I have nothing to write. I can’t even think of anything that happened today that would serve as a kernel for something entertaining.
I’m staring out the window. Surely something made of atoms out there will speak to me.
I wonder when the view will wear off. I’ve been here half a year or so and I still look out the window as the sun sets and think oh, isn’t that pretty. The air goes all hazy as the rotation of the earth causes the photons from the sun to travel through more particulate matter on their way to my eyes, dispersing the light just so and causing the glow that for some reason brings me pleasure.
I’ve felt a sort of powerful sadness twice in the last two days. It’s like a shove; it lasts as long as one.
Once, just now, typing ‘particulate’.
Once, yesterday morning, walking to the train station.
It’s a thrust that’s difficult to explain. ‘Powerful’ is the best description I’ve got. To do my best to help you imagine it, I’m going to say “very powerful”.
In the olden days these shoves would be the kick-off to a more interesting event, they would by my queue to make my excuses and leave, lest I have to make excuses of a different nature (“sorry I punched myself in the face while crying during your budget meeting, Tom.”)
TV show idea: God, you’re fired.
It’s about all the interesting things that go wrong with all of God’s creatures.
The setup: imagine that you’re running the universe, you create a new planet, “Earth”, and you hire someone to make all the creatures on this dumb blue marble. You trust this entity to a good job and you don’t like to micromanage, so you leave them alone for 3 or 4 billion years.
Then you stop by for a check-in.
You go wandering around the planet. You see a homeless person screaming at a tree, a dwarf falling down the gap between the train and the platform, a pretty young lady with cerebral palsy failing terribly to shuffle a deck of cards — yet she loves magic.
I think, as the proprietor of this universe, you would be well within your rights to ask of your recent hire, “what in the actual fuck?”.
Like, God, how shit are you at making things? Tell me about this Epilepsy situation — how can you get something so fucking wrong? Seriously, 1 in 26 people, shaking on the floor — are there problems at home, God?
I mean, one in a million is a glitch, one in 26 is a problem with your process. Are you making these humans in a bathtub previously used for rave-grade ecstasy?
(They still have raves, right? They still call it ecstasy, right?)
I met someone the other day allergic to honey. But you made bees, God. You made bees that made honey. You were really on to something. Then you made one person ever allergic to honey. Did you chuck a sickie and send your cousin Stan in to work in your place for one day?
So, that’s my TV show idea. God, you’re fired.