John Swinburn

At the rate the snow is melting, the streets should be clear when Santa Claus and his reindeer can be dislodged from the chimney. They became wedged there long before this latest ice age began, but their predicament will not go on forever—I expect they will be freed on or about the 4th of July. As I peer out my study windows, the snow on the driveway, the street, and the garage roof has the look of a gleaming white porcelain toilet bowl just freshly installed for use. In view of the freeze/thaw cycle, I suppose that brilliant white blanket is just as hard as porcelain, as well. The white traces that clung to tree branches have disappeared, though, suggesting the “snow” is something else; perhaps white paint sprayed from a monstrous tanker truck and dried on horizontal non-arboreal surfaces. The thought of such a possibility disgusts me; that thought must have been planted in my brain by someone else—someone I find as repugnant as the paint and nearly as offensive as ground-cover disguised to look like toilet porcelain. Who could have done this? Ah, of course…the one whose presence at football games causes the events to be called Toilet Bowls.

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Today is Wednesday, five days into this period of seasonal incarceration. My prescription pain medication finally is available for pick-up, but I am unwilling to allow anyone I know to attempt to retrieve the narcotic analgesics. Slippery ice beneath porcelain’s glare makes travel dangerous and potentially deadly. Fortunately, my pain is not intolerable at the moment, so access to a fresh supply of drugs comprised of psychoactive compounds with pain-numbing properties is not critical.  Lacking a stove-top at the moment, heating a big pot of soup or something like it that warms the cockles is not an option. Fortunately, a working microwave oven makes it possible to heat small bowls of edible soups and stew-like concoctions. And frozen pot pies are suitable, too, inasmuch as they are microwave-friendly. Microwaves can be  used to heat pre-cooked sausages, too, as we did last night; wrapped in a flour tortilla, the meal did not require washing dishes…fortunately, in that the dishwasher will not be operable until the kitchen counters and sink are installed. In the absence of a kitchen sink, hand-washing dishes in the miniature laundry room sink is the only workable option to wash dishes. That works just fine for coffee cups and utensils; not so well for plates and larger bowls, etc. that don’t quite fit in a sink designed for elves and their ilk.

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Lunch time is approaching. In only half an hour or so, church bells may chime in some places, marking the noon hour and signaling for workers to come in from the fields for a meal and a respite from back-breaking labor. Where, I wonder, are those places? To my knowledge, there are no workers in nearby fields today; but if there are, I recommend they abandon their duties and seek warmth. Unless, of course, they are field-workers who are responsible for repair and maintenance of electric lines and other kinds of life-saving equipment and services. Those folks need to wear several layers of clothes to keep from freezing. They should be paid quite well, too, for the work they do. And their employers (and customers) should slather them with accolades and appreciation.

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Crispy fingers—nonfunctioning frozen phalanges turned into useless icy appendages—do not work well when tasked with typing.  My fingers and my mind become slow, sluggish, and almost stagnant when temperatures surrounding my body drop below 74°F. For that reason, and because discomfort does not satisfy me, I am hereby abandoning my attempts to make sense, create interest, and otherwise be even marginally useful. Until next time…

So many things on my mind this morning, but nothing suitable for bloggery. I’ve been awake for hours. I’ve written nothing of any consequence. I’ve had thoughts this morning that matter just as much as my writing. Perhaps I’m a bit out of sorts because I realize that I have been an orphan for about 40 years…longer than I had parents. The older I get, the greater the imbalance grows between childhood and adulthood. The natural order is undergoing serious disruption. But maybe what’s being disrupted is the unnatural order, instead. Perhaps my life, from birth to this very moment, has amounted to an unintentional detour from normalcy…and maybe the future and what it holds are the perfect representations of “normal.” We met a woman on a train in Canada, many years ago. She and her husband were vacationing, as were my late wife and I. I am sure I’ve mentioned before that we gave that woman a nickname…one she earned through her strange behavior…Abnorma. There must be some meaning to having that recollection at this moment. Or maybe not. “Meaning” is too often associated with woo-woo. Though I can accept a little woo-woo, a little goes a VERY long way.

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Everything around our house remains white. The snow does not seem to have melted at all…not in the least. Most of the main streets in the Village may be passable, but we shall stay in until the ice hidden beneath the snow is gone. I pity people who MUST go out onto the streets; those who go out…without any compelling reason…have my contempt.

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The sky is clear. Bright blue. Sunny. But, still, cold. 19°F. Inside, it’s much warmer. I would be even more comfortable, though, if we had a big wood-burning fireplace, an unlimited supply of firewood, and a volunteer to keep the hearth clean and safe and providing heat and ambiance.

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Detectives looking into my online search history might find plenty of evidence I have been planning an elaborate serial killing spree. The planning and execution (pun intended) of the string of murders would—I hope—impress the investigators. The manner in which targets are identified, selected, and dispatched would appear deliberately labyrinthine to criminal investigators, suggesting that the perpetrator’s purposes including extending and stymying the efforts of the police. But, until they figure out the complex logic behind the criminal’s processes, the killings would appear random; unrelated to one another. Except for just one commonality.  The process—from the birth of the idea to the death of each victim—is inherently time-intensive and expensive. It is so rambling and circuitous that finding connections between each murder would require an absolutely exhaustive exploration of the activities of each victim over a lengthy period of time. Even then, the perpetrator’s tactics may be so intricate that searchers might miss critical correlations. All the evidence, by the way, would be circumstantial…at best. And, thanks to the depth of planning involved in the scheme, a substantial amount of intentional circumstantial evidence would be readily available to send investigators off, chasing false leads. This lengthy paragraph could be condensed and summarized as follows: writers who search the internet to gather material leave a trail—every possible means of diverting investigators from that trail must be used to protect the writer from becoming a “person of interest” or worse.

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Most people, I suspect, think of the sun as a giant ball of fire; an inferno of condensed gas with flames burning hundreds of miles into space.  I imagine they think of stars in the same way; just more distant than the sun. Actually, reading and remembering tell me, the sun and stars are self-sustaining reactors. They are fueled by their own nuclear fusion plasma reactors, not combustion. When I look up and see the sun or stars in the sky, I fantasize that—if I focus my all attention on them—I can hear the roar of the fusion reactions that feeds them. Of course, I cannot really hear that sound, nor can I see the sun’s flames licking the sky. My imagination, though, is not deterred by reality; countering reality helps sustain my creativity. The width and breadth and depth of the sky is so incomprehensibly vast that my imagination often feels stunted and dull and microscopically irrelevant in comparison. Nonetheless, I give whatever ingenuity that might reside in my brain free reign to try to achieve a touch of relevance and excitement. When I look into a clear night sky, I might think of stars as tiny, freshly-created fragments of blindingly bright and hot embers that emerged from the Big Bang. But that does not fully (or adequately) explain the enormous age differences between stars. It’s Magic. 

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I woke ravenously hungry this today. I remain ravenously hungry, with a strong preference for Indian food. Soup is warming and healthy, so I might start with a bowl of sāmbār, along with masala dosa. Perhaps some palak paneer. And some piquant chutney alongside. Maybe some chana masala. SOOOO many other Indian dishes are appealing. I wonder how a vindaloo dish with tofu in lieu of a meat protein might be? I can think of all sorts of fusion cuisines that might be worth trying to create. For years, I’ve dreamt about trying to make Mexican/Indian fusion; like Lamb Vindaloo Tacos. And Chinese/Indian, like Gobi (cauliflower) Manchurian. And mash-ups with North African (e.g., Moroccan and Ethiopian). Thai and Japanese, maybe? This morning, though, I will try to be satisfied with a banana, an Ensure, and expresso, the current rut in which I’m stuck and for which I have only myself to blame.

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The outdoor temperature at 6:10 is 10°F. I am happy I do not live in a tent this morning.

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If I had grown up in a very different social/community environment, I might have created an alternative to religion; based in large part on philosophies including adherence to many of the same moral principles espoused by some religions. The behavioral standards that accompany those principles, too, would probably resemble behaviors endorsed by religions. Buddhism likely would be most similar to my alternative, but without the extraneous stuff…no elephants, no Brahma, no Chandra, no Ganesha, etc. I might have created an alternative authoritarian regime, too. Or, perhaps, instead.

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Civil unrest often starts small. Usually, it doesn’t last long. And usually it does not spread and become a powerful unifier of popular displeasure. But it happens. And it should. If I were younger and in better health—and much smarter than ever I have been—now would be the time to learn all I could from the successful resistance movements that developed before and during World War II. To the extent possible and most likely to work in the present day, processes and practices from those movements could be adopted and adapted and shared with reasonable, rational people throughout the land…and beyond. If only. Such an embarrassingly weak excuse for allowing civil society to be converted into a modern-day version of the Confederacy, in which the number of slave-holders has diminished and the number of cruel, stupid, and undeservedly proud warring serfs and slaves has exploded.

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We are doing our part to conserve energy during this current plague of winter weather. Overnight, we set the thermostat to an uncomfortably cool six degrees under our “normal” setting. I am wearing a pair of long-johns and multiple layers of uppers. Even so, I sit at my desk, feeling uncomfortably cold and cursing myself for my pivotal role in deciding to live in an unhospitable climate. At the same time, I offer sincere gratitude to blanket makers…to the creators of fabric that help retain body heat….to the inventors of heat pumps…to the distributors of insulating caulking…and to the manufacturers of thermally insulating windows. And my appreciation continues for all the others who have contributed by providing opportunities for a tolerable—if not comfortable—existence when Mother Nature is actively trying to kill us with brutally frigid temperatures temperatures. If, by suffering some discomfort, we can help minimize the likelihood of power-grid failure and the resulting discomfort and danger to thousands of others, we will have done the right thing. The moral thing. The selfless thing. The thing that elevates my loathing for selfish people—those miserable bastards—who refuse to sacrifice, just a little, to save the rest of us from freezing to death.

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When I was much younger, my body could better tolerate weather extremes than it can today. But I doubt my body was ever as weather-tolerant as were the people who braved weather extremes when pioneering westward expansion on this continent. Those people—the ones who survived—faced unimaginable challenges as they headed west. Weather was just one of many obstacles they encountered. The ones who died while trying to forge through to the west coast were more like me than the ones who made it. The successful pioneers must have been mutants or just extraordinarily lucky. I think the ones who stopped part way, settling in places with unimaginably horrid winters and/or summers, may have been too weak or too stupid to continue.

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Self-defensive rage, fed by the criminal behavior and lie-laden rhetoric of members and supporters of the current administration, consumes me. If I could, I would put an immediate and vengeful eternal end to the causes of that rage: irrevocable and irreversible. A decidedly chaotic reaction to indefensible words and deeds may be the only response capable of creating tranquility from its own shattered pieces.

When I was a child, if my vague memory is correct, my family had at least one and maybe two sets of encyclopedias. Encyclopediæ, if you prefer the Latin-influenced plural. I assumed, I think, the contents were factual; their legitimacy was not a matter for debate. Since that time of innocence and gullibility, though, I have developed a healthy skepticism of reference books that purport to deliver reality. I tend to question the reliability of history books, in particular; historians are just as subject to bias and problematic interpretation as anyone else. Lately, in particular, fanatical right-wingers have taken to rewriting history or, at least, selectively allowing questionable “history” to be taught in schools and, more recently, universities. The infusion of religious beliefs and revisionist interpretations of historical events into historical content is especially troubling. I cannot lay all the blame on real and artificial historians for my suspicions about what the world presents as factual. My understanding of the world has been influenced by stories told by friends, friends’ parents, my own parents, teachers, and many others. Sometimes, those stories were tales based on misunderstanding. Looking back, sometimes they were intentionally misleading. And, occasionally, they were bald-faced lies. When an  information resource thought to be reliable is exposed as incorrect and/or corrupt—for whatever reason—trust begins to dissolve. Eventually, trust is replaced by doubt. Or disbelief.

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Frigid temperatures and snow, sleet, and/or freezing rain. My computer weather widget claims the present outdoor conditions are as follows: temperature, 15°F; precipitation: heavy snow. I can verify neither because: 1) if there is snow, the pre-dawn darkness hides the flakes from me; and 2) I have no interest in replacing reasonable comfort with frostbite.  By the time I finish thinking about what I want to write—and then write it—sunlight may have begun illuminating the day. And, if the temperature follows its usual morning routine, it will have dropped a bit by the time daylight arrives. Repetition. Ritual. Routine. The world continues to spin out of control, while we observe and shrink back from interfering.

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I could live on the outskirts of an imaginary small town, a place flush with all the most attractive features a small liberal arts college brings. My house might sit on a large piece of acreage property, hidden from sight of roads and highways by a dense forest. A river running through the forest would empty into a large, warm, body of water on the other side of the property. The town’s business district—comprising mostly restaurants, bars, art supply stores—would be adjacent to the college; only a few blocks long and wide. Surrounding the business district, all residential housing would be within easy walking distance. There’s more to it, but the townspeople would want to leave it at what I have already said; they would value their privacy and their good fortune…living in a place that does not require constant growth to prosper, only resident commitments. It is possible to live in that imaginary town. I have lived there for years, but only sporadically; when I feel the world closing in on me, I close my eyes and can see and feel and smell that imaginary place. Some moments, I consider moving there permanently. It would be an extraordinarily exciting experience. But others would not see it that way; they would look at me, sitting slumped in a comfortable chair with a whisper of a smile on my face, and label me catatonic.

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Still no daylight. The temperature has dropped one degree, to 14°F. Reports from the surrounding area suggest the widget was correct; snow fell overnight and may be falling now. Roads are slick and treacherous, early-morning observers say. Mi novia picked up Phaedra from the cat-motel yesterday afternoon, so silence in the absence of the cat has been replaced by troubling noises, suggesting the cat is breaking things, clawing where she should not, and/or dispensing guttural howls as she prepares to attack and mutilate or kill a phantom adversary.

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In an unexpected move, I stayed up past 10 last night. So I got up a bit after 4. In the two-and-a-half-plus hours since, I have grown tired of sitting in an increasingly uncomfortable desk chair. I shall, therefore, return to bed for a pre-dawn nap.

Vagueness—or imprecision—inhabits a “nearly” incalculable number of words in the English language: Many. Some. Almost. Few. Probably. Thick. Short. Considerably. Close. Near. Far. More. Less. Hard. Likely. Occasionally. Quite. Extremely. Low. Rarely. Fast. Mostly. Often. Nearly. Soft. Frequently. Long. High. Possibly. Quickly. Thin. Unlikely. Slowly. Rapidly. Tall. These words and others like them—in various forms—litter conversations, speeches, news reports, gossip, and written communications with uncertainty. My point? Nothing in particular…just an unstructured and possibly misleading observation I noticed leaking from my mind after I awoke this morning. Distance and proximity, by the way, are related concepts. Pleasure and pain, too, belong to the same tribe. I believe joy and anguish have familial ties, too, but when checking my thesaurus, I found that so-called reference book refuses to acknowledge their relationship. That gives me reason to believe in the questionable malleability of referential truth.

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My lethargy/fatigue/weariness has curtailed our binge-watching behavior of late. Until recently, we habitually watched two, three, or more consecutive episodes of our favorite film/TV series most evenings. Shows like Mayor of Kingstown, Blue Lights, etc. But recently, I have run out of steam each night after only one or two episodes of the latest season of Shetland. The flurry of activity involved in remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms in the last week has made daytime napping more difficult, so I am trying to make making up for it by going to bed extremely early.

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Cancer or its treatment, I have discovered, can wreck one’s settled affinity for flavors and /or the body’s appreciation for and/or tolerance of piquancy. Yet another reason to loathe the impact the disease or its potential remedy has on one’s body. For most of my life, I have had a passion for hot and spicy foods…Indian, Thai, Mexican, Moroccan, etc., etc. Since commencing treatments for my second round of lung cancer, though, my tongue and digestive system tend to complain bitterly when I try to indulge in that passion. Though wine and alcoholic drinks do not cause such discomfort, they no longer have a taste that is as appealing to me. An occasional glass of wine or a “short” gin & tonic have a tolerable flavor, but not as delightful as once was the case. The relaxation and slight pleasure I used to feel after a drink or two, though, now accompanies my consumption of certain medicinal gummies. “Adapt or die” may be a relevant aphorism in such circumstances. In my case, though, “and” might be more realistic than “or,” at least beyond the short term. A slight adjustment to the words of Woody Allen ring true for me: “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when conscious of pain before and while it it happens.”

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Rabbits. Wildly excited, goofy rabbits may invade at any moment. They bring nothing to fear, but fur itself.

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The sky remains dark, just a few minutes before 6:00 a.m. as I sit down at my desk to begin my pointless morning ritual: recording my thoughts before they disappear into the day. Ephemeral fragments of the dream from which I woke slip in and out of my consciousness, never settling long enough for me to remember them. Though I doubt dreams have any substantive meaning, I indulge my imagination by letting my mind wander through them—when I remember enough detail. Not today. I know only that I dreamed, not what the dream encompassed. Just like I know that, two weeks ago—and two months ago—I experienced an entire day, but I do not recall what, specifically, that experience involved. Some memories flow into a fixed mold, hardening like molten steel when it cools. Others spill out like water on a bitterly-cold glass table-top, freezing hard until the sun releases shapeless water from the sheet of ice. When conditions are right, memories transform, again. Like liquid water, memories disappear into—or take the shape of—vapor.

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According to news reports and word-of-mouth, store shelves have been emptied by shoppers preparing for the coming winter storm. Ice and hilly terrain combine to make travel hazardous, even deadly. Ice, electric lines, and weakened trees combine to create conditions favorable to power loss and roof storm damage. Refrigerated and frozen food can spoil and foods that require cooking can become useless when electric stove and ovens stop working. The cessation of electric heat increases, dramatically, the value of blankets and down jackets. Icy roadways challenge police and EMTs and their respective “customers,” putting all of them at risk. Danger confronts doctors and nurses and healthcare support personnel whose essential positions require them to place themselves in harm’s way in order to tend to patients. The families of all those essential workers, even when safe at home, are exposed to heightened levels of stress—at a minimum—while their loved ones confront weather-related difficulties. I can feel my own anxiety rising as I consider the potential impact of the coming winter weather. Again, I want to sleep; to extract myself from the unpleasant anticipation of Mother Nature joining forces with a dangerous psychopath to ruin lives and condemn the planet’s inhabitants to horrendous hardships.

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The immediate aftermath of yesterday’s chemotherapy was unpleasant. While I cannot be sure it was the chemo that did it, I suspect it was the chemicals that made me feel weak, cold, and unhappy. The pains in my bones, gut, chest, and back were not excruciating, but sufficiently uncomfortable to elicit moans and groans from me. This morning is better, but not back to “normal.” What, I keep wondering, is “normal” for me these days, after so damn many chemotherapy sessions, steroid injections, bone-protection injections, etc., etc.? I would have asked my oncologist some “come to Jesus” questions yesterday, except I did not see her. My treatments were handled by nurses, who followed the doctor’s instructions regarding what poisons to pump into my chest. Unexpectedly, I am not scheduled to return to the clinic for two weeks; usually, my visits take place at least once a week. To add to that stress, I have received multiple conflicting notices from my pharmaceutical insurance company, telling me my plan does not cover mail-order prescriptions (like those i have been getting for several years) and that my providers have not responded to the insurance company. I have verified, of course, that my providers have, indeed, responded to MULTIPLE inquiries from the insurance company. Apparently, I have reached the age at which the insurance company believes I will readily accept its confusing miscommunications. The company is wrong, of course. Though I do not condone, in the least, the murder of the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, I think I am beginning to understand the frustration that leads to the rage that triggers such irrational actions.

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Serenity is the cure. The cost to find it involves rage and chaos. Patience and placidity buys bitter agitation. Something is amiss in this inverse universe, methinks.

Loneliness and solitude live in the same neighborhood, but not necessarily in the same house. The subtle differences between them, sometimes hard to see, mimic the conflicts between aching or longing and satisfaction. Loneliness rushes in to fill a cold, empty room with harsh, dangerous, frigid air—anything to keep the vacuum from collapsing into itself. Solitude, on the other hand, fills a vacant space with warm, comfortable places to think and seals the entry. But loneliness can pick locks and pry open doors. And loneliness can strap an occupant to a chair and set fire to the furniture with embers from the hearth.

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Compulsory visits to the ill or wounded often look and feel artificial, as if the mandate had been crafted from papier-mâché and slavery. Those obligatory moments constitute forced expressions of concern, intended to demonstrate care and compassion. The authenticity of voluntary visits, though, is as clear and it is unexpected. Their spontaneity is a surgeon’s scalpel, severing the fabric of loneliness like an excised tumor.

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Light rain today is expected to be the prelude to snow, ice pellets, and temperatures as low as 3°F from Friday through Monday. Monday’s forecast calls for clearing skies, but Tuesday is expected to deliver more freezing rain. My memory tells me the second half of January seems to have an annual habit of growing bitter and unfriendly; but my undependable memory may tell me lies. I do not relish the onslaught of frigid temperatures and solid and semi-solid forms of water. Such assaults on my physical comfort and mental health provide clear evidence of Mother Nature’s disregard for me.  Fortunately, though, we have an adequate store of ice cream to get us through…just as long as the power does not go out. If that happens, we’ll have to choose between ice cream overindulgence or ice cream waste.

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Parts of last night’s dream are clear. I came upon a black puppy on a busy suburban street. To keep it safe from cars, I put a leash on it and went looking for its master. I walked quite a long way without finding its owner, but I encountered a married (I think) couple who were veterinarians. They had just attended a veterinary conference like one for which I had arranged speakers. It gets a little fuzzy from there. I parked my late sister’s car in a grocery car parking lot and went shopping. When I was ready to leave, I discovered I did not have the car keys, nor did I have a phone. And I did not know her address. At some point, I tried to hoist the veterinarians over the top of a massive pile of discarded old refrigerators, but the pile was too high. A nearby river, which was flowing above us, started leaking onto us. I offered to drive them to their hotel, but first I had to drop someone else off at home. That involved freeway travel many miles in the opposite direction of the veterinarians’ hotel. Something else interfered. The dream dissolved into a quagmire of unintelligible gunk at that point.

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I will leave in an hour for another trip to the oncologist today to received my umpteenth chemotherapy treatment. I have stopped counting. I wonder if the treatments will ever end…or whether they will continue until the end of my time? My last treatment was two weeks ago…or more(?). Yet I have felt approximately miserable, off and on, for the past few days. Unpleasant enough, last night, that I went to bed around 6:30 p.m., though could not sleep for several hours. Ach!

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If I had it to do over again, I would move into a hotel during the kitchen and bathroom renovations. The workers are as accommodating as possible, but there is only so much (but not enough) they can do to make the process unintrusive. I wonder whether my brother’s construction project is underway? His is actually important. Our is aesthetically desirable.

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I began writing almost three hours ago. But I stopped to experience the world around me to write these introductory words: Welcome to a tangle of anger, joy, calamity, serenity, and sorrow. Emotions wrap themselves in one another, confusing truth for toothpicks and honesty for oncology. Now, back to where I began, shortly after I awoke:

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Workers will arrive before long. Cold air will invade the house when they do. The garage door will be raised. The door between the garage and the rest of the house will be left open to make the workers’ treks between the garage and the house quicker and more efficient. The coldest room in the house—the “entertainment” room in which we spend time on the reclining loveseat to watch television, lounging, and the closest thing to a “retreat” to isolate us from the frenzy of remodeling—will become even colder and less private. I will shrink into what is left of my protective cocoon, unfolded and exposed, and silently curse the sacrifices required for improvement and enhancement. If my mind cooperates, I may imagine myself enjoying a different environment; a delightfully warm and cozy place protected from intrusion and noise by soft padding and pillows and darkness. A place where I can relax in comfort while soft, soothing music plays gently in the background. I may have to imagine the effects of an ample supply of morphine or fentanyl; otherwise, the pains in my lower back and my chest might prevent me from achieving a pleasant sense that all is right…at least briefly…with the world.

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How much energy, I wonder, is required to power memories and dreams? If it were possible to precisely measure the body’s consumption of energy, would energy usage increase significantly while dreaming or remembering, versus simply “being?” Does breathing require more energy than dreaming? Does the heart beating use more energy than does breathing? The answers to those questions seem, to me, both crucial and irrelevant. If I knew the answers, would that information change my life in measurable ways? Questions always prompt more questions. Answers do the same. Aimless curiosity is equivalent to the natural gas flared during oil exploration; could be used productively, but instead is wasted in creating cumbersome byproducts…pollution.

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The world at large is a dangerous and unpleasant place right now, thanks almost entirely to human behavior. The extinction of our species would permit other life forms to evolve, absent motives contrary to…what?

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Diversity is understood and appreciated only by intelligent, compassionate, and selfless people. But there comes a point at which valuing diversity can decay into acceptance of the unacceptable. It is at that point that gullibility or naivete permits an unintentional but ugly complicity with the underside of humanity. Beyond that point, solutions can be achieved only through brutal, merciless extraction of the underside.

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My back must have been salvaged from the rotting steel skeleton of a steamboat that sank in the Mississippi River long ago during a catastrophic flood. Coated with rust and rage, it shouts complaints, assigns blame, and curses the source of its distress. I protest that I am not responsible for the agony and, therefore, should not be punished for it. My protestations to the contrary, my back growls in response, insisting I must be held accountable for every mistake I ever made and every time I smiled when I should have frowned.

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Hatred has its place. And I know where it is. Hidden beneath an accommodating smile, hatred clings to the handle of a razor-sharp sickle. Clutching the trigger of an automatic weapon, hatred waits for the right moment to spring into action. A match in one hand and a can of gasoline in the other, hatred prepares to ignite a fountain of vengeance. Placing a wire garrote around a barbarous neck, hatred pulls the ends tight for as long as it takes. Forgiveness cannot break through hatred’s barrier; it does not even try.

Negative space is just as important as positive space. Places we should leave alone…places we do not belong…should be respected for a thousand reasons, not the least of which is that interference with them is the handiwork of dangerous psychopaths and narcissists. I am positive I would be delighted to plunge and twist a sharp knife into the black hearts of such beasts.

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Reality is an interpretation of perception; the way experience is perceived from a unique vantage point. If that is true, universal reality is a meaningless concept. Nothing is real, except to the extent that participants or observers consider it to be. Of course, the previous statements may be bullshit. Reality is what we—individually, not collectively—decide it is. But agreeing on the definition may make the experience more tolerable. I spent part of last night thinking about what is real and what is not; I spent another part in a dream involving my first job in association management…again. Both night-parts contributed to another night-sweat-a-thon, from which I emerged this morning when I woke, just before 5. Once again, the cold, damp sheets startled me awake; though the startle could have been dream-induced. Whatever the cause, my fitful sleep was interrupted. A roaring fire, a soft, warm (and dry) mattress, and a shot of fine whiskey sound good right now, though probably not together. It’s a touch early for the whiskey. Bedding and open flames should be kept far, far apart. In the right sequence, though, they could smooth and warm the rough, cold edges. The edges certainly could stand to be warmed; the outside temperature when I woke up was 18°F; it’s now 17°F.

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Competing desires are the causes of much of the grief we encounter and/or create in our lives.

WANTED: Seeking an extremely rich and generous elderly couple nearing the very final moments of their lives to serve as adoptive parents and provide an enormous tax-free financial inheritance.

WANTED: A distant, desolate cabin located far—far away from society and civilization—to serve as a base and a place conducive to development of a contemplative, ascetic life.

Soothing silence. Lively noise. Bright sunlight. Total darkness. Freedom to take risks. Protection against danger.

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Two years after I graduated from high school, three inmates held at the Walls Unit of what was then the Texas Department of Corrections took a dozen hostages and held them for eleven days. The leader of the prisoners, Fred Carrasco, was a heroin distributor who had been given a life sentence for the attempted murder of a police officer. At the end of the standoff, during  the inmates’ attempted escape, one of the prisoners was killed, Carrasco committed suicide, and two hostages (both prison employees) were killed. One of my brothers worked at the prison at the time. When the siege ended, my brother (who earlier had been an Air Force medic) worked with the prison doctor in an unsuccessful attempt to save one of those who had been shot…it could have been Carrasco, who shot himself. Just over a year after the attempted prison break, I got a job as a research intern for the prison system. My office was in a building across the street from the Walls Unit.  I am glad the prison environment around me was nothing like the godawful, gritty, hopeless prison featured in the Mayer of Kingstown series. Still find the series absolutely riveting.

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Last night, a talent show and chicken dinner was held at the UU church. Though mi novia had purchased tickets, we did not go. I did not feel well enough to go out in the world with lots of people and mi novia was worn out from emptying the kitchen, so she stayed home, as well. My wonderful sister-in-law, who was a kazoo player (I gather) in the talent show, delivered two fried chicken dinners to us after the show. Good fortune and good people follows m where I go!

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If I could defy the laws of physics and not get caught, I would try out different scenarios of the future, selecting one for full engagement only after the trial run. And, because I would have already broken the law, I would go back in time, as well, inserting myself into times and places I never belonged.

+++

Mi novia, during the return trip from her trek into Hot Springs to do some errands, bought yesterday’s lunch (Reuben sandwiches) and this morning’s breakfast (klobasnek, AKA sausage kolaches). Now that we’re deep into a rather pricey kitchen renovation, the fact that we seem to have no interest in cooking makes me wonder whether that decision…no, I won’t second guess it. We wanted a more appealing kitchen; we’re getting it.

Time steps in its own way, stumbling over itself and reversing course without explanation or apology. Wishes become memories. Facts become unreachable expectations, hidden by a tapestry of temporal tarps woven from invisible threads. Time tricks us into reliving memories of experiences we have not yet had. Yet we are bewildered that the inaccessible past refuses to be acknowledged.

+++

Two consecutive “too early to think” mornings led to a reversal this morning. After an  night during which sleep was shallow, fitful, and extremely uncomfortable, I finally arose this morning after 9:00 a.m. Night sweats, my nemesis in the recent past, returned several times, leaving me shivering when cold, damp sheets rousted me. My dreams were again relics of past experiences; one involved trying to find and hire employees without being certain of their duties or reasonable rates of pay. When I got out of bed this morning, I was in a general malaise—feeling ill but not quite able to pinpoint precisely how. That infirmity seems to be hanging on. I cannot legitimately blame chemo, in that my most recent visit to the oncology clinic involved only IV fluids & medications that rarely, if ever, cause side-effects. Maybe I am sleeping too much; pain in my lower back and discomfort in my chest/gut could be due to too much time in bed, on my back. Ach!

+++

The orderly demolition in the kitchen and primary bath began yesterday, transforming two useful rooms into unrecognizable spaces. We now have two days to adjust to the loss of conveniences we take for granted: cooktop (gone); cabinet doors and drawer fronts (gone for refinishing); bathroom sinks and vanity (gone). Destruction will continue next week, with the removal of kitchen counters and sink. While the deconstruction is taking place, other workers will focus on replacing pieces of the house seized by the destructionists. Two or three weeks hence, we will live in a more comfortable, modern, and visually appealing house. The remodeling efforts will reveal what can happen when bank accounts, time, and stress are blended, converting elements of the past into an entirely different present and a new foreseeable future. There’s something about complex purple prose, isn’t there, that enhances the mundane; that creates moderately well-behaved drama out of unnecessary histrionics?

+++

The day before my Slovakian niece’s birthday, another care packages arrived. She and my nephew, her husband, have taken to sending us unexpected boxes full of all manner of goodies, ranging from crackers and sweet bakery goods to tins of fish and refrigerator magnets from their travels. Knowing my affinity for and curiosity about trying international goodies, they include contents that originate in Europe. I am grateful to have family members who are thoughtful, kind, compassionate, intelligent, interesting, and otherwise extraordinary people. In fact, those distinctions apply to all members of family with whom I maintain contact. When I learn of the estrangements between members of other families, I am doubly appreciative that mine does not suffer from such ugly dislocations.

+++

It’s damn near noon and I am past ready for another nap. Some days that allow me to indulge myself in decadent laziness are simply not long enough. If not for the displeasures and discomforts that sometimes come along, I would favor extending lazy days to 72 hours and reducing the not-to-pleasant ones to 6 hours, maximum. Time is malleable; at least, in my universe, it should be. I will be deep in contemplation this afternoon; I can feel it.

A few days ago, I wrote a bit about abstraction; not to explain it, but to explore my interest in the concept. I thought writing about it could reveal some insights into it that might not otherwise emerge. The jury is still out on that idea. Writing, as I say far too often, is for me equivalent amounts to “thinking with my fingers.” Between fits of my keyboard expressions, though, I continue to ruminate over matters that I find intriguing. Since the recent post in which I mused about abstraction, I have been asking myself why the topic has captivated me for so long. And I have wondered why my interest has not simply remained stable, but has grown. I may have found the answer. Directing my attention to the topic can distract me from more troubling thoughts; mundane thoughts, for example, about watching sporadic protests take place while democracy dies.  The rage this country witnessed during the final years of the Vietnam war was far more widespread and more intense than the reactions I see now during this period of what may well be the preamble to invocation of the Insurrection Act of 1807.  The impact of another matter of personal importance to me, the predetermined outcome of my battle with lung cancer, also might be kept at a tolerable distance by the distraction of abstraction. But, as I think more on these matters, I wonder whether abstraction has less to do with revelations about dissimilar relationships (as I suggested) and more to do with its utility as a means of escape. Painting can be an escape. So can photography. Hobbies of all sorts can serve that purpose. Writing, too. And thinking about matters that require and therefore redirect significant amounts of one’s attention. An escape from reality.

+++

Today is the day. Work begins on renovations to our kitchen and bathrooms. Another distraction from reality, as an abstract idea begins to take shape in concrete form. It may seem odd that we are undertaking a project of this scope, considering how much (or little) time I might be able to enjoy it, once completed. But I am not alone here; mi novia also will reap the rewards of a more appealing space in which to retreat from a world that seems to be spinning madly out of control. And, as we told the contractor when we discussed our plans, I have been literally dying to get a more welcoming kitchen. It probably was not appropriate to say that to him; gallows humor can make people very uncomfortable. I would like nothing more than to ask the same contractor to refresh the update in five or ten years. 🙂

+++

The skies are clear, according to my computer widget, and the air is a cool 37°F.  The high is expected to reach 50°F; still quite cool for an old, balding man who has lost much of the insulating fat that kept him comfortable for so long. If money were unlimited, I would add a fireplace to my study and another one to the bedroom we use as a television/ entertainment suite. And, of course, if mi novia would like one in her study, I would happily arrange for it, too. Occasionally, I daydream about what I would do with the money if I won an enormous lottery. It would be fun to compare what I actually did versus what I thought I would do. I doubt a renovation would be in the cards. More likely, an entirely different environment would take the place of remodeling and a philanthropy spree would make life substantially easier for a lot of people who deserve a less troubling, stressful life. Dreaming of such stuff is, in so many ways, wasteful thinking. But, still…

+++

If I’m going to get any napping in today, I better start soon. Contractors will be here in an hour and a half. Once again, I was up at about 4:00 this morning. Perhaps that is too early to think; that may be responsible for my crumbling creativity lately. But, thinking is not reserved for the early morning hours. So, there you go.

When I got out of bed shortly before 4:00 a.m., I was disturbed to realize the distressing national and international news from recent days had stayed on my mind again overnight. News about violent incursions by ICE in Minneapolis and Portland accompanied me to bed and remained with me when I woke. The madness of U.S. imperialism—most recently involving Venezuela and Greenland and Iran—continued to stoke my anger this morning. Embers that kept the flames of my fury burning spiked into a raging firestorm. Foolishly, I allowed myself to fuel the fire by reading more news while in an already unpleasant state of mind. When my animosity had almost reached the point of irrepressible rage and hatred, I dragged myself out of the inferno by reading the most recent piece of the NPR series, My Unsung Hero. The story, about a man’s memory of being found after becoming lost one night in a campsite on Lake Superior, soothed just enough stress to prevent a complete meltdown. Though that positive human interest story did not change the scope of this administration’s cruelty and march toward authoritarianism, it blunted some of the sharp edges that, lately, escort me into each day. Positive stories, unfortunately, cannot erase the mental damage done by terror nor can they serve to reverse actions that foster it. But at least they can provide just enough of a relief valve to avoid a damaging explosive response. Rage, I think, is a dangerous reaction to feelings of hopelessness. If human interest stories can temper the venom of anger, they should be given more credit than we tend to give them.

+++

The paragraph above notwithstanding, hopelessness is not always a negative emotion. Losing hope (or avoiding its development) can make reality easier to face than holding onto hope long after evidence confirms its futility. The energy expended on hope can be invested, instead, on achievable aspirations. Hope, in the absence of reasonable expectations, is simply fantasy. Hopelessness, on the other hand, may be polished  and shined into something more productive: acceptance of reality.  Logic can get in the way of both perspectives, though. That’s true of almost everything in which a wish is involved.

+++

When a delusional Head of State is starved for affection, he or she can simply demand it. As much as the people under his or her rule may desire a much more rapid outcome,  the only viable option may be to acquiesce to the leader’s wishes; let him/her starve.

+++

Roughly two hours have passed. Human interest stories, like many other mood-enhancing drugs, may not all be of the extended-release form.

My plunging motivation to write mirrors my confidence that the words I write convey enough meaning to warrant spending the energy required to type them.  A favorite French phrase—Le jeu n’en vaut pas la chandelle—explains it better than my English words can.  “The game is not worth the candle.” Neither the original phrase nor the English translation, though, is sufficient without comment. Without a lengthy explanation of the origin of the French phrase, its meaning easily can be lost. So it is with the reasons for my flagging motivation and the role of my confidence in causing the decline. When “to break rocks” is offered as the motivation “to break rocks,” breaking rocks takes on a level of meaning and motivation that extracts all relevance from the practice. Why do I write? To write. Only to write.

+++

The older I get, the more I appreciate abstraction. That is not to say I understand abstraction; only that I tend to find abstract ideas more appealing. Abstraction once seemed chaotic to me—concepts sometimes lacking rational connections with the real world. Even then, though, something about abstraction held me transfixed, as if its turmoil represented ultimate rationality…albeit rationality far beyond my capacity to comprehend. Chaos is not disorder. It is, instead, a state of unison in which close relationships can be revealed between utterly dissimilar ideas or visions. For example, abstract art can expose viewers to images that show an artist’s perspective of the connection between diamonds and oxygen or nomadic tribes and monuments to architecture. Those revelations, though, are not necessarily straightforward. They can be hidden beneath layer upon layer of complexity. I think of physics as an abstract system of linking facts with fantasies or observations with beliefs. But, when I focus attention on those ideas, they become clouds of abrasive wind-blown dust that erase what I thought I understood. No matter how I look at what I wrote just now, I cannot make it make sense to me. On the other hand, its clarity is almost blinding.

+++

Well over an hour after I made my morning cup of espresso, I got up to quiet the howling cat. The cat suddenly stopped its disturbing shrieks the moment I stood up.  When I stood up, I noticed the untouched cup of espresso; to free my hands to allow me to open my study door, I had left it on top of a cabinet nearby. I drank it, despite its unpleasant cool bitterness as it slid down my throat. Mentally, I feel like I am paralyzed. I have all manner of things to do this morning, but no interest in doing them and I lack the ability to shame myself into taking action. I want nothing more right now than to sleep. But in just over an hour, I must go in for my oncological punishment, so sleep is inadvisable—I should shower before I go. Perhaps I’ll take interim steps, instead. Deodorant. Fresh clothes. That sort of thing.

+++

Enough of this. Again. I have nothing sunny and bright to say.

+++

What in the name of Driftwood Charlie? That string of words came tumbling out of my brain in the form of question when I woke up—very late—this morning. Accompanying those words was a lilting melody I vaguely recognize…but not in connection with those words. The attempts to dredge up a more precise recollection have failed, but not spectacularly. I think the melody might belong to a fading memory involving an old sea shanty, Drunken Sailor. According to Wikipedia, that shanty and another recent one, Wellerman, are two of the most famous sea shanties. Except, according to the all-knowing internet, Wellerman really is not a sea shanty but, instead, a whaling sea song or ballad,
not a rhythmic work song (shanty). The branding of the respective songs is of very little concern to me, but in a deeply meaningful way—buried beneath layer after layer of mystical irrelevance.  As the whimsical query continues to settle into my brain, I think I can feel ancestral connections with a word (forebitters) that is said to describe the type of song that was sung by sailors on sailing ships in their leisure time. But I have no defensible assertion to feel such an ancestral connection. To my knowledge, my heritage does not include any evidence-based links to sailors who faced the unending ferocity of angry waves and hungry sharks and whales bent on revenge. Admiration and respect for people who confronted such existential challenges does not translate into proof of lineage. Even if those attitudes did prove such ancestral ties, I would question the validity of truth. Inasmuch as truth is experience seen through the blind eyes of the inexperienced, perspective is at least as important as fact.

+++

Experiential Infusion (EI) was the name I gave to an imaginary process and to the fictional company that should have done a better job of protecting its intellectual property from theft. Had I been more attentive, I would have challenged the trademark registration filed by Chance Encounters (CE). By the time I finally realized what was happening, it was too late. CE had stolen the process I had spent two lifetimes creating. Those two lifetimes—assigned to Contrition Beasley (CB) and Emphatico Strutch (ES)—had little but sentimental value, but any value is better than none. I spent their value like it flowed from an endless supply. As we know now, though, endless value is a fantasy sculpted from cold rust and chilled paraffin.  CB was the first life contributed to EI; ES surrendered his just days later. Neither of them had signed the contracts. But that did not matter. CB and ES were expendable; the only thing that mattered was the explosive success of EI…without infringement by CE .  That’s as much as I am at liberty to tell at the moment.

+++

One month and eight days ago, I was scheduled to get a haircut. My response to an earlier chemotherapy session persuaded me to postpone that appointment. One month before that postponed event, I had been given a haircut; two months and eight days ago.  Today, if all goes according to plan, I will get that long-delayed haircut. Getting a haircut has not been a big deal for most of my life, but it has grown to seem unnecessarily intrusive. Haircuts and shaves muscle their ways into my routine, interrupting matters of greater importance and thereby boosting inconsequential stuff (like haircuts and shaves) to higher-than-justified levels.

+++

We assign value to time by using clocks and calendars. If we were to assign value to clocks or calendars, what would we use to illustrate their value? We should realize, of course, that time has no value in the absence of water or oxygen. Without water, time could not exist because those of us for whom time matters must have water to survive. And oxygen.

+++

Until yesterday, I had not eaten canned sardines in many, many months. Nor had I consumed canned smoked oysters in at least as long a period of time. Yesterday, though, I opened a can of spicy sardines that had been laced with piri piri peppers (a spicy pepper often used in South African and Portuguese foods). Tasty! I recommend sardines. And piri piri (also called peri peri) peppers. I can vouch for the suitability of peri peri sauce on chicken that has been prepared in various ways…like fried, baked, grilled, but NEVER raw. And peri peri sauce is good with grilled vegetables and drizzled over rice.

Meat loaf. My SIL brought us some delightfully tasty meatloaf. After our kitchen has been remodeled, we either will have to acknowledge that we are capable of cooking or we will have to admit that we love to eat food prepared by others. Or both.

The complexity of language is fascinating…but not sufficiently so to prompt me to delve deeply into learning multiple languages. I’ve discovered lethargy is an antidote to fascination. The reverse, unfortunately, does not seem to be the case.

+++

Something else I find fascinating is this: creating sophisticated shadow images through placement of lighting and using objects to block it. Again, though, the amount of both mental and physical energy required to create appealing shadow images is beyond my capabilities and/or willingness. People who are good at what I’ll improperly call “shadow-craft” have incredible powers of concentration, I think. And they understand (better than do I) how to practically apply at least a rudimentary knowledge of physics to the chaos of the real world in the process of artistic expression.

+++

Anonymity hides behind a nearly invisible window into an empty room. We can neither enter into—nor escape from—that hidden place because it exists only along the shredded edges of pretense.  Reality reveals catastrophic breaks in the shields on which we rely to surround us with defensive obscurity. Phantom locations block paths between here and there and even beyond. Wearing cloaks or veils or capes or the garb the guards give to prison escapees, the inmates in those places struggle to find unique, nonreturnable identities. Nothing that could have been used in an uprising, though. Nothing that might ignite kindling or fuel flickering embers. None among us want to admit it, but privacy is surrendered at birth…or even before. Our names are cross-referenced with numbers and dates and the names of people we cannot remember from moments we did not experience. We want to believe in anonymity, but too many among us know too much. Our seclusion— guarded by an ancient, vaporous, corroded chain-link-fence—is just a series of readily-available-reruns. People we have never met, but who have heard all about us or, at least, about common friends and enemies. The only safe place, where your secrets are secure, is in your own mind, where even your sacred vows of silence cannot be trusted. Once your anonymity begins to crumble, it cannot be rebuilt.

+++

Rarity drives value. We know that by the value humans attach to diamonds, gold, platinum, rubies, and lots of other “stuff” that is rare. Commonality (e.g., paper, plain glass, rice, wheat, etc.) tends to depress value. Using just that bit of understanding of the world, I should be able to apply the concepts in such a way as to dramatically increase the value of commodities; like trash. Exactly how, though, remains outside my skillset. I know, though, the key is in radically decreasing the amount of trash; if we can do that, trash will become a precious “commodity.” You try, first.

+++

It’s just shy of 6:30. I’ve been awake for close to three hours. I feel a growing need for sleep again. And another nap, which might lead to brief interchangeable periods that resemble wakefulness, sleep, trance, catatonia, vibrant alertness, and various other states of being.

+++

Everything is out of sequence. First comes after fifty-seventh. The letter Q follows W. Brilliant sunlight follows a dark and rainy night. Gratitude slides in on the tail of expectation. Rage trickles in just before glee, when torn pieces of laughter stagger in from a drunken night of pomp and perseverance. But what of the circumstance?

The setting of Mayor of Kingstown is as much a character in the series as are the humans with acting roles. The town is bleak in every way. Individual houses appear to have been neglected for years, after having arisen from the dirt as brand new minimally habitable shacks. Public buildings, too, are in various states of decay and disrepair. Fading paint, chipped bricks, litter in gutters, and the bent and broken signs tell the town’s ugly history and predict its equally hideous future. Each scene is gritty and brown and grey, as if the video camera’s lens was smudged with dust and oily fingerprints. The town’s main attraction is a large old prison, deteriorating as quickly as it companion public buildings. The largest employers—implied but not explicitly expressed—are the prison system, the law enforcement community, heavy industry, and a shadowy “mediation economy,” all of which are infused with a necessary collusion between people who consider their roles embarrassing, demeaning, and hopeless. Without all its supportive corruption to grease the wheels of illegal or immoral commerce, those distasteful Kingstown attributes would swallow the people, leaving them nothing but scraps that remain; failure after failure after failure.

+++

As I ponder what I’ve just written about the setting serving as a character for a piece of fiction (written or video or whatever) production, I wonder whether I would be able to write a “personality” for a setting that would adequately support the fundamental theme of the story…but which would not be so obvious as to be a slap in the face of a reader? That’s one longer-than-necessary sentence. I have begun to write such a character/story. But it’s extremely slow in coming. I think I was in my sixties when I started writing it.

+++

After almost every fairly powerful windstorm, many of the streets in the Village are littered with broken limbs and branches. The places on the streets onto which the trees shed their storm-battered appendages reveal how rotted and decayed the trees were. Light-colored “sawdust” is visible on the street all around the broken branches. Recently, during an especially fierce night, we heard a loud noise, as if a branch had fallen onto our house. When we were able to see outside, the next morning, we saw at least two trees whose  trunks had broken at least ten feet above the ground. The rotting upper part of the trunks could have caused some serious damage had they hit the house directly. Our good fortune was that the sound we heard was (probably) a branch just brushing the roof.

+++

A few days ago, we saw a mangy coyote crossing the street in front of us. It was the first coyote spotting in several months; maybe longer. The rarity of rabbit sightings obviously correlates in some way with the fact that coyotes have been seen around the woods around us. Coyotes, carnivorous beasts that they are, have an appetite for small dogs and cats and any other creatures that can overpower them. For that reason, we do not willingly let Phaedra out of the house. Lately, though, she has begun slipping out whenever a door is opened; she is far faster than I realized, making it tough to stop her from leaving. But, she is willing to let mi novia pick her up and bring her inside.

+++

I feel a tad achy, probably due to my sleep position last night or to sitting on the loveseat, watching television, for too long.  My approach to the matter will involve satisfying my sweet tooth with a tiny treat, followed by a return to that bed and “napping” in a more comfortable position.

I need more caffeine. One little cup of espresso—especially the lukewarm espresso that dripped into my cup—has not yet thrilled my tongue. I must find the YouTube video I once saw, giving instructions for resetting the machine to [possibly] correct the temperature.

+++

I hear the rumble of an ocean wave crashing onto a sheer cliff. Is the noise I hear coming from the ocean or the cliff? Or is it from their intersection with one another—and, if so, which with what? Would that sound have been made—regardless of source—in the absence of air? If dreams allow us to see without the use of our eyes, can they let us hear without the use of our ears? Would we be able to speak in a dream in which our tongues or vocal chords were removed or paralyzed?

+++

Luxuries can contravene other luxuries. I think a luxury-meter would help in situations in which one decadence must be enjoyed over another; one equally as appealing. Perhaps the same meter would serve the purpose of helping pick between dissatisfaction and sorrow.

+++

Several years ago, I realized my reading interests had changed from scientific fantasy to fiction; novels that relied far more heavily on characterization than on action. Later, my interests swayed in a different direction again—away from fiction to nonfiction. That was about the same time I decided fiction was more engrossing, but I had rather read my own fiction than someone else’s. So I began to write more fiction and read more nonfiction. But for a complex swirl of reasons and excuses, my interest in all of it, regardless of genre, declined. Today, my reading time is limited. More of it is spent consuming what gets by as news written by incompetent wanna-be journalists. I devote a sizable chunk of time, as well, in feeding my rage with the outright lies distributed by bigoted propagandists. These are the folks, calling themselves “citizen journalists,” who appeal to a populace of gullible, stupid, and equally bigoted demons. Even the reportage that spills from individuals and organizations that share many of my political, social, and fiscal philosophies often is a complex web of lies and half-truths. Journalistic fraud that supports my points of view is not journalism but clearly is fraud. I want to believe that the supportive “non-fiction” that comes my way, but it is just a nasty mirror image of the “citizen journalism” I despise. They all are like firefighters, who stand across the fire line from one another, emptying gasoline-filled hoses on their fellow flame-throwers.

+++

The costs to produce films, film series, and television productions reported by entertainment news outlets are often so high I have more than a little difficulty in believing the figures. Yet the expenses associated with key actors, alone, must be phenomenal. And, watching the credits roll, I can only imagine the exorbitant payroll expenses for almost endless lists of crew. During a recent binge-watch of Mayor of Kingstown, the potential cost of a single scene slapped me in the face. It showed an excavator uncovering a school bus that had been buried under several feet of soil. When enough of the vehicle had been uncovered, several police detectives and officers entered it by breaking the windshield glass. As I watched all the people in the scene and as I absorbed how extremely time-consuming its set-up must have been, my head filled with numbers I can barely conceive as real. Later in the series, a series of scenes involving explosions, gunfire, and blood gushing from hundreds of rifle wounds added to the unfathomability in my mind of the costs of the program. I imagine the total costs of producing the series could have been cut in half, but much of the substance of what makes the film so engrossing would have been left on the cutting room floor. I’m stunned by the money the film’s creation and distribution must have required. I’m glad I was able to experience all of it, including those pieces that thankfully were NOT left out of the finished film. And we’ve only started watching Season two of four currently in distribution. Plus one more in production.

+++

I drove my car, alone, to the oncologist’s office yesterday. The day before, I drove it to the shop to get a new battery. Alone. Both days. I feel like an adult! An aging adult. An aging (aged?) adult who has grown to enjoy naps, in spite of my complaints about how many I take and how long they last. I do NOT nap in my car. At least not when I’m driving. I do not need to own and operate an SUV. Not even a 10-year-old SUV. But replacing my vehicle with a smaller and/or newer car would be an expensive proposition. For what? An occasional brief escape from the house? If I trusted myself and other drivers on the road with me, I might go for a motorcycle. I do not, so I will not. But a 2-seater Miata…that is appealing. Although, as I think I have mentioned before, I might have a hard time getting in or out of one.

+++

Grey morning. Coolish, but not uncomfortably so. Nor comfortably so. Someplace between acceptance and tolerance. Sweater over a t-shirt weather. With gloves. Or a bed with a heavy, warm blanket. Nothing seems suitable for what is…only for what has been or could be.

+++

Tightrope over a volcano. That is a disturbing and soothing phrase, full of languid tension and precarious security. The sort of phrase that causes a love-fest to erupt between mortal enemies and their friends.

We finished watching Season one of Mayor of Kingstown last night. The series is brutal and bloody. The story line wanders through ugly territory between realism and impossible—but convincing—fiction. Its action sequences may have stopped and restarted my heart dozens of times during the program’s first season. I believe the series is set to end after Season five, suggesting my heart will get quite a workout before the final episode transforms my television into nothing more than digital vapor.

+++

Today’s early horizon is blushing, revealing the sky’s emotional reaction to embarrassment or stress or shyness…or anger or excitement or any number of similar automatic responses to an unexpected stimulus. Depending on how much the sky knows about the motives of authoritarian madmen who distribute grief as if it were a reward, the pink cheeks of the morning might represent Nature’s expression of overwhelming rage. Already, the tint at the edge of the Earth is beginning to soften…first turning beige, then cooling to a very light blue. That transition does not suggest a diminution in Nature’s indignation; only an indicator that her rage has transformed into fury so great that its intensity is capable of extinguishing a thousand suns, leaving only a fine powdery ash residue behind.

+++

Leonard Cohen lived a significant part of his life the way I dreamed of living mine. But Cohen’s thirst for a deeply meaningful life experience obviously was far more intense than mine. He overcame the fears that might have deterred him from pursuing his aspirations. I, on the other hand, allowed my anxieties to blossom into intimidation or something even more powerful—dread or weak-kneed terror. He willingly took risks I have never been able to myself to face. His courage and adventuresome nature fueled his resolve, while my meekness stoked my timidity. He lived for a time in a decaying old house he bought on the Greek Island of Hydra—a place awash in a culture that bathed him in adventure and excitement. I lived nervously for five years, at the other end of the spectrum, in a flimsy tract home I bought in a Houston suburb, worrying about how my wife and I would survive if I lost my job and the meager source of income it provided. Cohen broke or ignored rules that would have suppressed his creativity. I imagined myself a non-conformist, but usually took care to avoid uncontrollable conflict… coloring just barely within the lines. My self-identification as a bohemian was—and unfortunately remains—a pretense. I tend to hold in high regard people who visibly and vocally challenge rules and willingly criticize the status quo. I tend to view rigid rule-followers as soft and weak, unless they wholeheartedly support the rules and their rationale. But people who disdain rules, yet follow them in fear of the consequences of breaking them…I have the same pity and contempt for them as I feel staring back at me when I look into a mirror.  Hypocrisy chiseled in stone. Forgiveness does not wash away the shame; only deepens it.

+++

That’s all for now.

My fascination with unicorns has lasted quite some time, beginning as a child and continuing—but declining in intensity—into adulthood. I do not know whether the whimsical fantasy surrounding unicorns triggered my curiosity about narwhals or my interest in narwhals sparked the appeal of unicorns. Regardless of which one ignited the other, there’s no question in my mind that there was, and remains, a connection between them. Their curiously spiraled physical appendages (the unicorn’s horn and the narwhal’s tusk) no doubt account for much of their respective appeal. More importantly, though, may be the mystique those protuberances represent; the confluence of fantasy and reality. But no such intersection between illusion and fact exists to explain my enchantment with squids and octopuses, my attachment to which evolved in more recent years—except, of course, the almost magical appearance of their respective arms/tentacles. Octopuses, especially, captivate me with the incredible precision with which they control their eight strong arms. Squids have ten limbs: eight arms and two tentacles. There was a time when I enjoyed the flavor and texture of the “meat” of both creatures; I still enjoy calamari, but because I now classify octopuses as intelligent, sentient beings, I can no longer bring myself to eat octopus.  I have never eaten unicorn, of course, and do not plan to taste narwhal meat. More than a decade ago, I wrote the following poem about mythic meals:

Mythic Meals

I don’t believe in Unicorns
but I like the way they taste.
The flesh is rainbow flavored,
with proper salt and baste.

Now Centaur is my favorite food,
much muscle in their middles,
more flavor than the Cheshire cat,
who only tastes in riddles.

But have you eaten Hydra,
with her spicy after-bite?
It’s similar to Minotaur,
when the latter’s cooked just right.

And I like a bit of Griffin,
if it’s rare and undercooked,
Oh, Satyr can be delicious!
What have I overlooked?

Humans can carry parasites,
or is it the other way around?
Be careful when mixing meatafors
Oh, how awful this must sound!

I’m really not a cannibal
nor do I chew on a mythic beast
except when it’s in season,
then it’s nice to have a feast.

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My calendar reminds me I must pay estimated taxes to the IRS within the next several days. And I have to decide, this week, what to do with the proceeds of a maturing certificate of deposit (CD), the rate of return for which would be much lower than it has been heretofore if I were to renew it. Financial management is among my least favorite aspects of adulthood; but the discomfort associated with money matters is not quite as distasteful as the sound of footsteps along the inevitable march toward death, which grow louder with each passing day. More gallows humor, interwoven with a bone-dry discussion of matters that should be of concern only to practicing accountants.

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Once again today, I may try to force myself to arrange for my car’s dead battery to be jumped, so I can drive the car to a shop where the three-plus-year-old battery can be replaced. I am beyond simply lazy; my condition is extreme lethargy, amplified by slothful indolence. My apathy refuses to give me access to a recent edition of a thesaurus so I can explore additional synonyms. Instead, I am forced to try to think for myself, without the aid of thought-enhancing reference materials. The brutality of such an indignity is the embodiment of cruelty. Reporting this mistreatment to the thought police is not outside the realm of possibility. The penalties for such criminal behavior start with digital amputation, followed by public stoning and growing progressively worse, culminating in slow-motion beheading with a dull and rusty guillotine. In the absence of compassion, the punishment could be even worse.

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If I could eliminate the discomfort in my chest, I might be able to sleep for a while. It’s not sufficiently intense to call it pain, but it is well past the stage of being classified as a simple ache. Doctors should prescribe “discomfort pills” that serve as obstacles to the progression to more unpleasant developments. Gummies or alcohol might do the trick, but neither are advisable as one prepares to be a road-warrior.

Someone will read this post and scoff at what they perceive as its absurdity.  It’s actually more reflective than it might look.

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Finally, after what seems like a month-long holiday weekend, a new week is beginning to unfold. A more “normal” week, lacking most of the celebratory overtones of Christmas and New Year’s Day. But the energy of the celebrations that began before Thanksgiving never matched the intensity of holidays in years past. Adulthood strips the excitement away from them. The reasons for those festivities were clearly expressed to children, but some kids seemed to privately question the legitimacy of the explanations. They always were subject to suspicion. Stories about religious communities that practiced peaceful coexistence and believed in miracles—paired with a new year bringing spiritual renewal and rebirth—met with both youthful exuberance and skepticism. The experiential wisdom and emotional pains that accompany age, though, tend to heighten uncertainty and temper enthusiasm. Eventually, passionate ideals fade into dubious fantasies. Hope sinks beneath suffocating ritual. Purpose slides into either tolerance or, more often, grudging acceptance. Maturity transforms what passed as faith into resigned acquiescence. I have vague recollections from my childhood…thinking stories from children’s books were more realistic and believable than the fantasies sold in in shops and churches. Even then, excitement balanced precariously on the thin edge of disbelief. Subsequent years wore that thin edge into a solid platform, a place I could sit in relative isolation and comfort as I watched my excitement plunge off that ledge into the rocky abyss below.

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Similes and metaphors replace realism when facts are so unlikely that fantasy is the only believable option. When that is the case, we invite others into our imaginations by painting, with words, abstract images that are essentially self-portraits. A problem, of course, is that self-portraits reflect a mirror’s perspective; an image that is reversed from left to right and right to left. Therefore, our attempts to illustrate far-fetched reality begin with a distorted vision, further perverted by the recipient’s understanding of the sender’s interpretation. A simple example: I describe a young White man with words that you interpret to paint in your mind an image of an old Black woman. Clear communications between people cannot exist in such a twisted world, except by accident. And the odds of that accident taking place between the right people at the right time in the right place are infinitesimal. Yet, the incredible occurs with statistical certainty.

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The likelihood of ice, snow, sleet, and other cold-weather phenomena taking place sometime this month and/or next is relatively high. So I say. Predicting when that might occur, though, is an undertaking best left to meteorologists. They have knowledge of weather and climate patterns I lack. They have access to meteorological measurements and measurement devices that are unavailable to me. They have the advantage of collaborating with others of their ilk to develop and present forecasts, increasing the likelihood of reaching consensus about future weather conditions. That having been said, my assertion about the likelihood of cold-weather precipitation is little more than a random guess made by an untrained, uneducated, unequipped amateur whose qualifications to speculate about the weather are essentially non-existent. Given the value of my prediction, why would I bother to take the time to make it? Why would anyone else take the time to consider it? What could I have done with my time and energy to improve the world, had I not wasted it on such a useless activity? As I consider how I spend my time, I suspect most of it is used in useless pursuits. That’s probably true of almost everyone else, as well. If just one tenth of my wasted time were spent in positive productivity, I might have made an impact. If everyone spent a similar percentage in similarly productive endeavors, Saudi Arabia might be a country awash in vegetable farms with enough output to feed the rest of the world. Imagination. Fantasy. Delusion. It is possible, I think, for the right combination of committed people to shape those dreams into reality.

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One edible before bedtime sent me into a deep, deep sleep. I may have had a dream, but I am not sure. I may have budged during the night, but I am not sure. I woke late this morning. My starvation is getting the best of me.  I am hungry for a flame-broiled steak, cooked rare, with a dozen plain doughnuts available for dessert. I might not eat all the doughnuts, but their availability would give me a sense of safety and comfort.

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Every day brings us closer to the last one. And it increases the temporal distance between the one before and the ones before that. I think Time is elastic; flexible, like a rubber band. Time can be stretched, but it springs back to its original shape…up to a point. If the pressure stretching the rubber band gets too great, the tension breaks the its connection with itself. I suspect Time works in much the same way. When time is drawn out, it must eventually reach a stage at which it reveals its weakest point; an almost explosive detachment in which tension between its beginning and its end surrenders to its original scope…always or never.

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Somewhere between near and far is an unnamed distance that represents a point at which neither is superior to the other. That unnamed spot refuses to acquiesce to claims of proximity by either of them. That location is similar to the “special interim relationship” between North Korea and South Korea; neither here nor there, but equally and adamantly not both. Similarly, now and then belong somewhere in between, but precisely where is unknown. Perhaps when is more descriptive. Yet where and when share intersecting, but inexplicable, attributes.

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Give the right answers and the questions will ask themselves.

Another tired excuse for a day, its promise lost to an action plan left to sour on a street awash in soggy old calendars remaining from Time’s childhood. The day could be salvaged if enough optimism could be captured and used to feed additional attempts; more energetic than the stuff chat clogged the lines that fuel the machinery of progress.

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During one of my recent transitions from conscious awareness to the incoherent confusion that precedes sleep, I envisioned myself being swept along inside a large, dark tubular tunnel. The inside walls of the tunnel appeared to be composed of a flexible web-like membrane, bathed in dim, iridescent, lime-green light. Everything else was empty black space. I remember thinking I had somehow entered the tube from the “wrong” end, which I took to mean I had been effectively sentenced to experience life in reverse order, a condition I could not escape. The meaning of that odd realization, if it ever had meaning, has since been lost to me. But since having that mental experience (and beforehand, I believe), I have seen graphic depictions of artists’ concepts of spacetime wormholes. Those representations closely resemble what I “saw” while crossing between consciousness and its strange, pre-sleep companion state. Since that bizarre flight of fantastical imagination, I have experienced more mundane—but similarly bewildering—dreams that dredged up and heightened my distaste for people whose arrogant behaviors I found contemptible. Those dreams were too complex and too upsetting for me to attempt to describe; trying to do so would be a pointless exercise in frustration. My recollections are sufficiently irritating without adding to them by meticulously reconstructing them.

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Attacking other nations and kidnapping their presidents are the pastimes of idiots and  criminals. A suitable response to such actions might appropriately involve a crushing rebellion against the perpetrator of the crime and his enablers. There is a point beyond which terrified acceptance of the dangerous delusions that prompt such madness is utterly intolerable. Blind rage, accompanied by a willing and forceful abandonment of compassion for the aggressive bad actors, may be justified in such situations. Not only justified, but demanded…perhaps.

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The psychological pressures in his mind seem to increase exponentially with almost every passing hour. The causes of his distress can be tracked back to the deterioration of the human condition. The fact that he is not alone is of no consolation. In fact, that reality worsens the sensation…drowning in hundreds of pounds of microscopically fine powder that’s miniscule in particle size and hotter than the sun. He can feel the bones in his skull begin to flex and stretch like a balloon. Hairline cracks may not provide enough warning of an impending eruption. The speed with which the fissures form may be too great to detect a catastrophic explosion early enough to escape its apocalyptic impact. In advance of the detonation, though, and immediately after it occurs, an overwhelming sense of calm will envelope this universe and the ones just beyond the reach of the cataclysm. When the latex skin of the balloon begins to wrinkle in anticipation of the event, the magma at the center of Earth will vibrate in joyous anticipation. Liquid rock will spill forth from the core, covering the planet with a searing mist of molten material that will enshroud the planet with a granite crust. These images did not arise out of emptiness. They were taken from a camera’s lens; a finely polished glass disc that captured as visual experiences his interactions with the ashes of compassion. Sympathy, in that universe, is mocked by strands of hostility, woven into every piece of rough, biting fabric that shreds skin in much the  same way hate shreds the soul. A fictional treatment of overwhelming fear.

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Sleep may have become a symptom of depression or, at least, a temporary analgesic for anxiety. Rather than waking refreshed, I stumble into the morning feeling like I faced a cheering arena crowd offering congratulation to the bull after I lost another fight. Or maybe I just need a lot of sleep to help replenish energy diminished by eating too little and failing to consume enough water. I will conditionally surrender; I will exchange some of my unwanted wakefulness for a cookie or two and some more sleep.

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.