Please help. Myself and my neighbors are supporting a cat family. We’d like not to have additional felines and the unexpected kitten brood is coming of age.
GoFundMe here. We have ten cats in total that need spaying or neutering. Thanks!
Please help. Myself and my neighbors are supporting a cat family. We’d like not to have additional felines and the unexpected kitten brood is coming of age.
GoFundMe here. We have ten cats in total that need spaying or neutering. Thanks!
A few minutes ago, there was a thump, and a splash in the bathroom. I ventured in to find this:
Now, there are three likely suspects. The first was behind me snoozing, but I still wouldn’t put it past him.
The other two are ‘sleeping’ as well, though one opened her eyes when I took her picture. Your guess is as good as mine as to who the perp is.
Thanks for ‘reading’. Don’t forget to pick up a copy of TEST PATTERNS — New from Planet X Publications.
My friend died today. He was put to sleep, actually, before his beleaguered body was ready to give up the ghost completely. He was six months old, and had a congenital deformity that made it hard for him the breathe. Three of those months were lived with pneumonia, and he was a cheerful little guy despite that. Here’s a pic of him at about six weeks:
He got sick, though. Dr. Boyer at Speedway Veterinary got him better, and he had begun to fill out, and to run and jump and do all of the things that he had been left out of. For a month. One-sixth of his lifetime. He was my hero..after all the shit he went through, to have spirit like that. Doughty little warrior.
I hope he enjoyed that. He certainly acted like he did. Edgar was the most affectionate, plucky kitten ever. He lived every moment like it was his last, until the end, after his liver shut down, and he was breathing in tiny pants, and drooling bile. That was hard to see. This pic was taken just a couple hours before he breathed his last:
Sorry it’s so dark. It was before dawn — my kindle doesn’t have a flash, and the lighting in here isn’t the best.
Not longer after that pic was taken, I made a vet appointment. We couldn’t keep it because no money. I started a GoFundMe, which will pay the doctor bills when the money gets to my bank. My friend Denise called the doc and got an emergency appointment…actually fifteen minutes after the original would have been.
I knew it was too late. I had been trying to steam his lungs open, putting him in the bathroom next to the tub and filling it with hot water. He didn’t like the vaporizer.
That worked, just a little…but he was gasping, and I had smelled his drool by then. I was just trying to keep him warm, more or less, until, maybe, maybe, we could save him. I thought he had pneumonia again, or kitty crud.
But no. He is on to his reward, and those of us who knew him, and the scores of people he touched through the internet, we’re all bereft. We still have a little bit left to the goal of the GoFundMe, if you would.
Edgar is survived by his brother Tyke, who lives here, and his brothers Samhain and StanLee, and his sister Bastet, who live next door, and another sister, who has moved away.
The picture below is of Edgar and Tyke in better times.
Thanks for reading. I’ll stop crying eventually.
Sorry. That resolution to blog every day, or even more frequently, didn’t go very far. Where were we? I dunno. So…this is what’s been happening. I wrote stuff, made some music. Here, try some Bowie cover:
I have a story in this book, a short entitled “Eddie”, based on a fragment I wrote fifteen years or so ago. Just a little bit of shock and awe. Really cool cover. Ran Cartwright does good work. I have a round robin piece that I’m puzzling over, and have launched into a piece that has more detail about what Brown Jenkin did while he had the Silver Key. Both are for book appearances (hopefully, anyway), as I move along the path from unknown to virtually unknown to little-known.
Little-known is not so bad, and I’m also working on the better-paid part. Because I have bills too. A grand a month, a little writing money and my babysitting money, that’s not so much to live on.
But I don’t want to be entirely mercenary…I’m still planning a series of shorts for shoggoth.net, and I will release some music gratis. But the days of just letting everything out there are probably over.
I’m older, and sick, and tired. I’m trying to work on less pieces and make them count instead of just spinning and spinning and spinning. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be willing to slug toe-to-toe with anyone else working weird. The same for guitar, composition, et cetera.
Handsome volumes of Duanestuff and plastic cd cases of modstuff are right around the corner. Before Crazytown will be back on sale at Amazon in February, with a print edition option (yay!) I’m not going to re-up with Amazon exclusive, though. Didn’t deliver as I had hoped. The book will move to Lulu next year, and will stay at Smashwords.
I’m investigating physical cd/download possibilities for a couple of things — the Brown Jenkins blues tune will be one, and discs of literary tributes, cover songs, and vocal versions of previously-released material are not far behind.
Been sitting on that stuff for a while.
And Cub Tracks seems to be going well. We’re undergoing a format change, and there are a few nay-nays, but the articles in general are well-received, with some getting tremendous readership numbers (at least the ones I can collect). I’d be interested to know what the sticky factors are. Maybe I should ask Al Yellon, who runs the site. He might know. He hasn’t said a peep to me about any pieces being substandard or anything like that — I’m allowed, even encouraged, to continue. So that’s a plus.
I enjoy crafting the articles. They’re aggregations of links, but they can be massaged into different media presentation styles, looked at with new eyes. I do quite a few with “themes”, essentially framing devices more or less related to some of the linked content. Mixed reviews, I’m afraid, but that’ll change as things gets more baseball-related. I’m still just drilling down into what works for the audience..heh, to the point that I just up and asked them what they wanted.
It turned out that they didn’t know.
So it goes back to what Al likes. He’s the boss, the editor. If my copy passes his desk, then things are good.
I have some ideas about form that I’ll use tomorrow. Have to cut down on the time it takes to do those articles. The last one took most of the day, since the girl was over. Like eight solid hours of mostly gruntwork, copying and pasting, then cutting and pasting. Structuring the whole document as a baseball game, with a lead-off man segment, ten innings, extras beyond that. Nobody said anything about that, and I’m operating on the principle that no news is good news there. Like when I used to slip my tape into the party music player, and nobody complained, I knew I was good. It was acceptable.
The girl. Ohhh boy. She’s been a problem since her parents called the other day and told her that he’s working again, and that they planned to visit. She has this fantasy built up, you see, where they turn out to be real human beings with competence and financial wherewithal, and take her home to live happily after. That this has been repeatedly proven to be abject nonsense doesn’t dissuade her, and consequently she turns into demon child when she speaks to them because she’s caught on the horns of the dilemma — give up the fantasy, grow up and deal, or be childish and believe in the Easter bunny.
I just want the drama over. There are papers that the parents need to sign for the custody to be permanent, and those need to be signed. And then the child needs to be removed from negative influences as much as possible, and go sit in a corner with her thoughts, and deal with those.
She’s afraid to. I understand. But she’s also eleven, too old to be playing “look at me, aren’t I cute” instead of doing her assigned work, far too old to be snuggling up to such forlorn possibilities. Time to put on the big girl panties, I tell her.
She was such a colossal pain in the ass today that I got a migraine. Defiant, selfish, willfully ignorant. She screwed up her English homework to get attention, took out her calculator and started doing her math homework with it (!) like I wasn’t three feet away. She played the food game. This is where she takes real little bites, and chews slowly, a hundred time each mouthful, and stares wall-eyed at the tv screen.
Fuck that. People have been letting her get away with it for years. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, and it’s over, at least under my roof. 1/2 hour, and the food gets thrown away, and she goes hungry. Her choice. She wasted so much time scewing up her homework that she didn’t get to go across to her house and feed the pets — so the small creatures had to wait until after dinner. Animals like the security of being fed at the same time every day. But she screws that up too, so she can get attention.
She refuses to go after positive attention, even though she claims to like it better — largely because it takes effort to do good things instead of being lazing about wallowing in one’s own ignorance.
Great model, as least character-wise, for Cassilda, who I’ve been writing up recently also.
Yeah, I’m mad at her, and mad at several other someones. It’s a GOOD thing that I don’t have the ability to wish people into cornfields or anything like that. All I can do is to have them die horribly and slowly in stories…
Wait. That gives me an idea.
’til next time.
No, this isn’t about the sixties pop group. It’s about the ability of a human being to create new ideas by combining two old ones. It’s about understanding the interconnection of things, and about relationships.
As strange as it may seem to some, the ability to associate needs to be taught (at least in most cases that I’ve seen). Seldom does a child come up with an example on his or her own. They have to be taught that “this” associates with “that”.
Here’s an example, from this evening’s conversation with our young one, after she had left the room and my wife and I were unable to prevent the smallest cat from eating the peanuts out of her teeny bowl of trail mix.
My wife-“Bright Eyes ate the peanuts out of your bowl. And she licked the almonds.”
The child reaches into the bowl and prepares to put some in her mouth.
Me-“You really are DeeDeeDee, aren’t you? The cat had her tongue in that bowl. You know where that tongue’s been. Why would you eat that?”
The Look…that blankly hostile look, with the jaw thrust forward, the bottom lip pouting, and the eyes ready to roll.
Me-“You don’t understand, do you?”
Child (in really small voice). “no.”
Me-“You really need to speak up (The hesitant childishness is a behavior that must have earned her cute points or something in her previous life, but doesn’t operate under her new laws). If I can’t hear you, I’ll ignore you. (I know this seems cruel, but so many of her “things” are attention-getting mechanisms that are leftover from when she was two or three years old. Stated in these terms, this gets HER attention).”
The Look softens a little. I am ON Her Side, after all. I Mean Well.
The Mrs.-“Cats lick their ass with their tongue. That’s where that tongue has been.” Aside to me-“She doesn’t “get” germs.”
“I know. Brook, do you understand about germs?”
A slightly louder No.
“Okay. Germs are invisibly small critters. The thing that made me and your grandma sick is a germ.”
That she has successfully made this association is obvious. She “gets it”. Her eyes fill with wonder as a few of the chains of association that come with this small epiphany cross her mind.
“So when the cats lick their asses, those germs are on their tongue.”
Wife-“It’s why I don’t like dogs to lick my face.”
“You see,” I say, turning to the child. “You don’t really want to eat that, do you?” An emphatic nod-NO! “Good. Go throw that out.”
“Ew,” says the child, hastening on this errand.
Precious stuff. I want to give her the universe.
It’s true. We’re trying to get her to learn to want to read. She hasn’t yet gotten it into her head that this skill gives her the universe. She thinks tv and dvds do.
It gives me a sad. She really isn’t far advanced from where she was at four, when we last saw her, in terms of her skills and her interior life. She’s been surfeited with Dora the Explorer, who is several years too young for her, and similar pablum, and bought off with a constant supply of snack crackers and candy, with the occasional ice cream and soda pop.
Ghastly. We just tell her we’re not getting things anymore. I’ll tell her we’re just going to buy water, since she’ll slip off to Circle K any chance she can get and download a 44 oz. Code Red.
When she first arrived, she had a taste for coffee. Her version has three tablespoons of sugar, about 1/4 cup of high fructose-corn-syrup-laden nondairy creamer, and 1/2 a cup of milk. A liquid truffle, more or less.
The first thing I did was cut out the sugar, after seeing how she crashes off the stuff. Want a bitchy kid? Make her vibrate in place for 20 minutes after imbibing something like that, and then watch for the crash. As soon as she yawns, try to get her to do something.
Good luck with that. She learned all of this lunacy from her mother, who is her role model, gods forfend.
While we were at the bookstore, the child stopped me in my tracks by explaining that her mother used to read to her.
Selections from “Twilight Saga”.
My knees buckled. Here we are trying to work with Black Beauty, and My Friend Flicka, and this former victim of pedophilia has been subjected to that travesty, in both book and video form.
Woof to that warp. We got her those, and a handsomely illustrated sorta Cliff’s Notes version of the Secret Garden. And a couple of jigsaw puzzles.
My wife has even gone further. She is buying the child a Kindle. One, because she’s tired of giving up her laptop so the kid can watch idiocy on Netflix, and two, to help further her education. I know how to work the controls so that she gets so much reading time, so much video time, etc.
My part was in picking up a recorder, a set of small drumsticks, and a pitch-pipe. She wants a Hannah Montana guitar for her birthday. I’m going to try to change that to something that will last a bit longer and cost less, just in case she tires of it. I’m about 90% certain that it will, and then it’ll pass to me. I’d just as soon not have to refinish the thing.
I’ve begun playing things like Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Young video content for her, just adding them to her daily audiovisual diet, in the hopes that she’ll retain that association when we begin to try to find her musical horizon.
I know that she has excellent pitch from her happy-girl warbling, and I can work with that. She wants to learn guitar and piano…but she really doesn’t understand how hard it is to be good at playing a musical instrument.. She’s never had to work for or toward anything. So it’ll be a matter of not letting her frustration cancel out her talent.
She loves my song “Blutopia”. That one’s easy enough to teach her. I have lots of sheet music and tab books.
That’s the plan.
This weekend, I’m finally feeling well enough to maneuver the various boxes and instruments and equipment from one room to another, and she’ll have her own room by Monday night. Her and the bunnies.
Then I can get myself resettled and get back to work. It’s been a long time comin’-I can’t wait. My workday is cut down by an hour on each side, because of the child’s schedule. I’ll only be able to swing 3 hours writing/3 musical…but at least I have that, and can be productive under that arc.
A short story a week and a song every two is the aim. I’ll put them up here, at least temporarily, when they’re done. The first ones will be next weekend. I have three instrumental tracks and two short stories/articles justaboutthere.
Then, with any luck at all, I’ll have some things featuring the kid. I’m out looking for tambo, maracas, wood flutes, anything that’s cheap and will make noise, and I’ll drag out my acoustic instruments and usb drumkit. Perfect timing as the arthritis has been letting up and the pain in my shoulder isn’t as bad as it has been. I need practice at any rate.
And nothing teaches discipline and confidence like making music. I look forward to it. I hope we can get the Mrs. to play too.
An old Pink Floyd title sums it up best.
Lately we’ve had a rash of not-really-well-thought-out remarks, on all sides. It makes things rancorous and the drama expands exponentially. Each tiny verbal molehill carries the potential to evoke a spate of vitriolic invective.
It could be a coincidence that two out of the three of us are sick with a cold or flu. Just maybe.
But my wife feels that I’ve been guilty of it, too, especially regarding the child. She wants me to lighten up some, to not have such an impossible standard.
She may be right. I honestly don’t know. But I’m willing to try things her way.
This flu, on the other hand, is a bastard. I’ve been sick since Thursday, and sick SICK like lying down most of the time since Friday. The kid got just a brush of it, or so it seems, but the wife is down for the count-has been sleeping for the last four hours.
It’s one of those that comes complete with fever and chills and is mostly body ache and congestion. Really debilitating sort of symptoms. Just nasty, no fun. I’m hoping to see the end of it soon–I’ve been moving around a little, and my doctor is coming for her monthly visit this afternoon, so I’ll have some professional opinion to bring to bear.
It’d be nice to get shed of it.
Anyway, while I’m able to move around, I’ve been piddling with the book and with the new tracks, just polishing and brainstorming really. Just to keep my hand in, keep my brain going.
Though it would surprise some people, I am taciturn by nature. I don’t require much communication, and my wife and I both have that type of personality whose happiness is expressed as quiet satisfaction.
The rabbits would seem to concur, and the cats also. We are all quiet beings, going through our days with a minimum of noise or movement. Just as much activity as necessary, conserving energy for when it’s needed.
The birds, not so much. They twitter back at the tv when it’s on, making fun of newscasters and other talking heads, and rooting for the teams that wear green or blue uniforms. They get loud sometimes, but I don’t think it would be as prominent in a larger space. Our apartment is tiny.
I’m really hoping I get well soon so that I can transfer my computer and these boxes and my guitars into the master bedroom, even if I have to stack everything like cordwood. This so we can get the child, now variously named Brook, Nicky, and Pita, into her own space, where she can babble happily to the bunnies and her zillions of stuffed animals.
My stars, does that kid blabber. She does it all the time, as soon as she gets happy. She starts just talking, about anything and everything, and singing tunelessly or humming loudly. She calls all the animals “baby” and wants to fee them every ten minutes.
Don’t dare get up! For you will have a tail anxiously inquiring about a s-n-a-c-k or can-we-go-to-the-pool? This last hasn’t been done for a week as it is the prime penalty of disobedience or misbehavior, and I’ve been sick to boot.
I’d like to have a swim myself. My incision has healed, though the navel still swells with fluid from time to time and will likely need some attention. I’d at least get in the water for a few minutes. I dunno how long I could go without oxygen at present:it’s hard to take a shower without the cannula right now because of the coldfluey thing.
But the kid just can’t curb herself, which goes back to the premise of communication, or the lack of it, my main hobbyhose in life. She has no impulse control whatsoever. Not the slightest shred of self-discipline, at least not for more than a few seconds at a time.
She’s never had any rules to speak of, and it’s damnably hard to get to to stick to any. The consequence of ANYTHING is that she gets attention for a bit.
You understand. There’s literally mustard on this kid. She spilled it on herself. She’s more of a hotdog than notorious bad sport Willie Montanez.
Her teacher told her to wait ten seconds before she says anything, in order to get her to consider her words.
She doesn’t. She just stops talking. It looks like she just vegetates, counting to ten, and then turns the spout back on again.
When she’s by herself, the stream is nonverbal. It’s kind of disturbing, like we’re raising a feral child.
It’s really like that.
I’m thinking that sign language is an option.
But she broke her new scooter trying to adjust the handlebar so she could do wheelies, which would probably break the cheap aluminum piece of junk anyway. That doesn’t matter to her. She has no concept of the value of anything and as so is completely generous. She had four dollars Friday morning.
She came home broke with a Code Red slurpee and told my wife about her three new friends. It wasn’t hard to put together what happened. It probably went something like this:
Brook opens folder, with envelope containing $4.11. The girl sitting next to her sees it.
“Wow, Brook, what’s that?”
“My money. I’m going to Circle K after school and get a slurpee.”
“Lucky you. I don’t have any money.” Chin hangs down dejected.
Gulli-bull “I’ll get you one.”
I’m sure you can fill in the rest.
It’s amazing that she didn’t try to spend more than she had. Maybe there are some math skills, laying in wait, just waiting for a trigger to evoke them.
I hope so.
I can’t wait to get back to work. Since I don’t have much company, and can’t get out as much as I want because of the oxygen and there being nowhere nearby worth going to, my writing has become the bulk of my conversation.
As much as she loves to to babble, I’m hoping to get Brook to learn and love her words. That would be a fine gift, I think. The Mrs. can give her the numbers.
We started Wind in the Willows recently. Today I hope to alternate a chapter or two, depending on how well my throat holds up.
Every so often the universe gives you a poke, says “Hi! You’re it!” You’re about to have one of those days.
You know what I’m talking about. You rip your sock while pulling it on, lock yourself out of the house, knock things over for no reason. You’re two days late and four dollars short and the coffee tastes like bleach or blech.
The universe gives you a metaphysical wet willie just to remind you that it’s around.
I had one of those days today.
It started innocently enough. I awoke, saw the girls off to school and work, and sat waiting for the oxygen tank delivery man. The oxygen tank delivery company isn’t very good at communicating when they might arrive. Typically the new tanks come at around 2 pm, on alternate Thursdays, because I only call every two weeks, and they only deliver on Thursday in this zip code.
There was this huge bulge at the top of the birdcage. That meant that I had to get up from my doze and investigate. That can be bad news sometimes, the getting up thing. I have a couple aches and pains, and the meds hadn’t kicked in yet.
I put my glasses on and approached the birdcage, which is about five feet tall and three wide. I gingerly lifted the outer and inner coverings, to reveal a large orange cat sleeping contentedly atop the cage, his weirdly crooked tail draped over the bars.
Hard to believe the birds didn’t cause a ruckus and wake me up. But okay, I knew what the hump was. I let him sleep. He doesn’t really bother the birds. Ladybird wouldn’t allow that.
I went and fixed me a cuppa, and sat back down, leaned back, and grooved to a 70s game show for a bit, the pain meds starting to creep in around the edges. I had a couple of puffs to help that happen.
Started drifting off. My sore-for-no-apparent-reason shoulder stopped hurting. I got floaty.
The phone rang.
I had to get up and get it. I brought it back with me, just in case. I answered it.
“Do your homeowner’s bills got you down?”
I hung up. “We rent,” I muttered to the air.
I sat down again, in my plush black leather recliner. I sipped just a little coffee, dropped the tv volume down a notch. The birds were still reasonably quiet. I had a puff or two.
Developed a kink in my neck. That made my left arm hurt, really sharp and somewhere around the rotator cuff. Hurt right down into my fingers. I have a pinched nerve or something. It had been hurting most of the night, most of the last two days, and for a stretch before that. I keep forgetting to call the doc because life gets busy even if you’re sitting quietly by yourself sometimes.
I shrugged and called in the reinforcements. Four ibuprofen and a percocet. Another atavan. I was damn tired and was gonna get a little rest. By now it was almost nine.
“Just another couple of hours,” I begged.
I drifted off presently. I was the last man in the universe, sitting in my chair.
A knock came at the door.
We talked in a directionless sort of fashion for an hour, just having a conversation with no real subject guidance. That was actually okay, but I’d rather have been sleeping.
I sucked down another coffee while this was going on, to keep myself engaged. So, by the time he left, I was wide awake, but still muzzy around the edges.
I decided to get some lunch, maybe an omelet. Rinsed off the dinner dishes, put them in the dishwasher, ran the machine, went back and sat down.
Started editing a recent manuscript, forgot about lunch. Finished about one, when the oxygen man finally called to say he was in the area.
Didn’t save the edit.
While I was moving the fourteen tanks out onto the stoop, the cats turned off the computer.
That was all before the girlchild came home.
Bratty doesn’t begin to describe her bahavior. She was willfully disobedient from the git-go. It took two and a half hours to make five flash cards with the words “Respect“, “Cooperation”, “Effort”, “Responsibility” and “Patience” on them.
Four of the cards had no lines drawn on them. I drew lines so that she could print on them. Unlined cards were just right out.
She “forgot” what the actual assignment was. She drew a box around “Respect” for no reason that she could tell me, putting on the pouty face and fidgeting instead.
When I opened the dishwasher to get a glass, she said “Are those dishes fully clean?” In a sardonic tone, as if she were eating from food-encrusted dishes all of the time.
This led to a discussion of what “respect” meant, in her words, with many attempts to change the subject or play with the cat or do anything other than learn.
Finally done with the first card, she wrote the second. Asked what the definition of “patience” was, she replied that it was “being patient”. This of course led to conversation, with examples, and finally to some sort of understanding on her part. It dragged on so long I started making dinner, Sloppy Joe and hand-cut fries, quick and easy.
After we finished the cards, she took a break, talked to the rabbits for a bit, and then we tried to read.
Utter disaster. She refused to sound out words, instead trying to tell me that she grew jealous when my wife and I would talk to each other while she was watching one of her Disney or Nick shows. That she felt ignored because we weren’t paying attention to her 24/7.
So completely, unfathomably, immature that I put her in the corner, which I hate to do. But it’s the only thing that’s effective. She cried big crocodile tears too.
I released her just before my wife came home, so she wouldn’t be squished in the door.
The food was on the table. We had no food-time war. The child piled sloppy joe on half of a bun, got a tablespoon of vegetables, wolfed it down, put her plate in the sink, and went to wash her hands.
The chip on her shoulder just got bigger as the night went on. More time in the corner, more crocodile tears, more pouty.
Two steps back for every step forward, it seems sometimes.
At the end of the day, I relaxed to some music. Probably up too late, but what are ya gonna do?
Here’s a selection of my things:
Embrace the Unknown
Where "Baseball History Comes Alive!" The Internet's Number One Site For Old Baseball Photos And Essays
Art and Lifestyle by Brandon Knoll
Scribbles on Cocktail Napkins
writer, musician, moviemaker
Alex S. Johnson's Postmodern Fabulisms
Sharing writing tips, information, and advice.
Just another WordPress.com site
by R.T. Johnson
The Writings of an Aspiring Cadaver
Musings on the Dark and the Hellish
One Hell of an Apprenticeship
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
Fiction and Reviews by Michael Griffin