I suppose I must sound like I’ve ‘gone off the deep end’ or whatever. And maybe I have, to some extent, or according to some definitions, or metrics.

Or anyway is an interpretation of the identity of that beast that would be in keeping with reality as the Church understands it.

Which isn’t really a controversial thing to say, when one is Catholic, as I am. It has become increasingly clear, through the writings of mystics who are in communion with the Church, though also through mere observation and logic, that Freemasonry in particular is likely one of the beasts mentioned in the Book of Revelation.

Though I do believe that this suspicion is true more generally; that Freemasonry and transhumanism have a presence in the world, and that their presence is deleterious, even if it is also somewhat veiled.

However, one doesn’t always know how accurate one’s suspicions are. And one is aware, as well, how ridiculous one’s suspicions can sound, in some instances. So one is sometimes willing to overlook them, or let them slide.

I don’t like the Denver airport very much. It is has a freemasonic and transhumanist vibe. Of course, I use it to commute and to travel, so if I really didn’t like it, or was more convicted of my feelings with regard to it, I could choose to avoid it.

A. has been in New York City for the week, for reasons having to do with her job. We’ve arranged that I will pick her up from the airport in Denver tomorrow morning, when her plane is scheduled to arrive. So I will ask her when I see her if she wants to watch that movie together, though probably I won’t ask her right away. Because it isn’t an urgent question, naturally. Even if it is a nice one, or a fun one.

In any case, I didn’t watch the movie for very long. I decided I wanted to ask A. if she’d like to watch it with me, because she loves anything and everything to do with Paris, which is where the movie is set, so I turned it off after about ten minutes, even though I’d been enjoying it, and got up from the couch and went over to the windows and looked out at the street, to see if anything was happening there, though nothing appeared to be.

Which may sound like an excuse for laziness, I don’t know. Certainly an artist can be lazy anyway, just like anyone. Maybe I myself am one of those types of artist. In addition to being presumptuous, for calling myself an artist.

Let me just say then that an artist needs to be allowed to do a lot of sitting around. That is, he or she will sometimes need to seem unoccupied. Even if, in reality, he or she isn’t.

Which I suppose is a statement I ought to support with other statements, but I don’t want to bore myself, let alone you. I’m not writing these entries for anyone’s edification.

Though even on a Sunday there are plenty of other things I could be doing, besides watching television. The problem is I can be quite lazy. Or anyway can give the impression that I’m lazy, because I’m an artist, and the life of an artist is generally the life of the mind. Meaning, much of the productivity of an artist is preceded by a condition that resembles inaction.

Today is a Sunday, I should say. I wouldn’t want you to think I sat down in front of the TV this early in the morning on a weekday, when I could be doing other, more productive things.

I started watching, this morning, the movie Cléo from 5 to 7. I’ve always wanted to watch it, because I like the title, but I’ve never made the effort to do so until now, and happened to think of watching it today only because it came up on the TV, as a suggestion, while I was scrolling through the various apps or streaming services after I’d sat down on the couch in A.’s and my living room, here in Wyoming, and had picked up the remote and had aimed it at the screen and had started clicking buttons somewhat aimlessly, or indifferently, because I was in that kind of mood, which is to say a bored or restless or ‘nothing’ mood, and wasn’t really intending to find something to watch anyway, but was only going through the motions of an activity that I suppose I’ve acquired through habit.

I’m sure the Normandy French are quite different, for instance, in their manners and in their prejudices, from, say, the Parisian French. And even among Parisians I’d be surprised if there are none at all who, against stereotype, might be patient with an Anglo-speaking person who is attempting to communicate with them in French.

Though I suppose such a custom shouldn’t be generalized according to nation, anyway, but is better to observe on a case by case basis.

Though I suppose Americans are more known for this beneficence and encouragement than are the French. Meaning, it is not necessarily a universal or even a reciprocal truth.

Not that it’s unusual for a patron to inquire about the preparation of an item such as eggs, but that this young man’s pattern of speech had that oddly formal quality that is characteristic of a non-native speaker who is visiting a country and is making himself vulnerable, or anyway noticeable, by placing himself in situations where he must converse with a local. And so will often elicit, in that person with whom he is conversing, a beneficence or kindness that the person finds easy to produce, for the sake of encouragement.

Near me was a young couple who I recognized were speaking to each other in French, and who in fact looked to me somehow French, once I realized that is what they were. When the waitress stopped at their table, to take their order, I paid attention to how they interacted with her. The young man wanted to know how his eggs could be prepared, and the waitress described the options for him in a pleasant and unhurried way, as if she too had recognized that he and the girl were French, or anyway were foreign, and wanted to exhibit a special patience with them.

I happened to go there by myself, rather than with A., so I sat in a booth alone and looked at my phone while I ate, instead of talking to another person.