I have an idea for a book. It is a Creation Story. On the first
day the Creator looks at the void and he separates the Heavens from the Earth, and he calls the light Day and the darkness Night and he sees that it is good…
On the 7th day, however, when the Creator wakes up and looks at His Creation, right away he starts to notice the flaws: the garden—greenbelt—those two people, what do they think they’re doing down there, resting on lawn chairs?
He tears it up. He scrunches it into a ball he pitches into the hoop. Lobs at the bin. He sends a plague of something. Maybe a meteor hits it.
. . .
Now Night again, pure black. Obsidian. Patent leather. No moon, no slivery star shards, glittery as the dregs depositing their grenadines in the bowls of wine glasses left all night by the sink. The Creator prowls from room to room. He finds a torn envelope: utilities bill. Jots sth down. Maybe a list of what he has to do tomorrow.
But what is “tomorrow” now?
No moonglow safety-lights on the floor of the cabin to guide him to the nearest emergency exit. Eventually he drops off, hearing the distant song of consciousness: lung’s cooling breezes, tides of blood, waste processing. Without form and void. Tohu-bohu, he remembers from the brochure. Jumbled images of dreams. Refrigerator’s all-night truck stop. Noise leaking from the overhead bins.
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