Kafka? We've Got It!

Today, I read a Reuters news article in which several experts, including officials from the FBI, weighed in on the current discussion about domestic terrorism and the reporting of suspicious behavior. An officer from the LA Police Department suggested that people think along the lines of profiling "behavior" instead of people, which seems to me to be good advice. Any self-defense suggestion I've ever received has always emphasized paying attention to feelings that something isn't right and trusting those instincts.

There isn't a day that goes by when I don't see something that looks odd in my neighborhood, and if I reported all of it, I'd never do anything else. When you've lived in a neighborhood as long as I have, you've got a good baseline for what's ordinary and what isn't, and it's just a fact that this place is not the same as it used to be. When I'm out walking, I often see people who look like they don't belong here, but it's also true that I've seen lots of ordinary-looking people, some of whom do live here, do strange things. It surprises me that people don't react more to some of the wild things that go on around here, though when I tell an outsider, I sometimes get a reaction like, "I'd report that if I were you."

I joked a few years ago about a WiFi handle someone in my building had called "FBI Van." I was speculating on whether someone actually with the FBI would have such an identifier or if it was some kind of a joke. Assuming it was a joke, I found it sort of humorous, though I'm not sure I would if I were the FBI director. Evidently, the owner of that one has moved on, and we no longer have an "FBI Van," though we do have "Limemoose," "Winterfell," "Zeldalink," and suchlike. My neighbors around here are very creative.

But to give you an example of what I mean by something strange that I wouldn't necessarily call the police on but that I would wonder about, here's what happened last night. I went out to walk under an overcast sky that had turned very threatening by the time I got close to home. It was one of those "Wrath of God" storm systems, and the wind was kicking up to boot, so I ran part of the way. When I entered the side door of my building, I saw someone else coming in through the front lobby, and although I can't say exactly why, I didn't like the look of her (besides the fact that someone suddenly appearing just as I'm entering is usually enough to get my attention anyway).

I decided to go back out and take another look around, letting this person go on her way. I should note that before I had gotten close to my street, there was hardly anybody out, as you would expect with such a storm impending. As I ran up to the building, though, I noticed not only someone on a bicycle but also a pedestrian on the main road that runs in front of my building. Nothing wrong with that, but it did catch my eye. When I walked back outside, I saw several people walking down my side of the street, as well as a man on the opposite side. They weren't close to me, but they were walking in my direction. I stood and watched for a minute, and the man, who was closer, kept coming until he suddenly turned around and went back the way he came. I kept watching to see where he was going, and he turned into a driveway farther up the street; the people who were coming down my side turned in at almost the same time to the driveway across from his.

Well, obviously, no one broke any laws there, but I've got to say it looked strange to see so many people in the vicinity of my building all at the same time, especially with a storm on top of us. It may not sound strange in the telling, but it looked strange, and I've lived here long enough to have a sense of that. It's not the first time, either, that I've noticed someone switch directions suddenly for no apparent reason (unless it was the fact that they saw I was watching). No safety expert would ever advise you to discount your instincts, even if you can't always explain why something bothers you--and I don't discount mine. It doesn't matter how many other people seem to take no notice.

I've often come across strange debris around the building that makes me wonder how it could possibly have gotten there--a branch and a plastic bag in the hallway, for instance, left there as if by chance; dog droppings that someone had concealed with a rock; bottles and cans in the hall; rubber bands in the driveway. Some of that would not be out of the ordinary as plain carelessness, but some of it seems more than just accidental, as if someone were trying to recreate some bizarre Blair Witch Project hijinks. I also noticed a number of people, not only here but also across the street, who seem to leave their lights on at all hours. I used to leave a window lamp on in my living room but stopped doing it when I noticed how many other people suddenly seemed to be into window lamps. I can't say why it bothered me, but it did. And what's with all the extreme door slamming?

I have never had a security briefing or been interviewed by the FBI, but I could certainly tell them a lot about this place. Perhaps the things I'm talking about would mean more to them than they do to me. I suspect a thorough investigation of not only this neighborhood but this town would uncover a lot of things. I do know that, while outwardly looking the same, Lexington doesn't seem at all like the place it used to be. It's a little bit like being in a Coen Brothers movie that never seems to end. It's also more than a little Kafka-esque. And as for the upstairs neighbors, the weird laughter and other noise that floats down sometimes make me feel I'm Jane Eyre, living downstairs from Mr. Rochester's crazy wife. Yeah, it's just about as much fun as it sounds.

Manhattanhenge

I read an article just before Memorial Day weekend about Manhattanhenge, the twice-yearly phenomenon in which the setting sun lines up with the east-west streets of the city and turns the thoroughfares into canyons of light. It's a charming notion, to me at least, to think of those busy New Yorkers stopping in the streets to turn their faces west, transformed for a minute or two into quasi-sun worshippers amid traffic, skyscrapers, and all the trappings of urban life. This year, the spring event coincided with Memorial Day, lending real star power to the day most Americans consider to be the true start of summer.

It's kind of a slow week here, but I've had the image of Manhattanhenge in mind ever since I read the article and saw the very striking photo accompanying it. You may be thinking, jeez, what is it with you, Wordplay, if you're not talking about the moon, you're talking about the sun. Are you some kind of astronomer or something? The answer is no, I'm not, but at least the sky is still one place you can look that's free of advertising and marketing efforts, except for an occasional Goodyear blimp or low-flying plane--and you've got to expect a few things like that.

At any rate, I was taking a walk a few evenings ago that was blessed by a relative absence of people on the streets, as pleasant a June evening (weatherwise) as you could wish. I had made my way through the neighborhood and turned toward home on an east-west street when I noticed how gorgeous the sun looked going down, fiery round and orange-red over some trees and the edge of a building. It had set a bank of clouds glowing in shades of lavender and seemed to me almost as good as Manhattanhenge. I glanced at a leafy lane to my left on which an early streetlight was burning, its glow muted by the daylight that still hung in the air. It looked homely and inviting, even though I'm not particularly fond of that street.

A few steps more, and a slight breeze caught the corner of my camp shirt. I looked at the almost tropical-seeming sunset and felt, for a few seconds, a rush of summertime ease. With a little imagination, I could almost believe that the street I had just passed was the last row of houses before the dunes and that I was now walking on the beach, a sea breeze in my hair and a relaxation in my step that wasn't there before. Even my clothes felt looser. The illusion was probably helped by the fact that I'd been seeing some unfamiliar birds--attracted, no doubt, by the newly engineered watercourse in the neighborhood--that resemble sandpipers in both their movements and their calls. Seeing them run across the pavement with their quick steps, calling to one another with shrill cries, has the capacity to turn even a land-locked parking lot into a shining expanse of sand.

I breathed in and enjoyed my mini-vacation, which was over with very quickly. As I turned away from the sun and passed the stadium, some loud popping noises that started up out of nowhere resolved into fireworks being set off at the back of the lot, attracting a bit of a crowd in the process. There was nothing else going on that I could see, so perhaps someone from the city was practicing for the Fourth of July. The display was modestly impressive, but the noise broke up the last of my beach reverie, and I was unmistakably back in the neighborhood with a number of people milling around.

That little dab of beachiness will no doubt last me for quite some time. I've tried, on my last couple of walks, to recreate the experience, but due to the timing being off and one thing or another, it hasn't happened again, and I doubt if it can be repeated in the same way. However, the night it happened was also the night I saw the first fireflies of the season twinkling above the grass on my street, a sign in Kentucky that summer has unquestionably arrived, no matter how far away the beach may be. Greetings, Manhattanhenge. Greetings, fireflies. Finally, we have summer.

School for Fascists

Well, speaking of cosmic events happening on your own street . . .

I told someone recently that I never thought I'd look back and think of the last apartment I lived in as "The Golden Age," but compared with where I am now, it's starting to look like that. When I moved here, I was ready for a change, and I've mostly been happy with the apartment itself. It has amenities that the other place lacked, and until a few years ago, I would have said that the move coincided with a new and more satisfying phase of life. The process of having my HVAC unit replaced the other day underscored some of the reasons why this is no longer true.

Because of some unsettling incidents in and around the building in recent years, I wasn't happy about having strangers in my apartment, but since I wanted air conditioning, I responded to necessity by resorting to, of all things: research! I decided the least I could do was to check out the contractor's credentials, and one thing led to another, and I was soon looking at information about the actual owners of this building. Business filings with the Secretary of State are standard forms and not terribly exciting, but as I learned as a law librarian, they can reveal interesting facts. In this case, I learned that that there is a second owner I hadn't heard about who actually has a couple of points of intersection with me. One is that his business address is the same suite that used to be the main office of the law firm I worked for. The other is that he is on the board of a local Christian college attended by a couple of people I know, including the son of my former supervisor.

It certainly is a small world, as every day proves anew, and these types of coincidences happen, but the information also fits in with some recent experiences I've had. I recalled someone mentioning that some of the part-time staff employed here for odd jobs belong to a Christian youth group. That probably doesn't sound like particularly bad news, but I can tell you that the atmosphere here has changed in recent years from what you might expect of a place with some students in residence (i.e., occasional rowdiness) to something akin to, oh, I don't know, let's say The Stepford Wives. It's as if everyone has drunk some strange Kool-Aid.

I often encounter people who seem to arrive as if by magic at the same time I do while entering or exiting the building, or who arrive in the parking lot just as I drive in. I am frequently regaled by loud conversations that seem, by some invisible edict, to be required to take place right below my window. Of course, there's going to be chatter, but does it have to be so loud and so close? In the old days, there was an instance when residents gathered on the other side of the parking lot were having a 2 a.m. conversation that was keeping me awake. I got up and closed the window, and not long after that, they dispersed, seeming to take the hint (these days, I wouldn't even think of leaving my window open at night). If not for my sound spa, which provides just enough white noise to drown out words if not voices, I would never be free of intrusive conversations. If you try to ignore these people, they seem to get louder.

I was speaking last week about light pollution in the neighborhood, but this sound pollution is an even worse problem. I now have a word to describe what it reminds me of: proselytizing. It's as if people are somehow so convinced of the importance of being heard that they've lost all sense of proportion and common courtesy. I'm not saying that everyone here is a tele-evangelist, but most of them seem to have been influenced by that communication style. It's as if they've all been coached on how to pitch their voices so that you can't help hearing them. They also tend to use a highly theatrical delivery, as if they're all on stage. And you can't get away from them, because they're your neighbors.

From what I've been able to find out, there's controversy about the methods of the youth group that seems to be influencing some of these kids. I can see why. Some people think it's actually a cult, as its methods reportedly run to manipulation and outright deception. This includes such practices as using college students who appear to be the same age as younger kids as contacts to form relationships with them; attempting to circumvent or replace parental authority; and bullying or ostracism once emotional control has been established. It sounds like mind control to me (though many people who've been involved in the group say they haven't experienced this, others strongly disagree).

Evidently, group meetings are big on skits and theatricals. I have to say that living here in some way resembles living in a compound, and I feel I'm constantly witnessing one drama after another. I remember noticing one night that there were five white cars in a row lined up on one side of the parking lot, and while I've got to say that there's nothing really wrong with that, it looked a little peculiar. I didn't know that many people here even had white cars. Some kind of code for "Bible Study tonight in apartment 5?" (I'm being facetious, but only a little.) It's also true that making it clear you don't want to mix with these people does nothing to put a damper on the antics.

In between all the amateur theatricals, on one hand, and all the vehicles with skulls or skull insignia parked on the local streets (including one right outside my door), it's a rather odd mix of neighbors. It's like being the only hippie at a convention of charismatics mixed in with Nazis. I'm not actually sure there's much of a difference between them. That occasion not long ago when I heard some extremely loud bass music in the middle of the night? My impression was that it came from the direction of the building that some of these young guys live in. What happened to all the normal people? Invasion of the Body Snatchers?

To get back to the HVAC that precipitated this essay, it turned out that once it was installed, I noticed a flickering in my lights. Concerned that it might be a sign of an overloaded circuit (and having lived through one serious fire in the building already), I sent an email to the property manager. I didn't get a response, and since I've had a few instances of people telling me they didn't receive my emails, I also left a voice mail. I still didn't get a response. I'm not unduly concerned when I don't get an immediate reply to a service request about a slow drain, but in the matter of something that could be dangerous, I think it's reasonable to expect a confirmation that someone's looking into it (though, I have to say that when I reported a recent car break-in, I never even got so much as an acknowledgment).

There being a lot of activity in the basement beneath me that day (where the circuit box is), I looked out to see who was there and saw a neighbor who is also a part-time odd jobs person. I wanted not only to find out what was going on in regard to my service request but also to meet the person who is so frequently in and out of the basement underneath my apartment. I had to flag the two young men down, since they were already leaving by the time I got outside. When I did, I encountered not one, but two smirking faces.

I would have been willing to suffer through yet another polite but unsatisfying encounter with a management surrogate, but being a bit too self-respecting so take arrogance from a youngster, I told the young man that I had never seen a bigger smirk. I'm peaceable by nature, but I don't mind calling things as I see them. What followed on his part was a denial that he uses an excessively loud voice in the basement, an attempt to place the blame for it on someone else, and even more smirking. I told him I didn't mind waiting if he wanted to look up some of the words I was using. It was sarcastic, I admit, but what are you going to do when someone's main conversational gambit seems to involve repeating everything you say?

When I mentioned that the point of the conversation was to let them know that I needed to reach someone about a possible overloaded circuit, they said they wouldn't do it because they didn't like my attitude. When I pointed out that it was their job whether they liked someone's attitude or not, they still demurred. I confirmed later that one of these guys does in fact belong to the Christian group in question. I wouldn't have said that cockiness, denial, blaming someone else, and shirking responsibility are particularly traits of people who claim to be "Christian," but they are consistent with other behavior I've seen around here.

The kicker was that when I finally did reach the property manager, his idea of a solution was that I ought to know someone better before making a judgment on him. (No, thank you.) He also didn't seem to blame the young man for not wanting to carry a message but instead blamed me for not giving him a chance to respond. I gather that I'm supposed to be living in the best of all possible worlds here and that while arrogance and dishonesty are acceptable, telling the truth to the best of your ability is not.

There is, in my mind, a larger significance to this story. If you read this blog regularly, you probably know that I've talked before about instances of pushy and intrusive public behavior that I encounter regularly in the park, the coffeehouse, and other places in and around the neighborhood (even the grocery store and the bank). As a matter of fact, I've recently overheard several intense and loudly pitched conversations about Christianity in the coffeehouse that were notable for being louder than anything else in the room. It is not a condemnation of religion to say that being sure of your beliefs is no license to intrude on the rights of others, nor is it a sign that you are better in any way.

My personal feeling is that it's wise to question your own beliefs and assumptions (I question mine all the time). Questions are healthy. Being too sure of yourself, not a lack of zealousness, is the real sin. There are many, many, many Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, followers of Native American traditions, and others, including many who profess no faith at all, who are much kinder, more considerate, thoughtful, and aware than many of these so-called Christians I keep encountering. I also know many Christians who are fine people, and you can generally spot them by their live-and-let-live attitude.

All of this is important because we're living in a democracy, which requires thoughtful, informed people who can form their own opinions. Being a citizen is no Sunday picnic. If my neighbors are anything to judge by, this Christian youth group encourages people to behave in ways they wouldn't think of on their own. They seem to turn into automatons, which is dangerous, not only for democracy but also for them personally. I read a comment from someone online who responded to a parent concerned about the influence of this group on their child by saying, "What, you're worried about your kid spending time with nice people as opposed to some of the other wackos who are out there?" The perceptive reply to that was that "niceness" in itself is OK but can be the tool of people with a hidden agenda. Beware the hidden agenda and the motivation behind the smile. Be sure it's a genuine smile you're seeing and not a mask.

If I had kids, I wouldn't want them within 500 yards of these people. Why? Because you should never, ever, ever, give up your right to think for yourself--to anyone. If there was ever a time and a place to question authority, it's here and now, in 2016 America. And if this youth group is any sample of the direction our nation is heading in, I'm extremely concerned. There's something troubling about their behavior.

The upshot of the situation here seems to be: I alerted management to what I thought might be a hazard, feeling that it would be irresponsible not to. That opens me to ridicule. I'm not supposed to make independent judgments, based on my own perceptions, about someone else's character, though that is an essential part of taking care of yourself. (When's the last time an apartment manager said that to you?) I'm a middle-aged adult with a PhD, but I don't know how to use logic. Au contraire! Cogito, ergo sum! (It's unseemly to flaunt credentials, but just this once, I'll make an exception.) And management here has always been responsive to my concerns--I just didn't know it because I don't hear from them.

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. (I didn't make that up.)

It Only Looks Ordinary

Earlier this week, I was reading about the opposition of Mars and the rising of the blue moon and decided to go out and take a look at it. I think I've mentioned before that stargazing isn't so great around here due to the increase in city lights in recent years. It was never outstanding, but the number of stars you can pick out on a clear night gets smaller all the time, as parking lots and new construction crowd in around us. Still, it's hard under any circumstances barring thick clouds ever to miss the moon, and I'm usually able to find a planet or two, light pollution or no.

Officially, the full moon had occurred the night before, but the opposition of Mars was supposed to be that night, so it seemed a great time to catch both moon and planet. Up the street I went, binoculars in hand. I had no trouble finding Mars, even without the binoculars, due to its brilliance and rusty color. The information I saw online had mentioned looking toward the southeast sky; my view in that direction being blocked by trees, I was wondering just how long it would take before the moon cleared them. I alternated between gazing at Mars and looking expectantly toward the trees, so I was caught off guard when I noticed the leading edge of the moon peeking above the horizon near the stadium, farther north than I was anticipating.

I had to catch my breath. The moon was quite large on the horizon, and the color was distinctively orange, more of a harvest moon in my mind than a spring moon. It was a dramatic rising. I noticed someone in a car parked at the side of the road, presumably as dazzled as I was; someone going by on a bicycle also stopped to look. I started thinking about other memorable full moons I've known, such as the one that rose over the sea outside my hotel in Naples, Florida, many years ago, waking me in the night and causing me to wonder who was out on the beach with a spotlight. There was also the time I was driving to my brother's house from Yellowstone and noticed a glow in the sky behind the hills. I first thought there was a fire, only realizing it was the moon when it finally crested the ridge, appearing almost to sit on the hills. And there was the moon that rose over the Santa Monica Mountains in the bright blue sky of early evening as I drove to the airport at the end of my Pacifica days, seeming to mark the end of something, or maybe the beginning.

All of this went through my head as I watched Sunday's moon climb slowly above the trees and the power lines, clearing some clouds that partially obscured it. Rather than Flower Moon, I would have called it the Gold Moon; there was nothing delicate or ethereal about it. It was Technicolor orange, and all of its features were sharply delineated. After observing for a little while in the same spot, I started walking home, stopping every so often to look behind me. It seemed wrong to turn your back on something like that, even if it was getting late.

On my street, I stopped again for another view. The moon had barely cleared a rather ordinary and nondescript flat-roofed building, which happened to have a window facing me. There was a light on in the room, giving it that slightly hyperreal air that offices and schoolrooms have when you go into them after hours. The empty room had a contemplative look, which became even more striking when I shifted position and noticed the standard-issue office clock on the back wall. The round clock face made a counterpoint to the moon, and the fluorescent light framed in the rectangle of the window seemed to answer in some way to the luminous orb in the sky beyond. It was such a perfect composition that I would have painted it on the spot if I could. The juxtaposition of mundane and magical, of earthly and celestial, was one of the most moving things I've ever seen. The feeling was a bit like that of Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, without the people. It seemed to sum up all the loneliness of existence, but it was also quietly exhilarating and obscurely comforting. I would have called it Time and Eternity, but I see that someone's used that for a video game. Maybe Eternity and the Clock instead.

So that's it, that's my full moon story. I was expecting to see a beautiful moon, but the framing that occurred when I changed position caught me by surprise (how true it is that shifting your perspective can yield unexpected vistas). It's remarkable that I had such a cosmic experience on my very own block, just down the street from where I live--but after all, maybe it isn't. Aren't we always in the midst of burning stars, whirling galaxies, wandering planets, and unseen dimensions? It only looks ordinary.

Where Have You Gone, Tom Bombadil?

I started re-reading The Lord of the Rings the other night--I don't know how many times now I've read the trilogy, but my copy of The Fellowship of the Ring is literally falling to pieces. The back cover and last few pages have come apart from the rest, and I trail tiny bits of paper crumbs every time I move the book. At this point, I should probably stop using my own boxed set as a reading copy and check the books out of the library, though it would also seem strange to read the story under a different cover and typeface. My own copies are almost as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

Why am I reading Tolkien? I've checked a few new books out of the library recently, but more often than not, I've been disappointed. I don't know what's gotten into some of our leading authors of late; they seem to be trying to reach for a meaning that escapes me, so I find myself going back to the classics or re-reading books I've already read. This isn't a real hardship, since I have a lot of books, but I'm sorry that some of the recent fiction hasn't seemed more compelling. Ideally, you keep growing with new authors and fresh stories in addition to revisiting old favorites, but some of the new work seems a little stale to me.

The Lord of the Rings is like comfort food. It's like sitting down with a big plate of macaroni and cheese or a bowl of popcorn: once you start, it's hard to stop. I was struck the last time I picked it up by how much happens in the first book that was left out of the Peter Jackson films. I think many fans were disappointed not to find Tom Bombadil and Goldberry in the films, for example, and while I would have liked to see them included, I understand the reason for leaving them out. So much happens in The Fellowship of the Ring that it probably would have taken a couple of extra hours (at least) to cover what takes place in between the hobbits leaving Hobbiton and the events on Weathertop. Mr. Jackson would probably have needed to make four films instead of three.

There's a part of me that would like to see Mr. Jackson go back into this material and do a prequel, even though I'm not quite sure how that would work. When I re-read the books last year, I remembered why the first one used to be my favorite: it's nonstop action, with so many incidents crowded into the story that it's like a thrill ride. There are the elves encountered in the woods of the Shire, Farmer Maggot, the evening at Crickhollow, Old Man Willow, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, the Old Downs, and the Barrow Wights--and that's before the hobbits even get to Bree. The escape from the pursuing Black Riders is handled very effectively in the film, but that sequence takes the place of an entire stretch of other characters and incidents that you never get to see. Making a film requires different decisions of timing and sequencing than does writing a book, no doubt about it. Still, it would have been fun to see some of these other incidents come to life on screen.

Tolkien is best encountered, in my opinion, when you're curled up with a blanket and some hot tea. Even though it's May, we've had a cool spell that has actually made for just the right weather for LOTR. A chilly and rainy day outdoors creates prime conditions for letting your imagination roam in Middle Earth. If you're looking for a tea pairing recommendation, I suggest chai--and a little bit of chocolate or a couple of cookies to nibble on never goes amiss either.

The Moonlight Hour

It's not unusual at any time for city streets to be crowded, noisy, and full of people in too much of a hurry for civility, but in the Iron Age this is especially true. A person could resort to such judicious responses as blogging, making rude faces, and other instances of patriotic civil disobedience--but getting away from it all is also, occasionally, the best option. An instance of the latter occurred once upon a late winter day when Emma, the protagonist of this tale, had had enough of being harassed, bumped into, and shouted at for the time being, and ducked in from the sidewalk to the Moon and Stars Cafe just in time to avoid being run over by a mother with a stroller and a cell phone.

Respite, of course, is a relative term, especially when you're talking coffeehouses. You are probably imagining Emma ordering a latte and collapsing into the nearest open chair to catch her breath as an antidote to the zeitgeist, but that won't do. No. In fact, she did walk up to the counter, and she did order a mocha. And given no other choice, she might have taken the nearest seat, which is what she did most of the time, despite the fact that the cafe itself was a breeding ground for wanna-be-world rulers and the poorer class of law students. (In a totalitarian age, the government left nothing to chance, not even espresso.)

Today, however, she glanced at the back corner, in which, always without warning but often enough to make it worthwhile, the outline of a slim doorway, invisible to the casual observer, would on rare occasions appear. Emma was aware that she was in full view of the cafe's patrons as she walked up to the door and said the secret word (it was "chocolate," but she never said this aloud), but she also knew that no one else, for reasons that remained a bit cloudy, ever followed her. As soon as she passed through, the door closed behind her, and the noise of the cafe was instantly shut out. She was now in a dark tower with a faintly luminous staircase that rose before her, first in a smooth spiral, and later in exuberant zig-zags as it neared the top. This she began to climb, with a tight grip on her mocha.

The tower had windows that opened onto a velvety black sky pierced with stars. There was also moonlight, so that finding her feet was not a problem. Despite the steepness of the climb, and the distance, she was never out of breath when she reached the top. At the very end, the stairs broke free of the tower entirely, with a doorway on the left leading to a small platform and another short hop of steps, broad but crystal-clear, so that one saw through them entirely. At the top of these steps, like a cardboard cutout at a fun fair, hung the moon. There was actually a bit of a jump at the end, but one always landed smoothly, gliding onto a window seat perched on the very edge of la luna, behind which was a small room with a table and two chairs (in case of inclement space weather, though it had never yet been necessary to use it).

Michael was already there, as usual. He occasionally brought his own cup of coffee, but more often it was a beer. They had sat that way, feet dangling into space (and an occasional passing cloud) numerous times over the years. There had never been a time when she had arrived and not found him there. They never talked much about their respective ways of getting there or how it was even possible. It very obviously was possible, so that was that. (When she had told him that her access was via a hidden staircase from a coffeehouse, he had grimaced a little and said his route involved "Kind of a wormhole." He hadn't seemed to want to say more.) In fact, their conversation was usually interspersed with large gaps of silence, for who, faced with such a prospect before them, would want to waste time in talk. And what, in fact, was there to say?

Below them is the earth, resplendent in blue and green. It has the appearance of a cartoon earth, or earth as seen in a child's picture book, with landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall, and the Golden Gate Bridge clearly visible, as are the occasional toy airplane or ocean liner passing into view. Despite dominating the foreground, the globe as a whole is somehow comically foreshortened, so that everything appears much closer together than it actually is, entire countries taking up no more room than a large park. Aside from that, stars twinkle all around them, and they are occasionally treated to the sight of a passing comet or a planet hoving into view.

It was not as if a visit to the moon made one forget anything. With the earth so insistently present, it would have been impossible to forget anything no matter how hard one tried. But the distance gave one perspective, the quiet was a relief, and it was a heady experience to find oneself sitting companionably on the edge of the moon with such an entertaining panorama on offer. Even the mocha tasted better there, Emma's opinion being that the altitude cleared her sinuses. And it was not quite true to say that space was completely silent. At times, there was a low-pitched humming and sometimes a faint sound of a high, distant voice, which reminded Emma of Dawn Upshaw singing Gorecki's Symphony of Sorrowful Songs.

Aside from the rareness of the occasion, the brevity of each visit also ensured that every moment counted. Half an hour? Forty-five minutes at most? Each visit was a jewel of such clarity and beauty that its memory was sustaining for months at a time. Breaking free of gravity for short periods was enough to help you get through tax season, the end of Daylight Saving Time, pap smears, and Vitamin D deficiencies in winter. You carried the view from that window seat around with you like a locket with an unfathomable secret folded deep inside.

Tonight, Michael looked at her, and she could tell by his brief but searching glance that he knew she had had a tiring day. But why ruin a nice evening by talking about it? She kicked her legs back and forth and watched a developing supernova overhead; Michael sipped his beer and followed a wandering planet with his eyes. In the background, that angelic voice was singing, "Ah, ah, ah . . ." It was celestial relaxation at its best. It was also over with all too soon.

The upper end of Michael's wormhole suddenly yawned, like a cave opening, to their right. Michael and Emma both got up, standing at ease on a wispy but otherwise quite substantial cloud. "It's been real," Emma said. Michael smiled. "Till next time," he said, with a tip of his hand. And then he was walking away, disappearing into the mouth of his tunnel, which instantly dissolved. And here goes Emma, jumping lightly from the cloud and landing on the crystal stair, descending slowly, and climbing into the tower once again for the long walk down.

It's a thing she has often noticed, the different quality of the return trip. The closer one gets to the bottom the more one notices chips at the edge of the stairs and cracks in the walls of the tower that never seemed to be there on the way up. At the bottom of the tower, the stairs are worn; one notices a coffee stain and a bit of dust on a windowsill. Then the outline of a door appears, and you are somehow through it and back in the noisy environs of a crowded coffeehouse. No time seems to have passed while you were gone. Despite a sense of residual sadness, though, there is something else. The sunlight seems brighter than it was, and the aromas of freshly brewed coffee and baked croissants, which now come through with a sharp intensity since your sinuses are clear, are heavenly.

Emma takes her cup to the counter for a refill, sits down, and finds a newspaper someone has left behind. She unfolds the front page and scans the news of the day. "So the world is still here," she murmurs to herself. "And honestly, how glad I am. Even if it is the Iron Age."

This is the latest version of a story I've been writing for a number of years. Originally, it involved two children; then, a single child. This is the first time the story has featured two adults.

Road to Damascus

What a difference a single detail can make in how you perceive things. The other evening, I was coming into my building when I happened to notice that a house across the street had its porch light on. I don't know whether the owners had changed to a different, brighter bulb or whether they usually have the light turned off at that hour, but the change noticeably altered the appearance of the house. Suddenly, it flashed into my mind that the whole setting--the still bright sky above, the house and trees silhouetted against the light, and the darkening street--looked remarkably like René Magritte's painting, The Dominion of Light, which I have written about before.

In the many years I've lived here, that thought had never occurred to me previously, and I don't know that it would have except for that porch light being left on. The view across the street is a pleasant one, but there is nothing in it that has ever made me think of Magritte. If it's a cosmic joke, it's a good one, because one of the dominant characteristics of Magritte's work is its surrealism, the way it takes the ordinary and gives it a fantastic twist, blurring the boundaries between ordinary consciousness and a dream state. I take Magritte's surrealism as an invitation to look at things more imaginatively, to realize that the seemingly solid appearance of things often masks another reality.

When you have experience in looking at things from the perspective of myth, the idea of seeing beneath the surface becomes second nature, but even I was startled by the sudden change in perspective. I have always found the views of the rooftops and trees in my neighborhood to be charming and reverie-inducing, particularly at sunset, when they show to best advantage against the changing light. There is something pleasing about the solidity of the houses and the varied angles of the roofs set amid so many tall and shapely trees. The scene is comfortable and established but somehow leaves the door open to the imagination, possibly because your eye is drawn up toward the liminal space between earth and sky, away from the traffic and the street so noisily present below. You can imagine Mary Poppins sailing in over those rooftops with her umbrella or perhaps sailing over them yourself one night in a moonlit magic carpet ride.

More than anything else, this episode makes me realize how important the detail of the light is, not only in the scene across the street but also in the painting. It's the central image in the The Dominion of Light, literally and metaphorically, standing in for, as I interpret it, the spark of consciousness that's alive and observing in each of us, the point of connection between spirit and matter, the awareness that's awake even when dreaming and that sheds light in the face of ambiguity. It's not a blinding light that forecloses any possibility of nuance or complexity but rather a soft, steady light that neither overwhelms the dark or retreats from it.

The other thing that impresses me about this incident is how quickly one's view of something can shift with the addition of a single element, like a piece of a puzzle falling into place. That light coming on so suddenly seems to say, be ready, because even something as familiar as the intimate scenes you look on every day holds something in reserve. There's always something unknown even within the known, always more to know than we realize at the present. If you think you know as much as you'll ever want to about a given subject, person, place, or thing, get ready: an increase in consciousness can be life-altering. In the face of uncertainty, plant your feet, turn your light on, and wait.

Hemingway and the Bulls

It's been a while since I've read anything by Ernest Hemingway, though I have three of his novels on my bookshelf. When I read him in the past, I sometimes had an almost visceral sense of being pummeled, which may have derived in part from his prose style and in part from his themes. This week, however, I finally read The Sun Also Rises, and it all came about because I was reading a novel about his first marriage and his years in Paris. That novel, The Paris Wife, written from the point of view of Mr. Hemingway's first wife, Hadley, tells the story of the complicated personal relationships of the Hemingways and their friends and purportedly hews close to actual events.

The Sun Also Rises is, apparently, a barely disguised version of actual events described in The Paris Wife. As I finished the latter book, Mr. Hemingway's novel was literally sitting across the room from me, directly in my line of vision. It seemed like a good time to find out what he had made of events I'd just read about from someone else's perspective, but I was hesitant. Was I in the mood for literary punches and jabs? No, I wasn't, not really, but my curiosity had been piqued, so I decided to give Mr. Hemingway another try.

As happens to me with fair frequency, I found that I had a different reaction to the author than I'd had in the past. I can't speak to the rights or wrongs of the actual events, but only to the novel, which tells of painful circumstances and tragic characters with a surprising amount of humor. I enjoyed the careful descriptions of landscape, the sharp dialogue, and the vivid sense of place and time. In the time it took to read the novel, I was transported. I can fully appreciate how painful it might have been to be a participant in these events, but the work itself is graceful.

Mr. Hemingway's descriptions of the running of the bulls, the fiesta, and the bull-fighting in Pamplona made me realize something else. I've written before about an alternate outcome for the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, one in which the Minotaur is released from the labyrinth instead of being killed there. My thinking was that if the Minotaur is a disguised version of a sun god, his killing might be the key to the tragic events that follow his death. In the running of the bulls, one sees what this release of the Minotaur looks like in actuality. Though events are still, to some degree, choreographed (as they are in the bull-ring), the strength of the bull is at least celebrated and appreciated by the onlookers. The bull-fighters are judged, in part, against the size and ferocity of the bulls.

Mr. Hemingway made the bull-fights a central image in The Sun Also Rises, and to me, it seems he was very aware of the mythic import of the spectacle, which is also a ritual. Having seen so much death in the war, he must have been acutely alive to the ritualistic conquering of death in the bull-ring, where the bull-fighter "takes on" some of the animal's strength and vitality in the act of defeating it.

It seems to me that though the danger to the bull-fighter is real, the odds are still stacked against the animals. (In the bull-fights, at least as described in the novel, the animal invariably dies.) I don't think this was lost on Mr. Hemingway. Each triumph by a skillful bull-fighter is a temporary triumph, even when repeated many times. But to a character like Jake, shattered by a near-miss with death, the ritual of renewal, even if only temporary and somewhat conditioned, must have been very powerful.

Jake and the others of his generation who survived the war are mirror images of the bull-fighter, though less fortunate. They returned from the labyrinth alive but forever changed, aware of the futility of what they had been through and searching for a way to live with that awareness. As Jake tells it, his central project in life has become an accommodation to facts that cannot be changed. "I did not care what it was all about," he says at one point. "All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about."

It may be off the topic, but the metaphor of bull-fighting in The Sun Also Rises has given me an idea. What if, in the future, we settled all conflicts between nations in the bull-ring? Just send down the person or persons responsible for making the call to the ring and let them match wits with the bulls. It would have to be an even fight, though, so no sending in proxies or hiding behind the fences. If they came out of it still thinking that war is a good idea, then let them fight each other, if so inclined. It may sound crude and simplistic, but wouldn't it save everybody else a lot of trouble? If the bull wins, the whole thing is called off, and we have a two-week fiesta instead.

If I finished The Paris Wife feeling a great deal of sympathy for the first Mrs. Hemingway, I finished The Sun Also Rises with a new empathy for Mr. Hemingway. Glamorous and hip they may have been, but they had a lot stacked against them. Even with all the artistic fervor taking place in the Paris of their day, I don't think I would have wanted to be there, because too much of it seems to have resulted from pain and early loss that they could not surmount. Even though the war was over, they still seemed to be fighting it.

Medieval for a Cause

Last year I wrote about Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales in April; this year, in keeping with that same spirit of spring, I read a prose retelling of the work. My online hours may have been spent keeping up with current events, and my walks may have entailed enjoying the flowers while tuning out modern noise, but my mind was in the Middle Ages. I wasn't sorry to absent myself, at least sporadically, from some of this week's sound and fury. Going medieval isn't always bad.

I think you need to read at least some of the tales as Chaucer wrote them to get the flavor of the language, even if it slows down your comprehension. One of the most memorable experiences I had in an English class was hearing Middle English verse read out loud while we mastered pronunciation in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and other works. For the first time, I could hear the underlying rhythms of the English language--hear it clearly as music--with the sense of the words taking second place to the sound. However, if I were teaching The Canterbury Tales, I would also have the students read a modern retelling so that they could enjoy the stories as stories.

To fully appreciate them, it's true: you have to read the entire work, or the bulk of it, and that would probably only take place in a course devoted to Middle English poetry. It's an ambitious project to read them all but worth it. It's not just the stories in themselves, but what they say about the people who tell them, and their listeners, that makes the Tales so much fun. You have, among others, the opening story told by a long-winded knight, a series of unflattering and/or bawdy tales told with the purpose of annoying someone else, the unforgettable forthrightness of the Wife of Bath, the stark morality of the Pardoner's tale of the three wastrels, and the folksy humor of the Nun's Priest's tale of the sprightly Chanticleer who outfoxes the fox.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about "Chaucer's Retractions," which comes at the very end. This is Chaucer, still in character as one of the pilgrims, turning aside, just as the company is approaching its goal, to offer a private speech in defense and/or apology for all his works, including the Tales he has just concluded. In spirit, it's a little like the series finale of some long-running TV show in which of one of the characters wakes up, and you find it was all a dream. After so much irreverence, crudity, and satire, Chaucer in effect takes it all back, just in case there was something in there that might have offended God or man. Of course, his failing to do this until the last dirty joke has been told leads you to question his sincerity, but the seriousness of his prayer also seems to hedge his bets. After all, death could come suddenly, and there was no sense taking any chances. If there's humor in this retraction, it's a dark humor, as I read it, laced with a sense of mortality.

A medieval pilgrim stopping in the woods unavoidably makes me think of Dante's pilgrim, who lost his way in a similar place before seeking his salvation. I'm also jumping ahead a couple of centuries to Shakespeare's Prospero, who, having used the magic arts to regain control of his fate, gives them up in the end, saying, "This rough magic I here abjure." Although Chaucer's purpose, to instruct, seems very different from Prospero's, they are both in effect using their creative power to shape things to their will. All of Chaucer's characters are subject to his whim, just as the inhabitants of Prospero's island are subject to his, until they're released. There's an inevitability to this release, but it's also a little sad, a letting go.

April is a great time to read The Canterbury Tales. You can rest your eyes by looking out the window at the trees leafing out and the flowers budding and put yourself in company with the pilgrims setting out on their journey, which, by the way, begins with crossing a stream. (Is The Canterbury Tales, in some sense, an underworld journey? This is a question I would put to my class of imaginary students, who may someday be actual ones.) I let time elide like that the other day at the coffeehouse while finishing the Tales, and it was as if the fourteenth century and the twenty-first blended together and became one, a Frappuccino of centuries. It was as if no time had passed at all since the pilgrims first gathered at Starbu--, I mean, the Tabard Inn.

The Most Foolish People You'll Ever Hope to Meet

Dear ----,

I have said all of this to ----, in writing, without getting a response. I have thought about withholding part of my rent payment until I get a reply to my concerns and may consider doing that in the future, but first I want to relay these complaints directly to you to make sure you’re aware that this situation, which I have brought to your attention before, is ongoing.

I have had noisy and ill-mannered (to say the least) neighbors upstairs dating back to 2010, from approximately the time your company acquired this property. This problem continues with the current tenant. I talked to her (once) about heavy footsteps and miscellaneous noise, and she professed not to know what I was talking about. At first, she was not as consistently noisy as the other tenants have been, so it was easier to ignore, but I was bothered on the evening of Feb. 26 (as on other occasions) by tapping noises directly above my head while I was trying to relax in my living room. There is no reason I can think of why someone would be tapping on the floor unless they wished to annoy someone, an immature exercise at best, but I noted from the young woman's general demeanor that she was no more likely to be a good neighbor than any of her predecessors.

I'm not concerned about ordinary noise and realize that some is unavoidable. In years past, though, I had a rather heavyset neighbor living above me, considerably larger than the young woman in question, and I rarely heard him--just to give you a point of comparison. It’s impossible to escape the conclusion that the noise is deliberate (all of these tenants have been rather odd as well).

Secondly, on the afternoon of March 18, I found some trash (cotton swabs and a coin) on the back floorboard of my car that I definitely didn't put there; the only explanation can be that someone else has been in the vehicle, although it did not appear to have been broken into. I'm meticulous about locking the doors, so I'm not certain how someone could have gotten in. I threw the items away and called the ---- police to report the incident, but I was told that unless something was damaged or missing, I couldn't file a report.

I'm telling you because I think this is most likely to have occurred at the apartments. I rarely take the car anywhere except to the coffeehouse and the grocery store, and I doubt if it happened in broad daylight. It probably happened overnight. There's nothing in the car that anyone would want to steal or that would make it a likely target for thieves. I usually park it underneath the light at the corner of the lot. The last time I had been in the back seat was on the previous Saturday when I put my groceries there, and I didn't notice anything then, so it must have happened sometime that week. I haven't discovered anything missing or broken in the vehicle so far, but that doesn't negate the fact that someone broke in, which I assure you I take quite seriously as a safety concern.

Finally, I never got a response last summer (2015) to my request for someone to service the air conditioner for my unit, which did not work up to par for most of the summer. When that happened, my refrigerator failed to work properly, and I had to throw some food out. I have already requested someone to take a look at it well in advance of the warm weather; I am told now that this will happen, and I hope that's the case.

All of this is to say that I am not really sure what I am paying rent for since I haven’t had proper use and enjoyment of my apartment for the last 5½ years. These issues go beyond mere annoyance, which would be bad enough, to the level of actual health and safety concerns. I am not sure that some of the tenants upstairs haven’t been (or are not now) engaged in criminal activity, based on my observations. I want you to understand that I’m not talking about pranks typical of college students. With previous landlords (I’ve lived here for almost 16 years), we sometimes had tenants who partied or came in late, though most of them lived in the other buildings. Some of them were undoubtedly problem tenants, but I never had an entire string of them living directly above me for years at a time.

I was unable to resolve this issue with the first problem tenants back in 2010 by telling them about it, and though I have introduced myself to subsequent tenants and let them know, more or less politely, about the problems they were causing, it has been to no avail. There has been a pattern to these issues extending over a period of years (and unprecedented in my many years of living in apartments). The least I expect of a landlord is to maintain a safe environment so that I can enjoy my own apartment in peace, and I am not getting that. I do not bother these neighbors, I take care of my own apartment, and I expect my concerns to receive a response.

I will also add that, though you may be unconcerned about your water bill (as evidenced by my inability to get my dripping kitchen faucet properly fixed), I hear water running so frequently above me that I often wonder what people are doing besides playing with the pipes. It seems rather excessive.

Sincerely.

Your Life as a Pop Song

It was such a beautiful afternoon in the park, with almost everything blooming, or beginning to, and I practically had the place to myself. There were redbuds, cherry trees, lilacs, viburnum, tulips, and--on the road leading up to the parking lot--a whole bank of daffodils. Although spring came early this year, it has backtracked a little, so that although everything looks like Easter, the air is chilly. Skies were cloudy this afternoon and threatened rain, and I was wearing my down jacket, but still, I have to say, it was lovely in the arboretum. I hummed a couple of show tunes from My Fair Lady.

I guess the big news this week is the Panama Papers, which could even turn out to be the story of the year. Those who worked on the investigation dubbed it the Prometheus project, which seems to acknowledge their sense of its importance. Prometheus, of course, was the god who gave the gift of fire to humanity and then had hell to pay for it from the other gods. I was thinking about that as I walked around this afternoon.

The first thing I noticed about the initial list of countries whose leaders were named was that it didn't include the United States. I'm just not sure that's going to hold up. I was glad to see a couple of U.S. senators calling for the Treasury Department to investigate possible links between U.S. entities and the Mossack Fonseca law firm. Interesting that they didn't seem to feel that the Justice Department probe, which has already begun, was enough--and I suppose they have their reasons. In a letter to the Treasury secretary, they cited the need to investigate individuals or entities with possible links to terrorism or money laundering who may be sanctioned by the Treasury Department. It sounded to me like they had something in mind already.

People sometimes talk about American exceptionalism and America's place in the world as if wrongdoing is something that only happens in other places, but don't you think that people in China, Russia, and other places sometimes shake their heads about things they hear about us? The thing about exceptionalism is that you actually have to be exceptional, not just say you are. It's one thing to live by your principles and another to get by on your looks. When it comes to the heroes and villains of this piece, we may all be surprised. It's also true that some of the people whose names are being thrown around now may end up being exonerated.

I was interested to see the list of news organizations involved in the project and noted that although the McClatchy newspapers were included, others, such as The New York Times, weren't. In my experience as a consumer of news, there do seem to be biases evident in the reporting of many major news sources, including The New York Times. There are people I wouldn't trust with sensitive information, especially in light of the fact that free press in America hasn't thrived under the last two administrations, making any investigative reporting that could expose American players very risky. (The U.S. is ranked 49th in the 2015 Reporters Without Borders World Press Freedom Index, a poor showing for a country that should be at the top.)

I think you get a mix of good and bad reporting across the entire range of media, and I wouldn't necessarily exclude McClatchy, the BBC, or anyone else from biased reporting. Perhaps the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists had a sense of which reporters it could trust, or perhaps part of the project was a test to find out. I'd be surprised, too, if attempts hadn't been made to hack the ICIJ servers, which could in itself be revealing. It will probably take this story some time to unwind, and there are undoubtedly many revelations ahead.

Well, that's a pretty heavy topic for an April day, so maybe I should end this post on a lighter note. I hope this isn't too awkward a segue, but I wrote about politics last week, and I've been thinking a lot about the personalities of the presidential candidates. I had some fun trying to pick a song that I associate with each of the five remaining in the race and imagining myself as the campaign manager who decides what gets played as the candidate bounces onstage (a whimsical thought--no campaign manager would ever select some of these songs). None of them are from My Fair Lady, but that doesn't mean anything. I had second thoughts about one or two of them, but I think I'm going to go with my first choice, because you can overthink these things.

Are you on the edge of your seat? Oh, come on, you know you totally are. Here it is, just for fun, as an antidote to the Panama Papers--Your Life as a Pop Song.

Donald Trump: The Eagles--"Take It Easy"

Ted Cruz: Peter Gabriel--"Sledgehammer"

John Kasich: Paul Simon--"Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard"

Hillary Clinton: Paul McCartney & Wings--"Live and Let Die"

Bernie Sanders: Steve Miller Band--"The Joker"

Musing on the Newsing

Are y'all reading the same news I am? I'm just asking, because when I read the stated opinions of pundits, public officials, celebrities, voters, foreign dignitaries, and ordinary folks, I sometimes wonder how all of us can be looking at the same events and drawing such different conclusions. That's if people are being really honest and totally truthful in the things they're saying, because, you know, I sometimes suspect people of being disingenuous. No, really. I sometimes think, from their manner and the way they say things, that there's a certain amount of meta-narrative going on. If so, these folks are apparently going to a lot of trouble for nothing, because I'm not sure how much others are noticing it. Of course, some of that ignorance could be disingenuous, too. (Uh-oh, now we're really going down the rabbit hole.)

Take the election, for example. I've discussed my views on the Democratic candidates before, but I was reluctant to say much about the Republicans because I couldn't make head or tail of what was going on over there. Here at Wordplay, we have a rule that says, "First, do no harm." I was seriously afraid of putting my foot in it if I tried to analyze the situation prematurely--there was obviously something out of the ordinary happening, and it was eluding me. But don't conclude from that that I haven't been watching the candidates and noticing what they've been doing. Far from it. Here at Wordplay, we may have our own point of view on things, but we care about everybody. Believe me.

Someone was talking to me about Donald Trump last summer, telling me his reasons for supporting him, and I was skeptical. This person even expressed some concern over Mr. Trump's safety, to which I replied, "But people like that can take care of themselves." His response was, "Not necessarily." I really wasn't sure what he was talking about. I had, however, been keeping up with the news on Mr. Trump and was surprised to find that I liked his sense of humor, which I first noticed when he gave out Lindsay Graham's telephone number. I am still in stitches over that one (I trust it's OK to say that, because Senator Graham himself seemed to respond in good humor).

I would be laughing over something Mr. Trump said and then find myself alarmed (and puzzled) several hours later by some inflammatory statements he made about immigrants, Muslims, or some other matter. I am not altogether certain what he really means by some of the things he says, and this is what I mean by meta-narrative. It's clear that no one truly serious about becoming president should be quoting Mussolini or talking about punching people. On the other hand, I do not think Mr. Trump is a buffoon. I'm certain he has a motive for the things he does, though it's not easy to say what that might be. I've occasionally had the thought that Mr. Trump says things that other people would never dare to say, though in reality they have probably done much worse. Could he be slyly suggesting that? I don't know.

I don't think Mr. Trump is a saint, but I don't necessarily believe everything that people say about him. I suspect he may be rather different than many people think he is. Take for instance, the whole kerfluffle about Heidi Cruz and Melania Trump. People have been talking about how embarrassing it is and how bad it makes the Republicans look in front of everybody, etc. Call me irresponsible, but I don't believe for an instant that either Mr. Trump or Mr. Cruz spoke without realizing how their remarks would sound to people. I'm just not buying the quarreling schoolboys thing.

In trying to "see through" this event, as James Hillman advises us to do, I started looking up information about Melania Trump (I already knew a little about Heidi Cruz). Personally, I find it hard to believe that anyone, including Mr. Trump, was truly shocked that a racy photo of Mrs. Trump in GQ emerged as an issue in the Utah primary. Utah voters tend to have conservative standards, which is fine, and should come as a surprise to nobody. So what was all the yelling about? In reading biographical data about Mrs. Trump, I found out a lot of things I didn't know about her and stumbled across a description of the photo. That was the moment I started to wonder about that picture.

I hadn't seen the picture, but the description said she was photographed in Trump's private jet, stretched out on a rug (to be precise, a bearskin rug) and chained to a briefcase. (I just looked the picture up to verify this. Heck, it's all over Utah, thanks to Ted Cruz or whoever did it (I'm not taking a stance on that), so I don't feel I'm making a bad situation any worse. To tell you the truth, I was bothered from the first time I read the description, though maybe not for the same reason the voters in Utah were. The photo came out in British GQ in 2000, and I'm just thinking it doesn't make for good optics; I dunno, maybe it's just me, but someone chained to a briefcase, in a jet, in a scene speaking of opulence and wealth. Just not good optics, to me.

There are many things in the news I've wondered about recently. (What, you mean you haven't?) I'm just pointing out that sometimes everyone gets really excited about certain aspects of things while possibly missing others. Here are some examples of things I've wondered about:

--What happened to Sarah Palin's husband in that accident?

--Who is really behind the Stop Trump movement?

--What happened in the Arizona election? Are we sure it hasn't happened in other places and just gone unnoticed? (I felt a little sorry for Helen Purcell, the Arizona election official who has taken responsibility for the long lines and other snafus, and I'm not negating the seriousness of what happened at all by saying this--I just feel there's some deeper story here.)

--If Hillary Clinton did so well in the Benghazi hearings, why did Huma Abedin look so ravaged in the photo I saw of her that was taken during the testimony?

--How come Gary Shandling's doctor wouldn't sign that death certificate? (It could turn out to be merely an overabundance of caution on his part, naturally.) Coincidentally, I read another item about the time Gary Shandling attended the Correspondents' Dinner in Washington, "ran into" President George H.W. Bush and Barbara while touring the White House, and got co-opted into speaking during the event. It was kind of a weird little story.

While I'm on the subject, I do wish people would get over this Democratic/Republican split as the primary viewing lens for events. No, no, no! Just stop it. I've said this before, and I'll say it again: I don't think that's where it's at. Really--I don't think that's where it's at.

Latin for Coffee Drinkers

Just for fun, I decided this week to pick up a book I bought many years ago on teaching yourself basic Latin. I did part or all of the course some time ago but didn't retain much of it; thinking it might be useful in the future, I decided to make another go at it.

I've taken the text and a notebook with me to Starbucks a couple of times, and I've got to say that that hasn't been the best environment for conjugating verbs, which is mostly what I've been doing. Reading, making notes, and even writing haven't been much of a problem for me in noisy coffeehouses, but trying to switch from one language to another in your head and on paper is a different story. It obviously draws on a different area of the brain than do reading and staring off into space occasionally, which is what I usually do at Starbucks. This feels more like programming or doing math.

After wrestling around today with such verbs as "dicere," "videre," and "habere," I was ready to throw the notebook down and go for some light summer reading. I was doing pretty well on the translations, except for figuring out which vowel goes before the endings, but it wasn't that much fun. I tell you this in case you ever wondered whether going to Starbucks to do a little Latin grammar might be an easy way to pass the time. It isn't. For this type of study, I think you need a quiet room.

To make it a little more lighthearted, I tried coming up with sentences of my own, which may or may not mean what I think they mean. One of the things I learned the other day was the word "quia," meaning "that." I put together the sentence "quia interrogo," which I was rather proud of, and I hope it means "I question that" (though maybe it doesn't). Today I tried to put together a sentence describing something I saw, but my book isn't really that great on lists of vocabulary words. I can vouch for "video" ("I see"), but my attempts to render "I see an annoying person" fell short. I just couldn't get there.

While all of this was going on, I started thinking of the movie title Quo Vadis. I thought at first that "quo" means "what," but apparently it doesn't: "what" is "quid." I know that "vadis" is the second person singular form of a verb, but what verb? I haven't gotten to it yet in the book, but I know it's a common one, and it seems similar to the French verb "to go." A quick Internet search yields "where" as a possibility for "quo," which I had considered, since "Where are you going?" or "Where do you go?" makes sense. Unable to stand the suspense, I just looked it up. Quo Vadis does indeed mean, "Where are you going?" (From all of this, it's probably obvious that I haven't seen the movie, or if I did, I didn't retain it.)

The other thing that really gave me fits was the right way to conjugate the verb "to give." A drawback to the book I have is that it gives you the first person singular conjugation but forces you to do the others yourself. So I had a lot of trouble with "dare," and just to settle the question, here are the right forms, hot off the Internet: "do," "das," "dat," "damus," "datis," "dant." I was way off on that one, having ended up somehow with an extra syllable in the middle, but at least now I know.

My memory of doing introductory Latin the last time is that things really got complicated once you left the present tense. There may or may not be a future in trying to make that leap at Starbucks, but at least I got past the "quo vadis" thing, and I know that "ignoramus" is the first person plural form of "ignorare" (to not know). I was practicing the conjugations aloud in the parking lot at the grocery store the other night, and though it turns out I had the infinitive wrong (I was working backwards from conjugations), there was some fun to be had from saying the words "ignorant" and "ignoramus" aloud--and to have a perfectly innocent reason for doing so. They'll tell you in school that there are many benefits to be had from studying languages, and they could be right.

Forgetting to Be Irish

I can never quite get off the ground with St. Patrick's Day. I know a lot of people love it, but for some reason I nearly always forget to wear green, and the holiday ends up as sort of a nonstarter for me. It happened again today: ahead of time I was thinking, "I'll bet I forget to wear green again." By the time I got dressed, I forgot I'd been thinking that, but I also forgot to wear anything green. Maybe it's just that I'm not overly fond of corned beef, cabbage, and green glitter, but for whatever reason, the day usually slips by me.

There have been a few St. Patrick's Days that were more memorable than others. For several years, I was in the habit of taking a vacation in March that often led me to NoCal so that I was in San Francisco for St. Paddy's. The first time it happened I actually went to a restaurant for an Irish meal; my friend Jot and I somehow ended up at this place in the Mission that was celebrating the day with traditional Irish food. I don't remember what I had, but considering my cooked cabbage phobia, I'm thinking it must have been something more like stew or potatoes. I do recall that we were regaled non-stop by a character seated near us who just could not stop talking. I've met some overly chatty strangers in my time, but this man was the very King of Chat, bar none.

You do meet some personalities in San Francisco, and sometimes you just have to roll with it, but I've never before or since met anyone so determined to insert himself into the conversation of complete strangers (and few people more immune to hints). As Jot and I were walking down the street afterward, I said to him, "I guess that's what you call the gift of the gab." And he said, "I think it's more like a curse."

I was in San Francisco for St. Patrick's Day the next year, too, though I had been in Sonoma most of the week and only drove into the City that day. I'd been intending to meet people, but they were called out of town, so I spent the afternoon and evening in North Beach. I had stopped by the Tosca Cafe, which didn't seem to have a lot going on, and then soaked up the street life on my way back to my hotel. My most vivid memory is of passing, on Columbus Avenue, a young, laughing man--definitely of Asian heritage--sporting the loudest Top-to-Toe All-Green leprechaun attire I have ever witnessed. I didn't even know they made outfits like that. He was well pleased with himself, and I don't blame him: the whole street was gaping at him. Well, there was no topping that in the Irish sweepstakes, and I finished the evening with pasta and panna cotta in the Italian restaurant next to my hotel. It was a very San Francisco St. Patrick's Day.

Then there was the time many years ago when I was passing through Chicago on the Saturday before St. Patrick's, and while walking by the river (in between trains), saw that it was dyed green. This is evidently a tradition in Chicago, as is their St. Patrick's Day parade, which had been held earlier in the day. I don't know if it was then that someone told me they'd been filming a movie or if I found out later, but it turns out that a scene in The Fugitive was filmed during Chicago's St. Patrick's Day parade (Harrison Ford, on the run, blending in with the marchers). I was never for sure if it was this film or another, but I always assumed The Fugitive because it came out the following year. So I count that as the time I just missed seeing a movie being made and Harrison Ford in a green hat but got to see what a river looks like with a bunch of green dye dropped in.

Today was nowhere near that exciting, but it was sunny, which makes a pleasant change in this place at this time of year. I didn't do anything in particular to celebrate St. Patrick, but I did have a hobbity sort of dinner that included potatoes and onions. Contrary to the pattern of the last several years, spring seems to be arriving early this year, with things already greening up outdoors and the trees beginning to blossom. That's celebration enough for me. And may the road rise to meet you.

Drinking the River Styx

With the Michigan primary being so much in the news this week, the Flint water crisis has also been front and center in public awareness. I watched news clips of Flint residents talking about their experiences and also saw part of the Democratic presidential debate held there. When I started reading about the background of the problem, I began thinking about addressing it in this week's post, though I hesitated after hearing the remarks of some of the people who live there.

I was struck by the comment of one resident who said she didn't want to participate in the debate because she was wary of allowing presidential candidates to politicize Flint's crisis; another woman said she thought the time to start assigning blame for what happened would be after the problem is fixed. I see the wisdom of both perspectives and initially wondered whether I should hold off on writing about Flint since, after all, I don't live there. But since both the debate and the primary are over with, and Flint is still suffering, I decided that throwing in my two cents' worth couldn't hurt. Everyone from Hollywood actors to sports figures to public officials has been vocal on this topic (and rightly so). However, I don't know if any mythologists have weighed in, so I'll take that as an opening.

Flint, Michigan: formerly thriving auto industry hub and the hometown of filmmaker Michael Moore (Bowling for Columbine, Fahrenheit 9/11). Don't you have the feeling that it's time Flint caught a break? First the loss of much of its industrial base (chronicled in Mr. Moore's film Roger & Me), and now this. Water, of course, is synonymous with life, and to be poisoned right in your own home by something you took for granted as not only safe but vital to health must be especially hard to deal with. Poisoning the well, as it were, is hitting people at a very basic level, not only physically but psychologically, especially when they're already living through tough times.

One of the signs in mythology that you're entering the underworld is the act of crossing a river--not that every river crossing is that dire, but it certainly fits in this case, since a switch from the Detroit water supply to the Flint River was the beginning of the problem. What I don't understand is how officials could have neglected to add the proper chemical (orthophosphate) to the river water--as required by the Federal government's Lead and Copper Rule--that would have kept the pipes from corroding in the first place. Other people have blamed the water crisis on government mismanagement, racism, and misguided efforts to save money. To me, the heart of the matter is the unlawful failure to treat the water. It almost sounds like building a house and neglecting to put a roof on. Why would you do that?

EPA analyst Miguel Del Toral, who outlined his findings of the high lead levels in Flint's water in a report to Michigan officials last June, said he was "stunned" to find no corrosion control in place. In a recent interview with Michigan Radio, Mr. Del Toral said that "it's just inconceivable that somebody would not require the (corrosion control) treatment in the first place. So that was kind of the biggest shock if you will. . . . it just, it was really surprising to see a government agency saying the things that they were saying I guess."

Yes, very surprising. While the city of Flint continues its efforts to replace its old pipes and to take care of the people affected by the debacle, I hope someone remembers to ask, "Why did this happen?" It seems the "how" is understood, but what about the "why"? Is everybody buying that it was just a bureaucratic oversight? Hopefully, it wasn't a case of someone playing political games with Flint's water supply, because that would take it out of the territory of mere government bungling into something far more serious than it already is. It may be no consolation to the people of Flint one way or the other whether their suffering is the result of incompetence or something more akin to political terrorism--but, still, I think they would want to know.

Stay Loose

Sometimes, it's the little things. The other day, I was sitting in my living room in the early afternoon, just sitting on the couch with the blinds open and the sunlight pouring in. I was looking at my rug, which I had vacuumed the day before, and at the floor, immaculate and gleaming in the light. I was thinking how good it felt to be sitting in a clean room, with no visible dust, thanks to my (sometimes imperfect) efforts to stay on a cleaning schedule. Unexpectedly, a feeling of contentment and serenity came over me, and it was all on account of not seeing any dust bunnies under the coffee table.

I've never really enjoyed housework (and am not crazy about it now), but I do like the way I feel once it's done. When I worked full-time, it seemed like a real chore to mop and dust, but now that I've been spending more time at home, I've come to appreciate more closely the Zen of a clean room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that I had done the work myself. If someone else had done it, I'd probably still enjoy the idea that the room was clean but might be suffering some residual guilt over the fact that I'd had to pay someone to clean up after me. I'd be totally missing the happiness of giving myself the gift of a clean room.

It doesn't sound like much, but believe it or not, it was probably the highlight of my week. Peak experiences come in all strengths and flavors, I guess, from the barely there to the resoundingly dramatic. Watching the light shine on a wooden floor may seem to have little in common with something like, say, reaching the top of a mountain, or even just watching a mountain reveal itself to you from different angles as you drive past it, but they're just different points on a journey.

Actually, I had the mountain experience recently on the interstate out west, and part of the marvel of it to me, then and now, was the fact that I had the capacity to see and respond to the moment regardless of anything that took place on the way to it. The mountain itself seemed to be saying something like, "Be hard, be immovable, be adamantine when you need to be," but there was also a whisper of something else, something like, "And remember how blue the sky was when you saw me, and how free you suddenly felt. Remember how my slopes gleamed in the sunshine. Don't forget."

Well, as Wendy Doniger has said, a mythologist needs both a microscope and a telescope. Sometimes you're looking at a grain of sand and sometimes you're looking at a mountain, but the important thing is to stay open, to retain the capacity to marvel, even though you won't feel it all the time.

Stay loose, everybody.

Stormy

We have been sitting under clouds here for the last several days, although it's nothing to complain about compared to the recent weather south and east of us. Within the last week or two, we've gone from whirling snow to sunny warmth to thunderstorms--and back again. Yesterday, I had to decide whether to go out for a walk in the face of a forecast calling for rain and wind, including gusts of 30 to 40 miles an hour. It was the wind that really concerned me, because I wasn't charmed by the thought of flying debris. In the end, I bundled up, grabbed an umbrella, and went, motivated by the principle that if I couldn't actually see flying houses or garbage cans from the window, it was probably best to get some exercise.

I know some people lost their lives in storms this week, so I'm not making light of the subject. I felt the same way I felt on that hot night at the end of July, when I had to judge whether it was better to stay in or to go out on a muggy evening with heat lightning causing a major ruckus in the distance. (I elected to go out on that occasion, too, and have a clear memory of nervously circling the Arboretum while a spectacular light show illuminated the horizon north and east.) Yesterday (as on that other occasion) I was somewhat reassured to see a number of other people out and about, although it's true that you can't always go by the safety in numbers thing. We could all have been swept up by a wind shear and deposited somewhere unlikely like Oz--but it turned out that the wind, though cold, wasn't that fierce. It was unrelenting but no more than you might expect from a typical day in March. We were fortunate.

It certainly looked more like March than February, with some new grass and even a few crocuses poking up here and there. The sky was very stormy, though only a few drops of rain fell while I was out. The most startling thing I saw was someone walking down the street wearing shorts, which I did think was pushing it a bit for such a blustery day. I was wearing down, ear warmers, a scarf, and gloves and felt comfortable except that the wind kept pushing my hair into my eyes. My fears of getting caught in a downpour were never realized, and I got home without having had to open my umbrella.

There is something invigorating about being outside when Nature is asserting itself as it was yesterday. An ordinary neighborhood walk takes on a heightened air of conflict, since you're no longer strolling easily along under calm skies but are actually pushing your way forward. The landscape that had seemed so tame the day before is suddenly, unmistakably alive all around you, rushing into your eyes and ears and forcing you, in turn, to assert yourself against it. Crossing a bridge over a ditch swollen with rainwater suddenly brings to mind a mountain stream, and while it's not nearly as dramatic as climbing a mountain, it'll do for the suburbs.

So I was glad I went, not only for the exercise but for the sight of that turbulent sky, full of dark clouds when I set out, and transformed into a tent-like covering by the time I got home. It hung over everything like a gray canvas tossed by the wind, only revealing regions of pale blue at the margins. It was an arresting color of blue, and I had to think of what it reminded me of. I finally decided it was like the blue soap of a steel wool pad, clean and metallic but very, very cool, as if the weather were washing the sky clean. It's just too bad it's not that easy to take care of things here on the ground.

Sweets to the Sweet

Just before Valentine's Day, there was a news article online summarizing the advantages and disadvantages of married vs. single life in several categories, including health, finances, and emotional well-being. It was--if I may say so--notably even-handed in pointing out that there are ways in which being single can be superior to being married, something that's worth remembering. You'll get no arguments from me against the idea of wedded bliss, except that achieving it seems so darn tangled up in issues of human frailty and other variables. Of course, if you're married, you don't need to be reminded of that.

Would you agree that it's better to be alone than to be with the wrong person? I think of it along the same lines as the home owner's vs. renter's argument, which I have also had presented to me as a fait accompli on the side of buying, as if renting were merely the same preliminary and temporary step on the way to home ownership as singlehood is to marriage (though some financial advisors, in fact, say that home buying is a lifestyle choice more than anything). I'm never quite sure why people are so dead set on getting others to embark on a course which has little more than a 50-50 chance (according to some estimates) of succeeding. I sometimes think that if more people managed to get out of their 20s, as I did, without tying the knot, they might have a different outlook on the whole question. I was miserable during most of my 20s while everyone around me was getting married, but for some reason, once I passed the 3-0 threshold and took a deep breath, it was kind of fun (though scary) to be a holdout.

Yesterday I was reading a biography of William Shakespeare in which the author, Stephen Greenblatt, recounted the evidence regarding the playwright's married life, particularly the issue of whether he was happy or not. The biographer admitted that assessing this is very hard to do, but he pointed out that there are few signs evincing a happily married state in Shakespeare's portrayals of married couples. Greenblatt didn't address the love sonnets in that section, but he did say there was plenty of poetic precedent for keeping marital expectations low and directing your longing toward someone else (as in the case of Dante, who was never married to Beatrice). The idea of looking to your marriage for true companionship really took hold later, Greenblatt says, as part of the new sober-mindedness swept in with the Protestant Reformation.

I do wonder sometimes whether people today put too many expectations on marriage, but as someone who's never (yet) done it, it's nothing I can speak about from personal experience. In a spirit of bipartisanship, let me just say that I believe very much in personal choice on the married/single question, though choice should be leavened with wisdom whenever possible.

What I can speak about with authority is the best Valentine's Day cookie recipe I've ever come across, guaranteed to bring you, married or single, a few stolen moments of bliss, for as long as it takes to eat one. I offer the thought as a gift to my readers, a little late, though if you're one of those who think of every day as Valentine's Day, that doesn't signify. Now, pay attention, because it's not often that I give out recipes and practical hints, and this one is a keeper. I got the recipe from Delish online (they credit Martha Stewart), so if it's precision you're after, go there and look up Chocolate Sweet Hearts.

Even making these cookies is fun, because it involves melting chocolate, brown sugar, and butter over a saucepan of simmering water until you have, basically, a bowl of molten chocolate. How many things under the sun are as delectable as that? You stir an egg into this and then combine it with a flour-cocoa-baking soda mixture. Where I part company with the recipe is in using my special Valentine hearts pan, which has six large heart-shaped cavities into which you press the prepared dough. After you bake them for 12 minutes or so, they come out of the pan in lovely heart shapes, no two alike, some with scalloped edges, some with little x's and o's, and some with hearts within hearts.

Here's the only caveat: you have to watch the timing. Last year, I left them in a little too long, and they were too crisp around the edges. This year, I took them out a little too soon, and they were a bit soft, though still delicious when they cooled. When you make them into big cookies like I do, they have the texture and taste of brownies. I eat one with a glass of milk after dinner, and it's perfectly wonderful. In fact, I still have some chocolate to use up, so I may have to make another batch once this one is gone.

Just one woman's idea of a great way to celebrate Valentine's Day, sans recriminations, sans jealousy, and sans hard feelings to ruin the holiday. Of course, one advantage to being single in this case is that there's more for you and you don't have to share. You may, quite rightly, point out to me that sharing often makes things more fun--and I agree completely. So if you're married, I simply advise you to double the recipe. That way, you and your partner can enjoy six full days of chocolate bliss, just as I do. I've still got one cookie left, and it's going to taste just as good as the first one did.

Sweets to the sweet (and that is Shakespeare).

Ghost in the Machine

Do you ever have times when you feel you just can't get anything done? On such occasions, do you blame Mercury in retrograde, the weather, raging sunspots, or something else altogether? Whatever it is, the communication slow-down I've seen lately manifests itself in peculiar ways.

The two areas giving me the most trouble are emails and customer service. For example, I've been trying to make a change in my student loan terms since early November, and I'm beginning to think the people there are on the other side of the looking glass. First, I failed to get an important notification about my loan status, forcing me to seek the information out for myself. Then I got a customer service rep who gave me false information over the phone, just plain wrong. When I corrected her, our connection was suddenly cut off (I'm not going to say she hung up on me--all I know is that the line went dead). Since then, I've been waiting for a paper copy of a form that I requested and still haven't seen. Did the last rep I talked to really not understand that I wanted a paper form when I said, "Please mail one to me"?

I also had trouble getting my health insurance premium to post as "paid" when I used the company's online system, although that corrected itself shortly after I sent a message of complaint. Whether it would have corrected itself if I hadn't complained is more than I can say. Then there's the trouble I've had in finding out how a library in Australia got a copy of my dissertation, which is listed in their online catalog. This is a story that began months ago when I contacted ProQuest to ask whether I was due any royalties for sales. I knew the amount would be minimal, but I didn't fully understand how the system works, so I thought I'd better ask.

If Mercury really is in retrograde, he must be getting tired of back-peddling; I first contacted ProQuest with this question at the end of August. The person there told me my question about the number of copies sold would have to be researched and that the person who could do it was out. I was moderately surprised since I pictured ProQuest as somewhat bigger than a mom-and-pop operation, although I don't really know since I've never been there. Maybe it really is a small organization with a few people doing a lot of things; I've worked in places like that. However it is, I never got an answer to what I'm sure must be a very common question.

Last month, it occurred to me that I'd never heard back from them, so I tried again, and this time I got a quick response, but the person who emailed me said ProQuest had no record of any sales of my dissertation and that she didn't know who would have told me they could "research" the situation. She seemed to think that WorldCat (which merely lists libraries holding a particular work) was somehow to blame, and that I should be talking to them. I told her that WorldCat was just a giant catalog. I was a little surprised that ProQuest people wouldn't know about WorldCat . . . but the exchange was turning into sort of a "Who's on First?" conversation, so I thanked her and said I would contact the library in question at the University of Melbourne.

I contacted the library and asked them by what channel they had acquired my work, since ProQuest said they didn't make the sale; I asked if, by chance, what they actually have is the book version, published independently, even though their catalog lists ProQuest information. I didn't say they shouldn't have it (of course I want people to read my work), but naturally I'm curious as to how they obtained it--just trying to look out for my intellectual property. There's been no answer at all from them, though the email went out two weeks ago. Perhaps they haven't had time to look into it, but for me, it's a question I've been trying to get answered since July 22, when I first contacted my school about it. Is it such a difficult question that it can't be answered in a seven-month time frame?

Then there's the job application at UCLA. I went through the same automated process a couple of years ago with no technical issues that I know of. Having decided recently to reapply, I updated my materials and got everything in order except for one remaining letter of recommendation. This person readily agreed to write on my behalf and then suddenly dropped off the map, totally incommunicado; someone else offered to do it, and thence began a series of emails that have apparently disappeared either into the ether or a giant black hole.

I have applied, over the last couple of years, for jobs in 15 different states, all over the country, and this is one of the few times I've had direct contact with my references at the start of the process. If any of my potential employers had as much difficulty as I've had in communicating with references, it's no wonder I didn't get more interviews. (I'm not saying they did have trouble--I likely wouldn't have gotten calls on some of those jobs anyway--but if the part of the communication process that's visible to me is this fraught with difficulty, I have to wonder about the part that's not visible.) I'm sure I'll find a way to make this work, though it's been much more time-consuming than it ought to be.

There was a letter that I did get an answer to (so success, of sorts), from a government official, on a separate matter, which just arrived today--so that at least I know some channels of communication are open. It wasn't really a satisfactory response, but it wasn't the only avenue of inquiry I took, so it's not the last word. The only good upshot in this instance is at least getting a response, a commodity that seems to be hard to come by.

Mercury is the god of communications, so might as well blame him as anybody. He's definitely got the lead foot lately, but you know how busy he is. He's sly, too, so that you can never really tell what he's going to do. They even say he can walk through walls, though that's more than I know. I was reading about Einstein's theory of gravitational waves and the bending of space-time only today, so perhaps it has something to do with that. Maybe Mercury is, after all, a giant wave--though personifying him at least gives you someone more concrete to shake a fist at than a mere ghost in the machine. I'd take Mercury any day over a faceless bureaucrat, though who knows: maybe that's all he is.