Writing to Raise my Mood.

"Red. I should have known it'd be red."

Last night, I was bored and depressed. For some reason, I started to write just to try to bring myself out of it. As a result, I wrote the first chapter of a fan fiction, one that isn't a novel, and isn't based on Ginger Snaps. I'd never gone from having no plans to write a story to posting a thousand words of fiction in three hours, and it did help my mood.

I based on Carrie, mostly on the 2013 version, but borrowing some from every version of the story. I thought I'd change Carrie's fate, make the prom even more bizarre, and tell it in her words. So, the chapter's in first person present, something I haven't done before.

For the GS Feral Bond novel, I already have my installment done, proofed and printed for my writers' group, and I'm writing more tonight.

Oh, here's the link:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10490461/1/Carrie-The-Night-of-Triumph-and-Torment

It's pink Momma. Um, was.

A thought. No research.

I had a thought recently about inequality. I haven't done any research on this, and I have no degrees or expertise to take this anywhere.

There are two problems with a capitalist system, or a moneyed economy in general. These problems have been noted time and again, not just by Marx. Accumulated wealth stored in the form of money or various instruments simply attracts more wealth. It's as though wealth has its own force of gravity, and part of it is due to compound interest. I'm not arguing for the abolition of compound interest, I'm just pointing out it's effect on wealth distribution: those who have money will make more money. In fact, there's really no "trickle down." The wealthy sees that trickle as leaks they must fix. However, there is a trickle, rather a flow upward. It over-rewards the wealthy.

The second problem is the ease at which accumulated moneyed wealth can be turned into other kinds of power. It can buy weapons, it can buy politicians, it can buy resource monopolies (like the way water rights are being bought up).

That seems to be the flaw in a moneyed economy in general.

So, my radical thought is perhaps rather than taxing income, accumulation that should be taxed and redistributed?

I see that the library now has my copy of Capital in the 21st Century by Thomas Picketty. So, maybe I'll become better informed. 

Cat whispering

I decided to make this about cats. Originally, I was going to write about the possible extinction of humankind and perhaps most mammals. Reputable scientists see the strong possibility of The End within three centuries due to Global Warming raising the temperature above survivable levels (95F wet bulb for weeks on end). That's really important news, and we need to take action on it, like overthrow capitalism if any of our great-grandchildren or perhaps children are going to survive. If that meets the expectations of deniers who call global warming a socialist conspiracy, so be it.

But frankly, for a day or two, I'm tired of all the depressing blogs. So, to cheer things up, first I'm calling on cute kittens for help: 

That should take your mind off human extinction for a few minutes. Damn, I said it again. More kittens:

Okay, I've taken your mind global warming so we can keep on pumping CO2 into our atmosphere to our heart's content (or in my case, fear.)  I'll tell you about cat whispering.

Living alone, I end up foolishly talking to my cat, saying things like, "meow," "ack," or gididididi. Or I rhyme my cat's name. 

Cat haters (like this DOUCHE guy) like to point out that science has determined the nefarious creatures make sounds that are similar to a human infant. Meaning their voices are attuned exactly to manipulate people into regarding cats as cute. Science has supported this, and I myself have long known this before it was reported.

That's true,  but what the haters don't realize is that it goes both ways. Humans can make sounds back to the cat that manipulate the cat's emotions, too. Meow back at a cat, and watch what happens. They'll look you in the eye, they'll raise their tails, their fur shifts, indicating that they're likely feeling tingles. They might actually meow back at you. They seem almost always pleased that you're speaking to them in their "language." Ferals might take cover when you do it, but they will watch you. Some cats will look you in the eye and meow back at you. With my cat, I'll always spend some time in the day "talking" to her, in her idiom.

It makes sense that cats will do this because they seem to emit sounds such as "meow" especially for people, and never for other cats. Cat's seldom voice to each other, and they very definitely don't look like they're conversing when they do.

Though there are exceptions (though I think the hard consonants are probably dubbed in. Even without the "Okays" it's remarkable) :

A mother cat will make certain sounds to kittens (like "meow"), but in other cases, if the cat uses its voice for other felines, its to express extreme aggression.

So, I'll assert that to cat haters: not even dogs have sounds that they only use for humans. That tells me they are evolving to communicate with people. I would never claim that felines understand words beyond--perhaps--their names. But the way they meow back and take mimicking them as something delightful tells me they grasp the concept of social conversation much better than dogs.

They did evolve as solitary creatures with no concept of a pack. However, we've changed them. Cats today are far different than the ones depicted in ancient frescoes. The modern kitty is a paradoxical animal, adapted to have stronger bonds with humans than they do members of their own species.

It's hard to read a feline's emotions, though, so people unfamiliar with cats find them cold. The reason why cats and dogs don't get along is that their body language is crossed. For a cat, wagging their tail and flattening their ears is a sign of anger and fear, and a warning to back away or get a face full of claws. For a dog doing the same thing is a sign of joy and camaraderie. That's why first encounters between the species can set a bad tone for what's to follow.

It's a similar thing with people. To people who've spent little time around felines cats seem cold and manipulative. The cat haters never see the cat and owner "conversing" and bonding with each other. It's every bit as touching as your dog welcoming you home. Yet, cats don't show emotions the same way. I once had a feline that had apparently been in great pain from cancer for some time. I'm attentive, too, and if hadn't stopped eating and I didn't then discover the lump in his neck, I would have never known how much he was suffering. Since they're not by background a social species, felines are adapted to keep going when they're in pain and not call for help.

They've also had little evolutionary reason to communicate their emotions.   

So, I've made an entry without dealing with the most important issue of our time, and in all of human history. I plead guilty to procrastination, but at least I'm not crippled by despair about global warming. I am going to become an activist about it. I just don't know how, yet.

More kittens?

I promise I won't do another blog like this. 

Excerpt from my GS fanfic novel.

Only the most disturbing werewolf design, ever.

Look at the arms. They're almost human.

 
I've decided to put up an excerpt from my novel, Ginger Snaps: The Feral Bond. The novel is fan fiction based on the Ginger Snaps films.  First I'll give you a spoiler warning: if you haven't seen those films but intend to, stop reading here.

I'm only getting started

I wrote a little on my novel tonight, about 500 words. I'm encouraged by this, because with the stresses related to assisting my family, I wasn't putting any production expectations on myself until after this weekend. In fact, it feels like writing it released some stress.

I know 500 words seems poor. I have written up to 3,000 words a day. In fact, I could write 750 words in less than an hour. They would be coherent, too. But they'd suck. When I was writing that fast, I had to totally rewrite or throw out what I've written.

For a good night's sleep

Sleeping at my Dad's now feels like being homeless, except with much better weather. To begin with, there are no guest beds. My father and brother sleep downstairs. The downstairs is noisy everywhere at night, with TV's, videos, stereos and everything playing. This is necessary for my brother whose disability demands constant audio-stimulation. Everyone else in the family has gotten used to it. Except me. I wear earplugs all the time there. In old family photos, everybody's hair is messed up, a hint at the noise the family grew up in. They all still have their mussed up hair, but I've gone bald. Probably I should have turned to ear plugs sooner.

My sister provided me with a self-inflating air mattress. An improvement over the 70s model which had to steal the breaths of three people to be serviceable. Problem was where to put it. Downstairs, there was no getting away from the noise, even if there was a place that didn't block the front door or, worse, my Dad's path to the bathroom.

But why do that? There were five bedrooms upstairs.

Because upstairs, every bedroom was stuffed with junk and hadn't been cleaned or dusted since 1994, except the "cat room" where food and litter were provided (and was also right above my brother's room).  My parent's bedroom had been converted to my sister and brother-in-law's  personal family room. It had a couch which was totally unsuitable for sleeping; my parent's old long dresser, which now just took up a lot of space; at TV, computers, computer components, a desk for such, and a coffee table.

All horizontal surfaces were buried under four layers. I knew the filing system. Archeologists of the future would be able to identify the clever purpose of each strata. The layer on top was the currently interesting or slightly used items. This would include at least three remote controls and my brother-in-law's bong. In the middle the slightly used or things of no current but possible future interest. Beneath that, was the trash strata, a very important one given that the room had no receptacle the purpose. The fourth layer was dust, which always sank to the bottom, provided the other three layers were well-maintained. Then you hit the treated wood surface, fire retardant, to no apparent purpose except to poison everyone with hormone-disrupters, in obvious hopes that we wouldn't reproduce.     

I finally moved the couch and the coffee table aside and inflated the twin mattress there. This blocked the door, but I managed to shift things so that I could get out of bed and get out of the room. I turned the fan off, trading cool for quiet. I set up my brother's baby monitor, but put my earplugs in, knowing that I would hear him even with the plugs in my ears.  

I was so tired, I think I fell asleep in a few minutes. It was about midnight. Next thing I knew, I heard my brother over the monitor.  "Auuuauuuuu." It wasn't really a shout, it wasn't really a word. It could have meant a lot of things. "I need help going to the restroom," "Somebody cover my feet," or "Why's it so quiet in here?"

I moved the couch aside, limped downstairs, happy to see that the swelling of my ankle had gone down. I took the long way, the short way involved the spiral staircase, which I wasn't going to try in my drowsy state. I arrived. My brother Joe lay in bed on his belly, his face to the pillow. He raised his arm up to me, wrist first. His way of saying "Hello, thank you." I took his wrist and said, "Wah!" on it. He turned his head and smiled up at me.

I covered his exposed foot with the blanket. I stroked his hair and pat his back. "What do you need, Joe? Do you need to go to the bathroom."

He turned his wrist up, signally he could use my aid getting up. I took him by the hand and helped him sit, something he could do by himself, though with a bit more difficulty. It was just to quell his fear of falling out of bed, though he hadn't done that in years. He wasn't smiling, which was unusual for him.

I asked him, "What's wrong?"

He patted his belly. That didn't mean hunger. That was an upset stomach. "Okay, I'll get you a blue pill."

I got him a sucralfate and Tylenol for any other pain he had. He could have several toothaches and wouldn't be able to communicate it. I hoped not. He probably took for granted pains that normal people never had to contend with every day, with no way to tell anybody, and no way to get treatment. It took decades for my parents to determine that he had acid reflux, and by that time, his esophagus was almost gone.

I gave it to him with milk. He rejects water. It was milk or soda. Everything else was iffy, and I hated both alternatives. But he took it.

Joe had Angelman Syndrome and was now in his fifties. He never learned to speak or sign. His head was small, balding and with totally messed up brown hair. His sensitive eyes, were usually unfocused; they moved slowly and haltingly. He would squint when you asked him if he wanted something or if you put on some music, then he would either smile and rock or shake his head. With rough facial skin and a crooked nose, he had once been a beautiful child. But he drooled. He was unable to groom himself and care for himself. His parents were barely able to do so for themselves. So, his looks deteriorated. His teeth looked large and crooked. He hadn't had any dental care since my father retired.  

Now to my surprise, he got out of bed, and walked with his slanting shuffle, one leg being longer than the other, and began to pull me toward the dining room. That's where the laptop was. He wanted to hear some music off Youtube. There I could find him playlists, currently he preferred either of a R&B/Soul/Gospel duet from the 1960s, Joe & Eddie, or one of TV Theme Songs, starting with Captain Kangaroo's, which always made him laugh and shout. It reminded him of his childhood.  

"No, Joe, we can't do that. It's 5:30 in the morning. Dad needs his sleep." What I left unmentioned was needing mine, too.

He immediately reversed course and limped back to bed. I covered him up, patted his back. He raised his hand, thumb and forefinger held out to pinch my my nose, I said "Honk!" I honked his nose back, patted his back, and made my way back to bed.

And I found I couldn't sleep.   
  

A George Jetson Nightmare

Coming soon to a nightmare near you.

When I study today's employment economy, I always recall the Hannah-Barbera cartoon from the 1970s, The Jetsons. For those who aren't familiar, it was a "futuristic" cartoon spoof, where people lived in Earth's orbit. (Apparently because Earth has been polluted to death, though a children's cartoon didn't make that explicit.) The characters would drive flying cars in space. Mostly, its humor was lame and forgettable Saturday morning crap, just like The Flintstones was, er--should have been.