I am exceptionally exhausted. This is not news in itself, but you may be amused by my 3:30am journey to Wal-Mart to acquire a graphing calculator for my 11:15am Functions test. After hours upon hours of teeth-gritted studying, I was forced to conclude that logarithms and synthetic division own my face, and I therefore resolved to allow a Texas Instruments assistant to do the majority of the work for me.

How I hate the maffs...well, no, I don't hate them. The maffs are not themselves vile. They just inspire violent frustration in me. Imaginary numbers are the worst, because they almost seem to be mocking you: "We're numbers...except we're not numbers. We're like numbers who get invited to parties, and then don't show up--just because we like being snobs."

Maffs aside, I've been spending more and more time in the basilica recently, especially the little side chapel with the statue of Mary and all the little candles. (Which generate a lot more heat than you'd think.) I think I've mentioned before that, while not precisely Christian myself, I get a sense of awe--or perhaps sanctity is a better descriptor--whenever I'm in there. Sure, it's just a building, but it's also a symbol: when you sit down in the pews you can almost feel the aura lent to the brick and stone by the good intentions of the monks who laid them.

My Christian friends use the basilica as a sort of focal point for sharpening their relationship with good. (So it seems to me from how they describe it, anyway.) I go there for similar reasons. For my part, I don't see myself as having a relationship with God, per se, as I find it impossible to forge such a connection with a being who is, by necessity, beyond definition (and therefore not really a being at all), and therefore beyond my comprehension. Still, it's essentially a split hair when it comes to why I, or anyone else, goes and sits down in there.

I've had a lot on my mind recently. This is not unusual. Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) once said, "I'm not stupid, I just have a command of thoroughly useless information." I dedicate a lot of the computational run-time of my brain to useless stuff (anyone want to argue about the superiority of Imperial-class Star Destroyers over the U.S.S. Enterprise?). Yet, once in a while, things come along with serious enough import that I make a conscious effort to think through them. The attending mental gymnastics generally lead to over-thinking, which in turn leads to disaster. It's the critical problem with being inherently introspective. On the flip side, it allows me to have great conversations with inanimate objects and co-workers.

But I've found that the nice (and unusual) part about thinking things through in the basilica is the mitigating effect it has on that sort of self-destructive inwards reflection. I suppose that shouldn't be surprising; it is, after all, a building steeped in Christian atmosphere, and it's in keeping with their theology to turn one's thoughts away from oneself. In fact, recently I've been a theologian named Michael Himes who has some fascinating things to say in support of finding God most clearly in our relations with other people, and not in a sort of anthropomorphic mental objectification--which is, really, more of a reflection upon ourselves. (As Jesus said, "Wherever two or more are gathered in my name, there I am.")

A good friend of mine sometimes says, "If you meet a dozen people worth anything in your entire life, you've done pretty well." People go through acquaintances and casual friends at a high rate of speed; even closer, older relations almost always drift off eventually, dragged away by the tides of life. That being said, I believe some people are worth holding on to no matter what; I left behind a handful up north when I moved here, but we're all still as close as we were, despite the distance. I also think that when you find one of these people--who are rare in the extreme--you know it, instinctively. Plotinus has some neat things to say about this sort of metaphysical recognition in his Ennead discourses: he states that the soul has a magnetic attraction to other souls of like quality. Trust me, you don't want the details (especially because I don't understand them very well), but the idea is intriguing.

The rare individuals who you feel instant connections with are, of course, very much like needles in the proverbial haystack--but that's an especially tired cliche, so let's say instead "like finding imaginary numbers at parties," which makes so little sense it can never become a cliche, and is therefore acceptable. From this pool of kindred souls, I think we draw our closest friends, our confidants, our wives and husbands. Initially, when you're lucky enough to stumble across one of these special people, you obviously have no idea which category they'll fall into: perhaps they'll define their own. It's a question only time and experience can determine.

Until then, I suggest a sitting or three in the sanctified candle-warmth of the basilica.