The pedestrian crosswalk signals were in my favor this evening; as I approached intersections, and just before I reached them, the red hand repeatedly yielded to the white man–or the white men, it might be said, since there was the one in the sign and the one that was me. It was as if an invisible butler, with dominion over traffic flow, had anticipated my arrival, and, concerned that I should not have to wait at the corner, hastily ushered me with “Right this way, Mr. Wool!”

Ha! ‘Mr. Wool’…what a riot. It provokes a contemplation of the temporal to recognize that sufficient years have passed for an ambiguity to arise regarding the intended addressee among a father and son. It’s curious how readily the combination of title and surname lends itself to being likened to an organism that molts, where the discarded exoskeletons are the individuals who were superseded by their kin.

I kept walking, as my campus destination was still some distance. The warm night didn’t require rock salt assistance to melt snow, and certain portions of my pant cuffs grew darker through absorption of wet grime. After another invisible butler led me across the next street, I was struck by a minor comedy: the signal to walk, to move, is a man frozen mid-stride. Were the signal to possess the illusion of motion, it would correspond more closely to the action it is intended to encourage. A simple timer circuit would do the trick. There is value, however, in keeping the man frozen: it allows people to exercise their ability to augment interpretation with creativity.

On my left a grocery was nearing, and from it emanated a faint but constant ringing. Ah, yes, I thought, for the Salvation Army it is that time of year, time for bells to rustle select hair cells of the inner ear. I wondered at the instructions the ringers might have been given: “Find a place where consumers consume, and plant yourself there with this red collection pot! Here’s your bell; ring it without pause. For every second of pause, an angel loses their wings!” I continued on the sidewalk, aware of a growing impression that the character of the ringing bell sound was uncommon enough that it might be exciting hair cells that had long been dormant, in effect giving them a “dusting”. Feeling charitable, in the privacy of my mind I thanked the bell ringer for the ear cleaning, and grew my distance from the source until the ringing succumbed to the whir of traffic.