2012.02.05 — It was at dawn's break (A River of Stones#2-5)

It was at dawn's break
that the cat sat down to dream
of a bird for lunch.

2012.02.04 — Before it was dawn (A River of Stones#2-4)

Before it was dawn
the birds dreamt of the new sun
then sang in the day.

2012.01.26 — Bar Cat — A Short Story

Here is bar cat, a short story. I don't write many stories, and my efforts at publication are disorganized and rather pathetic. Is that the mark of a real writer? Someone who organizes his/her efforts enough to get published. What is truly pathetic is that even now, with the blog world, I don't put my stories up. Not sure why, given that a blog is anything I want it to be.

Anyway, something about the nature of an engaging dream discussion

with BH brought forward my two cat stories, neither of which I've blogged — here. I've put them both up in Scribd. The other one, the long one, is called Bilgewater in Heaven. (BH is reading it — her review, if she gives one, is pending.)

bar cat is also there, but it is an old revision. This version has been significantly changed. So, here is some of my short fiction, blogged.

bar cat

"Are you talking to me?" I ask the shelf of spirits

behind the bar's working area. I figure that since that is what the cat-man seems to be talking to I will follow along. But I shift my eyes left to better see the pair without looking looking at them. His suit is a fine cut. And old. Even half seen in a bar that is evident. But the cat on his lap? Of course it is black — but with one white foot and a nearly perfect circle of white on its forehead.

Before I can turn away my eye's curiosity wrenches control of itself from me in order to fixate on the cat's very green eyes. They are so bright and so wide open that they seem to pierce my left eye and create minor baby finger explosions in my brain. After a moment I am quite sure I hear it say, just audibly through the bar noise, in a monotone baritone "What's it to you?" That seems to break the spell, and I am able to look forward again.

I take a sip from my glass of beer, sigh with pleasure at the cool bubbles in my mouth and throat after I swallow, and wonder how I heard a cat talk. With the back of my hand I wipe away the foam that I feel caught in my moustache. Philosophically, it is an interesting question, I think. I mean the cat's question: What is it to me? Or is that, What's it to me? Or, what if it's What's it to me?

The subtle variations of meaning give me pause. I don't know how to answer. Nor how to ask the cat for clarification.

I take another sip. Or, maybe it means What is it to me? Too many questions, too few beers.

I take another sip, a little longer, a little slower. Then I turn to look at the cat.

"I," and I place big stress on that 'I,' "see you."

The cat says nothing. I think I hear it begin to purr. It slowly closes and re-opens its eyes, and with a rock steady gaze intently stares into both of my eyes, and perhaps past my brain and into my soul. I do not blink. I dare not!

The man takes a sip from his martini, eats an olive then fingers the empty plastic stick with the one hand while rubbing the cat's head between its ears with the other. The cat lifts it head in obvious pleasure with each rub of the man's fingers, and when it closes its eyes I feel I have once again been released from something nameless, wordless.

There is no glass plane separating them from us, I think.

That's what you think, I hear the cat speak without moving either its lips or jaw. He never ever gives me a martini. Hell, I'd even take a foo-foo drink. But no. By the end of the night, he's feeling no pain, and I'm left feeling left out.

I nod with a rueful smile. That I understand. I turn away from the cat-man and his cat to take a slow sip from my beer. While looking at the plethora of colourfully bottled liquors, I think, Beer may well be the gods' greatest gift to man. But just man's? I wonder.

I turn slightly to take another side-look at the cat. I see with my left eye that the cat is still watching me, continues to examine my little soul and finding it, no doubt, not up to the task. The man finishes his drink and I see him, without a breath of pause, gesture for another from the keep. And again I find that I cannot turn my head. The cat licks its lips.

I become aware that my right arm has moved, without my knowing it. Is still moving with my half full glass firmly clutched in its — my! — hand. I watch in amazement, as if in slow motion and outside my time reference, while my beer is moved by me but against my will towards the cat, and then slowly tilts. As if this moment will last forever, the cat turns its head upwards, and my golden beer flows in a graceful, gentle arc into its sharp fanged maw.

"Thanks," the man says.

I don't say anything. My hand appears to have rejoined my arm and I bring it back to where it belongs.

The cat says nothing. I hear it burp with feline delicacy and watch it lick from its whiskers a small splash of beer foam that had missed its mouth. It slowly blinks its bright green eyes, and I feel it rubbing itself against the legs of my soul without moving from the man.

And I wonder, Who of me here can hear the cat purring? and order another beer. What else is there to do?

The End

2012.01.22 — Did I Dream It? A Fushigi*

Today I was doing a more thorough clean-up of my office library space than I usually do, and in the process came across an oldish sticky with some of my scribbles hidden away under the keyboard.

Of course, now that I've found them I remember very well that dreamy *fushigi that began on Friday, November 25th, 2011.

It began as these things always do, without fanfare. Although there was something slightly odd about that Friday. My work day began with an unexpected 3rd party e.mail that had been delivered the previous evening. Its contents

required that I do a site visit relating to an unsafe situation. That kind of urgency rarely happens in my job, although it is definitely a part of it.

However, when I began to arrange to leave the office I learned that all of the pool vehicles had already been booked or were gone. That is extremely rare. But now I needed to see if any of the bookings had been cancelled or if any of the other techs would be willing to defer their field work.

My first query was with BH, who said that she had to go out. But because I know the area of the city she covers, which is adjacent to that which I cover, I asked if I could join her. She said she didn't mind and so we went out together. This brought back fond memories of when I was training her in the job as a design tech. And since I always enjoyed her company the site visit all of a sudden became far more than just routine.

All that is unusual, even rare, but not particularly interesting. But the day became interesting when, for the first time despite all our shared field trips and office exchanges in eight years, we wound up talking about dreams. What she did not know, of course, is that I have read and studied dreams quite extensively. It turns out that BH is a prolific dreamer with dreams that have powerful and suggestive imagery. She was shocked when I told her that most people do not even remember their

dreams. She had assumed, without ever asking, that everyone dreamt like her. 'No,' I told her, 'they do not.' The discussion was diverse and the trip became fun and quietly meaningful. Her sudden and sincere interest in her dreams prompted me to tell her I'd be happy to lend her one of my dream books. On the following Monday I happily shared with her Gayle Delaney's oddly titled Living Your Dreams:Using Sleep to Solve Problems and Enrich You Life.

Fushigi #1:
Later that night I listened to CBC Radio2's The Signal's podcast of

Thursday night's show (#71 Nov 24). The last song, @49:51, is Heavy Sleep, by Tasseomancy. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find the lyrics on the web. They are very interesting and the video is excellent — except for how it ends.

Fushigi #2:
A few days later, 2011.12.01 did something I rarely do, which is listen to The Signal live via the web. And to clarify, 'rarely' means less than 6 times in the year. And very early on in the show, I heard:

You Only Dream To Test Me by Matthew Maaskant.

Here are the lyrics.

long long time ago, when before there was
you were my reason, you were my because
you only dream to test me
to see how far I go
well your memories haven't left me
if that's what you want to know
I only puzzle the pieces
when I want you to take me home
It's time that I tried to meet you
It's time you were left alone
chorus
long long time ago
when before there was
you were my reason
you were my because
bodies attempting people
fall in love with a different face
they learn that there are no equals
when you're floating in outer space

A fun fushigi.

Note: the lovely photograph of the dream catcher woman belongs to SheeshJackie. Please visit her blog DeviantArt.

2012.01.03 — To Micturate or Not to Micturate: That is the fushigi*

To not an inconsiderable relief to both reader and me, this fushigi is going to be no bigger than the contents of a full bladder or two. And it begins with a quasi-metaphysical discussion on the role of concentration in the … blah, blah blah blah blahhhhh.

Restart. In the morning, after our Christmas and New Year's breaks from work, RT and were chatting. At some point I mentioned that strange things happen around my wife, especially as regards to things that people do. 'For example,' I said, 'one day, when she returned to her car in underground parking after grocery shopping, she saw a man

urinating against the wall right beside it. I think that this is an unusual experience, because while people do piss in underground parking lots, it is a bit odd that this was in the late morning, with a few feet of a large supermarket in a mall.

Then RT quietly confirms that the universe is full of the unusual by commenting that she saw that one time too. 'Someone pissing beside your car?' I asked. 'No,' she said, 'I was in a car when I saw it. But what was really disconcerting is that it was a woman. There she was, squatting down right there in a parking lot, in full view from the street. I guess, when you gotta go you gotta go.'

Curious. I haven't seen this kind of thing.

Well, you haven't seen anything yet. Much later in the day, near the end of the work day, BH dropped in for a post-holiday visit. BH has recently become fascinated with dreams and the possibility of them being meaningful. And so our conversation turned that way and she described a recent dream that she found particularly puzzling. In the dream she was with her (physically) dead mother and another woman she didn't know. At some point in the dream, the other woman squatted down and peed.

When was the last time in one day did two disparate people tell you about seeing women micturating in public?

2012.01.05 Addendum
Well, maybe peeing women is in the

air, because when I told RT l had in fact created this blog, she laughed and then asked "Did you hear about the woman peeing on a painting, an expensive one in gallery?'

'No. Are you serious?'

Later that day I went and found the story Woman Pees On, About, or Around Clyfford Still Painting.

The painting, 1957-J-No.2 has an estimated value of $30M.

2012.01.14: Addendum

Today, after getting back from shopping with a late take out lunch, my wife and I watched the last 2/3rd of the movie Wild Target. It is a very funny British comedy. Within about 10 minutes of where we came into the film, the Emily Blunt character, after nearly being assassinated in a car park feels the need to pee and proceeds to do so between two cars.

Oh! And what now makes this even more amusing, the plot begins with an art fraud con perpetrated by Blunt's character.