The BEGINNING of the World, Pt 1.

Here is how the world began: a card trick to put the devil in his place.

See, God was throwing aces against the wall of time one day when the devil caught one and bet God he couldn't make a universe in under a week. God said "wtf" (which is where Gamers get it from), just like he'd been insulted, and totally took that bet.

So Moses is writing all this down a couple thousand years later and is like, "wow. sweet." right in the middle of divine inspiration time, and now we have the Pentatuch.

...it's pretty easy to explain.

Genreland

British Invasion is sitting in a corner booth with New Age Revival, which is just freaking weird, everybody agrees. Post-trance Hop Rock is, obviously, pretty bouncy and no longer tripping. She's sipping neon cool-aid from a martini glass at the bar--not the least bit self-concious.

Grunge and Indie got together a few years back, had an ugly baby who never stops crying: Emo. Currently she's getting old enough to realize that no body likes her, and is thinking about an office job and maybe a pink dress or two.

Andy, Kevin, and Jesse are contemplating which they'll call their muse.

The School of Rock

Jesse, Andy, and Kevin are playing with hooks in fishing class, just before recess. Three small rods sit propped against the wall, each one strung and tuned.

Morrisey, from the front of the class, flicks a fly rod and catches Jesse's ear.

"OUCH!"

"Pay attention and you'll learn something. Now what was I saying?"

"That every day is like Sunday?"

"Yes... and that all you have to do is do your best and don't worry. Ok?"

"Can we go now?" Kevin interjects.

"I don't care if we go or not." Andy offers.

"Yes you do." Morrisey snaps, and the bell rings.

Musicia

Dylan skips a stone across the crystal lake, aiming for the castle on the far side.

"Oww!" yells McCartney.

"Watch where you're chuckin' em at, O.K. Dylan?"

"Good one." says van Morrison, leaning against a giant gum tree.

"I hit Hendrix like that once. On purpose though. He fucked up one of my songs."

"You're a bit of a dick about your work, you know that?" says McCartney, coming in off the crystal, rubbing his shin.

"And you're a bit of a pussy with yours."

"You mean he got a lot of pussy with his." retorts Lennon, plucking a mandolin softly.

One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Day #2.

I'm driving into work with my dad again. The air conditioning is too cold, as usual. I wish he'd roll the window down. We talk about politics and I get animated, against my will. I wish it were possible for one passion to override another permanently, but I can always get up the gusto to discuss Marx and conservatism, I guess. We talk, we drive, we "bond."

We really do "bond," though.

---

I drive with my dad not only because of the high gas prices, and the obvious chance to "bond," but also because I can't stand the wheel anymore. The steering wheel, that is. Other wheels are O.K. Bike wheels, water wheels, and Ferris wheels are still all on my O.K. list. Training wheels I'm still back and forth on.

I even use a bike now, to get my small errands done at night after work. I've started seeing parts of the suburbs I've never seen before, and a few houses I'd like to break into. Well, not break into, but... borrow, temporarily. Timeshares, right?

---

I guess it's only temporary, but the arrangement makes me feel like I'm fifteen again. Being driven around by your father isn't the most manifying thing in world. But, as I get out of the car, I think about how I only have to wear these clothes for two more weeks, and that makes me happy. I smile, shake my dad's hand, think of her, him, whisper "I love you," and step into the sunlight. Good morning, world.

This is day two.

One-Thousand-and-One American Nights

Day #1.

It was a mountain-top road with a guardrail old enough to have witnessed the Donner party's descent into madness. (It has no remorse about remaining unhelpful.) She crashed at 9:05 p.m., the same time church bells rung three days later in Sacremento, her home town of 10 years. We met four years earlier, had been dating through school, and this was the night. Obviously, because this is how it has to be: that night was the night with the question mark attached to it. The biggest one of all.

"Will you...?"

It hasn't rained since her death. It has been almost impossible to not enjoy the summer California days. Remind me, when I die, to make it in winter, when it's easier to mourn. I go to the beach most days, surf out on the waves, and some how manage to stay awake most of the night to stop the possibility of nightmares. I am a zombie of sorts, though my taste for brains hasn't quite matured to violence.

I feel split. In the daytime, sanity reigns. Despite my lack of sleep, I maintain a calm, polished veneer, dress adequately, and attend church on Sunday's (though I'm forming a new religion of sorts.) The shift happens, like flipping a pancake, with the drowning and surfacing of the sun. (Funny thing that: it never burns out, and it breaks free from the mountains every morning without effort. Oh to have such strength... which I seem to have these days.)

Her ghost has colors, which I've seen on my bedroom wall, and her spirit has voices, which are like childhood friends and the people you meet in concert lines and on roller coaster rides. I sleep in her bedroom, climbing in through the window the with the purposely broken lock, and I listen to music only a 17 year old should. I am allowed to. I have a dead almost fiancee. I am allowed to.

I am 23.