Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
She used love and hate extensively. “I love pizza.” “I hate peas.” “I love Ricky Gervais.” “I hate heavy metal.”
He couldn’t remember her saying that she liked something. It always seemed like either love or hate. They seemed like narrow borders on a broad wasteland.
I wonder, as many probably do, how my piss tastes. I also pondered whether I’d ever eaten my boogers as a child. Mom has never mentioned it, but many children do, and I was a child who did a lot of things because I was curious.
I’m not sure how I feel about eating baby feces.
This isn’t a gross-out post. Honestly. Perhaps it is, from your point of view. That’s why I bring it up, not to gross you out, but to bring the subjects into the light.
The three subjects, tasting urine, eating boogers, and eating baby poop, are part of a larger subject, the human body, and trends. Thinking about them came from conversations and reading. I finished reading An Instance of the Fingerpost this week. Book One is about a doctor. He mentions tasting people’s urine as part of the examination process in the sixteen hundreds. Yes, I remember from other reading, doctors tasted urine when they were examining patients long before the sixteen hundreds.
I don’t think many doctors do that these days. Most people are probably horrified about it, but I dipped my finger into my stream this morning and gave it a lick. I thought, why not? I’ve tasted my blood, sweat, and tears before, because I wanted to know how they tasted, so why not my pee?
I have ideas about how urine should taste, based on statements like, “This coffee tastes like piss.” I’ve read a few things about it, and we’d discussed it once while talking about survival training. Today’s piss reminded me of a bitters beer. I don’t know if that’s normal. An ongoing cold and head congestion are sabotaging my taste experience this week.
That done, I turned to the question of eating boogers. A friend, talking about his grand-daughter, mentioned that she often picked her nose and not infrequently ingested her boogers. Another friend present, a retired doctor, talked about that and said that some booger eating can be beneficial.
That second person is also the one that talked about eating baby feces. He and I had read about probiotics in infants’ fecal matter, and he’d read other periodicals about how a small amount of baby poop could be therapeutic restoring digestive systems. I pondered what kind of beer or wine would go with baby poop.
Well, I didn’t eat a booger, and I haven’t sampled baby feces yet, that I know. Tasting my piss was my step forward today.
I often think about what might come next in my WIP, plot arcs, character growth, scenes, and dialogue. Sometimes I use what’s produced but I frequently go with something that erupts in my head when I sit down to write.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Did you ever think about what it might be like to actually melt away?
Would you melt all over simultaneously, or start on the outside? Do you begin melting at some specific body part, like your heart? Perhaps your brain starts melting first, giving the signal for the rest to proceed to melt, like the green flag at a car race.
Maybe you start melting from the bottom, growing shorter as your feet melt in a pool below your ankles, causing your pants’ hems to drag along the ground, lowering your inseams by several inches. It starts with your toes, soles, and heel, and then you melt up through your legs. The ankles melt, followed by your shin and your calves. Then your knees droop and dribble away. Next are your thighs, pursued by your butt, hips, and your pelvis.
Everything is melting from your bone marrow out. Soon, you’re just a torso in a pool of your liquid self, a being whose head looks too big, with arms that are two long. Then your abdomen and back joins the melting. Eventually, all that remains is your head on your neck, sticking up from the ground like a flower blooming toward the sun.
I did my Sudoku puzzle this morning. I like doing them early in the morning. Completing something, accomplishing something, gives me a pleasant lift.
It was a two-star puzzle, not very complicated, lots of clues. But the two-star puzzles feel more difficult to me. It took me six minutes this morning. I thought, I should be able to do them faster than that. Why do they take me so long?
The harder puzzles are more enjoyable and actually seem easier, even if they take longer. In the two-star and three-star levels, they give so many clues that the clues seem to exhaust me. Whereas, when it’s a four-star or five-star puzzle, with more blank spaces and less clues, I seem to see the patterns and employ logic more quickly.
I wondered about that, reckoning that I like the math portion of the problem solving less than the logic side of it. That sent me on a quest to understand more about solving Sudoku problems. One thing led to another and before long, I was exploring the complexities of time. An hour later, I found myself rushing to leave to write, at once celebrating that there’s so much to know, lamenting that I don’t have the intelligence and capacity to understand more, celebrating that I have the urges to explore these things, and wishing that I had more time to explore and understand. Then it was off to the races to write, and more thinking about my choices.
Along the way, I thought about how I used to work, as in, someone employed me, most of the day, and at last I have the freedom to indulge myself and pursue my dreams. Then I came here (to the coffee shop), wrote like crazy, and then wrote this little piece, reflecting on that as a choice as well.
This piece took about ten minutes to write and edit. I didn’t think much consciously about it before beginning to write it, but it was turbidity in my streams that I felt like I needed to write about it to explore my thinking and understand myself.
Meanwhile, I entered the coffee shop, got my coffee, plunked myself down at the computer, and wrote almost non-stop for ninety minutes, making great progress, adding another four thousand words to the total, after editing.
Now the coffee is cold. Most of the cup remains. I’ll chug it and leave, declaring myself done writing like crazy, for at least one more day. I expect there to be more days.
There’s always so much to read, learn, experience, and think about. Then there’s writing about it. It’s a never-ending demand. TGFC (thank God for coffee).
Cheers
It began in December. With receding silver hair and a large, round head, he looks like he’s in his late sixties. Each day, he enters the coffee shop at around eleven thirty. He buys two cups of coffee to go. Going outside, he finds a seat at one of the patio tables. His location varies by weather. He puts one cup of coffee by one seat, and then sits down at another. Sipping coffee, he gazes at something that he only sees. When he finishes his coffee, he picks up the other cup and empties it on the ground. Both cups are thrown into the trash can, and then he walks down the street, alone.
Getting ready for Friendsgiving, I selected my attire. I would wear a green vee-neck Tommy Bahama sweater.
I’d bought that sweater the year I moved from Half Moon Bay, California, to Ashland, Oregon, which was 2005. Funny, though, I bought it while on a visit Half Moon Bay to spend Thanksgiving with friends. I bought that sweater a few days before the holiday, and wore it that Thanksgiving. Here I was, thirteen years later, putting it on for another Thanksgiving.
I’d been thinking about my clothes for several previous days before that. The shirt I’d worn earlier that day had been bought in 1998. The one worn the day before was also bought in the late nineties. My shirts, sweaters, and underwear seem to last a while. My jeans and shoes don’t.
I was thinking all of this because I was thinking about cats. I’d moved up with two in 2005, Pogo and Scheckter. Pogo died the following year, killed by a car. His ashes are in our bedroom.
We moved to this new house in 2006, now with just Scheckter. Within three months, we also had Lady and Quinn.
Lady was a rescue. A man I knew through the coffee shop had rescued her. I used to buy him coffee and bagels, and donate cat food to him. Lady had been living behind the movie theater. He started feeding her but it took a year to earn her trust. Now his health was falling and he had to move. Moving meant giving up five of his six cats. He could take one. He had homes for four more. Only Lady, skittish and shy, didn’t have a home.
Then, on a cold, windy midnight, I’d gone out to call Scheckter in. Quinn instead turned up. Since it was a nasty night, we gave him food and shelter. We hunted down his owners and returned him to them, but he kept coming back to us. They moved, leaving him behind.
So, for seven years, it was Scheckter, Lady, and Quinn, three wonderful cats who got along well. 2013 found us losing Scheckter, and then Lady, leaving just Quinn.
Not to worry, though. Three more cats, Tucker, Boo Radley, and Papi (a.k.a. Meep), found us. We were a four-cat family for a while, even though Tucker, Boo, and Papi often fought. As Scheckter and Lady were dying, Tucker showed up and begged for food and help. We tried to find his people but no one claimed him. He had medical issues which took a few years and some money to resolve. Then came Boo, also begging for food, and also unclaimed. Next was Papi.
Quinn remained the sweet lord of the house. He was diagnosed with lymphoma in this past September and died two days before Thanksgiving. He had a strong will until his last four days. I tried keeping him comfortable and helping him, but he finally told me, I’m done. I didn’t want to accept it, but you can’t argue with some things. I cried and let him go.
We’re back down to three cats. They get along better, although there are daily hissing encounters. I couldn’t help but thinking as I dressed on Thanksgiving, I wish my cats would last as long as my clothes.
