The kids are shrieking at the edge of the pool,their angelic faces twisting. They liketo shriek—they like to make the Great Dane bellow.When he cannot stand it any longer, he jumpsthe wall and chases them, still screaming, in.And under all this now a steady grating—a plastic bottle of blue cheese dressingscraping up against the concrete gutter,bobbing off the aqua, sun-flicked wavesthe kids have made by jumping.And there's a man here from Afghanistanwho hasn't cut his greasy hair since he was driven mad.His name is Simon. He looks just like The Christ.Walks up and down beside the pool, obliviousto screams and barking. He gestures as he talks,whispers and pontificates. No one is listening.Lord, is the general din of the world your own?Something that is good in me is crumbling.Early this morning I walked out into the vineyardwhere the sun hits the sunburnt grapeleavesand the dusty grapes about to be harvested.I felt something light then—the skittish joythat is also a falling off from the worldto that place you can get to by fasting.Simon marches by, then stops—and looksat a stretch of bright green grass:        "Is that shit?        I thought so.        I have been here before.        They always hide the horses though."What holds me here destroys me as I go.