John Swinburn

When I lived in the Dallas/Fort Worth area (the “Metroplex”), I often wanted—or, perhaps needed—to escape the density and frenzy of urban life.  More than occasionally, I got relief by retreating into the rolling hills and plains of north central Texas. Driving two or three hours west and northwest, the rural and semi-rural environment helped me decompress. Experiencing rural and semi-rural environments felt softer and more welcoming than the constant pressure of dealing with city life. The routes I drove took me through pastureland and small towns, where I assumed people lived at a slower pace and could enjoy a more leisurely lifestyle than in the city; the pressure-cooker that defines urbanization. Getting away from freeway traffic and offensive billboards and reports of non-stop violent crime and road rage kept me from joining the ranks of the dangerously and incurably angry. I envied people who lived in sparsely-populated areas, where I thought—I fantasized—were largely immune to big-city problems. But, that was just wishful thinking.

Thanks to an Associated Press article I read this morning, I was reminded that my thinking was delusional. The article related the plight confronting the people in and around the town of Olney, Texas, where the hospital is no longer able to deliver babies. Financial woes, state politics, federal regulations, and economic dislocations have forced the Olney Hamilton Hospital to stop offering the level of maternity care required to allow it to continue its 100-year-history of providing a place for pregnant women to give birth. The hospital in another nearby town, Graham, stopped delivering babies in 2015, citing the fact that it was reimbursed only 39% of the expense per birth.

Tom Parker, head of the town’s economic development corporation, is quoted in the Associated Press article as saying, “If you don’t have a high school and a hospital where you can have babies, that town’s not going to get up off its knees…It might have been something once, but if you don’t have youth, if you don’t have new babies, you don’t have hope.”

Having never been interested in having children, I don’t think I have ever considered that the absence of maternity services in a community is likely to result in a community’s stagnation and, ultimately, disintegration. While this may not be a “big city” problem, it certainly qualifies as equal in scope to—perhaps even greater than—threats facing cities.  Still, the relative peace and quiet of a rural or semi-rural environment is extremely appealing to me. But the reality that big cities do not have a monopoly on stress and existential challenges has found its way into my idealism. Humanity, no matter where  or how sparsely settled, faces challenges all its own.

Next Monday—roughly 60 years, I think, after the inciting incident—I will visit a specialist who, I hope, will repair the damage done when my bare left foot slipped off a bike pedal and slammed perpendicularly onto an asphalt surface. The outcome of that unfortunate event, a perpetually ingrown nail on my hallux (AKA “big toe” or, in medical parlance, “great toe”) remains visible and painful all these years later. My memory of the original experience still causes me to wince, even after so much time has passed. When I jammed that toe onto the street, the nail broke cleanly across the base at the matrix, where the nail joins the toe. The nail lifted completely from the nail bed at the lunula, but stayed barely attached, all the way to the end of the nail. During the ensuing week or two, the nail detached completely, leaving the nail bed completely exposed. Eventually, the nail grew back, but the injury must have significantly and permanently transformed the growth pattern. I have coped the with intermittent pain of an ingrown nail for about 60 years, but the discomfort has worsened recently. Certain shoes that once simply exacerbated the pain now make the experience far worse. The prospect of a painful intervention to resolve the problem now seems more tolerable than the likelihood of allowing the situation to become even more excruciating. I realize, of course, I should have dealt with the matter many years ago; that would have saved me countless hours of intense discomfort. Apparently, I am capable of fear-driven idiocy.

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After yesterday’s appointment with my oncologist, we drove the few miles down the Scenic 7 Byway to Jessieville for lunch at The Shack, a dive of a diner across from the Jessieville school district building complex. My club sandwich was messy but extremely satisfying. Mi novia expressed a similar level of appreciation for her patty melt on buttered white toast. The Shack used to be mentioned frequently in conversation among people in Hot Springs Village with whom I spent time. For some reason, though, I rarely hear it mentioned much any more; perhaps it’s because I do not get out much nowadays. It may be that my aging cohort of acquaintances has grown far less likely to go out for hamburgers, among the most popular attractions of The Shack. Or it could be the prevalence of flies buzzing around inside the big picture windows where the booths are situated. I find the flies more than a little annoying but tolerable when encountered only on rare occasions.

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Speaking of my oncologist, she plans to schedule me for another PET-scan within the next few weeks. It may be just my imagination, but her demeanor suggests to me that she thinks the procedure might reveal an acceleration in cancer development. I hope it’s just my imagination. What, exactly, is hope? Here is a definition I encountered online: “the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.” The word is then presented in an example in that context: “to give up hope.”  When I mentioned my recent night-sweats to my oncologist (which she calls “nocturnal diaphoresis” in her visit summary), she decided she wanted to do a “blood culture” test to determine whether bacteria, fungi, or other microorganisms might be present in my blood. She explained that the blood used in the test must include blood drawn from a needle in the arm…not blood drawn from the infusion port. After five tries, the nurses were able to draw enough blood for the test; they apologized for the multiple “sticks,” though I know my veins have become difficult to tap, so I did not blame them. I mentioned my ingrown toenail during today’s session; she documented it as “onychocryptosis.” Back to the cancer clinic in one week for follow-up.

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The female cardinal outside my window, with her orange beak and her black mask, cannot hide her suspicions about what lies on this side of the windows. She would, if she could, hold me at gunpoint while she and her flock of aggressive companions ransack the cupboard, looking for seeds and nuts. But cardinals have not yet devolved the way we have, to the point of relying on weapons to persuade their intended victims to willingly feather their nests.  Crows, on the other hand, clutch concealed knives under their wings, prepared to defend their right to harass interlopers who dare to challenge them for airspace. Roadrunners, with terrified snakes dangling from their beaks, dash in and out of mountainside desert topography littered with unexploded land mines and live grenades. Storks, carrying human babies wrapped in cloth diapers, attempt to escape the turmoil by nonchalantly gliding above low clouds. Hummingbirds, their tiny wings buzzing like angry wasps high on cocaine, plunge their long beaks into trumpet vine flowers, while English bulldogs observe from a distance as they smoke fat Cuban cigars in celebration of the cremation of a particularly ugly, dangerous, and disgusting American politician. The pungent, unmistakable smell of the last of the old-style camera flashbulbs popping as photographs are taken signals the end of an era. “Touché,” the artists shout, as their palettes dry in the suffocating heat. The birds respond with noises cannibals make, just as the curtain closes and the audience raises their gin gimlets in salute.

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Absurdities often paint pictures otherwise hidden among melancholy shadows dressed in green eyeliners and black lipstick.

Sometimes, seeing or hearing or otherwise observing someone else’s mental anguish—even if that someone is a stranger or a person with whom one’s connection is faint or weak—sparks a powerful response. Their pain becomes personal, as if their suffering has invaded one’s own experience. Neither sympathy nor empathy nor compassion is quite the right word to fully describe that sensation. Rather, the experience is more like being consumed by the invisible flames of a distant emotional firestorm.

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My curiosity concerning the source of the images of carved peach pits about which I wrote yesterday has been satisfied; the grandfather of my sister’s childhood friend was the carver. That explanation prompts more questions about when and why and how he carved the little peach pit baskets. Answers to those questions now seem within my grasp. The next time I speak with my sister, I’ll try to remember to ask for more details. Thanks, Libba.

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I imagine gazing up at a brilliantly clear blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. My eyes fixed on that uninterrupted emptiness, extremely dim grey cracks begin to appear; cracks like those that appear on mud flats that have dried after days under an unforgiving, bright sun. The grey cracks grow darker as I continue staring upward, finally becoming jet black. A piece of the blue sky, surrounded by black cracks, breaks away and falls to the ground below. Behind the piece of sky that fell is pure black, exactly like the cracks. The blue chunk, which floats to the ground, contrasts sharply with the dull tan earth. Another piece of blue sky drops from above; like the first one, the piece that drops leaves a black wound. More and more irregularly-shaped blue scraps plunge to the ground, leaving behind them the same empty blackness that was behind the other pieces. Before long, the ground is covered in brilliant sky-blue; solid, with no cracks between the fallen pieces. The sky is black; no stars, no moon, no sun. Just vacant black space. As I glance at the ground, I see reflections of alligators swimming through the black emptiness above me. But they may not be reptiles, after all. They may be memories, covered in an irregular pattern of small, square scales.

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Flattery is, too often, a cesspool filled with lies. But when it’s true, it should be given freely.

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I’ve taken to thinking in random, nonsensical bursts of revelation. For that reason, I would like to have a tailor come to visit me with samples. A grey tweed jacket, casual in style, perfectly fitted casual slacks, and complementary shirt (plus a nice pair of shoes, from the cobbler’s own specialty shop) would be nice. Bespoke is beautiful.

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Another visit to the oncologist in less than an hour. Will it ever end?

Buried deep among my scattering of inaccessible childhood memories are images of peach pits, carved in the shape of miniature baskets. I am not sure how I know they are peach pits—perhaps that knowledge is buried even deeper than the images themselves. Regardless of why or how I am certain of what was carved to create the little baskets, there is no doubt in my mind about their origins. I imagine peach pits would be quite difficult to carve because they are very hard and their small size probably would challenge even the most accomplished carver. Beyond my recollections of seeing the little carved baskets, I vaguely remember holding them in my hands, fascinated that something so common and mundane—and so small—could have been transformed into what seemed like such tiny toys. A cursory search on the internet this morning suggested carving fruit pits originated as Chinese folk art, a now declining form of artistic expression. My fragmented memories sparked my curiosity about who carved the ones I recall from my childhood. I doubt I will ever be able to satisfy that curiosity. But I may explore what else I can learn about them, anyway.

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Eidetic memory—the ability (typically found only in young children) to at least briefly recall an image from memory with great precision—differs from photographic memory. Photographic memory is said to be the ability to recall pages of text or numbers, or similar, in great detail. While eidetic memory apparently is recognized as a “real thing,” literature suggests there is no reliable evidence that photographic memory really exists. I do not know whether to accept the skepticism about photographic memory. I have come across a number of claims that some people on the autism spectrum have what amounts to photographic memory. I do not understand why photographic memory is subject to strong skepticism if, indeed, so many people ostensibly possess it. On the other hand, the “reality” of photographic memory would be sufficiently exciting that the idea might prompt false claims about it. I know this: I have neither eidetic nor photographic memory.

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Leaves. Outside, everywhere I look, leaves whirl through the air. Fall has fallen.

The concepts of bending time and space seem far-fetched but fascinating; intriguing, but beyond the ability of my mind to comprehend. The origin and the end of time are beyond my grasp, too, but my feeble intellect continues pushing me to attempt to understand the mysteries embedded in the ideas. Despite the extreme unlikelihood that I will ever get plausible, comprehensible answers  to my questions about time and space, I remain deeply curious about such matters. Yet my curiosity apparently is insufficient to drive me to delve deeply into learning physics, where—if they exist—there may be answers. I gave up on mathematics and physics before I finished high school; maybe even earlier. Unlike other school subjects, which were easy for me to grasp, those two presented challenges I was either unable or unwilling to meet. In recent years, my interest in them has grown considerably. But not enough to spur me to invest the time, energy, and commitment to revisit them with the intensity of a student truly hungry for knowledge. I justified my failure to make the necessary investments by saying to myself, “it’s too late, now…if only I had developed my interests much earlier…” That justification has kept me from exploring the subjects for years and years. “If only” is an over-used excuse, just an explanation used in place of acknowledging laziness.

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In connection with my fascination with time, deep in the clutches of a recent unforgiving night, I had an epiphany about time’s origin. Unfortunately, the night’s absence of mercy prevented me from capturing that revelation in memory. I wonder whether that epiphany, if examined in the light of day, would retain its relevance? Or would it dissolve into a flimsy interpretation of a theory based on magical thinking? I am inclined to believe it would wither under the glaring light of intense examination; like so many of my “epiphanies” usually do.

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The roof of the house is white with frost. Yesterday, the red berries on the plants outside my window were green, I think. Bright sunlight is intensifying the kaleidoscope of colors in the changing leaves. Acorns and leaf litter usher in the first real evidence of the coming winter. Every day, the scene in the forest surrounding the house changes enough to be noticeable. Before long, filtered light will replace the dense darkness of the forest floor. A friend posted a photograph on Facebook, showing a pile of acorns on a two-square-foot space on his lawn. He says this is a “mast year” for acorns. According to an AI-created explanation, “A mast year is an irregular, synchronized event where a population of trees produces an unusually large crop of nuts and seeds, known as ‘mast.‘”  Mast is the the fruit of forest trees and shrubs; a mast year helps ensure adequate food for wildlife and enough seeds to replenish forest vegetation. If there is a correlation between a mast year and the intensity of winter weather, I suspect this winter may be an especially brutal one.

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Last night, I had been engaged in a long, stressful dream when I woke in a pool of cold sweat (again). The dream was bizarre in many ways; some elements I remember:

• I checked in to a motel and left, then later realized I did not know the name or location of the place.
• I walked for miles, looking for the location of a place I thought I knew, finally realizing I was looking for a place in Dallas, but was attempting to follow a route I remembered from Corpus Christi.
• I tried to text for an uber, but the bulky cell phone I was using did not have the right plug-in.
• Two men who asked me for a ride to their hotel did not have an address for it, but we drove around north Dallas looking for it for a long time before they mentioned the hotel was in downtown Dallas, 20-odd miles south.
• While looking for a restroom, I went inside a crowded Mexican restaurant, where a homeless woman stopped me and asked me to lend her $1.
• The road I thought would take me onto a freeway ramp took me, instead, to a railroad track on a sweeping overpass built on wooden stilts.

This latest episode of night-sweats will be the subject of an inquiry I will make to my oncologist…to learn whether there may be something of concern I need to address.

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If the universe consists of an enormous globe, within which billions of galaxies exist, what is beyond its outer limits? If the universe is limitless, there is no beginning and no end to it; an idea that is impossible for me to grasp. But, then, so is the concept of “something” external to the monstrous globe of a limited universe. Prior to the “big bang,” how big (or small) was the “thing” that exploded? What was it that blew up? Did anything exist outside that “thing?” If “nothing” surrounded that “big bang,” how far out did/does “nothing” extend? I recently read that scientists (somewhere or other) have evidence that light-speed can be (and in fact has been) exceeded, suggesting that “warp speed” may really be a thing and that time travel could, theoretically, be feasible without breaking the laws of physics (which is punishable by hefty fines and eternal incarceration in a galaxy far, far away).

“Consent of the governed” is the concept that the legitimacy to impose state political power over the members of a society is subject to the consent of the people. In theory, the idea is sound and seems reasonable. In practice, though, it gets a bit messy. At what point can “consent” be claimed? Consensus? Approval by a simple majority? An overwhelming (defined as ???) majority? Universal acceptance by all members of the society? The extent of power granted to government, too, is open to question. Even if all the members of a society were willing to accept/give consent to a government demand that everyone stop breathing for five consecutive minutes, the “willing consent” of the people probably would be judged to be coercive or otherwise unnatural and, therefore, not given of free will. In the event that a majority of the people give their consent, must people in the minority simply acquiesce to the wishes of the majority? How must dissent be treated? An enormous number of questions emerge when considering the practical consequences of relying on the concept of “consent of the governed” to justify a government’s moral authority to act on behalf of the governed.

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The temporary ruling to pause implementation of the SNAP program, issued late yesterday by Justice Ketanji Brown Jackson, surprised me. It wasn’t the ruling that surprised me so much as it was who issued it. My immediate reaction was that the liberal minority of Supreme Court justices (of which Justice Jackson is a member) had shrunk even more with her decision to “support” the administration’s emergency request. But I cannot say I fully understand the processes used by the Supreme Court in deciding such cases. Though I am relatively sure Justice Jackson does not condone the suspension of SNAP benefits, I suspect she made her ruling with an expectation that an appeals court will give a more thorough (and possibly a more favorable) and lasting ruling. Laws become as complex and as contradictory as we allow them to be. I am in favor of requiring the “consent of the governed,” though at times I might be willing to consent to progressive, caring, authoritarian rule. Increasingly, my consent to be governed is given grudgingly. Frequently, it is not actually given, either, but lent. Too often, my consent is assumed when, in fact, it is released without my approval and without even a shred of cooperation on my part. That is, over my objections to its release. Unwilling consent may be the proper term.

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Once again, my night was interrupted, off and on, by brief periods of sleep. Between those periods, I experienced an episode in which I woke in frigid, perspiration-drenched sheets, made bearable by covering the bottom sheet with a beach towel. I gritted my teeth and coped with a cold, damp top sheet. I do not know the cause of this second experience of its kind in a relatively short period of time. My most recent chemo treatment was a week ago; I doubt chemo is to blame; at least fully. Whatever the cause, I want it to stop. Immediately.

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The original entrance to Hot Springs Village is about fifteen miles west of the newer entry on the east end. The road between the two is lined on both sides by forests, intermittently interrupted by signs of civilization like golf courses, lakes, tiny eruptions of rare commercial enterprise, and roads and streets leading to residential areas. Mostly, though, the traveler from west to east is exposed to a thick mix of deciduous hardwoods and pine trees. This time of year, the leaves on the deciduous trees are in the midst of change, displaying a stunning mix of colors: red, yellow, orange, brown, green, and more. The most eye-catching trees are the ones whose collections of leaves now are entirely bright, phosphorescent yellow. But the contrasts between tall trees with bright yellow leaves and those with incredibly intense red leaves are breathtaking, as well. The first time I drove those fifteen miles, I fell in love with the scenery. I marveled at how the trees on both sides of the road created a sense, for me, of being in the middle of a massive forest; the trees masked “civilization” behind the woods. Getting away from the Village, though, puts me in an even better frame of mind; the world’s problems vanish, replaced by serenity in every leaf.

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Perhaps I would have slept much more soundly last night if I had driven onto an isolated, seldom-traveled forest road, parked, and reclined in my car seat that could have become a safe, unreachable cocoon. Instead, though, I tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to slow my mind enough to fall asleep. It was not a single thought that kept me from sleep; hundreds of unrelated matters crowded my consciousness spun through my brain. Each one, when it departed, left me with little scraps of thought-wreckage; fibers of vague worry or discontent that simply would not leave without depositing some of their remains as reminders. My attempts at sleep were sabotaged by frayed and worn memories of experiences I cannot recall.

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Leaf blowers…loud, powerful, disturbing…have taken hold of my consciousness. Their noise is too invasive to ignore. I loathe the commotion they create in an already-chaotic mind. But we decide between the temporary cacophony they bring and the tangled mass of layers upon layers of leaves and acorns that linger so long in their absence. Life is full of such choices; between swallowing razor blades and dousing oneself with gasoline before striking a match. We hire and pay for this disturbance, opting to risk deafness and insanity rather than willingly accepting forest burial.

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My decisions are not made in a vacuum. They take place in a space full of pressurized air and focused experience. And randomness, sprinkled with certainty, ambiguity, and precision.

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In an environment once thick with wind or water and rock, sand is evidence of the confluence of time and energy. Evidence is not proof, though; only a defensible suggestion.  A suggestion of what what constituted “here and now” when “here” was “here” but “now” was “then.” The defensible suggestions are endless, but the assumption used to select one upon which to use as evidence is Occam’s Razor, or the Law of Parsimony—i.e., the simplest explanation is the most likely.

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Depending on one’s innate (or learned) biases (which inform one’s assumptions), Occam’s Razor can be used to argue for or against the existence of God. But that is not the purpose for which Occam’s Razor is intended; it is meant to serve as a philosophical tool for choosing the explanation with the fewest assumptions. In that context, truth often is determined to be just one of many possibilities—the one that can be explained with the fewest possibilities. The strict application of Occam’s Razor would, in my view, give us a radically different understanding of the world from the ones upon which we rely.

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Political posturing in this era of of civic madness offers evidence that Kool-Aid is thicker than blood, which adds an element of uncertainty and confusion to the aphorism that “blood is thicker than water.” The ingredients in Kool-Aid then must include thickening agents, which change the composition of water, causing me to disseminate this advice: before accepting a blood transfusion, get assurances that it is free of Kool-Aid or other thickening agents.

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Sometimes, when the lyrics of songs I like pop into my head unexpectedly, I ponder what might have caused them to show up when they did. Occasionally, the reasons are immediately clear, like this example from a post I wrote three-plus years ago illustrates:

My late wife and I used to laugh hysterically when we talked about her misunderstanding of a lyric from a John Prine song, That’s the Way the World Goes Round. Here’s the correct stanza:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

But she heard:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an enchilada and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

That’s how we should react to worry; just laugh it off. Easier said than done, of course. Worry does not subscribe to Occam’s Razor.

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I wonder what people think of my superficially absurd writing? Plenty of it is deeply superficial, indeed. But some of it is intended to spur much more serious thought. Generally speaking, the evidence suggests either I fail spectacularly or readers are reticent to approach me with questions about my sanity.  Occam’s Razor suggests…

My blog posts were, are, will be, aren’t, or never were. They cannot be should, because judgments are shaped differently than simple facts. Simple facts opt not to expose themselves to being shoe-horned into a mold that looks more like “sparkle” than “vodka.” Mysteries are like that, too. If they are “withhold with the final paycheck,” the word used to describe that compensation for employment just might be a bold prediction of the future. Hard to fully understand, but oddly prophetic in an analytical, math-like way.

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I watched a Netflix documentary last night about hospice care, specifically the care and conversations between a few patients, their families, and their doctors and nurses. Unavoidable grief was on display, along with worry and confusion and uncertainty. On one hand, seeing the way palliative care help the patients and their families deal with terminal cancer was heartening. On the other hand, though, and despite the utility of end-of-life discussions and decisions, it was almost impossible to watch the program without becoming acutely aware of how the topics can trigger torrents of tears from everyone involved.

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Not yet 6:00 a.m. and I have handled several of my tasks for the day. But I have plenty more obligations and implications to address today, so devoting even a minute to frivolous tasks would be irresponsible.  I am capable of being lazy, so I have to watch myself closely and take any and all actions necessary to exercise control every time I turn my head. That notwithstanding, I tend to use chemo days into a crutch for my indolence, so this will be especially demanding. Therefore I should be gentler on myself than I deserve.

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Zohran Mamdani’s win in the New York Mayoral race yesterday was a widely expected surprise. Some voters and pundits called the race tight, but gave Andrew Cuomo odds of winning a tight race. Others forecast that Mamdani’s background and progressive philosophies were too liberal for the majority of New Yorkers. His win may indicate a surge of left-leaning philosophies are gaining  support in the Democratic  Party. It also could mean the “average” voter has decided to discipline the Republican Party, after Trump’s embarrassing style of management during his horrifying first ten months in his second disturbingly successful attempt to turn the  U.S. presidency into a carnival midway act. Voters’ selection of Abigail Spanberger, Mikie Sherrill, and Zohran Mamdani to move forward it their respective races illustrated the effects of higher-than usual voter turnout and public sentiment about the diminishing ability of moderate or conservative policies to address problem facing urban political landscapes.

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The efforts between politicians to make progress in this country have become weak and sickly, almost as if the planned progress has been diverted into storm sewers where damaged culverts release bubbling explosive methane gas into housing where kids play with self-igniting kitchen matches. For that reason alone, a large proportion of the housing is at three to five times capacity. Fire Chief Anderson Gladewater, in his most recent report to the resident assembly, announced that high density housing in which insulation for physical structures consists of bone-dry pine saplings and saltpeter has successfully ignited dozens of small fires and an occasional inferno within the last year. “We’re making progress, folks, but we need to gentrify at a much faster rate. I recommend we displace up to 1000 families annually, turning their homes into soulless metal closets selling burner phones and packs of illegal cigarettes.” “That,” Chief Gladewater continued, “is the only way the badly contaminated older population can ripen in peace. It’s them or the kids, people. And it’s a lot easier to replace children than to replicate adults.”

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More than a month ago, I wrote a very short vignette, in which I used names I concocted for characters who belonged in other places and times. The names: Perfidia Adebayo, Insidia Aaberg, and Ephemera Foreva. The first two names slipped into my head while I explored a place in which I was judged to be an inappropriate presence—I was far too old and had not received an invitation suited to someone  so lacking in age and experience. In addition to that, my thoughts were foreign to the two names that found me profoundly objectionable. Oh, yes, those names read my thoughts as evidence that I was at that moment an unwelcome intruder. I was not a danger to them, but their observations about me said they believed otherwise. They suggested, quite forcefully, that I should leave immediately. The third name intervened on my behalf. That name belonged to Ephemera Foreva, who invited me to stay; to sit and make myself comfortable. And that I did. But I wisely decided to hide my presence from the two unfriendly identities. From that point forward, I called them the causticacians when I wanted to refer to them. I decided the need to refer to them was uncommon; rare in the extreme. One day, I may explain how and why I came to that conclusion. In the interim, I ask only that readers trust my judgment. Failing that, readers should expect intellectual blindness or ocular deafness.

Ephemera has asked me to cease, for now, my inadequate attempts to describe the experiences I have been attempting to describe. I will respect her request. This temporary cessation is only a pause; not a permanent stoppage.  Refusal to follow her guidance could cause the bones in my hands to break into thousands into tiny pieces of skeletal structure, damaged irreparably into memories as transparent as shattered glass. Shattered glass and crushed bones would be of no use to me, so I will refrain from behaviors that could lead me in that direction.

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It is no longer close to 6:00 a.m. and no longer dark outside the windows. More than 1.5 hours have passed. The day is aging even faster than I am getting old. While the morning remained dark, I doubled up on espresso and foods that exist only to quell starvation. Not quite suddenly, but certainly not at the speed of a tortoise, I screamed silently at the disappearance of darkness. I imagined emptiness…no breathing, no air circulation in my lungs, nothing visual to stimulate my consciousness because my consciousness was gone. There was no darkness; neither was there light. No awareness. No aching muscles. No difficulty calculating multiplications between two or more 20-digit numbers. No memories, no hopes, no desires. No empathy, sympathy, or hostility. An utterly unaware experience…without an activity in which I am unable to compare joy or terror or eternal boredom, because they do not exist, either. They once did, of course, but by the time I begin to understand that “not being” is impossible to understand (in the same way that the distance to the sun cannot be compared to the aroma of fresh-cut ginger), existence will be real only in the form of former and future lives. Life and death are identical to one another in the same manner as light and dark are different, but only when Schrödinger’s cat is neither alive nor dead, but both. In some cases, one’s imagination is more concrete than water is visible.

It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that I may have created a new written language while consciously dreaming. I was disappointed that the English language was so damn complex; so hard to learn. But it wasn’t hard to pronounce; just hard to write. Now, for example, you and I pronounce “horse” as hawrs, as we did back then. Before, though, we spelled the word that we pronounce as hawrs this way: fourfootedanimalwithamaneandhooves. The spelling of every damn word was like that! Imagine sitting down with a quill and ink and writing a letter to your grandfather’s uncle’s first grade teacher…what a nightmare! One morning, while enjoying a bowl of haggis and alligator ceviche for breakfast, a man knocked on our farmhouse door. I opened the door and he handed me a hand-written note. The first sentence of his missive was eleven pages long. I was illiterate, of course; I could not read his mass of incomprehensible letters. But then he said “hawrs.” Suddenly, it came to me! We should stop using the confusing blather; we should write words sort of like they sound. I wrote “horse” and showed it to him. He wept openly when he realized what had just happened. Within hours, he had earned his Ph.D. in Spelling. What a joyous occasion!

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When too much power—and a lust for even more—is concentrated in just a few nations and people, humanity begins to unravel. Both humankind (the species) and kindness (the characteristic) succumb to the overwhelming desire for dominance, which transforms cravings for strength and privilege into an incurable disease. The afflicted leaders, though, claim concentrated power will convert suffering into an indescribable, impossible utopian dream. And they insist that efforts to dilute such power justify any and all steps taken to silence their opponents. Those steps, they say, will reward people who conform to authoritarian leaders’ expectations and demands. Explosive insurgencies may be the only tactics that have a chance of ending what amounts to the dissolution of freedoms and all the horror that accompany such madness. If nothing else, sedition may be the final, heroic expression of humans’ collective desire to substitute freedom for slavery.

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The future, which present circumstances suggest will become only slightly more dystopian than the past, will remember only what newscasts and official government propaganda allow. Already, we have “learned” that the Holocaust, Slavery, the Moon Landing, and the Great Depression were video games triggered by the gradual cooling of our planet…made into films shown in Omnimax Theaters owned by Betty Friedan and Pablo Picasso’s youngest teenage daughter, Formalda Hyde, who just celebrated her fourth birthday. Down the road a ways, just around a bend on a switchback littered with marbles and ball-bearings, truth will be bottled and canned in patriotically-themed packaging. We now celebrate “strategery” as one of a thousand reasons we prefer George Bush and Genghis Khan to Kash Patel.  But what will tomorrow bring?

When dictatorship is a fact, revolution becomes a right.

~ Victor Hugo ~

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable.

~ John F. Kennedy ~

A revolution is a struggle to the death between the future and the past.

~ Fidel Castro ~

You can kill a revolutionary but you can never kill the revolution.

~ Fred Hampton ~

Both the “cost of living” and “the cost of staying alive” tend to increase over time. While the rising “cost  of living” initially places negative pressure on meeting “needs” (which often are used interchangeably by people who are financially secure with “desires” or “luxuries”), growth in the “cost of staying alive” is far more consequential from the outset.  Too often, though, policy-makers, economists, and the beneficiaries of simple good fortune dismiss such matters as either overblown abstractions or the deserved results of indolence. Some of the same people who judge recipients of public assistance as unworthy of support try to hide that callous insensitivity by, begrudgingly, engaging in philanthropy. Because they know their attitudes toward the poor would paint them as uncaring, unkind, and unable to feel compassion, they hide behind artificial evidence that portrays them as benevolent and empathetic. Other people who share such hard-hearted coldness seem to revel in publicly refusing to engage or support charity—as if they relish their reputations as aloof, self-centered, and judgmental. The number of people who believe poverty, or even temporary financial hardship, is well-deserved punishment for inadequate drive or innate laziness sometimes appears overwhelming; so large that overcoming their influence on society at large may be closer to a fantasy than a hope.

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Saturday disappeared in a day-long and night-long fog of sleep and near-sleep. The one-two punch of gemcitabine (Gemzar) and navelbine (Vinorelvine) apparently lived up to its reputation for side effects like weakness, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, chills, etc. This morning, though, I feel moderately alive; sleep, though, may be offering an appealing invitation. Yesterday’s food intake was quite modest: an Ensure and espresso and water. Today, so far, I have replicated yesterday’s meal, with the addition of a banana. My SIL arrived a short while ago, bearing what she called a spicy dish (a soup?) of pumpkin and sweet potato; I will give that a shot in a while. If Friday’s chemo side-effects are like the other ones, I should be approximately human by tomorrow or Tuesday or Wednesday. Already, I am better than yesterday; considerably better.

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Humans define intelligence in other creatures in ways that compare and/or contrast with human intelligence. I understand why, I think, but I continue to believe we may be utterly off-base. I have said it many times before and I will, no doubt, say it again. We cannot process the concept of a kind of intelligence that differs radically from our own. We cannot successfully interpret the communications that take place between a lion and an antelope during the fury of a battle between a predator and prey. The remarkable ability to translate between French and Japanese speech does not carry over to enable us to understand the communications between an octopus and its hatchlings. We can hazard guesses as to the “meaning” of a cat’s meows in the presence of humans, but those guesses are based on our human interpretations of the animal’s sounds, not on the basis of actually understanding the noises or physical movements the cat makes. Birds communicate, we think, but the substance of their communications is unknown. For all we know, a crow’s caws might signal the bird’s desire for a bacon and tomato sandwich—the fact that the crow seems satisfied with a peanut we offer, instead, does not necessarily prove that we “understand” that the crow is hungry…it may signify only that the bird thinks we will realize that its acceptance of the nut is an expression of politeness in the context of human-crow interactions. Ants communicate (we think) with pheromones. It’s entirely possible, though, that pheromones comprise only a small portion of communication; tiny, very low decibel voices might combine with the odor of ant juices to convey completely different meanings, depending on the context. “Sting that bastard!” That could be what the ant is saying (expressed in human English), versus what we think it is saying: “Turn left to reach the sugar, Honey.” Or, possibly, “Turn left to reach the honey, Sugar.”

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Today is my late sister’s birthday. Time robbed us of conversations that could have taken place. But time no longer exists for her. Is she the one who was robbed of those conversations, or am I the one? Or, in the absence of time, is the idea that either (or both) of us were robbed of conversation utterly absurd?

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When I was a teenager, I went fishing with friends in Corpus Christi Bay, where our primary intent was to catch speckled trout. Looking back, I wonder whether I ever counted the number of “speckles” on a speckled trout? Do they all have the same number of speckles? Whether they do or not, is there some significance in the number?  I have had similar questions about other, unrelated, things. Like, what is the range of the number of leaves on a twig from a red oak tree? If so, why? If not, why?  Why do we say a bark is one of the sounds a dog makes AND bark is found on the exterior surface of tree trunks? Are the two barks related in some way? And why do we call the exterior protective layers on humans and animals “skin,” but we call that protective layer on trees and shrubs “bark?”

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Some questions belong in nurseries…some are better-suited to asylums.  Answers float like helium-filled balloons until goose quill feather pens with sharp brass nibs pierce them, causing infants and the insane to erupt into high-pitched laughter that lasts for days. But the questions remains: who smuggled helium into the psych ward and who took feathers into the natal intensive care unit?

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My hands and feet are almost frozen, a sure sign they belong under the covers, where the rest of my body will feel more comfortable, as well.

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He felt very young and very old, as if he had been born yesterday to the originator of the English language as it was spoken in the 16th century. His birth was pre-Guillotine, but post-Halifax Gibbet. His death occurred the moment his airplane crashed, head-first, into the Salar de Uyuni, in Bolivia, the largest salt flat on Earth. It was impossible to accurately estimate his age, due to the fact that the date of his birth had been cleverly scraped off his femur, probably with a gas-powered chainsaw, by Hercules Fernandez, who died more than a century before the crash. Clever, yes, but eerie in its own way.

Mystery. Unknown. Secret. Hidden.

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The SS Edmund Fitzgerald, which sank in Lake Superior during a monstrous storm on November 10, 1975, was among the largest of an unknown number of ships lost to the Great Lakes. The Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum estimates 6,000 ships and 30,000 lives lost have been lost since the 17th century, while Mark Thompson, author of Graveyard of the Lakes, estimates the number exceeds 25,000. The causes of many of the shipwreck disasters are unknown, though severe weather is blamed for many of them. Weather almost certainly contributed to the loss of the Edmund Fitzgerald and its crew of 29. The fiftieth anniversary of the Edmund Fitzgerald’s disappearance will be marked—but not celebrated—ten days from now. John U. Bacon, author of The Gales of November, has said the Edmund Fitzgerald’s global fame is eclipsed only by wrecks of the Titanic and the Lusitania. The deadliest shipwreck on the Great Lakes claimed almost 400 people aboard the Lady Elgin in Lake Michigan in 1860. Gordon Lightfoot’s 1976 ballad, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, is credited with widespread knowledge of the catastrophe.

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Yesterday’s cancer treatment again (finally) included two chemo drugs, after an extended period in which only one of the two was administered. My oncologist had been hesitant to administer both at the same time because the two together, according to the doctor, had caused me to experience more intense side effects than she thought were appropriate. I suppose I will know fairly soon whether yesterday’s combination causes the same results.  Last night, I was surprised to feel quite fatigued early on. Then, during the night, much of my body felt achy and uncomfortable. I can tolerate those effects, but the doctor apparently is not convinced I SHOULD. I do not want her to weaken my treatment just to reduce the likelihood that I might experience some moderately unpleasant side-effects. But I probably should rely more on her expertise than on my gut feel.

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For some reason, I always remember that Maggie’s birthday is today, November 1. Maggie was my first real date—the first of a very small number—when I was in junior high school. My father drove Maggie and me to a theater in downtown Corpus Christi, where we watched Fantastic Voyage. Somehow, I mustered the courage to invite her on that date, but I did not have the nerve to ask her out again. The fact that, shortly thereafter, she transferred to a Catholic school may have contributed to the fact that we did not have additional dates. But I did have occasion to run into her on occasion after our one date. It was on one of those occasions that I learned she preferred to be called Maggie; until then, I had called her Margaret, the name which was introduced to me. Many years later, I came across her again, when I learned that she had become a lawyer, was married (and divorced, I think), had a daughter, was an Assistant U.S. Attorney General, and identified as politically conservative. Perhaps I remember her birthday because my late sister’s birthday is tomorrow, November 2.

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A small bird (something like a sparrow I think) discovered that some of the seeds in the bird feeder outside my window are still edible. Shortly thereafter, a cedar waxwing of roughly the same size as the sparrow(?) bullied its way in to take over the buffet. When the waxwing slipped away to swallow its seeds, the other bird sneaked back in to get more food, but left when the bully returned. The waxwing seemed to have no compunction about pushing its competitor off the feeder’s perch, even though there was room for both of them. After watching this back-and-forth for a while, I put out a call for a mediator. A few moments later, an albatross and a bald eagle offered their assistance. I judged both of them unsuitable, figuring their considerably larger size would intimidate the two smaller birds. The larger birds, offended by my decision, left in a frenzy of feathers. Almost immediately, though, an African lion and a gazelle took their places. Despite their sizes, I decided to give them a chance to work out the conflict between the birds. I left for just a few minutes, returning to find the gazelle lapping up blood from the mangled corpse of the lion. How could I have known the gazelle was a rare carnivorous antelope? Apparently, the fatal dust-up between the mammals frightened the birds away; I haven’t seen them since. Hmm. I might find enjoyment in writing children’s books, based on hallucinogenic interpretations of disruptions of the natural order.

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Feed the young barely enough that they will grow into weak, feeble adults. Adults who are better-equipped to understand the use of starvation as a political tool. A tool employed as an instrument of power and control only slightly less jarring than whips and chains. What better way to introduce people to unrestrained cruelty than to expose the population to the barbarism of deliberate famine—using children as pawns in an eternal battle in which conquest at all costs is the sole ambition? Compassion has no place in this crusade. Animosity is the only acceptable emotion in this clash and greed is the principal motive. No one can watch this struggle as an impartial observer; neutrality is tantamount to complicity with the aggressor.

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She sewed sequins to her skirt to start the celebration.
He finally finished the festival on Friday, when fertilizer fueled the fire’s flames.

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When sunlight finds its way through dense masses of branches high in the trees and illuminates a small cluster of pine needles, the color of the spot highlighted by the sun’s rays seems to be lime green. But broadening one’s focus to encompass a wider view, those chartreuse leaves appear gold. Like everything else in the universe, color is contextual…when viewed through my eyes, at any rate.

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In 1971, Leonard Cohen released an album (Songs of Love and Hate) that included a tune entitled Diamonds in the Mine. Among the lyrics for that song were these:

Ah, there is no comfort in the covens of the witch
Some very clever doctor went and sterilized the bitch

Later, near the end of the decade, Cohen sang a live version of the song with some additional lyrics:

I told you all about it in the days of Vietnam
when your poets marched for Uncle Ho
And your sons for Uncle Sam
But which side you’re gonna take now,
which song you’re gonna sing?
With the mega stench of corpses that is blowin’ in the wind

Now, so many years later, I am finding references that suggest Cohen was both anti-war and anti-abortion. That discovery does not damage my appreciation of his music nor his poetry. But it causes me to consider that logic and emotions can comfortably conflict with one another in the same brain. I wonder whether I would have stepped in to save his life if I knew for certain Hitler would have discovered and shared with the world a cure for cancer…if he had lived just one more year?

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Every so often, I absent-mindedly let my morning Ensure get warm before I drink it.  When that happens, I am startled when I finally take a sip and discover it feels like warm chocolate milk and has a slightly metallic-chemical taste.

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Once again, fragments of time have disappeared, leaving me to wonder who and where I was while it happened. Three hours have simply vanished since I woke, leaving a stretch of vacant emptiness on the morose face of the digital clock. The crows outside have noticed, too, alerting me to the fact that bright blue dye was sprayed all over the grey sky during the absence of my awareness of time. Snow drifts, some of them several hundred feet deep, could have covered Central Arkansas while I watched time erase all evidence of the bloodshed involving African wildlife and domestic songbirds. But snow was not in the forecast, so people are crawling out of their storm shelters and into their canoes, anxious to check their trotlines to see whether the Mona Lisa and her elves left any Halloween eggs or gefilte fish meatballs. Over the years, I have assigned categories to many of my posts here, but no longer. If I were to do that, still, I might classify this one as Absurdist Fantasy. That might reduce the likelihood that I could be committed to a psychological ward for observation. Depending on your perspective, that could be an appealing outcome.

The seasons of deception are descending on us. Halloween is almost here, a moment when we encourage people to hide their identities by assuming the physical appearance of other…people, animals, monsters, things, places, ideas, etc. Then we have Thanksgiving, when real and artificial turkeys are on display. At this time of year, pumpkins are mercilessly attacked with knives and razors, carving them into jack-o’-lanterns and placing burning candles behind their psychopathic smiles. As early as May, Christmas decorations begin to be displayed, with a focus on Santa Claus, Joseph, a manger attended by wise men and donkeys, Seven Dwarfs, Sinbad, Santa’s Elves, Christmas trees, Snow White, Cinderella, and the Little Engine That Could. Merchants, who have been led to believe we will spend more money on gifts if we detect the aromas of cinnamon, bourbon, and a wood-burning fireplace, lure us into toy stores and gun shops with scented candles, open containers of Maker’s Mark 46, and Jack Frost roasting over an open fire. Between Halloween and Thanksgiving (US version), Dia de Los Muertos is solemnly celebrated in some places, with face masks that look like skulls a favorite physical disguise. Dozens…maybe hundreds…of other holidays are available for us to openly express our superstitions without being judged as superstitious.

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Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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Time sometimes disappears, hours at a time, when I give my mind freedom to explore without insisting that it express what it finds and record it. The same thing happens when I focus my attention on what my eyes see, versus what my camera might capture. In both cases, I get lost in a world outside myself…or maybe it’s just the opposite. Suddenly, though, my interest—which had been so precisely and intensely focused—all but dissolves, leaving only a hint of whatever it was that I found so appealing. Perhaps I simply retreat deeper into myself, consuming time as sustenance. Whatever the root of it, either  circumstances absorb time or time is somehow extracted from experience in some fashion. This is not something new, by the way. I may remember thinking, as a fairly young kid, that time could be “tamed” in some way—made docile and obedient through training to enter a hypnotic, almost comatose, state. But that could have been a memory created to explain the inexplicable.

Tiny pebbles disguised as simple ideas create ripples of thought. Thrown into a lake with a surface as smooth as glass, they create ripples of thought—surges of misshapen thinking—that become either tsunamis of creativity or corpses of concepts starved for attention.

Acorns litter the ground, evidence that seasonal change is afoot. Wind, rain, and cooling temperatures contribute to the transformation, as do hardwood trees, beginning to shed their leaves. Soon, more of the green canopy will have disappeared, allowing more filtered daylight to reach the forest floor—sunlight will be kept at bay for a while longer by a protective shield of clouds. The coming weeks and months will strip most of the remaining leaves from the trees, allowing every crack and crevice on the ground to be touched by the sun. The leafy darkness of the woods in the other seasons will give way to Winter, when the shady understory is bathed in direct sunlight.  Daylight differs from sunlight in that daylight tends to be somewhat reserved—sometimes even introverted—whereas sunlight exemplifies an almost garish extroversion. Yet sunlight in Winter differs from sunlight in Summer, as if they are identical twin children of unrelated parents. And daylight, regardless of the time of year, seems to have emerged from the consummation of a union between the seasonal equivalents of a concert pianist and a jazz trumpeter.

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I continue to notice that my once-plump hands seem more than a little skeletal, as if they have been preparing for Halloween. As I stare intently at one of the many visible blue veins in my right hand, I notice that movement causes it to stretch just enough that I can see the tendon beneath it. And that tendon appears to hide other tendons, along with bones and muscles and, probably, connective tissues.  All this supposition… for what purpose?  Nothing compelling…strictly unchanneled curiosity.

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This rain on this cool, overcast, dark afternoon is not especially heavy, but it is relentless. Today’s weather could have been imported from the countryside outside a village in England’s Lake District, where people are unafraid of getting wet. At the end of a day’s work, villagers trudge along narrow, hedgerow-lined roads—barely wide enough for two cars to pass on another—as they make their way to country pubs that serve locally-brewed ales and stouts and bitters, ideal accompaniments for steak and kidney pie or bangers and mash or curries introduced by Indian immigrants. I remember experiences that time, in all likelihood, has rendered stale and outdated, though. The pubs I recall from numerous trips to England in years past may have disappeared, replaced by American-style fast-food restaurants that serve bottled beer. The noisy chatter among neighbors sitting at the bar probably has now been drowned out by deafening music and the unregulated volume of people speaking loudly into their smart phones.

I think I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had I had known fifty years ago, what I know today, I might have extracted myself from the irrepressible influences of modern-day America, opting instead for a culture better-suited to people who deeply appreciate certain attributes of the past; people who are relics, like me. Advancing age and retreating health, though, unfortunately have joined forces to make such an option unwise today, if not impossible. I realize, of course, that the passage of time tends to brighten recollections of happy times and soften or dim the recall of difficulties and struggles. That notwithstanding, I believe certain aspects of life in different times and different places appeal to me in ways that “here” and “now” cannot successfully imitate. The best alternative might have been to re-create, to the extent possible, attractive historical settings and to appropriate cultural practices to match them. Cultural appropriation is viewed negatively by many people—who consider it offensive thievery. While I will not argue that such theft can occur, I would argue that given proper implementation and attribution, it is not theft but, rather, an expression of appreciation that demonstrates esteem and high regard.

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This afternoon’s post may be an attempt to atone for the flippancy that drenched significant portions of the one I wrote this morning. My excuse, as flimsy as it is, for the impertinent frivolity of this morning’s message is that I was quite tired, after spending eleven hours in bed and rising very early at around 4:15. Though I remain tired, I think I have erased most of the whimsy that contributed to my detour into only-slightly-controlled madness. It wasn’t just whimsy and frivolity, though. It also was an attempt to combat an unexpected and surprisingly fierce episode of feeling depressed. That sensation is no longer as powerful as it was, though I can almost feel pieces of the remnants ricochet off my brain every so often.

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Today was my first doctor’s appointment of the week, an annual follow-up with a urologist. I have another chemo session scheduled for mid-day Friday, which probably will steal much of my energy within a day or two afterward. Maybe that’s what triggered the feeling that I had stepped into a bottomless canyon—another several days of wanting to sleep around the clock. That’s one of the more challenging aspects of ongoing chemo; once it starts, it’s like stepping into another dimension in which time simultaneously accelerates to the speed of light and decelerates to a thousand times the speed of darkness.

Was it just me, or did all of us forget to take a moment earlier this year—on May 18—to observe the 45th anniversary of the cataclysmic eruption of Mount St. Helens? By today’s standards, the records of which seem to be broken with every new day, the most destructive volcanic event in U.S. history might not be particularly newsworthy: “Only” fifty-seven people were killed as a result of the explosive reconfiguration of the volcano, which is part of the Cascade Volcanic Arc, a segment of the Pacific Ring of Fire.  We have grown accustomed to all sorts of natural disasters, including monstrous hurricanes like Melissa, which is at this moment about to cause widespread devastation in and around the Caribbean. As I write this, a few deaths and injuries attributed to Melissa already have been reported, several hours before landfall. Only after the storm has passed and its impacts assessed will we know how many deaths and injuries it left in its wake. A reliable estimate of property damage may not be had for months. Whatever the storm’s toll, how will it compare to the unthinkably powerful volcano that left the Pacific Northwest reeling? I suspect Melissa will eclipse many, if not all, of Mount St. Helen’s tolls: 200 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles of railways, and 185 miles of highway were destroyed. The destructive power of one powerful volcano and one ferocious hurricane, though, seem almost inconsequential when examined in the context of hundreds or thousands of other catastrophes: the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki; the terrorist attacks of September 11, 20001; the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD; the Texas City disaster of 1947; innumerable earthquakes and tsunamis; the sinking of the Titanic in 1912…and on and on and on and on. Airplane crashes, massive forest fires, floods, wars, large-scale suicides among members of cults, and…the list is never-ending and ever-worsening. Nature subjects us to such torment, but nothing compares to the agony we bring upon ourselves.

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Let your home be your mast and not your anchor.

~ Kahlil Gibran ~

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If the internet is to be believed, Jonathan—the Seychelles giant tortoise—is said to be the oldest known land animal in the world, at 193 years of age. Claims have been made (but not confirmed) that Alagba the African Spur-Thighed Tortoise lived an incredible 344 years. There have been other turtles and tortoises whose claimed life-spans have approached or exceeded 200 years. Greenland sharks are said to live up to or beyond 500 years. A 2012 study published in the journal Chemical Geology estimated that a glass sponge belonging to the species Monorhaphis chuni was about 11,000 years old. Turritopsis dohrnii (a jellyfish) and hydra (a group of small invertebrates with soft bodies that resemble jellyfish) are said to be, potentially, immortal. At what point does a very long life—or immortality—become an intolerable burden? These long-lived examples are exceptions, of course; most creatures die long before they reach 100 years of age. Look at me, for example; battling to add a day or a week or a month or a year at a time to my record-breaking 72 years (so far).

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Wisdom is a product of experience…or observation…untainted by opinion. In either case, time provides the milieu that allows wisdom to take root and grow. In a sense, time is a cousin of growth media used to cultivate bacteria in the lab. Wisdom, then, is the bacterial equivalent of understanding…which is fed by knowledge.

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Rules, regulations, and governance in general are necessary only because humans are innately incapable of behaving decently without enforceable instructions. We require the imposition of constraints to prevent us from allowing unchecked savagery to drive our behavior. Those of us who recognize the inappropriateness of our natural inclination to employ nuclear weapons, when slingshots would serve the purpose, understand the urgency of the need for self-control. The rest may be controlled by placing them in physical restraints or disciplining them with something just short of a guillotine.  No, not seriously.

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Yesterday afternoon, I spent time listening to two of my favorite pieces of music by Foo Fighters, namely Times Like These and Making a Fire. This morning, I listened to Tom Waits’ gravelly voice deliver Bottom of the World. A few days earlier, my musical interests focused on contemporary piano tunes, very light and soothing. At this moment, I am in the mood for deep silence, punctuated by the gentle soft sounds of bells, far off in the distance, beyond the hills where pleasant people reside in impregnable fortresses crafted of stone and feathers. Instead, I hear rain and thunder and watch lightning flow from the sky; a river of jagged, neon-blue lava. Earth music. Sky music. The unmistakable sound of Zeus, coughing as he reaches for a lozenge to sooth his throat and his soul. Neptune rests on a Roman beach, feeding daffodils to a flock of winged zebras, while waiting for the storm to recover its strength. Neptune does not recognize the supremacy of Zeus, but he allows the Greek god to fly with his striped horses on occasion. If only we all were so accommodating, we could breathe under water and write entire novels in Greek cursive.

Word on the street is that a squadron of B-52 bombers took off from Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana overnight, destined for the Vatican. The Pope, roused from a sound sleep, was informed of both the incursion into the Vatican’s air space and the U.S. President’s declaration of trade war with the Vatican. The Pope immediately ordered the Swiss Guard to join forces with the Italian Army to repel the attack. Just hours ago, the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA), which had covertly relocated its headquarters to Greenland after Patricia Hearst’s arrest , volunteered to join in the Vatican’s defense. In making that announcement, the SLA’s now-secretive leadership noted that the SLA “represents a political ideal of different races, genders, and ideologies living together in harmony for mutual benefit, forming a “united front” against oppression.” At the same time, the SLA disavowed its history of violence and asserted its commitment to diversity, equality, and inclusion, which ignited a massive forest fire in Needles, California.

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The “work week” has begun, grey skies casting a pall over an already dark morning. I have no obligations outside the house today, so I will remain indoors for as long as it feels right. Some days—this one, for example—are not suited to bright sunlight, warmth, and frenetic energy. Rather, they call for overcast skies, a chill in the air, and adjustable languor. And, of course, aromatic incense that pairs well with melancholy; Dragon’s Blood, for example. But when the cone of incense extinguishes its own embers, the day demands ritual sacrifice that takes the form of flinging politicians into the gaping craters of volcanoes belching thick and dense molten lava.

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Now, on to other matters that demand our attention. Here’s the list of necessities. An almost endless supply of rough-cut limestone blocks, shaped like bricks but two or three times their size. An equally immeasurable store of solid teak wood in a full range of dimensions. No veneers—just pure, solid teak. Plenty of eighteen-inch cork tiles, each one half an inch thick. Assorted twines, string, rope, plumbing materials and supplies, copper wiring, electrical fixtures, and fasteners. And the other tools and equipment and materials necessary to combine all them all properly, resulting in a delightfully comfortable home. Simple, but understated, elegance. I would need to import the skills, knowledge, and physical labor necessary to build this isolated retreat, too. And, of course, “utilities:” water lines, electrical service, high-speed internet, and sufficient passage of time that all the damaging characteristics of social media will have been all but forgotten. The closest neighbors—pre-screened for suitability and acceptance—would live several miles away. Should the materials, supplies, location, and assistance I want be unavailable, I probably could make do with a reasonably well-maintained mobile home at the edge of a mobile home park.

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The crows outside are creating a disturbance—loud enough to merit a call to ICE, Immediate Crow Exchange. The special today is not yet posted, but I think crows may be returned for mockingbirds, pelicans, California condors, Carolina wrens, and Barcelona bobolinks. There’s been talk, too, of switching out select crows and replacing them with polished steel chefs’ knives adorned with hand-hewn ebony handles. The moment I started writing about returns and exchanges, the crows became quiet, as if they had been reading my computer monitor or watching the keyboard as my fingers relentlessly stabbed it. Another possibility is that Google has entered into a murderous agreement to sell information to a flock of obsidian descendants of dinosaurs. Even Mother Nature may be doing business with the devil.

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Every so often, a few sentences remind me there’s an inscrutable someone behind my frowns and smiles and grimaces. Those words, cobbled into semi-coherent thoughts, leave me a little rattled and hungry to project a permanent poker face.

“A highway is curling up like smoke above my shoulder.”

Though I’ve slightly modified his lyrics to make them mine, they belong to people looking for the safety of distance and lonely isolation.  I am restless and ready to explore where a rarely-traveled road will take me. A map of my own making will take me to the outskirts of an eerily quiet town—Empty, Arizona—where I can avoid probing questions and prying eyes. No one there will attempt to get to know me. The few who escape to Empty have their own secrets to protect and their own diminishing privacy to preserve—so they will not dare infringe on mine. That could put theirs at risk. All of us—the few who seek refuge at the outer edge of nowhere— are after the security of solitude. We are strangers. Misfits. Wanderers looking for places where nobody will notice our absence when we slip away under cover of pre-dawn darkness. But if I find the right place—if Empty is the right place—I won’t leave. Because everyone else will have left already. I will miss the camaraderie I’ve never found, but there will be plenty of loneliness, always, to fill up the vacant spaces.

Reading the news can be akin to chopping at one’s own serenity. Every paragraph corresponds to a powerful blow with a newly-sharpened, rust-laden machete. Slivers of tranquility fly off at the points of impact, leaving behind jagged remnants of the fragile frameworks of peace. They lean and sway, in danger of collapsing into piles of shattered dreams, abandoning any realistic hope for the gentle caress of relief.

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I cannot tell whether it’s raining outside or whether, instead, my eyes are experiencing some sort of seizure that causes me to “see” pine needles sparkle without the shine. I do not know how else to describe the images my brain is processing. What appears to be raindrops jiggle (or sparkle) in the air, but I see no light reflecting off of them…i.e.,  there’s no glisten nor shine going on.

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Another cone of Full Moon (Luna Llena) incense is releasing smoke into the air in my study. My smart speaker is playing at very low volume the soothing sound of wind chimes. That gentle noise contrasts with the loud “Caw! Caw! Caw!” of crows; they are asking for peanuts, I think. Actually, considering the volume of the sounds they are making, I think they may be demanding peanuts. Ah! The crows stopped at the same time a recorder replaced the wind chimes.

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Prisms refract light. Prisons refract life. I’m sure I’ve said it before. Placing half the population (of my choice) of this country in solitary confinement would be an extremely challenging undertaking. But it just might be worth the effort.

Look at a lush tree or a bush just outside your window. If you focus on a single healthy leaf of that plant for long enough, your mind will follow your eyes across and into it. At first, your gaze will linger at the base of the leaf, where the petiole attaches the leaf to the stem. Traveling slowly upward, toward the leaf’s tip, your eyes are drawn from the petiole to the midrib, from which smaller and smaller veins, or venules, reach out along the leaf’s blades toward the margins. You will see these aspects of the leaf, but devoting your attention to the leaf will do more than acquaint your eyes and brain with the shapes and colors of a tiny component of a much larger plant. By giving your complete attention to the leaf, you will witness the exponential growth of your own understanding of the brevity of life. And you will begin to realize the eternity of effort involved in nurturing soil and seeds to contribute to that brief experience. The leaf can deliver so many messages, simply by enabling your eyes to see it. It conveys to you the reality that the leaf may be shiny or dull; darkest green or brightest neon chartreuse; home to untold thousands of visible, living organisms; or a tiny expanse of color in a desert of transparent air. Later, when you give your undivided attention to the rest of the plant—down through the stem and into twigs, limbs, branches, trunk, and roots—you will experience awe. At a certain unforgettable moment, you will envision the slow, nearly invisible, distribution of water and oxygen and molecular components of life as they slowly travel from the root hairs and roots and the rest of the plant. That moment explains it all. Everything. If only you had looked at that leaf when you were just a baby, you could have avoided millions of mistakes made in the intervening years. But no; mistakes are not accidents born of leaf-blindness.

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The appeal of Asian art, especially Asian art embedded into architectural design, eluded me for the majority of my first 72 years. Somewhere along the way, though, I occasionally encountered pieces of such art and architecture that attracted me. Initially, I thought my attraction to those interesting examples was prompted by their striking contrast to other objects; the clean, clear, simple, straight lines of Scandinavian design. But, sometimes, the similarities were greater than their contrasts. Asian art and architecture both give strong emphasis to symbolism, religious, and philosophical themes, whereas Scandinavian expressions of art and design tend to revel in simplicity. Similar attributes, but expressed near the two ends of visual and emotional spectra, perhaps? If I were able to build a new house, it probably would combine Frank Lloyd Wright influences with Scandinavian and (just a touch of) Asian style.

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Observed from a distance and through the lens of time, the changes in her professional practice have seemed incremental—a lazy stream carrying a slow-moving leaf on a gentle journey. But on closer inspection, and viewed through the magnification of personal involvement, the changes in my oncologist’s work environment represent a river’s rapids and I am a log thrown in to monitor the speed and direction of the current. I do not begrudge the changes, nor the scratches and bruises I receive when treatments seem to scrape my body against the river bank. But I wonder whether adjustments to the frequency and composition of the treatment regimen are having any appreciable effects. Changes in medical support personnel, the addition of satellite location(s), and infusions of different drugs all contribute to a sense of orderly chaos. I cannot tell whether such polished pandemonium is a integral part of the complexity of the treatment plan or whether, instead, the turmoil is evidence of uncertainty about the suitability of the treatment approaches.  Just a momentary doubt, I think, arising from surprising reactions to unknown stimuli.

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Yesterday’s treatment—a single follow-up injection—should have taken just a few minutes. But lab work was required, in advance, to determine whether my hemoglobin level was below average; it was, so I got the injection.  Because my oncologist was out of the office, the injection had to be done in the main office in town, where a swarm of doctors would be available in the event things were to go horribly wrong. Fortunately, they did not go even moderately wrong. All is well…enough…that I will have another full  treatment, one week from yesterday. That day will be Halloween, when I expect the nurses and office staff will be dressed in appropriately ghoulish costumery.

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Artificial Thought
Ten years into the evacuation, all that’s left should be an uninhabited planet. And, of course, the ruins of millions of commercial and residential buildings and sheer desolation. But the exodus stalled around the fifth year. And by the seventh year, repatriations were in full-swing. By some estimates, planet Earth was again host to almost 40 percent of the pre-departure population at the end of year seven. The original message—the one that urged all humankind to leave the planet—was given new energy after two full years of languishing. At the beginning of the tenth year, physicists revealed measurements that confirmed the original evacuation order. Today, well into the tenth year, we know an Earth-sized exoplanet, untethered to a star, is only weeks from slamming into our planet. We have been told our atmosphere, within eight days will begin experiencing massive pressure gradients that will effectively bend gravity. Roughly a week later, at the moment of impact, the rogue planet will tear into the only place we have ever settled, destroying ever single piece of evidence that humans were ever arrogant enough to think they were in control.  Despite the unmistakable gloom facing us at this impossibly late date, we are doing all within our power to avoid a cataclysmic clash between two planets that would trigger an instantaneous massive and multiple species extinction events.  Realistically, in the time we have before our defenses become completely ineffective, we have only six or eight days to complete the evacuation. And, realistically, we have the capability to evacuate only five percent of the people remaining at this moment. Their destination will be the brand-new Space Pavilion that was conceived forty years ago but was built only after we learned our fate was, in all probability, hopeless. The latest obstacle to survival is the predicted direction the incoming exoplanet will take after colliding with Earth; it will follow the Space Pavilion transports that will carry, at most, five percent of those of us left.

The woman who will command the Space Pavilion interplanetary migration, Sharmotticus Bledgeware, has the most spectacularly attractive face I have ever seen. Every inch of her face exudes beauty, including her piercing grey-blue-green eyes that, when she stares at a person, the target feels intense heat on his skin, wherever her gaze traveled over it. Her only other unusual feature is a nine-foot-long tail infested with yellow thermomagnetic scorpions. Calypso Kneeblood had seen, during a foray into Facebook, that description applied to her eyes. He and I, by the way, are detrimental twins. That is to say we both had an intimate relationship with Sharmotticus. The problem with that, aside from several rather sticky moral issues, can be attributed to her husband’s frequent and completely transparent dalliances with several of the women on the nuclear crew. He (Klagnav Bledgeware) regularly sauntered into the sauna with a naked nuclear physicist on each arm. I’ve wasted too much time. The air is heavy and gravity is spinning me in tornadic swirls. This could change with a simple replacement identity. I am looking for one, preferably in an olive and aubergine finish.

An Unmeasured Opinion
Perhaps the educational system (K-12+) in the United States needs a complete overhaul. It might begin with a comprehensive exploration of the relative importance of every subject and ending with the selection of topics, curricula, and a skeletal mandatory syllabus. Teachers would have considerable autonomy in determining and selecting optional elements of the syllabus. Included in the system would be at least one mandatory foreign-language; graduation would require demonstration of proficiency in the selected language. Other core courses would include English, world literature, mathematics (up to and including algebra, geometry, and business math), world history, local and state and US history, basic biology, basic geology, and “shop/home maintenance.” Students would receive instruction in (or, at least, self-educational exposure to): keeping accurate personal finance records; how to balance financial accounts; and budgeting. In addition to a broad and well-balanced course of study, students would be required to serve at least one year each in the military and the service corps. The first year (in the military) would be intended to instill a sense of (and obligation for) discipline, teamwork, and the importance of following the chain of command. The second year would continue the inculcation of a service ethos, but would be meant to serve as a means of building among the service members the characteristics of compassion, sympathy, and community cohesiveness. Rural kids would spend an intense three months in a dense urban area; kids in cities and towns would spend a like amount of time on farms and ranches and other rural places of business. Finally (perhaps), following on the example set by some schools in Japan, students would be taught to, and expected to, perform some of the duties of janitors, kitchen and cafeteria workers, and other blue collar occupations. These educational opportunities would be arranged to correspond to subjects taught in “shop.” I could go on and on. Of course, I have always said I could never be a teacher because patience has never been my strongest point. Something that should be taught at home (along with some others in my long list), too, is polite behavior; but it should be emphasized and reinforced in schools. Lapses in polite behavior should be punished in ways that will stick with the student; the student should be made to understand that future such behavior will not be tolerated.

The most significant overhaul in education should begin with prospective parents BEFORE conception. Before the decision to have (one or more) children, couples should be required to successfully complete a short certification course on parenting. Once the certificate is granted, the document can be used to justify a single birth (experience). Parents and children will then be evaluated annually or more frequently; either the family will make necessary corrections or will be reconfigured. I am not any more “okay” with children being permitted to be rude, insensitive, and otherwise obnoxious than I am with the same behaviors with parents. I am not certain how I feel about corporal punishment, but I think if it is absolutely needed it should never be so physically or verbally violent that either of the parties to the interaction could be injured.

Now, before anyone adopts my thinking on education, I want to encourage actual research into the effective of my approaches and whether any unwelcome and unexpected consequence could be triggered by them. If so, I would hope the researchers would explore and evaluate other options until safe and workable methods are available to replace the unsatisfactory ones.

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Birthday Cluster
Today is my niece’s birthday…just two days after mine. No matter how hard she tries, though, she will remain younger than I am from here on. Always 24 years younger, up until the point when I stop having birthdays. Several others have birthdays in October. I do not understand how that can be. We’re different people…with the same birthdays?! How can that be? I would explain, but I have people to be and jailers to flee; I cannot be captured, is that so hard to see? Yep, I’m behaving like an eight year old kid.

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Sympathy, in the face of indifference, is a squandered emotion. Indifference redefines sympathy, calling it a weakness; a flawed emotional state deserving only disdain and mockery.  Emotions can be fragile states that, in the presence of pressure and contempt, sometimes shatter like brittle glass or harden like steel. But when strengthened by compassion and resolve, sympathy and its many generous siblings shred indifference into soft, restorative fibers of tenderness.

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Venom is the distillate of hatred; the deadly product left behind when kindness evaporates, replaced by barbarous animosity. Hostility comprises the requisite nutrients to sustain hatred, enabling it to intensify and pair with bitter loathing and unspeakable cruelty.

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I’m into this afternoon’s second cone of incense; this one came in a box that claims it will create a cinnamon aroma when it burns. The first one today was a repeat of a recent burning: called Full Moon, I cannot identify the aroma, other than to say it seems especially appealing this afternoon.

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Today’s visit to the oncology clinic was limited to an infusion of IV saline solution. After last night, (when I experienced instant-onset nausea followed by voluminous vomiting), I think the fluids today might have been, coincidentally, exactly what I needed. Last night’s experience was, by far, the worst case of vomiting I have ever experienced. Until last night, nausea was accompanied only by dry heaves. None of the nurses seemed concerned about last night’s experience, so I will not worry about it, either. At least for now.

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Yesterday’s 72nd birthday represented a restrained celebration of my unexpected survival. Many years ago, when I was 20 to 25 years old, or thereabouts, I concluded that my life probably would not last beyond 60 years. I had no premonition, nor any specific reason I can recall, that prompted that prediction. I did not think it would be “death by suicide” or “death by brain cancer” or “death by automobile accident.” It was simply an expectation that my life would end for some unknown reason at a relatively young age in modern terms, the legitimacy of which I did not question. A period several years earlier, during which I often thought of resolving my years-long and deeply hidden emotional maelstrom by way of suicide, might conceivably have contributed to that forecast, but memories of that mental turmoil are foggy, at best, so I cannot make any attribution with certainty. And there would be no point, anyway. After all, the anticipated termination of an unfinished life had failed to materialize a dozen years earlier. But thinking about a time when I thought I would be mentally prepared for every cell in my body to stop working jolted me into being grateful I did nothing to bring that experience about. Morbid thoughts can make a mess of one’s emotional stability; such ideas contribute to anxiety and otherwise cause cracks to spread like spider webs in one’s confidence.

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I received a text last night that was, without question, the most heart-warming, moving, powerful messages I have received in a very long time…maybe forever. It came as a completely unexpected expression of appreciation. Ever since I received it, I have been thinking about how best to acknowledge it and how to express my gratitude to the sender for the sentiments expressed. The message, arriving on my birthday, now holds a place in my heart as among the most meaningful and touching I have ever received. After receiving it, I realized my birthday was, in fact, very happy.

A clear, cloudless night sky looks radically different than the same sky at noon. Sky is defined as the region of the atmosphere visible from Earth’s surface.  But, at night, the atmosphere is not visible from Earth, is it? At night, we see far beyond the atmosphere,  into the distant reaches of the universe as we know it. So, do we stare into the sky at night, or do we look beyond the sky, peering instead into space? 

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Time can temporarily hide the unfortunate transformation of an idealist into a skeptic. When the lighthearted optimism of an idealist is revealed to have mutated into the suspicious uncertainty of a skeptic, the attitude of a person who witnessed the change spirals downward. But the pessimistic skeptic may be more brutally shattered by his own transformation than is the witness.

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My lifelong habit of waking long before the sun rises is attempting to become a fond memory. Actually, I frequently wake in the wee hours but, unlike my early-morning practice in days of yore, I choose to remain in bed. That choice rewards me with the luxury of additional sleep. Simultaneously, though, the decision punishes me by robbing me of my precious pre-dawn isolation. And a slow-motion form of kinetic activity replaces the morning serenity I so deeply appreciate. Yet, it’s obvious to me that the value I place on sleep—or, perhaps, simple unconsciousness—often eclipses the significance of my old stand-by: quiet observation and experience. Daybreak brings with it varying degrees of illumination. As the sky becomes brighter, the sounds grow louder; I can hear through the windows as nature awakens outdoors. Suddenly, I become starved for silence.  I miss the absence of noise. Perhaps my old habits will return, if ever my body is allowed to adjust to a cessation of chemical infusions.

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Symmetry. That is one of the things missing in the output from my attempts to draw or to create paintings. Symmetry is missing from my efforts to produce handwritten notes, as well. When I stumble across something I penned many years ago, I notice that my cursive handwriting was legible but awkward, as if produced by a hand incapable of symmetry; unable to create smooth motion. Over time, the legibility of my cursive writing grew worse and worse. At some point, it seems I switched to printing; my cursive writing had become impossible to read. But my printing, too, devolved into uninterpretable marks on paper. Had I focused my early efforts at drawing and painting and, importantly, writing on symmetry, I might have been capable of producing meaningful memos and messages. Ach!

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The brilliant blue sky is empty now. Except for the detritus of space exploration and espionage—and nuclear ambitions. By the way, today is my birthday. I can tell by looking at the calendar.

Inflation is alive and well. The cost of my Medicare supplemental insurance increased by $42 a month; the cost of my prescription drug plan jumped by almost 213%, a $50 hike. Food prices seem to be on an upward trajectory, too. Gasoline prices, though, are drifting downward; trustworthy predictions say they will continue to decline. The average price for a new car in the U.S. (Average Transaction Price) has surpassed $50,000 for the first time. Clothing has long seemed obscenely overpriced, in spite of the fact that much of what we wear is produced in other countries by people who are paid unconscionably low wages.  Thus far, inflationary pressures have not been sufficient to put a dent in my comfort and convenience. But people who were already struggling, and have never been as fortunate as I, must find themselves in increasingly tight spots. And people who were just barely hanging on are at risk of becoming casualties of an economic model that is notoriously lacking in compassion and driven largely by greed. Those who already had been left without resources and without even the thinnest safety net? The society in which we live is trying to hide them by erasing homeless encampments.

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About eight hours ago, just before 12:30 a.m., I woke to light washing across the open blinds and filling a wall across from the bed, with what I initially thought might be a a car’s headlights panning across the house, as the vehicle drove around the circle of the cul-de-sac. But the breadth of the beam of light changed dramatically, as if a very bright flashlight was being used to illuminate a wide area with a side-to-side motion. The blinds on the French doors suddenly lit up, as did the bed and the walls. Peering out back, the light seemed to swing back and forth across the entire forest. This isn’t the first time I have been startled by light pouring in from the dark forest. I wonder whether I actually saw it this time…or was it imaginary illumination?

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Two huge crows just arrived, landing first on the garage roof (from which they had a good vantage point to keep an eye out on their “feeding rock,” where they are used to finding plenty of peanuts in their shells) and then on the driveway. The birds are communicating with one another—and others, hidden in the trees—about the unpleasantly cool temperature. At the moment, the outside temperature is 49°F, approaching 30°F cooler than the temperature I find increasingly attractive.  The idea of immersing myself in a hot tub or a heated pool is quite appealing. There’s a correlation between fat loss and comfort; apparently, there’s something to be said about body fat being a good insulator. As body fat diminishes, so does the comfort it provides. Speaking of the joys of heated water, a geothermally-heated swimming pool is featured in a few scenes from The Diplomat. The pool is presented as being located on the private estate in Amagansett, New York, belonging to the occupants of the White House. In fact, though, the filming location was in is the Seacroft Estate on Centre Island in Oyster Bay, New York. I want that pool. I might not refuse the entire estate, if presented to me as a gift. 

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Unlike most mornings (and other day-parts) lately, I find myself feeling hungry at the moment. Having already gone through an Ensure, a banana, and two slices of bacon, I normally would feel more than satisfied. But not right now. Mi novia cooked a pot of  Anasazi beans yesterday; they were extraordinary. Perfectly spiced, perfectly textured, perfectly flavored. Now THAT sounds like a great way to assuage my hunger this morning.

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Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have.

~ H. Jackson Brown, Jr. ~

If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about the answers.

~ Thomas Pynchon ~

If The Apocalypse were to begin just before 11 one Saturday morning, would we know it? Would we recognize the signals of impending doom? What would constitute clear
apocalyptic signs; evidence that the end really is near? So many questions, but only supposition and guesses; no dependable answers.  It is entirely possible, given our ignorance of apocalyptic forecasting, we would miss the harbingers of cataclysm. Just one more thing to worry about.

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It’s been days since I began the morning with a cup of espresso, thanks to my body’s recent displeasure with the idea. But this morning I renewed the ritual. In an ideal world, I would use a top quality espresso machine to make the elixir. This flawed reality in which we live, though, satisfies my craving for espresso by providing me with a relatively cheap Nespresso-type machine. If I owned finely engineered espresso machinery, of course, I would need an assistant who would be responsible for the actual creation of each cup; and he/she would bear responsibility for keeping the equipment in pristine condition.

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Several dreams woke me last night, but I remember almost nothing about them. I know only that, in each case, I woke to my own voice loudly asking “What?!” Or something like that. One of my dreams, though, seems to be hiding just beneath my consciousness. Perhaps it will spring out from my hidden repository of dreams during the course of the day. If it does, I may or may not document what I can recall of the artificial experience.

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Yesterday’s “No Kings” demonstrations generated a lot of media attention. The numbers I’ve seen so far suggest the turnout was very good. But I noticed the comments left on news articles about the events contained enormous volumes of mockery and venom from people who worship Trump. I doubt the demonstrations will have any substantive effect on this administration or Republicans in general, but making the views held by about half the population is vitally important, I think.

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Some people believe there’s a good chance that an irredeemable kid, carrying a switchblade, is crouched in every back alley, poised  to stab you and take your possessions. Other people carry the switchblades.

I would like to visit the Obama Presidential Center when it is completed, but that wish is complicated by so damn many obstacles.  A piece in today’s New York Times added fuel to my desire to experience, first hand, what I believe will trigger a massive resurgence of understanding and appreciation of President Obama’s contributions to American society and our place in the world. (Unfortunately, our place in the world is diminishing with every passing day, thanks almost entirely to the malignant narcissist-in-chief whose words and actions are driven by revenge and a host of psychopathic traits.) Despite my desire to visit the center, when it is complete, I share some of the concerns that others have expressed, one of which is that the facility will accelerate the gentrification of the neighborhood in which it is located. Yet, the idea that the venue will serve as a community anchor for the area may negate that concern, if the concept becomes reality. Aside from the cultural significance of the Obama Presidential Center, I am drawn to its architectural significance…and to the artworks that will be part of the venue. Chicago is awash in magnificent examples of extraordinary architecture, by the way. The colorful glass windows and other art installations will be draws, in and of themselves, to the Obama Presidential Center, I think. But, oh, the obstacles: the timeframe for completion; cancer; weakness; the limitations of Time, itself; and my distaste for dense crowds—among others. Ach.

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The third law of motion, formulated by Sir Isaac Newton, is “every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”  Applied to the physical world, the law makes sense and helps us understand how the world works. But, if applied to actionable intentions, the laws of physics can confound us. For example, if I follow through on my intent to make a donation to a charity, I should expect that action (according to the third law of motion) to result in and equal and opposition reaction…that is, the charity should deposit an equal amount to my bank account. That’s not how exactly how it works, though, despite the aphorism to the contrary that says “no good deed goes unpunished.” One could look at the matter from a different perspective, though. The “equal and opposite reaction” need not be identical—only equal. So the reaction might take the form of a different, but equal, reaction; like a scam in which criminals intercept details of my charitable contribution and use them to siphon money out of the charity’s coffers. I accept that the laws of physics are real and true, but that does not mean I really understand them. I don’t. In fact, if my brain were far better developed, intellectually, I think I would argue forcefully against the universality of those laws. In earlier times, others have argued against the prevailing wisdom, only to be executed (Giordano Bruno and Hypatia) or imprisoned (Galileo Galilei). I might be judicious in sharing my theories, in light of the lessons of history, though.

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Chemotherapy creates havoc with one’s blood. More than half the results of the Complete Blood Count (CBC) taken yesterday were outside their “normal” ranges; either  high or low. Similarly, several readings from the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel (CMP) were outside the normal ranges. Those deviations have long since become “normal” for me. I have learned which of the anomalies may signal reasons for concern and which are simply manifestations of the chemotherapy drugs circulating in my cardiovascular system. I would rather not have reason to know such stuff but, on the other hand, I would rather understand the so-called abnormalities than wonder whether they signify that my treatment has gone awry.  Yesterday, my oncologist reviewed the just-collected CBC information with me and confirmed that the aberrations were not of concern. But she wants me back next Wednesday to do more lab work, as a follow-up to yesterday’s chemo treatment. It’s nearing noon today (Saturday) and I seem to be feeling the effects of yesterday’s navelbine infusion; lacking energy and ready for another return to a soft, comfortable bed.

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We have watched all but one episode of the recently-released new season of The Diplomat, which was released on Thursday. That should explain how we’ve spent the last two evenings. The show provides solid entertainment that holds my attention.

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When I lived on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico as a child, I visited Padre Island with some regularity. Not infrequently, during those short treks to the beach, the surf and the sand was littered with Portuguese Man-O-War siphonophores (commonly called, incorrectly, jellyfish). I learned quite early to steer clear of them; their tentacles (actually,
cnidocytes) are venomous, capable of inflicting very, very painful stings. No reason for mentioning this, other than the fact that it dropped in on my mind. I think, perhaps, my brain is in the midst of some mental fractures, hence the variety of unrelated images floating through my head.