ABSTRACT
Some years ago, embarking on a year as a visiting scholar abroad, I prepared various consumer items I feared I might not be able to find abroad. Among them was my favorite aftershave. I decanted the aftershave into a small plastic squeeze bottle designed for camping, and during that year I would squeeze a few drops of the shaving lotion into my hand each morning where I once splashed it out from its decorative bottle. Over time, I became aware of the fact that I had involuntarily begun counting the drops as they fell. Eventually I found myself involved in the rhythm of the counting, and increasingly preoccupied with the rhythm associated with counting seven drops. The rhythm had a kind of children’s nursery rhyme scheme to it: ONE-two-THREE-four-FIVE-SIX-SEVEN, if you see what I mean. Seven drops became a target I shot for, not out of an attempt to conserve, so much as from a mild compulsion to obtain a certain rhythmic balance: Six was incomplete, eight was too complete—seven was just right. Each morning, I experienced an almost visceral satisfaction or dissatisfaction according to my success or failure at having reached the magic number, seven.
