The New and *Imporved FSA

One of the perks (perquisites being the original word) of this new job is the Vice and Virtue Flexible Spending Account, also known as a VVFSA or, popularly, a Sinning and Sainting FSA. We all get one. No other employer in the country (maybe the world) offers a VVFSA. They’re still working out some of the kinks of this innovation. As best as I can tell, this is how it works:

• Each employee starts with 1,000 Metaphysical Points (MPs) in their account.

• As with a stock exchange, the account value rises or falls in accordance with supply and demand. In this case, punishment and reward or good or bad are central to the algorithim.

• In any given calendar year, one’s account grows or diminishes in value as a result of the employee's contributed positive or negative impacts as determined by Human Resources (HR). (As of this writing, the impacts are confined both to the workspace and the hours of employment. However, remote work during the Coronavirus Pandemic has blurred these lines, and discussions are under way to amend the plan’s parameters.)

• Each employee is given a personal customized, confidential list of Positive Impacts (PIs) and Negative Impacts (NIs) at the end of each calendar year as an MP scoring sheet for the forthcoming year.

• The so-called cafeteria plan component of the Vice and Virtue FSA enables adherents to select in advance which impacts to be assigned a weighted value or which impacts to delete altogether in considering the MP annual total.

• The FSA essentially enables individuals to be reimbursed for virtues and charged for nonreimbursable vices as defined by HR.

• The “use it or lose it” feature of the VVFSA means that all 1,000 Metaphysical Points must be either spent during the calendar year or lost in perpetuity. The MPs can’t be rolled over into the next year.

• At year’s end, if an individual’s MP total is in arrears (e.g., in a state of moral depravity, beneath contempt, heinously solipsistic, Trumpian, egregiously GOP, sociopathically successful inter alia), HR will schedule an exit conference in the Tomas de Torquemada Conference Room in the sub-basement.

whose harm is it, anyway

What is harm anyway? There's the obvious nightmare catalog of war, insurrection, repression, torture, and unimaginable, and all-too-observable, endless permutations of physical, mental, social, etc violence, passive or active. And everything in between along a continuum of horror. There's that. There are also ever more subtle acts or omissions of harm, a seemingly infinite inventory of our inhumanity.

But what about the debates that people wage, even on Planet Harm?

Debates about blame, responsibility, history, cause and effect, will, evil, social structures, philosophies, religions, anarchies?

What about cloudy or murky (in the eyes of some) instances of alleged harm? (Mere mention of the word "alleged" sparks debate in some circles.)

The gesture of holding the door open for someone: is it gallant, condescending, ahistorical, sexist, ageist, arrogant, presumptuous, kind, or neutral?

And the rebuff of such a gesture: is that a shade of harm in the form of hues yet named?

The list goes on. The lists go on. (Whose lists?)

The look from one to another, anonymous or intimate: affection, objectification, lust, compassion, anguish, remorse, regret, rage, curiosity, sadness, charity, solidarity, sincerity, lovingkindness . . . ad infinitum.

The same with the written word, the spoken word. The same (multiplied exponentially) with words or parts of words or emojis transmitted by short message service, or SMS, which we all call "text."

The same with the word or words not said.

And then there's the harm of history, the stain and weight of ancient or recent sins, horrors we inherit, a heritage that can't be disappeared, that we cannot escape, even if by association and lineage. 

So, we on Planet Harm live and breathe all this; it's our atmosphere. Some of us plead acceptance; others pray for amnesia; yet others cry for conversion, a magical metanoia; many crave escape (and they find it but only in passing, momentarily).

We Harmlings are standing on a plank over a crevice. We dream of wings. 

We Harmlings push a rope that is slack from use.

The elders sang sagas of a deus ex machina, a dea ex machina, come to the rescue.

We lost the words but remember the melody.

What now?

St. Inquisitive

I could have, couldn’t I? I wish I had. Why didn’t I? What was I thinking? (Before you go there, neuroscientists long ago demonstrated no difference between thinking and feeling.) Having gone that far, having done such doings, said such words, I could have hit the brakes, paused, slowed down, or — gasp! — come to a stop, sure, a rolling stop, the kind cops give tickets for, but a stop nevertheless, even if the word and the action were adorned in demurring, qualifying quotation marks, in Helvetica bold ital. Or a complete stop. Stop right there. On the other hand, in the other brain hemisphere, what if I couldn’t have? Given who I was then, the accumulated detritus and virtue coursing through my blood making me who I was in that time and place, who is to say those parameters allowed any choice whatsoever? With that notion percolating, go back, rewind the tape, as in the days of reel-to-reel tape recorders, and record again, record over the first take, what we now call overwrite or reboot in computer parlance, and say, “I couldn’t have, couldn’t I?” And the absurdly laughable Samuel Beckettish logic-and-illogic shotgun marriage of it all says, What’s the difference? Tell me, tell them, tell us the difference between could and couldn’t, between did and didn’t. I fail to fathom, plumb or plunder, any real or imagined difference. You vehemently shout: Of course, it makes a difference, it makes all the difference in the world, your world. Says you. I’m not playing with belly-button lint here. I’m not semantically self-abusing here (to use the lusciously lubricious term the Roman Catholic pre-Confession Examen of Conscience employed in the days of my seminary youth, etymological pun intended. Is there anything more oxymoronic than “self-abuse” as a term applied to self-administered pleasure? Can any two fused words say more about a generation? It is LOVL [laugh out very loud] now but not then, when we needed a St. Portnoy to save us). But I digress, and not because of perfume from a dress, Mr. Prufrock. Or do I digress? This metaphysical monologue, this diction-ated debate, on could vs. couldn’t is no dodge, no escape from responsibility. It’s an honest question twinned in pain and peril: Could I have gone another way? Could I not have gone another way? With or without the “not,” it’s the same question. Alas, after all this, after every self-administered midnight polygraph exam, after infinite Torquemada auto-interrogations on rack and ruin, I am finally brave enough to cry, Tighten the screws, have at it, boiling oil and all, ask it from every angle and in every tone of voice! 

I can’t for the life of me answer Yes or No.

And I blithely shout, It doesn’t matter.

beyond the beyond

Ultima Thule. Far out. Far-er out. Nameless. Ultimate unknown. Beyond the known known. Planetary Snowman. Past the silence. Beyond the pale. Pale moon. The dark side of the moon. Dark to whom. Lunar loss. Tidal wave. Glad tidings. Inner. Borderless. Outer. Vergeless. Limit less. Beyond the beyond. 
 

Cone of Uncertainty

During hurricane season, we hear the term “cone of uncertainty” frequently, accompanied by graphics to show the projected path of a tropical storm or hurricane. The projection indicates the exact location of the storm accompanied by estimated tracking five days hence. The experts get it right roughly two-thirds of the time.

Cone of uncertainty.

We all live within in a cone of uncertainty. More than a cone, it is rather a sphere, bubble, or atmosphere. But the aura of uncertainty is pervasive and palpable.

As for certainty, we know we are born and we die, but the details elude us — especially at the mortality end of the spectrum.  We hold gigantic ice cream cones of uncertainty, either with dollops of sprinkles and syrupy flavorings or rapidly melting soupy disaster.

We inhabit a cone of uncertainty within each moment of each day.

These cones illustrate both practical and transcendent uncertainties.

On the practical side, the cone of uncertainty is applied daily to matters big and small. Will I be late for work? Did I turn off the stove? Have I locked the door? Will I get the report done, pass the test, make the plane, see the soccer game, or make it home in time to start dinner before everyone else gets home?

From the transcendent angle, we might ask: Is there a God? Is there life after death? What is good? Evil? Can I stay clean and sober today, stay off the cigarettes, not lose my temper, zip my mouth shut, safeguard that secret, keep that promise, stay on that diet, or be kind to strangers and loved ones?

If we were to calculate — or have someone or something else calculate — the uncertainties of these daily challenges, would we feel better or worse?

I vote for not knowing the precise uncertainties, or certainties, for that matter. Too torturous.

Besides, the models are not perfect.

Cone of uncertainty originated in cost engineering and project management on the premise that uncertainty decreases as a project moves along and more is known. Credit for the concept is given to the American Association of Cost Engineers in 1958. The weather-related term means virtually the opposite, starting with certainty and becoming more uncertain. Incidentally, officially it’s the National Hurricane Center Track Forecast Cone. Dull. Popular variations include Error Cone, Cone of Probability, and the Cone of Death. Now we’re talking!

I understand that the science of it all yielded the cone image, but what if instead the science took on a different visual vocabulary? Anyone for cornucopia, hand fan, or vagina?

What about the grander scheme of things? Would you want to pore over projections of how much life you have left, with all its probabilities? Someone has already done this for you and me; that’s why the insurance industry, Social Security, lenders, and medical providers have actuarial tables. (Isn’t actuarial a curious name for something not yet actual?) Experts are already estimating your life (or mortality) expectancy.

Are they within or outside of the cone of uncertainty?

There are other ways of looking at this. For tropical storms and hurricanes, a European intergovernmental approach considers 52 distinct forecasts. Lines that resemble strings or strands illustrate this method.

I am tempted to call these threads of uncertainty, with no strings attached. But I’m not sure.

to the eclipse

As I drove down Interstate 81 South, I spotted a hitchhiker in his twenties, either scraggly or merely “roughing it,” with a cardboard sign. His branding tool was of the sort that panhandlers on urban corners employ, with captions such as: “Veteran” or “God bless” or “Anything helps” or “Hungry.” This particular hitchhiker on this particular day sported a sign that read, “TO THE ECLIPSE. 

Good one!

This was 10 days before the predicted solar eclipse of August 21, 2017. Predicted? Yes, it had not occurred yet. Although NASA scientists can forecast precisely when and where the solar eclipse will be, it still has to happen on its own. Cue Little Orphan Annie to sing about the sun coming up tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow… only a day away, etc. 

I attribute my dose of skepticism to the epic letdown of Comet Kohoutek in 1973. Experts hyped it in advance as a spectacular, mind- and soul-blowing cosmic event. It was a dud.
Presumably, the pedestrian pitching for a ride was aiming to get to somewhere like Nashville, near or on the eclipse’s path of totality. But that’s an assumption. Maybe he merely needed a ride down the road to Marathon, New York. Maybe he wanted to hit up a Good Samaritan driver for a few bucks or a pack of cigarettes. I’ll never know — unless by some strange Reverse Kohoutek Effect he reads this and tells me.

The eclipse’s expected shadow swath through the United States was “kohoutekked” as a destination for a rare and spectacular event. Madras, Oregon. Casper, Wyoming. St. Joseph, Missouri. Nashville, Tennessee. Columbia, South Carolina. Let me pause here for a cranky disclaimer. For years, I’ve heard media reports claim that a notable eclipse, either solar or lunar, would be the last one so intense and dramatic in a designated area for the rest of our lives! And then inevitably the experts conjure up ANOTHER “last-chance-to-see-the-intense-and-dramatic” eclipse. I’ve grown skeptical. Or old. 

Can you actually go to an eclipse? Wouldn’t you have to go to the sun, the moon, and the Earth? Aren’t you just going to see the results of the solar eclipse? At its climax it is two or three minutes of darkness in daytime. Spare me. I’ve had more than two or three minutes of darkness in daytime plenty of times. 

Did the hitchhiker’s TO THE ECLIPSE request mean, “Take me to the path of totality”? Our stranger may have wanted to go where the hottest (figuratively; these days “literally” means “figuratively”) solar-eclipse action was predicted to be.

Path of totality? Don’t even. I’ve been on a path of totality since forever. I don’t know anything short of totality. The path of totality is riddled with casualties. And they want to sell tickets to it?!? Gawd. On my metaphysical Google Maps, the Path of Totality is a highway with two lanes, marked All and None. It has few exits and no speed limits.

Speaking of highways, in retrospect I should have swerved to the shoulder, picked up the hitchhiker, and driven him as far as he wanted to go. I could have asked him about his own path of totality: Did he have one? Was he seeking one? Was he fleeing one? 

Oh, the places we’d go, the stories we’d trade!

100 days of solitude

One hundred days of solitude? More like 910, closer to 1,000 days of solitude. But who's counting? Let us define our terms first; one term, singular: solitude. We (the royal, solitary, sovereign we) are referring to the self not cohabiting, which decades ago might've been termed the bachelor's life, or "estranged" in a cheap novel or B-movie. Truth be told, though, in those numbered (sometimes numb and unencumbered) days of solitude not every day, or night, was a solo flight, with or without radar, with or without moral or immoral compasses. All of which might yet reduce the count of days significantly. But who's counting?

So solitude has its virtues, or at least its goals. Whether it is encountered in Reykjavik or Syracuse, solitude forces the issue of self. You gotta confront it, on some level, and see what you come up with after sifting through the sands; see what specks of gold you find, or sprinklings of fine ash and black dust on the beach. Is it volcanic debris? Or metaphysical flotsam (or is it jetsam?)?

I get confused.

Last night, I watched the shadow of a tree against the stark white backdrop of a garage in my horizon. The shadow, the light, the fence to the left on a slight hill. It was an utterly ordinary sight I soaked in at sunset as I peered through a window while sitting in a meeting. By meeting's end the tree still stood but the shadow was gone. The sun had set. It was enough. It was abundance.

I was not confused.

I have arrived . . .

I have arrived. You thought that I have arrived in Iceland, didn't you? (Is it vain to assume that you, or else you, or maybe you instead, have been reading these prior musings about Iceland and Reykjavik, formulated before my having breathed its air or tasted its water or touched its land with my feet?) I have yet to arrive in my own private Iceland (and I have yet to view the 1991 movie My Own Private Idaho, though I've always loved the title). "I Have Arrived." That's the title of today's little meditation reading in my compilation of wisdom penned by Thich Nhat Hanh. He says, "The realization that we have already arrived, that we don't have to travel any further, that we are already here, can give us peace and joy. The conditions for our happiness are already sufficient." That being said and that being believed and that being practiced notwithstanding, I nevertheless yearn for reset, reboot, revival, restoration, and renaissance. I hunger for the "shock of the new," to echo that cogent title of the work by Robert Hughes. My own private Iceland beckons and calls and whispers.

umbrage

Alas [such an archaic word, which is apt in this discourse obliquely touching upon a land with an archaic language; cf. earlier post], there are some who take umbrage at the idea that I [that I in particular, not "I" generically or as a nondescript impersonal personal pronoun] should have the bravado, the chutzpah, to gallivant off northward to ice-laden shores (i.e., Iceland), given my alleged or perceived or declared financial circumstances and my perceived duties, roles, and obligations. Ah [another archaic term], there's the rub. Perceived. As the Buddha asks us, can we trust our perceptions? [You know the old saw that when you "assume" you make an ass out of "u" and "me"; amen.] For these naysayers, doubters, and umbragettes [good one!] assume much in matters financial, fiduciary, spiritual, circumstantial, motivational, mental, physical, metaphysical. Which is perfectly fine, and to be expected. Is the so-called equation [are all things calculable?] altered if, say, a diagnosis of terminal illness enters the fray, posing a last fling, reckless and hapless? What if a traveler were on the verge, the Arctic ledge, of quasi-caregiving breakdown, craving, needing, begging for a respite, a literal re-creation? What if a wealthy benefactor is subsidizing this Icelandic journey, as someone generously did for my trip to the World Series in San Francisco in 2014? Who knows, perhaps our would-be Reykjavik wanderer lent himself money by using one of those low-interest "convenience" checks that come in the mail, or maybe our prospective boulevardier dipped into his 401k. What if. What if our putative sojourner sees utterly no need or cause for explanation (relatively speaking or not speaking), no reason whatsoever to defend, explain, or justify -- especially to an umbragette? (As in less than zero need.) Back to umbrage. It is the gorgeous delicious word for this monologue (or dialogue or trialogue for those who went to chime in aided by the north wind cleansing our souls). Umbrage denotes fancied (as in imagined) slights or insults or resentments and comes from the word for "shadow," which is utterly pertinent because the shadows shrouding perception spawn conclusions spurred by suspicion and what-not. Which is fine. We all do that. And Iceland is the lush, dramatic, and stoic cure for all this and all that, its northern lights, stark terrain, volcanic volition, crisp cleansing, and bubbling pools percolating with history.

questions for Iceland and me

Questions about my pending Iceland trip (answers pending; or not):

1. Am I trying to escape duty, pain, or quotidian routine? If so, is that right or wrong? (Are "right" and "wrong" notions of culture and custom more than morality?)
2. If Iceland is a personal metaphor, what is it a metaphor for? If not a metaphor, can Iceland be a simile, a song, an icon, a template, a slate, a temple, or a geothermal self-reflecting pool?
3. Upon landing at Keflavik, will I say to myself, "What have you done now?" though it will not be possible, or practical, to scoot back home?"
4. Can one conjure or force to happen a satori or epiphany? And can a new-found-land be the locus of such enlightenment?
5. Will I be able to resist the urge to sleep upon landing?
6. Which course of tourism will be most beneficial and rewarding: wringing everything out of Iceland and tapping all its wellsprings insofar as this human and his endurance and budget can withstand it, or a more passive, let-it-me-revealed onto to me approach?
7. What if I love Iceland so much I want to stay, I mean really stay? (And would Iceland even want me to stay if I could?)
8. Will I encounter a San Francisco Giants fan in Iceland? (I would not be shocked at such an eventuality.)
9.  Do Icelanders believe in the existence of elves (National Geographic says 54% of Icelanders do)? Better yet, quite simply, do elves inhabit Iceland, spiritually or physically?
10. If this journey proves transformative, how so?

Iceland naked

I am tempted to study very little about Iceland before going there. Sure, I have checked out a few things online or heard from people who have visited Iceland or learned things from my putative host: the tall church, the Old Town, the Blue Lagoon, the port, Nordic or Viking this or that. But I want Reykjavik to unfurl before me like the pages of a unread book. I desire that Iceland surprise me like a heart-pounding first kiss with someone. I seek a naked Iceland, unclothed by expectation, artifice, experience, or notions. O Iceland, let me see the veins on your hands, the curve of your neck, the fire in your eyes, as well as the keratosis of your skin, the limp in your gait, the sag of your flesh. Iceland, greet me with open arms and heart.

Iceland poem 1

I have heard it said Iceland's people are among the world's most literate. They are bards. Therefore, to honor that, here is my inaugural attempt at Icelandic poetry, in advance of my journey there.

Escarpments of escape

Humming under the wind

Springs eternal

Borealis sky

Aurora antiphons

Surging in my skin

Icelandic ponderings

"Do not travel to other dusty lands, forsaking your own sitting place; if you cannot find the Truth where you are now, you will never find it." Dogen

That is today's quotation on my Zen Calendar.

Point taken.

But I am nevertheless inching closer in my plans for a trip to Reykjavik, Iceland.

1. It's not that "dusty" a land, is it? (Maybe it is, volcanic ash and all.)

2. Hey, if I don't find Truth, at least I can find a Good Time.

previsions of Reykjavik, v. 1.1

And what if I chicken out, just another example of verbal bluster? I hope I go to Reykjavik. I want to go to Iceland. What is stopping me? Nothing should stop me, not even that my mom is here, a few miles away, in her 100th year, on her own, more or less, mostly less, these days. People ask me, "Why Iceland?" My glib reply is "why not?" though there must be more to it, stretching north, digging deeper, the geothermal bubbles, new languages, rugged terrain, foreign sands, fresh air.

previsions of Reykjavik, v. 1.0

So, will there be bubbling hot springs, roasted coffee, Bacchanalian abandon, sobriety, serenity, escarpments, or wind? Some or all? I suspect I will conduct little research beforehand, on Iceland or its most-northern-in-the-world capital. I doubt I will take a camera. My unsmartphone is not camera-adept. I will likely visit that tall church I found out about online before I decided I should let things unfurl, like the sails on the Viking ships. Is it nonsense to go somewhere to find out something about one's own interior spaces? Will people speak English. (Yes, I am sure.) Iceland and Ireland differ by one letter. I could offer a meaning there, but that is a stretch. 

What if I want to stay?

visions of Reykjavik

Reykjavik. Once you learn how to spell it, you're halfway there, right? Iceland. The thought of journeying to Iceland beckons to me on an unseasonably uncold Tuesday night in Syracuse, New York. Go north, and then north of there. Go to the planet's true north, its northernmost capital. While others go to the Cayman Islands (as I once did) or Belize or Puerto Rico or Mexico, you name it, to a warmer clime, I am fantasizing doing deeper, going into the cold, mine and Nature's. Solo. And why not. Just the name of the country invites stoic challenge, though geothermal springs dispel those notions, as do stories of all-night revellers and Nordic, guilt-free abandon. Why not. Having flown to Ireland and Germany and seen the in-flight map of Transatlantic flight progress displayed on the screen on the back of the seat in front of me, and in those instances flying over Iceland, and thinking, wow, we are almost there, in Europe (though not quite; is Iceland in Europe?), I am thinking, Let's skip the continental Europe part and see what Iceland offers, even if no ice is there, literally or metaphorically.

crash-wrapped

I woke up to see the mosaic-looking pockmarks of broken so-called safety class consisting of the (now former) rear (driver's side) window of my car. Technically, I was seeing this hours after awaking. But it was my first venture outside. Past 11 a.m. I have typically expected this. Or Something Mischievous, e.g., slashed tires. Call it the cost of urban living, though I suppose it can happen anywhere. I suppose. I suspect a bullet, but when the police officer arrives, within an hour or close to it, he discounts that theory instantly, allowing it could have been a BB (no, not Brigitte Bardot; but what is the origin of BB?) and maybe a rock (unlikely) but some sort of projectile, given the dot and its radiating beauty of glass-beaded destruction. I was more pissed off than -- than what? sad? hurt? More or less, dismayed by the stupidity and annoyance of it all.

Since the glass place said they can't replace the window until Thursday (this "event" was Monday), I drove over there, so I could procure a temporary remedy, in case of rain, and to protect me (i.e., my car) from the exposure of naked air, and from the potential for raw entry into my vehicle that holds no valuables, at least in my eyes (children's books? CDs?).

They put some "crash wrap" on it (sort of like shrink wrapping the damage, or keeping it frozen in time in the hot summer day). I joked with the lady at the desk: "'Crash wrap'? I could use some of that every day." Smiles in the waiting room. 

Crash wrap.

True.

Who doesn't need some crash wrap for one's psyche, soul, spirit, person -- almost daily?

And, boys and girls, what exactly, in your view, would that spiritual balm, that crash wrap, consist of? What would it be?

moored, unmoored, more or less

A friend in a missive to me used the word "unmoored." I had to look it up, to make sure the meaning in my mind was moored to the meaning in Merriam-Webster. It is a nautical metaphor summoning images of cables, anchors, ropes, security, stability. Actually, it summons the lack of those images, since those are the moored of unmoored. Well, who isn't unmoored at least some of the time? I'd venture (to continue the nautical narrative) that I've been more unmoored than moored for much of my watery or earthly sojourn. That's not necessarily a bad thing, for being unmoored allows one to drift, even to sail (sails billowing in the cumulus-driven breeze). How else would we find New-found-land, to echo the great poet and priest John Donne?

arriving at the ultimate

The signs say PLANET SELF STORAGE. I wondered: Where indeed is that planet where you store your self? Do you store your old self in hopes of finding a new one? I suspect it is a planet without a name, perhaps not yet discovered. If you store your self on this planet, is it like a pawn shop where you can get your self out of hock in exchange for a metaphysical fee? Perhaps I am wrong, and the signs refer to Planet Self, where everything but self is stored there, in bins and large portable containers waiting to be pried open as the performers do on those faux-reality shows. Old bureaus, photos, silverware, eight-track tape players, magazines, moth-eaten fur coats, 78 rpm records, diapers, corn husks, rusty fenders, baseballs, petticoats, linoleum, gold bars. But no self. Self is the name of the planet, and it is the only celestial body in the universe called Solipsism. No, that's a stretch. Then again PLANET SELF STORAGE may be a coded message, a preachment to get right with the cosmos, figure out whom to serve, what to keep, what to let go. Naw.

Next door to PLANET SELF STORAGE is ULTIMATE ARRIVAL. ULTIMATE ARRIVAL may be the key to the riddle of PLANET SELF STORAGE. Or else it's a merely a tease. Because down the street a bit further is the GEM. And the GEM may be the answer to all these conjectures, though I forgot what they are.

L'eau de lune

"I read the news today, oh boy . . . "

Actually, I didn't read the news; I heard it on NPR. (Who reads news anymore anyway? Sad.)

The news I refer to is that scientists studying stuff brought back decades ago from the Apollo missions have found molecules of water (water-bearing minerals, more accurately).

One scientist said, "This is not your grandmother's water." It's not oceans, or even puddles, or even liquid. Nor is it solid or gas. It is something else.

And surprising.

Surprising.

One scientist said she was so surprised she thought her instruments needed to be calibrated.

Water. We thought we knew you. We thought we understood intimately this building block of life. In our thirst for knowledge, we thought the word "water" in its infinite connotations and denotations quenched something. We were cocksure that, well (pun intended), water was at least wet, and close to solid in the frozen north, as solid as "meaning." But, alas, Water, we hardly knew you.

Water. Just a word, just a concept.

And how many other watery definitions will slosh down the drain of certainty as our world, our cosmos, rocks us with surprise?

How many other words turn out to be just like, um, water?

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
-- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Hamlet," Act 1 scene 5