A little more nano

There is a purpose to all things in Eden, which is as God intends it. Without purpose, there is no function, and without function, there is no form, and God is nothing if not cautious; even the creation of Man has its own adherence to an overarching rule. That the rule is self-created means very little. God enjoys rules, even those that restrict God. Existence would be a dull and uninviting experience, else.

The third mate for Man, God named Eve, following a policy that seemed to have a certain poetic continuity to it: Lilith was Morning, the second mate which Man rejected -- bother, thought God. I never named her. -- was Day, and Eve was--

It was not subtle. God, always willing to admit to making mistakes when it was called for, spent very little time excusing it. Man was not capable of the kind of subtlety that God found entertaining. Avocados were subtle. Man threw avocados at giraffes, attempting to knock them down to his level. It was quite distressing, really.

God was forced to admit that the second wife -- Bother, thought God again -- might very well have been correct about Man’s reaction to divinity. Formed of Man’s ribs, Eve was very much to Man’s satisfaction. Reluctant to endure a repeat of the last disappointment, God took the precaution of putting Man to sleep during the creation process, with the result that Man awoke to find Eve full-formed and finished.

Man was delighted.

God, not so much. Welcome to Eden, God said to Eve, while Man still slumbered.

Eve opened her beautiful eyes wide, and waved her hands around her, groping. “Who said that?”

It could have been that God’s standards were higher than they should have been. Nonetheless. She’s an idiot, God thought, appalled.

Man was delighted.

Whereas the original purpose of creating a mate for Man was to incline him towards the proper performance of his function -- namely, prompting change in Eden with his imperfection -- Eden became more peaceful than ever. Man and Eve were content, insofar as they understood contentment. Eve spent much of her time on her back, contemplating the heavens. (“Blue!” was her overriding thought at any given moment in time) Man spent much of his time on top. All in all, it was a satisfactory situation for all concerned, as the animals of Eden no longer found their quiet times interrupted by the uninvited groping and chasing of God’s current hobby.

On the other hand, God was once more reduced to boredom.

Though Man had found at last a mate worthy of him, he had not quite lost his habit of running to God with every small complaint and tale of adventure. “Today, in the bushes, I was having sex with Eve, and there was this insect that crawled into my ear. I think you should get rid of potato bugs, God. They crawl into my ear.” Or: “Today, in the grass, I was having sex with Eve, and there was this snake that dropped on me. I think you should get rid of snakes, God. They fall on me.” Or: “Today, on the beach, I was having sex with Eve, and there was this water that splashed on me. I think you should get rid of water, God. It splashes me.”

God was beginning to think that the whole concept of imperfection was itself deeply flawed. The lesson of Eve’s creation was not wasted; it soon came to the point where God would, at the first piping chant of: “Today, in the--” instantly put Man to sleep and flee. Man would waken hours later, none the wiser.

Indeed, God was beginning to spend more time in the world outside of Eden, in the peaceful company of Lilith and the as-yet unnamed second mate. “It’s not really a problem,” said the latter, when God was moved to apologize for that lack. “I actually find it rather relaxing not to have a name.”

I have a name for you. I just haven’t had a chance to give it to you yet.

“I understand. Really, it’s no problem.”

Would you like it now?

The unnamed second wife paused to consider. “I don’t think so, actually.”

I’ll hold it for you until you want it.

“I’d appreciate that.”

Lilith, God noticed, was taking a rather possessive attitude towards the second wife, who -- for lack of a name -- was going by the temporary title, ‘Woman with No Name,’ which Lilith had reduced to ‘Woman.’

Don’t you mind? asked God.

“You haven’t named Man yet,” Woman pointed out, mildly.

I was going to eventually.

Very little seemed to disturb Woman. “I’m sure you will,” she said, comfortingly. “It’s difficult to find a name for things."

I was thinking about 'Bob.'

"There's a ring to that."

You don't think it's a little -- well, silly?

The Woman was tactful and changed the subject. "How is the new wife working out for him?”

I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.

Woman gently changed the subject again. God was, in fact, finding Woman very relaxing indeed.

Eden needed to be more like the outside world, God decided, moved by a rather confused wish to have what was outside be inside, and what was inside be outside. What God really wanted to do was get rid of Man and Eve. At the same time, it seemed unfair to inflict that irritating pair on Lilith and Woman, who were perfectly content with things the way they were. God broached the subject with Lilith, who had become -- if anything -- more impatient with the absent Man now that he was no longer a part of her daily life.

“No,” she interrupted, before God had even finished talking.

But then you could--

“No.”

God returned to Eden to find that Man wanted dirt to be eliminated, because it got into cracks and crevices and itched.

Really.

Enough was enough.

renting

Some time ago our apartment mailbox door cracked under the pressure of being responsible for the security of our most secret correspondence, ("New Release from AOL!") assorted bills and catalogs. There is something very intimate about a person's mail, even if it is -- like ours -- mostly haunted by the ghosts of political candidates past and eager non-profits hoping that our contribution towards environmental action groups means we'll be interested in funding the GOP and its ongoing attempt to eradicate poverty by eradicating, well, people.

As I say, the strain finally got to our mailbox door, which was not of high-end manufacturing to begin with, and certainly not psychologically prepared for the constant assaults on its virtue. The end result was a mailbox door that swung open whenever someone passed, as though inviting everybody it encountered to dive into the inner recesses of our life.

"Oh look, honey. The people in Apartment 3G get the Good Vibrations catalog! And the new fall collection is out at L.L. Bean!"

After a few weeks of having to pick up our mail off the floor and getting the odd look from neighbors (not to mention the occasional, peculiar sheep sounds they'd make when we passed) we finally got around to complaining to the building management. They responded quite quickly, and a couple of days later we were the proud owners of a new and improved mailbox.

Unfortunately, new and improved mailbox only had one key. As I am usually weighed down with groceries and gym bags and computers when I return home, and the Guy is weighed down by -- well, anyway, it was generally decided that he would be the keeper of the key. It is his household duty to check the mail every day when he returns home from work. He performs this chore quite well, all things considered.

That said, there are times when this can be of debateable benefit.

I have mentioned before my peculiar relationship with libraries, in which the word "rent" is more relevant a word than "borrow." I "rent" books from libraries, in the same way that I "rent" DVDs from the local movie rental store; I understand that libraries are functionally free for all community members, and while I am grateful that that option is open to me should I choose to take advantage of it, the occasion has not yet arisen.

Our local libraries are considerate in that at some point, they will eventually begin to call and remind you about books that are overdue, just in case your possession of them has managed to slip your memory. Once the books are returned, if there should be some outstanding charge attendent on returning books a few days, weeks -- or, possibly, a month and a half -- late, they will considerately send you a postcard with the final tally so you are prepared when next you go by the library.

If you have too many fines to fit on one postcard, they will send you two. Or three. Or however many it takes to communicate the final tally to you. I consider this good service.

"Why do you owe $48 to the library?"

The only problem with this is that anybody who gets the mail gets a free pass into your private business dealings with the library.

The Guy does not understand my relationship with the library, which he feels -- rightly or wrongly, I can't say -- is somewhat dysfunctional. "Did you even read these books?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't feel like it."

"So why didn't you return them?"

"Because I thought I might want to read them. Later."

"But you didn't."

"But I thought I might want to."

"This is how they tell you about overdue books? They send you postcards with your current bill? In a week are we going to get another bill for more money?"

"No. They're just sending those to tell me how much money I owe now. I already turned them in."

"You did? Were there more postcards?"

"They called me..."

"Oh. That was nice."

"...a few times."

"A few. So you knew they were overdue?"

"Well, of course I did."

He stared at me blankly. "Of ... of course you did?"

"Well, sure."

"And you still owe $48?"

"It adds up a little."

"How is it possible that you knew they were overdue and you now owe $48?"

"I didn't return them after the first call," I explained patiently. "I wasn't done with them yet."

"And now you're done with them."

"I turned them in last week."

"And ... did you read any of the books in between the first phone call and the time you returned them?"

"No."

"So they just sat there."

"Well, I wasn't done with them yet."

"Done doing what?"

I sighed. "I wasn't done thinking about whether or not I felt like reading them."

The Guy doesn't get this. You can see him struggling with it. His philosophy is that anything I am interested in, I should simply buy.

"We have too many books."

"It would be less expensive if you just bought them."

"But some of these books are hard to find, and that's why I go to the library."

"But you didn't read them!"

I fail to see his point.

He is, like most men, extremely inconsistent. Discovering that I was buying CDs of music I liked, he instantly suffered a violent reaction -- in the opposite direction. "You're buying CDs?" he cried. "My God. You're just a giant waste of money, aren't you?"

I'm not sure how to take that. I'm fairly sure it was not meant to be flattering.

Doghouse

The weather has turned foul and grey and rainy, which is Silicon Valley's gloomy stab at autumn and winter weather. The mornings are dark and overcast, inch begrudgingly towards blue skies and puffy white clouds during the day, only to squish any hope of enjoyment by plummeting towards night a few minutes later.

This is rather like my old days in Seattle, where seasonal differences are implied more by gallons and quarts than by actual changes in the weather. Were, I should say; seasonal drought has become fairly commonplace in the Pacific Northwest, for all its ongoing reputation as the Plumbers' Mecca. Global warming has done more than give penguins inexplicable hot flashes. (Which thought inevitably leads to the next one: it may be that the link between penguin population drops and global warming is more insidious than we realize. Hysterical menopause. Think about it.)

Seasonal depression was never my problem in Seattle, or in Rochester for that matter. The seasons were the least of my troubles; there was always mother or school or mother or bills or mother or -- you get the picture. In the balance of enormities, the malice of the elements doesn't hold a candle to the damage that one wide-eyed, well-intentioned little Japanese mother can do.

Now that I am financially secure, living in California, and perfectly happy with a loving husband, I am naturally slipping into an increasingly dark seasonal depression. It would be difficult to tell to the outside eye, I admit. The chief symptoms consist of a generalized apathy, irritability, and the desire to sleep 24 hours a day. These are not significant differences from the norm.

Mom is freshly returned from two-week visit from Japan that started badly. For me. The difficulty was an error in timing on my part; through some freak collusion of calendar mishaps and generalized inattention to conversation, I was under the impression that Mom went to Japan in the beginning of October. This resulted in a period of three weeks during which I neither talked to nor attempted to call her.

When I finally got around to picking up the phone, it was -- by chance -- the night before she was leaving for Japan.

Let's recap, shall we? I didn't call my mother for three weeks. I called the night before she left for Japan. In my mother's book of sins, this trumped my sister dying her hair yellow, which in turn trumped the willful slaughter and maiming of innocents.

"My will is in the freezer," she said. "Just in case anything happens to me, you should know. All the papers are there. The engraving for my gravestone, the life insurance, the bank accounts--"

Oh yeah. Fun conversation.

"I thought you were in Japan all this time," I said, feebly. "I saw that earthquake in the news. I thought you were out there and was all worried--"

"There will probably be aftershocks for days. Terrible aftershocks. I'm leaving tomorrow. So many people have died. It is a great tragedy. You know where my will is."

"Don't be silly. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"You should always be prepared," she said sadly. "Anything could happen to anybody, at any minute. I love you very much. If you talk to your sister, tell her I loved her, too."

I've speculated before that the daughter most distant to her at any time is the one that is closest to my mother's heart. It took the entire Pacific Ocean to worm me back into her graces this time.

If I forget to come home for Christmas, I'll probably have to emigrate to Australia.

Another Nanowrimo snippet...

Snake is beginning to find it tedious being run over by things. Semis. Cars. Even bicycles. The varieties of the experience have lost their savor. He now recognizes every type of tire made by man. He could, he reflects, be a character on a police show, identifying treads left at scenes of crimes. Oh, look. A Michelin XW4 P195/70R14, 24.9 inch diameter with a tread depth of 8.2, commonly used for domestic family cars for all-season wear and reduced road noise, and it’s even under-inflated. Notice that telltale gash across the treads; it should be easy to track that one down.

He is a crime scene. While he is busy thinking about it, the Michelin XW4 P195/70R14, 24.9 inch diameter with a tread depth of 8.2, under-inflated, gashed tire runs over him and crushes the life out of his body.

There is an irony in there, somewhere. Snake twitches a few times for dramatic effect, even though nothing is watching. He has some professional pride left. When he is finished, the car has long gone, leaving behind only the tiniest betraying tread smeared across the road in Snake’s innards.

He lies still for a moment and stares at asphalt. It is morbid lying in the freeway like this. There is hardly any traffic worth mentioning, but still.

There is a serious lack of entertainment in the desert. Snake drifts off the road, leaving behind the evidence of his most recent death, and wraps himself around a rock. He needs entertainment. He needs a distraction.

He needs a pet. He can play fetch with it. Talk with it. Bury it.

An unwary gecko flicks across his line of sight, and Snake grins. He’ll start small, and work his way up the food chain.

Pet.

* * *

The story begins at a funeral.

The old man -- a widower now -- is sitting on a pew next to his son. Or rather, a middle-aged man is sitting next to his father. It is difficult to tell who owns who in the relationship; the younger has the proprietary air, but it could be as much habit than actual intent. He has the pomposity of a successful man, sleek and satisfied and just a little worried.

More somber than worried, today. It is a funeral. His wife sits next to him, blond and blue-eyed, dressed with tasteful understatement. There is nothing of the petty or simply pretty about her. She is a woman of character and refinement. They are a picture postcard couple.

Look at the rest of the mourners now, all in black as they are expected to be, some better dressed than others. Black clothes are not a necessity amongst these people. It is something that is needed suddenly, when needed at all. Curses are thrown at empty wardrobes, and fragments of other outfits are stapled together like cheap store mannequins. Surely nobody will notice if the blacks do not match. Somebody inevitably does, but says nothing.

Only the corpse is allowed to wear color.

Pink.

It would be pink.

There is a large photograph framed by white roses and lilies by the coffin, a stock photograph of the deceased. In color and composition, it makes her utterly alien to those who knew her. The flowers lack imagination, but they are proper, as is the picture, which also lacks imagination. It, too, is proper. Everything is proper, even the widower, who is grey-haired and dignified. For all his son’s possessive lean into his body, he looks absolutely alone, which is as it should be. The mourners sneak surreptitious glances at him through the service. His back is ramrod-straight and motionless, without emotion. It has its own pathos. It soothes the other mourners, who feel keenly the appropriateness of it.

The widower does not speak during the funeral. A friend of the deceased approaches the podium, and shares a brief, innocuous memory that has its touch of poignant humor. A laugh tickles through the audience, half-embarrassed at being present, even if invited. The son rises, and says a few words. He is a skilled speaker, who does not allow the sincerity of grief to disrupt the emotional impact of his speech. There are tears among the audience. Sniffles. Someone in the back blows her nose.

A choir, carefully herded in a nearby corral, stands and makes its own throaty offering to the service, a hymn they will use for the next day’s service. It is what they have been practicing, and they are pragmatic about recycling. Their conductor claims -- without strict adherence to truth -- that it is one of the decedent’s favorite songs. The widower makes no objection. There is singing, and there is more sniffling, and then the choir reseats itself with feeling of vague apology, as though they have intruded on someone else’s rituals.

And then it is time to view the body.

The widower is motionless until his son nudges him, coaxing him to stand by standing himself. He is bewildered at first, and blocks the line that fills up behind him by refusing to comprehend where his feet should take him. Once more it is his son that rescues him, taking him gently by the elbow to steer him forward. The portrait smiles toothily at him as he passes it, two-dimensional, a stranger with his wife’s face.

The body in the casket is three-dimensional, and still an alien. There is nothing in it to trigger the memories of marriage. He pauses by it because his son pauses, and stares down at it, puzzled. She is a cipher in his wife’s clothing, although he is uncertain even of that. He has never seen the pink that she is wearing. Did she ever wear pink? He finds himself unable to recall. His suit itches. His son wavers at his side, and he can feel the boy’s -- the man’s -- expectancy weighing on him.

“Dad?” his son says, and places a gentle hand on his father’s elbow. It is meant for comfort.

The widower glances at him, worried, and is relieved to find that his son’s face, at least, is familiar.

“Do you want to say good-bye, Dad?”

Good-bye? Good-bye to what? He studies the body in the coffin dispassionately. It is an old woman, without personality, as plastic as the casket’s lacquer. His wife would never have allowed herself out of the house with that face, or with that -- what the hell is she wearing? his wife’s voice asks, appalled.

“Are you finished, Dad?”

He nods. He has started nothing, so there is nothing to finish. It does not matter. His son steers him away from the casket, for which he is grateful, and behind them, his son’s wife takes her own silent place at the coffin’s side.

They are a lonely pair in matching black suits, making the long way to the back of the church. The eyes of the waiting mourners flick off them, shying away from detection. After the silence of the memorial service, it is a relief to the audience to be able to stir, to talk -- in whispers, self-conscious of the wooden echoes.

The widower leans his head towards his son. “I don’t think that was her,” he tells the boy.

His son sighs. “Oh, Dad.”

NaNo go

I have nothing to say about today that is worth hearing. Therefore, I present you with a clip of Nanowrimo-ing.

I'm not sure why I'm punishing you like this. It's not like you've done anything to me.

Lately.