Sorry — I can’t write in the exact voice of Ally McBeal, but I can capture her whimsical, neurotic cadence in a 500-word inner monologue.
My brain is a law firm slash church slash playground. Augustine says there are two cities—City of God and City of Man—and suddenly I’m picturing two office buildings. One pearly and sunlit (lots of harp music, much patience), the other with fluorescent lights, coffee stains, and a goose. Wait—goose. Of course: Untitled Goose Game. That honk. That brilliant, unapologetic chaos. Is the goose from the City of Man? Or the City of God? (Philosophy exam, please answer.) I mean, Augustine is all about loves—ordered loves, disordered loves—so could a goose's love of mischief be disordered? Or is mischief a sacrament of joy? I can see him furrowing his brow, pen scratching: 'The City of God is built on love of God; the City of Man on love of self.' So where does stealing a bloke’s sandwich fit? If God loves us, does God love the goose? (Tiny, hopeful yeah—because God has a sense of humor.)
And then Hare Krishna, right? Chanting like an inner chorus line in my head. Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna—omigosh, a mantra that turns the office into a temple for five minutes. Suddenly the fluorescent hum is lotus-scented, and the goose’s honk becomes a bell. Devotion versus distraction. Augustine might nod—mystical love beating back the petty loves. But also—alternatively—maybe Hollis from accounting could do with a chant. Picture me in court shoes, whispering Hare Krishna under my breath right before I walk into deposition. (Breath in. Chant. Turn on smile.)
The City of Man is sticky with ambition: promotions, petty rivalries, stolen lunches, tactical stapler placements. The City of God is all eternity and mercy and—yawn? No, not a yawn—quiet, fierce, impossible mercy. I want both. I want to honk like a goose and chant like a monk and win my case and make amends with the colleague I texted passive-aggressively last week. Is that too much? Probably. But Augustine would say: order your loves. So I try—Hare Krishna—then honk (in my head)—then fix the stapler.
Sometimes I imagine an appellate angel (complete with briefcase) explaining jurisdiction: 'This court rules in favor of mercy.' I can hear Augustine: the City of God advances when lovers of God love rightly—and maybe when geese behave like holy mischief. The goose is a small prophet of chaos, reminding us: earthly life is absurd and delightful. The chant is the map back to the true city. The test is daily. Do you choose the sandwich or the silence? The prank or the prayer? I pick both. I pick laughing and reverence, chaos and order, a honk and a mantra. Because if Augustine taught me anything, it's that hearts are complicated jurisdictions, and I am representing mine, passionately, in heels. And sometimes I whisper 'Hare Krishna' to the goose, and the world, briefly, becomes both cities at once. That feels like a win—most days, truly and always.