Forms of Devotion

by Diane Schoemperlen

  Eventually Angela asked me exactly why I was so depressed. I said, “I’ve been busy putting things in perspective and I don’t like what I see.” She peered at the tea leaves in my cup until she found a volcano and a piece of lace. The volcano, she told me, symbolized smoldering passions which might erupt at any moment and ruin my life. The lace predicted complicated problems which would cloud my horizon. Angela sees no inherent contradiction in living your life by the leaves as well as by the lives of the saints. As far as she’s concerned, you’d better take help wherever you can find it.

  Finally she wrote the name of a good therapist in red lipstick on the white tablecloth. She said that, much as she loved me, there was nothing more she could do for me.

  All my life I’ve been on the outside looking in. That’s my face at the window, my nose pressed up against the glass. All my life I’ve believed that someday there would be someone to take me wherever I wanted to go. By now I should know better than to ask for whom the bell tolls.

  In retrospect all of my mistakes are clear and close to sublime. It is as if I’ve been living in a land where all the princes turn into frogs when you kiss them too much. For years I’ve been trying to figure out the nature of love. This seems to be an unnecessarily well-kept secret. Either everybody else already knows it and they’re not telling, or else nobody knows it and they’re all bluffing. For years I’ve wanted to be just like everybody else. For years I’ve been searching with the sun in my eyes.

  I know it’s wrong to look at the sun: we’ve all been warned that we will go blind, our eyeballs will burn right out of our heads. School-children are kept inside for recess on the afternoon of the solar eclipse. Even they, it is presumed, will not be able to resist the temptation to look.

  We are told that the temperature of the sun’s surface is 9,900° F.

  We are told that we are lucky to be 93 million miles away. Any closer and we would all be burnt to a crisp. Even a diamond will burn if you put a blowtorch to it. At the center of the sun, the temperature is said to be an astonishing 15 million degrees. How can we know this? How can you measure the heat of the sun and survive? Remember the story of Icarus. In early Christian times, a man caught working on the Sabbath was given the choice of being burnt to death by the sun or frozen by the moon.

  Owing to the enormous distance from their source of illumination, the rays of the sun are assumed to be parallel. This can only be absolutely ascertained from the perspective of angels.

  I am trying now to view my whole life from an aerial perspective. This is like trying to find your own house on an aerial map of the city. From this angle, the vanishing point is nowhere near the horizon and all my petty problems begin to fall away.

  No matter how long you think you’ve been standing still, remember that the earth is traveling around the sun at an average speed of 66,64 I miles per hour.

  In aerial perspective, shadows in natural light have almost no perspective. From this vantage point, there is virtually no angle of illumination.

  The trick is to remember that although the horizon in nature is a curve, we see such a small part of it at any given moment that it appears to be a level straight line. A single object (the object of desire) may hide miles and miles of that line. It may even blot out the horizon altogether. This is due to the distortion called foreshortening. The actual size of such an object can only be accurately measured in retrospect. Imagine a blade of grass the size of a palm tree, a fish the size of a zeppelin, a man’s head the size of an entire continent. All things are not created equal. Democracy is a form of government, not a standard of living or a matter of perspective.

  I have reached the outer limit. It’s not that this latest lover was any worse, this broken heart any bloodier than the rest. It’s just that I’m tired of doing the same things over and over again while still expecting a different result. I am beginning to understand the mechanics of cause and effect.

  I will continue traveling toward the horizon, the vanishing point, and the future. My life will go forward under its own power, propelled by its own narrative momentum. The trick is to remember that the theory of perspective is based on the fact that from every point of an observed object, a ray of light travels in a straight line to the eye. It is not necessary to know the speed of light in order to understand this and change your life accordingly.

  I imagine that if I look hard enough (far enough, deep enough, long enough), I will eventually be able to see those lines radiating out from every object at precise angles all the way to the vanishing point. They must be like the strands of a spider web, visible only in a certain light at certain times of the day from a certain angle. You’ve seen them: those silky filaments strung between branches, fence posts, occasionally right across the driveway or the door. You have felt them on your face in the morning and then brushed them away.

  I am learning to live without desire. This brings me to the doorway of uncharted territory. They say the only unexplored area left on earth is the 140 million square miles of the ocean floor. All things considered, I find this hard to believe.

  Most of what we think is essential to our survival has been blown out of proportion. I used to think I would die if I couldn’t dance. I have finally agreed to stop wanting what I can’t have. Everywhere I go, the earth seems to be tilting away from me. If the sun were the size of a basketball, then the earth would be the head of a pin.

  I am learning to live with the paradox that the horizon, when I finally get there, is not likely to be at all the way I pictured it.

  I fully expect that when I arrive, my equilibrium will be restored and I will be able to traverse the tightrope of the horizon with perfect poise. Then I will know what the world is coming to and why.

  Imagine a train traveling straight along the line of the horizon. The plume of smoke from its engine is like a feather against the clear blue sky. I will be on that train, traveling light.

  There must be more to life than love. There must be worse things than being alone. Perhaps the trick is to remember that even the angles and shadows of a small empty room must operate according to the protocol of perspective. Examine the absolute inertia of corners where all three right angles must converge.

  From my kitchen window I can see brick houses, yellow tulips, my neighbor’s pink flamingo, and a blue car traveling north. I can even see the back of an apartment building three blocks over. I can see a small brown bird in a big green tree. I can see those many electrified wires by which we are all connected to each other and to the rest of the world. But I cannot catch even a glimpse of the horizon from here.

  I read somewhere once that Cupid was the son of Mars and Venus, the goddess of love. This was later contradicted by another source which said that Cupid’s father was actually Mercury, the messenger of the gods. Personally I prefer the first version, that Cupid was fathered by the god of war. This makes perfect sense to me.

  The surface of the planet Mars is covered with canyons and volcanoes, the highest of which is Mount Olympus, much bigger than any mountain on earth. For many years people believed there could be life on Mars but now we know that the temperature is too cold and the air too thin. Mars receives enough ultraviolet rays from the sun to kill every living thing.

  On Venus the surface temperature has been measured at 890° F even at night. The Venutian atmosphere is almost pure carbon dioxide and the clouds are made of sulfuric acid. Almost all the geographical features on Venus are named after women both real and mythological: Ishtar, Aphrodite, Earhart, Nightingale, Cleopatra, and Colette.

  Both Mars and Venus are called inferior planets. This is not a value judgment. It simply means that their orbits lie within that of the earth which, according to this scheme of things, is still the center of the universe. From here both Venus and Mars are just two more balls in the sky.

  Now that I’ve finally got all this dust out of my eyes, I discover that I have all the time in the world. The trick is to remember that the horizon, like the future, is always ou
t there: even when it’s midnight and you’re holding your breath with your eyes closed, even when you haven’t been able to catch sight of it for years. The trick is to remember that although, according to the rules of perspective, all receding parallel lines must converge at the horizon, in fact, according to the rules of real life, they don’t.

  When was the last time you asked yourself:

  How hot is the sun?

  How old is the moon?

  Who invented the wheel?

  Who discovered the speed of light?

  Who is the patron saint of promises?

  What was my first mistake?

  HOW DEEP IS THE RIVER?

  Train A and Train B are traveling toward the same bridge from opposite directions. The bridge spans a wide deep river in which three young women drowned two years ago in the spring. Train A is 77 miles west of the bridge, traveling due east at a speed of 86 miles per hour. Train B is 62 miles east of the bridge, traveling due west at a speed of 74 miles per hour. Which train will reach the bridge first?

  (Assume that Trains A and B are traveling on a double track so there is no danger of a head-on collision. Assume that both Trains A and B are mechanically sound, that both engineers are well-trained, well-rested, and have not been drinking. Assume the bridge is well-constructed and meets all federal safety standards. Assume it is August.

  Assume that if any of the passengers on Trains A and B are in danger, it has nothing to do with their presence here on the shining steel rails approaching the bridge. Assume that nothing bad will happen to any of them during the course of this trip.)

  This is like those word problems in high school math, the ones where bits and pieces of supposedly relevant information were given and then a mysterious question was posed.

  An elephant’s eye is 10.36 feet above ground level. The angle of elevation from a mouse on the ground to the elephant’s eye is 46°. How far is the mouse from the elephant?

  These knotty problems could only be solved by manipulating the information, making qualified assumptions, and then performing agile feats of arithmetical magic.

  A bird is perched at the top of a tree. A cat sits on the ground below. The angle of depression from the bird to the cat is 58°. The cat is 39.67 feet from the base of the tree. How high is the tree?

  These problems either caused the mind to go blank or else filled it with other questions, unasked, unanswerable, irrelevant but no less compelling for that. Are elephants really afraid of mice? How hungry is the cat?

  Some of these problems were constructed around everyday situations to which high school students were supposed to be able to relate.

  When Melanie is shopping, her heart beats about 100 times per minute and she takes 21 breaths per minute. During a trip to the mall that lasts 130 minutes, how many times will Melanie’s heart beat? How many breaths will she take? How fast will Melanie’s heart beat when she finally finds the perfect shirt which she has been dreaming of for the past three months? (Assume that Melanie has enough money to buy the shirt. Assume the shirt is blue.) How many breaths will Melanie hold while trying on the shirt, praying that it will look as good on her in real life as it does in her dreams?

  The solutions to these problems were always in the back of the book. But no explanation was ever given as to how the answers were arrived at, why the questions had been asked in the first place, or what good the solutions could possibly do you once you had them.

  Julie is walking west down Markham Street. She stops to wave to her friend Karen, who is leaning out the window of her sixth-floor apartment. The vertical distance between Julie and Karen is 92 feet. The angle of elevation from Julie to Karen is 79°. How far is Julie from the apartment building? (Assume that Julie and Karen are sixteen and seventeen years old respectively. Assume that Karen will not fall out the window. Assume that Julie is wearing her favorite red cowboy boots. Assume it is Saturday morning.) Will Karen invite Julie up for a visit? Will Julie then tell Karen a secret told to her the night before by their mutual friend, Melanie, a secret which Karen promised Melanie she would never ever tell? (Assume that Julie crossed her heart and hoped to die. Assume that Melanie was wearing her new blue shirt.)

  Of these three girls, Julie, Karen, and Melanie, which one will get pregnant and drop out of school? Which one will become a veterinarian? Which one will eventually find herself on Train B, 62 miles east of the bridge, traveling due west at a speed of 74 miles per hour?

  Train A is full of Friday afternoon travelers. They have all left behind their more or less comfortable homes in City X and are now well on their way to City Y. The population of City X is twenty times greater than the population of City Y. Some of the residents of City X think it is the center of the universe. They are no longer completely convinced that the rest of the country still exists. If it does, they feel sorry for the people who have to live there. They are certain that nothing significant, interesting, or memorable ever happens in the backward barrens beyond the limits of City X. They have never been to City Y They are not among the passengers aboard Train A as it now approaches the bridge.

  Other residents of City X are constantly longing to move away but they are tied there by their jobs, their spouses, their spouses’ jobs, or their own inertia. City X suffers from all the social problems indigenous to a metropolis of its size. These problems are now called issues and they are running rampant through the streets of City X. Besides all that, the streets of City X are smelly in the August heat and the smog hovers, trapped by a low-lying bank of humidity currently stalled over the city. It is because of these and other more personal issues that some residents of City X are chronically discontent. It is from this portion of the population that most of the passengers on Train A have come. They are so glad to be escaping, if only for the weekend.

  What is the ratio of people who love City X to those who don’t? (Assume that some people are ambivalent, moody, and unpredictable, loving the city one day while hating it the next. Assume that some people are just never satisfied.) What proportion of those who now love City X will eventually change their minds after one or more of those endemic social issues has impacted directly upon their own lives? What proportion of those who now hate City X will eventually muster enough gumption to leave?

  The atmosphere aboard Train A is undeniably festive. Each of its six full cars fairly hums with anticipation and high holiday spirits. Strangers strike up animated conversations, share newspapers, and point out interesting features of the passing landscape: cows, barns, ducks on a pond, once a white-tailed deer bolting gracefully into the bush at the sound of the train. Now this is more like it: no high-rises, no traffic jams, no pollution, no neon, no issues. They are traveling through wilderness now, or at least what passes for wilderness in this overly civilized part of the country. Occasionally their idyll is interrupted by the appearance of the highway, four lanes of blacktop running parallel to the train tracks. The traffic is heavy in both directions, shiny cars and dirty trucks skimming along beside them like little windup toys. Soon enough the highway veers away again and disappears.

  On the other side of the wilderness, City Y awaits. Hardly a city at all in comparison to City X, its downtown streets are clean and safe, frequently closed to traffic to allow for buskers’ festivals, street dances, and miscellaneous parades. (Assume that if City Y suffers from any of the social issues which plague City X, they are well-hidden and so need not concern the carefree weekend visitor.) City Y rests on the shores of a large lake and much of its summer activity revolves around the water. There are sailing regattas, fish derbies, and free boat rides around the harbor. There is even a beach where the water is still clean enough to swim in. In the waterfront park there are craft fairs, dog shows, jugglers and mimes, hot dog stands, ice-cream carts, and bands playing all day long, some with bagpipes, some without.

  None of the passengers on Train A are currently thinking about the bridge, how far they are from it, how soon they will reach it, or about the river, how those poor you
ng women drowned, how the current caught them up and carried them away. The passengers on Train A will simply cross that bridge when they come to it.

  Right now the passengers on Train A are thinking about lunch. The food service porter has just begun to make his way down the aisle with his wheeled metal cart. All up and down the car the passengers are pulling out their plastic trays from where they have been quietly nestled inside the padded arms between the seats. Although they are all well aware of the fact that train food is nothing to get excited about, still they smile expectantly at the approaching porter. He skillfully hands out food, drinks, plastic knives and forks, and little packets of condiments from side to side down the swaying aisle.

  The porter offers three varieties of prepackaged sandwiches: pressed turkey on brown, ham and cheese on a bagel, and egg salad on white. The beverages available include seven varieties of soda pop, three kinds of juice, three brands of beer, four types of hard liquor, and two kinds of bottled water.

  Those who have not traveled by train in some time are surprised to discover that although these sandwiches used to be “a complimentary light meal,” now they must be paid for. What remains complimentary are the nonalcoholic beverages and a small package of either salted peanuts or two chocolate chip cookies. How many passengers will now settle for a package of peanuts when they would have had ham and cheese on a bagel if it were still free? (Assume that by the time the porter is two-thirds of the way down the car he will have run out of ham and cheese anyway. Assume that a free dry prepackaged sandwich of any type is much more appetizing than one that costs $3.25. Assume that the porter is pretty well fed-up with listening to people complain about the prices.) If twenty-seven people in this car had ham and cheese on a bagel and seventeen people had pressed turkey on brown, how many people had egg salad on white? Why are there always six egg salad sandwiches left over?