As I sit rewriting my resume I notice, through the coronary of my eyepiece, an absolute catastrophe climbing out of the white corsage of the sea. I had read about a similar event, somewhere, sometime, as an example of something, but what? As I flip through the pages, I can see it is not an absolute catastrophe but a breeze through dry midsummer leaves. The absolute catastrophe, cloaked by a wavering onshore lee, circulates among the trees then into the streets; it slips—one foot, then the next—through the open office windows of my prospective employers, into the eyes and ears of those who, in turn, lean down from their chairs. The absolute catastrophe, ill at ease, moves about the busy room from door to desk and back again. They learn to tease the absolute catastrophe, half-tame it, coax it close to their lives. No one has thought to give the absolute catastrophe a name.