Daffynition:
“Middle class”. Noun. Common meaning: moneyed peasantry.
Tag Archives: story
Say what?
Did I just hear that the US President confirmed old rumours about the fake Apollo moon landings by announcing that the Moon really is made of green cheese? Classic! Radical! Totally tubular!
The Magic of Merlin’s Forest
Can you die of a broken heart?
How are our thoughts manifested in our actions?
In my thoughts I live alone. I and the universe are one.
I am not the center of the universe but what I know about the universe is centered on me.
I/me is an artificial construct, a set of states of energy that has circuitry which reflects the set back upon itself like a funhouse mirror.
Over the past few months, I have consciously made choices about where I sleep at night.
During the cold months of winter, I slept in the sunroom, closing the door to the house to keep the cold out.
But closing the door also kept Merlin and Erin from seeking me as a nighttime companion.
I could sense they were upset, easily so — they started pooping near the sunroom door.
Merlin gave me what I can only describe anthropomorphically as pouting looks.
Then, as Erin got sick and I paid extra special attention to him to try to get him well, Merlin seemed to enter a longterm depression.
He, too, got sick.
He seemed to have given up.
But in the last two weeks of his life, I devoted more attention to him and he perked up a little.
However, he was too far gone at that point.
I knew it and he knew it.
He drank a lot of water and ate less food.
Then, in the last week of his life, he could barely jump up on the sofa to sleep with me.
In the last few days, he could only walk a few steps at a time and had to rest. He plopped down in front of the water bowl and laid his head on the lip of the bowl to dip his tongue just enough to wet his whistle.
Yesterday, he had to drag himself up on the sofa. He looked sad. I knew it was only a matter of hours before he died.
I cleaned his ears with Q-tips one last time. I wiped the dried mucus from his eyelids. I wet a paper towel and cleaned the dried cat food from his chin.
He did his best to purr. A tiny rattling sound.
He rubbed the top of his head against my chin or, rather, attempted to, jerking his head from side to side.
His hind legs began to stiffen.
Erin tried to join us one last time but Merlin’s spasms made it difficult for the three of us to settle down together.
I sit in one of Merlin’s favourite spots on a sofa in the sunroom, sunshine touching the edge of the sofa where this time of year Merlin used to drape his head over the edge to warm his ears and top of his head.
Erin sleeps despondently in the living room, wrapped in the fleece blanket in which Merlin died yesterday.
It is a very quiet day. Not a bird singing or a car passing by. Just the clicks and pops of the expanding roof and walls of the sunroom.
A goldfinch checks out the empty bird feeders, trying to find one last seed to eat, no felines perched on the cat stand to chatter and stare.
I piled rocks on top of Merlin’s grave this morning. Between burying him in the dark last night and the rain shower this morning, a large limb broke off the giant oak tree under which I placed Merlin’s body in two small cardboard boxes taped together in the shape of a child’s cash register toy, a printed copy of Merlin’s purchase receipt listing birth and death sealed in a plastic sandwich bag and taped to the box.
As I arranged the rocks, I noticed black beetles and black flies around the burial site. Fresh food for them and their offspring…the cycle of life continues.
I felt like I was in a horror story or movie last night, a battery-powered lantern hanging from a tree limb as I shoveled forest soil to make a hole, black humus mixed with freshly-fallen leaves covering the first few inches I dug, followed by Tennessee Valley red clay, rocks and roots.
I retired from an office job in 2007 and have spent the better part of my life since then living in this house with two cats.
One of them is gone.
No more my wife and I keeping open containers of drinking water out of reach of Merlin’s head.
No more Merlin curling up into the crook of my left armpit in bed on a cold night.
No more Merlin stretching out in the sunny spots of the house, his brother joining him.
No more soft fur like a velveteen rabbit, a unique smell up against my nose when he decided to sleep on the pillow next to my head.
My daily house companion of the past seven years, a part of my peak work years, happy to see me when I got home, is gone.
No matter how miserable his life had been the last few months, Merlin looked into my eyes at the end and fought to stay alive a little longer.
Why did I shut you out so much lately, Merlin? I was not tired of you. I was tired of myself having given up on my life that I couldn’t bear to let you see me this way, an unpleasant house companion. Yet, you asked for me at the end. You chose to die in my arms, no one else’s.
I was the world to that cat, a set of states of energy just like any other that became life, a bundle of cells symbiotically attuned to keep on living no matter what.
We qualify the meaning of life.
In fact, when I returned to the house after burying Merlin, I saw a horse fly on the ceiling in the kitchen, minding its own business, cleaning its wings and I killed it because I abhor the stinging sensation of a horse fly’s bite even though the fly gave no indication it was going to bite me anytime soon.
But is the life of a human with celebrity status any more important than my cat in the workings of the universe?
I think not.
Life is life.
I shan’t punish myself for the times I pushed away a seemingly healthy Merlin recently when I thought Erin needed attention in his weakened state as he vomited up large volumes of blood.
Erin no longer vomits blood but he wheezes when he breathes and sneezes blood droplets sometimes. By feeding him small portions of deli-sliced turkey along with regular wet cat food, I have brought his weight back up from malnutrition but he is still a skinny cat (he was always thin).
How long will he live now that it’s just the two of us most of the time and alone in the house by himself when my wife and I are not here?
I do not try to know.
All I can do is provide him the same love and attention he got when he was seriously ill before Merlin’s health started to decline.
I don’t want my imagination of two cats dying of a broken heart on my conscience.
I struggle enough as it is, sometimes, trying to find reasons to live. I don’t need another reason to want to die.
It’s almost two p.m. Time for my afternoon nap. I’ll see if Erin wants to join me or wants to take my sleeping spot, either sofa or bed.
Watching Merlin waste away the last two weeks has been tough, knowing he was rapidly declining. Whether the decline was caused by breathing the heavy dust of a new cat litter we tried, the cat snacks we gave or a spider bite, we’ll never know. Running my hand over his body, feeling his rib cage beneath the guard fur of a Cornish Rex, noticing a nub that was either a broken rib or a cancerous node. Seeing parts of him swell unusually, like a paw, a forelimb or his chin. His body getting colder day after day as he finally gave up eating…well, Erin says enough typing. Pay attention to him!
Farewell, my feline friend!
We said goodbye to our big buddy, our Cornish Rex cat named Merlin, who died in my arms a little while ago. Watching death is never easy (I have a deep appreciation for people working in hospitals and other places where death is frequently observed) — the convulsions, the crying out, looking into your eyes for comfort, help, something…anything…the struggle to restart the heart and keep breathing…the last breath…the last twitches of the ear.
He almost died earlier this afternoon and I comforted him, telling it was all right to go to sleep but he didn’t want to. He perked up when he heard the garage door opener, knowing Janeil was coming into the house. She held him while I ran out to get dinner. She then handed to me after I returned, because he was begging for me one last time, and he was gone within minutes.
He turned 16 Earth years old on the 20th of May. The last three days I had been washing fleece blankets because Merlin could no longer control his bladder. I put him in a warm fleece blanket one more time late this afternoon when I picked up his body, knowing he was dying because his back legs no longer worked. His cooling body is curled up in a box beside me, waiting to be buried after I write this Facebook entry.
Dear boy, you were a great friend to my wife, me, and your [half]brother Erin, who already walks around the house searching for you.
Who would have thought two months ago, when Erin was coughing up blood and you seemed to be fine, that you would be the first to go?
To you, my sofa and bed companion, my lap heater, who a few days ago was pushing me out of the way, even in a weakened condition, for his own corner of the couch, I raise a toast in your name! Beannacht leat go bhfeicfidh mé aris thú!
Overheard at the 70th Anniversary of D-Day…
Obama: Well, Vlad, you haven’t said a word.
Putin: I am still thinking of response.
O: Ya gotta admit it was pretty clever.
P: But still, it was your own military.
O: What would you do if the cadets at your army training academy dissed you?
P: I would not hesitate to send every one of them to hard labour in Siberia, required to hear boring lectures by one woman I would not argue with, your former Secretary of State…very smart of you, assigning women to be secretaries. If they cannot cook in kitchen, make them secretaries. Ha ha.
O: Yes, one step forward with me as president, two steps back returning women to secretary roles. But seriously, I thought what I did was pretty cool.
P: Rescuing deserter of your own military is like giving middle finger to your generals. Rescuing deserter who had converted to religion of your country’s enemy and also of your father is dangerous, even for me. Tells your countrymen “Fuck you!” a little loud, don’t you think, even for you?
O: Not at all. Not at all. I thought it was a perfect example of presidential-level sarcasm. Besides, there’s not a single thing anyone can do about my private joke at the expense of the American peasants. This power trip is pretty addictive. I can see why you stay in control.
P: You are right. And Russian women who love men in power good for more than secretarial position. I make them secret agents, tell them I personally train them for missionary position.
O: That, Vlad, is clever! You da man.
P: Da. You man, too. What your personal adversary say? “Power to the King of the sheeple!”
O: She’ll always have a view of your country from her backyard, that’s certain.
P: Beware the rest of your political career, comrade. Sarcasm is lost on ordinary citizens. More so when you personally make fun of your soldiers for revenge.
O: Well, you can bet those cadets will give me full honours next time. Lol
The start of a new adventure…
Always looking for some project to keep my thoughts off the futility of living on the same planet…
This time, combining my knowledge of Python computer programming language with my experience in microcontrollers.
What to build…hmm…
Removing the addictive shackles
The red burns…the scars…the tears in flesh…inside the skin, one feels trapped no matter what…one planet a set of states of energy burning perpetual nonsense sending million-year old message threads of woven fabric without causation or correlation.
Love…for ErinK, ClaireL, AbiL, JennN…Monica, Robyn, Reneé…
Inspiration from imagination.
Surface Surfactants
Guin twisted her head around.
Although 200 marsyears had passed since she had lived on Earth, Guin still remembered what it felt like to walk the surface of Earth without an environmental protection suit on.
She had briefly worked with HAZMAT teams one summer, helping to eradicate a deadly trend amongst Earthlings of starting their own home laboratories to cook addictive substances such as meth. An unhealthy obsession with a momentary high. A synonym maker’s dream:
20/20 (“Clear Vision” Hawaii)
222 (Chicago)
417 (SW Missouri because of meth capital)
Agua
Albino Poo
Alffy
All Tweakend Long
Anny
Anything Going On
the attenborough (London; 11/29/07)
Artie (as in i, Boise, ID 7/30/09)
Bache Knock
Bache Rock
Bag Chasers
Baggers
Barney Dope
Batak (Philippine Street Name)
Bato
Bato-(Philippine Street Name)
Batu Kilat (Malaysia, it means shining rocks)
Batu or Batunas (Hawaii)
Batuwhore
Beegokes
Bianca
Bikerdope
Billy, Or Whizz,
(Britain – cartoon character called Billy Whizz who seemed to be always on the stuff!)
Bitch
Biznack
Blanco
Bling (LA, CA 8/12/09)
Blizzard
Blue Acid
Blue Funk, (Southwest Area of SD Ca.)
Bomb
Booger
Boorit-Cebuano (Filipino Street Name)
Boo-Yah! (Southwest Area of SD Ca.)
Bottles (Used in New Zealand 7/31/07)
Brian Ed
Buff Stick
Bugger Sugar
Buggs
Bumps
Buzzard Dust
Caca
Candy
Cankinstien
CC
Chach
ChaChaCha
Chalk
Chalk Dust
Chank
Cheebah
Cheese
Chicken Flippin
Chikin or Chicken
Chingadera
Chittle
Chizel
Chiznad
Choad
Chunkylove (Missouri)
Clavo
Clean out the chimney (Used in New Zealand 7/31/07)
Coco
Coffee
Cookies
Cotton Candy (LA area)
CR (California Central Valley)
Crack Whore
Crank Is “Walk” & Coke Is “Talk.”
Crankster Gansters
Creek Rock (Sand Mountain, AL)
Cri,Cri (Mexican Border in Southwest Arizona)
Criddle
Cringe
Critty
Crizzy
Crothch Dope
Crow
Crunk
Crypto
Crysnax (LA area)
Crystal Meth
Crystalight
Cube
Debbie, Tina, And Crissy
Desoxyn (drug name for meth at the pharmacy)
Devil Dust
Devils Dandruff
Devils Drug
Dingles
Dirt
Dirty
Dizzy D
Dizzle (Missouri)
Dizzo (Missouri)
D-Monic Or D
Do Da
Doody
Doo-My-Lau (H.B.)
Dope
Drano
Dummy Dust
Dunk (LA, CA)
Dyno
Epimethrine
Epod
Eraser Dust
Ethyl-M
Evil Yellow
Fatch (Mexican Border In The Southwest Arizona Area)
Fedrin
Fil-Layed
Fire
Fizz Wizz
G (short for Glass or Go-fast)
G-unit (Los Angeles, CA 8/12/09)
Gab
Gackle-a Fackle-a
Gagger (So. Calif.)
Gak
Gas
Gear Or Get Geared Up
Gemini
George as in george glass from the Brady Bunch movie (CA 8/17/09)
Gina or “I want to talk to Gina tonight” (Calif; 11/18/07)
Glass
Go
Go Fast
Go-ey
Go-Go
Go-Go Juice
Gonzales (Like the cartoon “Speedy”)
Goop
Got Anything
Grit
Gumption
Gyp
Hawaiian Salt
Hank
High Speed Chicken Feed
High Riders (Used in New Zealand 7/31/07)
Highthen
Hillbilly Crack
Hippy Crack
Holy Smoke (Hong Kong)
Homework (This is because homework is generally done on paper which had lines)
Honk the BoBo (Southern MD)
Hoo
Horse Mumpy (Tampa, Florida)
Hydro
Hypes
Ibski
Ice
Ice Cream
Icee
Ish
Izice
Jab
Jasmine
Jenny Crank Program, (jenny crank diet) (Seattle, WA 11/4/07)
Jetfuel
Jib
Jib Nugget
Jibb Tech Warrier
Jinga
Juddha
Juice
Junk (San Diego)
Kibble
Killer
KooLAID
Kryptonite
Lamer
Laundry Detergent
Lemon Drop
Life
Lily
Linda
Livin the Dream (Alberta Canada)
Lost Weekend (Bay Area SF)
Love
Low
Lucille
M Man
Magic
Meth
Meth Monsters
Methaine
Methandfriend
Methandfriendsofmine
Methanfelony
Methatrim
Methmood
Method
Moon Juice (Missouri)
Motivation in a bag (Cleveland or Columbus, Ohio; (11/19/07)
Nazi Dope
Ned
Newday
Night Train (11/7/07)
No Doze
Nose Candy
On A Good One
(New Zealand)’place where meth is made is a “P lab”
Patsie
Peaking
Peanut Butter
Peel Dope
Phazers
Phets
Philopon (East Asia)
Pieta
Pink
Poison
Pookie (LA area)
Poop
Poop’d Out
Poor Man’s Cocaine (Philippines)
Pootananny
Powder
Powder Monkeys
Powder Point
Project Propellant
Puddle
Pump (Bay Area SF)
Quarter Tee Bag
Quartz (8/4/09)
Q’d
Quick (Canada)
Quill
Rachet Jaw
Rails
Rails
Rank
Redneck Heroin (Atlanta)
Richie Rich
Rip
Rock
Rock
Rocket Fuel
Rocky Mountain High
Rosebud
Rudy’s
Rumdumb
Running Pizo
Sack
Sam’s Sniff
Sarahs
Satan Dust
Scante (Hispanic Population in Southern California)
Scap
Schlep Rock
Scooby Snax
Scud
Scwadge
Shab
Sha-Bang
Shabs (San Francisco)
Shabu
Shamers
Shards
Shit
Shia (Missouri)
Shiznack, Shiznac, Sciznac or Shiznastica
Shiznittlebang
Shiznit
Shiznitty
Shizzo
Shnizzie Snort
Shwack
Skeech
Sketch
Ski
Skitz
Sky Rocks
Sliggers
smack
Smiley Smile
Smurf Dope
Smzl
Snaps
Sniff
Snow, Motivation (Colorado Springs, CO)
Space Food
Spaceman
Spagack
Sparacked
Sparked
Sparkle
Speed Racer
Spin, Spin, Spin
Spinack
Spindarella
Spinney Boo
Spinning
Spishak
Spook
Sprack
Sprizzlefracked
Sprung (Mississippi)
Spun Ducky Woo
Squawk
Stallar
Sto-Pid
Styels
Sugar
Suger
Sweetness
Swerve
Syabu (pronounced “shabu” – SE Asia)
Ta’doww (Southwest Area of SD Ca.)
Talkie
Tasmanian Devil
Tenner
The New Prozac
The White House
Tical
TIK (1/27/08 – South Africa)
T. D. – for – Tink Dust (as in: ”Tinkerbell”, from Disney)
Talkie
Time (Atlanta, GA)
Tina Or Teena
Tish – Shit Backwards (C.V. Calif. area)
Tobats
Toots
Torqued
Trippin Trip
Truck Stop Special
Tubbytoast
Tutu (Hawaii)
Twack
Twacked Out
Tweak
Tweedle Doo
Tweek (A Methamphetamine-Like Substance)
Tweezwasabi
Twistaflexin
Twiz
Twizacked
Ugly Dust
Vanilla Pheromones
Wake
Way
We We We
Whacked
White Bitch
White Ink
White Junk
White Lady
White Pony (Ridin’ the White Pony)
White
Whip (Western Australia 2/3/09)
Who-Ha
Work: I think that came about from it being my dealers “work” (1/22/08 Arlington, TX)
Wigg
Xaing
Yaaba (Thailand)
Yammer Bammer
Yank
Yankee
Yay
Yead Out
Yellow Barn
Zingin
Zip
Zoiks
Zoom
Freedom to choose is not always about making choices to enhance one’s longevity.
Guin leaned her head against the back of her helmet.
The circulation fans in her suit, linked with sensors on the outside of the suit, simulated Martian winds blowing across her skin and through her hair.
She felt the dry, gritty Martian air on her neck and smiled.
Memories of an early summer day in north Alabama sprang to the forefront of her thoughts.
She had tagged along with a drug enforcement task group as an advisor, her expertise on that particular day a tangential twist on her knowledge of rocket propulsion.
A lab hidden on the local Army base, assigned to explore alternative uses of popular street drugs, wanted access to unusual combinations, hoping to find the one mix of ingredients that could be used on another planet without cause or concern for breaking social rules or violating local laws.
The lab scientists concluded long ago that illicit laboratories were often the most innovative, their access to raw materials limited not by annual government funding but by the implied value of their product, value derived by addicts who often died as willing guinea pigs, a feat no military, government or commercial lab was overtly willing to take.
Guin’s mission was to ascertain the controlled explosive capabilities of the booby traps set up around labs in the backwood lairs of Appalachian moonshiner descendants, trained in ancient techniques and modern warfare to protect their territory against invaders both foreign and domestic.
She, too, wanted to find the perfect propellant.
However, she did not know why.
The company she worked for had only recently hired her and, like all new employees, put her through a trial period to test her willingness to do whatever it took to get the job done and to keep her eyes and ears shut while on joint assignment with other companies and unnamed tactical government agencies.
The HAZMAT suit she wore that day was nowhere near as sophisticated as her current suit on Mars.
Yes, it had a communications system and a rudimentary heating/cooling unit but it easily ripped on sharp objects and did not keep track of her vital signs; its external sensors added up to the detection of a few hazardous chemicals and that was it. Otherwise, she and the team relied on portable gear to deal with expected hazardous situations, which often led to mistakes in the field such as when what they thought was a harmless 55-gallon drum of wax turned out to be a temperature-based state-change toxic fume bomb.
Guin wandered across the short Martian field, kicking up dust and sending small pebbles arching in a path in front of her.
She knew she was supposed to leave this area off-limits but had forgotten why, turning off her connection to the ISSA Net to let her thoughts meander without making meaningful connections for other Nodes on this planet and elsewhere in the Inner Solar System.
However, her telescopic vision locked on to one of the pebbles she’d kicked.
Its shape was unnatural.
This far out from the colony, the chance of a mechanical part falling off a lander and bouncing out here was next to zero.
But it was not zero.
Guin picked up the donut-shaped “pebble” and turned it over.
The visual chemical signature on the surface of the rock returned her to the memory of the HAZMAT team’s discovery.
“We are not alone.”
It wasn’t just that the meth lab cookery they found was way too complicated for the average unemployed lab tech to assemble from parts acquired on the old Internet.
None of the equipment had ever existed before.
All of this found in three mobile homes pushed together, a few rusted pieces of metal siding welded over the rooftops to give the appearance of a “triple wide,” ratty pink fiberglass insulation dangling between precariously-stacked cinder blocks in the crawlspace underneath, but the insides of the mobile homes were cleanly gutted and replaced with unearthly contraptions.
Guin squeezed the Martian donut in her hand. It did not crumble like the other pieces of sandstone under her boots.
Guin had wanted to take a few samples with her from the meth lab but was removed from the building along with everyone else but a few guards.
She was driven back to her office and debriefed about what she saw.
Instructed never to say anything or write a single word about that day, Guin had nearly forgotten about it. She wondered if she should reconnect to the ISSA Net and search for clues about that day but she chose not even to inform the secure Nodes on the ISSA Net what she was thinking about.
Guin had long ago accepted that she only knew what she knew and might never know everything she wanted to learn about.
But she was going to keep filling in the gaps.
That last shipment that was delivered to the colony was designated for this area.
Had she wandered here accidentally or on purpose?
Who had determined that the shipment should be set up here?
What was in the shipment?
Did those who packed the shipment know she was in the area and, if so, did they realize she had been in the party that came upon what first looked like a den of squalor on Brindlee Mountain only to discover the greatest mystery in the second decade of the 21st century?
She was going to find out!
The Last Stamp Collector
One glimpse of her face.
One syllable from her lips.
The last stamp, issued in the 21st century, showed the face of a woman, half human, half biomechanical wunderkind.
To keep stamps interesting and attractive, the post office start issuing animated versions powered by the touch of a finger, the pressure of a finger converted to just enough electrical energy to play a few cycles of a GIF file.
He looked at her and listened.
Who was she?
She was somebody yet she was no one in particular.
She was everyone.
She represented a species in transition.
He thought she was a female form because of the socially-defined delicate feminine features and the sound of her voice.
But she could just as well have been a he as an it.
Early 21st century attempts to maintain the two gender format prevalent in the first couple million years of development of the species had slowly given way to separate subcultures, including one that preserved the two gender format and other subcultures that disregarded gender in any one solidified form.
He pressed on the stamp again and listened to her voice.
She spoke a two-syllable word.
She sang two three-syllable words.
Phonetically, the words were related to no language.
They were words or phrases indicated by pauses.
Sounds in a small range of human hearing, vibrations from a piezoelectric buzzer embedded in the stamp.
Ancient technology.
“Oh-AI,” she spoke and paused.
“Ah-EM-see,” she sang and closed her mouth.
She opened her mouth and sang, “Tchoh-kam-WEE.”
Despite the age of the stamp, the android’s face radiated beauty, her facial features glimmering and changing shape to reflect the idea of beauty across many subcultures of the 21st century.
The Last Stamp Collector smiled. He had traded the next ten marsyears of his energy credits for the stamp.
The stamp would buy him immortality because he knew a secret.
Hidden in the stamp was a code, a key, that unlocked a door countless people had died to open, revealing the formula for reversing the effects of time-related entropy.
Destroying the stamp to reveal the formula would also drastically change history, not necessarily for the betterment of the species.
Was his personal immortality worth the cost?
On the way to Mars…
For a long time, I dedicated time to managing my image, an extension of living in a community where worrying about what your neighbours thought of you was considered important (an extension of the group dynamics of social animals), which was handed to me by my parents and such.
We aren’t removed from the tribal characteristics of our ancestors — we just think we are.
There’s nothing the matter with wanting to please ourselves through the use of our “mirror neurons” with which we naturally mimic one another.
In other words, I’m telling myself it’s okay to be all the parts of me — including the flesh-and-bones member of one species — even the ones I’ve told goodbye!
With that said, I am back to watering the seeds of the future.
Planting ideas that have only 12852 sols (13205 days) to reseed the next generation.
Time to shop for more parts at Radio Shack to help reduce inventory at the local store, not knowing which one will be closed to keep Radio Shack the corporation solvent.
What shall I build next?
On the way to Mars…
treetrunkdings 