STUPOR MUNDI

Last night I did something called Nachos Grande at the Oakland Coliseum. They set me back $6.50 and so much more. Now, I could say that I felt regretful afterward, but that wouldn't paint an entirely accurate picture because in reality I felt regret instantaneously. Or, perhaps I felt it sooner than instantaneously - I'm wondering if regret was not already there as early as the moment of intention, that moment between the decision to eat nachos and my eating them.

What's problematic here is that regret is an emotion that requires the passing of time. And, having established that no time passed for regret to germinate or bloom, I am looking for the word for immediate regret, for those times when you are aware of your self-inflicted ruin as you go... and the word won't come.

Downtown is clogged. Protesters who are blocking entry to the offices of San Francisco have unrolled the prettiest pictures of Iraqi children down their chests to tell their story. Big white scrolls with color photos on them, beautiful eyes and skin and teeth. The Market Street streetcars are parked together in threes and fours and their drivers have abandoned them. The people out in traffic carry slogans on sticks and plywood cut-outs with cartoon paint jobs -- each one is a caramel-colored family huddled together in pink and blue and purple. They look like giant iced cookies bobbing on the crowd.

I cross Market to the Financial District, and the rain starts abruptly and I skip my usual stop for coffee. I was choking up before but now I'm not, and the protesters are less and less as I go. I've got my wooden duck umbrella and, in the folds of a magazine, a recent snapshot of my daughter.