June slips over us
whispering, summer, winter
come, visit us now
Four P’s
Peaked mountains of clouds
Peeked over green and brown peaks
Piquing my concerns
Haifloof #24
Rainy day outside
Twitching tail and watchful eyes
Looking for mischief
New Demands
Pent up by a winter storm, my cats conferred and emerged from their confab with new demands. Each demands that they get at least fifteen hours per day of personalized care and attention. Said personalized care and attention requires me to pet, scratch, caress, play, and feed each one (or allow them to sleep on my lap) for a total of at least fifteen hours per day. They’re calling this the fifteen-hour minimum initiative.
I pointed out to them that the day has only twenty-four hours, that I have other things to do, and there is no way that I can give each one fifteen hours of attention.
They reacted with sad head shakes. Boo, the spokes-cat, said, “Anything is possible, if you set your mind to it.”
They’re boycotting me until I come around, or feeding time, whichever comes first.
Two Out of Three
With snow falling and accumulating, my cats have adopted new rules for deciding whether to go outside.
- Does it look cold?
- Does it feel cold?
- Does it smell cold?
If two of these conditions are met, they don’t go out. Meatloaf was wrong: two out of three is bad.
Pauses
They exchanged greetings, and then comments about their coats, hats, and smiles.
Then they went on, two strangers pausing to chat while they were walking through the falling snow.
An Hour
9:35
The temperature was thirty-five F.
Dazzling sunshine streamed in through the windows.
Plans were made.
9:45
Thick, glistening snowflakes tumbled down. Gaining momentum and volume, they soon curtained the landscape and smothered the ground.
10:15
It looked like a blizzard.
Plans were re-arranged.
10:30
Snow no longer fell.
Dripping sounds from melting snow filled the air.
10:35
Little snow covered the ground. Some still covered roofs.
Light gray clouds swarmed across the sky. Sunshine splashed through.
The temperature was thirty-five F.
Plans were re-arranged.
The Process
He had his talismans, his gold-plated 2001 quarter, the pen with which he’d written the first short story he’d ever sold, once lost, but then found in a box of memorabilia, and his tumbled and polished lapis lazuli. With those in his pockets, he processed his mental checklist. Keys, money, wallet, computer, backpack, sunglasses. Donning his coat, he gloved up and left the warm house for the cold, sunny day.
Squirrelly grey clouds marbled the sky’s blue arena. Sidewalks squished with remnants of last night’s rain. He walked fast, shifting from thoughts of cats, wife, social engagements, and news to his stories, drawing up where’d he stopped, what he’d planned since then, and where else he might go, considering the scenes and words like they were night stars.
One mile he walked, warming up over the twenty minutes, two as the land dried out under the sun, reaching the coffee shop in less than thirty-eight minutes. Warmth, conversation, and music percolated inside the small, modern, glassy place. Weird, it didn’t smell like coffee.
He knew many faces but spoke to no one but those needed to get coffee. After ordering it, he set up his computer at a table and powered up. Documents were opened. Internet connections were made.
Hot, black coffee was sipped. Words and ideas were contemplated again. Setting the coffee down, he raised his fingers over his keyboard.
Time to write like crazy, at lease one more time.
Rain!
Busy editing, I was startled when another coffee shop regular said, “Hallelujah.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Hallelujah,” she said. “It’s raining.”
I turned and looked out the windows. She was right.
Seeing it, I rose and went outside. Oh, the smell, the sound. The last time we’d had rain here in Ashland was July 15. Lightning that day accompanied the rain, starting many of the fires that issue the smoke we’re dealing with.
Lori came out. We laughed at the smells, sound, and sight. Rain! “Hopefully, there won’t be lightning,” Lori said.
Yes, my thoughts, too.
Embedded Plans
A friend asked my wife, “Is Michael always so affable?”
I laughed, of course. The friend was encountering social Michael. He’s affable, but he has a very short half-life.
To her credit, my wife said, “Mostly. He has his moods. He’s okay as long as I don’t disrupt his writing time. Then he turns into a bear, and it’s not Yogi or Boo-Boo.”
My writing day doesn’t begin until about eleven A.M. I walk before my writing session as part of my process. When I’m writing, I target scenes to measure progress, and not word count. I’m frequently able to think about where I left off, and then resume writing it in my mind as I walk. When I get in and sit down, I usually know what I want to write.
This doesn’t always work because the muses have their own plans. I try to be flexible, but it’s a struggle. I like having plans. Plans provide me with structure and illusions of control.
When the muses throw me off with their reveals, I often need to stop to see where they’re taking me. Since my writing time is precious, I’ll frequently go back and edit what I’ve written when that happens. That keeps me engaged in writing while giving my subconscious mind the opportunity to meet with the muses and hash it out. (There’s not actually any hashing out. The muses know where they want to take the story. It’s up to me to do as told. I like to say we’re hashing it out because it gives me the illusion of it being a collaborative effort.)
My writing session only lasts about two and a half hours. Plans are embedded around it, especially walking. Walking is my number one form of exercise, and it helps me process information.
My walking plans change by season. That’s not just spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but the embedded seasons of hot, fucking hot, cold, fucking cold, wet, and smoky.
We’re into the fucking hot season now, defined by jokes like, “Look, the temperature has dipped. It’s ninety-seven.” The forecasted highs range between ninety-nine and one hundred two for the next ten days.
For all the seasons, I break my walking down into bite sized goals. My overall walking goals remain about twenty thousand steps and ten flights. During the FH season, I try to make fifty-five hundred steps before I start writing at eleven. After I write, I then target ninety-one hundred steps. That gives me four miles by three P.M.
After that, plans are flexible and adjusted according to what else the day requires. I frequently end up walking about two and a half miles in the evening, leaving the house about eight forty-five and returning an hour later. Because we live in a hilly area, my flights go up to about sixty one these days. (I can do that during this season because we have more hours of daylight. This doesn’t work as well when it’s cold and dark, so I adjust.)
For all that, they are just plans. They rarely survive reality. In the end, I ride the wave of the day, seizing moments and narrowing my focus as needed.
Okay, today’s therapy is finished. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
