Utagawa Hiroshige II (Shigenobu)
Calligrapher: Yokogawa Horitake
Memorial Portrait of Ichiryusai Hiroshige (1797–1858)
(1860)

"Who knows where this game of Prosperity goes next?"

My sense of Prosperity seems to depend upon two critical, if rarely deliberately acknowledged, resources: innocence and ignorance, in some proportionate mix: Innogrance. Some of my sense of Prosperity certainly stems from what I do not presently know or even suspect, an innocence. It just never occurred to me to consider that stuff. The rest of my sense of Prosperity might reasonably stem from my ignorance. Had I known how to create the Prosperity I presently enjoy, I doubt that I would have managed to produce anything close to what I have experienced. Prosperity seems to be one of those states that require some blind backing into rather than clever forward strategy. Sure, strategy, however clever, might well contribute its share, but Innogrance seems responsible for producing the balance.

This balance seems just as delicate as you might suspect. Any unconsidered sense lays itself open and vulnerable to any passing bandit. Consider the lowly caterpillar, which was famously asked how he managed to keep all those legs so perfectly choreographed and was thereby rendered incapable of moving. He’d never before considered, and couldn’t budge if considering. Some stuff must be managed preconsciously, without the presumed benefit of foresight, hindsight, or 20/20 vision. This stuff seems best if left essentially undetected. I remember how hard some project teams worked to remain anonymous, lest senior management decide to bestow their lofty wisdom on them and undermine any chance of successfully completing their effort. Helicopter parents might eventually learn that their kids need the spaces to make their own mistakes as their innate Innogrances come into threatening focus. Often, the very worst thing any supervisor can ever do is supervise. (Anyone who’s ever been the target of supervision understands what I mean.)

Yesterday, I went to the sleep clinic my internist referred me to, the one that supposedly diagnoses sleep disorders. To say this visit unsettled me only repeats that overused old Other Than That, How Was The Play, Mrs. Lincoln? joke. The visit mostly confused me. It seemed that, unlike other clinics I’ve visited, the diagnosis was presumed, as if the very fact that I’d shown up for the appointment meant that I was suffering from some sort of sleep disorder. I felt guilty by association, and I was only visiting, not yet convicted of even imagining committing a crime. The questionnaire, which I received seconds before being whisked off for the usual initial scrutiny and leaving me no time to focus on answering any of the questions, initially flummoxed me. I had to interrupt the intake inquiry to ask if they were serious about my completing the questionnaire. They were. I then asked how they expected me to complete the damned thing, since it had no instructions, but just a list of decidedly ambiguous phrases, not even questions. I learned that I was to check the box adjacent to any of the listed ambiguities I had experienced. Even once? Yes. The experience didn’t need to be chronic to be considered.

Everyone’s had at least one restless night, and I’ve had fewer than most everyone I’ve ever spoken to about this subject, which, on reflection, amounted to almost nobody. Who even asks these sorts of questions? Sleep clinics do. I felt indicted by the loosest imaginable association. Worse, it seemed I was being coerced into testifying against myself! I managed to identify two widely separated instances where I might honestly admit to having experienced one bout of an ambiguously hinted-at disorder. The rest of the form, I left blank, except to add the comment that I didn’t consider either of those answers to be problems as much as features. I started fretting about my long-familiar lifestyle, feeling as though some of my sacred traditions were being threatened. An Innogrance had been awakened, and I felt every bit the hobbled caterpillar, oversupervised by a threatening observer.

The doctor tried to set my mind at ease. I leveled with her, explaining that I was there to placate my wife, who was curious about whether I was experiencing one of the disorders the clinic specialized in treating. I was certain that I would not consent to wearing the Snuffelupagus mask, regardless of the diagnosis, but the doctor seemed to consider Apnea a serious business, like high blood pressure or high cholesterol, both of which I successfully treat with medications. I understand that my perfectly normal blood pressure and the finally within acceptable range cholesterol do not mean that I do not have heart disease, just that I have its most prominent symptoms temporarily under control. The doctor explained that sleep apnea was like those, chronic and not curable, but treatable, depending. I replied that I would remain in denial, though I agreed to submit to a take-home test. She explained that the test would produce better data if I could sleep at least six hours with the sensors attached. I replied that I could not remember the last time I slept for six consecutive hours. “That’s two days’ sleep for me.” She responded that I should try. I will try, but I know I can’t succeed. Pigs don’t fly, either.

Last night, I didn’t sleep at all. The effect of this Innogrance getting outed was just what I probably should have expected. I’d opened more than a merely apocryphal can of worms, but genuine trouble. I felt as though the sanctity of my sacred sleep patterns had been assaulted. I wondered where in all creation I might find my previous ignorant innocence again. The visit had violated the seemingly final bastion of my Innogrance, and few ever manage to regain their virginity once violated. The first result of my sleep clinic visit was the first genuinely sleepless night I remember experiencing since my darling daughter’s death, and the two experiences were not entirely unrelated, for both involved a terrible loss of my most prosperous innocence and a knowledge I swear I would have been better off never even hearing about, much less experiencing. I spent the night aching for my ignorance again and grieving the loss of perhaps the last innocence I still possessed. The sense of Prosperity I’d so innocently and ignorantly carried into that appointment left severely wounded. Now, it’s back to Go! without any promise of collecting the usual $200. Who knows where this game of Prosperity goes next?

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Prosperity, #PureSchmaltz