Passport renewal sucked me into the post office (keyword: sucked). To be legal, passport photos must be taken by professionals trained to make you look like a felon.

Jerry, the happy post office guy, takes two pictures in case the first doesn't work. He explained as much between snaps, dusting lint from my collar the way Mom used to do before I moved out and was crushed by the weight of the world.

I'm not sure what happened between the two photographs, but it seems that I was taken by the spirit of our Lord ...

Who was this happy post office guy, and does he understand the power of his touch?

With some doing, I prevailed upon Jerry to submit my second photo. He warned that it might be rejected by the government, but I did not back down ... God was on my side.

I've been rolling around with fate and free will again. I've shouted from rooftops, fried my retina on the sunset, even consulted the monsters under my bed.

As far as I can see, it's like those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books that Mrs. Barth used to read in first grade. The story would keep building to crescendo, until we, a democracy of six-year-olds, would vote by way of raised hands and fart noises.

Then Mrs. Barth would say, "Are you sure? Are you really, really sure?"

At which point we were all terribly unsure.

Mrs. Barth read on and we kept voting until finally we found the hidden treasure or were, alternatively, devoured by crocodiles.

That's how fate and free will feel to me: The story unfolds in "predestined" segments of our own choosing. The trick, I suppose, is to realize when the story has stopped for want of a decision and when it's time to just enjoy the ride.

The other trick is to make fart noises.

When you work for long stretches at home, you take precautions against hacking through the front door with a pickaxe.

For instance, I call people that I don't necessarily like -- e.g., relatives -- and loiter around the mailbox until somebody, anybody, stops to chat. I not only talk to my plants but demand answers (and I have no problem withholding water until I get one).

I also play music around the clock. Actually, it's around the stereo, but the clock gets it too. The point is that it simulates human activity.

My favorite is the world music channel on XM radio. While I bang away at the keyboard, my home fills with the sound of Cherokee natives chanting for rain, Russian line dancers, geisha harps.

Even as we speak, African bushmen are in the other room becoming hostile. I think they are yelling at their plants.