Reading lately: Indo-Tibettan Buddhism; the which--as much as Bill Weaver loved it, could quote and expound on the Tantras thereof--is still weirdly grotesque to me. I keep trying though, suspending judgement, trying to imagine what it could mean. And listening, whenever I find a quiet time and space that I can hear it in, to: Corelli trio sonatas; Handel concerti grossi; Mozart clarinet concerto and symphony No. 29 in A, Mass in C Minor; Cecilia Bartoli singing Rossini (wow!). I don't know if these heavenly delights infuse and transform me--but, without my being the least affected, without my even being aware that I am observed (idly chatting and chaffing with my friends), first acquaintances and complete strangers keep coming up to me and asking me if I am not a professor of English, for I certainly sound and act like it. So I must. But it always catches me by surprise and nonplusses me. I had much rather be thought a retired sea captain.