#ROW80 1ST QTR 2014 – WRITING PROMPT – TWO CATS

TWO CATS

 

Now that the A-to-Z Challenge for 2014 is over, I can honestly say that I am a much happier writer going “themeless” or at least with something a bit more complex than just “HUMOR AND HUMORISTS”, which was never the knee-slapper I thought it would be, I can return once more to my aimless nit-picking, meandering, diatribes, general nonsense and philosophical wonderings about just how many angels can dance on the head of a pin and is there anybody out there. That is NOT the fault of my awesome team and my wonderful team leader, Damyanti G of #teamDamyanti. I will be side by side with them again next year. The fault was mine in not preparing and not really thinking about how a "theme" can work to one's advantage. Lesson learned; but I am glad I did it because I always come away from these challenges a better writer and with great friends!

Writing about humor wasn't as funny as I thought it would be. Judging from the comments, my family was a whole lot funnier. Next year, I'm just going to write about them.

 

All of this is in an effort to forestall editing on my own magnum opus from NaNoWriMo 2013, Music of the Spheres, because while I think it has several wonderful ideas, it has a lot wrong with it, and I haven't the least clue of where to begin, as I am not a creative writer. I'm more about ideas, and I noticed when I was writing Music, my characters did a whole lot of standing around and pontificating. Not exactly the most exciting thing for a Sci-fi Thriller, even if it does include the Alien Undead Railroad Underground, or something approximating that.

So, stepping bravely back into the fray of blogging every day on my own whims, which is what I did when I first started “Homeless Chronicles Blah Blah Blah” I decided to write about some of the goings-on around and about Nebraska Ave., 33605, 33602, which I haven't done in a long, long time; I'm returning to my writing roots, as it were.

Imagine about twenty buses going hell-bent trying to keep a schedule, racing in or out, in a giant, tilt-a-whirl thing. Now, imagine smoking brakes, or non-functioning brakes and it's raining. It's THAT much fun!

 

Three days ago, I had to take the bus to Rose Diagnostics to get a chest x-ray for my pulmonary doctor. Not a big deal, and it's one transfer. I take the number 2 downtown to the Marion Transfer Center, where commences the Bus Ballet. For those just tuning in, the Bus Ballet is where every bus converges into a round-about at the same time, and it is a fine cacophony of brake squeals, snorts of exhaust and bus hornery playing. This is accompanied by near-misses, bus asses heaving into sight, zipping past squared-off windshields, that make them seem oh, so much closer, and just as quickly sinking out of sight, as if below the waterline. It is one of my favorite parts of riding the bus – call me an adrenaline junkie – and I always look forward to the MTC; it's always hectic and that day's was even more so, as I had to run to catch the number 14 to go up Armenia to Rose Diagnostics.

That done and quickly, I skipped back across Armenia to make my return back downtown, to take the #2 back up Nebraska Ave., 33605 to my house. I just made it and the #14 arrived on time. I sat down and was just kind of zoning. I was kind of tired, but was thinking about my last two A-to-Z blog posts. I looked towards the front of the bus and where people usually put their baby buggies, or their grocery buggies, I noticed a wire cage, about 3 feet by 3 feet, with a blanket on the bottom of it. My vision has been a bit worse than usual of late, so I really couldn't make out anything, except what I thought were two ears on the left hand side of the cage. I was on the left-hand side of the bus, in the only open seat.

The two cats were this laid-back. Their owner was so solicitous, but they hardly seemed perturbed. The tuxedo cat was a domestic short-hair, but they looked much like this. As the bus bumped over the ruts in the road, the cats' heads bobbed and swayed along with the peoples' heads.

 

At the next stop, the man who was sitting on the right side of the bus, left his seat and I moved over and up one and I could see then what was in the cage. There were two cats. One was a ginger cat, red-and-white striped and the other was a tuxedo cat. The pair were laying side-by-side and although it was warm on the bus and noisy, they seemed perfectly okay with all of the people getting on and off the bus. The bus was noisier than usual and had worse-than-normal bus shocks, as in non-existent. We may as well have been riding in a Conestoga wagon going west during the 1880s, but these two cats rode along fine, their little heads dipping and bobbing in time, with the rest of us. They were more well-behaved than some of the kids I have encountered on the bus. Their owner, a guy in his mid-30s, wearing a wife-beater, denim shorts, tattooed, with 'banger signs and chains, was standing by them, with another cart with food, kitty litter and litter box and he would occasionally stroke one of them or talk to them.

When I was homeless, one of my roommates, who was given to confabulation told me that someone had chickens on the bus, and I told her she was full of it. Maybe she wasn't. . . nah, she was, because she conflated everything else.

When we arrived at MTC, he was the first one off, cats, cage, cart and all. I stopped and asked the bus driver if that was permissible as I have a pet who needs to see the vet. Mama needs her annual check up and I have been pondering on how I am going to get her to the doctor. The bus driver said, “Well, he should have had two carriers, but yes it is allowed.” Happy day! Now of course, getting Mama to go along with the bus ride will be another story and probably not a happy one!

DRAGON'S LOYALTY AWARD

Dragon's Loyalty Award presented by M. J. Joachim

This is a great thing that has been bestowed upon me. By accident, or as collateral serendipity, or something like that. Lemme explain. Last year, I took part in a blogging challenge at the spur of the moment, rather like I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) last year, and actually "won" both, by finishing. The other challenge, for those not in the know, is the A-to-Z Challenge, where, during the month of April, you write a short post every day starting with the letter "A" and finishing up with "Z". It works out because every Sunday during the month, it is "dark" (a musician's and actor's term) wherein you don't post or write on that letter. If you finish the challenge, you get a  nifty badge that you display on your blog, which I did, much like the one I got for NaNoWriMo in 2013. You also get some street cred for finishing the damned things, because you gut out the writing blocks and all the inherent other stuff, like. . . uh, life. 

Two years ago, I wrote exactly 1637 words for NaNoWriMo and quit in total misery, because I was in the throes of undiagnosed Parkinsonism and that shit ain't fun. I've been able to take everything else thrown my way, but that was truly debilitating, both mentally and physically. Now, that I'm under treatment (some people wish I weren't as I am busy making their lives a merry Hell for past indiscretions, but I was too sick) I feel 20 or 30 years younger. I believe in the quality of persistence over time and it applies to all things, so maybe this is a good award for me. Dragons live forever. 

So, too, do challenges, and friendships. This is my second year on the A to Z Challenge and I am proud to be a member of #teamDamyanti. I did have a bit of confusion over this award, which is nothing new with me. I've done such jack-a-nape things like follow my own self on my own blog, when I was trying to answer a reader's comment and argued with myself under the pseudonym of Andi-Roo over suicide, when I performed a hurried cut-and-paste job, that was really just a cut-and-paste-paste. That floated around in the cyber sphere for several hours before I caught it and fixed it. Andi's response? "Ha ha ha! Girl! You crack me up!" Of course, there's always the time I thought I was doing good for the homeless in my area, in a post, that had a horribly juxtaposed picture: 

Admittedly, some of the stuff the ex-cons at FSJ, my old homeless shelter, used to concoct between pinochle games looked worse than this, -- scrunched-up cheetos, ramen soup noodles and anything else dumped into a single-serving size potato chip bag, add water and eat with a spoon and called "goulash -- this was NOT on purpose!

I'm legally blind and have a very weak right eye, and my left eye has dark cast that makes it hard to see and read. Sometimes I have to read things 8 or 12 times, or come back and give it a go another day. I've been legally blind for 10 years, so am used to this, but it makes for some interesting interpretations and I tend to "skim" a  lot of text. So, today, I just realized that M.J. Joachim had awarded the Dragon's Loyalty Award to the entire Team of Co-hosts and their Minions, of which I am one. Color me. . . confused?

No, I'm not. Well, okay, kinda sorta. I mean, I just show up and try to do what I'm told. It is an honor and I have to tell 7 things about myself, then award this to 15 bloggers and visit them and pass on the love. Consider it done, M.J., and thank you so much for this award!

I started playing the violin at age 11, but realized my mistake and switched to viola at age 15. I did not pick up another violin until the age of 45, when some idiot in Tampa hired me to play the violin on a gig, while I was living in Charlotte, North Carolina and had a free week. I guess all the other violinists between Charlotte and Tampa died or left town that week. I had to rent one for the gig and I rented the worst thing I could find in the hopes that I would never be hired to play another violin again. It didn't work. More idiots hired me to play the violin. I still hate the violin. The only thing worse than the violin, is playing Mozart on the violin; that right there, is Hell in a barrel. Give me Beethoven, or better yet, Shostakovich, or something with lots and lots of 16th notes, except for the slow parts; I love slow parts and can e-mote like a mo-fo and have a gorgeous sound. Or rather, I should say, Wolf has a gorgeous sound.

I own a viola that was "born" 10 years after Beethoven's death in 1827. My Florenus is of the Bolognese school of fiddle-making and was built in 1837. His name is "Wolf" and he was named by the luthier who appraised him and insured him. I've owned him since I was 19, and he's lasted longer than any of my marriages. He's a much better partner, too. At 177 years old, he's considered a young adult in the fiddle world. 

Wolf's hand-carved scroll; a trademark is the crudeness of the work; the House of Florenus is known for it. It certainly doesn't hurt the sound. His 2-piece back is "matched" up; 2 "tiger stripes" run down either side of his seam.

 

 My viola bow was "engineered" and built by an aeronautics engineer out of Germany. Many modern bows are now built by former engineers and their sons. In the old days, bow-makers, like Tourte, Vuillame and Withers observed birds and watched the shapes of their wings as they flew. The wood is pernambuco.

The 2nd Liston-Ali fight, which secured Ali's place in the history books. Ali's trainer, the late Angelo Dundee took time out to talk to this boxing fan when he was working a young fighter in Tampa, circa 1999. This sport is rich in history, heart, love and tragedy. It is Shakespeare on a 20-foot canvas rectangle.

 

I am a HUGE boxing fan. Boxing is the quintessential art of physical and mental abilities melded together. Boxing history and lore is some of the most fascinating in the world, and the very best boxers possess the minds of chess-masters and the quickness of cats. The fighters have the hearts of lions and are some of the kindest people I have ever met. Boxers do not fight out of anger, but they practice an old and gladitorial sport that has lost relevancy in the modern age. Much of the arm movement and pronation is echoed in the musical world, as is the pace of a Championship Match. I've met many of my musical colleagues at boxing matches.

My only other secret is this: my psychiatrist, who is also an internist calls me his "Google" for all things "Parkinsonism" (I explained the DaTScan process to him). When I started to exhibit overt symptoms, without knowing what I had, I started to learn, from what I could glean on the internet, my own primary care physician and from support groups on Facebook and Twitter (I only had Medicaid, which did not pay for any Neurology testing or medication, at the time). My greatest source of information is YumaBev who has had Parkinson's Disease for many years, and is a dear, wonderful friend, and such an inspiration! I have Parkinsoism, or essential tremor, or "Parkie Lite" as I am calling it, for I exhibit every one of the symptoms, yet my substantia nigra produce Levadopa, thus I am on a much different drug regimen. But, as is my wont, I faced it head-on and went back over my own family's history and believe my mother suffered from it, as well, which would speak in favor of e.t., as that is a "familial tremor" and therefore, inherited. We are now facing the idea that this may also be altered by certain protein combinations, or by gene therapy. 

That's pretty much all I have to say about me; I still get to play my fabulous Wolf without it sounding like a machine gun, although my performing days are behind me.

If you have NOT participated in the A-to-Z Challenge before, I urge you to try it! It's so much fun and you'll get to meet bloggers from all over the world. If you want to plan your challenge around a theme, please, please please, contact any one of us at #teamDamyanti, or sign up here:

A-to-Z Challenge

#ROW80 1ST QTR 2014 – POST 1 – AHEAD OF THE CURVE?

Well, for once, I may have actually gotten a jump on something. Being a violist, we are proverbially late, clueless and short of the mark. We supposedly aren’t good enough to play violin, so we switched to viola and slithered into orchestras by nefarious means. Horse feathers. Unfortunately, I can play the violin, and apparently, well enough to fool stupid people into giving me money to play it, although my preference has always been for the viola, and who wouldn’t want to play viola when you own such a viola as I do. My violins were never nearly as good as my viola. The only kinship they shared is that they were all made of wood, and there the similarities stopped. The violins I owned were mere peons; my viola is a member of the Italian aristocracy, and is eager to let everyone know at every opportunity.

At one point, when I was hired for my first violin “gig” I didn’t own a violin, and rented one. A student model, as I recall with metal strings, tuners and tape on the fingerboard for the people unfortunate enough to have been trained in the “Suzuki” method, wherein everything is by rote, and you can have an ear made of the finest tin; intonation not required. Nor is interpretation, passion, or finding your own “voice”. Thus, we have armies of automatons on the violin, playing the same way, same out-of-tuneness, same vibrato, and just. . . gah!

My god, I can almost smell the pancake makeup from here. This must be "Elvis: The Staid Years"

I played that bastard loud and proud for some kind of Elvis tour, wherein all of Elvis’ old sidemen were present and Elvis was up on a screen. I played 1^st violin and sat between the Concertmaster, an old colleague from Michigan and an old friend from the Concertgebouw who had a non-cordial hate for one another. I guess I was the de-militarized zone of the first violin section. All of the old muscle memory in place and it was as if reading in soprano clef had never left. Every time the two antagonists would seem to want to have a go at bows-at-20-paces during “Aint’ Nothin’ But a Hound Dog,” I took that as my cue to fling my hair around and emote wildly. There was a cameraman recording this whole hallucinatory event; the three of us were on-air more than Eblis was. Egad!

And then there were the “admirer-impersonators”, to be found at every stop we made; from whole families decked out in silver and gold lamé jumpsuits, with flared legs, Beatle boots, or “cockroach killer” shoes and pompadours, teased, combed and sprayed with what looked like flat black paint for outdoor metal furniture, alá Rustoleum, complete with black, eyebrow-pencil mutton-chop sideburns. They all seemed to think we were holding auditions, as we were regaled with everything from impressions of “Thaank yuu, vury mushhh…” to warbling out-of-tune a capella renditions of “Jailhouse Rock”. My personal favorite was the guy from Brazil, who came trotting up to me as I was getting into my car and leaving Sunrise, Florida for Jacksonville, for our next sold-out performance.

I guess everybody's gotta have a hobby. Most of the impersonators who traipsed after us were horrid, and they usually had embarrassed families in tow. Still, they were harmless enough, and picturesque to say the least!

He asked me if I was one of the “dancers”, which was a good one, as there were no dancers,  either in the 40-foot high hologram of Elvis or on stage. I turned around to get a look at this cat, as he had caught me putting my crappy rental violin in the back seat of my Cougar, and I almost started laughing. First off, he was my height, 5' 4" and I was wearing flats. He had the whole Eblis thing going on, but he was also wearing sunglasses at 11 pm and he had on a tiny red cape, like some junior Count Dracula, or Superman. His flared legs on his silver lamé jumpsuit were too short and I could see his white socks, peeking out over the tops of his Beatle boots. The suit was also too small for him and he had this little man-cameltoe-nutsack thing going on, although I had to sneak surreptitious glances, as I didn't want this guy to think I was interested. Well, I was, but not in THAT way. 

As best I could and keeping a straight face, I pointed to a bus in the very back of the parking lot, that had brought in a batch of Q-tipped old bats from the Old Folks' Home and said that was where the “dancers” were. Off he went. This was one of my more memorable tours, playing fiddle, or  violin, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

When word got out that I had a passing acquaintance with the violin, although when I picked up and played the rental fiddle, it had been over 30 years since I had played one, more idiots decided I should earn some money playing the violin. If there were no viola spots available, as in the case of “West Side Story,” or “Cats,” I played violin and ran gibbering and capering off into the night with my ill-earned lucre, until the next gig came along.

So, what does all this blathering have to do with the first post of #ROW80, 2014. Well, for one thing, I have a, uh, “finished” manuscript of a novel that I pretty much created out of whole cloth as I went along during NaMoWriMo 2013, which I “won” by finishing, prior to the deadline of November 30^th, 2013, with some 50,967 words. I’m used to writing rhetorical things and posing arguments and swiftly cutting people off at the knees when they are being 50 Shades of Ass in written form. This was a whole different arena and it was an enlightening one, as well as a confusing one. I shall not trot out the cliché of “humbling” because I didn’t feel that. What I mostly felt was a whole lot of confusion and at one point, panic, when I thought I had cut-and-pasted over some huge passage that was working, or seemed to at the time.

I had backups stashed everywhere and I had a format laid out that I immediately abandoned, because I naïvely thought that I would adhere to a strict schedule, as I did when I blogged every day. I quickly found that this is an entirely different process, at least for me. I know that different things work for different people and cannot even begin to guess at how people like Stephen King or Colin Falconer have managed the prodigious output in the span of their lifetimes. Admittedly, I came late to the rodeo, so maybe this will all become clearer later on. I have gone back and looked at just the stuff I’ve written for my various blogs, and for the span of time I have devoted to writing, it is in the sort-of small to medium range; nowhere near to prodigious.

I had fun with the computer systems at IBM, but the people at Verizon were much more random than the computers. Go figure. I can make Boolean logic look emo.

The old adage applies, perseverance over time. Practice, practice, practice, whether it’s the viola, or my other career; IT. I held a 4.0 GPA in Mathematics which was astonishing because I totally sucked at it in high school. As some of you may know, my 2^nd husband, a violist, was very disappointed when the Zither Fairy did not appear after we were wed, although we met on a gig playing violas. I'm not sure which of us was the stupider one. Probably me, because I married the schnook. I won the gig with the Moody Blues and he did not, so he pouted. Jesus; men. So, I went back to school and picked a subject I thought radically different than music; computer science. Seeing as how I was so *meh* in math in high school, I really dug in, because studying higher maths become intense: calculus and trigonometry, differentials, matrices, and complex numbers were worked and re-worked. I used the same discipline that I used when I was in Music School. I don’t believe that I have a natural ability with numbers, but I studied 8 hours a day every day and I knew I was smart enough to “get it” if I applied myself.

Music is something I was born to do, and come hell or high water, I will again. Practicing, tremor-free, is a joy, but slow going. I expected this, but I feel better than I have felt in decades. Computers I will always have and with 4 in the house now – JC and Alex bought me a Quadcore to run alongside my Dualcore – I can build virtual machines and do more consulting work. When I worked from home for 3 years prior to losing my 2^nd house because the Rent to Buy people went bankrupt and the banks would not turn the house over to me, I was ill and tired. I had to leave my job. But recently, my old boss has gotten wind of the fact that just maybe, I might be available to do some special projects for him. That would be awesome.

For another thing, I wrote this post a DAY early, which is also been unlike me of late; I need to get my groove back, so, my goals this round are to go back to what I did when I first joined #ROW80; I plan on posting something on this blog, every day, even if it is something I am using as a writing prompt, something humorous, or something that has outraged me and I am just venting. I am going to make sure that I join in on #IWSG, the first Wednesday of every month. I am also going to continue on my editing of the “hot mess” that is “Music of the Spheres,” with Commander Skip Bombardier and the “Alien Undead Underground Railroad,” or the “Undead Alien Underground Railroad,” which has a much better ring to it, I think. Will the Commander, along with the Captains of the Air Force, Glenn Miller and Glenn Wallace be able to save the day with the Lost Boys and Gurlz of SoulZ and the confused, meandering, albeit good-hearted aid of some very clueless violists who thought they were going to Comic-Con, but ended up at the Annual NSA Spy vs Spy convention and got more than they bargained for? We shall see.

In the meantime, I have a lot of heavy lifting to do. Write what you know and research the hell out of the rest. Better yet, run it through some folks who may have actually done whatever it is you’re asking your readers to buy into. I’ll give it a shot!

#ROW80 4TH QTR SUNDAY CHECK IN – IS THAT ALL THERE IS?

Appropriately enough, I would take the title from the late, great Peggy Lee. A haunting song to me even as a 13-year old, named “Is That All There Is?” wherein she sings about “breaking out the booze and having a ball,” with a minor undercurrent in the trumpets in a far away background, almost a melancholy waltz and something Klezmer and Eastern European folk music and Russian music in general, does so well. It is an existential song, verging on nihilism, which I understood even at age 13 and took to heart for far too many years, but I'm still here, maybe minus a few parts and a couple of senses, those of the touch, taste, smell, hear, and see variety, and some would say the common sort, but I'm a clever fox, for all that, and still present, when others are not.

I have indeed finished my #NaNoWriMo challenge and guess what? It's a hot mess! Wow, who'd a thunk it? As my late mother would have said. She would be bursting her buttons right now, just for the finish, clocking in at 50,971 words in thirty days. It is a mad scramble of aliens, ghosts, gamers, musicians, scientist, fly-boys and spies. Shit I know about. The rest of it is made up. 

Some names changed along the way. Carl became Bryan at one point and Masha turned into Freebird. People died, but I resisted Dave Berry's admonition to just slap on the helpful advice of “then they all got run over by a truck” as an ending. There were no trucks, but Nic Cage also made an appearance with an important message from the Mother Ship, in his inimitable Nic Cage style; he folded up into one of those theater pop-corn boxes, after delivering his message of warning and made the protagonist prop him up in his seat, so he could watch “Wicker Man”. His great grand-uncle, Maestro Anton, will be proud.

So, as you can see, lots of editing to be done just to make something resembling coherence out of the whole mashup.

There it is, in glorious 8-bit pixels. Why? Because we're serious geeks. We all love NyanCat. 

In the meantime, hauling all of the crap out of the closet for another Christmas extravaganza, Dollar Store style! I'll be sure and take pictures. For now, I can't just sit back and rest on my laurels. Until tomorrow. There is editing to be done, viola playing to catch up on, and my 58th birthday is in two weeks. My health is excellent. I've reached the point where I can walk two miles and not be affected by my COPD until the last 1/4 mile or so and even then it's so slight, I don't notice it. Well, I do, but it's a clinical notice, as in "check that; it's better than last week". I've gained 40 pounds since my low of 79 lbs in 2010; a right Rubenesque 112 pounds, I am. I just need to get my teeth fixed from all of the heart-and-lung medication

So, the risk of sounding persistent, my ex-step-grandaughter's birthday is the same day as mine. She will be eight years old. The baby, I was not invited to be present at the birth for – a friend (woman) had treated me to a Birthday dinner, earlier that evening, knowing that Bill was shunning me – I was in the house when his daughter called, and he just. . . left. Lest he think I were drunk, or impaired, I was not; I remember EVERYTHING, as does he. No one in Bill Nunnally's family, nor in John Holley's, nor in the Blanton family ever questioned my gradual disappearance at least to my knowledge, so God knows what lies he was feeding them. I had been a presence in their lives for 10 years, and had even driven down from Charlotte, NC a day early to watch his youngest daughter in a Swim Meet, when I was still honoring viola playing commitments in Tampa, Fl. I was happy to do so. I loved that girl as if she were my own. I was being systematically shut out by my ex-husband and sequestered, which is what spousal abusers do. Dr. Shay West reminded me of that, yesterday in relating her horror story. She went through her own holocaust and was relating her anger. In answering and thinking back, I got mad all over again. Figures. At least I'm okay with the rest of the world. 

My questions remain. What did he tell them? That I was drunk and running around? That I was sick and had some communicable disease? So many questions, but here is the most important one. As much as I've trashed that man in this blog, and he knows that I have a tendency to “remember” birthdays, as I “remembered” his, and my mother's, and I will "remember" mine and the baby I never got to know, why has not a single member of his family or associates, stepped forward to defend him? Hmmm? Think about it.

Sunday check in for #ROW80 and please God, let me remember the wonderful Alex J. Cavanaugh's #IWSG, this Wednesday, the first Wednesday of every month. 

There is a lot of nap-taking as you can see, by JC's feet. I'm the restless sleeper.

Here is a new picture of Mama, our kitty rescue, that JC adopted. She just comes in and makes herself at home. Last night, while gaming with my Clan, during a God Wars run, she laid on my mouse hand and things got spastic for a while. At least I didn't die and re-spawn having lost all of my expensive armor and weaponry in Fally square. A miracle. She's another hot mess, but a dear one.