Disassembly of Reason

What went before ONE: This afternoon, I took a first step in an Adaptation of Household Systems that I've been considering for some time.

The way the household worked in the Before Time was that I ran the business office, and my writing projects, out of my desk and computer. Occasionally, this got Stoopid, because the piles of business stuff would overwhelm the piles of writing stuff, or business correspondence would come in while I was writing and I would feel constrained to stop writing and do business. And, less occasionally, bills would get lost between the printouts of Chapter 6 and 11.

More than once in my career as coauthor/office manager of the Lee-and-Miller Writing Empire, I bemoaned the fact that I didn't have a separate office where I could just leave the business stuff and only deal with it during, err, Office Hours.

It came to me a few months ago that I now have that opportunity.

I let the idea languish, because, What if Steve comes home and is (rightly) corked off because I've appropriated his office?

To which the answer is, obviously: Well, yanno, Miller? You've been gone with nary a word nor a postcard for Five Hundred and Seventy-Four Days. You should expect some changes when you get home. Fight me. Also? Dammit, Steve, I've missed you.

So, today, as I say, I took my first step in separating my writing work -- which will go into Steve's office -- and the business/pr/NOT-WRITING aspect of things. That first step was to move his Windows machine from the desk to the floor between the desk and the wall,* thus opening up valuable desktop space.

And as I was doing this, I made a discovery, and that discovery is that AlbaCon was (probably) right. The connection was (probably) better from Steve's office. Because he had an ethernet cable plugged in from the Fidium-provided booster into the Windows machine.

The above paragraph was the point of this post, by the way.

Steve also has/d a perfectly good System 76 Meerkat desktop back on his desk, so writing can go forth without any more investment in technology.
________
*I've long since put this machine to sleep (yes, it's still plugged in), and disconnected from the internets because Windows kept trying to download whichever its latest and greatest is/was, which -- the machine in hand would blow up; there's simply no way it has enough Oomph to take the new OS.

What went before TWO: So, I got more accomplished in Steve's office than I expected. I still can't figure out where to plug the speakers into the (Dell) monitor. But, arguably, having music isn't necessary to writing.

But! It's a big(gish) desk; half taken up by the computer, and the other half will be for writing ... STUFF.

This will work...

Time to get myself undusty and go to needlework.

Everybody stay safe; I'll see you tomorrow.

Wednesday. The sun has finally burned off the fog, and it's said it will be warm for the rest of the day. Windows around the house are open.

Breakfast was rice cakes, cream cheese, and red grapes. I have no idea about lunch.

WARNING:  Long ramble follows

So, I've been thinking about Quality of Life -- partly because of our recent discussion regarding pre-diabetes, partly because I'm reconfiguring Steve's office, partly because of a story I heard a while back, and partly because of an article about marketing I read a couple days ago.

Let's start with that.

The problem the article was addressing is that the marketing Old People Stuff to Old People ... was hard. Very few Old People seemed to want even useful safety devices. And this was baffling to The Industry. The article went on to point out that The Industry actually had very little concept of the group -- Old People -- that they were trying to sell these things to. If they had bothered to ask even the most basic questions, they would have, for instance, discovered that Very Few Old People think of themselves as old. Witness that I have to be continually reminded that I'm 73, not 42, the age at which you have all the answers. I talk about the Old Woman Who Lives With Me, and that's an apt metaphor -- unless I'm looking in a mirror, I am 42. My brain apparently lives according to far different calendar.

And it's not just me: The target audience for, oh, say, the cellphones with the big keypads? Most look at the device, and think, "Well, that might be useful for somebody who's old, but I have my smartphone, after all." They may download safety-feature apps, but clearly the Safety Phone is for somebody else.

The article went on to relate that even among the population of people who have and wear the buttons that you press when you fall (I don't know the proper name, I call them Panic Buttons -- and you see here a illustration of the problem) -- even among the population who had agreed that this device might be useful For Them, and wore them -- after a fall, a disturbing number did not trigger the button for as long as five minutes. Not because they were unconscious, or couldn't reach the device, but because they wanted to solve it themselves.

It is of course Legend that among the many who are prescribed, far fewer actually wear their hearing aids. My father didn't -- more trouble than they were worth, didn't cut out the background noise, too loud, not loud enough -- whatever. The article was ... optimistic that the new law that allows over-the-counter assisted hearing devices -- opening the market to innovation -- will improve the technology, make it cheaper/more affordable, and thus more people would use the devices, as they see fit, and to improve their lives according to their definitions and needs.

We did a lot with moderation. I mentioned somewhere yesterday that, when the cancer ladies insisted that I become Less Thick in order to not give a return cancer an edge, I lost 20 pounds, but I did it by just eating less. You can't tell people -- well. You can't tell ME that I can never have ice cream again, no matter how bad it is for me. But I can, really, get by with one scoop, instead of two.

The key here is, of course, self-determination: choosing or maintaining the quality of one's own life and experiences.

Steve and I talked a lot about Quality of Life as the medical mandates began to accumulate -- blessedly few in Steve's case -- there was no years-long, ever-more-desperate illness, but a slow, inevitable decline to a sudden finish. Still, the drugs, and the side effects, and the don't eat/drink/DO that. We -- I say "we" because I was part of the conversation, though Steve ultimately made his own decisions -- we researched, and talked about each new stricture, and measured it: utility against loss of joy.

Example: heart surgery to install an ICD. Short term unhappiness, followed by years of pursuing one's proper life. ICD is a Go.

The key was that one should use one's life, because that's what it's for, but that one should not come to the point where one either feared or hated one's life, nor forgot oneself.

I don't, by the way, say that we were wise; I'm only saying what we did.

. . . my, how the woman does go on.

So, the story I read backaways had to do with an -- oncology, perhaps? -- doctor who was becoming frustrated and hopeless, on the edge of giving up medicine, because they had realized that no matter what they did, what medicines they prescribed, their patients were going to die, and most of them quite soon. Finally, in desperation, instead of prescribing, they asked. "What do you want me to help you do?" And the patient they asked said, "I want to stay in my own home, I don't want to be in so much pain that I can't process, but I don't want to be so drugged up that I can't recognize my wife and kids. Can you do that for me?" And the doctor stared at him for a long minute, realizing, with a kind of rekindling of their own interest in their calling ... "Yes," they said. "I can do that for you."

And what, you ask, does this have to do with Steve's office?

I don't know and I can't ask him, if he did it for me or for him, or JIC -- but Steve left ... many ... wonderful gifts: He took hundreds of pictures of just daily scenes around the house, that come up on my cellphone as memories and reminders. The house is decorated with cover art, as well as the house itself, which was arranged to serve our necessities. And Steve's office was arranged to serve Steve's necessities. It's crowded with Stuff. Steve Stuff, because he liked to have far more things around him than I do, and even though I've had to get rid of some things so I could move without tripping, it still has a cozy, writer's cave vibe to it. It's probably still a little bit of a risky situation for the Old Woman Who Lives with Me, but for the me who lives in my head, it's a good space.

So! that went on too long. Thanks to everyone who got this far.

What've you been thinking about lately?

Today's blog post title is of course from Lewis Carroll, "Father William"

What went before ONE: Well, that wasn't what I was going to be doing when I got home.

Splinter Universe got blasted out of the water (no, I don't know Exactly How; we've been having some DoS fun over at my blog, and there may have been residual damage. Or it could've gotten targeted just for its own self.). Whatever the cause, I spent the last couple hours trying to put it back the way it was, and finally gave up on that in favor of getting the site online again, and there I may report success.

Splinter Universe is back on line, for those who may have missed it. All the Stuff is there, but it is much simpler in appearance.

Also? Yon writin' woman is Some Corked Off.

Tomorrow: Early mammogram, just in case I needed another reason to be grumpy.

Everybody stay safe; I'll check in tomorrow.

What went before TWO: So...I'm sorry; I have to share this or it will haunt me all night. AARP has shared A Tip of foods to limit if you have "prediabetes" (do not get me started on "prediabetes." Arguably we all have "prediabetes," it's kind of like having "predeath." See? You didn't have to get me started; I'm self-powered.)

Anyway, this list of things to avoid have swap outs -- you know the drill, instead of pasta, have some tasty spaghetti squash. Instead of rice, have some cauliflower. And -- here's the one that will haunt me for the length of my days --

Swap out wine for!

Vodka.

Yes, yes, I've gone and scared the cats, and on that note, I'm going to pour a glass of wine, which I have abSOfreakingLUTELY earned this afternoon.

Tuesday. Sunny and chill, but getting warmer fast.

Trash and recycling at the curb. Mammogram accomplished. Breakfast was vanilla Skyr. Drinking my second cup of tea with the last two cranberry-walnut-oatmeal cookies. You know what this means, of course?

Right. I need to bake more cookies.

. . .

Yanno? I think I have chocolate chips.

Another bad night of sleep, with the exception of the two! whole! hours! that Firefly tucked her compact little self into my stomach, and turned her purr box on High. I've gotta get me some more of that.

Firefly is currently off-duty, but that does not mean I'm unsupervised. Tali and Rook are both on guard at the right-side window, so I can feel certain They won't get in That Way.

Needlework this evening. Between now and then, I have to perform my duty to the cats, and then I believe I will address the Cookie Situation.

Y'all have enough cookies?

Today's blog post title brought to you by Paul Simon, via Harper's Bazaar (you may blame 60sGold on Sirius XM for this)  "59th Street Bridge Song."

Photo of the Right Flank Guards at work:

What went before: 42% of new ramen shops close within the year; 72% close within three years.

Good heavens; I had no idea (1) how many people want to open noodle/ramen shops or (2) what the fail rate is.

Yes, I'm researching noodle shops for the WIP.

Because! You should write what you know.

Which means: Do your research.

Edited to add:  No, I'm not looking for stats; I'm looking for what you need in the kitchen.  The stats were just ... there.

What went before: So, wrote a scene kind of like the scene I had in my head, about 1,180 words.

I have a couple of things to set up for the rest of the week, which is just chock full of fun. Book club early tomorrow afternoon -- that's fun. Mammogram at 8 am on Tuesday -- not so much fun -- and needlework tomorrow evening. They're going to start charging me rent at the library.

Wednesday and Thursday are clear, and on Friday morning, I get to drive to Bath to visit my PCP. Could be worse, I guess. At least Bath is interesting, and I can reward myself for my patience by visiting the bakery, after.

Speaking of fun, I suddenly, and almost without warning, decided that I was done with low-stakes cozies for the moment and on the advice of a friend have taken on Shards of Earth by Adrian Tchaikovsky. So far, so good. It's good to see what the Iloheen got up to in their retirement. And it's good to be reminded that we/I don't write ambitious books.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe; I'll check in again tomorrow.

***

Earlier that same Monday: So, I often listen to Alan Hunter on Classic Rewind on Sirius XM. He's doing something interesting -- send him your top ten favorite songs from the "Cassette Era" and he, or somebody, will tally them up and play the Most Favorite Top Ten of Everybody Everywhere sometime in October.

Of course, I don't remember Alan's email address, and he did allow as how this is the sort of list that changes daily, if not hourly, but it's an interesting challenge of itself.

So! I Challenge You! List your Top Ten Songs from the so-called "Cassette Era of Rock and Roll" (late 1970s-early 1990s) as of -- Right Now.

Go.

My Top Ten before I finish my first cup of tea are (in no particular order, because that would be TOO crazy):
1 Silent Running, Mike and the Mechanics
2 Don't Pay the Ferryman, Chris de Burgh
3 Werewolves of London, Warren Zevon
4 Don't Fear the Reaper, Blue Oyster Cult
5 Under Pressure, Queen/Bowie
6 Burn with Me, Modern English
7 Missionary Man, The Eurythmics
8 Be Good to Me, Tina Turner
9 Sultans of Swing, Dire Straits
10 Beast of Burden, Rolling Stones

#

Reading over a section I wrote a couple days ago. Made note: "Korval pilots do not SCURRY." Sheesh. Who writes this stuff?

So, Monday. Sunny and pleasant. Been doodling around with mini-projects. Getting my needles ready for the next project. Making a pot of rice, doing some business correspondence. Need to go downstairs and clean the cat boxes in a few. Book Club at 1.

Last night, after I quit for the day, I sat down and handwrote another two pages. I really need to sit down, seriously, with the chapter-by-chapter and make a list of What's Missing, 'cause I could write Good Scenes until the Heat Death of the Universe. Still looking at that title. It may have to do.

I keep forgetting to mention for the edification of Rookie's Fan Club -- for all his obvious charms, and they are many, Rookie has not really been very chatty. Given that he's a Maine Coon, that made him practically silent. As a kitten, his purr was so loud, it sometimes knocked him over, which was -- no, we don't laugh at our kittens. We tell them they're Very Special to have Thought of That. Now that he's a Big Cat, though, his purr is extremely soft and puffy, and while I have once or twice heard him yell in frustration, his vocalizations were mostly quiet, and directed to the other cats.

That has changed, since, I'll say, since Trooper left us. Rook has taken to meeping at me, making eye contact and Stating A Thing.  He's still much more quiet-spoken than Trooper, or even Sprite, who spoke softly, but with Great Clarity -- but he's talking, and he clearly means to communicate. So, yanno, that's exciting.

The kid's still growing.

I don't think I have anything else to report. As said, I've got a few chores to do before I head off for book club, but it's not really a very crowded looking day.

How's your Monday shaping up?

Today's blog post title from Mike and the Mechanics, "Silent Running," because how could I not?

Also, cat tax.  Tali is getting bold:

What went before: Tools down for the day. The WIP currently weighs in at +/-72,300 words. Today is one of those days where I'm starting to panic because I have too much story to fit in the space that's left. Tomorrow, I'll be despondent because I'll have too little story to fit the space that's left.

Don't mind me.

I had originally kinda sorta intended to go to Belfast tomorrow to visit the Saturday Farmer/Makers Market, but I'm feeling a tad oppressed by All The Things, so, instead of going out, I'll stay in and, er, Cope. And, after all, next Friday I get to drive to Bath, so that'll be a nice outing. Sigh.

I have been accepted as -- I dunno. An author? A vendor? An author-vendor? at the Bangor Authors' Book Fair and Literary Festival in December, which has brought on a wave of What Were You Thinking, and wondering if I ought to bow out now and let somebody else have my space, but! There are All Those Books in the Basement that have got to be gotten rid of somehow. Problem being I'd need to load in (hardcover) books, load out (hardcover) books, woman the table, take payment, make change . . . and I keep forgetting that I'm 73 and have a bad back, and no longer a mere child of 48, with a partner to share the lifting. And it's not like I'll sell more than six books, tops, because -- science fiction that's not Star Wars, and has Netflix made a movie?

So! I'll sleep on that, I guess.

Firefly's style of gathering the crew together for Happy Hour is very low key. She kind of mooches in around 5, checks to see am I busy, offers a few brush-bys and takes up a position on the supply chest or the observation table. The other two wander in over the next few minutes, check in with me and take their stations. I'm not alone, here, and I can feel their presence, but nobody's yelling.

So, anyhow, tools down. I'll get the kids Happy Hour'd, pour myself a glass of wine and come back to the desk for half-an-hour to get the bill-paying queued up.

Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe; I'll see you tomorrow.

* * *

"Will he offer me his hunger? And will he starve without me?"
Counsel for separating the artist from the art rests.

Saturday. Grey and cool. Went to bed early, slept badly, got up early. All of which seems very unfair, but here we are. I feel that I would sleep better if any of the current clowder would sleep with me, but they're still processing their own loss, and without Trooper to gather everybody up and head for the bedroom, they sort of settle near each other and dream together.

Breakfast was two eggs, scrambled with onion, cheese, chicken; toast and sour cherry jam. Dinner will be left over noodles.

Having studied on this for six months, I am offering the quasi-expert opinion that the Second Year is Worse. Not that last year was a picnic, but systems that had been in place were still working. This year, I'm seeing the creep of entropy. Systems need care, after all, and there are So. Many. tiny subroutines to tend to. It really did take two of us to run this joint. Moreso because our real lives and our creative lives were so closely braided.

I had used to think that our System for Writing, for instance, in which we talked out ideas, ramifications, tried out bits of dialog, went for long rides, saying nothing, until one of us said, "But, What IF..." -- I used to think that was pretty inefficient. Fun, but inefficient.

The present system, where I have to write everything as a Try Out, and then manually sort it through the filter of the Intended Result? Not only sucks, but takes more time. Our chaotic little subsystem was actually a dream of efficiency.

Well. Live and learn.

So, today! Today, we change out cat boxes, and do laundry, and catch up the Chapter-by-Chapter, and -- write.

The unsettled night did produce a couple of ideas which might allow me to do the December book fair without loss of life, so I'll be writing some emails today.

Regarding this ^^ -- I have a handtruck. It's swell, and I know how to use it. Steve and I used to have tables at cons, as SRM Publisher. I have packed books in and packed books out, made change and all the rest of it. This is how I know how much work it is. Summing up: I do not (NOT) need a handtruck. Thank you for your attention to this detail.

Firefly and Rook are playing tag. This is good. Firefly is harder for Rook to catch than Tali, not because Firefly is faster (objectively, Tali is probably fastest), but because Firefly cheats, vanishes into doorways and waits for Rook to speed by, then darts off in the other direction, trailing nah-nah-nahs like red balloons.

And I think that's all I've got this morning, if I want to get the rest of the to-do done.

What's everybody doing today?

This morning's blog post title brought to you by Meatloaf and Ellen Foley, "You took the words right out of mouth"