Frida’s Theme Music

The morning was spent texting with Mom. She prefers texting these days over phone calls. She had a day of doctor appointments yesterday and provided summaries. They’re going to work on her balance with physical therapy. That’s good news to me.

Her fiance’s son and my sister both approached Mom and her fiance about moving into assisted living. They did these separately. I don’t know if they coordinated their attempt.

It would be less dangerous to poke a hornet’s nest with a stick a few times. Mom and her beau are adamant against moving to a home of any kind other than the one where they live. He’s 95 and has difficulties seeing and hearing. She’s 89 and has mobility, heart, and balance issues. She copes with those problems via a massive regimen of medications, vitamins, minerals, lotions, and equipment. The house was built during WW II and has steep, narrow steps. But Mom loves her house, and her companion is happy living there.

Observing the health issues and the home debate always prompts conversations with my wife. “What will we do?” she asks. “I don’t know,” I say. I’m not looking forward to dealing with it.

It’s Frida, April 18, 2025. Good Friday, I suppose. 63 F, sunny but windy. A high of 74 F is in the works. I don’t think we’ll see that. 68 F was projected yesterday but the thermometer quit advancing at 64 F.

The cat has expressed his irritation with the wind. He applied to my wife and I to change it. My wife patiently explains, “I’m sorry, we can’t do that. Here, have a treat instead.”

He was spoiled via several treats. Then he came to me for his standard four-course breakfast. Two of the courses are treats that hide his meds in them. The thorough feeding does take his mind off the wind. The next time I see him, he’s going through his post-eating pre-napping grooming on the bed.

I have read several news articles. Some dealing with politics and rulings against Trump please me. On the whole, though, it’s another heavy serving of disappointing developments. After hearing my GRRRRRRRRR rising in my throat, I order myself to go do other things.

Today’s theme music is a beer group relic. I met with my beer group last Wednesday. The friends beside me began a conversation about popular music and what they listened to when they were young. One commented that some lines were going through his head, but he couldn’t recall the rest. I recalled the rest for him. The song is “I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tommy James and the Shondells. Conversation then swirled in other hits by the group, such as “Crystal Blue Persuasion”. Now The Neurons have those two tunes sharing the morning mental music stream. Thus, I’m forced to share them to break the pattern and release them from my stream.

That latter song is a woke DEI offering about peace and good, brotherhood, love, etc. Sure the Trumpites dislike it, or say that they like it and are all for love, peace, and brotherhood, but only for select people.

Coffee is working its positive way through me. Hope you have a positive day and a solid weekend. Cheers

The Time Thing

Holy moly, writers, do you grok that it’s already April? March flashed by like the Flash (copyright DC Comics) in a super hurry, which sums up how 2018 is speeding by for me.

I know some of this phenomena of time speeding past is because I keep busy, writing and editing every day. A full schedule keeps me from contemplating too much of the present. Compounding this is how I live in my novels. I’m much more aware of my characters’ timelines and how they’re living their lives than my timeline and how I’m living my own.

That doesn’t bother me. I come up for a daily gulp of reality. Reality is not as much fun as fiction. Then, who said life is about being fun, right? Life is about surviving and procreating, right?

No, life is what you make it. I’m making mine into a writer’s life. I’ll probably pause someday, many books written, and wonder, what happened to the time? I’ll know, but I’ll still present the rhetorical query to myself, because that’s my mental and emotional construction.

Then again, this could be one of many universes where I exist, and when I die, all my selves will come together (cue the Beatles tune, or the Aerosmith cover, if that’s more to your taste) and compare notes. Maybe my other selves will hear about my writing life, and tell me how much they envy me, because I chose to live my life as I wanted. Others will probably chastise me for being selfish. Oh, well, you can’t please all your selves all the time. Best to quickly accept that and move on.

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

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