The survival of fireworks

Standard

We survived.

Rather: Hershey the dog did.  Of all her stress did not come to pass, the neighbor had it correct that the distance to the beach (two, almost three miles away.  maybe 4 km) alleviated a lot of agony and anxiety, Hershey the dog walked around and checked on people, but conversations kept going, TV was on, no one reacted, so checking in with humans, poking her nose into the face of Princess #2 and being petted by Princess #1. All was good in the world.

A long walk on the beach, ocean, thousands of people and dogs to sniff, see and taste (She licked one dog in the face, one baby had his (or her?) face cleaned.) Hershey was tired. So in all, distant fireworks did not draw undue anxiety out of her heart.

The only anxiety reaction we suffered all weekend was the Princess #2’s boyfriend. (More on him later). ¬†Hershey walked around, getting pets and a home-made version of doggy ice-cream. ¬†(Gelato, really I suppose.)

If you need a recipe on that, it is easy. a cup of peanut butter, 32 ounces of plain Greek yogurt (slightly less than 1-liter, or litre if you prefer.) tablespoon of local honey and a large banana. Blend for a minute (You may have to take a scraper to the inside of the blender to get the peanut butter to mix properly. I do. but I don’t have the best blender in the world by any stretch of the imagination and peanut butter (or peanut paste, if you prefer, I like mine chunky) then pour into small containers with a lid, freeze and then when you like, pop the top, hand the whole container to the dog and it will be a wonderful frozen treat for a few minutes.

Mind you, if you have any children wandering about and they discover this concoction? Dogs will be out of luck! This stuff is tasty! It is healthy, quick, and it is human quality food. Good for everyone and a great treat. No chemicals, no artificial this or that. ¬†Good stuff. ¬†I’ll consider that a rave, heh.

So now we have had a good weekend, but like all good — or bad– things. It comes to an end in about 2 hours. Back to the heat, misery and daily dust of life.

To idiots that shoot off large bottle rockets over the house (and terrify the chocolab who tries to be anywhere but there, top of my head is one spot that seems to be a favored place). I am tempted to go out with a blunt arrow and stand in the dark. Wait until the said idiots to ¬†the fuse to the bottle rocket and then I shoot the rocket and tip it over. ¬†No one will see the black arrow and life would get REAL exciting for a moment. or three. ¬†But as Princess #1 did say, there is no telling where it might go, including into someone’s open window of their house – or car. And a live firework bursting inside a car as it drives down the road is ALL bad. ¬†So I won’t.

Nice to dream of though.

Princess #2’s boyfriend.

Nice fellow, tries constantly to impress me, but it’s not working all the time. I do give him points for trying. ¬†I put him on BBQ duty the other night and he did a good job.

His only malfunction on this trip РHe is a desert cat.  From Oklahoma, his idea of a body of water is he can see all sides to it. The Pacific ocean is unnerving.  He is desert, we are beach and ocean oriented family.

Waves bother him. We went to lunch on a wharf, the waves hitting the pilings underneath were bad.  The cars driving over the wood of the wharf was bad, Seafood everywhere Рwell he likes shrimp, but is allergic to the food.

So he asked to go home. Princess #2 is not an overly warm-blooded person, but loves the beach, rolled her eyes some. But, he is her boyfriend and she took him on the 300 mile journey back.  She thinks the Great Barrier Reef is cold water diving and did not swim much. She hung out on the boat. But..she was only ten years old at the time. (Princess #1? Pfft.. she would swim in the ocean if there was ice in close proximity, she goes in, never comes out.)

So now, we sit on the sofa, the clock ticking down to the end of this cool morning. Slightly overcast with the marine layer in (Another unnerving thing the boyfriend experienced. I likened it to the tides of the ocean, which was a mistake. :/  another reason he headed back to the dry and heat)

Ah well.

The home journey awaits. Back to a noisy, dusty, miserable place where sirens sound hourly Рor more often Рand is generally just a stressful place to be living.  I have two plants I need to replace, I forgot to bring them in out of the heat and they have been sitting without water for the last 96 hours. Rosemary is hardy, but not sure it can tolerate that. Basil? Well, dried basil is useful. As is rosemary.

And I promise, no black arrows into bottle rockets doing the final countdown.

Advertisements

The Dark Place of Writing.

Standard

In the last 72 hours, I have found how the clouds can move over once again. Noticed it when editing a story that a good gent critiqued.  Good honest crit.

As I write this the honey colored dog, Honey, is head-butting my arm. ¬†She’s¬†not the strongest dog in the world, but she has a forklift for a head. She does pretty well on tipping me over.

Back to the here and now, I have not been writing which annoys me. Instead I’m¬†overheated¬† (that time of year anyway) during the day and stripping paint of the door that Hershey the dog from abject panic of firecrackers in the area and no humans home to calm her. ¬†Now I am on a mission to strip this door of at least six layers of paint, perhaps as much as fifty-years worth of paint. So care must be made to lock the paint in a plastic bag and reduce dust to zero.

This means no electric sanding, and hand-sanding with fluid surfactants to entrap the dust- and all done outside.

But, it also means I am not writing. Not like I need.¬†I like to have stories mapped out (if not written, I’m ahead in my head.)¬†¬†days ahead of the cycle, and I know I am late in the day. ¬†Most of the studies I read say I should post in the morning of the United States.

Blech, I don’t do that. Midnight? Yeah. Often.

Tonight at midnight? Hardly. ¬†You get a journal entry only, no fiction. ¬†I don’t have a muse to write with. The muses are in the showers cleaning off paint-crud and paint stripper.

I would paint it all again, but Mrs Dash wants it stained, and it appears to be nice wood underneath. At least one filler, it seems that someone moved the door knob from one side to the other.

And yet, I feel lost.  Is it the drug of writing?

I prowl the kitchen without reason, aimless wandering and looking to poach something. ¬†Peanut butter and chocolate? Ugh..then I sit down to the keyboard… then jump up and run outside again to scrape paint off the door. Again.

I daydream out there. Need to launch an arrow or two

The imagination calls, to watch the hero save the day?

Does the heroine save him, only to find out he is gay and married to a wonderful man?

Does the hero watch his hearts love walk away? Superman watching Lois Lane marry someone who is better for her than he ever could be?

Heh, I missed all those in the last few days. The glory of creating. Or editing? That is fear.

I fear to make it worse. From exploding phones in the hands of bad guys to a steampunk journey to a romance that is as chaotic as they come.

But as Hemingway said, first drafts are all crap. (Well, paraphrased there.)

I will dig up another chapter, edit it a little, clean up some things and post it here, but is it truly writing? ¬†It doesn’t feel like it.

Sometimes, I hear the laughter in my soul that is not there. The doubts. I am no writer, I am just… someone who thinks he is.

Who am I?

Odd question.

I am a writer, an author. I will make you cry or laugh.

I am Dash. Bradach Ard Ri.