My alarms ring (yes, there are two) between 6:15 AM and 6:30 AM. It's dark then, full black dark. Not a shred of sunlight peeks around the shade. It's hard for me to pry myself out of my warm bed to get up, cross the room, and turn one off, and then STAY up (the staying up's the hard part). Next weekend is the end of Daylight Savings Time (the "Fall back" part of the "Spring forward, Fall back" couplet) and I'm just as glad. While I like having more light at the end of the day all summer, we could just stay with regular time, I wouldn't mind, although I would have to have some other reminder to change the batteries in the smoke alarms. One of my grandpas hated what he called "fast time" (sorry, I know I've told you this before) and refused to change his pocket watch. When you'd ask him what time it was, he'd pull the watch on its chain out of his pocket and growl, "Regular time or fast time?" Now I get why he was so cranky about it, I mean besides being a crusty old German guy. It takes me days to adjust to the time change and I hear cows don't acknowledge it so dairymen have to reprogram their milking machines to account for it. I think it's a silly thing that's outlived its usefulness.
November 2--Godaido, Japan. Preston sat on the floor of his dingy hotel room in the coastal town. Outside the red neon lights of the sign blinked like a harbor buoy. It kept him awake but he probably wouldn't had slept if there was no blinking red light. Tomorrow's plan ran through his head like a movie on a loop. It had to go right because tomorrow was the only day in the next thirty-some years that the five golden statues of the Fates would be on display in Godaido temple out on the island. Preston didn't question why anyone would commission statues made of gold that they could only show off for one day every thirty-three years. If he had a gold stature he'd put it in his living room where all his friends could admire it. If he had a living room. If he had friends. Mr. Quimby had sent his security head to bring Preston to his office where Mr. Quimby had expressed his desire to own the five golden statues. Preston could see in the man's eyes the need to possess them, not just own them. That's what he was doing in the crummy room in a drab town in Japan. He was waiting for a one-horse temple to open for business so he, Preston McBride could relocate five smiling fat-guy statues from the dim temple to the teak and stainless steel house of a man with too much money. What could be simpler?
Ah, larceny. An excellent subject. May you be bathed in light today.
--Barbara
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