Here’s something I didn’t know: they rewrote the ending of Casablanca twenty times. Think people would like it so much if they’d stopped instead at nineteen, if they’d called it good before they came up with that “beautiful friendship” line? Don’t bet on it. Still, that line’s not my favorite. What I like better is when Bogart tells her how the problems of two little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this world. And that’s not all—this world doesn’t amount to a hill of beans either. Not that I’m saying the ending could’ve used another draft, but….There’s a poem I always liked by Carl Sandburg: “Child of the Romans.” My mom grew up in McHenry, outside Chicago where Sandburg’s from, so she grew up reading him, kept his books on a shelf, and I found the books and thought they were cool and grew up reading him too. Anyway, the poem’s about this Italian shovel man, working on the railroad bed. And he’s on a lunch break, and all he’s got is a dipper of water and some bread. In the trains going by, rich people feast at these fancy tables, and because this guy does his job so well, the flowers in the dining car barely even shake in their crystal vases; the wine doesn’t slosh. Of course, the title reminds us that the Romans used to rule the whole known world—it’s quite a nice contrast—and these new rulers should remember it too. Fine, so what’s this got to do with Casablanca? Hang on, I’m getting to it, something I’ve never told anyone. My point is this: civilization started in the East, and it’s been moving west ever since, moving like the sun—to Persia, Greece, Rome, Western Europe, over the Atlantic, over the Rockies, to the edge of the Pacific, where it stopped. Now, for awhile it looked like it would jump to Japan and the whole show would start again, but I don’t think so. I think this is it: once around, game over. I could be wrong, I guess; it could be we’ve outsmarted it; but eventually? Go ask a passenger pigeon. Ask Triceratops. I mean, we’re living on this dot in this galaxy made up of how many million stars, in this one out of how many million galaxies?—all of them still expanding, rushing out from the original burst, and maybe not even the first burst. Think about it; what came before the Big Bang? Probably a universe. That universe retracted, blew up, became our universe. What came before that? A Big Bang. And so on, and so on, backward and forward. One day our universe will stop expanding, start pulling back to the center where the heat and pressure will explode yet again like some kind of cosmic rewrite, and what I think—you want to know what I think? Because listen, excuse me if you’re a big Christian and that whole song and dance, but the idea that we’re the most important, that God made us and now He watches us constantly and reads our hearts and minds…every six-billionth one of us, and everyone before and after us to….Spare me. You think God’s that unimaginative? You think He fashioned infinity, but His absolute favorite bit of it is Earth and He stares at it forever like a TV set and gets pleasure or gets pissed based on what we do? See, what I think, and this is my whole point, okay—the Big Bang, all the Bangs—the expansion and retraction—is just like a heartbeat, each one a single heartbeat, simple as that: the pulse of God, the rhythm of infinity. And it’s the same as our own, only ours is smaller, and life—all of it—from protozoa to mongoose to creatures we’ll never see at the other end of space—every bit, us too—is just God’s thoughts and feelings. All we are is some of His nerve endings. We’re a way He seeks experience. Why? Good question; I’ll bet you it’s this: to increase His understanding of existence and therefore, since He made it all, to add to His knowledge of Himself. I’m not crazy. Don’t we do the same? I mean, aren’t we, if you want to go with the Bible, created in His image? Just do the math: a) we seek; b) we’re made in His image; therefore, c) He seeks. We’re a part of that process. Not the biggest part, not the favorite, just another means to an end without end. We’re just also. You want to call that blasphemy and freak out, be my guest, but first ask yourself, What’s your proof? And don’t tell me it’s because you feel it in your heart; maniacs who stalk celebrities say the same thing: “Uh, well, Your Honor, I felt in my heart that we’re meant for each other.” You don’t like that comparison, too bad. Go ahead and feel whatever you want, but don’t go claiming that you definitely know. All I’m saying is let’s be clear. Because to me it seems like everywhere you look—from electrons circling to galaxies circling, from the breath of a blue jay to the universe breathing out and in—the pattern’s the same; and if you think about it that way, then compared to God we’ve all got it made. I mean, who does He have to talk to, on His own level? At least we’ve got each other. We can have a conversation. Or read, which is kind of the same thing, really. Either way, reading or talking, it’s a long parade of stumblings after bits of happiness up until the end….In the meantime, you meet people. You talk, you listen. Question and answer. Sentences no different than trees or waterfalls or stars, the way I see it. Stories follow stories. Someone asks, “What’re you thinking?”—“I think Casablanca is the best film ever made.” “What’re you thinking?”—“I was trying to remember how a poem goes, that Sandburg poem about the fog.” “What’re you thinking?”—“How much I love you.” “What’re you thinking about?” _______.