Odin can see really well in the dark, even with just one eye. Remember, the other one’s down at the bottom of that, that pond of wisdom that giant guy drinks out of every day. Who’d want to drink out of a pond with an eye in it?

Whatevs.

Look, he stands there, Odin, and looks at you sleeping there in your bed, he stands there in those black clothes and that belt  and boots and the one eye scrunched up  and looks at you with the other, piercing one and the long white hair and he doesn’t even try to whisper when he says, child you are beautiful and blessed and full of grace.

He holds up a hand when he says it, a hand that has held many a sword and old weapons like that.

Child you are beautiful and blessed and full of grace. Being a god, his voice wakes you up and you’re like, whoa, it’s Odin.

Beautiful and blessed and full of grace, and life is short so always do what makes you smile. Within reason, of course, you know the drill, but here is the thing: never wait until something is perfect, because you are beautiful and real and the beautiful and real are never perfect, only the creepy and fake are perfect.

And Odin stands there, like a negative image of Cab Calloway in a white suit,  and he holds out both hands and says, ‘inky dinky do,’ and does a little dance step, a sashay, to the left. Your ten-gallon aquarium burbles in the corner of your room, fish all fast asleep.

And the monsters under your bed stick out their heads and say, ‘inky dinky dee,’ and before you know it Odin is doing this call and response number in your room with the monsters under your bed and in your closet, the one in your mirror and the ones in the shadows cast on the ceiling by your curtains, even the little fellows in your wallpaper who, when you stare at the wallpaper long enough, march in long, crooked inky-black lines around your room like jerky 1930s animated cannibals only these are not racist imagry, they are not flesh, they are made of coal and ash and fire and lava, demons, or a cross between imp and demon and they dance with their little spears and Odin sings, ‘wagga wagga yappa do’ and they repeat it and the monsters repeat it.

And you sing along.

It’s a long number, and when it’s over, Odin says, when you wake you’ll forget all this, but remember what I said.

And you say, inky dinky do.

And Odin says, no, before that.

And you both laugh.

This happens about five times a week. Maybe it’s why you are so tired sometimes.

“Why is it raining?” says the god of the office.

The god of the office and the god of weather are standing on the balcony watching it rain onto a bunch of May-green trees. May is the best month.

“See, I don’t make it rain,” says the god of weather. “Weather is the expression of a complicated system. And anyway, the trees need a drink.”

“There’s your answer,” says the god of the office. “And anyway, I’m just the god of the office.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t jump,” says the god of the ledge.

“Ozymandias,” says the god of weather.

“This too shall pass,” says the god of the office.

“Tomorrow shall be sunny,” says the god of weather.

“Everything eventually falls apart,” says the god of the office. “And everything is beautiful, anyway.”

“Those you worship will disappoint you,” says the god of weather. “By sacrificing too much for you and too little for themselves, or too little for you and too much for themselves, or by not making themselves happy when they are your idol and example…”

“…and you will disappoint those who worship you by not making yourself happy. Self-betrayal is not a worthy sacrifice. Sacrifice itself, I don’t know, is it obsolete or just ancient? But love makes up for all of this,” says the god of the office. “And everything is beautiful anyway.”

“These are the ground rules for an earthly existence,” says the god of weather.

She needs something. She needs to battle a bad guy, be in peril, shoot a gun, jump into cold water, break a bone (her own or someone else’s). And not just stand there like a character in a show set in a room with an automatic door opener who tells other characters, “The door is closed. Look, the door just opened. Now it’s open. Now it’s closed again.”

The minor chord sits there and wonders what it is about her he so dislikes, and why.

It takes him a while to figure it out.

Meanwhile he goes to Oslo and sees graffitti on a wall in blue or purple (he forgets) block letters a meter high: “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL”.

Thank you Oslo, he thinks.

Meanwhile, he remembers something someone said about having your love rejected is more painful than not being loved. Might just be right.

Still, life is beautiful and so on.

This morning, Debussy’s only piece for string quartet came on the radio when I was parking in front of the office.

Actually, it came on a little earlier, while I was driving to work, the last bit of my commute, and was still on when I parked, come to think of it. My first thought was, this is some sad music. My first reaction to it, before thinking, was to get all sad, see.

How full of sadness, and yet how beautiful.

It was the recording by the Jerusalem Quartet.

In case you’re interested.

I sat there listening. The DJ said after that the audience considered it decadent the first time it was performed. All that death and beauty rolled up into a maki.

When I had gotten out of bed that morning, the insides of my eyeballs had not been on my list of concerns. They came as a total surprise. Thanks, life.