"Well, take your pick," I tell my supervisor as I wiggle my fingers over the computer. "How mad do you want me to make email sound? Mildly irritated, vaguely annoyed, burning with fury? Give me something to work with here."

"Don't you think you're being a little too precise?"

"I like to shoot with the right bullets," I say, because translating anger on behalf of a Japanese government office is a beautiful art. "And this is what you pay me for."

"We're not burning with fury here."

"We never are. It's not in the office policy unless there's alcohol involved."

He thinks for a moment. "Forceful. I want you to make it sound forceful...but not too forceful. And don't use the word 'extremely' because that sounds too harsh."

"I'm extremely grateful for your input, sir. I'm totally on it."

"Smartass. Just brace yourself because they're gonna be more than just mildly irritated when they read that message."

"I'm counting on it, sir. I wouldn't be doing this otherwise."

I am a terrible, extremely terrible bureaucrat. I like to see the machine screw up every now and then, because at that point everybody's gotta start playing by ear and then you can see who's capable and who's an idiot on wheels.

It's good to be sometimes an outsider and sometimes an insider, and since the higher ups take the liberty of choosing what I am at whatever time, always at their convenience, it means that I can freely use "we" and "they" as I see fit. 

Example: "We very much understand your feelings on the matter. If you have any questions or comments on points made during yesterday's meeting, please do not hesitate in contacting me. I will translate and forward your message and return to you immediately once they reach a conclusion. Thank you very much for your patience."

After all, I'm just a messenger. I don't make decisions and It's not my place to get shot, but preventive measures are always good to have. It's only scary when I'm tired and can't muster the delicacy necessary in a given situation. On those days I put away the gun, sit down with mundane translation jobs, and wait for the right words to come back. 

There's a simpler life out there, I'm sure of it. 

"South" by Nuno Judice

There, everything is simple and complex: light,
solitude, the gaze that is moved deeply by nightfall
and daybreak, and, even
the women’s laughter heard from afar,
brought by air whose transparency is felt
in breathing. And yet, I lean over
the balcony and notice that something conceals itself,
past the vegetable gardens and the walls, and beckons
without my being able to answer. And so,
I return inside, prepare coffee, and
while the water boils the mystery vanishes,
useless and excessive, in the early afternoon.

My first dream of the New Year had something to do with rooms situated in between dimensions.

Nothing like C.S. Lewis'  Wood Between Worlds, which to me is the best thing that could exist between universes, but apparently my unconscious mind isn't whimsical enough to be the architect of anything bigger than a closet. Which leaves me with me feeling somewhat cheated, frustrated because time has finally turned the tables on me and my waking thoughts have at last become more elaborate than my dreams.

There was a time that I wrote so much that I almost felt possessed. I'd wake up in the middle of the night, a scene would skid across my eyes, and there I was, kicking back the covers and reaching for the computer. Most nights I never even made it to my bed, which was manageable when I was a student, what with academic competition and neurotic pride driving me forward. Now that isn't the case, I'm not like that anymore because I work in the most mind-numbing bureaucratic office on this planet, bringing me to the startling revelation that I knew this was coming. Or at least, I understood it conceptually, though I never figured I'd go this far into it.

"What's wrong with this place?" the girl next to me had complained one day, and it must have been one hell of a crappy day because we were both laying it on thick. "Even the flowers we bring into the office start to die after a few hours!"

"It's because the air is oppressive as hell, because nothing changes here. It never rains, never snows outside. We're surrounded by fucking mountains, only it's too bad someone put a government office in the middle of Shangri-La. Haven't you noticed? Life only gets fun when something in here goes terribly wrong. I'm not talking about revolutions but-" 

And who the hell was I talking like? Thank god this position is only temporary. But it all comes full circle, I suppose. It's come to the point where the characters are putting words into my mouth instead of the other way around.  Inspired me to dig out a fic that I had written six years ago, and didn't really pay much attention to until now. It was, if I remember, one of those midnight stories that really had no real objective, but since I couldn't sleep there was nothing better to do than pull out Wild Adaptor, pick one of the more obscure characters, and start from there.

Checking the clock. It's now 2:33 a.m., and I can't sleep thanks to the jet lag that massacred my concentration during the day, and here I am bringing back the past because a friend told me to be a good girl and reflect on my first dream of the New Year. After a few days I might start to understand it.

Which brings me back to the story, Bent Horizon. (Wild Adaptor / Worksafe / Characters: Takizawa, Kubota)

( Bent Horizon )