Imaginary Hotels

In the middle of the desert is a hotel where it's always raining inside. Not real rain, of course. Simulated streets, each room its own little house in the "suburbs" section, where it's always a cloudy, overcast day, although the artificial sun does peek out now and then. There's also the "city" section, with scaled-down brownstone buildings, alleyways, and even fake traffic. That's where I usually stay. I like to walk through the rain and wonder what could have been. 

There's even a pool. Swimming in the rain is one of my favorite things, but of course, it's dangerous to do so in an actual thunderstorm. In this hotel, the flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder are impressive, but harmless. 

The hotel is called "Felis Et Canes."

I will advise you to make use of the Sunrise Room before you leave. It looks like a little park, with benches and grass and trees. The fake rain will slowly stop, and the fake clouds will slowly part, and the fake sun will come out, and it will be less of a shock when you step back out into the desert sun. 

We should go sometime. I think you'd really like it. 

hidden factories

There are buildings with no roads that lead up to them. Generally made of red brick, with high, narrow windows. We have one on the outskirts of our small town. I don't know how anyone applies to work there. I heard you get a letter, with a contract to work for 2, 3, or 5 years. 

It's not a 9 to 5 job, whatever it is. The people walk out there, go inside, and they stay. They don't seem to ever come out the whole time. After their years are up, they walk back in to town. Most of them leave town and never come back. Those who stay keep to themselves, and don't seem unhappy, but none of them ever seem to work anywhere else again. 

stowaway

Stowing away had seemed like a good idea. Hide out in the hold for a little while, let the ship sail far away from my enemies, and then sneak out at one of the many island paradises along the trade route. Now, after two weeks of the dark, the damp, and horrible seasickness, Prell was lamenting that he was slowly dying, lying there in the mildewed belly of this ship, when he could have died quickly, on his feet, fighting in the sunlight of the city streets. He liked to fight. He might even have won. 

Instead he had run, and hid, and now he was alone, with his writhing innards, his regrets, and the taste of bile on his cracked lips. 

"Perhaps it's not to late to be a man," Prell croaked, his voice sending the gathering rats scurrying away. He began to crawl over to entrance of the hold, where he would try give himself up. He doubted he had the strength to climb the ladder, but he still had the cavalry whistle his father had given him. The shrill blast had signaled many men to charge into battle, sometimes their last. 

Maybe he'd even be able to get in one more good fight. 

New Year's Resolutions. A noble tradition, in which I do not participate. I'm sure I did, once. Like blowing out birthday candles and making a wish. 

In that moment, I imagined cake. Then I wondered why you couldn't wish for more wishes. Of course you can have more wishes; everyone has wishes, but the wording is important.  The power is in the granting. 

Genies (genii? Djinn; much better, sounds like it's singular and plural) are magical creatures, bound to servitude. Sentient, certainly. Human? No, I suppose not. If you unbound them, would their wrath at being bound extend to all humans? If a wasp stung you, would you not destroy the nest? My moral code, such as it is, would compell me to free any unjustly captured person or person-like thing. If I thought it would destroy me if I did, I probably would not. 

But I might. Out of spite. Someone has to try to fix things. The reasoning around self-preservation will often drown out ideals. 

A djinn... would probably cause more problems than it solves. 

I'll rest then, and return to work tomorrow. Still, I'll remain alert. There is much to do, and every opportunity that presents itself must be examined carefully, the magical and the mundane. 

Goodnight. 

Scar tissue is an active process. The connection, once broken, demands constant work to hold together. Nutrients from other parts of the body are rerouted, lashed into a structure that acts as both scaffolding and suture. 

Stitched. 

Her eyes flickered across my scars as I gesticulated; I was telling a story (that I thought was funny) and I pretended I didn't notice. They were subtle now, faded, and I barely thought of them. Once or twice a day, maybe. 

Sometimes I get confused and I think the scars are the memories. They're a kind of memory, I suppose. 

Maybe I'm just checking on them. Scar tissue is an active process. If I don't take care of myself, they could reopen. 

So far, so good.  

Photo backdrop fabric universe

paradox podcast

I've been listening to paradoxes to help me sleep. They have not been doing that, not exactly. Many of them seem to be about understanding the problem, not about finding an answer. 

Chasing answers isn't always the answer, is what I'm gathering from the three hours of self-proclaimed "life-changing" paradoxes. 

I don't think they can take so much credit. My life was already changing.