At the Edge of Things

“I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

“And the moral of the story is that you don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.” ~ John Green

“Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.” ~ Saul Bellow

“Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.” ~ Neil Gaiman

Were it not for the cat I would have my second cup of coffee by now. She tends to control things, to a large extent, at times. It’s okay, I suppose, but I want that coffee, and I can invest no more than a few minutes before I boost the cat and go to get it. It will be worth it for both of us, right? Likely so, for I feel to be on the edge of things, and that requires a course-change before work. I hesitate to claim that I have learned how to write around the cat. This skill has been . . . well, let’s just say that a fair amount of grumbles and huffs have been involved, to find the determination, to adapt, to bear in mind that the lovely beast on my lap has daggers on her feet. This is how it would go – she’s be like all “Dude, sorry about the drop of blood. I just woke up and found you moving, dude. You moved; it’s that simple. I know it hurt – it is supposed to hurt. Other wise how would you comply and learn?”. Sigh. I’m gonna hafta sorta boost her right after this sentence, without resorting to a run-on sentence. Wish me luck. Here goes . . .

Maybe a half hour ago I was reading some tips about writing a novel. My attitude has been like “I don’t need no stinkin’ tips!”, but it can’t hurt. Perhaps by necessity I will read some more tips each day for a while. I mean, I wrote a novel years ago. I was about halfway through when I had the NDE. So what had been magical became even more so. It was unavoidable. NDEs are high magic, but you wouldn’t want to go through the experience if you don’t have to. Trust me on that. That novel, Paradise Mind Games, was actually pretty good. Back in the 90s it likely woulda been classified as urban fantasy. When I began writing – longhand, no less – it was definitely going to be psychedelic, and elements of that remained throughout the finished first draft. These days it likely would be classified as paranormal fiction. What is it with these genre labels anyway? Whatever. Two of my all-time favorite novels are strongly driven by elements of the paranormal: American Gods, by Neil Gaiman, and The Onion Girl, by Charles de Lint. I consider both to be masterworks. The protagonists are charming and deep characters. Both authors waver into truly lyrical prose, then back. But I have no time for analysis at this point. It’s a workday and grooming is needed, so I don’t want to go to work looking like Snuffy Smith. You younger readers will just have to google it if Snuffy Smith is not on your youthful radar. If you can’t be bother with Google then bear in mind that Snuffy has something essential in common with Foghorn Leghorn. If you don’t know who he is you are on your own. That said, I must be off. The second cup of coffee is about a swallow away from being gone. The cat has retired to her bed. And I will go out to take a gander at the sunrise. What is it with sunrise coming before 6 AM? Can’t something be done about that? Yeh, I prefer the long, drawn out dark mornings of winter.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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