In Dreams

 

You know that crud that's going around and making everyone so sick?

 Yes. That crud.

I have it.

It's been a bit frustrating. Being sick always is. Of course, there's no "convenient" moment to be ill, but this case of the gallopin' gleep has really disrupted some robust momentum for me. 

I went to my doctor's office yesterday hoping for a walk-in visit, but it was early in the morning and they were already full for the day, including walk-ins. They suggested I go to another affiliated clinic in town. Turned out, the local ISD closed for the day because so many locals are sick. To my relief, though, the second place accommodated me. I tested negative for covid and the current strains of floo for which they are testing, so that is something of a relief, I suppose. Hopefully I'm mostly over it. I'm taking antibiotics, happily.

This is my first absence from the job I started in March, but they have been most gracious about it. I sit near a young person with a major health issue, and another young lady at work is pregnant, and I'd be devastated if I infected them. I don't feel 100% now, but I'm much better. I'm not at work because I have a productive cough and I'm hoping that will largely clear out by my return to work on Friday (which is my Monday). 

I've been doing more creative writing, and my editorial duties at RacPress have stepped up considerably in recent times. This is all good, but it means that my dance card stays full and I don't have a lot of flex in my schedule for five unproductive days, especially since my new job, while the best ever, does not have pay for sick leave. But, of course, healing is the priority. I expect this is the last you'll hear from me on this current bout of the tizzik. Fingers firmly crossed.

***

I used to enjoy watching awards shows. I was a fan of enough movies and music that I actually cared that some of them won an award, but it's been many years since I couldn muster the crap to give over what anyone in Hollywood thought and decided to reward. The bad behavior and gleeful devilry on the red carpet and stage have made such shows unwatchable, in my view, and it seems every one is a new low-bar opportunity to make the new show the most low-class spectacle imaginable, a feat they best again and again. I will not dignify the vile stand-outs from recent Sunday's Grammy Awards by a direct mention, but I want to mention a couple good things. One performer was rocking a custom colorway pair of boots from John Fluevog that were absolutely gorgeous. I was happy to see that. 

The other happy surprise is that one of my favorite performers of the last decade, Sierra Ferrell, actually won four of the coveted awards for her old school Country/Folk music. She's absolutely superb. She's a fantastic guitarist, and has written a robust majority of my favorite new music I've heard in the past five years. It's thrilling to see her gain genuine recognition. The icing on the cake was her delightful original ensemble that made her look like an Appalachian fairy come to life on stage. She's an marvelous spark.

What makes this all the sweeter is the fact that one week ago today, I bought a couple tickets to see her in early May in a city a handful of hours away. Jonna will go to that show with me, so watch this space for news on the madcap getup I mean to make for myself before then. It should be a good time for us to kick up our heels and enjoy hearing some fantastic live music before she is playing arena size gigs. I can't wait!

Hope you're hanging in there, and getting through whatever is challenging you at the moment. Stay warm, make sure the varmints have unfrozen water bowls, and take good care of yourself. :)

Everything is changing.

 Yes, this will be two posts in one day, and you're probably wondering what happened to bring about this rarity. Actually, I aspire to knock the cobwebs off this blog a little more often in the coming times. To that end, if for no other purpose than my own sense of my timeline, I'm going to do a brief recap on the previous couple years, and also note the direction my little wagon appears to be heading. 

After I graduated with my Masters in 2022, I accepted a job teaching literature and research writing at the same university. I loved being there (OBVIOUSLY), and I adored the faculty and staff. To be offered a job there was so beyond what I had dared to hope for, and I'm thrilled for that incredible opportunity. I accepted a position as lecturer, the bottom-tier workhorse level of the department. I am thankful to have experienced teaching at that level, and I hope that I was a help and encouragement to my students. However, the terms of remuneration were insufficient to facilitate what I need to achieve financially for the remainder of my working years. 

After my first full year of teaching, I returned in Fall 2023 to the unhappy news that the Uni was in a financial crisis, extreme measures were being undertaken, and it was uncertain whether I'd have a job in Fall 2024 with the uni, even at my low pay. Add to that stress the difficulty that I'd been diagnosed with cancer in Summer 2023 and was undergoing radiation for some months into the Fall semester. To say this was a troubling and stressful time is to understate, but I also had faith and the loving support of friends and family who sustained me at that trying time. 

Life is uncertain even under the best circumstance, but the hem-hawing at the university over whether my job was secure was a bridge too far. When a friend mentioned an employment opportunity at her work in what is an education-peripheral field, I leapt at the opportunity. To my profound relief, they offered me the job, and it was a tremendous blessing. I'm incredibly happy to be there. I worked both jobs my final two months at the uni, though the new job generously allowed me to ramp up gradually part time while I was still teaching. 

This is the best job I've ever had. It's funny to think how low-key my friend was at selling the job: it's wildly beyond my expectations. The perks are the best, and I work with the most delightful bunch of people. I enjoy what I'm doing and I love being there with my coworkers. My friend undersold the job, because it just gets better and better. 

While I will continue with the full time job for the foreseeable future, I'm stepping up my own creative writing, so I'll be posting here more often. I'll also set up an author substack in the future, so I'll link that here, too. With Raconteur Press I'm performing various editing tasks, and that is a pleasurable way to also be at the cutting edge with exciting authors--some of them first-timers--who send their wonderful stories to us. 

I had another cancer scare in December. I already had a fire lit, but I received the all-clear on the recent shot across the bow, and I'm feeling super-motivated to Do All The Things. I have come to recognize that I need to work like I think my time is short, even though I hope it is not. I've been the butterfly that flits from flower to flower, always on a lazy summer day. It's time to stop lollygagging. It's time to stop being the butterfly, do my late blooming, and transform into the battle-ready armored dragonfly I know I can be, so watch this space. *pew!* *pew!*

Everything is changing. This should be interesting. 

Raconteur Press did it again: "From the Brim to the Dregs"

 While I've been so absentee on the blog for some time, I've been busy with Raconteur Press, where we've been publishing anthologies that hearken to the early tradition of pulp fiction, particularly of the sci-fi fantasy variety. Holy cow, we've published quite a few, including Space Cowboys, Space Marines, Moggies in Space, and many fun variations on sundry themes.  I'll post updates here to keep you up to speed on what we're up to. 

Our latest volume, From the Brim to the Dregs is sizzling hot over at Amazon. From the post over at the Rac Press substack, I purloined this wonderful description: 

Drinks! Since humanity first began, we have been experimenting with beverages beyond simple water. Fermenting fruit, milk from various mammals, mashing berries...and later experimenting with getting desired effects by mixing together in different ways; potions concocted to evoke certain feelings, heal an ailment, erase memories, or inspire strong emotions. Across many cultures & oceans we find different myths of fountains of youth, elixirs of life, amrita, blessed mead, holy ale, love potions, sanctified wines, & potent poisons. 

Come! Drink from a cup of stories varied! Dare to follow these epic quests, potions with unintended consequences, ales holy, wine deadly, and toast...to adventure!

Tell me, friend, will you drink?

Good stuff! Let me know what you think!

Enough.

 It’s been said that life is what happens while you’re busy making plans. It’s also been said that no battle plan survives the first contact with the enemy. I can confirm the truth of these two maxims. The truth is that life comes at you fast, and if you don’t take a minute to reassess things every so often, it will pass before you even feel you’re out of the starting block. Sometimes we need something to joggle our arm to break target lock. At least, that has been the case for me.

In Fall of 2018, I had achieved the full flower of what we so lovingly call “middle age”. I had graduated a year earlier with an undergraduate degree, a journey I’d begun in 1987. To call me late to the party might be an understatement, but when I finally tucked in and completed my studies, I’d seen and tasted many of life’s delights. It felt like I was easing into a comfortable Autumn of life, and one of which I could feel proud.

Fall 2018 was also momentous for me because after a year of working on Master’s studies, I began student teaching as a Graduate Assistant. At Midwestern, I’d at last found a true sense of home and belonging, and made many friendships that I know will sustain me for the remainder of my days. This school was, for me, a true haven.

However, some little problem was nagging at the edge of my consciousness. This nag was a bit of physical discomfort that I could ignore at first, but seemed to bring a side-car of foreboding. The truth was the physical pain seemed like it might be a cardiac issue, and while I should have taken that more seriously, I prayed a bargaining prayer that if the Lord would spare me until Winter break, I’d Go To The Doctor and see what was going on . I was so busy teaching my first classes of Research Writing that it felt too overwhelming to add the idea of a major health crisis to my collection of plates spinning at the ends of all the sticks I was balancing. The one action I took was to purchase a life insurance policy. I reasoned that if I popped my clogs at any moment, at least there could be a little six-figure dividend to help my parents in their dotage if I was not around to do some heavy lifting for them.

So I made my daily hike from Bea Wood to Dillard for my classes, and sometimes I felt like I would fall over dead at any moment. Again, this was a serious health issue and I can, in hindsight, admit how risky and foolish it was for me to feel I could postpone resolving a possibly life-threatening issue. I will remind you, gentle listener (reader), that I was in a bargaining stage of denial.

It seemed I was going to make it through when in the very last weekend before finals, the pain had grown too tremendous to ignore. I went to the ER on Sunday night before finals.

They rushed me into a cubicle at the ER and did a quick battery of tests including bloodwork, and in came a nurse with big scanning contraption on a cart, and she proceeded to address my adbomen with an ultrasound machine.

“Can you see anything?”

Due to HIPAA patient rights laws, it is illegal for a nurse to give a patient a diagnosis, but I felt there was no harm in asking.

“Mm-hmm” came the response.

“So there’s something going on there?”
She said “The dr will have to tell you, but let’s just say I can see why you’re in pain. He’ll be right in.”

The doctor came in and gave me the good news, and they administered a painkiller that made everything tickety-boo again. Fortunately, my heart was not ruputuring, but the gallbladder was in an advanced stage of decline and wanted to get out at the next stop.

Flooded with relief, I said “Great! I have to give my students a final in 9 hours. Let me do the paperwork here and I’ll make an appointment with my doctor in the morning.”

He laughed and said “Oh, you’re not leaving the building with that gallbladder inside you. If it ruptures, it will kill you.”

Well, shoot.

I sent my apologies to appropriate parties in the English department, and two faculty members gallantly stepped in to proctor exams for my students. While my first class completed their finals, I was in the OR having the offending organ removed from my body by force. It was quite the ordeal, but at least it was over, and the pain was utterly gone. In fact, I felt better in days and weeks after the surgery than I had for many months prior. Problem solved, right?

The odd thing was that the sense of foreboding did not leave me. Where lightning has struck once, it is apt to strike again, and I felt that this relief of discomfort was temporary, and I felt more convinced than ever that my End was NIGH. I kept paying for that life insurance policy, because for the following handful of months, I felt certain I was about to die. I’m not kidding.

As I’d progressed with my studies, I found sometimes I would go 6 or 8 weeks without driving down to Dallas to see my parents. Life was busy, I had so many deadlines and responsibilities, and I knew my folks understood this. They were so proud of my work and studies, and I felt a great deal of pressure to do well in my studies and in my teaching. I knew, however, that I must make a major change. I thought if I fell over in a week or two or a month, it would be a shame if I didn’t spend more time with Mom and Dad, so I vowed to see them more often. The surgery was just a couple weeks before Christmas, and I’d start right away spending more time with them.

On Christmas morning, I felt sad because I’d be dead soon and this would be my last holiday with my sweet lovely parents. My uncle was coming by, and various family members would be in and out. I awoke to the glorious smells of Mom’s cooking, and my sister and I tucked into the few things that could use another quick cleaning before the guests arrived.

The narrative running through my brain was that this was wonderfully sweet and such a precious time, since I’d be dead soon. I should have felt sad and tragic, but instead I felt grateful that my heart wasn’t failing (yet), and that I had one more holiday with my beautiful family. I began to feel something like bliss as I cleaned. My sister Amy was sweeping in the hallway and I was doing a touchup in the bathroom, and I began to sing the ostinato of my favorite Bob Marley song.

“Doo doo doot da doot, da doot doot doot doot doo doo doo da doot.”

In the hallway my sister did that funny little musical phrase “weekee weekee weekee” and we were off to the races, singing a duet.

“Could you be loved and be loved?”

I broke into the harmony: “Could you be loved and be loved?”

I was filled with the milk of human kindness and the true Christmas spirit. I felt so grateful for the the life with which the Lord blessed me, and I was thankful for one more family holiday. I felt like I was not old, and I wanted to do more living and see more places— I’ve long dreamt of travel to Italy— if this was all I would have of life, would it be enough? It would have to be, because I was strapped into this rollercoaster and I’d be going wherever the track before me led.

The holiday was beautiful, beswagged as it was with great garlands of smiles and hugs and all to the soundtrack of laughter and funny stories of the previous year and old times gone by. This was a golden, happy Christmas, and one for which I was truly grateful, even in the moment. I savored that precious time, knowing it was the last one. Little did I know how wrong I was and how right I was.

When the new year came, I held to my vow to go see my folks more often, and I went to Dallas every week or two. After all: I was dying. Sure, the doctor said my bloodwork was good and whatnot, but that was a little difficult to believe, especially since I still had a sense of doom. I went about my life, and called Mom and Dad more often, and I kept up my life insurance payments.

Three months later at Spring Break, I spent time with Mom and Dad again. I showed Dad my surgical scars and told funny stories about the follow up appointments and such. We laughed a great deal, and I was so happy to see them again. I also remember before I left I told my parents that my sister was the best gift they’d ever given me. I was concerned about my folks, but that’s always the case with people we love, isn’t it? Mom’s had a persistent cough for many years, and Dad had been having what seemed like a digestive issue that the doctors had not been able to pinpoint. When I went home on Tuesday of Spring Break, it was with the knowledge that I’d be back with Mom and Dad again in about a week.

Three days later on Friday, I was on the phone with Mom. We chatted a bit, but Mom cut me off suddenly and said she had to go. This was irregular. We always end our calls with “I love you”s, but this time she said “bye” and then I heard her say “Are you sick?” It seemed a bit abrupt, but I went on to my next errand, which was a stop at the post office. I was in the post office for a long time, as there was a line. When I came out about 30 minutes later, my phone rang: Mom.

She told me that Dad had collapsed, and was in an ambulance on the way to Charlton Memorial, but that it didn’t look good, and to prepare myself. I rushed home, forgetting all else in the world, rushing to throw together a bag for travel. My own death I could handle, and I knew that would mean to be separate from my loved ones here until the roll is called up yonder, but this was not the order of operations I’d been so certain was inevitable. I was not ready to lose my Dad. The world is full of remarkable people, and could make do with one less of me, but Dad was too important to too many people for the world to lose.

Sadly, Mom’s words were prophetic. By the time I jumped in the car with an overladen suitcase with every shoe and dress I might possibly need, toiletries, phone charger, laptop, Mom called, and I sat in my running car, door open, in the driveway, while Mom told me the news that Dad was gone. I was not ready. I am still not ready.

The following days were a mad rush of making arrangements, writing a eulogy, sending thank you cards to our sweet family and friends who helped with food and flowers and every little thing. The frantic activity gave purpose to the minutes and hours that seemed to torture us with the hideous absence of the man who had been our Superman. How could the world ever be the same?

So, was that Christmas enough? Again I say, it would have to be. It felt like the wind was knocked out of me. How could things ever be good again? Why did the birds go on singing? I didn’t feel anger or bitterness, but I was tremendously sad, and I was sad for a long time.

A couple years after Dad had died, and after several more checkups wherein the doctor raved over my excellent bloodwork, I realized that my death had not been impending. I had to let go of the narrative that I’d told myself, that my life was over: life had more lessons to teach me. The transformative moment came when I recognized— a full two years later— what a tremendous gift my persnickety gallbladder had been: that crisis was a kick in the pants to help me refocus on the fleeting time with my dear family. I could pull my Master’s degree like taffy and make it last another semester or another year, but I would only have as much time with my family as we would all be alive. Yes, the monstrous organ had done me a massive favor, and the result was much more time with Dad than I would have had if I had continued sleepwalking from one deadline to the next.

Lessons are everywhere, and I believe we should all be lifelong learners. Honestly, if I could be in school the rest of my life as a student, I would be, but my season as a (formal) student has passed. I’m now about the business of getting on with life and of cherishing the time with loved ones. I’m also about the business of getting on with my own writing career. I’ve started a small publishing house with friends, and we’re working to revive the old tradition of the pulp serials ofthe 1930s that was such fertile ground for science fiction and fantasy literature. It is going well.

There’s been too many moments to count when I wanted to call Dad and tell him what’s going on. I can imagine how he’d be buttons-bursting proud to know about the time an anthology I edited got a #1 in category stamp on Amazon. I’d like to tell him once more how proud I am of him, how I won the Dad lottery, and that he was the best Dad ever, but I thank God for that loving relationship, and that I told him how I loved him while he was still here.

As we rush about our days and pick up the laundry from the cleaners and burn the meatloaf, and hand out candy at Halloween, it’s so important to remember life happening is not just routine - this is the life we get. Ultimately, every event is marked by treasure-laden potential. Nothing is routine, in fact. In the end, we only get as long as we get with our dear ones.

And that is enough. 

"Rocket's Tail" by Kate Bush - That November Night...

 “Rocket’s Tail” by Kate Bush with Trio Bulgarka and David Gilmour, 1989

Although I adored “Wuthering Heights” and “Running Up That Hill” in years prior, I never purchased an album by Kate Bush until “The Sensual World” was released in 1989. Rock music was really in some state of transition at the time, even though Kate seems always to have functioned on some outer edge wherein the rules did not apply. So many tracks on this album stand out for me, and it feels the very personification of Autumn to me. “Never Be Mine” is filled with the bittersweet yearning of “they’re setting fire to the corn fields as you’re taking me home” which resolves with “the smell of burning fields will now mean you and here/and this is where I want to be, this is what I need/but I know that this will never be mine.” Beautiful and sad. Fall is the time when we put the past to bed and settle in for winter’s nap, or at least a nice cup of tea by the fire. This album is glorious, and is heard to best effect this time of year.

My favorite track from the album is “Rocket’s Tail” for many reasons, but it sets itself indubitably in a particular time by announcing it happened one November night from the very first line. The track opens with the sinuous harmonies of Trio Bulgarka. The ethereal beauty of Kate’s voice threads nicely through the confounding tones of the Bulgarian voices, to magnificent effect.

That November night, looking up into the sky
            You said hey wish that was me up there
            It's the biggest rocket I could find
            And it's holding the night in its arms
            If for only a moment
            I can't see the look in its eyes
            But I'm sure it must be laughing

I once heard that Rocket was Kate’s cat, but it doesn’t really matter, because it’s such a pretty story. I mean, it MUST be true, right? Anyone who’s seen cat zoomies can attest that they’d shoot across the sky like a meteor if they could, and who better than a cat can demonstrate a tail on fire?

            But it seemed to me the saddest thing I'd ever seen
            And I thought you were crazy wishing such a thing

I saw only a stick on fire
Alone on its journey
Home to the quickening ground
With no one there to catch it

The poignance of this set of lines blew me away, that where the intrepid cat saw excitement and adventure and the sheer thrill of adrenaline-inducing hijinks, the speaker would see isolation in the vast chill of space.

Oh, but then she joins in the fun:

I put on my pointed hat
            And my black and silver suit
            And I check my gunpowder pack
            And I strap the stick on my back
            And dressed as a rocket on Waterloo Bridge
            Nobody seemed to see me

Nutty lady on London’s Waterloo Bridge making like a bottle rocket? I’m down with this. Can I play, too?
            Then with the fuse in my hand
            And now shooting into the night

A fretless bass has wound through the proceedings at this point. He is not credited on this track, but I feel this can only be Mick Karn, who played on another track on the the album whence this track originates. Superb. Mick Karn was pure magic. Gone far too soon. Just like him to blend into the shadows and let his music coil through the dance.

And still as a rocket
I land in the river
Was it me said you were crazy?

And then we get the full glory that can only be the guitar of David Gilmour. How did this thing go from glorious to impossibly wonderful? Yes. Just like this.

I put on my cloudiest suit
            Size five lightning boots too
            'Cause I am a rocket
            On fire
            Look at me go with my tail on fire
            Tail on fire
            On fire

Between the otherworldly vocals and the stratospheric squealings of David Gilmour's guitar, this track is one for the sci-fi ages. We’re imagining ourselves elsewhere. We’re dreaming and we’re reaching. If we aspire to take the night in our arms, who is there to stop us?

Grab your pointed hats and lightning boots, kids. We're going on an adventure!

I posted this on Facebook on March 29, 2019, that most hateful month of the most hateful year.

 On March 19, I was eating breakfast at the table with Mom when Dad came in. He had been up for hours, and had breakfast with his cronies at Cancun's, as he often did. For some reason, I asked him about the time he shot a buck over on the next mountain. Dad was an eagle-eyed man who could distinguish details from a great distance at times when someone with typical vision would see nothing. He was also a crack shot. In characteristic fashion, he said twice that it was a lucky shot. Even all those decades later, his instinct was humility, and not to brag or boast-- can you imagine doing something extraordinary like that but insisting it was only a lucky shot? My uncle Billy (Dad's sister Jeanie Smith Wilson's husband) walked down the mountain and up the next one to the buck. Dad said when Billy got to the buck, he turned toward Dad and held up his hat, waving it back and forth in the air. Dad had seen the buck in profile, and the round just pierced the sternum, lodging in the heart of the beast. Luck?! I said "come on, Dad! That was extraordinary-- from a mountain away!" Again he said "it was a lucky shot." At the time, the local paper published a story on the incident, calling it a record shot for the county. I imagine that his father Jim had told folks in town about it, and word got around. I also imagine that although people in town marveled at the achievement, they were probably not terribly surprised that he had done it-- it's easy to feel delight over the accomplishments of a really nice guy. He probably called it luck every single time that story came up, and he probably never told his buddies at Cancun's about the feat.

Sometime after her funeral, he told me it like to have killed him to leave his mother in that cemetery. I now know what you meant, Dad, but I sure wish I didn't. I will tell you what luck is, though: luck is to have been a daughter to outstanding people like you and Mom. Your wonderfulness is fixed in my heart, and ever will be.

To tell or not to tell...

 I have been low-key about this, but decided to post, now that things are in some state of resolution.

I noticed something was amiss when I was on a trip in June, and got with my doctor as soon as I was back in town. Turned out, I had breast cancer, but more than half the summer was an exercise in suspense as I awaited biopsy results, had the surgery, then the findings of the pathology of the tumor itself. I learned biopsy results the first Friday in August, then had the tumor removed August 8. About two weeks later, I learned that it was contained and had not spread, much to my relief, and was only stage I. 

I'm mentioning this here to stick a pin in dates for myself, and also give rationale for my long silence in the summer. Friday 13 was my final round in a course of 20 radiation treatments. I'm tired, and I did fairly well, only canceling classes on my final two days of treatment. Other than the fatigue and the sunburn effect, it has felt pretty easy. Okay, I've been exhausted, but I count myself lucky to have relatively little to deal with. I'm feeling a little better every day. 

I'm so thankful for the love and support of my inner circle. I'm thankful this was me and not someone else - I know this was especially painful for my Mom to see, and it would have been torment for me to see a loved one go through this. However, I've been in good spirits, generally, and have reasonable expectation for no recurrence, based on the treatments I had and the maintenance meds I'll be on for awhile. 

It's surreal to hear those words in a doctor's office, and wonder what will unfold because of the reason for those words. This kind of thing derails one's life in ways one would never imagine.  I'm ready to move on and do more writing. I'm feeling inspired, but first, I think a nap is in order. 

School days, school daze.

 School starts tomorrow. 

This summer had many great aspects, but I had a massive health challenge through which I'm working my way. Treatments and medication continue, but hopefully the main problem is fully resolved. Put most succinctly, that aspect of the summer was less than ideal, but I count myself quite lucky.

This semester will be great, and I expect to learn as much as I teach. I'm excited about teaching BritLit again, which is one of my favorites. I'm already practically hopping with excitement about teaching Samuel Pepys, who was a remarkable character, despite his shallow vanity. Also, I love the way his name is pronounced: peeps! 

The heat broke overnight. I'm in the hottest place in Texas, and the past couple of months have had more days over 110 F than below 100. Today is only 95, which sounds hot, until you compare it with 115. I will be taking a fan with me all over campus for my classes. Hopefully it won't be too brutal. In any case, fall semester is here, Summer heat will hopefully be winding up within a month, and I'm ready for some cold weather. 

Onwards and upwards. 

Out with some of the old...

 I finally replaced my phone that had woefully small (32G) storage. Found a great buy on a Samsung xcover, and it seems to be a superior phone, already. However, to upload all my old stuff to the new phone, all data and records could be transferred to the new phone except for the billions of text messages I have stored therein. Most of them I am happy to jettison. However, there are several text threads that happened with friends and family (group texts) around the time of Dad's death. I don't know why it hurts so bad to not have those in living in my phone forever. I don't know if this is mentally unhealthy. We can't keep every receipt and every little thing, can we? Also, I know that conversations about Dad are not the same as conversations WITH Dad. Just the same, it feels painful. I don't know. Possibly I wouldn't be ready to jettison them even when I'm getting ready to pop my clogs. 

This is all just a by-product of grief, and the feeling that I could never happily let go of Dad. Maybe reliving the days immediately after his death doesn't help the healing, but it's still what my heart wants.  All the physical objects are just things, replaceable or not, and however I want to view them as significant for the record they bear of a time, they don't change anything. More than anything, I'm happy and blessed to have such an excellent father, and I guess in the end, that is all that matters.

Moggies in Space! Part I

 Late last year, I composed a short story about a warrior princess cat who does vermin duty on a large spacefaring cargo ship. Sarah Clithero said "you know, cats in space would be a great topic for an anthology." 

Sarah was right, and Raconteur Press picked up the ball and ran with it. 

"Moggies in Space" is now live on Amazon. I think it's super cute, and I'm proud of the stories we compiled for that publication. 

Hee haw!

It's so hot. How hot is it? Hot.

 So, silly me. It's still hot. Not off the hook with this. I'm hoping for maybe a 90 degree average by my birthday in early October. J/K. I'm hoping for a blizzard for my birthday.

It turns out, since my two bouts with the 'rona, I'm extremely heat fragile. I be-bop along in the heat, and suddenly, I hit a wall and feel sick and faint. Possibly this is a combination of factors, including having a mild heat-stroke in marching band all those decades ago. Go figure. 

That's a thing, but it's not every thing. I've made progress on many fronts this summer, so I'm happy with the progress since I posted here on June 30. 

July was busy with trips to conventions in Chattanooga and Louisville. I had a grand time with friends at both conventions. We stayed with dear friends in Louisville, and it was so good just to hang out with them and get to know them better. The last weekend of July, I drove down to the Alpine area to visit my sister. After those 16/17 hour drives earlier in the month, the 7 hour drive to her house was a cakewalk.  

Tomorrow I'm heading for the Ozarks to see family and go with Mom to her 60th school reunion. It will be nice to see friends and family again. Also, this is another relatively short drive, so 9 hours will feel like nothing compared to the long hauls to Tennessee and Kentucky. Also, I'll be driving to a place that is presumably cooler, albeit with higher humidity.

I've been getting after it with my flowerbeds and making progress on that front. My best specimens are bearing up, with more watering this year than I've ever done. When it's looking less shabby, I'll try to post some photos for you.

School starts on August 28, so I have a few more weeks. However, I plan to get into my office next week and get as much of my syllabi and schedules completed as possible, so that I don't feel like I'm scrambling around just before school starts. As ever, I do love many aspects of the job and I look forward to seeing the shiny faces of my students then. I hope that I have a good effect on them. I try to be as positive as possible, and I try to demystify things like the composition of research papers. I hope they come to recognize that this type of writing is somewhat formulaic, and that they can crack the code and then only have to dread their own procrastination. The procrastination thing is the hardest to overcome. I'll let you know if I ever get there. 

Speaking of writing, I'm tucking back in to write a novel that I started a handful of years ago. It's funny and goofy, and I hope people will get a giggle out of it. I'm also working on another Mabel Murkwood story to submit for a Raconteur Press anthology that is coming up soon. This will be fun. 

In the most pressing news, on Friday our Raconteur anthology on cats in space will go live. I can't wait to see what people think of it. I love the variety of stories, and I hope you will, too. The deadline for Moggies II is the end of August, and we have some great stories to go there, too, but we've room for more. Moggies III will burst on the scene early next year. Good times at the scratchin' post! :) I'll try to get in here on Friday and post a live link to the book on Amazon. 

It's busy and hot, but this feels like progress. Onwards and upwards! <3

I know it's not profound or remarkable, but...

 ...this heat is overwhelming. When I go outside, I quickly feel like a chicken-fried zombie. It's stupefying. Hopefully this is the worst of the summer heat, and hopefully it breaks soon. I thought El Nino was supposed to be milder/cooler here for us? Perhaps I have that backwards. 

I don't generally agree with Scott Adams on many things, but one thing he said that I have come to recognize as wisdom is that it's more important to have a system than to have a plan. I had a plan to produce a great deal of writing this summer, but I've worked very little on my fiction. This needs to change. The weird part is finding the new normal and establishing a routine now that I'm no longer a student. The great thing about being a student is that the way is somewhat mapped out for a person. Just lock onto the rails and ride them to the terminus. Now, especially in the summer while school is not in session, it's more difficult to hold myself to certain objectives, if that makes sense. The enervating feeling of the oppressive heat is somehow compounded by the feeling that I should be doing something, but that without a hard and fast deadline, I start feeling like one foot is nailed to the floor and I'm just spinning around in a circle. 

Don't mind me: it's the heatwave talking. 

I'm getting sadly close to the mid-point of the summer. I'll be sad when it's over, but so far, it's a good one in spite of the heat. 

Late last year I wrote a short story about a cat who lives on a cargo ship in space. The lovely Raconteur Press folks took this on as a topic for an anthology, and tonight is the deadline for story submissions. The stories I've read thus far are fantastic, and I'll let you know when the publication goes live on Amazon. I hope it will a fun read for everyone at the end of August. :)

115 degrees.

 Ugh.

It hot.