A friend of mine is traveling to England tonight.
She’s been there before I think, but she’s still feeling strange about it. Besides being apprehensive about flying, she’s also Native American, with literally no ancestral ties to this land at all. I suppose that doesn’t sound like much but for her, very much in touch with her own Navajo culture, it’s about as far from home as she could be.
She will be stopping in Salisbury, by the way. She had asked where the spiritual heart of England was and after some thought, I came to the conclusion that the Salisbury Plain was probably the best place. She had tried to get permission to play the Salisbury Cathedral pipe organ but that fell through; she’ll still be going to the cathedral and will hopefully get me a couple of photos of the place I’ve been curious about seeing. She knows about my life as Count William and she’s kind of amused that I’ve got a past life connection to the place.
She’ll also be going to Old Sarum, where eight centuries ago, I had my keep. Now, only a few Norman stones and a great deal of Iron-Age earthworks remain. She had wanted to visit some other sites on the Salisbury Plain but it would be too difficult without a car, she said.
She’ll still be playing some classic organs in London and Bristol, I think. I’ve put in a request to hear something by Vaughan Williams and she said that was totally doable.
Today my fiance and I got to talking about baseball games that went extra long, while trying to guess what the final outcome of the Cubs vs. Dodgers game would be (at this point, it’s 5-0 in favor of the Cubs).
I told him about a AA team in Myrtle Beach that went 18 innings once, so he pulled up a list of the longest MLB games and he began reading them aloud.
Then he got to one on 11 September 1974, Cardinals vs. Mets, that went 25 innings.
Instantly it clicked for me.
“Was the score 4 to 3?” I asked.
I remember that game.
Keep in mind, in this life I don’t follow sports very closely (most of what I know is second-hand from my fiance) and I don’t know much at all about sports history. But as soon as he read out the date and the teams and the number of innings, I instantly knew what the score was.
I think I creeped him out a little.
I got my ballot in the mail today (Oregon votes exclusively by mail).
Hell yes, I’m voting.
Hell no, not for Trump.
And with major disagreements with Gary Johnson on fiscal and social policy, and with Jill Stein now joining Team Infowars, I guess I’ve only got one option left on the Oregon ballot.
I’m voting for you, Hillary. Very, very reluctantly. Don’t fuck this up.
Just wanted to say that my kitty is still with us for now. He’s gotten much stronger, is eating a lot more, and is getting almost too feisty to give his medication.
But he’s still not retaining fluids. He’s peeing uncontrollably. His kidneys are probably shot. Which means we can keep giving him fluids to keep him comfortable, but eventually even this won’t be enough to keep him going.
While he’s still in relatively good spirits, though, I’ll keep him going. I am hoping to finish my next novel, which I’ve dedicated to him, in time for it to not have to be “in memory of.”
Today it was confirmed: my cat is probably terminal. His time can be measured in days or weeks at this point. Between severe, chronic dehydration, extreme weakness, and a pronounced heart murmur, his current life will soon come to an end.
For the short term, he seems to be better than he was 24 hours ago. He’s a little less weak, he’s eating again (albeit still not eating as much as he should), and he’s responding well to the subcutaneous fluids he’s been given. I can at least have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done as much as I could for him and that he’s not suffering tremendously; he’s just very, very tired and slowly fading away.
I’m feeling absolutely gutted. Keep in mind that to me, he isn’t just a pet. I’m slowly losing the only childhood friend I’m still in touch with. I’ve had him since I was 13, and he’s one of only two cats I’ve had since age 4. Soon, one more shred of my innocence will be gone forever.
He was with me when I was sick, anxious, and depressed in my teen years and into adulthood. When I was a pagan, he was my familiar. When I experimented with psychedelics, he was there too, and I saw a certain regal wisdom about him as he puzzled at this crazy human rolling on the bed giggling like an idiot. When I wrote the best novel of my current life, he was right there within reach the whole time. I’ve even dedicated my next book to him.
It’s going to be a cold winter without him snuggled up against me purring at night.
I may go very silent for a long time.
I’ve mentioned it in posts before, I think. The long hours spent in a trench were mostly just going about daily routines, trying to keep one’s mind occupied.
This film gives a pretty good impression of it:
About the only major details (besides the trench being a bit too clean, forgivable because it would take many weeks of weathering to get it looking grungy and wet enough) is the fact that there’s only one actor in this. The trenches were much more crowded than that; we had the better part of an enormous modern army strung that front! It was close quarters for sure. Also, you could be guaranteed at least a small barrage most days even in a quiet sector (it certainly seemed that way at Houplines, anyhow). But yes, a surprising amount of time was spent waiting with frazzled nerves for something to happen.
As a kook who thinks she was Philip K. Dick in a past life, I will not endorse a presidential candidate here on this particular blog (though I have more or less made my decision). I believe that no matter who I endorse it will reflect unfavorably on that candidate.
However, my regular readers can probably discern who I will not be voting for.
As for the rest of you, vote early if you can and make sure that unsanctioned “poll watchers” don’t try to bully you out of exercising your right!