Let me assure everyone that Pope Francis is not, as we speak, in the grip of any kind of quietly humming life force…any kind of buzzing, soothing, gently crackling cosmic consciousness, at least as living life forms (humans, aquatics, animals, insects) know the term.

Pope Francis is not presently on that kind of Dave Bowman flotation ride. He’s not riding anything, in fact. Because he no longer exists, although a certain tingly residue may remain on some level. Maybe a sound or a whisper of some kind. A raindrop hitting the surface of a pond.

Whatever this residue may or may not amount to, it is almost certainly enveloped by or resting upon a kind of perfect, peaceful soft mattress of serenity…something that’s well beyond trustworthy….simultaneously everything and nothing. No worries or uncertainties or concerns of any kind. Flatline chill. Stanley Kubrick has been in this same kind of perfect suspension for…what, 26 years and change? And it may as well be seconds as far as Stanley’s residue is concerned. Or, you know, forget any calibration at all.