Friday, November 9, 2018

Someone Just Walked Into My House


It’s 11:00PM O’clock. I’m ballasting a couple of beers. And about to go to sleep. And the kitchen door rumbles, rattles, and groans. And opens. She enters.

“Huh? Hello. Unseen intruder/visitor,” I say from my bed with a spring up and a grab of my gun. Um,  robe. “Hello?”

“Hello!” The cheery voice of Kristin answers from where she by now must have reached the living room.

“Eep!” She’s now in my filthy house. And I am going to confront her in my filthy robe! “I, er, wasn’t expecting you”

“I emailed and texted you that I was coming today.”

“Eep!”

“I told you I was coming out.”

“Yes. I remember that part. But I didn’t know when, exactly.”

“I should have realized when you didn’t answer. Sorry”

Generally, I don’t know if people are trying to get in touch with me or not.  Since they usually aren’t. “How long are you in for?-here for?”

“Till Thursday.”

What’s today? I think it’s approximately Thursday. “Oh, OK. A week. Let’s see how bad your room looks.” Not bad, actually. I don’t have any cats anymore, so it is bereft of the expected patina of cat hair. Someone had made the bed so, unremarkably, it is still made. At least that little blond-haired girl hasn’t been sleeping in it lately.



“There you go. Talk to you when I’m human.”

And that was that. I heard her knocking about in the kitchen the next morning but didn’t get up. I found her text informing me of her ETA from the day before. My phone had been in the charger and I didn’t notice I had a text. No email, though. She just walked into my boring life.

At least I wasn’t having an orgy or anything.

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

The Curse of Writing


I started to write something tonight, as is my curse. It wrote itself in my mind at first, of course. I was lying up in bed processing the day’s events, when an inspiration intruded, as they always do.

“…And shoot out particles that make patterns and patterns that make decisions and decisions that become human whether we like them or not.”

Clever. It was not the beginning of the story. But part way in. I wonder where I was going with it? Or where it came from? You could wrap a story around that. And I had other ideas…

Gone. Yesterday. I had this notion of a thought of a clever thing to say at least in my mind, scary place that that is. And I wanted to write it down, evil person that I was. Is. Am. That’s the way it works. I get a clever idea in my mind. For a while. A minute or two. My muse sings her songs of maddening inspiration to me. And suddenly I realize, “This is good! I should write this down.”

And I scrape around for paper and pen. I’m in bed and trying to settle down for the coming evening, but the down settling and the evening coming don’t come as planned. I’ve got pads of paper around me. I pick one up. Full. Of inspirations long past. And another. This one looks promising. Full, again. Ghaw! I pick up my laptop, the last resort. I bring up a Windows word doc and start typing, each step robbing me of memory. I get my memory line down. That is the one I started singing to myself like a mantra once I realized that my muse was talking to me. I shoot out particles that make patterns… And patterns that make personalities? Which become prostitutes. What? I’ve got to remember. Remember …the one I knew would help me remember the rest. Oy. I’ve gotta write this stuff down.

And I write. And I hope to hang onto the rest. Remember. The words before and the, hopefully, words after. They were just there. A second ago. An age. While I was grappling for paper, pen, and computer. But they don’t come back.

They stay away. Inspiration is timid. Shy. Fearful. Would that I could make her my lover.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

The Death of God


If we hold up the saving flag of deism for long shall we hold back the acid flood of atheism dissolving us all forever? Maybe the Enlightenment put the sword to the divine. The Age of Reason killed the Deity. The Grand Clock Maker was done in by the Renaissance. He is no more in our lives now than a casus belli. A reason to war. But what war? Whose war? And with whom? And what is left in its wake? His wake? God is dead! Well, what monster remains?

What monster, indeed? Prepare yourself. Prepare yourself for what’s coming. What black Cthulhu rises up to take his place? What Leviathan? What uncontrolled and uncontrollable wraith rips through human hearts and minds and villages like a sword through butterfly wings? None but our own.

We killed god. Now we have no one to blame. Just us. Are we prepared for that?