I’m watching water boil. As usual, of course, that’s not true; I’m writing about watching water boil and pretending that’s what I’m actually doing, all part of the pretense and artifice which is to be found here. (Not for much longer.) to be specific, I have started a flame under a pot of water, and I am expecting it to start to boil before long, and occasionally I am getting up from the keyboard and going to the kitchen and looking at it. So, is there action here, or inaction? I have started the flame: Action there. But my action has ceased; I no longer intervene but observe, and wait. The flame is active, in a way; though I set it hopping, it hops for me, and passively, as it were, exerts itself and transfers some of its energy to the water. Which is surely passive, or perhaps not; soon it, too, will be set to hopping, and it is certainly potentially active, if, for instance, the cat (of which I have none) overturns the vessel and the water exchanges its passive identity as a still pond for its active one, as a rushing torrent. And hot, too — won’t the cat (of which I have none) be sorry! and I took a break and saw the water boiling; so the time has come for all of us, man, flame, water and cat (of which I have none) to unite in harmonious action. Goodbye!

The pen ceases to write; the nib ceases to scratch at the paper, the ink dries and is blotted, the manuscript is closed and put away; and as this happens the words no longer flow, mouthed but not spoken, and no longer echo in the mind; and the prior concepts (if there are such) and cumulating arguments and obsevations are put to rest, and the book of the mind is returned to the shelf and the window of sensation is closed and shuttered: but the thing remains, shackled, caged and gagged, but still … still … open it and release, blinking at the light and idiotic from the isolation, the captive shade, reeling and inchoate, but still almost recognizable for the flash and spark of intellection it once was; and, challenged, it undertakes to grapple with the unfamiliar mind and, protean, it is transformed, many times, and wears a new face, and, raging, is freshly jailed and blotted, closed, and shelved, and put to rest, screaming.

The Bolsheviks may have slaughtered the Romanovs but they never did manage to get rid of the mice in the Kremlin. Don’t tell me there’s not a lesson in that. The small get by, and the willows which so artfully bend are the last to break. But even more so, the tiny grasses survive and flourish. The willow eventually attracts the attention of a woodsman, but the grass bends beneath his feet and springs back as he passes on.

And yet the mice all envied the Czar, and even as a bullet-riddled slab of meat he never wished himself a mouse.

I used to wonder about it, from time to time. I’d be riding on the train, maybe a little after dusk, and I’d look out the windows. There were houses there, following one another in rapid succession, nice houses, and the warm glow of the electric light was showing through the windows. Now, the railroad was to the side or the back of the house, so you got an honest glimpse through the windows, not like you’d see through the front windows, the formal windows. Just a second, and then it shot by; a dining room table, some magazines, the dog looking out; the kitchen and the refrigerator with the notes pinned to it with magnets; dishes in the sink and glasses on the counter-top; maybe a bedroom with the shade not quite drawn and a teenager inside, not quite studying; and the family room or den or TV room, with the blue glow blending into the orange of the incandescent; the orange so constant, the blue so dynamic and ragged. Not alike, not at all; but these endless variations on a theme, street after street, mile after mile, town after town, prosperity flickering by at twenty four frames per second, for the rest of the ride.

I’m looking forward to a wonderful land, the Paradise that is the Future. I love the idea of living in tomorrow; today is all wet and everybody knows it! Now, to make tomorrow happen, all I have to do is make these simple resolutions and stick to them (that’s the hard part); then, just you wait, there won’t be anything to complain about. Not for me nor for anybody, because my resolutions are all-encompassing and transcendent. You might even say, they’re “resolutionary”! Ha ha! Anyway, I resolve to:

–Discover a new continent;
–Wear my shoes on the “wrong” feet and start a fashion trend;
–Make all the clocks run backward;
–Get Mahatma Gandhi and Elvis Presley in the same room and stop their ridiculous feud;
–Lose 20 pounds;
–Pass legislation which will make use of the Comic Sans font a capital offense;
–Write Beethoven’s 41st Symphony.

Wish me luck! Anyway, it’ll be a “Brave New world” I create, and you’ll be stuck in it. A world I like to call:
Tomorrow!

Success! I have advanced through the entire year, and I’m finally within reach of advancing to the next one. But it didn’t happen without effort; every day leaped out at me like a scowling samurai, and fought to trap me in its moments. I battled them down, three hundred and sixty five (so far) in succession, and moved on to the next. Most of those days, I have to say, never had much of a chance to hold me in their grasp. Only a dozen or so actually had a shot. And some of them I can’t even say why any more, what that special spark was that almost captured me. I do remember a couple of days, in early October, when the sky was bright and clear, when the temperatures were warm, the trees were in their first blush of autumn; these days embraced me and I thought I could happily stay within their confines forever. And the sun went down, and the sun came up, and those days were gone. I had escaped them; a miserable escape, perhaps, when the succeeding days were not so clear and bright. So here I stand, on the bridge to a new year, past all those ninjas; and all I have to show for it is my freedom.

The new year, still in storage, prepares for launch. Its strangely lascivious look bodes ill for the future.

I like to go to the bank, go inside, walk up to a teller, and take out money. I decided this a long time ago. There was very nice young woman at the local branch of my bank. The other tellers were nice too, but she was my favorite. Within the formal restrictions of the relationship, we became very friendly. Of course, there was a barrier between us, literally, and she was under glass. I met her at the drive thourh, but she was so nice I started to come inside. She went to another bank after a while, and I stayed behind, but I still came inside for my transactions. I see her once in a while still. But I thought; I am entrusting this institution with my money, and they are using it while it is in their hands to conduct strange and awful business activities, and all I want in return is that when I come in to get a little of it to walk around with, that there be a living person to count it out and hand it over and say hello. So i have never used an ATM, and I have never moved to online banking. I go to the bank for my money and withdraw a little human society while I’m there.

Upon entering a residence for the first time, remove your hat and, if asked, surrender your coat to the host.

Current will flow more freely through wires of certain pure metals than through air, ceramic or rubber.

The baton should be as readily visible to the timpanist as to the concertmaster. Take care that the trombones are paying attention.

The representatives of the opposing armies shall permit their horses to proceed at no more than a modest trot; the flag of truce shall be carried conspicuously and any such weapons as they are permitted to bear shall be directed in a non-threatening manner.

While discussion should flow freely, the meeting should proceed in accordance with the written agenda and in a timely fashion.

There was a woman, lovely, intelligent, educated (Mount Holyoke, I think); she had a lively and spirited career in the Big City and after a time she met a lovely, intelligent, educated (Yale; then Columbia) man with a lively and spirited career. She fell in love with him and he with her and they married and settled down in New Rochelle, just like Rob and Laura, only she still had her career, at least for a while. For they were blessed with a child, their Richie; and she took a leave of absence from her job and stayed home for a while. And she just adored him, so much so that she couldn’t bear the idea of going back to her career just then. This little baby, so eager and alert and just as smart as a whip.

And he took his first steps, and she was there; and spoke a little word, and then another, and she was there. He grew very fast, it seemed to her; and she coaxed him into using the potty like a big boy and applauded him when he did it. Once in a restaurant he annonced in stentorian tones for the whole crowd to hear that he had to go make a boom boom, and she was not embarrassed, but proud of her little man. Her husband was mortified.

Well, money was tighter, with just the one income, but they managed to put a little aside and go to the seashore for a few weeks that summer, and they took a cottage at Beach Haven. It was lovely, the sun shone and the waves crashed and the little boy played in the sand; he would go down to the breakwater and look in at the little creatures in the swirling waters, and he would go to the edge of the ocean and a wave would roll in and wash over him up to his knees and he would laugh and run away.

One day they were there on the beach, this woman and her beloved toddler child, and suddenly a great wave roared out of the wine-dark sea and pounced upon the two of them; and as the tumult and uproar ebbed away and all was as it had been, there were no longer two on the beach, but one, for the boy was gone.

The woman screamed aloud and shouted to the heavens; “Please, Oh you Powers, oh please! I am bereft! Do not torment me and ruin me but return my child to me!”

And as if in answer yet another great wave roared in and pounded her and the beach and all was concealed beneath the spray and the rumble; and as it went back, this wave, into the sea, the miracle had happened, and the child had been spit up from the belly of the ocean.

And all was quiet except for the gentle sussurrus of the surf. Then, hesitantly, softly, the woman spoke again.

“He had a hat…”