Today the Last Official Survivor Of Both Hiroshima And Nagasaki died. He was Official per the Japanese government, who keeps track of such things. The gentleman, last name of Yamaguchi, was 93. He'd witnessed 80,000 people die in atomic fire, went to his home town of Nagasaki to recover, and three days later got an encore. And lived for another fifty years after that. (Can you imagine if Twitter had existed back then? @yamaguchi Yo tweeps I'm back from H-shima, happy to say that I'm doing fine wait is that a plane OH WTF PEOPLE YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING M)
What I've noticed over the past few days: the constant mess. Toys and clothes and dishes strewn about the house. I pick 'em up, they reappear, sometimes in the same place, sometimes in the sock drawer. The house has shelves and cabinets; we have chests o' drawers. They are irrelevant. Our four-walled Universe spins toward Chaos no matter how much shit we wash and rack and fluff and fold. This didn't bother me when I went to a job; the mess was almost a blessing after hours of databases and meetings. The workspace shall never know Ragnarok. The home? Might as well keep that Wagner playlist going.
Tonight I fucked around on Twitter for a few hours and accomplished little; the mess won today. I started this post, accidentally hit the wrong key and deleted a paragraph, started it over. On the TV, Sandra Bullock won the People's Choice Award for Favorite Actress. The Clippers beat the Lakers. You can still board a plane with a bomb in your tighty-whities. The Center isn't holding, there's smoke coming out from Asgard's windows. Still, a guy walks away from Hiroshima AND Nagasaki and lives to 93. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
