"But don't you worry 'bout a thing
Cause I got you here with me
Hmm, don't you worry 'bout it
Just you and me floatin' through the empty, empty"
[Dave Matthews Band, "When the World Ends"]

It's stupid-o-clock and I'm sitting up writing. I wasn't sure if I should date this the 7th or the 8th, being I began it at 3:53am, and I could well see the sun rise before I finish. But between the heat and the stirring in my soul, I knew as sure as there's shit in a cat that I'm not about to sleep any time soon. So here I sit. But I'm not here to simply pass the time. I'm here because something inside has to come out, if there's any hope of sleep to be had at all.

She seems nice. She's very pretty. I find her attractive. But she's still not my problem.

I just got in from going downtown to see Bung. It's a hot and muggy night. I spent the whole evening in a crowded bar whiping the beads of sweat off my forehead. Everyone there was hot and clammy, and I find in those situations I tend to sweat even more than everyone else. I can taste my own sweat on my upper lip, and have to continually be wiping it from my forehead - where I sweat the most - to keep it from running into my eyes and stinging.

Would I feel the same if I didn't find her attractive? What if she was older? Maybe. Maybe not. I can't think straight enough to tell. But she's still not my problem.

I'm not drunk. I think it's important to understand that in spite of drinking quite a lot tonight, between the sweating and the sheer span of time - we started at 6pm, and it's past 3am - that I actually got as far as somewhat drunk, but was sober before I even set eyes on her. I think it's important to understand that, because in trying to understand me, my mood, what it is I'm trying to express here, it's important to realize that this... fugue?... is born from anger, not drunken lust. Yes, I'm lusty. Yes, I'd love to do lusty things with her. But I knew from the first moment it began that as much as I'd enjoy a night of hot-sweaty-summer-sex with her, that it wasn't going to happen tonight, if ever. Understand the reason for my restlessness is because my anger is swirling and undirected. I'm pissed off, and I'm not sure if I should be, and for lack of anyone else to blame it on, other than the vultures or the world in general, or perhaps her, the needle just spins until it lands back at me. But didn't I do more than should be expected of me? Shouldn't I be undeserving of this terrible self-scrutiny?

Some guy is probably carrying her into his house right now, as I type this. But she's NOT my problem.

Where to begin? We go back a few years.

A few years ago I was visiting my grandfather in the nursing home. He had severe Alzheimer's. He couldn't remember me, or my sister. Sometimes he'd look away and look back and think we'd just arrived. He was reduced to the mental capacity of a goldfish. But he was pleasant. He was friendly. He shook people's hands and tried to introduce himself (if he could remember his own name), and said "God bless you" and wished them well.

Besides the obvious thing everyone takes away from an experience with being around someone with Alzheimer's (the confusion, the hopelessness, the wondering about afterlife, etc), I took away a little piece of curiousity about nature vs nuture. This man, reduced to this state, unable to remember anything, was still the same polite old man he'd been years earlier. He was still, at his most basic, the same person he always had been. Could his being so gentle, so friendly, have been genetic? Was it his basic nature to be like this, so that even when he'd forgotten all the trappings of society, this part of him forever remained?

The Dali Lama believes we're not all born evil, or even neutral, but that human beings are born with a natural tendency toward goodness. He believes that our sense of compassion for others is not taught and learned, but instinctive. Was I witnessing this "natural sense of compassion" in my grandfather?

Fast forward to a week or so ago. I was babysitting for my sister Susan. Benjamin, my nephew, just turned four. He's very talkative, just like both his parents. I wonder if that's a genetic predisposition, or if perhaps he picked it up from listening to them talk so much. Who can say? But as they were getting ready to go out, I was sitting at the kitchen table with him, when suddenly he noticed a small scar on my hand, a scab, where I'd cut myself recently. It wasn't a big cut by my standards, a little smaller around than a nickel, I suppose, but his eyes suddenly opened wide when he noticed it. A look somewhere between puzzled and worried came over his face. He pointed. "You hurt yourself!" I assured him I was ok and he calmed. He asked how I'd done it. He then showed me where he'd gotten a few tiny cuts recently, and told me the stories of how.

But all I could think of at the time was my grandfather, and the Dali Lama. Was this Benjamain's natural compassion? Encapsulated in this so-simple moment had I glimpsed the face of god, seen some tiny fragment of the most elementary truths of human existence?

I don't know. I don't know if the fact that grandad said "God bless you" meant he'd not quite dispensed with all the trappings and his manners were still included in that limited pile of what he could access. I don't know if Benjamin's reaction was instinctive or came from repeating the reactions he'd seen in others when they saw him injured. And I don't suppose I ever will know. What I do know is that taught or innate, human compassion is ageless, and something of which we're all capable.

So let's go back to the bar.

She came to re-introduce herself to my best friend Geoff, and to a friend of his, acquaintance of mine, Diana. They didn't seem to recognize her at first, but she was overly-friendly, hugging and kissing each. Their reactions indicated that it didn't seem quite fitting. She then dropped the remainder of her cigarette on the floor to put it out, looked down, took a calculated step to put her sandal down on top of it, and missed it entirely. She didn't notice she'd missed.

Helpless, I stood looking alternately at her and at the lit cigarette, and at her bare feet in the sandals, and tried to form some words of warning before she burned herself, or burned the building down. But while I was trying to gather up some confidence and tact to indicate to this total stranger she was being a drunken sot, she turned and took another step, quite accidentally putting her sandal down flat atop the ember and dousing it. Crisis averted.

Obviously she may have a drinking problem. But it's not my problem, now is it? I don't even know her last name. It's not my problem.

When I looked back up at her, as she wavered about slightly, I realized a number of things all at once. I knew I found her attractive. I knew I'd have loved to take her home. I knew I wouldn't take her home, because she was a few drinks well past me feeling guilty for the rest of my life. And I knew not every man in this world is as sober or as "nice" as I am. I knew how incredibly easy it would be to talk her into bed if I were inclined. I knew she was helpless.

As time pressed on, and she introduced herself to anyone and everyone who bumped into her, sometimes repeatedly, I thought of a time when I'd played "knight-in-white" to a young girl many years ago, in a comical story I've often retold. But nothing would be comical this evening. Tonight was destined for nothing, or for tragedy. I could foresee no happy ending.

I don't really know her. Maybe she's fine. Maybe she gets really kissy-huggy-friendly, but not "here's my panties" friendly, when she's drunk like this? Or maybe she gets "here's my panties" friendly, but knows it in her sobriety and doesn't care, perferring, perhaps enjoying, a lifetime of waking up with strangers. Who am I to judge? I don't know her. Ergo, not my problem!

Then a male acquaintance of mine from the past came by to say hi, and she introduced herself. When she shook his hand, he ran his other hand up her arm and onto her shoulder. Immediately I thought of a website I'd read long ago about how to pick up women in bars. They had instructions all about eye contact, initial physical contact, and so on. This simple movement struck me as textbook. He'd immediately recognized her drunken state, and was laying the foundation to take her home.

I enlisted the help of the female acquaintance, Diana. At first she didn't see what the problem was, until I explained that I didn't trust either of them - him because I just don't trust him, and her because she was way too drunk to be trusted. When Diana turned to look, he was putting his hands all over the woman, and so she recognized what I saw. Together we conspired to keep them from hooking up, but neither of us had any genius ideas about how. In one comical moment, when he tried to start kissing her, my partner in crime sprang forward jabbering something loudly at them. I couldn't make out what she said and don't know if it was even coherent, but it had the desired effect; he left.

We felt accomplished. The woman stood, smiling and oblivious, back to watching the band, and wavered a little. An older gentleman noticed the wavering and "accidentally" bumped into her and started talking. Pretty soon she'd introduced herself and was giving him a kiss too. With a little maneuvering, I tried to give the impression she was a friend or possibly girlfriend of mine, and he wandered off.

Did they know each other? Old acquaintances? Maybe they did! Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill and not every woman gets molested in the back seat of a taxi if she staggers home drunk. Maybe the vultures were not circling. Maybe it's not even a problem at all, so what am I worrying about? Nothing to worry about!

But eventually time came for Diana to leave, and for me to leave. And after my handshaking farewell with the stranger, I turned my back to her and walked away. I walked away wondering if I'd ever bump into her again. I walked away wondering if she'd make it home safely, or wake up with a stranger tomorrow, or not make it home at all. I walked away wondering why I found her attractive, or why I liked her in spite of the fact that she was just some drunken bimbo I bumped into in a bar.

I don't know what it was about her I liked. I don't know if we'll ever cross paths again. I don't know where she's ended up tonight. I don't know if perhaps I was making something out of nothing. I don't know if my motivation had more to do with the fact that I thought she was pretty or with a genuine compassion for all human beings. I don't know if that compassion was borne of basic human nature, my basic nature, or something I was taught growing up. I don't know why I care, or if I should care, or if my caring could have possibly ever made a difference anyway; I won't be there next time, and she's had a decade of drinking to figure it out.

What do I know? I know only one thing.

I know that no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn't my problem, it doesn't sound any more believable to me than the previous, and that I feel like I just threw a helpless innocent to the wolves.

I don't know if I'll feel differently tomorrow. But whatever answers come, some questions - questions about myself - will linger long after.