monk111 | Jun. 17th, 2013

Jun. 17th, 2013

I using Google Chrome again. I haven't mentioned it, but over the past couple of weeks, my laptop has been hit by a virus. Norton seems to have done a valiant job in going after it, such that the laptop will be running smooth again, but then IE starts crumbling again. We'll see today if it just IE or if the laptop has been struck on a more fundamental basis.

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In 1789, French sculptor Jean Antoine Houdon executed a bust of Jefferson that shows a handsome man with a calm, self-confident air. Yet the vigilant eyes hint at someone who moved slowly, cautiously, taking everything in before acting. The tightly sealed lips convey something enigmatic beneath the patrician ease. Like Burr, Thomas Jefferson found strength in secrecy, in silence. Shy and aloof, he seldom made eye contact with listeners yet could be a warmly engaging presence among small groups of like-minded intimates. This laconic man knew how to sprinkle his conversation with brilliant apercus that lingered in people’s minds. With his quiet charm and courtly demeanor, he had a knack for winning people over at dinner parties distinguished by good food and eight varieties of wine.

Tall, lean, and freckled, with reddish hair and hazel eyes, Jefferson had one trait that the marble bust failed to capture: his slack-jointed movements. when William Maclay met the new secretary, his slouching figure seemed to lack ministerial dignity. Maclay groused, “He sits in a lounging manner on one hip commonly, and with one of his shoulders elevated much above the other.... [H]is whole figure has a loose, shackling air.” His dress was casual, almost sloppy. The folksy air charmed people and allowed Jefferson to root out their secrets. The plain dress, mild manners, and unassuming air were the perfect costume for a crafty man intent upon presenting himself as the spokesman for the common people.

-- Ron Chernow, “Alexander Hamilton”

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An overcast morning. And it's still overcast now. I could have knocked out a mowing, but I don't even think to look for a good cool morning now, being this deep into summer. Ms. L across the street is finishing her mowing, and I feel a little envious.

Here is a more interesting fork in the road. It is my first days at Douglas High School. I am at the bowling alley, maybe trying to relive a little my Yokota days with my old friends, as though they could suddenly walk through the doors at any time and we might go and get some Yokota burgers and talk and laugh. But those happy meetings are of a year ago and thousands of miles away, and I will never have such friends again.

Instead, I see that Chris and Humpke are also bowling a few lanes over, two of the school’s princes, handsome jocks, Greg Brady and Wally Beaver. They nod and wave and acknowledge my presence. It is pretty clear, I think, that they are also asking me to join them, though not in so many words, not in any words in fact. I am too shy and coy to jump at the somewhat vague invitation. In later years, I would wonder: if I were more self-confident and had joined them, might it have made a significant difference and got us off on a better footing, and might I have had a better social life in my last two years of high school. I am thinking: probably not. But I can still wonder about it after thirty years.