I understand now why Shakespeare named the fellow in Measure and from the Inns "Master Froth" -- surrounded by this bubbling, unfocused energy upon which the culture has come to rely.
A teacher of mine (although never formally so), a Czech scenographer and director, staged a piece one in which each death (and there were several) was depicted by the popping of a balloon (thin, like a bubble) and tossing a bit of dust in the air -- each happening as the character left stage, so, just out of the audience's view. Similarly, I remember a bit of law school banter in the Midwest, a fellow talking about his grandfather from Indiana, whose request was that there be a popcorn machine at the service, and that the guests partake.
Froth is the small bubbles. The abortive rises. The point is the longer, deeper lines of force and expansion. Where a culture insists on the former, doubt the culture.
A very warm day in the city, it has the feeling of a holiday. Had to check the interwebs to see which holiday it was that I had missed remembering. Everyone seems filled with an energy, although it all feels just a bit off. Most concretely in some of the rough sleepers wandering the streets shouting insane things. Saw two between the cathedral and the breakfast cafe. The Greek is εκρασια, and if memory serves, it comes from the sound of the ice in the rivers breaking in springtime.
Gently down the stream. And to foreign shores, as quickly as God will allow.