Shakespeare in the Park: August 1990
August 16, 1990
In those days the Enmanation's imagination was still fired by the beauty and truth of the high-born, grace-bestowing beauty he called the Bodhisattva. That week, under the influence of that beauty and truth, he had finally plunged into the poetry of William Blake—the Songs of Innocence and Experience and the Marriage of Heaven and Hell. He was strolling through Olympic Plaza carrying the splendid Everyman Poems and Prophecies when ... well, let's let him tell us about it:
There it was, the Bodhisattva's Christian name with one letter's difference—Keri—right beside Blake and Proust. And the two 4s side by side making a sort of 44. And a pair of 44s made an 88, which in this context also signified the year—1988—when the flood of revelations had begun.
Kari, the elder of two dark-haired lookalike sisters the Enmanation had met in 1987–88, balanced against a pair of breath-stopping fair-haired lookalike sisters he had met during the same period. He's getting all excited about it, so let him continue:
Blake, of course, had only just entered the story, but Proust had been lingering patiently in the wings for a few years. When first introduced to Marcel by his super-literate girlfriend, our Enmanation had only noted the connection between Swann's Way and Swann Mall Walk, where he had been fated to meet the Bodhisattva in September 1987. The connection had continued to germinate, though:
Throughout the afternoon of August 16, our hero's Enmaniacal mind raced onward, making connection after connection. He'd had this type of day before, almost like landing on that sweet spot on a pinball machine and listening to the DING DING DING as his score bubbled up effortlessly into the stratosphere.
First, he looked at the chronology of the thing:
And what of Blake and Proust? Well, Blake was the Piper in Songs of Experience, and a quick glance through Proust's biography in the library revealed that his Paris address while finishing his life's work was 44 Rue Hamelin. As in Pied Piper Of.
Not only that, but a check of the index revealed that Charles SWANN in Proust's novel was based on real-life character Charles HAAS. One letter's difference from Kari's last name. And, incredibly, the other "way" besides Swann's Way in Proust's opus—the Guermantes Way—was based on a place called ST. EMAN. One letter's difference from the last name of our Enmanation.
Oh, to heck with it. Let's violate every privacy law on the books and just lay out these surnames side by side, for maximum effect. (It's not like they're gonna come after Cosmo...)
The effect on the poor guy when this correspondence zinged through his mind must have been cataclysmic—maybe nearly as much so as seeing the Hass beauty for the first time.
What could all this mean? This shadowy resemblance of the names, as if slightly warped by transition to another dimension; the uncanny chance meeting of Hass and Enman at the intersection of the sign of Swann and that portentous giant H.
This was PREPOSTEROUS!!
Yes, but what the devil does all this have to do with the title of this page, I can hear you muttering. Let's consult the Enmanation:
One might expect the day's revelations to have supercharged our protagonist's resolve to pursue a closer acquaintance with this mysterious beauty. Instead they made him even more spooked and gun-shy about trying to approach her: he had too many weird facts in his head now to have any sort of normal conversation with such a creature.
But he succeeded in turning her, however briefly, into a powerful muse. The following evening he sat down with a tumbler of single-malt and composed his first poem in many moons, addressing it "To Baudelaire," whom he had met for the first time the previous day in the library, amid all his Proustian chicanery. He was dazzled by the poetry, and amused by the fact that he shared the same birthday as Charles, and that Charles was actually Charles-Pierre.
The poem. though typically brief and gnomic, was well crafted and deeply felt, so much so that, unlike all his others, it was eventually published. It perfectly captured one of the consistently wistful aspects of his Story: the chagrin of having been vouchsafed a magnificent vision, only to realize oneself unequal to it in the end.
But the Story wasn't even close to being finished with him, as we shall see.
In those days the Enmanation's imagination was still fired by the beauty and truth of the high-born, grace-bestowing beauty he called the Bodhisattva. That week, under the influence of that beauty and truth, he had finally plunged into the poetry of William Blake—the Songs of Innocence and Experience and the Marriage of Heaven and Hell. He was strolling through Olympic Plaza carrying the splendid Everyman Poems and Prophecies when ... well, let's let him tell us about it:
At lunchtime I was strolling through Olympic Plaza, across the street from my workplace, sandwich in one hand, Blake in the other, reading not cards but the bricks under my feet, inscribed with the names and messages of Olympic donors. Had never thought of them before as meaningful to me, but hey, there was a “Blake” staring up at me, so I knelt down for a closer look. There were three in a row, quite intriguing:
Keri Stephen Blake Stephen Randy Proust
Go 4 It Go 4 It Ole 88
Humour in cuneiform, complete with encouraging inspirational subtext
There it was, the Bodhisattva's Christian name with one letter's difference—Keri—right beside Blake and Proust. And the two 4s side by side making a sort of 44. And a pair of 44s made an 88, which in this context also signified the year—1988—when the flood of revelations had begun.
Kari, the elder of two dark-haired lookalike sisters the Enmanation had met in 1987–88, balanced against a pair of breath-stopping fair-haired lookalike sisters he had met during the same period. He's getting all excited about it, so let him continue:
There was that magic 44 again. Two sets of magical sisters – the dark-haired Kari and Larisa and the fair-haired Lisa and Leila—and they all shared house number 44 on the respective streets where they all respectively still lived with their respective parents. (Hence, four who lived at no. 44: 4-44s, in a sense.) This I knew because I had written a letter to Lisa in December 1987 when she left Carswell, a letter that turned out to be crucial in initiating our lifelong friendship. Then I’d written a much stranger letter to Kari in 1989, exquisitely respectful, but of course too odd to be taken seriously, and probably crucial in the end in keeping us apart. Not even a letter I could honestly say I wrote entirely willingly, which was a bit scary. Only months later did I realize that I had, without knowing it at the time, written and sent the two letters exactly 444 days apart.
Blake, of course, had only just entered the story, but Proust had been lingering patiently in the wings for a few years. When first introduced to Marcel by his super-literate girlfriend, our Enmanation had only noted the connection between Swann's Way and Swann Mall Walk, where he had been fated to meet the Bodhisattva in September 1987. The connection had continued to germinate, though:
Proust had been ringing my psychic doorbell insistently for months, courtesy of Jana, who had been reading him voraciously and filling me in on the fascinating architecture of his mega-novel: the two paths, or Ways, being Swann’s Way and the Guermantes Way, the way of art and the way of society, and also the titles of the first two main parts of his novel. She had even read swatches of it aloud to me, and it sounded delectable and mind-bending. He was all about memory, as was I. I had even worked the English title, Remembrance of Things Past (taken from the Bard’s Sonnet 30) into my letter to Kari (you know those athletic, ski-jumping types, they can’t resist Proust…).
Throughout the afternoon of August 16, our hero's Enmaniacal mind raced onward, making connection after connection. He'd had this type of day before, almost like landing on that sweet spot on a pinball machine and listening to the DING DING DING as his score bubbled up effortlessly into the stratosphere.
First, he looked at the chronology of the thing:
William Blake 1757–1827
+44 years
Marcel Proust 1871–1922
+44 years
Kari, the Bodhisattva 1966–
And what of Blake and Proust? Well, Blake was the Piper in Songs of Experience, and a quick glance through Proust's biography in the library revealed that his Paris address while finishing his life's work was 44 Rue Hamelin. As in Pied Piper Of.
Not only that, but a check of the index revealed that Charles SWANN in Proust's novel was based on real-life character Charles HAAS. One letter's difference from Kari's last name. And, incredibly, the other "way" besides Swann's Way in Proust's opus—the Guermantes Way—was based on a place called ST. EMAN. One letter's difference from the last name of our Enmanation.
Oh, to heck with it. Let's violate every privacy law on the books and just lay out these surnames side by side, for maximum effect. (It's not like they're gonna come after Cosmo...)
SWANN → → → →HAAS → HASS
GUERMANTES → EMAN → ENMAN
The effect on the poor guy when this correspondence zinged through his mind must have been cataclysmic—maybe nearly as much so as seeing the Hass beauty for the first time.
What could all this mean? This shadowy resemblance of the names, as if slightly warped by transition to another dimension; the uncanny chance meeting of Hass and Enman at the intersection of the sign of Swann and that portentous giant H.
This was PREPOSTEROUS!!
Yes, but what the devil does all this have to do with the title of this page, I can hear you muttering. Let's consult the Enmanation:
It so happened that Jana and I had planned to attend the Shakespeare in the Park production of Macbeth on Prince's Island that evening, and we invited Karim, the gentle and brilliant Lebanese researcher who lived in my building, to come along. We had all just settled ourselves comfortably on the grassy slope looking down toward the stage when out of the corner of my eye I spotted the jaunty, metronomic gait of Our Lady of the Giant H herself, with her near-twin sister keeping pace beside her.
Then they strode directly across our view, about 20 yards in front of us. I hadn't seen them since our late June surprise encounter at Heartland. I should have known that a Big Day like this might be capped by an actual "sighting."
The play was great—a Samurai version of the notorious Scottish play—and of course I marvelled appropriately at the uncanny return of Macbeth to our story after its initial, decidedly spooky appearance on that Big Day of Days, March 4, 1988.
Karim enjoyed himself too, and his presence lent the occasion one further customary element: his name, after all, was one letter's difference from Kari's.
One might expect the day's revelations to have supercharged our protagonist's resolve to pursue a closer acquaintance with this mysterious beauty. Instead they made him even more spooked and gun-shy about trying to approach her: he had too many weird facts in his head now to have any sort of normal conversation with such a creature.
But he succeeded in turning her, however briefly, into a powerful muse. The following evening he sat down with a tumbler of single-malt and composed his first poem in many moons, addressing it "To Baudelaire," whom he had met for the first time the previous day in the library, amid all his Proustian chicanery. He was dazzled by the poetry, and amused by the fact that he shared the same birthday as Charles, and that Charles was actually Charles-Pierre.
The poem. though typically brief and gnomic, was well crafted and deeply felt, so much so that, unlike all his others, it was eventually published. It perfectly captured one of the consistently wistful aspects of his Story: the chagrin of having been vouchsafed a magnificent vision, only to realize oneself unequal to it in the end.
But the Story wasn't even close to being finished with him, as we shall see.
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