Saturday, September 19, 2015

Thoughts in my head get out

Periodically, the author Gabino Iglesias posts "Thirty seconds in my brain" on his FB page. (There's a sample below.) Just for once, here's about Thirty Thoughts in My Brain.

An article this month explains Why Physicists Are Saying Consciousness Is A State Of Matter, Like a Solid, A Liquid Or A Gas.
With my meager knowledge about quantum physics, the concepts raised in the article reads like a peyote trip without the cramps. My mind can't hold all the possibilities and implications. How it retrogressively links to native beliefs. Nagual avatars. Shapeshifting. Who knows what else. I imagine I might understand better if I spent a couple of days in the wilds, no cell, just the dog. Crazier yet, what if I grasped too much of it? Mind-boggling comes to mind, but doesn't cover it. To see what I mean, read about it, then try, try, try to conceptualize it. Or is it just me?

Yesterday I harvested the tomatillos out back. Over a decade ago we planted some, and they return each year on their own. Out front we have red tomatoes the squirrels help themselves to. The reds aren't native to us. The original American fruit--tomatl in Náhuatl--was yellow and smaller, less obvious to squirrels. Really, the tomatillo is superior with its camouflage, however smaller. Plus, it has a husk to protect it from insects and birds after it's fallen to the ground. Next year, I'm going to encourage their growth and maybe give up on red tomatoes. Small yellow pear tomatoes out front, tomatillos out back. Screw the squirrels.

like mine
Out back there's also a triangular area with a grape plant where the hollyhocks rule. They're seven foot tall this year from excessive spring rain that prevented the grape from fruiting. But the hollyhocks spread like humans over the planet, or REDs over the Northside. I'm reducing the hollyhocks' triangle for next year. They won't like my landscaping idea, but they'll need to make room for something edible. Will decide later what.

Almost ready for the Nieto
I landscape on some afternoons. Today, replacing concrete pavers with flagstone on one path. Maybe it's the tenth time I've redone that path. I've got umpteen other ideas for landscaping: a shade cover for the Nieto's sandbox in my wife's little garden area; a small fence there to keep him from wandering out to the street; more raised beds to prepare for more spring rains coming from climate-changed Denver; additional terracing for my wife's flower beds out front; a small greenhouse out back enclosing the goldfish pond which will feed into an aquaponics set-up year round; a chicken coop for fresh, organic eggs; waterbarrels somehow set up to bypass state regs that don't allow for them.
But I had a thought. What if I die? Like, before it's all built. What does it means about having an idea, a dream--in this case, landscaping--but you die before completing the dream? Should accept mortality and cut back on the number of dreams? Being anally OCD wouldn't make that easy. I'll probably let the wife decide.

Like in my pond
My goldfish are kick-ass, though nothing like Em Sedano's.
There's four, and they eat so much, I think of them as the 3 Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. They had names but I've forgotten them. They are all voracious eaters and the size of a good sandwich, except for one. The coolest is the black catfishy creature who's invisible in the black vinyl pond. I don't have the heart to tell them they may not go into semi-hibernation this winter, what with the greenhouse I might build around them.
I'm training them to come when I whistle, same tune I used for my kids, dog and cat.

A smile that's an experience.
Babysitting the Nieto two days a week requires my reading up on infant development. Don't wanna screw up.
I don't believe every nieto, every baby is special. They're all just different.
This one should be cloned. He's Mister Muy Feliz. Cried once this week for five minutes, assumedly from aching gums. But that's it. Kid cries only if I wait too long to change his diaper or feed him. Okay, also when he's past time for napping. But none of those last longer than a couple of minutes. I'm chingos lucky. Smiling, laughing, chuckling, awe-struck Nieto makes missing out on writing or landscaping worthwhile.
It won't last long, but hopefully, I'm around for as long as it does.
Also teaching him the same whistle-tune as for the goldfish.

Dog's cool as Nieto
My fourteen-year-old Australian cattle dog's Wolf Diet has to go. For a couple of years, it's been beef liver, chicken, pork riblets, some carrots, nuts, popcorn and apples. And one doggy treat per day.
Raw meat entails a danger of salmonella, which doesn't affect him like it does humans. But Nieto is around, twice a week, and Manchas, the ACD, wants to lick Nieto's patas, face and hands. So, to keep Nieto safe, this is transition week for Manchas. Switching to a pricier dry, natural meat-based food, $1.25/lb. versus $.90/lb. for raw.
It's not all bad for the dog. Dry duck, venison and bison--along with some veges--apparently is as delicious as blood. At least that's how the dog acted this week.

Chaffee Park, no shooting
There was a shooting one late afternoon this week in Chaffee Park, a few urbanely gentrified blocks from our house. Taking the dog for his afternoon walk, I counted ten police vehicles of all types. More than a block was taped off as a crime scene. Transplanted hipsters and REDs (real estate developers) call our neighborhood Highlands, a misnomer that referred to the area south of here. Fewer Anglos visited the park later in the week. But the Chicanos, mexicanos strolled through, laughing about that, because "It's still the Northside and we're used to it," as one vato said. Makes me almost wish….

I want a changeable sign on the front yard. Like, one week it'll read, "Real estate developer? Keep going until you reach the Utah border." Somebody would make me take it down, so, it's not a good idea.

The problem with getting stories published is getting the word to readers. Here's my first for the anthology Lost Trails: Forgotten Tales of the Weird West - Vol. 1. It has my historical fantasy tale about a mestizo and a Mixteca who get lost in the Southwest during Oñate's wanderings.
For ebook copies, go here and use coupon code HK94S to save 25% off the cover (expires 9/30/15)
For print edition, go here and use discount code TGERED9J to save 25% off the cover (expires 9/30/15)

Es todo, hoy,
except to show you:
Gabino, not me
"Thirty seconds in my brain #33 (by Gabino Iglesias):
"All these cities in my heart. Peppers. Doc Holliday. Cantinflas. Albino reptiles with lazer eyes. Old shirts. Exploding fish. A horror story about gentrification (I really need to write it). Leaves that've been in the pool a few days. Lost mail. Cracked sidewalks. Brown Recluse bites. The joke known as the 2,000 calorie diet. Crooked paintings on moldy walls. The differences between mansplaining and whitesplaining. I feel like an old lady nodding off on an ugly sofa. Why would you read something like that? Lady at work: 'Know what, Gabino? Too bad you is brown 'cause I'd love to call you white chocolate.' "


msedano said...

squirrels burn my butt badly, but worse are the raccoons. i have no fish. first the 'coons took the giant, then its mate. they had about thirty fry that the raccoons allowed to grow to bite-sized before harvesting them. then the pond became like xeno's paradox. if the 'coons eat half the fish yesterday, half the remaining fish today...except they ate them all in two nights.

by the bye, we read and found useful "the first 12 months" book of baby development. there's another for the second.

Anonymous said...

Yeah, Sedano, coons are the pinche worst. They ate my goldfish two years in a row. Now the pond's covered at night with a steel grill. Pond guys will tell you 2 things: Make pond deeper than a coon can stand. And build a rock haven where fish can hide. - RudyG