As I told my beloved before we went to sleep last night, my special vantage point gives me ever more joy. Saying this, I pointed toward the floor. I am looking down from quite some altitude, I explained. From high above, I see everything so much more clearly. She kept quiet, for my words must have struck her as bordering on lunacy, but they are still with me this morning. The first thing I did after our morning coffee was to search through my Residua for the Greek word that explains it all: kataskopos. It appears in three of my pieces of writing. The first offers a clear definition of the term (“Dying to Know,” May 16, 2003); the second describes my ecstasy upon moving to Motovun and looking down from my terrace (“Kataskopos,” July 20, 2003); and the third is a haiku of mine in which I admit that I would gladly spy for extraterrestrials (“Intelligence Agency,” July 23, 2011). Of course, the term stands for my growing detachment from the human species. And it is this detachment that gives me the clarity of vision, I believe. Am I growing mad, as my beloved is bound to fear? I think not, for my joy has nothing whatsoever to do with pride, let alone with arrogance, or the feeling of superiority in any of its guises. All that my vantage point gives me is clarity of vision. And that is all I wish at this stage of my life. Amen.

Addendum (October 7, 2016)

As time goes by, I am looking down at the world around me from an ever-greater altitude. The clarity of my vision improves from day to day. The field of my vision grows at an ever-faster pace, as well. By now, the whole planet is right beneath me, spinning slowly as it hurtles around the sun. And there can be no doubt any more that this is the prize for my growing detachment from this world. By and by, the meaning of words such as explorer or scout, and even spy, gradually fades into insignificance. Kataskopos for true, I am not only beyond my fellow humans, but also beyond language. Beyond reading and writing. And beyond thinking…