And we will call it... this land.

Hey. Hey. Steven Brust just wrote a Firefly novel. Go download it.

Fading

One of our cats, you'll remember, died last week, and we buried her in the back corner of the yard. It's a nice place: it's nestled behind the garden, and is shaded by a fir, a pine, and a dogwood. On the few real sunny days of winter, the sunlight slides under the boughs from out of the south and warms the damp ground. Right nearby is the foot of a staircase, and if you want to be alone, you can climb up to the treehouse, unfold a chair, and stare out through the branches at the strawberry fields.

It's the same part of the yard where we've buried all our cats, or at least the ones who weren't taken by coyotes. But when we went out there to dig Annie her hole, I noticed that the other graves (and there were several) were gone -- the ground had leveled out, and the wooden markers had fallen apart and vanished; whether into the ground or to other parts, I can't say.

And I was surprised, though I really shouldn't have been. It's been at least six years since we've buried a pet, and this is the Pacific Northwest, where We Take Decay Seriously. I bet if we were to excavate the whole thing, we'd hard-pressed to even find bones. But it kind of got my attention, and I've been watching how quickly Annie's presence fades from this place.

And how quickly is that, you ask? Pretty quickly. Cats aren't much for material possessions; you don't end up telling your kids that this was their great grand-cat's antique dresser. What Annie left in this house was a smattering of hair (gone with the next load of laundry), some spilled kitty litter (gone with the next vacuuming), a shed claw-sheathing and a shed whisker (they're on my desk right now), and the presence of two chairs in this room (she'd take the warm one over as soon as I got up, so I kept a spare around for myself). Once those are gone, all that'll be left are some photos, some turned earth and wood (for the next five years, at least), and the electrical impulses in the brainmeat of one cat and a small tribe of plains apes, the lot of whom'll be wormfood within the century anyhow.

Well, and this. Whatever the hell it's worth.

---

You die, and whoever's still standing moves on. I don't reckon it's the best deal I've ever been offered -- about all you can say for it is that it beats forcing your loved ones to spend eternity feeling how I felt on the morning of the 27th. But those are the cards we're dealt, and you know, maybe being forgotten is as much a part of life as eating, breathing, fucking, and dying are.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, when the Christians contemplate their own mortality. It's also Wotansday, which, for all that it happens every week, still belongs by name-right to the one-eyed lord of battle and death. I intend to celebrate by thinking about those who I am not called upon to forget, just yet.

Dust we art, yes. But not today. Amen.

(no subject)

You all been following the news on these Middle Eastern cable failures?

I got one word about all that:

Godzilla.