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The Balance

My cycles ebb and flow, pushing my moods, diluting my motivation, diverting my willpower.

I seek the balance. It’s not sufficient to state what I won’t be. Nor is it great enough to say what I will be. There’s the balance of each, what I won’t be and what I am not, what I am and what I will be. Reassurances, tiny ego strokes.

Sometimes, when seeking the balance, bitterness, weariness, frustration, anger, despair, or many other negative energies, rise up like a revolting population. My fingers grow heavy just typing. Sometimes just thinking of those negative energies lash me with aches and make me tired. I want to curl up and sleep, or go have a drink and forget it all.

I know neither works. If I sleep when such darkness comes, I’ll wake up more tired and sour. Drinking under the influence of darkness leads to obnoxious, sneering drunkeness, shameful and pathetic.

So I seek the balance. White, male, decently intelligent and attractive, living on a military pension, with all the ‘good things’ people want, like a house and a car and no bills, I have enjoyed and still enjoy a comfortable life. Yet there are days when it feels like colossal wheels roll over me. I’m part of the pavement and they just keep coming, crushing me. That’s emotion, and has nothing to do with logic. But I try to treat it logically.

Or I used to. I rarely succumb to that urge any more. I sit and bare it, reminding myself, breath in…release.

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So you’d like a new —

Head butting against my hand, Quinn challenged my sleep with soft coos. Gray light had emerged past the screened windows. The windows and blinds were open to release yesterday’s built up heat and permit the cool night air to saturate the house, preparation to coping with another day of heat. Sure, we could turn on the air con but isn’t it more challenging, more fun, and even nostalgic, to live the day without running the a/c, windows closed and blinds down, sweat beading up as the house’s interior temps climb into the mid 80s? Some would disagree, sure. Turn on the air conditioning, you madman, they order.

Dreams were fading, a snow storm moving on. I glimpsed facets of at least three dreams. One drew me in and held me longer, like a relative saying good-bye with an extended hug. I traipsed through remembered segments, amused and pleased by this dream. Then the realization bolted in, wait, hold onto this dream, this is important.

Shifting focus and effort, I tracked through the dream scenes I saw, heard, remembered, tracing back through sequence and organization, picking up details. The dream’s sequences were about moving into new places, acquiring new things – a new office building and office, a new car – with new computers and computer systems, new passwords, a new location, part of a new morning, and a new day. Excited and joyful I went through these new things, the first to arrive and explore my new digs, the leader of a smallish group, about the size of a high school class. And there, in the dream, shock of discovery took me as I grasped, I’m getting a new body. 

Oh, it’s my same body, but everything is brand new. Not brand new, I’d been thinking upon waking, but regenerated, which had triggered thoughts of the Doctor Who television series, which was where my thoughts were when I started moving from sleep into consciousness. I’m getting a new body, I’d been thinking, like Doctor Who. And I saw myself then being regenerated as the character had been, shifting from one form into another with a brilliant white glow. That was me. But this body looks exactly the same, yet it’s new. And that’s what had me chuckling myself into wakefulness.

Nor was I alone. The others were also new body recipients, but I was one of the first to receive my body and arrive, and was able to tell them, from my knowledge and experience, my expertise, what was going on and what was to be expected. The others began joining me, and then customers were arriving…what? And it was now business as usual.

Then, wondering about the time and accepting that only feeding Quinn would mollify him, I let myself fully awaken. Making to move and get up, I realized…I was curled up into the fetal position.

Ah, sweet dream.

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I Don’t Wanna

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.

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The Usual

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.

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Cat Forensics

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.

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Personal Energy

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.

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Envy the POS

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.

3

water supply (the rise and fall of jack & jill inc.) — unbolt

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

2

Conversations with Self

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.

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