My nephews were baptized today. It was a pleasant experience overall. I haven't attended church in something like eight years, not since I joined the Army (in clear violation of the "no atheists in foxholes" hypothesis proposed mainly by people who have never been in a foxhole or shared their sleeping burrow with ants and giant spiders). I've missed goofing off. My mom even scolded me. Just like old times. I was entrusted with videotaping the ritual which inadvertently provided an alibi for my sacrilicious behavior and general irreverence for the goings-on. In today's Reality-Show-Reality, operating a camera brings true absolution.

In my little brain, I was only a spectator to the proceedings. I am not religious, thus I have the option to participate in any ritual because hey, who's it going to hurt (besides the goat) or to abstain if I think pretending to praise a deity or accept a world-view may be offensive to more convinced actors.

In a heavily ritualized religion like Catholicism, I don't think it really matters in a teaching where humans beings are expected to never really understand. Okay, I says, then don't expect to ever understand why I go off where nobody tells me when to sit, stand or kneel.

But I digress.

The babies enjoyed themselves. They didn't seem to mind being prayed over or dunked in holy water like a sinful donut. And they loved the candles. Ender chewed his happily until the end of the ceremony. I'm pretty sure he said "It tastes like salvation." Not a hundred percent, but pretty sure.

I love my family. They are the funniest people I know.

On the way out my little cousin and I had a quick break-dance battle in front of one of the stained-glass windows. I was winning but then one of the priests started to exorcise me and I awoke face-down in the parking lot.

Directions to the reception scribbled on a church flyer were stuffed in my breast pocket. I brushed a few bits of asphalt from my forehead and ran to my truck.

There are a few Catholic traditions that I am always happy to partake in, no matter who they may offend. Beer on a Sunday afternoon in celebration of someone staving off hellfire is one of those.

Today marks the beginning of my new regimen of discipline and self-improvement. I woke up at 7:30 am, put on my workout clothes, and stepped outside into the cool September morning. I stared blankly at my flooded backyard, made a half-hearted attempt to squish across it to the workout room, and then gave up and went back inside to make sandwiches.

I'll work out this evening after work. Perhaps the irrigation will have soaked in by then.

I've also made this drawing of the most heroic sausage ever:

Sleeping somewhere under silvery silvery city lights while I lie here in the pretty dark. All my electronic devices are charging charging and not ready, batteries not yet ready to live their lives. A crushed hat and a box of bullets among the piles of books. The desk is gilded with loose change and glitters silver and copper. Data is stored on disks and dead trees, circles of pitted plastic that laser eyes read and rearranged cellulose stained with pigments and dyes.

Head bowed in sullen reverence to my plug-in light box. Outside somewhere is the movement of air. People move within that movement, some with, some without.

I've been wrong, not dead wrong. The rivers flow over but not through on their way to the sea. We float along on held breaths and paddle weakly.

She was drawn by an excellent artist and never realized she was two-dimensional. I only noticed because the light hit her oddly and her shadow was thin, thin. I shook out a pill from my bottle of emotions and swallowed it without water. I plant flowers in the empty bottles. Soon I will have a garden and we can watch the world grow instead of our thin shadows.

When you fall asleep, I dress up in winter clothes and sing silently into all the mirrors. I pretend you're singing with me, batting at me with the end of your scarf or pulling my woolen cap over my eyes and dashing off to the next piece of silvered glass. You mouth the words and it looks like you're singing with my voice. We dance, carefully, trying not to slip in our socks. Our steps are slow and soft, each of us in the habit of performing unaccompanied.

I sing to the you in the mirror, the you that looks like me. When I finally return to our bed, I wake up often to peek over at you so I can catch you if you're ever singing back.

I don't want to hear any complaints from people who only have one child. Joshua has been sick so I've returned to watching him for the past couple of days. Ender is smugly healthy so he is still attending his daycare. Thus, I am left with an incomplete set of twins. Ah well, they didn't match up that well anyway.

Joshua and I have been having a great time. Watching television, eating our favorite foods, taking naps, chasing the dog, listening to NPR, dancing to TV On The Radio, and practicing walking. Joshua hardly seems sick at all.

Without his partner in crime, Joshua is learning that it's a lot harder to pull off the "I'll go this way, you go that-a-way" routine they've honed on me.

One kid. Psh. Easy living.

I stand in my narrow room and contemplate sleep. Shadows clothe my naked body. The computer screen flickers and I am stop-motion. It passes.

I forget sleep and contemplate strength. The ability to run and jump and push and pull, to shape the world, to destroy creation. Strength to strike a weary drum for hours and hours.

What is the howl for?

There is art on the walls, art I did not make but I pushed pins into the plaster wall to hold it up. The art, not the wall.

The computer screen spits colors and I am sine waves. Phase shift; hiding under bedsheets. It passes. I peek out from beneath my pillow.

All wrapped up.

Phase shift; I am asleep in a chair. I am an endless document that occasionally autosaves.

Resolution comes when I put my contemplation of strength to sleep. I dream of heroes and villains.

I am not in my wildest dreams.

It's only one of the reasons, but Melville's car is the fastest overall with the slowest acceleration and very good handling. Borges's car is the fastest off the line and steers all over the place. The blue car is the All-American, or in this case the All-Ruskan and Italo Calvino's car is piloted by an alien.