Dear Cyndy,

Discombobulated is the term that expresses my state of mind,
and if I'm not careful it will also describe my letter, to
which I resort, as usual to try to put my ideas into some
semblance of order. Two or three days ago, as I sensed the 
approach of the scheduled hearing on May 12, at 2 p.m., it
suddenly occurred to me that I am no public speaker. The
number of lectures I have given, if I were able to remember
them, I could count on the fingers of one hand. To get myself
into rhetorical shape, I extracted from one of the closets
an ancient portable tape recorder. I started to talk and
found the machine a patient and forgiving listener, which
made no complaints for my repeating the same homily over and
over again. Didn't take me long to become infatuated with the
sound of my voice, and as I proceeded it became more and more
difficult for me to imagine that the Court would not be
enchanted with the message of logic and reason and justice
that I had concocted.

Of course, I understand that the opposite is just as likely.
It's so obvious to me that the systematic translation of
substance into procedure invariably conceals the compelling
immediacy of memory and thought. Legal procedure turns all
of us who purport to be proficient at it, into tricksters,
if not indeed into liars and crooks. I think of the Court
as the gentleman or lady that circulates through the public
toilet spaces with a mop and a pail of Lysol to keep down
the stench of corruption; when I point out to them that there's
an urgent need for their services on Nantucket, I must be
careful that in the end it is not I who gets the blame -
and the punishment - for the disagreeable odor. Reason
enough, I should think, to be discombobulated.

Beyond the hearing, looms the trip to Konnarock, which I've
scheduled for Monday, May 18. Margaret wants to stay here
through the 17th, when she is expecting a day-visit from an
emotionally disturbed niece from Connecticut in whom she has
for years been investing, in loco parentis, her understanding
and her affections, a feat of charity of which I am no longer
capable, if ever I was. My immediate concern is preparing for
the trip.  It's been a year since we were in Virginia, and if,
as I hope, we can stay for about two months, I should take, in
addition to the chain saw and the circular saw, the surveillance
computer with its cameras, my scanner and printer and many other
necessities of modern existence that as yet I'm unable to
catalogue in my head. The period for filing a notice of 
appeal if I should need it, so I learned yesterday, is 
extended from 30 to 60 days because a government agency
is involved. With the Board of State Examiners of Plumbers
having abandoned its claims at the insistence of the AG,
an appeal from the other side could come only from Nantucket,
from which nothing is too bizarre to be surprising.

Tonight Klemens is taking Margaret to a Junior High School
play in which Leah is starring. Klemens says she is so good,
he's afraid she might turn into an actress. I'm as yet
undecided whether or not I can stomach it. Monday night,
Nathaniel is playing his trumpet in a performance under
the direction of John Gibbons, of the Musical Offering
which I would like to hear. Nathaniel scoffs that it's
music his father and grandfather will like because it
antedates 1500. 

Now I must try finally to compose my mind and assemble the
papers for Tuesday; then get started putting my study
in order and proceed centrifugally to the rest of the
house as far as I can get. The towel to catch the leak
on Nantucket was dry. Thank you for your inquiry. You
may not hear from me again until after the hearing.
Stay well and give my best to Ned.

Jochen