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JWR 3.10 - A Day in the Life of God

 

God’s eyes open as the first rays of light lay on the ground like fool’s gold.  He swings His feet to the floor and stands, stretches, yawns and scratches for a moment or a minute before shuffling to the bathroom.  After flushing the toilet, He stops to look in the mirror, runs His palm over His beard, contemplates shaving, scratches His head, thinks He needs a haircut.  In a moment He sees himself with various hairstyles: the Caesar look, most recently donned by George Clooney.  God thinks it makes His hairline look as if it is receding.  His hair now looks like that alcoholic Backstreet Boy, the one with the retarded beard.  God don’t like ugly.  He decides to leave His hair as it is, in much the same way Sally Jesse Raphael doesn’t want to lose her trademark red framed glasses, as if He would not be recognized.

 

The phone rings.  “666” reads the caller ID.  Satan.  Again.  God’s hand hovers over the receiver for a moment, but He finally decides not to pick it up.  Satan never has anything to say anymore.  Ever since he moved out of Heaven, was kicked out, whatever, and created Hell, he’s been boring to God.  God walks to the kitchen and decides to let His voice mail take the message.  The message will be: “Hey God, it’s me...Satan.  Just calling to say ‘hi.’  Why don’t You give me a call when You get the chance.  I’ve been thinking about moving back again.  Just wondering what You think about that.  This place isn’t so great.  Yeah, I’m in charge and everything, but no one here...I don’t know.  Just give me a ring.  I’ll be around all day.  Bye-bye.”

 

God’s toast pops from the toaster and He decides to spread only butter on the three pieces.  He stands at His window and looks out as crumbs fall to the plate below His lips.  He is not seeing anything in particular.  Although there is nothing to physically see, He can see whatever He wishes.  He wishes to see nothing.

 

God tosses the plate away and yawns again.  He goes to His living room, plops Himself in His reclining chair, winces at the sound of a spring popping.  He hates the idea of having to get a new chair.

 

He digs the remote control out of the chair and marvels at how resilient the remote is, to still work after so much abuse, like old Job.

 

Six billion channels.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing.

 

God switches feeds to the animal world.  He thinks this is what He meant to create.  Simplicity.  A seemingly infinite number of animals all living together.  Perfect symmetry, the balance between life and death.  One animal kills another, not out of vengeance or hate or pride or because they’re crazy, but because they are hungry.  And the animal who died, his family does not plot revenge, they go on, have more babies.  They live on the planet, with the planet.  If they forge dens or nests, they use whatever they find, they “make” nothing, they can make nothing.  “My idea,” God muses, a few crumbs caught in His beard.  A snake strikes at a mouse.  A hawk swoops down and grabs a snake in her powerful talons.  A lion takes down a zebra.  A pack of hyenas eats the leftovers later.  A Venus fly trap eats a fly.

 

Man eats small pieces of pig and bits of thousands of cows: he calls is a bacon cheeseburger.  Man creates large structures for a small family unit, while other men live on the manmade streets and between manmade buildings that are empty at night.  For some reason man leaves his home for half the day and the majority of them do nothing.  Some create the structures they live in.  Most sit at a desk and use their fingertips all day long, but do nothing with them.

 

God flips back to the man channels.  Suddenly, He stops.  On the screen, there is a close up of a face, eyes closed and face relaxed.  God knows this man is meditating, an exercise to get closer to Him when all is said and done.  God watches and listens to the thoughts, supposedly relaxed and unfiltered, but God recognizes as highly deliberate and wholly asinine.  He contemplates sending a message.  Anything.  “Kill.”  “Love.”  “Become a missionary.”  In the end, God changes channels.

 

In the shower, God washes and rinses, determining what to do this day.  Recently, He understands that the vast majority of His acts have been to the natural world and only affecting man.  He’s been leaving his thinking monkeys to their own devices.  The randomness and “unpredictability” makes Him anxious, and He likes it.  Out of the blue someone gets shot.  Or someone gets kissed.  God once watched every moment of a man’s final act.  He woke up, got in his car, and drove for three hours with no clue where he wanted to go.  Finally, in a town strange to him, he stopped at a fast food restaurant and ate his bacon cheeseburger, fries and Coke while standing at the window staring at his car, others in the restaurant becoming increasingly nervous, until the man got back in his car and drove more before driving directly into a brick office building with the gas pedal firmly planted against the floorboard in a city he had never been to.  God let the man into Heaven; the man had no idea that he was going to do that, or even that he drove himself into a wall.

 

In front of His mirror again, God grabs scissors and trims His beard and cuts His hair.  He works at this until He can use a straight razor to shave His head and face bald.  Small pieces of toilet paper dot his face where the skin is not perfect and He has cut Himself.  But the wounds are healing already, clotting.

 

God contemplates a hurricane to hit Louisiana or a tidal wave striking Japan or an earthquake rocking all of Europe or a volcano burying Mexico.  Why, though, because they will never learn.  Showing by example can work but never for long.  The humans have more than one flaw, but the short memory really hurts their cause.  God decides to do nothing, again.  There may be a natural disaster today, He made it to be unpredictable and all the scientific equipment or feelings in their bones may not warn them if the axis of the world shifts, if the table is bumped, if Atlas shrugs.

 

God walks outside, without clothing, into nothingness.  He looks up, looks down, looks forward and sees the same thing.  He does not need the TV to see lives or hear thoughts.  The humans have Him badly trained by example.  He supposes in another twenty of their years, He’ll be watching them on streaming video, connected by RoadRunner, the TV gone all together.  RoadRunner is Fast.

 

For all their flaws, the humans know a little something about innovation and development.  Some of their feats have been just short of Godlike.  Diverting rivers to create a damn, diverting the river back and then harnessing that power to create energy for their toys.  The only difference is that kind of thing takes them a few years while He could do it in a blink.  Flying machines and outer space contraptions.  Underwater devices.  Medical tools to open up, remove/replace/modify, and close up.  God’s favorite is the box.  The perfect invention, simple, beautiful, wholly useful for their purposes, their infinite purposes.  God smiles.

 

He decides to call Satan back and then He will drop frogs for a change.

 

“I know it’s the last day on earth

We’ll be together while the planet dies

I know it’s the last day on earth

We’ll never say goodbye”

-Marilyn Manson

 

John

 

P.S.: No blasphemy intended.

 

Copyright © 2002 John Lemut