Posthuman Blues

Another late-night dinner at Panera. They closed at 10:00; I got there at about a quarter till, with the place almost to myself. Panera has a sort of Marxist/Stalinist thread running through its interior decor: lots of pictures of stolid men engaged in the timeless craft of bread-making . . . a righteous synergy of muscle and dough. "I'll have the veggie sandwich and a small drink, comrade."

Blood-red Chinese lanterns sway pendulously over the bridge outside my apartment like plump flying saucers, or perhaps lambent, mildly radioactive tomatoes. The lanterns are guarded by statues of anonymous warriors, silhouetted against a stream of weekend headlights -- the usual parade of white limos, oozing blue neon as if the occupants are aliens from some planet of perpetual luminosity.

Having finally finished MacLeod's "Engine City," I've started Paul McAuley's "The Secret of Life," a biotechnology thriller set in the late 2020s. Max Barry's "Jennifer Government," now out in trade paperback, is high on my 2004 to-read list.

A double espresso the color of Martian mud and then back across the street (lanterns stirring vaguely in their ranks), past the diligently scrolling Mircom machine and through the freshly painted lobby to the elevator. Someone, presumably on my floor, has cooked fish in my short absence. The hallway -- and now my apartment -- reeks of it. My cats seem miraculously oblivious.

A conical stellar nursury takes form inside my lava lamp, gooey hatchling stars and molten nebular sludge.