Along this street, you’ll see whatever you wish to see, like centuries-old adobes with attics containing family skeletons (literally) or betwixt and between the occasional McMansion with basement upon basement delving deeper and deeper into the earth where dragons make their lairs, not the fire-breathing kind for these have lost their ability to belch out flames but lime-green docile creatures with vestigial wings who will more than likely curl up at your feet, or if you continue on this road following the bridge spanning the moat you will behold a castle in the cul-de-sac where a second cousin to Rapunzel now lives who, if you are fortunate enough, will let her long tresses unfurl through the battlement openings, though you may be disappointed to see that her golden curls never quite reach the ground.
When a woman, obviously pleased with her own cleverness and good fortune, tells you that she just saved $55 on a pair of designer shoes, and the only thing you can think to say in return is that you (also pleased with yourself) just saved $15 on flea medication for your dog, you kind of suspect that the two of you don’t have a great deal in common. So, rather than say anything, you smile big, nod your head, and try to appreciate her sincere enthusiasm and joy. Isn’t that what sociability and good manners are all about? Looking at the world from another person’s perspective? You then spend the next five minutes listening to the details of her find and trying hard to appreciate it.
But days after the party, you marvel over the fact that shoes can captivate another so completely, and you wonder how someone can save more than you even spend on a new pair of shoes–you, who typically have your shoes resoled and reheeled year after year.
Such mysteries abound.
There is a mathematical beauty to our existence, a poetic algorithm. From a series of digits and data a seashell forms in the whorl of an ancient sea. He considered these thoughts, which came to him suddenly while he was grading his students’ papers. The new way of thinking is that everything is information. Our DNA is inscribed with information. Every speck of dust can be read like a tome. But sitting at his work desk, amidst deadlines and obligations, he brushed these thoughts aside and tended to the task at hand.
His students’ writing held some interest. One wrote about how ObamaCare would be the downfall of our economy; another wrote about pot-bellied pigs; and yet another wrote vaguely about the evolution of music. But still while he offered gentle suggestions in his well-practiced tight handwriting in dark blue ink, his mind kept returning to his prior thoughts, and he remembered that they had come rising up out of a dream he had had last night. But what was that dream? Well, the dream itself was long gone from memory. All that remained were these snatches of his subconscious trying now, it seemed, to derail him from this audacious task of assigning grades to the data dreams of others, however unformed and lacking of beauty he found them to be.