John Swinburn

No matter how tightly I close my eyes, the monochromatic images remain—as if they are permanently etched on polished spheres that spin at high speed inside my eyelids. The dark forest green figures—thousands of distinct, unique items—fill my entire field of vision. They move so fast I can barely register one collection of images before the next one flashes past my consciousness. Though unique, each item has a commonality with the others. They mostly are typographical symbols one might find on a computer keyboard: dollar signs, pound symbols, punctuation marks, ampersands, parentheses, commas, question marks, asterisks, tildes, apostrophes, and so on. I cannot focus my attention on any one symbol for more than a microsecond before it has been replaced many times over. I am confident the combinations of images carry with them a complex assortment of messages; not mysterious concepts nor mystical enigmas—just communiqués designed exclusively to enlighten me about matters I have yet to understand. The source of these messages is unclear, but the longer I am exposed to them, the more likely it seems to me I am both their source and their target. I do not want to be misunderstood about these images, though. I realize these visions could be random space-fillers in my brain; completely devoid of “meaning” or relevance. Or they could be symptoms of a neurological disorder that has been with me for almost all of my 71+ years. They might even be fantasies that do not exist in the real world…only in my imagination. That is unlikely, though. They are too consistent, too predictable.

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Today, I will spend quite a while at my oncologist’s office. Whether today will involve chemotherapy infusions or not, I do not know. I’ve lost track of whether today is just another day of lab work and hydration and injections or whether I will be pumped full of cancer-killing chemicals, etc. If my post-recurrence treatment had gone as originally planned, I would be approaching the end of two years of immunosuppression drug therapy. But plans got derailed early on when I developed an allergic reaction to one of the primary chemo components. I’ve said this already, haven’t I? I just repeat myself, it seems.

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When a person has little or nothing left to lose, he can become either heroic or deadly dangerous or otherwise transform into someone new and unpredictable. What, I wonder, determines whether “nothing to lose” leads to philanthropy or, instead, to murderous pathology?  Those are not the only options, of course, but they are among the most impactful. Wealth and hopelessness can lead in entirely different directions, of course, but poverty and optimism can spur the same….or radically different…responses, too. We’re too complex for anyone to be able to “read” us. That’s one of the delights and dangers of humanity.

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And now I will sally forth into what the world holds for me today.

Until yesterday, I knew very little about Charlie Kirk. I had heard about him or read his name online, but my exposure to him was limited to reading a few quotations attributed to him. I found offensive his condemnation of virtually anything remotely “liberal,” but beyond that I knew almost nothing. The volume of reactions to his assassination surprised me, but only because I did not realize he had such a large following. If his assassin thought Kirk’s death would diminish support of the man’s ideology, the killer was more than a little bit stupid, along with being mentally unhinged and morally deranged. I expect the assassination to be used as fuel for the fires of bigotry and hatred by those among Kirk’s supporters who are equally as unhinged and morally deranged as his assassin. My understanding is that Kirk’s wife and  two children were in attendance at the event at which he was killed. I can only imagine the depth of the trauma and pain they must be experiencing. I hope the assassin is caught soon and brought to justice.

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A word or action, as expected, sparks an obligatory reply: indignation. Indignation provides fuel for frustration, which leads to exasperation. Exasperation builds into the ire that becomes the foundation for anger. Anger expands into rage and then into hatred. The fact that hatred unleashes unbridled and irrational fury should come as no surprise. At the end of the day, that simple provocation—that spark—too often leads to  violence. The cycle is as predictable as sunrise. But, unlike the sunrise, we have the capacity to intervene in the cycle of violence. What’s missing is the will to intercede on behalf of tranquility and understanding. And the acknowledgement that responsibility for creating or perpetuating the cycle belongs not just to “them” but to “us.” Unfortunately, attempting to reason with a psychopath (which are numerous on every side of every issue) is an utter waste of time. So, often, our capacity to intervene is thwarted. Victory, then, goes to the one with the most patience and the longest fuse. In the meantime, we should try to minimize the number of casualties.

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Yesterday’s bronchoscopy was, happily, uneventful. It (and the sleep before and after the procedure) consumed the bulk of the day. The “moderate sedation” administered to me amazes me. I recall a nurse saying the doctor would begin the procedure in a moment, as she was spraying lidocaine into my throat. The next thing I recall was opening my eyes in the recovery room. The doctor had told me before that I would be awake during the procedure, but would not recall anything about it. He was absolutely right about that. I think the anesthesiology process is like magic!  But, the results: Nothing of significance. The concern about a fistula was, apparently, unfounded. I return to visit my oncologist tomorrow; perhaps I will learn something new then. Probably not, though.

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Today, I plan to send messages to all of the people who were so kind and thoughtful to record video messages to me (as I mentioned in my most recent post). I have learned that some people attempted to submit recordings, but were unable to get the technology to cooperate; I appreciate their efforts, as well. I may try to figure out a way to incorporate the video here on my blog; that’s probably beyond my technological capabilities, though.

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I thought I had more to say…and I did. But empty spaces where fragments of the alphabet might want to congregate are sometimes better left blank. Unfinished thoughts can reveal their familial relationship with balloons…stretched so tight they are on the verge of exploding into invisible clouds. I’ve ridden in a hot air balloon and I’ve jumped from an airplane, but I’ve never jumped from a balloon and have no plans to do so.

I’ll start by acknowledging that my writing frequently (and intentionally) merges reality with fiction. People have told me they do not know whether, when they begin to read them, my blog posts are factual, fictional, or a combination thereof. But, even after reading a post from start to finish, the question sometimes remains. So, I’ll begin this post by confirming that it is intended to be a factual summary of what’s been going through my mind.

The last few days, on reflection, seem to run together as a single period, rather than each day its own unique moment in time. My memory combines those days into a swirl of numbness, withdrawal, elation, gratitude, regret, and other emotions too numerous to count and too complex to explain. Sleep commanded much of the time, beginning about mid-day a few days ago. I slept essentially all afternoon, then all night and into late the next day. That cycle continued, I think, the following day. Somewhere along the line, I missed a dinner arranged to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday. Between long, dream-infested periods of sleep, I spent my time silently observing the stillness around me, using that time to resurrect pleasant memories and dredge up incurable regrets.

And I watched a collection of videos my friend, Jim, had put together. He had asked friends from our joint work and social lives, along with a few other people he knew I had been/are still close to to record brief videos with their thoughts about me. Watching that collection of videos was an incredible emotional experience. After I watched it, it occurred to me that he probably did not ask some people who might have wanted to include a video…and some people probably could not submit a video for one reason or another. My assumption about the reasons Jim invested his time in creating the video “memento” is that he wanted to give me a meaningful gift before my time comes…whenever that is. If my assumption is right, he accomplished his objective many times over.

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Off for a bronchoscopy this morning.

I hope somewhere in this empty universe, something capable of turning me inside-out will become apparent to me. Something that has clawed its way deeper and deeper into a protective cavern. But, unless I dig deeper—scratch harder—and scrape with every shred of my energy, I will fail to reach it. My strength, though, has evaporated. At least for now.

Since starting to write this morning’s blog, I have bounded from mood to mood. And idea to idea—most, fortunately, did not find their way to this post. I have bounced between emotions and passions. And stumbled between rage and love. Fortunately, most of the ricochets have done no visible damage. They have done little more than tear gaping holes in my compassion and fed the sources of warmth and despair. For every belief to which I have expressed commitment in my writing here and elsewhere, there is a reservoir of doubt waiting to be fully articulated. Every assertion of compassion pairs with animosity. When I demand kindness, I need not look far to find more than an adequate reserve of mercilessness.  Forgiveness is readily offset by blame.  No visible damage? Steel corrodes. Wood rots. Plastic degrades. Paint can cover the damage done, but surface finishes cannot protect the damage done to the substrate. Eventually, in the absence of protective care, even the Great Pyramids will decay and even the Eiffel Tower will collapse under the weight of its own deterioration.

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Friday began as a reasonably decent day. And, as it wore on, it stayed on track for a good while. A friend from church (a place I’ve largely avoided for quite some time, thanks to my oncologists’ team’s advice that I avoid unnecessary social contacts) came by for a welcome visit. After the brief visit, though, I drifted into fatigue-mode, so I took a nap. And, later, another. And then another. And the day wore on and continued into yesterday. And so on. A telephone call from my sister brightened my afternoon, with some discussion of the possibility of another visit from her in the not-too-distant future. But, then, back to the routine. Sleep.

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Perhaps my series of overly-long naps—each one lasting several hours, with shorter periods of slumber in between—finally have ended their cycles. But since I awoke just before 3 a.m.—only two hours ago—I have begun to feel very tired again. Sometime during the hours preceding my most recent awakening, I emerged from an experience that left me drenched in sweat and feeling intolerably cold. The sheet beneath me was wet and cold. The top sheet, too, was unbearably cold—uncomfortable in the extreme. My discomfort was made tolerable by putting on a t-shirt, aided by a dry towel between me and the bottom sheet. Still, after I slept a bit more, I had to get up and attempt to get warm. A long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of lounging pants has helped, but my feet and my hands feel frigid. The idea of resting my extremities in the flames of burning logs seems both horribly painful and wonderfully warming. The outside temperature is 55°F. The temperature of my hands and feet probably is closer to 15°F, on the way to -250°F. I am afraid the sun has burned out much earlier than I expected; certainly earlier than I had planned.

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Because I was up so much earlier than usual, I skipped my usual espresso and delayed taking my morning medications, opting only to feed a ravenous cat and consume water and Ensure. So, I took a break from blogging to fulfill my pharmaceutical necessities and partake of my mood-enhancing espresso.

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I have plumbed the depths of anger, only to discover its base is always beyond reach. Anger refused to be the tool I dreamed it could be. Rage, too, fell short of my expectations. There must be something else that smothers gasoline-drenched embers.

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The total number of speakers of most—but probably not all—languages is much larger than native speakers of the language. For example, the most-spoken language is English, with 1.5 billion speakers, but only 380 million of them are native speakers. The language with the greatest number of native speakers is Mandarin Chinese, with 941 million native speakers; its total number of speakers is 1.1 billion. At the other end of the spectrum are:

• Ongota (Ethiopia) – Estimated <10 speakers (likely extinct);
• Taushiro (Peru) – 1 speaker;
• Tanema (Solomon Islands) – 1 speaker;
• Lemerig (Vanuatu) – 2 speakers; and
• Njerep (Nigeria) – Possibly extinct

Access to people who share political philosophies and who are fluent across a wide range of languages may prove crucial to the success of governments. Equally as important, though, is access to people who combine the following:

• shared philosophies of governing;
• fluency in various languages; and
• expertise in a broad array of disciplines;

In other words, people who seek (or seek to retain) political power must assemble strong supporters who “speak the language”  necessary to exercise political control. Extensive linguistic skills—coupled with comprehensive knowledge of complex engineering, scientific, and  managerial disciplines—are required to seize and preserve power.

What must the opposition do to foil attempts to establish such control? The very same thing, I suspect…just more aggressively and through any means necessary.

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Yesterday’s visit to the pulmonologist was a precursor to a bronchoscopy, scheduled for next Wednesday. The appointment for the bronchoscopy procedure conflicts with my next chemotherapy treatment. So, today I will attempt to reschedule the chemotherapy. Ideally, I would be assigned a personal/medical scheduler, who could use my availability as shown on my calendar to make appointments on my behalf. The reason my oncologist referred me to the pulmonologist has to do with an (apparent) fistula somewhere in my torso. I did not ask the right questions about the fistula, so I do not know the type. I hope I can safely rule out a colovaginal fistula and an enterocutaneous fistula; there are several others I expect can be dismissed, as well. Next steps in dealing with the fistula will depend on the findings from the bronchoscopy.

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Aside from the conversation about the bronchoscopy, an awkward and slightly uncomfortable conversation took place between the physician and another person (not me) in the examination room. The interaction could have devolved into a knife fight but it was resolved amicably.

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I have grown immensely tired of writing about my ongoing battle with lung cancer. And it’s not just writing about it that is wearing me out; it’s the inevitability of the outcome. If I could completely erase my awareness of cancer until just hours before it declares victory, I would consider the engagement a success.

I remember very little of my early childhood, when I was known as Sherlock Shakespeare. But my few memories from that brief period of my childhood are crystal clear. Ours was the first family in our tiny English village to have both an automobile and a television. By the time I was recruited into the new English standing army in 1660, my uncle had acquired bayonets, hand grenades, and sacrificial children—the latter who carried into battle weapons of self-immolation. Flame-throwers capable of broadcasting sizzling streams of flammable aggression came soon thereafter. One of those devices was stored in the attic of the house we built after losing our original home to arson—that fire, we learned later, was set by the fire brigade. Oh, those were brutal times, they were. Had we not fought tooth and nail to protect our homesteads, we would have been made homeless…and then butchered. As it was, several of us were severely injured during face-to-face confrontations. Most of the men between the ages of 16 and 26 lost at least one limb in battle; some survived with only one leg or part of one arm remaining. My memories of childhood and young adulthood end with those gruesome recollections. Beyond those ugly early periods of my life, my recollections commence again with vague memories of cell phones and 900-foot tsunamis. The recent spate of publication of autobiographical fiction works (e.g., novels, poems, diaries, textbooks, and survival cookbooks) is, of course, top of mind, inasmuch as they have been produced only recently. The first such published work was completed and offered for lease only two months ago. At 6 million pages in length, the book was necessarily published in series format.

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Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York…

~ William Shakespeare/Richard, Duke of Gloucester ~

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I could go on for days like this, but my knees won’t permit it. Nor will my elbows. Nor my fingers. And, if the messages I’ve been receiving from my brain are legitimate (and they are), and the attitudes oozing out of my head are reliable (which I cannot verify), I will go on record as an honorable man with nothing worth hiding and nothing worth telling. Where is the value in emptiness? Why do blank pages leave so much to the imagination? Black fades to grey and grey fades to cream and cream fades to white. Predictions hide beneath their messages. Honesty and nudity have nothing to hide but regret and shame. But in a world in which truth is not a weapon, nor does embarrassment fracture peace, fear is just an artificial intruder.

Another busy day awaits—oncological blood-letting, Fall seasonal maintenance of the fireplace and propane heating system, and a long-delayed haircut. Tomorrow will bring still more attention to my healthcare and to periodic household upkeep and maintenance. To start this day off with suitable fanfare, and after I properly introduce myself to an otherwise unpredictable day, I’ll shower and shave and wander aimlessly into the abyss. Subsequent to my cleansing, and depending entirely on my state of mind afterward, I will stumble into a day unlike any I have experienced heretofore. I refuse to make predictions about this as-yet-unencountered day. Ahhh..it’s not so much a refusal as an inability…similar to one of the reasons I avoid knife-fights. Predictions often lead to blood stains on pristine white shirts.

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I do not cling to even a shred of hope that I will one day understand quantum theory. Quantum theory is at odds with “truth” and “understanding” and “observation” as I believe them to be. Those conflicts exist, no matter what definition I might apply to quantum theory and its applications in quantum mechanics. People who are comfortable with the discomfort of knowing that observing a behavior changes it live in a dimension far outside of the one(s) in which I live. In other words, an observation of relative distance (“far,” for example) is possible only in a dimension in which Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive at any given moment, yet simultaneously neither at the same time. Some people think the concepts around quantum theory and Schrödinger’s cat are simple in the extreme. Other people are certain those concepts represent the ultimate in complexity. Yet those same groups of people neither accept nor deny the legitimacy of those theories, opting instead to embrace both through repudiation and confirmation. Nothing is “known” at this moment in time; everything is “doubted,” “questioned,” and/or “probably unlikely” with an extreme level of certainty in denial.

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A nuclear fence surrounds the observable universe, making observation beyond that fence impossible. The term, nuclear fence, is arbitrary and nonsensical, but probably is the closest we can come to describing—using the English language—such a barrier. Regardless of what is it or what we call it, that barrier to understanding was conceived and a prototype designed and built by supernatural vagabonds who troll failed galaxies and feed on the remnants of stars…event horizons encircling black holes.  Carl Sagan was the only human who ever saw beyond our own nuclear fence. What he saw was incomprehensible in size and beauty; more than 990 trillion universes, each one at least 100 trillion times the size of our own universe. The least intelligent beings who live within some of those 990 trillion universes possess intelligence that far exceeds the brilliance of Carl Sagan. In fact, those dim-witted sentient mistakes labeled Carl a “knuckle-dragging product of interspecies  incestuous bad-behavior derived from intellectual cesspools.”

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On the other end of the spectrum is a pocket where purity, decency, and love reside. Carl spent most of his time on Earth there, surrounded by like-minded people. That distant point on the spectrum is visible today only as a dim, pulsating speck of light. Perhaps it will grow brighter one day. Or it will be extinguished under a cloud of deadly cosmic dust.

My frustration grows when my ideas feel sticky and incomplete. Frustration turns to panic when my lungs fill with a viscous fluid mix of jagged grains of sand and warm creosote. No matter what I do in my attempt to recover from the sensation of drowning, the terror continues to expand exponentially. The expressions on the faces of people in my vicinity harden into stone as my breathing becomes severely labored.  Wind whistles between towering skyscrapers and enormously tall redwood trees, struggling to keep the air moving. Desiccated corpses of vultures float by, atop the arid flood of bone-dry rivers kept moist by water volumes that never exceed a thimble per mule.

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We joined friends for dinner last night. As usual, my energy began to fade immediately after we ate and, as a consequence, we left rather early. Apparently, a few hours earlier, I got sidetracked while organizing my mass of medications, including pain meds. I opted to take a nap as soon as we returned home. And, as expected, my nap lasted through the night and until just before 4:00 a.m. The confusion with the medications caused no irreparable harm, but my body is still in the process of readjusting to the proper timing and dosages. I feel like sleeping again for a few more hours before going to get my scheduled massage, but the risk of missing my appointment would be too great. Bah.

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Silence echoes through empty corridors buried beneath thousands of feet of solid granite. Odors are so powerful they melt steel and boil diamonds. Ancient grandmothers, born ten generations in the past, teach their descendants to taste and identify hard-to-differentiate flavors of arcane colors.

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Neither the sun nor the moon looks on us with compassion. Their emotionless stares seem to bathe us in indifference. On occasion, though, their fierce glares far surpass apathy, offering evidence of unrestrained animosity—the kind of hatred ignited by betrayal. But if a judgment of betrayal is appropriate, we are the ones in whom that emotion should rightfully reside. After all, we glimpse skyward only to see a vast expanse of unfulfilled promises. We are the ones teased by celestial objects that appear so big and so near that we should be able to touch them—only to be ridiculed when we reach out and try to grasp them. One day, though, we will secure our vengeance. One morning, the sun will stumble out of the night sky into a world blinded by eternal darkness. Smothered in ashes and dust and blackened by cooling embers, the sun’s long-standing privilege and aristocratic elegance will have vanished. At the same time, the moon’s source of light will have grown cold and distant. How long, I wonder, will the vengeance last? Will we look back and wish we could have calmed our rage? Only time will tell…but, no…time, too, will be long gone. It will have turned to invisible vapor and moved on to other galaxies in other dimensions.  Time will not tell. Time, too, will have suffered the consequences of our revenge.

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My two most recent chemotherapy treatments instantly reminded me how I responded to most, if not all, of the previous treatments. After a brief period in which my energy level experienced a modest spike, a longer period of fatigue-exhaustion-tiredness ensued.  My nephew and his wife arrived on Saturday morning—two days after my chemo—for a brief visit. By late Saturday afternoon, my energy was sapped. I took a “nap” several hours before dinner time and slept until about 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.  Though I had recovered just enough stamina to go out to breakfast with them and with mi novia and mi cuñada, my energy did not last very long. Again yesterday, after I napped in the morning, I woke for a while, then repeated the previous day’s routine. Unfortunately, I allowed napping to interfere with taking scheduled pain medication, which derailed their intent. But, the pain was not intolerably bad; just annoying and disruptive. It’s what chemotherapy does; better from my perspective to tolerate it until it becomes intolerable than to reject it and, in the process, accelerate the decline.  Despite the intensity of my fatigue, I was very glad my nephew and his wife came to see us. They are good people, through and through.

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We have been invited by friends for a dinner of smoked brisket this evening. It has been far too long since I have eaten a good brisket fresh off the smoker.  I think there will be six people (including the two of us) at the gathering; a small enough number to encourage conversation and enough people to minimize the likelihood of intrusive silences. I wish I could contribute to the dinner effort, but I have become unreliable in providing kitchen support, much less in taking on the role of lead chef. Going “out” has become very rare for me for a variety of reasons. Fatigue, of course, contributes to my preference for spending time in my own house, but a compromised immune system is a stronger reason than mere preference. In spite of my preference, though, I realize on those fairly rare occasions when we leave the house for something other than medical appointments how energizing (at least mentally) they can be. I can say without the slightest bit of irony that my favorite activity is spending time with friends and family. That probably has been true all along, but for many reasons I recently have given the matter considerable thought.

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My calendar teases me by showing me several consecutive days with no obligations. But then, suddenly, commitments begin to form, filling in the blank day with reminders that any claims I make about being in control of my own schedule are delusions. I dare not reject a “friendly reminder” of an upcoming appointment with a pulmonologist known for his expertise in the surgical suite—it is unwise to upset someone whose scalpels are custom fitted for his grip, so I will see him on Thursday afternoon.  My appointment for tomorrow morning’s massage, though, is not one I would be apt to reject—I might prefer her to make a house call, but the inconvenience of driving to her office is not sufficient to merit making a big deal out of it. And the Wednesday appointment at the cancer center has become almost routine and not particularly intrusive. Still, I want a two-week vacation designed for maximum relaxation. Sitting high on an ocean-side cliff sounds ideal: watching the sunset, sipping a New Zealand sauvignon blanc and burning calendars over a wood-burning fire just might soften all of…or, at least, some of…the hard spots in my psyche.

The incredible majesty of the universe—where the simplest of the simple is far and away the most complex and where the most intricate is the the purest and simplest—may be the single most compelling argument that humankind is incapable of real understanding.

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.

~ Buddha ~

Hundreds of obstacles dot the path between where I stand this morning and where I would need to be to have written a memoir…a biography…an autobiography. My poor memory probably is the first and most challenging impediment. In the absence of a reliable memory, coupled with the fact that useful source documents of my experiences do not exist, there’s little to tell. The second hurdle is the paucity of interesting or educational experiences in my life that could form the basis of my personal life story. Even if I had an exceptional memory as a resource, there would be no point in writing a book that very few people would find intriguing; a book others might want to read. Another genre might conceivably overcome the barriers to producing what some people might call “the story of my life.” That genre: autobiographical novel. I’ve played with the idea of writing biographies and autobiographies for quite some time. But only recently have I begun to consider whether an autobiographical novel might be the the product my unconscious mind has been wanting to create. Yet I think I would be somewhat embarrassed to admit to writing an autobiographical novel. But that’s only if I were to write it from the traditional autobiographical perspective. If, instead, the book were written as if it emerged from the words of an anthropomorphic emotion, that could address the snags. I’ve mentioned the autobiography of fire in this blog in brief (or longer) several times, including recently. I’m sure I have altered the title from time to time, calling it the unauthorized autobiography of fire. And I’ve considered that a biography of love might give readers an opportunity to examine a highly emotional subject from a dry—almost cold and calculated—perspective. This is what procrastinators do; we repeatedly think about actions we want to take and we should take, but the actions are so complex and overwhelming that we simply explore them over and over and over again as if they were our life’s work…when, in fact, they are simply inadequate justifications for eternal delays.

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The CHI Cancer  Center, adjacent to the Genesis Cancer Center on the CHI campus, has a very large aquarium in the lobby. I do not know what kind of fish are in the tank, nor whether the water is fresh or salty. In fact, I know almost nothing about the aquarium, nor its residents. I wonder, though, who feeds the fish? How often? Who cleans the tank and when? Every time I see the aquarium, I think of the relaxing “spa” music I heard during my most recent massage. Something about the dim light inside the aquarium, the slow-moving fish moving effortlessly through the water, and memories of relaxing, calming music invade my mind when I enter that environment. Serenity transfixes me.

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If my level of interest was high enough, I might explore the reasons why so many pharmaceuticals are called by so many names. But I would say my level of interest ranges between moderate and moderately high, with occasional surges to slightly-above-normal. As far as I remember, my curiosity about drug names has never reached the point of obsession, but certain circumstances tend to cause my interest to spike. For example, I received two injections on Wednesday;  my doctor called one of them Aranesp (a brand name) but a conversation between two nurses referred to it as darbepoetin alpha. The other injection was denosumab, but other names (brand, I assume) are applied to it: Bomyntra, Osenvelt, Wyost, Xgeva. It’s not just in doctors’ offices that multiple names are used for the same products. Pharmacists, too, often choose to use a brand name instead of a generic name. When a nurse reviews with my the medications I am taking, the list read to me often includes a name I do not recall; generally, it is either a generic name for a product I have learned to call by a brand name or it is a brand name for a generic product. This confusion did not cause me much consternation until the number of prescribed medications I was taking grew to be so large. I can live with it. But sometimes I need something to blame for my sour mood; medico-linguistics can fill the bill.

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Twenty years have passed since Hurricane Katrina made landfall as a “weakened” Category 3 hurricane. Before slamming into the Gulf coast, the storm had reached Category 5, with sustained winds of at least 175 miles per hour. Though the storm’s ferocious winds did enormous damage, it was the failure of the levees surrounding the city to keep the storm surge at bay that did the most damage (estimated at $125 billion) and led to the greatest loss of life (1392 fatalities). I thought at the time that many of the complaints about the inadequacy of the federal response to the catastrophe were legitimate. I fear that today, if we were we faced with a similarly catastrophic storm, our response would be dramatically worse. The current administration’s dissatisfaction with the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) has led it, essentially, to dismantle the agency and rethink standard responses to such powerful events. In my view, that approach is akin to shutting the doors of the only hospital serving a region (for “underperformance”)…and only THEN beginning to create a ten-year plan to determine what should be done to replace it. Perhaps preppers are considerably more pessimistic than am I—or they are omniscient—or they are both.

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Graham Davis was in the habit of leaving handwritten notes in personnel files of his staff. In most instances, the notes did not get any attention; their contents were either informational and innocuous or complimentary. One handwritten note, though, triggered an inquiry into the ways in which he interacted with employees. The investigation, by the executive committee, eventually led to Davis’ dismissal from the firm. His dismissal, in turn, prompted him to begin retaliatory legal proceedings. The legal battle between Davis and his former employer was long and brutal. The original handwritten note that started the ugly process was entered into the court records, which found their way into the local newspaper and, finally, into the national professional press. That handwritten note was written in response to a prompt on an evaluation form:

"In as few words as possible, describe the employee's work style and a characteristic that contributes to that style."

Davis’ response :

"Slow and stupid."

Leonard Tremble, who was the subject of Davis’ note, was the managing partner’s nephew-in-law. Davis was the only partner who had objected to Tremble’s hiring as a paralegal. His objection was noted, but Davis made a point of saying his objection was not a strenuous one. He said he was certain he could overcome his objections. Only after both Davis and Tremble were found dead of asphyxiation—several weeks apart—did suspicions about the possible criminality of others in the firm begin to arise. The legal battle between Davis and the firm…specifically targeting the managing partner…was far from over when the two men died.

Circumstances sometimes conspire to diminish, or even erase, the importance of events. So it was with the unfinished legal battle. The managing partner’s ex-wife, Melinda Scott, was arrested and charged with smuggling several hundred pounds of fentanyl from Copenhagen, Denmark to Dallas, Texas. At roughly the same time, Tremble’s great-grandmother, Teresa Shunkenflutter, announced her unplanned and unexpected pregnancy…and that Graham Davis was the father. Finally, the judge in the case between Davis and the law firm/managing partner was captured on live television feeds as he emptied an AR-15 magazine into the Secretary of War and the Vice President of the U.S. Naturally, addressing the lurid situations involving Davis and Tremble and the law firm and its managing director lost urgency.

Years ago, on one of our periodic road trips, my late wife and I drove west from Chicago. I do not recall with certainty whether we had a particular destination in mind or whether it was, like so many of our other long escapes from the city, an aimless expression of wanderlust. Whatever the purpose of the trip, I recall stopping for a night or two to view sandhill cranes near and along the Platte River. I remember going to viewing sites near Kearney, Nebraska and Grand Island, Nebraska. Both towns were groomed for birding tourism, thanks to their positions along the migration routes of both sandhill cranes and whooping cranes. Roughly one million sandhill cranes stop in the area during their March migrations. I was mesmerized by the sight of huge flocks of cranes in the fields along the river, rising in unison from the marshes. If we took photographs, they have either long-since disappeared or they are buried in boxes that haven’t been opened since the mid-1980s. I have mixed feelings about taking photos. On one hand, photos can trigger and clarify memories that grow cloudy over time. On the other, taking time to take photos can detract from the actual experience. This morning, as I consider the pros and cons, I lean toward relying on professional photographers to take pictures so I can focus my attention on what I see through my own eyes. Yet I feel slight regrets for not having captured my own unique experience with a camera. On balance, though, my visual memory this morning is sufficient to make me glad I can rely on it. The sight of those hundreds of thousands of big, regal birds in the fields was stunning. Seeing them turn into clouds that almost filled the sky was just as incredible.

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Thinking about the Nebraska marshes, I considered the differences between what constitutes a marsh versus what constitutes a swamp. A cursory look into the internet revealed that the differences between marshes and swamps seem, primarily, to be in the vegetation. Plant life in marshes is dominated by woody plants and trees, whereas swamps comprise reeds and grasses…”herbaceous vegetation.” Both environments have ample amounts of standing water, but the water in swamps is generally deeper and lasts longer than the water in marshes. Aside from differences in their physical attributes, I think they seem to conjure radically different anthropomorphic judgments. Marshes are sophisticated and compassionate, whereas swamps are unrefined and cruel. Marshes pay more attention to their personal hygiene than do swamps, as manifested by the stench often encountered in the stagnant water of swamplands. When traveling through marshes, one is likely to hear the sounds of classical guitar, while one hears the perverted, echoing chords of menacing banjoes while wandering through swamps. Vegetarians live in marshes. Carnivores and cannibals make their homes in swamps.

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I assume Navelbine, the primary chemotherapy drug  being administered to me lately, is responsible for the sudden surge in my requirements for sleep. Immediately after returning home early yesterday afternoon from a chemo session, I took a nap. When I woke two or three hours later, I went into our entertainment room, where mi novia was playing a mix of classical music from a Sirius XM station. There, I reclined on the loveseat and listened to the music until I woke, just before 11 p.m., and went to bed. Something (I have no idea what) jolted me awake this morning around 7:30 a.m. Now, roughly an hour later, I feel like I could easily fall asleep again. Heavy rain just started to fall…a sign, I think, that it is time for more sleep. But I could be wrong.

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The act of teaching cursive writing was criminalized in 2027. Two years later, the sentences given to the first four teachers convicted of the crime were delivered. One was executed by public hanging, one was sentenced to life in prison, and the other two were given sentences of “time served.” The public outcry about the disparity in sentencing led to demonstrations, which had been outlawed in 2025. A single trial was held for the demonstrators all over the country. At the conclusion of the two-day trial, held in Michigan Stadium in Ann Arbor, the universal finding of “guilty” for all defendants was delivered. Immediately after the verdict was read, the judge in the matter ordered the sentence of death to be carried out immediately. Members of the Texas National Guard, who had been activated to keep order for the trial, were commanded to carry out the sentence. After roughly half of the 260 defendants had been shot, the judge ordered the executions to stop and made the following statement: “The remaining defendants are free to go. Let this experience teach the rest of the American public that the law is the law. It may be impossible to explain, but it is equally impossible to escape.”

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Born as a simple “crush,” the emotion evolved over time into firm appreciation. Later, it matured into malleable adoration and then, later still, into an affection whose steel structure was impermeable to water and fire. Finally, it transformed into something a thousand times harder than diamonds: love.  The process, which took more than one million years to complete, seemed like it happened in the blink of an eye. But so did its undoing. With its second blink, the eye closed, refusing to open again. Hence the saying, “love is blind.”

Yesterday was full of medical procedures and appointments. It began with a PET-scan and blood draws before noon, followed by a review session with the radiologist, and finished with a visit with my oncologist, who reviewed the PET-scan results with me. The PET-scan revealed a few improvements, including shrinking in the sizes and/or “brightness” of the SUVs (standard uptake values) of some of the cancer lesions. On the negative side, the lesions on my T-10 and T-3 vertebrae has worsened, but not so much that I should be concerned about it (according to the doctor). Radiation therapy continues to work for a period after treatments, so the scabs if the vertebrae may improve with a little more time. Overall, the oncologist said she was “pleased with the results,” though the ultimate outcome of the disease remains the same. She referred me back to a pulmonologist with whom mi novia and I have had something of a love-hate relationship, thanks to various of his mannerisms. I give him a pass because of his Middle Eastern cultural upbringing; mi novia is a little less forgiving than I, but she’s making progress.  Having delayed my pain medications in preparation for yesterday’s PET-scan, I am trying to recover a tolerable pain level as quickly as I can. Pain is just part of the process; one of several elements of the disease I find objectionable.

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I watched an interesting and informative YouTube video this morning, entitled What If We Detonated All Nuclear Bombs at Once? The seven-minute video’s assertions are based on a number of unproven (but, I think, reasonably likely) assumptions. The bottom line: the planet would recover from the horror after a few million years, but our species would become extinct, very quickly.  The unfortunate likelihood, I think, is that extinction probably would not be instant instantaneous. All sentient creatures left alive after the blast would die an excruciating death. On the positive side, though, the extinction would consolidate suffering in a relatively brief window of time. Though suffering would be intense, it would be short-lived. Depending on your point of view, if I had the capability to cause all nuclear weapons to be exploded simultaneously, I either should exercise that ability or I should be neutralized. Either way works for me. The other option would be to render impossible the creation of nuclear weapons…but the cat’s been let out of the bag already, so some enterprising scientist would become a magician, turning magic into reality.

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National and world news enterprises continue their collusion with illegitimate governments to make life a living hell for people worldwide. I wish the power to inform—that leaders of these institutions have at their disposal—would be used to render impotent the authoritarians, despots, dictators, and those like them. My moral principles in relation to this wish are not pure, but I believe intense consideration and contemplation would lead to the conclusion that those principles—and the actions taken to achieve them—represent the epitome of practical morality. I have mentioned my loathing of genocide many times but, to clarify, my definition of genocide excludes the deliberate and systematic extermination of groups on the basis of the danger those groups pose to others as a result of the groups’ heinous philosophies. I know, I know. My philosophy is impossible to justify without first adjusting one’s beliefs about the legitimacy of certain impermissible thoughts or actions. I have successfully adjusted my beliefs to accommodate my philosophy.

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If we were to fully embrace negativism about humankind’s ability to recover from its growing list of stupidity and indiscretions, the only reasonable option would be self-imposed mass extinction. And we would be unable to suggest morbid solutions built on a base of black humor and nearly-blind hope. So, we have a choice: either succumb to despair or refuse to give in…instead, clinging to tattered shreds of optimism fueled by vengeance. But there must be another way…yes?

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Fiction is merely a preview of upcoming facts—a look ahead to see the world in the absence of pressures and constraints on its path along the way to get there. Tomorrow is today—but dressed in bright colors and fine jewelry.

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Redemption. Atonement. Penance. Reparation. Hostility. Vengeance. Softness. Cuddling. Caregiving. The Original Silk. Kindness stored in leather bottles. Cunning friendship. Ethereally corpulent beauty.

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Ideas are beginning to clog my thought-pipes. And they refuse to allow my ideas safe passage through the channels that hold my blood. Thanks to that refusal, the rapids are slowing…becoming a dam. When the dam collapses, the ensuing tsunami will unleash a hydraulic torrent of impractical solutions for problems that do not exist. I worry sometimes that these brief superficial cracks in decorative features are becoming fundamental ruptures in  a crucial framework.

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Another weekend day, vying for attention. I often fail to notice because I do not acknowledge the superiority of weekends over weekdays. That attitude, alone, could get my name placed on the assassin’s list.

My chemo session on Wednesday apparently has had/is having some of the old stand-by side-effects I recall from earlier treatments; among them, fatigue, sleeping late, periodic stabbing pains, etc. But the analgesics seem to work reasonably well, most of the time. And I haven’t gotten tired, yet, of being so tired so frequently. I try to look on the bright side—too often, though, that is a lot like staring at the sun. I have no obligations on my calendar today, so I will try to experience relaxation of the highest order. I wish I hadn’t let my medical marijuana license lapse. I wish even more fervently that I would already have taken the simple steps to renew it.

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The relevance of knowing—when I wake each morning—into which day of the week I awaken no longer matters. In fact, it never did, but I allowed myself to be taken in by the concept of its relevance. The man I am today may have successfully emerged from the broth that insisted on differentiating between “work-days” and “week-ends;” yet offered no evidence to support that assertion. What convincing argument might be made to justify assigning greater recuperative value to Saturday than productive value to Thursday? Propaganda needs no justification.

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CORRECTION: We learned—within the last few days—that one of my nephews and his wife (my niece-in-law) will visit us soon. It will be a short trip, but one to which we greatly look forward. Within the last couple of years, we’ve been fortunate to have received visits by—and visited—several family members. Most recently, my niece  and my nephew-in-law came to visit and before that, my sister came to see us. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with a week or more I spent in the hospital—but their visit, still, was very enjoyable and greatly appreciated. Before that, we spent time with my oldest brother and his wife, my sister-in-law. I’ve had other occasions in the not-too-distant past to visit with other nephews, another brother, and an array of other “blood” relatives and others…all of whom matter deeply to me.

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The expanse of monotonously flat sand surrounding us was monstrous. I sat in a plush ophthalmic chair that was equipped with all sorts of equipment designed to measure visual acuity and optical health. In front of me, an ophthalmologist in a white coat directed me to focus my attention on an image that was visible through a sophisticated set of lenses…all connected in some way to one another. The doctor flipped a switch, which made the image appear clearer and more precise. After what seemed like a dozen—or more—iterations, the image I saw seemed  to have changed dramatically. It seemed like a highly magnified image of a dense patch of hair.

His explanation stunned me: “With each new view, you were looking deeper and deeper into the distance. But that final image completed the view. You were looking all the way around the planet to see the back of your head.”

“That’s obviously nonsense!” I answered. “What am I really seeing?”

He had hit me with enough force to knock me unconscious. At least I assumed that’s what happened.

“Twinkles, can you hear me? We’re going to try a slightly different treatment this time. You’ll need to keep your head perfectly still for about 30 seconds.”

After that treatment, I had absolutely no recollection of anything before being examined by the ophthalmologist in the desert. Even today, all these years later, I have no other memories. It’s as if my entire life’s experiences simply disappeared. They told me they did not have to get my permission to do any subsequent treatment; I was not competent to authorize treatments. And there was nobody else, other than the laboratory technicians. They could do anything they wanted to do, with no limits.

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What would the experience be like? Traveling to another country, making contact with members of fierce criminal gangs, and launching a new career as a brutal and dangerously violent money-hungry beast? I suspect it might be quite different for me now, as I approach the age of 72, compared to the experience as it might have been 30 years ago. The problem, of course, is that I cannot compare it to that 30-year-old experience because I did not have it. My only option is to imagine what it would have been like all those years ago, and then to compare it to the reality of today.

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I left my two grandchildren in a bus station in Nacogdoches in east Texas. From there, I drove to San Antonio for the night. and then to Shafter, a ghost town about two hours northwest of Big Bend National Park. I stayed in an abandoned building in Shafter for a couple of nights. Just as I was about to pack up and head north to Lloydminster, Alberta/Saskatchewan, I was approached by a highway patrolman who already knew my name and my history. He asked me why I had left my grandchildren in Nacogdoches. I told him they had been after me to cut them loose ever since we left Refugio and I’d finally had it up to my neck with their whining. Besides, I told him, I left each of them a crisp $100 bill and a cheap cell phone with my number in it; if they’d needed me, they could have called. But they never did. Apparently, though, they called the Nacogdoches police and told them I would probably go to Big Bend (because that’s what I told them). They had not said a word about Lloydminster because I hadn’t said a thing to them about going up there. I figured they would have told the police about my plans, if I shared my plans with them, so I just kept my mouth shut. Somehow, though, somebody had told the police I was going to head up to Lloydminster to recover some money I lost late last year in the casino. If the snitch told the police that I also planned to make the town a safer place by ridding it of  a miserable cheat, I never got wind of it. But somehow the RCMP, which contracted with the town for police services, knew what I intended to do. Fortunately for me, the RCMP was delighted to know someone else was going after the same guy they had planned to permanently remove from their list of criminals they would encourage to leave town and never return.

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Black holes sometimes are described as locations in space where stars, as they collapse near the ends of their lives, generate enormously powerful gravity. Nothing, not even light, can escape from the black hole’s event horizon (essentially, the surface of the black hole). Limiting one’s understanding of black holes to individual stars…or even groups of stars…fails to recognize the immensity of their gravitational pull. I am confident that black holes are not created by the collapse of individual stars. They represent the collapse of entire galaxies;  even giant segments of of the universe, each comprising hundreds or even thousands of galaxies. Black holes are the places where time and space shred into miniscule particles, each one no larger than one billionth the size of an atom. In other words, black holes are the places where the embers of existence are extinguished. They are the places where beginnings and endings and everything in between are erased, confirming that the time between them cannot be measured by a traditional clock, nor even an advanced calendar. Black holes are dangerous; they are the final resting places for every creature, living or not. Before those creatures die, though, they prepare their own obituaries and they write their own identical autobiographies, each one entitled The Autobiography of Time.

I woke late (after 6:30) this morning, for the second consecutive day. That kind of unintentional adjustment to my morning routine seems to compress my day—as if time is snatched away from me as an unrecoverable, permanent loss. There is no such thing as “making up for lost time.” Lost time is equivalent to a piece of eternal emptiness; a place that could have made enormous differences in one’s lifetime, but leaves an immeasurable void, instead. Lost time leaves the unimpeachable assertion that “you’ll never know what you missed.”

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A tiny segment of the sky, bright blue and cloudless, is visible to me but I can tell that the sun is hidden—presumably by clouds—in other parts of the sky. My understanding of certain aspects of the sky is based on experience, although I cannot claim to have experienced every possible point of view. I allow myself to make assumptions based on extremely limited “facts.” My assumptions are correct, more often than not. But if they weren’t…what, then? Would I run in circles, screaming in rage and distress? Would the circumstances facing me be equivalent to the ones with which I would have to deal in conditions of lost time? The sky’s effect on certain trees is now suggesting that the clouds hiding the sun have moved. Paying attention to one’s environment can be educational. Or it can lead to delusions.

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Yesterday’s chemotherapy treatment was short and uneventful. But I learned that I will be expected to visit my oncologist next Monday afternoon, after my PET-scan. The appointment will not be scheduled; I am expected to just “pop in” to see her after the morning scan (and lunch)…and possibly after a brief follow-up visit with the radiologist who managed my recent radiation treatment. I prefer to have specific appointment times; I suppose my preference suggests that order or regimentation appeals to me over chaos or turmoil. I wonder whether a cancer patient’s personality type has (or should have) a bearing on the treatments an oncologist recommends?

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I am awfully tired. I could sleep again. My thought processes have been hijacked by a brain that heretofore has been unknown to me. Oh, it’s my brain…just a part of it that prefers to remain hidden. It is observable. Only shy.

A report published in 1972 (Limits to Growth) suggested a highly likely scenario in which, by 2040, a precipitous and uncontrollable global decrease in population and industrial capacity will take place…unless significant alterations are made in resource utilization and environmental destruction. Several updates to the original report (including Beyond the Limits; The Limits to Growth: The 30-Year Update; and Limits and Beyond) subsequently were published. Gaya Herrington, a Dutch econometrician, researcher, and women’s rights activist published one of the most recent follow-up pieces; her analyses found that the original model’s projections are broadly consistent with current trends. In other words, things still look bleak for the near-term experiences of human society. I am under no delusion that I will be alive to watch the catastrophic collapse. But, then, I suspect that may be exactly what I am watching every day—the “sudden” implosion of social structures that took thousands and thousands of years to build. The speed of the unraveling of society—compared to the tempo of its development—is blindingly fast. There it is again, that morbid fascination with the brutally painless decay of what could have been tomorrow…a thousand years hence. Eyewitness to emptiness.

If the pain accompanying a physical malady had a unique sonic signature, deaf doctors might be at a distinct disadvantage in diagnosing the ailment. How odd it must be to listen to a doctor—with unimpaired hearing—say, “I can hear your pain.” Yet it would not be so unusual for a doctor to say “I hear a gallop rhythm,” when describing an abnormal heart-beat sound. The sound is said to resemble the noise made by the hooves of a galloping horse, a symptom of ventricular dysfunction or heart failure. So, it’s not necessarily the pain the doctor hears…it’s the sonic symptom. As I give these matters more thought…and give my mind the freedom to explore concepts that might usually be dismissed as nonsense…it occurs to me that highly sensitive listening devices might one day enable physicians to detect sonic symptoms of all kinds of aches and afflictions. Imagine, for example, a device that can detect and record sounds associated with stress cracks in the skeletal structure…BEFORE a hip joint breaks, thereby providing an opportunity for preemptive reinforcement surgery.  Or, consider detection of the impending likelihood of Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA), enabling doctors to initiate treatment to avoid TIA and subsequent full-scale stroke. Effing magic…that could either protect our species from extinction…or accelerate the process.

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I have yet to commence this morning’s sonic and olfactory immersion. I will interrupt my thought processes in favor of giving myself a limited sensory treatment.

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The patchouli cones have been used up, so today I am using sandal incense cones to accompany relaxing sounds. I am increasingly conscious of the amount of time I devote to morning routines. That consciousness has made me realize what a spendthrift I can be, ignoring the fact that time is not the inexhaustible resource I once seem to have believed it to be. Once spent, the temporal equivalents of money are gone. Unlike bills and coins, accumulations of time cannot be restored or recreated. Time does not accrue interest. And like incense, time leaves only ashes and—for a while—a lingering aroma. Sounds leave echoes…or memories that remind me of echoes…that cling to the past like sonic portraits painted by keepers of wisdom.

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Two people left comments on my post yesterday; one a person I’ve known for almost 30 years and one for more than 10 years. I am beyond grateful for their comments…and even more grateful for the people who left them. I often feel I am incapable of expressing how much my limited audience means to me. But on the other hand I think my unrestrained expressions of appreciation would seem overly maudlin, to the point of being almost unbelievable. Oh, well, so be it. As long as the people for whom I am so grateful understand that I am sincere, that’s all that matters.

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My fingers keep slipping from their “do not type” position into their “type j a thousand times” position. I slide from one to the other and back again. Evidence is clear; I have been awake for 3 hours and need a bit of a nap.

I am, again, enlisting the calming aroma of patchouli incense and the mesmerizing sound of “spa” music in my attempts to engage peacefully with the day. These are not the weapons of war, nor the instruments of surrender. They are simply tools that may be pleasantly useful in shaping my encounter with the moments I confront with the passage of time. Are they effective tools? Or are they just symbols of the ease with which I can mislead myself or be misled? At what point does open-mindedness become raw gullibility?

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Yesterday, again, after waking at 3:00 a.m., I wanted the world to leave me alone for a while…to stop taunting me. Hoping again to slip into a serene sense of calm, I opted to burn incense and listen to soothing sounds. However, in short order I came to realize that typing, thinking, and attempting to focus my attention on a specific objective are not gentle on my mind. I quickly learned that I wanted to achieve a state of tranquility without expending any effort; I wanted to wish myself into a placid state of mind, without having to work at it. So, I abandoned the blogging endeavor, deciding instead to take a wee-hours nap on a living room sofa. Roughly 90 minutes later, I woke. When I looked out the window, I thought I saw the dim remnants of sunlight…it must be early evening, still, but not too early to return to watch another episode of Line of Duty. So I went into the kitchen, grabbed a plastic container of peanut-butter-filled pretzels, and went into the entertainment room (assuming mi novia might already be there). She was not, so I went looking for her. I slipped quietly into the bedroom, where I saw that she was sleeping under the bed covers.  I spoke to her: “Are you all right? It’s rare for you to nap at this hour.” She replied that she was fine and inquired about the time. I said, “It’s 5:53,” and she responded that she was not napping…she was still asleep from the night before. My confusion vaporized in an instant; I apologized. I slipped under the covers and went back to sleep. When I woke a bit later, I got up and began the day again; fully conscious, this time, that the sun had risen only an hour or so earlier. But the earlier…quite confusing…experience of mistaking the middle of the night for late afternoon rattled me. I did not return to the blog yesterday. I spent the day, instead, wondering whether the strange episode might be a forewarning that something is amiss in the deepest recesses of my brain.

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Sitting in front of a blank computer monitor, waiting to be struck by a bolt of enlightenment, leaves me both empty and fulfilled. I am neither dead nor alive until that bolt of enlightenment bathes me and my state of waiting in a pool of engagement. Schrödinger’s cat paces impatiently, its eyes trained on the crowded vacancy. If the cat could calculate the volume of space found inside a lower case “o,” shrimp boats would never again be lost at sea.

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Just when I was about ready to finish this morning’s blog post, I lit a cone of incense, something I have not done in quite some time. Mi novia mentioned that noticeable pause in what used to be my common practice; the fact that the massage therapist had an aromatic diffuser in her waiting room probably prompted her memory. Something about the aroma of burning incense helps relax me. Yesterday, in the darkened massage room, the therapist had another diffuser operating. Also, very low-volume, soothing music played in the background, giving the setting a calming, relaxing environment. After lighting the cone of incense, I played the “Spa” playlist on my Amazon Echo. I should have lit the incense and started the music when I first sat at my desk this morning. Together, the sound and smell are delightful. I plan to reinstitute that practice.

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When the crush of reality approaches intolerability—even when reality is simply unacceptably distasteful—one’s options decrease in number. Depending on the situation, a person may be able to cause circumstances to change, thereby making reality more appealing or, at least, tolerable. But if the changes required are beyond the individual’s influence or control, that option decays into an unachievable wish. Something that enables one to avoid reality—or minimize exposure to it—may be the only viable option to make life more appealing than its alternative. That something may be as basic as simple distraction or as complex as unrestrained escapism. Those two possibilities actually may represent two distinct points along a spectrum of a single option; different degrees of variation from reality. Yet that single spectrum may constitute far more options.  On one end is a minor distraction; on the other is an utter abandonment of reality in favor of fantasy—between those two ends are almost innumerable variations. Thus far, I have recorded my thoughts about options for responding to unpleasant realities in the form of generalized hypothetical philosophies. I could share far more specific ideas, but some of them might be correctly interpreted by people with whom I’d rather not share my thoughts. They probably don’t read this blog, but just in case…

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Yesterday began with a light-touch body massage, followed later in the day by an hour-long infusion of IV fluids. Last night, we watched a couple of episodes of Line of Duty on Acorn TV. If I haven’t already, I must say I highly recommend the series. It is an intriguing…riveting…police procedural that distracts me from thinking about/dealing with realities I would rather not have to acknowledge. I scheduled another massage for early next month. I’ll have another infusion this afternoon. I expect I’ll continue watching Line of Duty this evening, while mi novia attends a “girls” gathering with friends. I may brine a pork loin this evening and roast it tomorrow in our as-yet unused new oven. If I had sufficient energy, I would clean the smoker so I could smoke the meat tomorrow, but that would take enormous amounts of energy (since I haven’t cleaned it since the last time I smoked something…at least a year or two ago).  Ach! I seem to be getting increasingly lazy as I age. I seem to be mellowing at the same time, which is a good thing, but the simultaneous lethargy is unwelcome.

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When my pain of unknown origin overwhelms the fentanyl and hydrocodone, I try to sleep my way through it. Unrestrained escapism, though, might be worth a try. Actually, I suspect many of my dreams are expressions of unrestrained escapism, though that did not occur to me until just now. Until a moment ago, my first thoughts about unrestrained escapism revolved around the practice I’ve read about in which people in groups take on the identities of imaginary space aliens, “acting out” their way to unbridled escape. That particular activity holds no appeal for me, but dreams in which I am alone in the desert in the wee hours of very early morning, watching the stars, may provide me with a similar escape. It’s odd, now that I think about it, that I have no recollections of pains in my gut and back before my diagnosis of cancer’s recurrence. Since then, though, pains have slowly taken hold, becoming increasingly common within the last six months (or maybe the last year?) or so. Lately, the drugs usually keep the pain in control, within tolerable limits. I have a fairly low threshold for pain so when I feel no pain I tend to be ecstatically happy about it. I wonder, though, whether this more recent pain is any worse than its identical twin would have been three years ago? The fact that it’s related to cancer may have the psychological effect of making it sometimes seem worse than it really is.

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At this very moment, I feel intensely sad that my life will likely be cut short by cancer. That emotion has not intruded on me much until just now. I am not sad about my own future, just the emotional trauma it will inflict on people to whom I matter and who matter to me. I wish we (humans) could accept death as a simple matter-of-fact and not experience our losses as painful. Far easier said than done. I hear myself thinking, though; perhaps I can think myself into accepting the world as it is.

Safety is a concept. A wish or dream or desire or promise or expectation or…who knows just what it is?  One thing it is not, though, is concrete…no mass and no weight, it takes up no space. It is neither warm nor cold. Perhaps it is an imaginary condition; a status based entirely on either an emotional or a physical context. Or both. Or neither. Maybe it is an idea planted in our brains to minimize our natural fear of everything around us. Something to diffuse the terror embedded in circumstances. Though we’ve heard the phrase “seek shelter, go to a safe place,” we know safety is not a place. Safety could be a veil that introduces a translucent film in front of our eyes—a film that mitigates our view of the horrors confronting us. It’s maddening; not knowing what safety is, but wanting it desperately…regardless.

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I read something surprising yesterday. I read that Greenland sharks have a lifespan of 250 to 500 years. One such shark evaluated not long ago, according to the article, had a confirmed age of 400 years. That shark would have been born around the years 1625, the year King Charles declared Virginia, the Bermuda Islands, and New England to be royal colonies directly dependent upon the crown. Early that same year, led by the Duke of Soubise, the Huguenots launched a second rebellion against King Louis XIII, with a surprise naval assault on a French fleet being prepared in Blavet. Later that year, a Dutch fleet attacked the Portuguese garrison at Elmina castle at modern-day Elmina, Ghana, but was defeated with heavy casualties. I doubt the 400 year-old shark remembers those events. But I could be wrong.

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During my visit to the oncologist’s office in the Village yesterday, I learned I am to return again this afternoon to the office in Hot Springs for more IV fluids. And I am to return tomorrow for another infusion. And I have more visits scheduled next week. And a PET-scan on the 25th, with a follow-up visit to review the results on the 27th. The results of the PET-scan, according to the nurse practitioner’s comments yesterday, may enable the oncologist to give me an indication of the speed with which my cancer is progressing. Maybe. We shall see. By the way, yesterday was my oncologist’s birthday. Had I known in advance, I would have delivered a card. At least I saw her briefly and was able to wish her a happy birthday.

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Today’s the day for my long-awaited massage. I’ll go over this morning for a 50-minute professional massage. I have mixed feelings about it. I expect it will be delightfully relaxing, but I’m concerned that the tenderness in my gut and my back may make the experience less than ideal. I just have to remind myself that I can tell the masseuse to stop any manipulation that causes too much discomfort.

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My mind has been trying, ever since I woke this morning, to recall one or more dreams I had while I slept. So far, the effort has been unsuccessful. I get quick flashes of memory, but they disappear even before they register in my brain. I do not know why I am so curious to recall the dream(s); they must have been either delightful or terrifying.

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Enough typing for one morning.