Saturday commute cvi: Routings

A friend telephoned from New Orleans
the other day, to say he and his wife
are expecting their first child. The
recklessness of conveying this infor-
mation to me by way of an NSA routing
station didn't much concern me at the
time, but upon reflection it was ob-
vious that he'd identified himself as
a practicing heterosexual, and me as
an enthusiast for the prospect of this
enlargement of his family. I'll never
be able to count the agencies that now
possess this information, much less
track their use of it. Tiers of stat-
istical dominoes clatter cacophonous-
ly even now, in amplifying the event.

I do not disparage a time when families of nice people freely transmitted salient joys of lives to be shared, signatures unencrypted on unsealed documents in public con-veyance. One brother exults to another on his wickets and his runs, a message honourably forwarded for a penny.



I believe there is something sacred
in this, something beautifully and
awesomely mysterious; and its inno-
cent physical manifestations are
scarcely less so, in enrichments of
personality, temper, dedication and 
time. When I'm asked, which element
I'd be prepared to see eliminated,
it seems to me I've answered that.