2002-10-27 - 11:09 p.m.

Hi David! Glad you're having fun in Europe!

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The world we have created threatens us. I feel this as I walk down a busy Chicago street on a Saturday afternoon. One must keep one�s guard up when so many people occupy the same space, when the common courtesies of being human give way to our competitive natures. People avoid looking me in the eye as I pass them on the sidewalk � all the better not to get involved. Those who acknowledge me do so hurriedly, looking away as soon as possible, an involuntary signal that tells me: I don�t need you and you don�t need me. Keep to your own side.

I cross the street as the walk signal flashes. As I move, a van that was waiting to turn left squeals its tires and darts toward me. I am forced to scurry out of its way. When I am safely across the street I feel indignant; I wish I had stopped right in the street and forced the car to stop, maybe whacked it with my hand to teach the driver a lesson. I am no better than these people, after all.

What is this world we have created? A set of parameters, nothing more: a street, a series of shops, a cool fall day. We are left to do with it what we will. A few givens and a million unknowns, and the unknowns are us. We are the chaos that keeps our system off-balance.

I go into a coffee shop, a chaotic space. Again, only parameters: in one corner, coffee for sale. Chairs, couches, two long tables. I feel the absence of a waiter, the authority figures who would normally keep the masses in line, looking over our shoulders, checking to see that everything is okay. We are left to graze on our own.

I take a seat beside a man working at his laptop computer. As I read, a woman with a stroller approaches the seat across from me. �Is it okay if I sit here?� she asks. The other man and I nod in assent. She angles her stroller into position and sit down. A few minutes later, a man joins her.

�This is decaf, right?� she says before taking a sip.

�Yes,� he answers.

She reaches into the stroller and adjusts the baby�s blanket.

�Does she seem okay?� he asks.

�She�s much warmer than she should be,� she says.

They sit uneasily, unsure of what to do. The place is noisy and personal space is gone � I am close enough to hear every word. Perhaps the husband senses this; he stares down at his coffee and says nothing.

�Do you not like it here?� she asks.

�No,� he says, listlessly. �I�m just used to being in the house, is all.�

Perhaps it is because they are new parents. After a long retreat into the wombspace of their home, they have returned to a foreign world. They are unsure what one does out here, how one is supposed to act with all these other people crowded around. They have forgotten a way of being that others achieve unconsiously: how to exist in a public space, how to share a table with a stranger, each aware of the other�s presence but at ease, keeping one�s guard up but willing to give the other the benefit of the doubt.

I put down my book and take out my notebook. But I am too aware of the man�s discomfort to lose myself in my notebook. And he is too aware of me � he will think I am writing about him. His alienness is contagious. I suddenly feel guilty, like I am at fault for sitting too close to them. Having finished my coffee already, I get up and leave. Perhaps it will help them relax.

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