201

This is my 201st post! I wish that my 200th had been about something more exciting than spider solitaire, but I didn’t plan ahead. No matter. It’s simply wonderful to have made it past the 200 mark.

Now let’s go back in time to the night of November 1, 2006—the beginning of last year’s NaNoWriMo. I was so energized by my first day of writing that I couldn’t sleep. I turned the light back on, grabbed my shabby little journal, and wrote about the experience. It must have been about 3:00 a.m., so please be impressed by the coherency.

November 1, 2006

There is nothing like writing a story to make you ponder the relationship between cause and effect, stimulus and response. It makes me wonder how many people are out there, just like me, persistently misunderstanding the scope of their own control. We fret over those things over which we have no control, such as the actions of other people. Yet in those things that we can control in the course of our everyday lives, we often feel that we can only react to outside stimulus.

It’s a common thing in fantasy novels for the protagonist start on his journey because of something that was forced upon him. Frodo did not find the ring or ask for it. It was given to him and then darkness descended upon him and he had to react. But it is important to realize that we can instigate our own adventures. Even Frodo did that. He didn’t have to take on the task of saving Middle Earth. It may have been outside forces that pushed him, but he could have gone in any one of infinite ways.

It is scary the amount of control that we have. I could decide today that I will not go to work and instead, I will pack up some necessities and live out of my car for weeks. I could plan a trip to Greece. I could create any kind of adventures for myself. I could not control its every event or eventual outcome, but I could instigate it. I could cause it to be.

How much power I have!

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Just Say Solitaire

I am vulnerable to suggestion. All my Faithful Reader has to say is “Spider Solitaire” and I’m gone for hours, lost in Game Land.

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Journal-Ism

One of my old journals is falling apart. I’d like to throw the raggedy thing away. There are only a few parts I care to remember, so I’m going to post those and then toss the rest.

I guess late last year I was just starting to get into rhyme mode because I found this limerick.

Have you heard of the cat who was black
Except for the patch on his back?
It was white as the snow
And he hated it so
He hid himself deep in a sack.

And there were lots of silly couplets. I wrote them as a warm-up. I wanted to write a song and I thought it might go easier if I started with a nonthreatening subject like my cat.

He’s a cat from outer space.
Come to tame the human race.

His fur is as black as the sky at night
Except for a heart-shaped patch of white
So cute upon his belly.
His breath is always smelly.

He chews the carpeting down to the tacks.
He’s fond of curtains and eats them as snacks.

I didn’t finish the song. I didn’t even get very far with it. That’s the weakness of journal writing. Journals aren’t intended to be read, so there’s no reason to finish things.

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The Story, Part VII

It’s Sunday and time for a tiny bit of story. For the start of the story and links to other installments, see this post.

His high mood lasted until the following week at breakfast. He was eating scrambled eggs and toast while reading the local newspaper. The headline—Local Man Dies in Fiery Crash—didn’t elicit any real interest. He always hated reading about death and disease. As he was browsing the page, the name of the victim seemed to leap off the page. It was Vincent Torelli of 33 Winding Way. Phil read the story in stunned silence, remembering the spreadsheet in Mr. Gabriel’s office. If it was just a coincidence, it was the damndest coincidence he had ever heard of. Continue reading

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Those Darn Cats!

Now let me tell you something about my cats. They are both furry little puke machines, yet they each have their own special style. Gross but true, you can usually tell whodunit without actually witnessing the event.

M, our boy cat, is an overeater. He practically inhales his food. You can tell that a nasty pile is his because the food is not only undigested, but also unchewed. We have to feed him from a plate, rather than a bowl, because the flat surface forces him to handle the food pieces individually.

Z, on the other hand, has always behaved herself with food. She throws up because of hairballs. That doesn’t make it any less disgusting, but it earns her some small measure of forgiveness. Her contributions are usually of a liquid nature, with a hairball on top, like a garnish.

What on earth, you may ask, made me want to write about such a revolting topic? Well, Z does some peculiar things when she’s throwing up. Yesterday, for example, she did this weird pivot thing. Imagine that there was a clock face on the floor and that that cat was its hour hand. She was standing on the edge of the rug, heaving, and with each heave she turned an hour or two, moving the projected landing site of her hairball from the safe zone (the hardwoord floor) to the danger zone (the carpet) and back again. Sick, huh?

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Kind Fate

I went to the grocery store today to buy a few odds and ends. A couple of things might have rung up at the wrong price, but there was no one at the customer service desk and I didn’t feel like waiting, so I just went home. Fate kindly tried to make up the loss to me. There was a crumpled-up dollar bill on the ground near the exit and another 12 cents next to my car.

Thanks for the $1.12!

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Remember This!

After reading my previous post, my Faithful Reader theorized that we’re still together only because of my memory gaps. In other words, if I remembered all of the horrible things he has done over the years, I’d dump his ass ASAP.

I may not remember them all, but I remember plenty, and now that I have a blog on which to record them, I think Faithful Reader had better behave himself!

๐Ÿ˜‰

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Memory

My short-term memory is great and always has been. But there are occasional glitches in the system, moments that fail to register while hundreds of others dutifully line up in the chain of day-to-day memories that are cataloged in my head. I don’t understand why, but it happens just frequently enough that I can’t trust even my most recent memories.

My long-term memory has always been poor by comparison. Over time, the majority of nifty facts I picked up in school have evaporated from my brain, both those facts which I expected to forget, like how to conjugate certain French verbs, and those which I expected to remember for life, like how many oceans there are on Earth. Yes, it seems that an entire ocean leaked out of my memory unnoticed. It’s only back because one evening I wondered if I was smarter than a fifth grader and watched the TV show to find out (I’m not, by the way).

So I can’t trust my memory, short-term or long-term. That’s one of the reasons why I love the written word. Every time I write something down, that’s one more thing that I don’t have to worry about forgetting. The blog takes it one step further. Not only is it a record, but it’s a searchable record.

Technology is so cool.

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A-Parently

We don’t mean to do it. We even struggle against it. No matter. We still turn into our parents.

During my last trip to Connecticut, I discovered another way in which I am like my mother. She didn’t want to plan her wedding either. In fact, she didn’t. Hell, she didn’t even pick out her own dress! My grandmother was close enough in size to be able to choose clothes for my mother, so she waltzed off to some discount store, selected an adequate gown, and that was that. Of course, we have to wonder if maybe grandma was a little controlling and if mom hated her for it then, but the way mom talks about it now, it’s like grandma performed some kind of marvelous magic act.

Sadly for me, the same mom who didn’t care to plan her own wedding does not care to plan mine. I’m going to have to perform my own marvelous magic act.

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Sad Goodbye

It’s always sad to say goodbye to September, my favorite month. May October treat us even half so well.

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