Friday, March 05, 2010

Weekend night. Work tomorrow. Stomach hurts back hurts head hurts. Perfect time for writing.

Necessary conditions, I suppose. It's difficult for me to do even the things I enjoy doing without the nagging assurance that I have far more reasonable things to be doing.

Take that, Reason! You're next, Causality! Yeah you better run as well Grammer1!1!one

The glorious hole of being a writer is that dreaming counts as research hours. (The length of time dreaming, mind you, not the dream-length. Since dreamtime can seem like years and events may happen simultaneously or you may "remember" events while dreaming that never happened. The accountants, man, they just hate it. And never piss off your accountants, real or otherwise.)

In a food-poisoning-related fever-dream (which can count as time-and-a-half (but don't push it)) I visited a massive interactive zoo. The zoo was interactive, you see, because swaths of land were converted into vastly different climates and biomes and habitats and were all stuck up next to each other. A visitor, such as I, would essentially mount an expedition and travel about for weeks at a time observing creatures that might not be encountered in a lifetime of travel.

But it wasn't entirely safe. Most of the animals weren't life-threatening. Mostly.

The sun was setting over a soupy green lake and dense growth of giant ferns were rustling gently at the water's edge. The ground was reddish, dusty, and hard as clay. This was the Komodo Dragon area. I hadn't seen any of the massive lizards yet, but night was falling and I did not intend to take any chances hanging around.

Throughout the park were these odd little way stations, areas designed to appear as part of their particular environment. The Komodo Dragon way station was large and red. It gave to mind an uneven lump of clay thumped down and gouged at with a spoon. Not terribly stylish, but I guess it matched the overall color scheme. The important feature was the steep sides with handholds that could be climbed by a human, but presumably not a massive reptile. Night was falling as I made my way up.

In a cavern I met another group of people. I had gone for days without running into anyone else but in this territory everyone seemed to prefer the way station. It was like that in the Arctic biomes. I don't think polar bears have ever had a fear of humans, and if they had they sure didn't anymore.

The group had built a fire and invited me to join them and swap stories. I smiled, shook my head no, and continued climbing up.

At the top I ran into a woman that looked like my old biology professor. She was just beginning her climb down to join the main group. When she noticed me, she called to me, "Hi Guillermo."

I was so surprised to see her there that I just stared at her.

"Well, goodbye," she said, starting to pick her way down again. "You know, I didn't think I'd see you back here. After your brother died about a year ago."

I just shrugged my shoulders. Then she was gone. I found a small hollow and laid down my sleeping bag. It was completely night now. The sky was clear. I lay there in my hollow looking up at the stars. I felt like I could see every single one of them.