Coach through Baker’s Dozen: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (18)

The air was moving.  The orange solar glare was reaching over some kind of ledge a few feet from her face and behind it, pink-orange hues were drawing swirly lines across a cornucopia of purple shades, interspersed with wisps of cotton clouds.  Participant-2014-Square-ButtonShe squirmed until she was sitting up.  They were on some kind of old fashioned coach, its polymer mold rounded at the corners of the compartment she was in, with no doors to be seen.  Terra yawned and tried to stretch.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

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Terra’s Dream: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (17)

Terra sank into a sleep that engulfed her, like a thick liquid blanket, and warmed her body as her mind swam on.  She pulled herself into pools of purple velvet, beams of light piercing the surface far above, searching for her like bullets on a war torn beachhead.  Her LC bodysuit felt tight against her skin, so she removed it.  Below, a strange rock glittered up at her from the floor of this royal ocean, its exterior covered in mirrored ornaments.  She dove closer, looking at her reflection in the mosaic of looking-glasses.  Her hair flowed as if taken by a slow-motion wind,  Suspended in the heavy sea, she looked into the mirrors again and saw herself, naked, skin purple, whether by reflection or by nature, she wasn’t sure. Participant-2014-Square-Button Her face looked rested and carefree; she recognized the look of inquiry as she surveyed the rock.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Morning Mind Squatter

1949-scattered-papersIn the early morning, as I rise from the depths of that all-encompassing death of sleep, I sometimes stumble into conversations and ramblings that aren’t my own.   In those moments right before I open my eyes, I feel my thoughts stroke surfaces of things I don’t even care about.  This morning it was something about a lecture on topography and a way to talk to those folks that prefer to dine earlier in the day.

It’s as if I woke into a wrong room, and body … inhabited by a completely different person who was not expecting my arrival at that hour, if at all.  Irritated that I was taking my synapses back, the phantom intellect and perpetuator of useless topics stood up in a huff and shuffled her papers in irritation, then stormed toward the middle or back of my brain to see about finding a more private room, or to schedule the current one for another time when I would be less likely to interrupt.

To my knowledge, I’ve never once been pleasantly surprised by this imbecile.  Her random topics aren’t entertaining in any way, and although boring, they are too awkward or alarming to effectively put me back to sleep. I think I understand where the stories about tiny shoe cobblers might have originated if this is the state of our condition in middle-age.  I’m not a big shoe collector, but I’d take quiet little cobbler elves over this ignoramus any day.  I fear she will chase away my muse inspired wakings – those mornings where I rise with good ideas and rush to my keyboard before coffee to get them written.

I’m not trying to be selfish here.  If she would simply pick any number of the millions of things that even remotely interest me to poke around in, I’d let her stay longer.  What’s wrong with a little history of Ireland, book reviews, Mars and physics or astronomy . . . even gluten-free or lactose intolerant solutions.  Okay, those last ones are snore-inducers, but there’s things in there like: Nero and pyromania, “the threat of pink,” oh – and don’t miss “code yellow butterfly.”  She has her pick of specifics or abstract to run with – all of them fascinating and/or useful.  But instead, I have to walk in on the sordid pictures of her dissecting the types of arch support, or why the letter “J” curves left instead of right.

I worry.  What if this is a takeover starting?  I’ve always feared that day, when I start to forget little and big things, and head down Alzheimer’s road.  What if this boring and presumptuous phantom is biding her time for that, so she can take over my person?  A body snatcher in the makings?  Perhaps more sleep and exercise is the answer!  Well, more sleep at least.

Don’t mistake my anxiety.  I know this mind squatter pulls these topics from somewhere in my head.  I’m not insinuating a lobotomy of all that is bland.  It’s just . . . well, you know the score.  Take a difficult math concept and “Teacher A,” who explains patiently, shows you pages in your book, and even scribbles some things on the board.  You just don’t get it.  Enter “Teacher B,” who says little and writes from simple to extreme across the board, then turns and, you feel enlightened and now completely understand the concept.

This morning intruder is starting to make me wonder if I might like to explore (more fully) the techniques of sinus cleansing.  If she ends up being “Teacher B,” I’m doomed.

Pondering Tiny

Screen from "The Incredible Shrinking Wom...

Screen from “The Incredible Shrinking Woman” (Photo credit: Scurzuzu)

Anyone remember that movie with Lily Tomlin, “The Incredible Shrinking Woman?”  I remember watching that movie as a kid and wishing I could actually recreate the chemical reactions for myself that had led to her shrinkage into tinydom.  What is it about tiny that appeals to us so much?
Did I really want to be little, or just live in an alternate reality or dimension.  Most likely the latter since, I can’t imagine the idea of large hands accosting me and bigger people controlling me sounding all that appealing.  Of course, as an adult, I think about all those times when I’ve felt like I didn’t fit in this world.  I imagine that would be a huge majority of my feelings as a tiny person.  I think about “The Borrowers” whose appeal was not lost on me either.  

I loved all the creative uses for everyday mundane things: a matchbox being retooled as a bed, a thimble as a bucket.  Innovation appeals to me still today.  So perhaps given enough “mundane” elements, I would enjoy this existence.  Living under floorboards, my only work to scrounge and gather food.  A tiny little escape from the pressures and fears of this world and existence.  

The Return of the Borrowers

The Return of the Borrowers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then I think of books.  Writing.  I’d have to read HUGE print and worry about getting caught (unless I had a Big Person Protector).  I would have to write longhand with a piece of mechanical pencil lead and scraps of paper.  My hands would get so filthy and tired.  No little Macs in Little Person World.  

Meh.  I’ll stick around in this reality.  It’s not so bad, really.  Too bad the little people scenarios have been done to death.  Storytelling in such environments might be fun.  What do you think?  Is the miniature world idea universally appealing?  Why is it that we find it so fascinating?  What’s the psychology behind that?

Beer, Bait, and … Homos?

This is not political.  I’m not taking a stand here on the right to bear arms or the logic behind background checks.  I’m simply explaining why I personally do not want to own a gun.  But it appears that to even make a personal statement of that “magnitude,” some would have me clarify my thoughts on their choice to have guns.  So I allow me to answer in like fashion as some of my favorite gun-toting pals have shared with me on some of my other “issues.”

I have lots of friends who own guns.  I don’t ever want my friends who own guns to feel like I look differently at them, or that I fear them.  I don’t have a problem with their choices or how they live their personal lives.  I just don’t like the kind of gun-freaks that want to flaunt it, make a big deal about it, and even flash it in my face that they own guns.  You know the ones; they wear t-shirts that say things like, “Gun Control is a Tight 5-Point Shot Group,” or “God, Guns, and Glory.”  I also don’t think they should prance around talking about their guns in front of children.  I think it’s okay for gun-owners to raise children together as long as they don’t force their gun beliefs on their children and make them decide about guns before they are old enough.  When I see pictures of elementary school children with guns in their hands, smiling parents standing next to them, I often wonder why CPS isn’t being called.

What really ticks me off is when they try to convert me.  I don’t know if they get some kind of prize or a box of free ammo when they sway someone toward NRA membership, but I really don’t want them telling me that I should own a gun.  That’s where I draw the line.  Keep your leather holster to yourself there, buddy.

Here’s why I don’t own a gun.  I think that when you look at the Adam Lanzas (Sandy Hook Elementary School) and David Berkowitzs (Son of Sam) of the world – there’s really only one little synapse or chemical imbalance in the head between them and us.  I mean, how much does anyone really know about psychopaths, sociopathy, and insanity.  Even the experts can only speculate.  Likewise on the current research on depression, impulse control, and other brain and socio/psychological disorders that have blossomed like earthquakes, hurricanes, and tsunamis over the last 50 years.  Fact is, what separates you from me is one false move, one spark of recognition, one apparent threat that turns a calm demeanor into a raging lunatic with a finger on the trigger.  I don’t own a gun because I know myself enough to know that I don’t know what I don’t know.

I’m one of the most self-analytical people I know.  So when I say that I choose not to own a gun because I don’t ever want to allow the possibility that I might use it on myself or someone else in a moment of darkness or a rage of anger – I don’t say that lightly.  I have aged to the point where I control myself when people piss me off.  I have overcome severe depression over the years and I’ve done it (for the most part) without drugs.  So I’d pass a background check.  All in all, I’d probably be just fine with a gun my home.  In the state I reside now, I’d be able to get a handgun before you can hit “like” on this post.  But I think I’d rather die at the hands of an idiot with a gun who doesn’t like that I love another woman, rather than hurt the ones that I love by taking my life or that of someone else.  Some might say that logic makes no sense to them.  I respect their right to disagree.

I don’t judge gun owners.  I know there is a percentage of gun owners that take their own lives, and those that use guns to murder or rob.  So I pray that everyone that owns a gun does so from a right mind and heart.  I don’t know how I feel about the variety and types of guns there are out there.  I don’t know what I think about limiting magazines, or types of bullets, semi-automatic versus automatic, etc.  All I know is, if owning a gun makes someone happy and feel safe and normal – as long as they don’t point it at me or someone else – I’m okay with that.

2006-08-23 - Road Trip - Day 31 - United State...

Photo courtesy of http://www.cgpgrey.com/