When I swim at the pool at the Activities and Recreation Center (ARC, yo), I work on memorizing latin declensions, 50 meters at a time. es, um, ibus, es, ibus. Then I'll flip and turn to conjugations. bo, bis, bit, bimus, bitis, bunt. But sometimes my mind wanders from that, and I think about how Aristotle should have included seeing underwater in his list of things that count as phantasia. Why didn't he, I wonder. He was otherwise so thorough. Surely the ancients did not keep their eyes shut in the sea. I think about stuff going on right now (sum, es, et, sumus, estis, sunt). How on earth Michael Phelps barely skims the surface of the water when I feel like I'm always sinking. How it isn't fair that people got so upset when he was photographed smoking that bong. He's 23 for crying out loud. It was pot: not exactly a performance enhancer. I go back--bam, bas, bat, bamus, batis, bant--and think of other swims before, of E! who taught me how and helped me improve. Of our master's coach who was patient with my plodding and imperfect strokes. Of that time I swam a mile without stopping because I was so pissed at this girl in graduate school. Of that time KM had to get out of the pool because she was so hungry. How E! always craved hamburgers while swimming. How hungry swimming makes me. How butterflies make me think I'm going to drown. How many laps I have to go before my mile is done.