“Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.” - C.G. Jung

I’ve read a little of Jung’s work on dreams, enough to know that the Claw has its hooks in my psyche. But I’m no psychoanalyst so I make do with quick thematic judgements. Here, I have an anxiety dream. If anxiety was a new phenomenon I might be worried.

I rub my face and try not to think about it while I’m making breakfast (steel cut oats with brown sugar and walnuts). Something settled in me overnight and for the first time since I heard about it I’m not interested in the Claw. Well, no. I’m just not enjoyably anticipating the Claw. Toric and Kacela are alright and gracious hosts considering, but their culture is stifling. Rules, arranged marriages, slaves, Ether-script, the Diamond Causeway. The idea of committing myself to a permanence focused endeavor in a transient world finds no purchase in my desires. I want to fly away from that city. Full to the brim with intricate detail, for sure, but none of it alive. Moving through it is like living in a natural history museum. Plenty of animals but no life.

I don’t know, maybe if I was born there it would be more interesting. Who am I rationalizing for? I want to move on. So, I’m moving on. Maybe one day I’ll go back.

I put my breakfast dishes in the sink and take a moment to think about the day ahead. The south section needs to be mowed and the foot paths need to be trimmed. I don’t bother with a shower, since I’ll just get all gross again anyway, so I just throw on a set of work clothes and a ball-cap. I get the mower keys from the shelf in the kitchen and go out the back to the shed. Driving a lawn mower is so barely work I’m surprised I get paid to do it. The south section is all graves before 1800 and many of them are just so much weathered rock. Mowing takes just enough attention that I can avoid thinking about anything while I do it and an hour passes quickly. But I can feel my attention, just in the back of my mind, already shifting towards the Claw. As if I’m just stalling before going back. When I return the mower I trade it for a weed-whacker and begin the double-long circuit. At my average pace it takes an hour and a half to trim both sides of the path. Unfortunately, well at least annoyingly, my mind is forced or able to wander more with this more simple task.

Not having a long term goal in the Claw is mildly upsetting. I don’t like feeling that I’m not accomplishing something. I have to admit I’m intrigued by Shzume and will probably seek her out. But for what purpose? Hunt? Battle? Blood?

She seems to represent a sort of polar opposite to the Empire, but what is the Empire. I know so little about it and so I know so little about her. Thinking about it, I know very little about political science and the machinations of culture. Well, every quandary of ignorance has the same best solution: ask Mom.

I’m not very good at tabling an issue, even when the best action is specifically waiting. If I manage to set aside the problem I’ll immediately focus on another. Or, failing that, I’ll enumerate a list of my failings until one of them is either suddenly solvable or so painful that I’m driven to desperate action to ameliorate my own self image.

As I’m here waging war against the unending forces of nature, this very self-reflection seems to mock me with its existence as both representative and descriptive of that painful habit. The mental equivalent of a nail-biter’s fingernails that need just that one more bite to be fixed.

I could do sums, repeat lyrics, define words or concepts, maybe even hum to myself. But those all feel wrong, pointless, and inauthentic. I don’t like to do those things, I don’t want to do those things. But, what do I want (oh great I’ve picked ‘the purposelessness of life’ as my failing du jour)? But, what do I want? Wait! Why am I supposed to be wanting? Fuck! Fuck you, Hal!

Now I remember the code I wrote; psychological infection vector one: Desire. Where there is no desire, create desire. If there is anything that could be said to be Hal’s heart it is that. Everyone must have desire. All the other infection vectors are based on that principle; tricking people into desire, inflaming desire, cajoling lambent desire. Hal’s arsenal is full of tricks to make you want things. To need things.

I take a moment to swap the cord for a blade on the weed-whacker to tackle the tougher scrub. It’s a variation on tree that I haven’t cared to learn the name of before killing. Disentangling happiness and desire should help, right? I could start with definitions, but that’s a semantic game that gives pedants wet dreams and I want none of it. The only things that matter are ‘is happiness possible without desire’, thus proving it distinct from desire, and ‘is happiness possible’. Ahh, a nice reasoned conversation about philosophy, much better than a hypercritical analysis of my state of being.

So, there are only objects and relationships. Deal with it. Desire is clearly a relationship as it describes how one object, you on a diet, feel about another object, that delicious fattening cheese in your fridge. Happiness is similarly clearly an object; you have or don’t have happiness, it’s not that your happiness of the cheese is overwhelming. From here it’s quite simple to complete the analysis. There is more than just desire available for relationships between objects so it’s possible for one to have happiness without it being connected by desire. Like the happy surprise of finding that happiness is not dependent on desire. And with that same example we have proved happiness is possible (barring a truly horrible life). So, happiness, untainted by desire, is possible to attain. Good, that makes me happy.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I can’t help but smile at the reflexive irony of the whole exercise and continue with my work. No longer am I Grimmlaw, gravekeeper, I am Grimmlaw, destroyer of societies, shatterer of worlds as with my terrible weapon I rip asunder whole nations, imagining every plant cell as some unfortunate and peaceful happy home.

* * *

I park the work truck in the library’s back lot so it’s in the shade, checking the clock before getting out. 2:07. Which means mom is back from lunch, has dealt with any emails arising from that time, and is now wandering the stacks. Hunting the ever elusive librarian in her native environment is not a task for the weak willed.

The library is new, the town (I’m a couple cities over now) bought it three years ago and only opened last year. But like all buildings the architect sorta got lazy on the back. In front it’s all arched windows and marble steps and manicured gardens. Back here it’s a parking lot, a dumpster, and a concrete staircase with no railing. There’s almost something intimate in its lack of pretense and I find it comforting while the front feels fabricated, sterile. A mask.

As I wander the stacks I’m left wondering if I’m being harsh on the architect. I certainly prefer the back but is that only because there is a front? If the back was the front would I blame them for lack of creativity? Perhaps. I certainly don’t mind the inside. Large windows in the front let in lots of natural light. Comfortable chairs in well designed nooks give just the right amount of privacy. If the library has a weak spot it’s in its accommodation of technology; the computer lab is spartan and regimented. As if the rigidity of technology is incompatible with the organic elements at play in the rest of the building.

I find mom in one of the children’s sections pulling books. I can tell no one ‘important’ has come to the library today because she’s wearing jeans and a plaid short sleeved button up.

“Hey mom.”

“Hm,” she looks over, “oh, Grimmlaw! Hold on a sec.” She pulls one last book and adds it to the cart then throws open her arms. “Come here.”

We hug; hers always a little too tight.

“What brings you out here?” she asks after we break apart.

“Well, I needed your help on a new research project.”

“Another one?”

“Yes, I-”

“Do you have a girlfriend yet?”

“What? No.” Things are going south.

“Why not?”

“Euhh.” I need to stall for time, she’s not going to drop this. “Is my research being held hostage?”

“Well, no I guess not. But you should be with someone. So, out with it.”

Gah! Five seconds, could’ve used a bit more time.

“Well, I guess I don’t really go looking for people in general. It’s hard to find people with similar mindsets and compatible lifestyles.”

“You mean you don’t get along with people.”

“Maybe I just can’t find the right people.”

“Fair enough. So, what’s this new research project?”

Meddling successfully countered.

“I’m trying to understand the nature and machinations of a society, particularly in its dynamics with other societies.”

“Damn, and here I was thinking it might be something like how to make friends.” She smiles. “Well, which are the societies you’re talking about?”

“No, they aren’t societies on Earth. They’re in a game, but you could also consider it a pure theory exercise.”

“Hmm, that leaves faith and politics and maybe technology and war. So, I know you’ve read it already but you’re here so you’ve forgotten it, so reread ‘Guns, Germs, and Steel’ for technology and war. And for faith and politics? Maybe ‘The Golden Bough’? Yea, that’s a good start. Does that help? Oh wait!” Mom seems to pop back into the world from her hazy-eyed revery for a split second. “You also need the cultural interactions. Or are those covered? Well I guess in Guns they may be.” And now I’ve lost her completely as she presses a finger to her lip in concentration.

“Hey, mom.” I wave a hand in front of her face and she snaps out of it. “That’s fine. Great, even. Thanks.”

“Eh, no problem. You really should learn how to do this without me, you know.”

“Maybe later. Do you have those books here?”

“Of course. But hey! Before you go, when was the last time you visited your father?”

“Umm,” ‘umm’ is better than sighing, right? “A while. He doesn’t even remember me anymore. It feels weird visiting.”

“Well you should still go.”

“Maybe. No promises.”

“Fine. Now, come here.” she opens her arms again and then squeezes me a little too tight. “Bye, see you soon.”

“Bye.”

Well, I know what I’m going to be chewing over on the way home. A girlfriend? What even? For now, the books. One foot in front of the other.