John Swinburn

After a brief flash of Winter, Spring spun through and around us, toppling rotted trees and otherwise reminding us how powerless we are in comparison to Nature. Today, the season seems to be an uncertain combination of the two, neither of which has sufficient motive to wrestle the other for superiority. The blend of grey skies, temperatures in the low 50s, and still air creates an atmosphere of dull weakness; a pervasive bleak and sullen detachment. A few scattered leaves are stuck to the driveway, the adhesive moisture of an almost invisible mist condemning them to stay right where they are if and until the environment changes. They have given up trying to be useful and lively. They are vestiges of a time when life filled the air with wind and aromatic conversations. There are no discussions between flowering plants and bees seeking pollen.  A pall of indifference enshrouds everything in emptiness. The day is unsure of itself. It wants to slink back into the anonymity of night. But clouds prohibit darkness from allowing even starlight to piece the night skies. The day can move neither forward nor backward; it is in a catatonic state, paralyzed with anxiety about a future it cannot see and a past it cannot remember. There is only the present, an enigmatic anchor to now.

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The absence of bright color can be beautiful. In the right combinations and textures, shades of grey blended with muted hues of sage green and black and creamy beige produce serene images that amplify one’s sense of tranquility. But the hideous monotony of unstructured, pointless mixtures of emphatically dreary tints and tones and hues—it borders on chaotic. Oddly, though, the chaos is not necessarily turbulent. It distorts perception in a way, stretching it into smooth-edged fragments that fit together like a complex, precision-machined jigsaw puzzle. This perception is not automatic, though. Not natural. It requires a focused disengagement that takes practice and persistence. I remember the first time…I think…this thought came to my mind. I was riding in the car of an Amtrak train, somewhere in North Dakota, between St. Paul, Minnesota and White Fish, Montana. Mile after mile of almost identical desolate scenery that other passengers described as boring, with its its monochromatic palette and repetitious vegetation, became an image of chaotic magnetism, to me. Beyond its monotonous sameness, I finally was able to see the extraordinary beauty of that long strip of natural elegance. In the right frame of mind, it can be seen all around us; along railway freight switches, in strings of graffiti on highway overpasses, in automobile junk yards on the “seedy” side of towns. Even in seemingly never-ending chain link fences and scenes of hundreds of oilfield derricks protruding from barren stretches of tan sand.

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Despite my affinity for the color, grey, I recognize and appreciate the spectacular beauty and energy that resides, sometimes hidden, within brilliant colors. Yet I tend to favor greys over brighter colors except for accents. I suspect the reason for my attachment to greys is enhanced by my sense that greys are valued by fewer people than are reds and blues and greens and so forth. I value my commonality with relatively small subsets of people who share my tastes and interests including, of course, my preferences of colors. That concept—valuing what I identify as a unique characteristic by virtue of its commonality with a select groups of others—is an odd sort of contradiction. Seen clearly, without looking through the lens of pretentious snobbery, the concept clearly reveals arrogance. Even with that admission, though, I still find it true…and bizarre. Does it make sense for a person to attribute his uniqueness—his differences—by virtue of the extent to which he is like others? That is not differentiation; it is unearned conceit. When I think of other aspects of myself I find worthy of pride, due to their relative rarity in the population at large, I can’t help but laugh: attraction to spicy foods; admiration for multiculturalism; appreciation of multilingualism. I could go on and on, of course, but to do so would only worsen my image of myself as a boastful egotist who relies on self-delusion to prop up unwarranted pride of rare characteristics that are not necessarily common, but certainly not rare.

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Honesty frees and humiliates simultaneously. The truth can tear down walls that keep people apart, while bringing shame to the people who built them—and who lived behind them. Walls are made of both bricks and beliefs. Bricks are easier to dismantle.

Another year of uncertainty begins. Like so many years before it, the outcome of this new year cannot be predicted with any degree of confidence. The challenges facing humanity— and the planet we inhabit—might finally overwhelm us, leaving only shattered fragments of smoldering detritus in place of what we once were. Or, this sparkling new year might end in the luminous glow of unimaginably wild and glorious success, well on our way to a near-term future that lacks all the unspeakably cruel and intolerable problems we have nurtured since our unknowable beginning. As much as I would prefer to place bets on the latter outcome, I am afraid that gamble would be an exercise in indefensible hope. Yet speculating on the apocalyptic version of “maybe” might well result in an equally unproductive wager.  Predicting the future may be an intriguing form of entertainment, but forecasts that lean heavily, on the whole, to either side of the spectrum of “good” versus “bad” probably fail miserably or succeed wildly. Likely to more closely resemble “actual” results are prophesies that mix “good” and “bad” outcomes with large swaths of guesses that suggest “it depends on who defines success and failure…and how.” If success is defined as the continuation of life, humanity in general may have a good chance of succeeding for another year or another decades or another century or even another millennium. But if that definition refers to individual human lives in the short-term, some time-limited success is possible. Yet, if the definition refers to individual human lives, success has an expiration date after which success is surrendered to death. In that thinking, though, people are incapable of succeeding. And death is synonymous with failure. I suppose the same logic can be applied to humanity in general. In either case, it would behoove us—both individually and collectively—to strive toward an agreement about what constitutes success. Though, in honesty, any such agreement probably is nullified in death. How long, I wonder, will this year last?

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I have noticed a dramatic increase in the length of some posts on Facebook. Those longer posts almost always take the form of “stories.” They usually are posted by a commercial entity—frequently an organization or individuals involved with publishing or history or some other source that seems unrelated to the subject of the story. Many times, in reading the comments left by readers, the commenters’ snarky statements mock the stories as having been created by Artificial Intelligence (AI). When I read the stories, I think I understand what prompted the mockery. The writing seems to have been produced by a writer who tends to intensify the story with dramatic embellishments. Something else strikes me; the writing style can be quite similar to mine. Short, dramatic sentences written to emphasize the emotional gravitas of earlier, scene-setting, sentences. When I find myself comparing my writing to “theirs” (whoever “they” are), I tend to think the writing is reasonably good, but in love with itself for its obvious dramatic thunder. And I then grow embarrassed with my own writing that lends itself to such comparisons. I seriously doubt my writing has been influenced by AI writing, inasmuch as my writing long preceded AI writing. But I wonder about the source of my writing style? And I wonder whether any unique value my writing may once have had has dissolved into digitized vapor?

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The bookshelves in my study are filled with books, the remains of a vastly larger collection I had before I moved from Dallas. In advance of the move, I gave away or sold a large number of books to Half Price Books because the volumes took up far too much space. Since moving to Hot Springs Village, I have relieved myself of many additional books. Still, though, my shelves are filled with books. I have not even opened most of them in the nearly eleven years I have lived here. Nor have I invested in a Kindle or its kin as an alternative to physical books. I blame my eyesight for my distraction from reading; I am not sure where the blame rests for the fact that I cling to books I have long-since read or that I have long intended to read. Maybe it’s the idea that simply having books to display portrays me as a man with an intellectual side…or suggests I am more well-read than is the case.  While those may be among the reasons to blame my dust-collecting collection, the core reason, I think, is that I tend to revere physical books. Simply looking up at my shelves give me an odd sense of comfort. They remind me of ideas that took shape or impressions I developed about the authors while I was reading them. “Book people” (whether real or, has-beens like me—impersonators) use books as mental destinations; safe places where thoughts can blossom without risk of ridicule or suspicion. I envy good writers who can do more with words than simply allow ideas to spill forth from their minds. Truly good writers have the ability to shape and mold those words into cohesive collections that educate or entertain or encourage or warn readers about real and artificial forces that swirl about, hidden from those of us who are less competent with language.

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Yesterday’s chemo session did not take place. Instead the oncologist prescribed IV fluids and wrote a prescription for antibiotics. She changed the chemo plan because I have felt weaker than usual for the last few days and have fallen back into my habit of sleeping more than I am awake. I will return next week to get the chemo I missed yesterday, assuming my condition improves. I have a low white blood cell count (Leukopenia), which had dropped again for the second consecutive time, making me more susceptible to infections. Will I EVER be able to live a semi-normal life again? I suppose it’s far easier for me, an old man with the tendencies of a recluse, than for extroverts who thrive on interacting with others.

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Sisal rope, made of natural fiber from the rugged Mexican Agave sisalana plant (related to Agave tequilana). While the sisalana plant is used primarily durable fibers, it is said to be useable in making a liquor similar to tequila. I have no idea what the liquor is called, nor where it can be found.

If not for the chemotherapy session scheduled for a little later this morning, I would return to bed in an attempt to sink into unconsciousness. Whether my body would permit it, though, is a matter for debate. Discomfort rudely interrupts the pursuit of the numbing pleasure of sleep. Regardless, cancer treatments insist on precedence over recuperation from…whatever it was/is that wrecked an otherwise tolerable evening. I retreated from the real world at around 7:00 p.m., in the hope of exchanging distress for a sense of well-being or, at least, anesthetic insensitivity. Like wishes against rocks—dashed by reality. Ten hours later, after a few failed efforts sleep—and many quiet curses flung at cancer and chemotherapy and the deterioration and decay that accompanies them—I crept out of bed. Now, an hour after feeding the cat and forcing myself to swallow a handful of pills (with a chaser of cold water, Ensure, and lukewarm espresso), I sit at my desk, whining. I do not like to whine. Whining is behavior unbecoming an old man who should, instead, stand in brave defiance of his challenges. Whimpering is beneath the dignity of a man with so many years under his belt. Yet here I am, grousing in pitiful self-indulgence. My middle name, which begins with the letter “S,”  should be Sniveling.

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The last time I left a record at the end of a calendar year was just one year ago today. I mentioned chemo and cancer in that post, just as I have today. And I included an incomplete snippet of dystopian political fiction, reflecting my sour outlook and dull grey mood, triggered in large part by the unbelievable reality that was just beginning to unfold. Had I been thinking more clearly, I might have written about anticipating a simultaneous event: a nuclear explosion so massive that every star in every galaxy—and all the planets surrounding them—would be vaporized in less than one billionth of a second.  Hindsight, though, force-fed by enormous tanks filled with unimaginable volumes of monstrous truth, is better than a pair of eyeglasses capable of focusing on reality billions of years into the future.

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Today, again, is the very last time any of us will experience a once-in-a-lifetime event: December 31, 2025. Some of the more advanced time-travelers among us Earthlings—the Aussies and Kiwis and the like—are just minutes away from leaving 2025 behind. They will find themselves at a different point in time—a completely different year—from us for a period of many hours. Time will be split into two distinct moments, at the very same time. Schrödinger’s clock will leave me confused, confounded, and dazed, as if I had consumed mushrooms grown in a universe so far away I can see it through a telescope but cannot reach without first encountering a singularity within my own mind. By then, though, the Hubble Telescope will be outdated and feeble; an obsolete piece of the past reflecting a crystal clear image of the future. Remember that? Those were the days, my friend, we thought would never end. But the tavern is closing and the regulars will be hailed for public vindictiveness without a permit.

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The incoming new calendar year will serve as a platform for more seriousness than has been the case with the past year. I intend to refrain from posting so much stream-of-insanity content, opting instead to express myself in more somber and serious and solemn ways. But, no matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to keep intricate threads of invasive dark humor from hiding among the thickets of light and airy gravitas. Like a trampoline, but with tiny filaments of razor wire threaded into its cloth.

The year is in its death throes. Only today and tomorrow remain. The rest of 2025—barely recognizable as it collapses into its ultimate decay—is a mound of shattered and splintered days—nothing more than smoldering embers and ashes. Gasping for a few, final, labored breaths. Most of history, rewritten to suit the grotesque bigotry of authoritarian autoeroticism, tells stories of events that never happened or expunges true-crime documentation about actions that should have never taken place. Illusions and lies, stitched together in fabric so tightly-woven it is water-proof and truth-proof, comprise the artificial fabric of the past; the “official recounts” explaining life as it never was to true believers tortured into accepting empty vapor as irrefutable evidence of fiction as the only real facts. Presented with the options of willingly accepting the suspension of reality or fighting against honesty in all its forms, we have chosen both. With an inexplicable fervor, we have ceded to a maniacal minority the reins of power. “We?” Who are we? It is “they” who agreed to embrace their own powerlessness. What have “we” done in response? Clearly, not enough.

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The air outside my study’s window looks weak, as if it is starved of oxygen. The translucent tree trunks and limbs beyond the glass are still and quiet now, but as the atmosphere continues to thin, they will change. First, twigs and limbs will moan—almost inaudibly. Soon thereafter, their soft expressions of emotional pain will become louder and their once-rigid wood will become soft and limp. The trunks will slump in irrepressible grief, as bark slides in waves onto the ground. Birds already have abandoned the forest in their search for breathable air. Deer, too, have scurried away, seeking an atmosphere more hospitable to living creatures. Squirrels and turkeys, stuffed with the bounty of their pre-winter feeding frenzies, waddle away in the hope that their plodding retreat will be fast enough to avoid the worsening oxygen shortage.  Time, known to require massive infusions of pure oxygen, came to a halt several hours ago, as expected; as we know, the cessation of time is the canary in the coal mine.

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We have known for quite some time that our Sun will one day spend the last of its fuel. Before that time comes, our planet may plummet into temperatures so cold that atoms will be unable to move. Or, conversely, the star will ignite its final store of hydrogen gas to incinerate our planet and all those within the Sun’s gravitational pull. Either way, we know our existence eventually will come to an end. So, why do we seem so terror-stricken to think of an ending that comes much sooner? “Temporal proximity.” That’s my hypothesis. Nearness in time. As the distance…whether actual or imagined…between then and now shrinks, our anxiety skyrockets, zipping past distant galaxies at speeds far greater than light-speed-squared. The simple solution, of course, is to employ a mechanism I call “time elongation.” Time elongation is a process that either dramatically slows the progression of time or actually extends the size and duration of time’s many component parts. In the latter case, for example, a second can be be expanded to the size and duration of a year in today’s experience. Thinking of the coming apocalypse in that context, we have all the time in the world. The logic of that line of thinking, though, may be similar in some ways to equating the time between elbow replacements with the likelihood of dying of frostbite in the heat of the Australian summer.

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Pessimism and realism live across from one another on the same side of the street. Their grandfathers and grandmothers, respectively, were arrested for crimes against insanity, but the charges were dropped from a high-flying aircraft whose pilots had been smoking marijuana. Needless to say. While some people are busy building concentration camps, others focus their efforts on building concentration campuses, where college students are forced to live the impoverished lifestyles of aspiring academics. Though my writing may seem like it is fueled by illegal substances this morning, that is not the case.

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Sometimes, the only real problem is the lack of a solution.

One day, I will write it. Until then, I will keep looking for words to describe it. When I find them, if indeed I do, I will write it. In the meantime, I will continue to leave myself clues. Sorting out the clues will be no simple task. It will entail, first, reading everything I’ve written. Then, I will discard the chaff. The next step will be to organize what’s left into a coherent sequence and pore over it to determine what’s missing. When I have found and filled the remaining emptiness, I will write it. A manifesto. Or, I may decide to start compiling it before all the pieces are readily at hand. No matter. Either way, it probably won’t be a mind-changing masterpiece. How many times have I vowed to finish a project, only to realize my commitments were not bankable?

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Last night, we sat quietly on our recliner loveseat. The howling winds that had introduced a cold front grew louder and stronger and more intense as the early evening wore on. After darkness fell, though we could no longer see the trees flex and branches bend in the wind, we assumed some branches would surrender to the fierce gusts. Suddenly, a sound above us and outside the windows confirmed the assumption. I imagined a mid-sized branch had fallen, scraping the roof as it fell. And I knew I could not confirm it visually until the morning. This morning’s view outside the north side of the house confirmed that something larger had fallen. A tall and obviously rotted tree, as straight as an arrow, had snapped off a few feet from the ground. Pieces near the top broke off when it fell, scattering some of its rotten remnants on the forest floor below. I am curious about whether the north side or the roof of the house show any signs of being struck by the tree. However, I have no immediate plans to go exploring on this brisk (31°F) morning, even though the winds have calmed and the skies are absolutely clear and brilliantly blue. If I were to journey forth, though, I suspect I would find plenty of evidence the wind won handily over the trees in last night’s round of fierce combat.

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Today is the final Monday of the final month of a chaotic year: 2025. By this time next week, we will have waded into the early days of the only January we will experience in 2026. Every day thereafter, and each day leading up to it, is the final opportunity we will ever have to experience the moments that comprise the hours of those days. The mere fact—that every moment of every component of time is unique—argues that each such unique instance should be afforded an appropriate level of reverential recognition. But any time we take to devote to commemoration robs us of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually experience that moment; commemorative or not. Yes, of course, time is fleeting. But does time pass us by, or is it the opportunity it takes with it as it goes?

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After I awoke at 4 this morning, I had already begun my morning routine when I decided to get back in bed. Sleep a little longer. Five hours later, I had slept for almost twelve consecutive hours—except for that brief detour. When I sleep so late, the day has a hard time recovering from its slothful beginning. It’s as if I might as well just go back to bed again and try again tomorrow morning at 4. For some reason, that day of sleep would not seem like an entire wasted day. Only when large pieces of the early parts of a day are torn away does the day’s value decline so precipitously. What opportunities would I miss, though? What opportunities do I miss during the time I sleep at night? Is that time wasted? I think I may be comparing apples to alligators here, when I use the word “opportunity” in a context in which “productivity” might better fit. “Productivity” can sound steely and sterile in some circumstances, but it can have a more compassionate side to it in others. “Opportunity,” too, can refer to “as-yet unearned and so-far-undeserved good fortune” or to a “chance to dramatically improve your situation.” I confuse myself when I attempt to think above my grade. Please pay no attention.

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For  years, I have had a minor fixation with crows. Several years ago, when I visited the Jose Cuervo distillery in Tequila, Jalisco, Mexico, I fell in love with the large metal sculpture of a crow at the entrance. Since then, I have maintained my interest and appreciation in a low-key way. I have noticed, though, I am not the only one enamored of the bird. Mi novia feeds them with whole peanuts, in the shells, most days; and she bought a high-end ceramic “crow” not long ago. It sits on the coffee table. An acquaintance from my involvement with the UU church seems to be fascinated by them. My sister-in-law (my late wife’s sister) also feeds crows and otherwise reveals her admiration for them. There are others. Crows are said to be quite intelligent. I wish there were a way to understand their thinking and they could understand ours. Communication between us would be required for the thought-sharing to work. I saw a large abstract painting of a crow somewhere recently; maybe online. I wish I had saved the image; I want it with me, here in my study. I really MUST do something with the walls in my study. I can’t decide what I want to put up, though. My cup collection? My unicorns? Neither is as powerfully meaningful to me as once was the case. Perhaps a multi-dimensional array of crows. It may be a bit late to begin a hobby of collecting such stuff.

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Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I immediately see an abstract image billions and billions of incredibly complex shapes in a labyrinthine pattern. Usually, the images have a limited rather dark color palate; just one color in innumerable gradations. Every one of the billions of shapes changes its shape…radically…several hundred times per second. If I try to preserve a specific shape or a specific gradation of a shade of color, all the images suddenly disappear from my mind. But they eventually return. On occasion, I convince myself these billions of rapidly-changing images represent the sophisticated inner workings of the brain. But, then, I think they must be visual representations of the processes which the most powerful super computers use to accomplish the humanly impossible.  This paragraph, by the way, is NOT a piece of fiction. I realize, of course, I write in ways that sometimes make it impossible for a reader to know whether I am spinning a tale or expressing my reality. This is real, but my experience cannot be adequately described with language.

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An old-style calculator sits on my desk, almost hidden beneath the computer monitor.  “Old-style,” meaning a stand-alone desktop device dedicated to arithmetic functions.  Mine is a latter-day old-style calculator, a small dual-powered (battery and solar) device.  I justified keeping the machine, in the event a power loss prevented me from using Excel on my computer. But when smart-phones came along and I had a calculator available whenever I had my phone with me, that rationale disappeared. But the calculator remains; a relic of an odd attachment to a machine that has long since been made obsolete by advances in technology. I do not use the calculator. I simply keep it close at hand for reasons that are essentially indefensible. Occasionally, I daydream wistfully about finding and restoring my 1971 Ford Pinto, my first car, which I owned for seven years until I replaced it with a 1978 Datsun 200SX. Perhaps the car and the calculator are physical manifestations of nostalgia for a less complicated period in my life, before hope became an unrealistic, naive aspiration for the future. It’s well past the time to make a little more room on my desk. My attachment is not to the device, perhaps, but to a moment in time when it actually served a purpose.

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I received two email messages within the last couple of days that included attachments; photographs of my oldest brother’s face in the aftermath of tripping on a hole in the side sidewalk in the nearby Mexican town of Chapala and falling face-first onto the concrete. Thanks to the assistance of locals who came to his aid, an ambulance came and took him to the Red Cross hospital. There, he got several stitches in his nose before taking an Uber home. The locals took care of his car for him after the incident and he took a bus back into the town the following day to retrieve his car. At least that’s the story that accompanied the photos. The photos look to me like he was involved in a bar fight with several bigger, younger, and stronger guys. The swelling and redness around his eyes, the scrapes on his forehead, and the obvious damage to his nose suggest one of the guys used a baseball bat and another hit him with a piece of steel rebar during the assault. Another couple of the assailants probably relied on their fists, alone. While the bar fight story is entirely fictional, it is only slightly less alarming than the reality of suffering such an injury only a few miles from one’s home. The fact that he is conversant in Spanish probably was useful…but if my face looked like his after such an incident, I doubt I could communicate in any language.

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A huge Bavarian-style beer garden is planned for west Houston, joining several others that apparently have come into being in the years since I lived there roughly forty years ago. At least 100 beer taps are planned for the new one, which will sit on 21,000 square feet of land in Ashford Yard, a multi-use development in Houston’s energy corridor. One one hand, the idea of such a place is appealing to me because its beer offering will be so diverse. But it will be big and crowded and attractive to young-ish patrons who I expect will be loud and raucous and more-than-likely poor matches for reclusive old loners like me. The last time I spent time in a beer garden was several years ago, when I was in Houston with several family members. My niece took us to a little neighborhood beer garden relatively close to their home; it was small, intimate place with outdoor seating under some big trees (if I recall correctly).  I miss having ready access to such places. The population density is insufficient, I suspect, to support a beer garden near where I live. I used to equate beer gardens with friendly, casual, progressive conversations; no longer, though. Nasty conservatism, coupled with maniacal religious fervor and delusions of moral superiority seem to have taken hold of even the most appealing locales.

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Despite the fact that I know today is Sunday, I see a very different day when I look outside my window. This is an unnamed day that’s held in reserve for an imaginary rail journey through a non-existent countryside. The vistas outside my window include rolling hills, rocky cliffs overlooking the angry waves of an ocean storm, winding highways slicing through enormous pastures dotted with sheep, and small villages where the residents are as friendly and welcoming as close family members. Unlike the rest of the world, beer gardens in these environs do not rely on dense populations; they rely on small populations of intelligent inhabitants who enjoy the camaraderie of sitting beneath shade trees, discussing philosophies of life, death, and the adequacy of “enough.” The huge public vegetable gardens that surround these places supply all the food resources one would ever need. Social media components of the internet in these places is years…maybe decades…away from becoming reality. Except, of course, a select group of applications available only to people whose psychological profiles confirm their humanity and fundamental human decency. The junipers in these areas have been cultivated in such a way that, when tapped, they yield buckets full of crystal clear Bombay Sapphire gin. Farmers in these spots have developed the means to raise vegan versions of prime rib that, when roasted, taste and smell and feel and look exactly like the beef version. Olive orchards surround these hamlets. Nearby, tamale ranchers work hard just before the end of the year to provide ample supplies of lab-grown pork tamales, perfectly-spiced with locally-grown jalapeños, for the Christmas season and beyond.  Okay. If I can imagine it, I can experience it, right? Still, I cannot see the sheep…or the cliffs…or the beer gardens…or the friendly denizens. Obviously, I am lacking a little something to elevate my ability to become physically enmeshed in my illusions.

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Staying far, far away from the sharp edges of a brutally angry and violent world is an ambitious and admirable objective. It is, unfortunately, physically and mentally impossible. However, emotionally, one can corral one’s mind to stay within the boundaries of a safe psychological delusion, where a warm embrace awaits.

Last night, while listening to an Amazon Music station’s selection of soft, soothing piano music, my mind conjured an idea for a huge graphic that would illustrate the enormity of the scope of words that relate to Time. In the absence of the concept of Time, many of those words  would be meaningless. At the center of the graphic, the word—Time—would stand out in large, bold letters. Radiating out in a circle from that word would be those time-dependent words. For example, on one side of Time, the word ‘Now’ would be opposite the word ‘Then’ on the other side. And then, the floodgates would open, encircling Time with so, so many others:

Always—Never—Soon—Today—Tomorrow—Yesterday—Eventually—Previously—Afterward—Future—Past—Eternally—Present—Ever—When—Before—After—Late—Early—Second—Minute—Hour—Week—Fortnight—Month—Year—Decade—Century—Millennium—Forever—Eon—Concurrent—Perpetual—Consecutive—Subsequent—Simultaneous—Calendar—Clock—Birthday—Holiday…and on and on.

This list probably represents only a portion of the linguistic entanglements with Time. The circular graphic might make an intriguing large-scale mural on a windowless side of a big commercial building. I am a fan of murals and other façade art. One of my favorite art-related websites is Street Art Utopia. There’s something about street art that can give me a glimmer of hope for humankind; but some street art can dash that hope into a million pieces.

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Lately, I have read several articles about the Sarco (short for sarcophagus) Pod, an assisted-suicide machine designed by Philip Nitschke, a doctor who later became CEO of Exit International. An article on HuffPost, written by Nitschke, most among my most recent exposures to the concept of the device. The pod, intended to be produced using a 3-D printer, is served by a nitrogen gas cannister which releases nitrogen into the pod. Supporters claim the device works quickly and comfortably, inducing nitrogen hypoxia within a very short time. The CEO of Last Resort, a strong advocacy organization for ‘right to die’ and ‘death with dignity’ initiatives, Florian Willet, committed suicide in May 2025 after leading efforts to legalize euthanasia as an individual’s right. He had been arrested in September 2024 for his role in supporting/ assisting a 64-year-old woman from the United States who had used the machine. Willet was released from police custody in December 2024.  I do not know how he ended his life. Nitschke, the designer (and others) fiercely advocate for giving individuals the right to determine their own time and means of death. He opposes the medical model of support (when it is given) only for those suffering terminal prognoses. Forcing people wo wait until they may be in excruciating pain before authorizing their right to die (or never giving that authorization) seems (to me) cruel and antithetical to the Hippocratic Oath. Decisions about one’s death do not belong in the hands of government—not any more than do decisions about whether to bring life into the world.

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Some people who spend time around me often remark that I do not talk much. Conversations may buzz around me, but I tend not to insert myself into them with any frequency. I listen. I observe. If I participate, it’s usually to a rather limited extent. My involvement would be greater if I thought I had something of value to add to the discussion, but I rarely have that “added value” to contribute. Even when I have something I think might add to the mix, though, I avoid intruding in conversations that seem to be moving along quite nicely—and with few pauses—without me. Mostly, though, I think I my tendency to avoid injecting my thoughts into discussions is due to the fact that I am not a fast thinker. That is, I prefer to allow thoughts to develop slowly—by the time they have matured to a level at which I am confident, the conversation has moved on to other subjects. I say “I prefer…to develop slowly,” but it may be that “I have no other choice than to allow my thoughts to develop slowly.” In other words, I am not fast on my feet. I think much faster with my fingers on the keyboard. I doubt I would feel nearly as comfortable with a keyboard had I not acquiesced to my mother’s urging, while I was in junior high school, to take a typing class. Before I leave the subject…several people know I can readily abandon my silence in the right circumstances, to the extent they would gleefully muzzle me just to bask in the quiet.

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Next week’s weather will  return the fireplace to both its aesthetic and its utilitarian roles. Temperatures in the mid-70s in recent days have caused the value of a warming fire to decline. But we are told to expect frigid temperatures and howling winds next week, so bundling up in front of the fireplace will be attractive again. Cold weather creates in me a craving for hearty soups and spicy chili, along with a desire to relocate to more hospital climes. A conversation a few nights ago about locations that have near “perfect” weather included mentions of the California cities of Oakland and San Diego. Unfortunately, the cost of living in both places makes living in them prohibitively expensive for most people. Good weather and well-designed and well-maintained infrastructures attract people, driving demand for housing ever higher and increasing density to the point of discomfort. With our nation’s recent abandonment of climate protections and the government’s advanced levels of financial mismanagement, though, we are doing our part to make such places unlivable and well-beyond-unaffordable, therefore, unappealing. The problem of density, then, will be resolved and homelessness will be addressed wave after wave of additional poverty-driven relocations to more affordable places. Those places, of course, will then suffer from growing densities of destitute former city dwellers, declining tax bases, and burgeoning homelessness. No, no, no! that’s just nonsense! We can always count on greed and cruelty to solve our problems, so there’s no need to worry.

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At what point does humankind rebound with explosive resolve to tackle the worst of the problems facing us? When does individual greed give way to collective benevolence? Are hatred and love cyclical…that is, do humans grow weary of one in favor of the other and then repeat the process in reverse? The only power we have is the power we use.

On this day after Christmas, I feel an urge to write about war. I am grateful for having never been asked to fight in a war. I wonder whether I would have had the courage of my convictions and refused to participate in such utter madness. Wars are fought in service to the madness of greed. That is, I hope, universally understood. So, we know how wars start. But do we know how they end? The answers to that rhetorical question are numerous, but the one answer that resounds with me is this: Wars end when the resources of one warring faction run out. Depleted pools of personnel to fight; financial hemorrhaging; loss of allies; military equipment; whatever it takes to fight a war. Ultimately, the ‘will to fight’ can be one of those dwindling resources, but the will to go on, I think, must be the final stage of the process of resource annihilation.  The simplest solution to the problem of war, then, is to preemptively redistribute resources equally, by universal contract. Simultaneously, the psychological perspective that gives us the ‘will to fight’ must replaced by the ‘commitment to peace.’  How can two such simple steps have been missed by so many for so long? As to implementation?  I’m not into the practical application of such concepts; I’m more of an idea guy.

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We had a delightful meal yesterday afternoon. We had appetizers of some absolutely addictive home-made croutons made with toasted chunks of sour dough bread combined with the perfect mix of olive oil and favoring. Salmon chowder, sour dough bread, and salad, almost completed the meal, but the finale was a home made pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and/or whipped cream. By the end of it, I was stuffed. Afterward, I took a nap that lasted until after the sun rose this morning. The accompanying wine and the post-dessert ‘edible’ may have contributed to what amounted to my hibernation over the past many hours.

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Merrill Lynch Pierce Fenner & Smith—writing on behalf of its parent, Bank of America—sent me two missives recently. First, a letter accompanied a check in the amount of $00.02, requesting that I cash the check (which had replaced a “stale” check I discarded a few years ago). Failure to do so, the letter informed me, might result in my money being turned over to the state, which might place the money in its state ‘unclaimed funds’ accounts. Shortly after the first letter, a second one came to reiterate what the first one said and to again request that I cash the check. Though I conceptually understand their desire to make certain their books balance to the penny, I am astonished they do not pursue something less expensive than two expenses for postage, two for envelopes, the cost of printing the letters and check, and the resources used to stuff the envelopes and mail them. This time, I will deposit the check in my account. If I try to cash it at the bank, though, I wonder if they will give me a nickel, instead, since we don’t use pennies anymore?

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It is awkward to find oneself drowning in dehydrated ideas. Writing is an addictive affliction, a disease made immeasurably worse when the subject of the craving’s so rough.  Repetitive steps toward perpetual change is stagnation on steroids.

Today is Patty’s birthday. AND it’s Christmas Day, as well. Coincidence? Or a diabolical plan hatched by Krampus?  No matter. I wish everyone a Merry Christmas, Happy Holiday, and other celebratory situations.

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Regardless of how early I go to bed, my morning blush of energy when I wake is short-lived.  Sometimes it lasts long enough to allow me to reach a satisfactory—to me—endpoint in writing a blog post. Other times, my stamina is an invisible hologram; an expectation that does not fully materialize. Sleep can be a refuge from the dangers of consciousness, but sometimes wolves that live in one’s dreams tear through the sanctuary’s walls, pinning the dreamer down in a state of terrified submission.

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Options can seem more like threats than like choices. “Would you prefer to eat broken glass, sir, or to drink gasoline?” Such unpleasant thoughts disappear, though, the moment I hear the “hoo-h’HOO- hoo-hoo” of an owl; presumably a Great Horned Owl, or hoot owl. Though the sounds can seem like they are coming from just beyond the panes of glass of my window, I have read that those notes can be heard over long distances. Mother Nature’s deceit. Forest trickery. If I had better eyesight, more stamina, and enormous patience, I might wade out into the darkness in search of the source of those haunting noises. And, if I did wander into the woods, I might trip over a fallen log, smashing my skull against a large rock. At what point are risks worth the possible rewards of taking them? In the time it took to write that sentence, dull grey illumination spilled through the foggy haze; enough to confirm the impending onslaught of daylight. We are certain of predictions we make, based on repeated experiences. But yesterday’s sunrise is no guarantee that the sun will return to the skies today. Guarantees are iffy propositions, even when “everything is the same.” “Everything” is never “the same.”

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Imagine a child blowing soap bubbles while laughing gleefully at the shining globes floating through the air. Now, imagine those bubbles as they slowly drift to the earth. The moment a bubble is pierced by a blade of grass as it reaches the ground, the little sphere bursts in a nuclear explosion of unimaginable strength. Its heat is so great that the surrounding air instantly zips through several stages—liquid, solid, gas, and one more we’ve never seen before. The child is unphased by the chaos. She goes on smiling and chuckling, mesmerized by the magic of thermonuclear abstraction.

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The spirit has not quite captured me yet this morning. I’ll give it more time.

Roger Whittaker release the single, “Durham Town (The Leavin’)” in 1969, when I was sixteen years old. The tune spent sixteen weeks on the UK Singles Chart, reaching the peak of its popularity when it was number 12 of the chart. I do not recall how I was introduced to the song; only that I heard it shortly after its release and I liked it quite a lot. Years later, after Urinetown won three Tony Awards on Broadway, my wife and I went to a production of the musical at a performing arts center in Addison, Texas. Though there was (to my knowledge) no relationship whatsoever between the musical and Roger Whittaker’s song, I managed to merge the two into the lyrics of a new song I sometimes sang, to the distress of my late wife:

I’ve got to leave old Urinetown,
I’ve got to leave old Urinetown.
I’ve got to leave old Urinetown,
And the leavings gonna get me down.

Many years later, I learned that Whittaker’s original lyrics referred to Newcastle, not Durham. He changed the town to make the music sound more “natural.” But he did not change the name of the river referenced in the lyrics, the Tyne. Had he made the appropriate change to reflect the river near Durham, he would have referred to the river Wear.

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Just a shade more than eleven years ago, I began writing a short story that featured two drunk and disorderly mermaids, Molly and Shirona. The riveting tale, cut short almost before it began, is typical of my attempts at writing autobiographical fiction. That is, fiction laced with more than simple fabrication; filled, instead, with bald-faced lies, complete with verified bibliographic references attributed to giants of literature—people whose fame seems familiar but whose surnames are misspelled. At any rate, as the story ended abruptly after only a few incoherent paragraphs, “Molly and Shirona surfaced in a shrimper’s net, their tails in tatters and their smiles intact.” There could have been—should have been—far more to the tale. Their bravado and drunken revelry had already been introduced, when they paid for a two-month drinking binge with “gold doubloons snatched from sunken ships.” But the story’s promise ended long before it was told. Somewhere in the ether of my brain, the arc of the story resides, still. There is more to tell about Shirona’s full lips, curled into a come-hither pucker. Had more of the story been written, readers could have learned whether mermaids deliver babies or lay eggs. The reason for Molly’s affection for alcohol might have become apparent as the story unfolded. Instead, the reader (had there been one) would have been sorely disappointed to discover Molly’s troubled upbringing was not even mentioned before the thickening of the plot could begin. I could return to continue, and perhaps complete, what I began. But I have begun and ended so many others before losing my motivation…that the pointlessness of selecting this story over dozens and dozens of others might simply represent compelling evidence in my trial or motivation in my sentencing. The oldest trick in the book, though, is to weave fiction into the fabric of truth, hiding reality in between layers of honesty and mendacity, both of which might be sprinkled with fantasy and fear. What “book”
is that? In which of the many encyclopedic volumes of magical deceit might that trick be revealed?

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Here it is, Christmas Eve, and my calendar shows only one obligation: a visit to my oncologist’s office, where I will have blood drawn for laboratory evaluation, get an IV infusion to counter my tendency toward dehydration, and receive an injection of neupogen to support my white blood cell count.  No chemo today, but during the chemo visit last week my oncologist noted in my file that she will “Continue conservative approach with chemotherapy dosing given patient’s history of treatment ­related complications.” Tomorrow, mi novia will prepare salmon chowder. We will have have two guests (our little local semi-extended family) with whom we’ll share the holiday meal.

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Winter weather has abandoned us for the time-being. Highs over the next few days will surpass 70°F. That brief reprieve from intolerably cold outdoor temperatures may spur me on to try to jump-start my car, after which I will either buy a new battery or get confirmation that the current battery died from a lack of attention during a recent cold snap, therefore not needed replacement.

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Two recent visits by friends reinforced my sincere appreciation for people who act on their good intentions. Christmas cards, phone calls, emails, and the like add to the sense that there are many, many good people in the world. My failure to reach out to them, and to others, is an embarrassing flaw. My good intentions, smothered by laziness, must be given infusions of oxygen! Hand-written cards are not my thing (because my handwriting is illegible), but personal correspondence created on my keyboard will, I hope, accomplish the same thing I experience.

Back in the early days, when I was young and energetic and more than a little naive, I wore a suit and tie to work every day. My favorite ensemble from my collection of business attire comprised a dignified, light-grey three-piece business suit, starched white shirt, brightly patterned red tie, and highly polished black loafers. Whether I had anything to put in it or not, I regularly carried home with me each day a thin black Samsonite briefcase—irrefutable evidence that I belonged in the executive suite. I was under the mistaken impression that “the image makes the man.” It was much later that I realized the world operated on an entirely different principle: “the man makes the image and tries desperately to climb into it.” The first thing I did when I wore my costume to the office was to take off the jacket, put it on a hanger, and place it on the back side of my office door. I liked the way I looked when I wore the two remaining pieces of my three-piece suit. The vest, especially, sculpted the image I thought I presented: a no-nonsense, hard-working young man who was serious about sprinting into a future full of spectacular opportunities. In hindsight, though, I think the image was considerably more comedic: a young, inexperienced, buffoon who was easily manipulated and misled into thinking he had important contributions to make to a world that had dismissed his laughable misconceptions about himself long before he was born. My fragile self-confidence, always brittle and subject to being shattered in a stiff breeze, was an exercise in pointlessness in the face of the hurricane winds of young adulthood. I was a relatively believable actor, though, so I managed to muscle my way through seemingly endless crises of confidence by pretending to be someone I was not. I hid my quivering lower lip beneath blankets of false bravado. During the many years of pretense—while I focused on making my counterfeit self appear real—I lost sight of who hid behind my masks. I cannot tell which version of me is authentic and which ones are simply products I created from pieces I found in books or films or lifelike models. Who am I, really? If I could strip away all the synthetic pieces, who would remain? I wish I knew, but I am afraid I might find authenticity intolerable. Are we all, in fact, actors? Do we act out of necessity, knowing that somewhere in the recesses of our mind is an empty form that can live only through mimicry?

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My thoughts spin between rage and humor. I need more rest.

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All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

William Shakespeare

I do not know who created this image, but whoever did it is, in my mind, a brilliant artist and thinker. 🙂

Blue Lights, the BBC police procedural set in Northern Ireland, is annoying in the infrequency of available new seasons and episodes. We completed Season 3 last night (on BritBox), which had six episodes. Each of the six episodes was released at least a week apart in the U.S., meaning viewers had to either wait a week (or more) between them or wait until all had been released to binge-watch. Because we had watched Seasons 1 and 2 on an incredibly rewarding binge-basis, we jumped at the first opportunity to start watching Season 3. We did not wait to binge-watch it, though. A maddening mistake. Now, we have to wait until at least late 2026 to begin watching Season 4, which will not begin filming until early 2026.  If the distributors of the series had even a shred of human decency, they would speed production, in the interest of people with terminal lung cancer who are facing  an uncertain future. Gallows humor.

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Somewhere on the outer fringe of my mind, I feel the edge of a mostly-hidden memory of last night’s dream. It involved anger, my two dead siblings, my late wife, a faulty home security system, and a woman who was involved in a client association (not sure who she was, nor which association). The woman and the client and my own company all had accounts at a common bank. I strode across the roofs of Chicago skyscrapers, one step per building at a time. It was another disturbing dream, complete with a cold, early-morning sweat. I hate such intrusions in my head! My acquaintance, David, who commented recently about his similar stressful dreams, knows the source of such nightmares; now, if only someone could tell me ways to prevent them.

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I feel icy crystals of blood in my arteries and veins. Blood must freeze at temperatures much higher than does water. But maybe it’s not blood crystals. Maybe, instead, I feel the hulls of tiny hematological ships scraping against the tubular channels as the ships pass through. Somewhere along those miles of shipping lanes are canals, the flows within which are controlled by locks. The locks, you see, adjust to control blood pressure. When the pressure rises to potentially dangerous levels, shore birds poke their long, probing beaks through the surface of the vessels, relieving pressures and gently stroking the tubes with their delicate feathers. This is the kind of truth that Kellyanne Conway discovered when she went searching for alternative facts to confirm truths that, to her, seemed self-evident.

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His creativity cannot be located. It was last seen as it plunged into the frigid waters off the coast of Newfoundland, followed by a murder of whales and a pod of crows. Spotted by a sunbeam, the caravan was then trailed by daylight for immeasurable miles, until dusk showered the travelers with darkness, stars, and scorn. Scorpions scurried across the southern sky, preparing for battle with an Achilles heel. And then, God created enchiladas, awash in  African spice and mental anguish. Suddenly, after a laboriously long year of plotting and planning, and after a lengthy exposure to flames as hot as the sun is hungry, a tub full of tuna  sashimi was declared cooked and ready to thaw. Mermaids, their muscular legs as soft and short as a granite California redwood, marched in unison to the sounds of trumpets firing rounds of cotton candy into a swamp filled with solemnity and fresh gravity. After a lifetime of worry, he found his creativity, buried between the folds of an empty steel blanket in a pool of empty space that extends well past the end of forever in all directions. Everything else was no more than an abbreviation; a symbol for nothing is the absence of anything.

We know it’s fiction, of course. Though we play along with the idea—to an extent—we’re under no delusions. There is no question about it. Clearly, it’s fantasy. But somewhere in the deepest recesses of our minds, we secretly consider the remote possibility. We wonder whether there may be a shred of reality tucked into the far corners of that imaginary world. No, of course not! We shake off that brief exploration of the impossible, laughing at ourselves; embarrassed that we would ever entertain such a ridiculous concept. Yet, while we’re unwilling to admit it—even to ourselves—we permit ourselves to glide aimlessly through this whimsical flight of fancy.

But maybe forest sprites really do exist. Maybe the stories about the tooth fairy are based in fact. Maybe Santa Claus is not just a character created to fascinate children. Maybe all the creatures that populate children’s books and childhood fantasies are not just ingenuous fabrications. Maybe they arise from hidden memories that have been repressed to protect ourselves from believing we have lost our minds. Or to protect ourselves from recognizing that reality.

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I don’t believe in magical beings. But I often wish, desperately, I could. A fantasy existence holds so much more promise than a real world awash in hatred, war, famine, thirst, cruelty, greed, poverty, starvation, and an array of other such atrocities that emerge, endlessly, with every sunrise and sunset. The byproducts of these horrors—hopelessness and rage—add fuel to the fire that keeps the cauldron scalding hot. Holiday cheer, drowning in rivers of molten humanity—once belonging to Venezuelan fishermen or drug smugglers—struggles to overcome its diametric opposite: misery.

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Yesterday’s Zoom video with mi familia cercana was far too short. I may reinvest in a paid subscription to Zoom so I can enjoy longer conversations with my brothers and sister (and mi novia). I have another Zoom engagement scheduled this morning with a pair of friends from Dallas. Even with my preference for limited social engagement, I find myself wanting to bask in the comfort of time with family and friends. I sometimes worry that my comfort with seclusion, though, is viewed by some people as meaningful, targeted, intentionally vindictive aloofness. That misreading of my personality might result in close friends leaving me alongside the road of life; a bit like a snake sheds its skin.

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My hands are as cold as ice, as if I stored them in the freezer overnight and just now remembered to retrieve them. If I do not stop typing right away, my fingers could shatter into a million pieces, leaving me unable to think. Sometime later…hours, days, weeks, months, or more…I will return here to think with freshly-warmed phalanges. In the meantime, I will seek out a comfortable rock under which to hide.

Both my attention span and my memory are short. Together, they have the capacity to create an insurmountable obstacle to developing expertise in any subject.  When coupled with a lack of discipline—and levels of curiosity and interest that ebb and flow like Bay of Fundy tides—they seal the deal. In my youth, my interest levels never reached a point at which expertise would have been attainable. The older I get, though, my passion to learn  can burn as hot as the sun. But the heat never lasts long enough. My interests erupt like a volcano, only to cool when another captures my imagination. And the cycle repeats itself. Over and over and over. How many times have I documented these failures of mine—and to what end? I cannot count that high and I can only guess at the reasons I repeat the tale. If I were to guess.

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Similarities exist between stupidity and ignorance, but ignorance is curable. And ignorance is forgivable. Stupidity, on the other hand, tends to be an incurable condition nourished by bigotry. And stupidity often is willful and, therefore, unforgivable.  Stupidity can be infectious and/or hereditary—people who are not inoculated against it at a very early age are at high risk, especially in environments in which it flourishes. Education, including the teaching of tolerance, is subject to disdain by stupid people. But education can erase ignorance, up to a point. Education cannot eliminate intolerance of stupid people. The hypocrisy of intolerance in people who consider themselves tolerant is difficult to defend, but easy to understand. Perhaps another word or phrase is in order; one hates to consider oneself a hypocrite. Even worse, though, would be to consider oneself stupid.

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The view outside the window of my study is radically different today than yesterday. Shrubs loaded with red berries had afforded me an additional measure of privacy—beyond the privacy of living in the only house on a cul-de-sac—now are gone.  The lower branches of a large round shrub  across the driveway are gone, exposing the ground beneath and beyond it. Other trees and shrubs have been pruned and shaped, replacing the wild look of natural growth with the appearance of a freshly semi-manicured landscape. In the Spring areas of the ground that are now vacant except for a thick layer of small rocks will be planted with low-growing shrubs and a Japanese maple. The setting will have the appearance of casual formality, surrounded by a natural forest. I am counting on being here to see it.

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Temperatures are rising. The forecast calls for highs to reach 70°F, and maybe a bit higher, by Christmas Day.  Cooler air is expected to return within a few days afterward, though, a prelude to who know what? If January 2026 is like most beginnings of the new year, much colder air will follow. Ice? Snow? Bitterly cold winds? I no longer trust the National Weather Service to give accurate forecasts; government meteorologists are being stripped of the resources they need to give reliable predictions. I would not be surprised to experience blizzard conditions at the same time the White House announces the most pleasant, warm January temperatures ever felt during periods when groceries are almost free for the asking and gas prices are lower than they have ever been.

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Early Christmas Eve morning, I will go to the cancer center to have my blood drawn and get an injection…either to counter low blood cell counts or protect me against bone disintegration or some such thing. I doubt we will have tamales and chile con queso and beer for dinner on Christmas Eve this year. That annual tradition from my childhood would require more effort than is warranted. Tradition. Ritual. Custom. Practice. Such stuff tends to dissolve over time, especially when reality interferes with memory.

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Mi novia is tentatively planning on making a salmon stew for Christmas dinner, which I think will be just right. When she mentioned it, I immediately remembered telling her several months ago about a comfort food I have not had in far too long: creamed salmon over rice, seasoned liberally with white pepper. Sometime after Christmas…not too soon, but soon enough…I want to make creamed salmon over rice. The dish is, hands down, my favorite comfort food, surpassing every other common comfort food such as macaroni & cheese, pasta, chicken pot pie, shepherd’s pie, tuna casserole, etc., etc.

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Early to bed last night, but not early to sleep. Hours after getting in bed, I remained wide-awake. After I finally got to sleep, I woke less than an hour later. Again, when I returned to bed, I was unable to get to sleep right away. Even after I did, I woke again in a couple of hours. I’ve been sleeping a LOT during the day, courtesy I suppose of my most recent chemo treatment a few days ago. When not having disturbing dreams, I am delighted to be able to sleep. It is a refuge from an overactive imagination. I am ravenously hungry at the moment. Perhaps a double-stuffed Oreo cookie will hit the spot. Or, I could shower and shave and go out to breakfast. We’d still have to take mi novia’s car; I have yet to deal with my car’s dead battery. Why do I still have my car? I bet I’ve put less than 200 miles on it this year. Ach.

Five years ago today. It was both yesterday and a thousand lifetimes ago. I suppose I was fortunate to have known my wife’s death was at hand, but I was not prepared for it when it came. How does one prepare for the impact such an event has on one’s life? The shock was far beyond my ability to have expected it. Suddenly, her life ended. How long is a “lifetime?” It is both elastic and inflexible. As I have learned, grief is never-ending, but it is survivable.

Earlier this week, I learned of another death. A man who, along with his wife, was active in our church died suddenly, without warning. I can only imagine the shock of such an utterly unexpected tragedy. My wife’s illness had already emptied me of the emotional “high” I had always associated with the Christmas season, but this man’s wife—a remarkably selfless person and a good friend of mi novia—had no warning that Christmas time probably will forevermore be a time of grief. Ach! No matter the certainty of death, it surprises us and takes our breath away. Goodbyes are never sweet sorrow, Shakespeare’s words notwithstanding.

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I awoke, soaked in sweat, from a disturbing dream sometime before midnight. My memory of the dream has all but disappeared, but I remember fragments. At some point, I was thrashing about in a huge body of water—possibly an ocean—trying to reach the visible but distant shore. The surface of the water was relatively smooth, but I expected sharks to surface and attack me at any moment. I was afraid, but not in a panic. I wondered how painful the attack would be. Another fragment: a vacationing neighbor couple had left some cable television equipment for me to pick up while they were gone. Just in case, I rang the doorbell before I entered. The door was answered by a Black woman who knew nothing of the agreement but did not question its legitimacy. She and her husband/ boyfriend offered to help me with the equipment, but none of us knew what I was to pick up. Yet another piece: I offered to give a couple a ride, but after we were in the car, I realized I had no idea where we were, nor where we were going. I could not make the maps on either of two old smart-phones work. We stopped at a bar to ask for directions to a car dealership where I had left an old sports car to be refurbished, but none of us knew which dealership. Our search then involved climbing steep cliffs and crossing railroad tracks. All the while, during all these dream segments, I was extremely worried about…something. The dream must have taken place in pieces; sometime during the night, I got up and put a towel down on the bed to insulate me from the cold, wet sheets. This has happened before.

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You are a product of my mind. You exist as I perceive you only because I perceive you. And I exist as a product of your mind. It’s not just you and me, though. It’s everyone. We’re all interpretations of someone else’s perceptions. For that reason, I think the possibility exists that none of us are real; we’re just expressions of the way we are imagined in the fictional minds of nonexistent beings. Vapor, in other words. Not even vapor, actually—vapor has considerably more substance. More weight. More mass. More…reality.  The same is true, by the way, of everything else. Bottles of pills. Boxes of Kleenex. Scissors. Coffee cups. Paper clips. Paper plates. Papier-mâché. Wall-paper. Trees. Yes, even trees. And their roots do not exist until we start digging around the base of their trunks, which also exist only in what I’ll call our “vaporous universe.” Perhaps we’re the products of the hallucinations of a tiny being; something smaller than one tenth the width of a proton. This miniscule being dreams big! Big, as in spaceships and planets. Ponder that.

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Given the size of the audience for this blog, it is reasonable to consider the words I record here as pieces of a long, disjointed soliloquy. I write to provide an insubstantial, almost fragile, structure for my thoughts. With or without that delicate framework, the ideas that spill from my fingers would bleed into one another. Thus, therefore, ergo…

Townes Van Zandt once was asked why all his songs were so sad. His response, I think, summarized his life experience:

I have a few that aren’t sad, they’re hopeless. About a totally hopeless situation. And the rest aren’t sad; they’re just the way it goes, kinda. I mean, you know, you don’t think life’s sad?

His song, Waitin’ Around to Die, is a sad tale of hopelessness, a story about a man’s hard life in which drug addiction, alcoholism, loneliness, abandonment, and abuse all seemed more appealing than simply “waitin’ around to die.” Most of the lyrics of his music I’ve listened to reflect a deeply melancholic take on life—understandable, given the monsters he faced in his life…alcoholism, drug addiction, emotional trauma, broken relationships, and the like.  While direct experience with personal demons is not required to suffer the consequences of seeing their impact on the world around us. Van Zandt was both a victim and, like so many lyricists who write and perform “sad” songs, an observer. Van Zandt died young, at age 52. He stopped “waitin’ around to die” when he welcomed the New Year with his own death. He died (officially of cardiac arrhythmia, though his addictions are said to have contributed heavily) on January 1, 1997, after being badly injured in a fall at his home…just a few days before Christmas the month before.

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Complaining that the night sky is too full of stars, or the ocean is too deep, is an exercise in futility. Many complaints fall into that category—a category most people would call pointless or absurd or wasteful of mental energy—yet the fact that such grievances are utterly trivial, does not stop them from being made. Too many among us frequently incur fruitless expenditures of limited emotional resources that could be more productive if invested more wisely.

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The morning sky is very light beige, with just a tiny hint of creamy violet creating a tint I rarely see in the sky. Is it that I rarely see the color, or that I simply fail to notice it? Conscious, thoughtful observation is necessary if we are to have any realistic hope of actually “seeing” the images that cross before our eyes. Unless we make a point of taking notice, our senses ignore opportunities to experience the world around us. The items sitting on one’s desktop go unrecognized, just as typographical errors often are missed when we scan the page of a book. We see what we expect to see, not what is put before us. While staring at my computer monitor, though, the sky expelled both the violet and the beige, replacing them with a gentle grey that I see as comforting; others might view it as dull or boring. Yet others may not give the color of the sky a thought; it might go unnoticed. Emotional context paints the sky with a different brush and a different color than does physical context. Context. Contrast. They are at once different; but, the same. Seasons behave in much the same way; early Spring gives us green tomatoes, while Summer colors them red. Or purple. Or a combination, reminiscent of a chaotic battlefield littered with yellow flowers that would be out of place somewhere else.

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Some memories belong in permanently sealed lead boxes, inaccessible for all time. I would pay to incinerate them, even if I had to accompany them into the flames.

History is within arm’s reach. That is to say, it’s much closer than we think. This morning, I was reminded of just how near we are to “the past” when I glanced online at an Associated Press (AP) regular feature entitled Today in History. The headline notes that the Wright Brothers’ first flight took place on this date, December 17, in 1903. What struck me was not how recently humans took to the skies. Rather, I was jolted by the fact that my father was roughly five months old at the time, having been born in July of that year. My father was considerably older when I was born, at fifty years of age, than most newborns’ fathers. It occurred to me the first flight took place just fifty years, minus a couple of months, before my birth. Time slips by, almost unnoticed, leaving breadcrumbs as evidence of its passing along the way: multiple wars, computers, space exploration, advanced telecommunications, television, and millions of other, less revolutionary, changes in our lives. When I consider time in the other direction, I wonder whether the past was a prelude to a positive future or just a preface to a grim epilogue.

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When voters elect leaders, are they abdicating their responsibilities to govern themselves? Are members of the electorate simply choosing rulers to make decisions they do not wish to make? Despite complex systems of check and balances that ostensibly are meant to protect populations from falling prey to authoritarians and dictators, the populace seems paralyzed when those systems fail to perform as expected. The U.S. Declaration of Independence asserts the Right of the People to act when governments fail them:

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government…

Yet the people, guaranteed the right of revolution, very rarely exercise that right, even when faced with tyranny. At what point is the agony of despotism sufficiently painful to warrant the exercise of that right? At what point are the risks associated with revolution deemed worth taking?

+++

Another chemotherapy visit to the oncologist today, a probable precursor to several more days of fatigue and general ennui. What better to do at this very moment, then, than describe a couple of scenes that flash by as I watch through closed eyes:

Light, in liquid form, seeps into his cell, illuminating the stone floor on which he is sitting. After an hour, light has deepened enough to cover his boots. After a full day, it has risen to his chin. An hour after that, he can keep it out of his mouth only by tilting his head backward. Moments later, he begins to cough as the light enters his lungs and causes him to react by choking. Suddenly, though, he is illuminated from within; no untoward negative reactions from his body. He feels like he can breathe better than ever before, as if the blue glow has purified his environment and cleansed him of the filthy residue of a lifetime chained in the bowels of a dank coal mine. Then, in a moment that passes far faster than a single second, he is gone. As is the cell…not just empty, but gone. No walls, no stone floor, nothing. Empty space. But an eerie, barely audible, echo remains in the space where he was; a sound like a breath way off, in the immeasurable distance. Enlightenment. Not a guru’s mystical insinuation. Not a secret pathway to an unknown place. Actual enlightenment. The same enlightenment first experienced before time began, before the universe expressed itself from its invisible primordiality.

***

Earsplitting silence, interrupted by sounds so soft the ground vibrates and rolls in waves, fills the emptiness like an orchestra of dead musicians. Leaves, clinging to the trees in a desperate attempt to avoid plunging to the forest floor, shake in anticipation of ferocious winds shredding the atmosphere and filling the air with swirling ribbons of menacing dust. Watching from the entrance to a cave, I watch deer and raccoons—their eyes wide with terror—bolt across a meadow, fleeing what must seem, to them, like the personification of Mother Nature’s irrational rage. I share their fear. And their pain. It courses through my veins like molten lava, searing every cell in my body. Escape is impossible, but surrender promises an experience a thousand times worse; and twice as unlikely as freedom. 

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I could write for days and end up with swill of equal quality, even after turning it all over to a team of professional editors. You can’t make a silk purse out of sour buttermilk sullied with the corpses of rotting flies.

I woke earlier today than I have been waking in recent months. The extra time of darkness and solitude could have given me an infusion of serenity if I had approached it properly. But I did not. I skimmed the news. I followed the same routine I almost always follow, despite my almost daily promises to myself that I would do this day differently. I allowed myself to engage the day as if it were an opponent; an enemy to conquer. An obstacle to overcome. So, instead of darkness behaving as if it were a soft, warm, soothing blanket, it seems more like a suffocating polyethylene bag over my head. My efforts to extricate myself have gone nowhere. I want to breathe slowly and think softly and embrace the coming light as a positive force. Instead, I permit national and international news—over which I have no control—to thrust my head under water, starving me of oxygen. I long for peace, but instead I cultivate rage. Some days, feeling fatigued—almost impossibly tired—I try to renew my energy by “napping” while listening to soft, soothing piano music. Maybe that is what I need to do today. Retreat to bed and let the music drown the rage.

+++

My oldest brother and his wife are celebrating their wedding anniversary today. At least I assume and hope they are, inasmuch as today is the day. Celebrations take many forms, from frenetic festivities to quiet contemplations and everything in between. Birthdays, too, are like that. The levels of excitement they generate varies from raucous, jubilant, public expressions of pure joy to private acknowledgements that, for all of us, they are limited. And there must be at least a thousand other ways to make note of birthdays. I tend to acknowledge my own birthdays in a very low-key sort of way. Almost two months ago, on my 72nd birthday, I wrote on my blog: By the way, today is my birthday. I can tell by looking at the calendar. Some people take milestones like anniversaries and birthdays extremely seriously; others not so much. I think the degree of importance we assign to such occasions is contextual; it depends on what else is going on in our lives. This coming Friday is another anniversary in my life; it will mark the fifth year since my wife died. Whether I will do or say or write anything publicly about it on that day has yet to be seen, but I am certain I will mark the sad occasion privately. Perhaps I am writing about it now, a few days beforehand, as a way to prepare myself for a resurgence of grief. Grief still surprises me. After all the billions of people who have lived and died on this planet, we still have not gotten used to the reality of death.

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More chemotherapy tomorrow. I still haven’t taken steps to recharge or replace my car’s dead battery. And I have not rescheduled the haircut I postponed last week. And I have done nothing else productive for what seems like an eternity. Despite my slothfulness, I was rewarded last night with a nice spaghetti and meatball dinner, prepared by mi novia’s ex-husband, who invited us to share it, along with my late wife’s sister. I feel guilty for accepting such generosities while I do nothing generous for others. My mood this morning is, thus far, rather dismal. I have only myself to blame, of course. But instead of “fixing” it, I just complain. The sun will rise in a while. Maybe the light will improve my attitude. For now, it’s good that I do not have the ability to take preemptive action against governments and idiotic cultists. But I think I would thoroughly enjoy causing the chaotic horrors I would rain down upon them.

Half an hour past noon today, half of the month of December will have slid past us, with the remaining half trying to decide whether the rest of the trip is worth the effort. If Time were a sentient creature, it would choose to bury itself beneath a thick protective layer of timelessness. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to create the future, a sentient Time would recognize the hopelessness of trying to outlast the past. Depending on one’s perspective, that might be best for all involved: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And all those in-between moments that do not seem to fit anywhere.

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Fantasy weighs just a fraction of the weight of reality. Sometimes even less. Magic, measured not in weight but in transparency, can stand in front of a set of scales and not be seen. Nor heard, for that matter. That double negative is what differentiates children from witchcraft. Or, at least, it differentiates children from good witchcraft. Bad children embrace witchcraft, which is where Krampus comes in.

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Monday arrives, a cudgel in its left hand and an automatic pistol in its right. Strapped to its waist is a pair of wire-cutters and a set of handcuffs. Monday leans against a barber’s pole, waiting impatiently for the barber to arrive. But the barber does not come; he is sitting at home, drinking a tumbler full of steaming hot Irish coffee. After waiting a full twenty-four hours, Monday slinks off into the darkness, where Tuesday has been waiting. Tuesday, wearing a pin-stripe suit and a fedora, strides in, dragging behind him a little red wagon overloaded with tiny, live, miniature giraffes nibbling on fresh mushrooms. The smallest of the giraffes, a necklace dangling from its minute neck, looks back at where Monday had stood. Tears flow from its precious little eyes as the little creature sobs. We’ll never know what caused the tears.

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The Lumineers, one of my current favorite alternative folk bands, has a song entitled Ophelia. Several of the verses of the song begin with “Oh Ophelia…” Mi novia and I both listen to the song and laugh, because when they sing those words, it sounds like they’re singing “Oh beady eyes…” I guess you have to be there.

+++

My level of discomfort does not equate to the mood of my writing this morning. Ambiguous is a word that comes roaring into my head, slamming into the back of my skull with the energy of a semi-truck traveling at 80 miles per hour. Naturally, the back of my head bursts open with a spray of blood and grey matter and torn connective tissue. I have an appetite for activities, like parachuting from hot air balloons, that require more energy than my body is capable of mustering. But sleep, too, holds some appeal. Perhaps I could be taken up in a hot air balloon and, after I fall asleep, thrown out into the cold, crisp air.

+++

Twenty degrees Fahrenheit. That’s a touch more brisk than I like. For that reason, among others, I will not wander outside, naked and shoeless, to water the lawn or pick strawberries. A Monday gummy might be in order, right before I climb back into my warm bed. A brilliant blue sky, like the one outside my window, is not appropriate on such a cold day. Where are the thick snow clouds I associate with winter weather?

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The soft light of artificial candles does not owe its existence to paraffin.

Hope and hopelessness do not belong in the same universe, do they? One is illumination, the other is darkness. One is a pathway to survival, the other a collapsing bridge over a bottomless abyss. Both, though, exist at opposite points on a single circle.  Each of them compete for dominance in the pursuit of the same objective: a point at which pain disappears. In answer to the question, then: they belong. They occupy the same space at different times; or different spaces at the same time. Opposites attract, but like a pair of magnets, they repel one another, as well. Collaboration and conflict emerge from different positions involving the same concepts, mirroring love and hate. Circles. Cycles. The physical laws governing what we know of the universe do not stand alone. They intersect in perfect harmonic discord with the ways emotions dictate the ways we respond to the world around us.

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I used to believe most of the one-off “hits” on this blog were individuals who simply “stumbled” upon it. I now think—with near certainty, supported by evidence too involved to share—that almost all the one-off “hits” are just “bots” that automatically visit websites to index them and for various other reasons unrelated to what I write. That being the case, my blog’s traffic is much, much smaller than I had thought. I had been under the impression that I had a small number of “followers,” but a large number of “accidental” visitors who could, conceivably, become followers. Based on site analytics, though, I now believe my regular visitors amount to fewer than fifteen. Only five or six  are frequent visitors; i.e., between daily and weekly. I am grateful for those frequent visitors, but on those rare occasions when I write something I would like to share with a larger audience, this blog is not the place to do it. So, I am considering taking the advice of a friend who suggested I consider creating a Substack site. Whether I do or not will depend on the strength of my interest in getting a larger audience for those occasional posts for which I would truly appreciate feedback. Inasmuch as I tend to be lazy, lethargic, and otherwise slothful, my consideration may take a while…a long, long while. Or not. I am, in many ways, unpredictable. Even to myself.

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A First Person Account of Events Leading to My Death

My disappearance went unnoticed for many weeks. Only after the third month of failing to receive my rent payment did the landlord make inquiries about me. She asked the postal worker whether I had been picking up my mail. The response was that my box had been overstuffed and my mail was being held at the post office. The next inquiry she made, to my bank, finally led her to learn (against the rules and entirely unofficially) that I had stopped my automatic deposits three months earlier. Another inquiry to her friends at the post office revealed to my landlord that the only mail being held seemed to be commercial “junk” mail. No bills, no magazines, no personal mail of any kind. Only after letting herself in to my apartment did it become clear to the landlord that I emptied the place and left.

I had intentionally withheld my landlord that I was moving out after seven years. I had never had a written rental agreement for the place in all that time, during which she had never said a cordial word to me. My secretive departure may have seemed petty, but it pleased me to cause her just a little bit of grief. She had done nothing else to deserve my wrath, but seven years without a smile or a kind word seemed, to me, to deserve a little unkind treatment.

Aside from my landlord, my bank, and a few creditors and magazine publishers, and the ever-intrusive state and national government, no one knew where I lived or where my income came from. I had long-since withdrawn from my already small social circle, so the only notices of my move were made to those few must-know commercial connections. But after my landlord went snooping, I took the next steps.

***

Before my departure, I had withdrawn all but a couple of hundred dollars from my bank accounts. I paid to have new documents forged with a new identity; passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, and so on. Though it was quite risky, I paid an expert hacker to create false history records with my identity with the credit bureaus. And, then, the two-step move. First, an eight-month temporary relocation from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Cleveland, Ohio. Then, a last-minute twenty-four-day seagoing voyage on a commercial cargo “tramp” freighter. My intended destination was Lisbon, Portugal, but I had to be flexible; my cruise ended in at the port of Tangier Med in Morocco. From there, I made my way to Lisbon, then Porto, Portugal, which is for now my new home.

During my travels, a badly-decomposed body was found on the north bank of the Mississippi River just outside Bettendorf, Iowa. It was identified as mine, thanks to the greed of an underpaid staff member in the county coroner’s office and her accomplice in the state medical examiner’s office. I was officially dead. In fact, the body had belonged to an unidentified homeless man who had drowned months earlier. May he rest in peace.

+++

My energy is on the rise, I think. When I let my imagination loose, I forget the reasons I want so badly to just go to sleep.

A quote attributed to Albert Einstein is phrased slightly differently, depending on the presenter of the attribution:

The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing. (from GoodReads.com)

The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. (from BrainyQuote.com)

While the difference in phrasing does not change the meaning in any significant way, it reminds me that information labeled as “factual” may be modified, incrementally, from its origin. Because the variations do not alter the meaning, we tend to dismiss them as immaterial. There is a danger in disregarding minor adjustments to “facts.” Over time, and through cumulative “minor’ editorial revisions, “facts” can decay into stories that change reality into fantasy; truth into lies. The sources from which the two internet presentations (shown above) were derived is unknown to me; the variations may well have been caused by simple mistake. Regardless, one (or both) of them is erroneous. In this example, the difference has no appreciable impact, but one can easily see how dangerous such minor differences can make. For example, modifications to original instructions on how to save a  choking person or disarm a nuclear device could be catastrophic.

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Yesterday, when trying to start the car to make the short trip to my oncologist’s office to get an injection, I discovered that the battery apparently had died. Fortunately, the other car was operable, so I made the appointment. Normally, I would have returned home and jumped the dead battery, but I remain weak. My low energy level does not permit me to easily do something so simple. Today, perhaps after the temperature reaches its expected peak of just over 60°F, I will give it a try. It would be more than a little embarrassing to call AAA for something so minor, but if it comes to that, so be it. Mi novia might insist on doing it herself, but I pay AAA for just this sort of inconvenience; my dues would be wasted if I fail to take advantage of the service. My ambivalence is frustrating.

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When I refuse to let my irrational paranoia take control of my thoughts, I believe Republicans and Democrats (AKA conservatives and progressives, respectively) generally seek very similar social objectives. The differences between them largely are found in the methods they want to use to accomplish those aims. Common ground between their two philosophical approaches can best be found in the following ways: First, refrain from referring to the “other side” as monsters, demons, murderers, etc. Second, using language that is as inoffensive as possible, articulate their objectives regarding each target without referring to the means by which they wish to achieve them. Third, where their ultimate objectives are closely aligned, express each aim as simply as possible. Fourth, evaluate each side’s preferred tactics for achieving their common or near-common goals. Fifth, debate tactics, with the intent of reaching compromise that will adequately satisfy the aims of each and will minimize points of disagreement. Easy-peasy. But, as the Ken Yates song says, Surviving is Easy (but living is hard).

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Music accompanying lyrics is more expressive than the words, alone. The third verse of a Jackson Browne tune (sung by Joan Baez in the video below) is a good example of that.

Now for you and me it may not be that hard to reach our dreams
But that magic feeling never seems to last
And while the future’s there for anyone to change
Still you know it seems
It would be easier sometimes to change the past

The hypocrisy of so-called Christians whose support of an utterly immoral regime that celebrates its thirst for cruelty and demonstrates its rejection of Christian values seems to confound the pundits. How is it, they wonder, that people who claim to be deeply religious are so public in their approval and endorsement of a government that behaves as if every act of inhumanity is a symbol of its strength? I, too, have been perplexed at such obvious duplicity. But I think the answer may be obvious: the two approaches to Christianity reflect belief in two very different deities. One is the generous, loving God that rewards compassion, empathy, and kindness. The other is the angry, vindictive God that practices and prizes vengeance. Ultimately, I think the beliefs in the different versions of God reflect the very different world-views of the believers. The two conflicting and competing sets of beliefs both are judgmental and, hence, can be dangerous. But one is much more likely to condone and reward behaviors that uninvolved bystanders would consider barbarous and perverse. If I were to have the ear of some all-powerful being, I would encourage the prohibition one of the religious viewpoints and strong discouragement of the other. If humans in general need religion, as seems to be the case for many, a peaceful, forgiving, benevolent one would be far more attractive than the alternative.

+++

When AI responses to questions posed on Google include links to sources like Quora and Reddit, I have to wonder about the reliability and legitimacy of the answers. I tend to give them about as much credence as I give to quotes, attributed to Abraham Lincoln, that refer to the internet. No matter the specified sources, though, I wonder whether there is any validity to the information I am being fed through the internet. There was a time when I routinely accepted the U.S. Government as a dependable source, when it was given attribution. No longer. And I do not feel absolutely confident even when sources I believe to be legitimate are given. A drunken Estonian prostitute and her wired, meth-head American boyfriend could have infiltrated Wikipedia, claiming to be the pair of Japanese nuclear scientists who published a paper on which I relied to be “factual.” The countries of origin of my hypothetical liars are irrelevant; let them all be Canadians or French citizens or residents of the moon, if you like.

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Starburst Collier and Cleopatra Nile had managed to slip past the exit checkpoint by clinging to the undercarriage of a delivery truck.  The strong odor of ripe oranges, just unloaded from the truck’s citrus cargo, overwhelmed the noses of the guards’ sniffer dogs. Still, additional obstacles ahead could ruin their escape attempt, so the pair hung onto the underside of the truck. The vehicle passed beneath the sweep of powerful search lights, as every bump in the road threatened to dislodge them, exposing them to the sharp eyes of roving patrols, all of whom wore night-vision goggles. Finally, though, the truck entered the highway, more than a mile from the detention center gates, where the rough, pothole-strewn road suddenly changed to a smooth asphalt surface. After ten miles on the highway, the truck pulled into a convenience store and gas station, the only commercial establishment for miles around. When the driver parked his truck at the pumps, Collins and Nile climbed out from underneath and sprinted, unseen, into the darkness behind the store.

“Now, we wait,” Collier whispered, as the two of them sat with their backs against the wall of the building. “The tanker should arrive just before 4:00 a.m. They won’t discover we’re gone until an hour after that.”

+++

The transformation of time into matter is, like so many other issues, far beyond my ability to comprehend. But I scanned an abstract earlier today that I hoped would lead me to some basic understanding. Here is an extract from that abstract (from The Matter of Time, by Arto Annila, Department of Physics, University of Helsinki, 00014 Helsinki, Finland):

About a century ago, in the spirit of ancient atomism, the quantum of light was renamed the photon to suggest that it is the fundamental element of everything. Since the photon carries energy in its period of time, a flux of photons inexorably embodies a flow of time. Thus, time comprises periods as a trek comprises legs. The flows of quanta naturally select optimal paths (i.e., geodesics) to level out energy differences in the least amount of time. The corresponding flow equations can be written, but they cannot be solved. 

As usual, my hopes were dashed. I feel like I am attempting to swim from the middle of an enormous pool of quick-drying concrete to its perimeter, while sinking into its depth at the same rate as I am moving toward its edge. The author’s abstract continues beyond what I have shown above, including an assertion that: Thus, the future remains unpredictable, and ultimately leads to this statement: Thus, time does not move forward either but circulates. I might as well be attempting to understand the infectious colors of the thoughts of a celestial seahorse.

That having been said, I believe my utter lack of anything remotely resembling a knowledge of time and physics and such gives me license to make any assertions I wish to make. In other words, my imagination is unrestrained by the restrictions of reality. If I choose, I can explain, in great detail, the process whereby time can be melted and then cooled, solidifying into space. By the same token, I can describe how space can be heated into its gaseous form, thereby becoming time. Without the limitations of reality, I am untethered to constraints that otherwise would inhibit my ability to experience the universe in ways I might never have dreamed of. And, I might add, I am not limited to experiencing the universe; I am perfectly capable of experiencing its unborn twin in an infinite set of dimensions well outside everything. I can, for example, look at everything as an infinitely small particle of an infinitely more massive…something. Freedom from the bonds of time and space and so many other chains that confine us to a miniscule speck of everything there is, was, or will be is remarkably refreshing. At least that’s my theory at the moment. Almost everything there is has no bearing on life, and vice versa. Yet we’re trained or indoctrinated into believing life is the most important thing. It’s enough to make one’s mind explode into a magical mist in which forest sprites become rulers of the planet.

The world as we know it today—a fragile, dangerous place that could erupt into an explosive, apocalyptic inferno at any moment—is very different from the world that could have been if humanity had prevailed over hatred. But we will never know what would have been; we can only look back in regret, unable to change history and unwilling, thus far, to force change in direction for the future.

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I read this morning about a 400,000-year old site in eastern Britain where archaeologists have found the earliest evidence to date that modern humans’ early neanderthal ancestors made fire. I still cannot make fire without a propane lighter or matches, though I have a vague recollection of being taught to (or trying to) make fire while participating in what I think was called the YMCA Indian Guides program. I couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7 years old. Today, I imagine that program is long dead, due to its misappropriation of elements of indigenous culture. From the tiny fragments of memory in my head, though, I think the program was truly reverential to the culture. We live and learn, though. Except I doubt I have retained enough of what I learned to enable me to make flames.

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With few exceptions, I visit my oncologist’s office once every week. The staff there have become almost more familiar than were the people at church, where I used to visit at least once every week. Unlike my experience with church, though, none of the cancer center staff have become friends, nor did I expect anything more than a cordial, professional relationship. Despite the reasons for visits to the cancer center, though, I find myself looking forward to those weekly appointments. Though I am not a “people person,” I sometimes enjoy engaging with the wider world. The imposition of restrictions demanded by cancer treatments has shrunken the size of my wider world. Sometimes, I miss participating in that larger wider world. Yesterday, I received holiday greetings from a couple of friends in Dallas, which reminded me that I have not initiated any of our rare conversations in far too long. My desire for more frequent interaction with people—especially with people who matter to me—is at odds with my tendency to wait for someone else to kindle such interactions.

+++

Speaking of my oncologist…I just got a call, asking me to return to her office today (and again tomorrow) for an injection to address a lower-than-desired white cell count. Sigh…

Time rushes to replace moments that should have been preserved. When fond experiences exist only in memories, we cling to lies we’ve been told: that now is better than then; that new is better than old. But familiarity fits like bespoke clothes, sewn from custom fabrics woven for us; every seam stitched with soft threads that conform to who we were and who we have become. The difference between being stuck in the past and living comfortably in the here and now involves the transition between them. Those among us who struggle to accept change treat it like replacing a wardrobe of old sweats with stiff, starched denim overalls. The rest of us treat change as if we were upgrading from sweats to soft, weather-worn jeans. Ach! A simile that attempts to equate one’s choice of clothing with one’s ability to adapt to fundamental change is profoundly superficial. That is especially true when trying to address an even more crucial matter: preservation of what matters in an environment in which adaptation to change honors the importance of the foundations upon which today’s environment was built.

+++

Mistakes that cannot be corrected can be treated as lessons or as wounds that will not heal. Or, as is often witnessed, they can dismissed as meaningless stumbles that should have no bearing on a person’s ability to fully enjoy life. Mistakes made without subsequently feeling regret for having made them tend to compound the damage caused by the original misstep.

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Another follow-up with my oncologist today. Lab work and IV fluids. A reminder of the fact that cancer remains a defining part of life. I would rather write a psycho-fictional essay-short-story that explores my thoughts about the experience of being human in an inhumane world—or about experiencing life as a sentient sub-sea member of the plant kingdom.  Or, absent pursuing those opportunities, I might prefer to sleep.

Pessimism, when countered by optimistic fantasy, can decay into hopeless avoidance. Realism, on the other hand, has the potential of sending ocean-going passenger vessels to the bottom of the sea. Optimism paints lifelike portraits that are a little too perfect; AI images that lack moles and chipped teeth and about 45 pounds of unnecessary and undesirable weight.

+++

I have proven the impossible. I have seen the invisible. I have remembered a future that has yet to take place. I have foreseen a history, watching it take form from the immeasurably distant future. I have arisen, alive, from the impenetrable dungeon of death. I have disobeyed the laws of Nature, while casting the ashes of certainty into a sea of doubt.  I have determined that all things are impossible, though accomplishments cannot be unmade. I have exposed an obvious secret—that time is forever hidden behind the face of a clock, where its fingers scratch at evidence that time is a fantasy. I have uncovered felonies hatched from unfertilized eggs. I have measured the strength of absolute weakness and the weakness at the peak of strength. I have imagined the unimaginable and claimed to have done the undoable. I have listened to sounds that cannot be heard and parroted noises that cannot be mimicked. I have escaped from inescapable conclusions and have been bound forever in a prison cell too large to hold me.

+++

Late last night, not long after mi novia got in bed, my phone’s “Hello?” alert (notifying me that I have received a text message) interrupted my effort to sleep. Because such late night alerts could be important, I looked at my phone. It was just a notification that a Freezing Fog Advisory had been issued. The advisory expired just a few minutes ago. As I glimpse outside, I see fog filling the woods. it is especially dense near the top of the trees, where I think I see a thin film of an icy coating on the pine needles. The garage roof, too, is white with frost. This paragraph would have been far more interesting if the advisory had alerted me to an impending invasion by a gang of weapons-toting water fowl that were suspected of carrying rabies in knapsacks on their backs.

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Water in a plastic cup on my desk is the only item in my study responding to vibrations I cannot feel. Nothing else in my study displays any movement; not even an echo of a sound that might have been made hours ago. Light reflecting from the water reveals miniscule waves on its surface; tiny ripples that would be invisible if the ceiling light above was moved by a hair’s width. My imagination offers dozens of explanations: vibrations from an earthquake thousands of miles distant, transmitting microscopic movements of the Earth’s crust directly to the surface of my cup of water; nearly undetectable sounds caused by a jet airplane’s engines, thousands of feet in the air above me; a heavy truck traveling over a nearby road, sending tremors through the asphalt and underlayment to and through the foundation of my house; the sliver quivering or bouncing of my leg on the floor below my desk, broadcast through the furniture; my breathing, sending air molecules slamming into one another, causing the commotion to reach the water’s surface; a tiny, almost invisible, insect moving its legs just enough to disturb the water, and many, many more. The core cause for the vibrations probably does not matter. But it could. Unless the vibrations grow in intensity, though, my attention will no doubt be drawn elsewhere, to yet another diversion…another distraction that makes little difference in the way I experience the world around me. That, of course, raises a question: how intrusive must a distraction be to capture enough of one’s attention to cause that attention to deviate from the thoughts or things that drew one’s attention previously? That question, if applied to every instance in which one’s attention left its earlier path, could rob a person of actionable focus. It could cause madness; a sort of mental explosion that might leave him incapable of other, more rational, though. Is this something we should carefully watch for? Should we ask friends and family to be on the lookout for evidence of psychological eruptions? If so, what might we advise them to do if they found such evidence?

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