While working in more tangible media helps me keep grounded, my main focus is my writing. Mostly, I write SF, meaning Speculative Fiction. Some might be classed as Science Fiction, but it is not always scientific. You won't find much of that writing here. I have another website, anneliesefox.com, that focuses on my writing. I also blog a little more regularly on Medium, and post short, fictional tidbits on SubStack.
On my way into work this morning, I followed an unusually fitted-out truck and trailor combo. I didn't get a photo (I was driving), but the impression it made will stay with me for a while, at least. I'm not sure what the equipment was for, but I guess it plays a roll some part of paving. Much was stained black and hard to recognize. It might also have been something to do with landscaping, but I don't think so. What fascenated me most and held my attention was the large tank mounted on the truckbed. The tank itself was black with the words "WATER WATER" in bright red across the back.
Now, I know that there are lots of kinds of water: hot water, cold water, ice water, sea water, fresh water, gray water, ground water. But never had I seen or heard of water water. I reasoned that it must be the purest, most chemically consistent form of water—absolutely neutral so that the standard adjectives, hot, cold, wet, clean, dirty, did not apply. I felt honored to have been in the presence of such a notable substance. I wondered about the source of such liquid.
Of course, I also thought about the possibility that someone had been given two sets of labels and rather than sticking one to each side of the tank, chose to slap both on the back. But I quickly dismissed that idea as too mundane.
Travel is a wonderful thing. As the miles roll by, your mind gets to roaming and telling stories about roadsigns and road warriors. The scenery is the catalyst as your mind makes up details to fill the time.
That's what happened when we passed the exit for Newfoundland on our biannual migration across Pennsylvania. Images from seeing Twelfth Night the night before and reading Martin Eden, transmuted the text of the road sign from Newfoundland to Newfoundlove. From there I imagined a place where people were sent when they diagnosed as being hopelessly in love. You see, in this fictional universe, being madly in love was found to be distracting to accomplishing productive work. So it is a condition to cure. So the town of Newfoundlove is something like a concentration camp where lovers come to have the condition of love mediated into something that is not disruptive to society.
Newfoundlove is an idea I think I'll noodle for a while. I think there is a story in there somewhere and it might be fun to find.
In 2011, a collection of poetry by current and former South Windsor residents was compiled and published. It's a lovely book, I highly recommend it. Here is the poem I submitted for the book.
I am not a Gramma,
But I am surrounded by such children.
I am not a judge,
But I have listened to your rhetoric.
I am not a soldier,
But I am decimated by default.
I am not an expert,
But I have made enough mistakes to learn.
I am not a teacher,
But I have some experience to share.
I care deeply,
So your reality
Won't shade my truth.