If I could remake the world

If I could remake the world, from beginning to end, in the manner of God, I'd start with the land. I'd make the land go on forever, and when I created man and woman, I wouldn't pull the woman from the man's rib, I'd create her from dust as well. And I would create numerous people so that there wouldn't be questions about incest. Although incest is really a taboo only because of the birth defects. Maybe my world would be like Game of Thrones, and there would be some incest. But, now, you see, I've already gotten off track. How does one go about creating a world?

I'd start then with the water. Everything would be water. And I'd create one, maybe two whales, both asexual, so there would be no question of incest. The whales would be immortal, and they'd swim around in the depths of the sea for all of eternity with nothing else around, except the two of them, powering through the water like trains. In time, these whales would become enemies, something like lovers, friends, king and subject, serf and master. They'd be forced into these roles, which sound very human, given an eternity to act them out. In an infinite amount of time one supposes that even asexual whales would figure some things out.

In short, I'd create a world that wouldn't be very much like this one. You'd still be there, and maybe a whale or two. We'd both be otters, or some other creature that we can't quite conceive of that has webbed feet, but maybe also webbed eyes and a rough sense of humor. Maybe we'd swim into the sea or the river, or maybe there wouldn't be a sea or a river. Maybe we'd swim towards the sun, across the water, with that late evening tinge of gold, tethered to the light. You see, in this world, the light will be something that you can attach yourself to, and as we swim towards the light, two strange things that might be like otters, we'll pull ourselves so close together that our swimming will be as one.

Of course, that world doesn't exist yet either because I haven't gotten around to creating it. In this one, I'm looking at a painting, red and pink with little flecks of white that could be birds or cherry blossoms. In this one life is different, but I'm still able to get off the couch, to slip out of my clothes and dive into the painting. The pink, red, and white water parts round me like veils, like blossoms, like the hair of women I have loved. In this world, I'm swimming out towards the horizon. Mid-way along the journey, I realize that I'll never make it, but I keep swimming anyway, like those goddamn stupid otter things in the other story. I swim because to swim through a red painting filled with white light is to give life meaning. The wind from the air conditioning unit is moving the peacock feathers in the distance. What does it mean that I can put a name to it? To the wind, to the feathers, to anything?

I could write for hours like this, but unlike God I don't have an eternity. I have a few moments at the end of the day to try and bring order to the chaos. So I sit down with my daughter, I pull open a page in her coloring book, and the two of us sit, side by side, furiously making the princesses dress the right shade of purple. Neither of us says a word, but you can feel between us, between our two warm and breathing bodies, a kind of connection, of furious work, of love.