It's a tough assignment, explaining the circumstances behind the last post. I know of only two people unconditionally willing to talk with J--blon, one because she is unfailingly polite, the other because he has an obsession with the weird. Neither of them have coherent theories of J--blon's mind. In general, people say he is intelligent in the sense that he could win a chess game or follow a Newton proposition, but not in the sense that he has an understanding of reality or is capable of meaningful interractions with people. His presence makes people uncomfortable, and it's hard to tell just why. He assumes friendship with anyone he speaks to, friendship of a very idiosyncratic nature. He essentially seems to want to play the role of a beloved child of the person he's talking to. He is one half demander, one half critic. Demander in that he just oozes with the desire to be accepted. Critic in that he nevertheless makes fun of people, although in odd and illogical ways. Most people diagnose a strong desire for attention, to be present in people's minds. He is very rarely silent, whether he's in the library, the computer lab, the dining hall, outside, anywhere; and he doesn't seem to care who it is he's talking to. I should mention at this point that he's well into his thirties.

J--blon has a different routine with each library worker. With one person, he every day asks for a call number he could easily get on the public computers. With another person, he asks for help with homework. With a third, he incessantly talks to the worker until he has to find something to do. With a fourth, he will stay until past midnight so that the worker has to request that he leave. With a fifth (and this is the origin of the incident), he checks out a senior essay, takes it to the couches, and ten minutes later gets into a discussion and forgets that he has the essay.

This fifth iteration occurs, or I should say used to occur, on Max and Cory's shift. It particularly angered Cory, the supervisor, because J--blon would check out essays the day before the student's oral, keeping others from reading it. On the night in question, Cory said to J--blon that he better actually read the essay, or else he wouldn't give him any more. Ten minutes later, he was sitting with the essay in his lap and talking loudly with whoever was next to him. Someone came to the desk asking for the same essay, and Cory directed him to J--blon. A few minutes later, he then returned and asked for another essay, saying he wasn't sure if he should read it now or in the morning. He was planning his time for the week, it might be better to do homework, etc. Cory said, Steve, what do you mean planning your time? You only read for ten minutes and then you just talk to people.

It was at this point that J--blon went into hysterics, waiting about a minute to fall to the floor. Now, if you consider this an explanation, perhaps you can explain it to me.

Obviously, the joke wasn't that funny. The common theory is that he honestly found it funny at first, for an unknown reason, and decided not to stop because people were looking at him. I did hear him boasting later that he had gotten the whole library laughing, so this makes sense . . . in a way. I mispoke when I said that I found out what caused it, because I could only say that the phenomenon "J--blon" caused it. If my account doesn't make sense, you could blame my writing for failing to coherently explain, or you could blame the J--blon for being irreconcilable with normal reality. You'd be correct either way.

When I finished reading an e-mail last night, I got up to leave the library, turned toward the door, and then stopped, having suddenly become aware that someone was uncontrolledly laughing. Naturally, I turned around to see what was so funny. A junior I know was sitting on a couch by the glass doors, staring in my direction and shaking with laughter. I gradually realized that he was not alone. People on both sides of the reference section were laughing outrageously and shaking their heads, looking in amazement at nothing obvious. Their stares all focused on the floor in front of the circulation desk. A freshman library worker was leaning over the desk and trying to hold back hysterical laughter while his supervisor stood back, his arms crossed, his face contorted and annoyed.

Then I heard, slurping and choking, off-key and grating, a separate laugh, sliding under and over and through and around the laughter that was coming from all other directions. I walked over to peek around the desk, turned at the column, and saw him: one arm pillowed his shaking head, the other pounded the floor in a hilarity so strong it pinched his face, making it even uglier than usual; his legs kicked, and his torso shook convulsively with gasps for air, as though from great sobs of pain. His characteristic ratty, baggy flannel clothing ballooned onto the floor, and his dirty hair writhed across his back like an animal sick unto death. Steve J--blon, whom I've described in a previous blog.

His laugh was like that of a crazy character in a movie who has just stabbed his mother. It destroyed the normal mood like a black helicopter hovering over a graveyard, like a puddle of blood on an office carpet, like a screech in the middle of a calm night, like a broken mirror. It was infectious and insidious. No one could ignore it, though no one particularly wanted to see it. At first it was just a spectacle; as it drew on, it became freaky. Eventually, the inconceivability of his hilarity dawned on everyone present. No way this was natural laughter, even considering what that might mean for J--blon.

After about thirty seconds Blake happened out of an office, alarmed by the noise. When he saw what was going on he said, "Steve, man, breathe. Really, you're concerning me." He walked around the desk and looked down at the absurd figure. "Come on, get up. Stop it. Just stop it." Steve did not respond. The sick laughter continued. "I'm getting angry." Pause. "If you don't stop, I'm going to call security. I'm serious." The laughter continued. The supervisor leant slightly over the desk and said, "Steve. Cut it out right now. You're affecting everyone in the library, and not in a good way." He didn't stop.

I went behind the desk. The freshman was still peering over the desk, chuckling a bit from the absurdity but looking decidedly less amused. I asked the supervisor if he knew what started it. "This is one of those situations where it's best to know nothing," he said. I left in awe. Today I heard that J--blon kept on for an unlikely, awkward and annoying five minutes, until the last dreds of appreciative attention had left long ago and the studiers were restless and angry. I later found out what caused it, and maybe I'll explain it some time.

Today I played a game of Go with a 16-year-old French kid. I told him that "je parle un peu de Francais," which made things rather awkward. He said, "Je jeu depuis un mois." When I didn't respond quickly, as I was trying to think of the plural of "mois," he said, "trente jours." I said, "Moi depuis trois mois." At the end of the game we both said "Merci," and then he asked, "Quel age avez-vous?" I told him, he told me, and then there was nothing else to say. I left.

I just checked out Ghandi's autobiography to a junior named Eitan Fire. I am so nonplussed.

Does anyone in the world have a strong opinion of Robert Frost, bad or good? No one I've asked so far seems to. I wonder about that man. His poems are quite good for what they are, seemingly flawless according to their design and their context, and yet something prevents me from unqualifiedly liking them. They are so completely modern, the thought behind them so direct and pure, the images perfectly chosen and the words perfectly suited for communicating them, that perhaps I question them as a matter of principle; on moral grounds, as it were. I appear to be incapable of accepting the modern, because of its contrast wtih the more complex, uncertain postmodern. Not that there's any good postmodern poetry, as far as I know, with the possible exception of found poems. Is this even a problem? Why should I care?

I do care, though. I've been reading far more Frost than the assignments for language class require. I've been asking all the intelligent people I know what they think of him, and even some of the unintelligent people. I've gone so far as to consider a sustained study of poetry (which consideration isn't new in itself, but I haven't ever carried it out). How could I ever pick one interest to pursue in grad school/not-grad school if I continue to have three or four at a time? (Other current interests: Old French/history of language, psychology, postmodern fiction/fiction in general, progression of philosophy, and of course modern music and Go. All potentially life-long pursuits.)

Also, Pearl Jam don't suck. This is news to me. Thought you might like to know.

The "good chance" has turned into maybe three-to-one odds. I am not pleased. It hinges on whether anyone here is driving to croquet, because airline prices are forget it. At least when I run into the wall really hard I sometimes forget I'm inexplicably still in school.