It's not exactly news that things don't always turn out as I'd expect, but still I was a little startled this afternoon. In looking up a Wallace Stevens poem entitled "Landscape with Boat," I followed a link to a poetry site that promised several of his works. There were indeed several Stevens poems, listed just beneath a banner advertising something called Seniorsizzle.com, "Sex partners in the prime of life," with a picture of a white-haired, conservative-looking "senior" lady in a cotton sweater, and a grandpa-style guy going in for a kiss. The whole image is so deeply boring that seniors everywhere should consider a class-action suit against the owners of Seniorsizzle.com, for portraying seniors in that light. It seems to me that anyone going online specifically in search of a senior sex partner wouldn't identify with Madge and her cotton sweater. But then again, I am not a senior, nor do I sizzle, so what do I know? Perhaps neutral-toned thin cotton sweaters are the PVC of the elder set. I guess I'll see when I get there. (By "there," I mean old age, not the website, silly.) (As far as you know, anyway.)

Anyway, here are two moments that bolster my certainty that the universe or powers-that-be is conspiring to surround me with a certain color:

1. On Friday, I ran an errand and stopped at a drugstore to get a few things before I headed back to work. The drugstore was under construction and in disarray, and I turned a corner to see that a big box of crayons had overturned on a shelf, spilling several into the aisle. I picked up the one closest to me, and read the label, which said Indigo.


2. That night, the Keelhauler and I had dinner at The Italian Place Within Walking Distance. Our waitress was new, and very nice, wearing a necklace featuring a big turquoise medallion. At the end of dinner, she put our check on the table, and I noticed that she'd signed her name on the bottom. I held it up to the Keelhauler, asking, "What does that look like to you?" Just then, she came back, and I asked her name. "Blue," she answered.

At dinner, the Keelhauler and I were talking (i.e., I was talking) about how tired I am of religion, or more specifically about religious people of a certain ilk. "I don't want to talk to people whose idea of religion is going to church to watch PowerPoint presentations on how to invest their money," I said. I don't believe that God "wants" us to be rich. I don't remember anything in the bible about the holiness of accumulating as much cash as possible, and although I'm not religious, I doubt very much that the central message of Christianity involves great personal wealth. Anyway, I went on a long tangent about that and related ideas (the history of Christianity, the fact that people don't seem to question their own beliefs, etc.).

My parents were big on the apocalyptic preachings of Hal Lindsay in the late 1970s, a philosophy that left me both terrified and jaded, and scrabbling for social skills. "Who cares about this world?" was their basic credo, as they worked overtime to spread the message of doom and cast out demons from a parade of increasingly decrepit, jobless sad sacks they brought home for dinner. They held prayer meetings and sang praise songs, and attributed everything that happened to divine intervention. For example: my father, electrocuted one afternoon while attempting to fix the clothes dryer, was thrown across the room, leaving a trail of blood on the linoleum. He had to go to the emergency room, but survived, which my parents attributed to the fact that he'd been singing "praise songs" earlier in the day. My father received secret messages from God�in rebus puzzle form�to guide his decisions on things like whether he should sleep with our next-door neighbor. The apocalypse was coming, and they wanted me to sing about it.

The upshot of my tirade at dinner was my dislike of religion used as a smokescreen for intense self-involvement, in all the different ways that manifests. I think I was reacting to a recent visit from my mother, and her immediate, shocked reaction whenever I said anything she considered blasphemous or controversial. For example, my belief that a party held by a religious group seeking to provide a �Halloween alternative� where kids might be safe from the holiday�s �satanic influence,� at which kids dress in costume and receive candy, is not inherently different from a secular Halloween party, and in fact celebrates the holiday it professes to avoid. My mother and I argued about this one for a bit, but finally agreed that if one terms a certain holiday offensive, there is no reason to take part in activities known largely for their association with that specific holiday on the day of its celebration. In short, I don�t care whether you participate or not, but don�t dress up on Halloween, ask me for candy, and then tell me you�re really doing something else. As I was saying, I went on a bit of a tirade, but the Keelhauler was goodnatured about it, and we talked about how I just don�t know what to believe any more.

The Keelhauler and I finished dinner, went outside and were walking back around the marina, when the Keelhauler paused to look at a truck for sale in a parking lot. Just as we paused, a van pulled up next to it, and a man got out, calling, "Buy that truck!" He had wild white hair and a short beard, and wore a t-shirt showing a fish labeled TRUTH was swallowing a fish labeled DARWIN. "I'm going to Israel next week, gotta sell the truck!" What followed was difficult to describe, but in a nutshell, a good example of why it is crucial to be careful what you wish for. Mike was the man�s name, and he was on his way to Israel on a mission, to visit Jerusalem (which he called by its Hebrew name) with a popular television evangelist, someone I�ve heard of but never paid much attention to, and maybe uncharitably considered a bit outside the norm. Mike saw me raise my eyebrows when he mentioned the evangelist�s name. �He scares you, doesn�t he?� he asked, smiling.

Compared to Mike�s ensuing monologue, filled with chapter and verse, and ancient Hebrew, my restaurant tirade was a hiccup. He talked a lot about questioning, and about finding out the history of Christianity. Mike talked all on his own, with almost no input from me or the Keelhauler. It was his subject, brought up by him alone. After a bit, the Keelhauler and I looked at each other and laughed, and he said, �We were just talking about this at dinner.� Mike smiled happily, and said, �You didn�t just walk by here to look at the truck, and I didn�t just happen to park my car here by accident�we were supposed to meet!� He was radical, and proud of it, and his philosophies were not so much ungrounded as they were well, radical. He wasn�t afraid to question anything, and his faith seemed absolute. �You know he loves you, don�t you?� asked Mike, meaning Jesus. I wasn�t sure what to answer. �I think so,� I hedged, thinking that the concept is too abstract for me to really feel. �He loves you,� he said, smiling. He was certain of it, of that I am sure.

Star of the day. . .Ra