination and desire. Spectrums of energy and willpower. Nothing is black and white for me and my spectrums. Emotions, dream, urges and frustrations pedaling with frenzy, I cycle through my spectrums.
I’m going through a cycle of thinking that propels me toward optimism, joy and happiness on my spectrum. Are joy and happiness the same, I question, and cast a net to define the differences. Imagination intrudes. Story concepts take seed and bloom. I want to be done with what I’m writing so I can write more, explore these other ideas, discover these characters and their situations, lay out their story. I want to finish painting the guest room and the bathrooms’ trim so I can work on the yard, cut the grass, pull weeds, trim plants and bushes. I want to walk a long distance in the hot sun and free the sweat from my body. I want to load up junk, and clean the closets and drawers, and take items to the Goodwill, and I want to sit somewhere by an ocean’s side, smelling its breeze, hearing those waves, sipping a beer, or wine, alone or with others.
Life is good, in this spectrum’s neighborhood. And then, I tell myself, go edit. Go proofread. Go write. And I close the window, because the breeze is gone.
Many dreams last night, very chaotic.
I arrived somewhere, a respected, highly regarded. This I knew in the dream, inside me, from experiencing and enjoying success, and from others’ demeanor toward me. People fawned over me as I arrived. I tried to be natural, approachable, accommodating, friendly.
The somewhere was a medium sized retail business. The managers and owner sought my advice on improving sales. I suggest marketing partnerships. They were selling hardware and things to keep homes safe so I suggested a partnership with people to keep other things safe, and offered them advertising ideas like, ‘safe and strong,’ and ‘secure through strength’. Continued on a tour, observing.
Now somewhere else, in a car, driving fast. Terrible, gray visibility, limited in the front and back. The observer’s paradox, I think in the dream. Weaving through traffic in this terrible gray visibility, passing other cars. Discover there are enormous accidents everywhere on this huge concrete Interstate. Vehicles are stopped. There are no dead nor injured, no fires or wreckage, but I know there are accidents. Yet, I hurtle on, guiding my car around the obstacles until getting free, into sunshine.
Back at the medium sales place. There is a huge sale going on. So big, it spilled over into the out doors. They’re doing as I suggested but I sense they did it on their own. Yet, they initiated the idea but didn’t seem to plan. People are holding onto purchases and queuing to buy everywhere. “Why didn’t they add more sales staff?” I wonder. “Why didn’t they plan ahead better?” Then I think, they did, but they were sloppy about it.
Poor Tucker. He loves kibble.
Kibble despises him.
Kibble is not a creature, but the hard cat food. Sadly, Tucker, a large black and white cat with an injured eye (who may have some Maine Coon in him) suffers from an auto-immune condition, gingivitis stomatitis. He came to us in this condition, someone’s pet lost on the streets, looking for food, shelter and affection. We stopped up because we’re suckers like that. He was not in good shape and it took almost a year for us to discover the terrible conditions of his gums and teeth. Bleeding, infections, bad breath, ulcers, inflammation, pain and sensitivity, he had it all.
We started him on medications and steroids to contain the problem. Our vet recommended we pull all his teeth. No, no, no, no, no, we replied, no. Instead, we sought methods for containing and reducing the problem. Through reading and testing, we found he can’t eat kibble, period. So all kibble was taken from him. He eats wet food only but not just any. I’ve found that those wet foods with carrageenan causes swelling, ulcers and inflammation in him so they’ve been taken out of his diet. This finding of mine is contrary to the pet food industry’s findings, that carrageenan doesn’t contribute to these issues, but since restricting him from them, he’s doing much better, so I’ll accept my findings over their findings. Then, after reading of others’ success with L-lysine, I initiated a daily practice of dosing him with L-lysine. Buying it in capsule form, I dilute it a little water and squirt 100 CCs into his mouth before his morning and evening meals.
These practices have worked well with him, and he’s not needed any shots in four months. A year ago, he was going every 30 t0 45 days.
Sadly, though, Tucker is a huge kibble fan. We also feed it to our other cats (we have one, but ‘take care of’ two others). So Tucker remains on a perpetual quest to get to the kibble and gobble it up. He’s also a fighter. Although amazingly sweet and docile with humans, when it comes to other cats, he wants to fight, not chase or hiss or yowl, but launch himself fangs and claws out and battle! So we segregate the four cats. The matter is more complicated as Boo Radley, the big black tailless stray, taken in to protect him from the frigid winter but now probably also our pet, fights with Meep, the ginger cat that isn’t allowed in his house. (We bring him in to feed and offer shelter from foul and cold weather.) Only Quinn, our black paw buddy, gets along with the others. It’s trying, to express the most minimal impact, to deal with the fights when Meep, Tucker or Boo encounter one another and unsheath their claws.
It all works in a way, but we need to find a way to end the fights. At least we’ve mitigated many of Tucker’s problems. Maybe someday we’ll find kibble that doesn’t cause him issues. Then he’ll be one purring kitty.