problems without passports

Space rocks of this size [460 feet or larger] are so-called 'problems without passports' because they are expected to affect whole regions if they collide with Earth.  18 March 2019 BBC News website

I wish someone had told me my problems needed passports -- at least some of them apparently do. I simply could have refused to apply for my problem passport and left the problem in outer space, or wherever passport-required problems are stored. Granted, even a problem with a properly issued passport can be kept at bay via visa restrictions. Everybody knows that. I don't dare ask how one applies for a problem passport, who issues it, which metaphysical countries require it, and what the expiration date is. Let me be frank: why would anyone want to apply for a problem passport? To what good, or cui bono as we were taught in our high school Latin classes. I suppose in accord with some sort of Freudian-Jungian psychology theory, one should face one's problems, not bury or "stuff" them. And this isn't just the advice touted in the realm of psychology or psychiatry. Many religious and spiritual belief systems teach that awareness leads to enlightenment. If so, can't we merely say, "Okay, I'm aware of Problem X. Got it. Next!" Oh, you say, we have to face and work through our problems? If you say so. But why go out of one's way? Don't we have enough nonpassportable problems without having to sign up for more? And one could safely assume that the passport problems are heftier, more intricate, and more ominous. Who needs that? Who's to say we don't have something big at work here, such as World Peace? If governments stopped issuing passports for problems, such unsettling matters would be confined. Consider how nations agree on travel quarantines to stem the spread of terrible sicknesses like the Ebola virus. Yes, the host country, so to speak, still has to manage the crisis, but it's contained. A moratorium on the issuance of problem passports might conceivably isolate the world's problems so that they can be "domesticated," if not solved or cured. Having said all that, I suggest that we aren't talking about problems on such a grand scale. I submit that problems requiring passports exist on a much more personal level. I can't verify this, but I imagine that passport problems, or more accurately problems with passports, are vexing, tense, dramatic, daunting, and life-changing. Nevertheless, they are phrased and formulated with stark simplicity: Why? Why not? Yes or no? When? Should I? Shouldn't I? Oops! I just realized I unintentionally tipped my hand. I accidentally allowed you a glimpse of my own problems without passports because I mistakenly equated simple and challenging questions with problems. Since when did a question become a problem? Hunh? But back to the beginning of this meandering maze of speculation: who issues these passports for problems? Since when? And just who do they think they are? What do they get out of it? (That's easy: control. That's what all passport issuers seek.) Back when I was in junior high (before they were called middle schools), we used to read "The Man Without a Country," a short story by Edward Everett Hale, published in 1863. (Go ahead, Google it. Or Duckduckgo it.) The protagonist renounces his country and is left to spend his days at sea, countryless, adrift and unwelcome everywhere. You can see where I'm going with this. Would it be so bad to be similarly cast at sea never permitted to enter a country with problems, navigating the world's waters without a passport for problems?

wrong exit

The signs were not there. Or I did not see them. Well, actually the signs were there. I misread them. I expected more overt, more blatant exit warnings. (Are they "warnings"? More like proclamations, declarations. Not so much Good News, as News. Do with the information what you will.) So I kept going. But it began to feel not quite right. Sure enough, at the rest stop I consulted a map on the wall. I had overshot the exit. I exceeded my expectation. I now had to make the wrong exit the right exit. I took a bridge, of majestic beauty, even as my anxiety rose like the bluish spires holding up the cables. I headed north. I backtracked. I found my way, even though it was not the way. I met my party. It was all relative ("all relative," an oxymoron if there ever was one). So I guess wrong was righted.

WTF

some stranger from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, or from Bratislava, Slovakia, is going to land here and say

W

T

F

exclamation points, many

Unperson of the Year, 2007

Well, today it is things back to normal, more or less, back to not being Time magazine's Person of the Year 2006. In fact, it is back to being Potential Person of the Year 2007, or Potential Nonperson of the Year 2007, or even potential person, or potential nonperson (I threw that in for existentialists and FOSK [Friends of Soren Kierkegaard]).

And what is "normal" on New Year's Day, anyway? It is not a normal day. It is a day groggy with the hangover of the memory of ancient hangovers, after a night of no imbibing, except for the intoxicating vision of numbing television, including the watching of the Waterford cystal ball falling, by increments of seconds, backwards-counting seconds, like those manned-spacecraft or unmanned (neutered?)-spacecraft launchings we watched in my youth. This, a scene from the new, Disney-fied Times Square, a far cry from the ancient, tawdry carnal "Midnight Cowboy" fleshpot carnival of yesteryear, though I admit to sometimes missing its vulgar, if menacing and perilous, "atmosphere" and allurements.

New Year's Eve. The memory -- my memory -- of retching mercilessly by the clock at Grand Central Terminal (frequently mistakenly called Grand Central Station, which is a post office), slobbering onto the marble floor, oblivious to the star-spotted cerulean blue, majestic ceiling. New Year's Day. "I'll never do that again. I promise." Those powerless vows. One such first day of the year taking the train from that very terminal (not the day after the oblivion onto the marble), drinking again, cavorting, parading, mock-marrying, annoying, dancing, falling, menacing for four, five, six hours. And then after the train ride making the rounds by car and foot and lechery through blurry strip clubs, Marvin Gaye music, a crack-up somewhere, knocking on strangers' doors at 5 a.m., fearing I was in Brooklyn (where I had never been). And then deigning to go to work the next day! These days, I'd have been fired on the spot -- and arrested too perhaps (cardiac or otherwise).

And so this sometimes unperson surprises no one when he says his New Year's Eves -- and the other 364 eves -- demand at the very least a modicum of sobriety, not so much as a virtue but as a personal, communal, and redeeming necessity. Achieved only by surrendering to and embracing grace, with an uppercase G, never the less. But always enough. An Abiding One-Day-At-A-Time Unearned (except by pain) Grace.

So what was "normal" today? Getting up around 10:30, everything thrown off. Sitting outside Toys R [with that obnoxious backwards, Cyrillic-alphabet-like inverted R] Us and laughing out loud at Steve Martin's genius novella The Pleasure of My Company. Laughing out loud as chubby suburban wives and surly dads and restless children run into the store and see an older man in a car reading a book -- and laughing. Do they think me a potential pervert? A molester? Let us hope not. (And somehow I think such miscreants are not inclined to wholesome laughter. Roaring laughter. Laughter at sheer humor, as well as the utterly distinct pleasure of reading someone whose style you love, whom you'd love to emulate, who just-plain resonates with you. Me, that is.) (The novella reminds me of Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine for its vision of daily minutiae.)

Did some dishes.

That's normal, isn't?

(We do not have one of those dish-washing machines, and I am glad.)

One never knows, you know? Today, in checking my emails, I found a very nice note from one of the authors on my list of 14 books, and authors.

Yikes! Who reads this stuff! question mark

It could be anyone!

Case in point: In November, I got an email from BBC Radio because I once mentioned A Perfect Spy by John Le Carre -- and they invited me to ask him a question for a radio show. And I did! I talked to him by phone! (enough of the exclamation points, dude)

Whew.

Merry New Year.

Laugh. Or....

Else.

p.s. Thanks for stopping by, Mr. Mystery Author Author. Clue to readers: I enjoyed The Nervous Breakdown.