hildeguardog's Diaryland Diary



We wanted a name both literary and nerdy--literary because I voraciously read and write, and nerdy because Christy is a gamer. Zelda, we decided, as in Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of Scott, with schizophrenia and blamed for his declining literary output, and also Zelda as in The Legend of, whom I know little about.

I was never a gamer. My brother bought a Nintendo 64 when it came out, and I spent the next few years endlessly playing Mariokart and Goldeneye. I played and played and played the same two games, and often the same few levels. I wanted to know them, to really know them. I wanted Wario Stadium to be the guide of my sleeping dreams. I wanted to know the location of every gunman on Frigate before he popped out.

This approach has been a constant in my life. I listen to albums until each clever progression is predictable. I read books and stories until every plot twist is obvious. I let relationships play out until each lay is synchronized, each fight scripted, all responses obvious.

Is passion not preceded by a dedication to the banal routine of something just-stimulating-enough? Is mastery not the endgame?

When my grandfather died, I was not sad. His death made sense. He worked the farm until there were no surprises. He raised his kids until the outcomes of their lives became obvious. He loved his wife until it became thoroughly self-evident--did so through her derisive affronts, as through her affectionate asides that could only be shared after years of having been so close, so compassionate, so there.

Zelda is part yellow lab, and perhaps part hound, or beagle, or spaniel. Several people are certain, but their opinions differ from one another. What is more or less certain is Zelda's life expectancy. She will not live past twelve years old, and she is currently two years in. That gives us, at most, ten years to know her. To figure her out. To master her personality, and for her to master ours. Provided we are together until her end, and provided she lives that long.

If we don't solve her being, or master her actions, will we have failed? If her life is cut short by her new-found penchant for running into traffic, or chewing found food, will she not have been fully realized? Will Buddhists insist she stay stuck in the tiring cycle of reincarnation? Will my dreams at night not follow a course I can predict, and instead divert off track in unpredictable ways each night? Will an unanticipated gunman appear and fire a devastating, pixelated shot, thus waking me from the course of sleep as it was supposed to play out?

12:27 a.m. - Monday, Apr. 18, 2016


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