Temperate evening, and a grey, stale morning in the fishbowl gulag. He tempers the wind to the newly shorn lambs. So, you know, keep close to the lambs. Seek ye the penine microclimate.
There are peculiar variations in NYC neighborhoods vis a vis the heat. Or not precisely the heat, perhaps the felt temperature.
Gently down the stream, et seq.
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When the deeper adversities began, some years ago, it occurred to me that it might be some sort of a test, perhaps a secret game played on everyone who gets an A+ in a first-tier law school class, or has a certain level conservatory degree, but after many years, the balance of probabilities is weighing much closer to giving the large Polack his due. Perhaps a bit of cynicism there.
When I was blogging in Skopje, I actually floated a sort of Last Starfighter hypothesis and weighed the ethics, coming to the conclusion that it would be sufficiently immoral for an advanced civilization to destroy someone's life (in order to, as in the film, prepare some sort of super-warrior for the higher world) that the subject should refuse to participate. At which point, I had the very uncanny sense of a presence vanishing.
So I should be rather clear -- all of this grousing and speculation refers to the worldly calculus and the actions of worldly actors (however hidden from public view).
Deep Heaven and I are having another conversation entirely.