John Swinburn

A day—like today—can begin on an off-note. I got up much later than usual, which by itself can make the day feel like a four-cylinder car running on three cylinders. A routine damaged in that way opens the flood gates to additional deviations from whatever semblance of “normal” I might follow in my customary engagement with the morning. It’s all psychological, of course. It’s my mental response to a world that feels somewhat out of adjustment. Somewhat, hell. Considerably. Massively. Again, it’s all in my mind. But it feels physical, in the sense that I feel like the atmosphere is extremely heavy. Heavy enough that I have to exert all my strength to remain upright. That physical sensation accompanies an imaginary psychological one: a limited but growing fear that the atmospheric pressure is intentionally attempting to crush me. I know, of course, that is not happening; but it is my abstract reaction to the world around me seeming especially and peculiarly out of sorts. The fact that the CT scan, which my oncologist wants done as soon as possible, is not scheduled for almost a week from now and I will not know the results until two days later, probably contributes to my feeling on edge. I cannot control the schedule, so I should not let it bother me. I tell myself not to worry…and I don’t…but simply being conscious of the fact that the scan could deliver unwelcome news may be contributing to mental state. Though reading an article about grief probably added to it. Grief and regret are tied inextricably to one another. I will discuss grief and regret and more when I visit with a therapist on Thursday morning. I wonder whether that introductory session, when I will meet the therapist for the first time, will contribute to my emotional tangle or will help alleviate it? Time, alone, will tell.

+++

We are having an early dinner with friends this afternoon on the eve of their departure for a European river cruise vacation. I have no doubt they will enjoy the experience immensely. It is the sort of experience people work for years and years to pursue. People tend to work not only to sustain their lifestyles over the course of their working years; they work to accumulate resources that will enable them to enjoy leisure in retirement. If I had started planning for specific retirement objectives—experiences I wanted to have—when I was new to the workforce, I might have accumulated more money than I have today. But had I set an objective based on my life as it was back then, I would have been severely disappointed at circumstances that intervened between then and now. I was—and remain—severely disappointed at those intervening circumstances, anyway. But everyone experiences events that derail their objectives and the severity of that disappointment declines over time; it never disappears, though. Terrible trauma stays with a person for the remainder of his life, though its intensity declines as time attempts to mend the memory with scars. This paragraph illustrates how utterly out of whack my brain is this morning; I drift between thinking of dinner, musing about retirement planning, and remembering traumatic events that changed the course of my life. I wonder whether, if I were to be placed in a medically-induced coma for a month, my mind would sort itself out during that mental vacation? I doubt I will give it a try.

+++

Today I will go to my oncologist’s office to pick up some deliciously flavored barium in preparation for my CT scan next week. While I’m out, I may stop by the bank and get sufficient cash to stock up on some mind-altering gummies. I probably should take care of other errands while I am in town. I may make a list. I’ll probably leave it on my desk when I leave.

According to a group labeled “Psycho Physicists” by Native Communications, Inc. of Manitoba, Canada, the eleven main colors (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, brown, gray, black and white)—when altered by the shades of light and levels of red-green and yellow-blue visible to the human eye—combine into 10 million shades of color. But at the same time, the group claims “today’s standard computer screen shows over 16 million hues of color for a single full color image.” Maybe the seeming discrepancy is due to confusing hues and shades. Or perhaps any attempt to calculate the total number of combinations of colors is pointless, given the endlessly incremental nature of color, hue, and shade combinations. But questions about the differences between color and hue must arise (and must be answered) before arriving at any reasonable and believable answers. And an actual count of all the combinations may be impossible. The universe would be a simpler place (from the human perspective) if we viewed the world in shades of grey, rather than in color. Most marine mammals are monochromatic. Humans are trichromatic. Male tamarins and spider monkeys only have two cones (dichromatic), with females split between trichromacy and dichromacy. The only animals that have no cones at all, and therefore are incapable of color vision, are skates. The difference between having monochromatic vision and no color vision at all seems a bit confusing, although perhaps monochromatic vision might not be limited to seeing in black and white—maybe creatures with monochromatic vision can see only in shades of red or green or…the possibilities either are endless or severely limited; hard to say which.

+++

As the preceding paragraph illustrates, questions about “simple” matters like color and vision can have limitless numbers of answers, none of which can be relied upon as “final.” Information and facts and knowledge blur into an imprecise haze if we attempt to understand them all at once. It is for that reason—among others—that humans tend to limit their interests in ways that enable at least modest clarity. We try to make out figures in the mist by figuratively stripping away intrusive images that interfere with precision. That is true of language, art, medicine, sound…every single aspect of our existence and our perception of the existence of everything outside ourselves. Complexity, then, is embedded in the realities with which we must deal every moment of our lives. Every. Single. Moment. There can be no serenity when complexity is so utterly impossible to understand. Chaos prevents us from achieving peace. Tranquility is an imaginary state that cannot be achieved, no matter how hard we try—and no matter whether we abandon its pursuit. Yet we can be satisfied, more or less, with an approximation of tranquility. Comparative serenity allows us to experience a noisy sample of what that imaginary state of peace must be like. Dreamless sleep—total unconsciousness—may be as close to actual serenity as we will ever get.

+++

Two hours have flown by since I abandoned my attempt to experience an approximation of peace/serenity. I have not been especially productive in those two hours, but neither have I been unproductive. I washed some dishes, prepared food for the then-sleeping cat, made espresso, attempted to play some word games but gave up when it became apparent my brain was too jumbled to accomplish anything of consequence…and, of course, wrote this post. And more, but not much. I skimmed world news, but gave up on learning about anything that could bring about peace because there was nothing in the news that could have enabled that to happen. With all the wonders of life on this planet, humans choose, instead, to still focus so damn much attention on hatred and domination and maximizing power over other humans. I am disappointed in humanity, which includes myself. If I find the human condition so offensive, why do I not do something about it? Why do I not solve the problems of war, starvation, thirst, homelessness, violence, disease, and the like? I would, but other obligations that command my attention. We all have such excuses.

The seasons transform hardwood forests. Buds begin to erupt in early Spring; by Summer, leaves are so thick, only dappled light gets through to the forest floor. In early Fall, trees and shrubs begin to change colors and textures in preparation for the massive leaf-drop in late Fall. That event leaves the forest denuded except for scattered evergreens and a few stubborn hardwoods whose brown leaves refuse to drop until Spring. The difference between the lush, verdant environment of late Spring and the spare, naked look of late Fall is remarkable. Viewing the woods outside my windows during those two seasons, I feel like I am looking at two entirely different places in two entirely different moments in time. And I suppose I am. People have only one experience of youth and only one impending mortality; forests, on the other hand, annually cycle through birth and death. Youth and old age repeat dozens or hundreds or even thousands of times in the lifetime of a forest. I wonder whether—if people were to carefully examine how forests seem to experience an easy comfort with change and learn from forests’ experience—we might accept and even revel in our own transformations?

+++

I was not quite ready to get up when the yowling beast jumped on the bed very early this morning and demonstrated how loud her voice can be. So, I ignored her and went back to sleep. Two hours later I awoke in daylight. Damn! It seems almost like half the day slipped by without me. Perhaps I needed the sleep; maybe that’s what knocked out my sinus headache. Whatever did it, I am ready to smoke a 10+ pound brisket. There’s still a bit of preparation to do, but I imagine I can put the monster in the smoker by 9:30. It will take quite a long time to cook; waiting as those hours slide by will be worth it, though, when I finally put a tender, juicy morsel of mesquite-smoked brisket in my mouth. It is increasingly rare for me to eat beef, which is a good thing, but those rare moments when I eat not just beef, but smoked beef, are magical.

+++

In addition to smoking a brisket, I intend to make a 1-pot pumpkin and turkey chili today. My sister-in-law made the recipe recently; it was one of the most wonderful foods I have ever put in my mouth. Though I doubt this double-cooking day is a sign that my love of cooking has returned, I am glad to be cooking a couple of dishes that will make a number of meals. It will be almost like having access to freezer dinners, except these dinners (or lunches or whatever) will be truly tasty. And just as easy as Stouffer’s (or whoever makes frozen dinners these days).

+++

I anxiously await a call to schedule my next CAT-scan. The last time I got unwelcome news from my oncologist was five years ago. That, too, came on a Friday afternoon. But at least that time I got actual information. Last Friday I got just a heads-up that something that “might” be of concern needs to be explored. I vacillate between very mild worry and complete dismissal, as if I am not even aware of it. I prefer the latter, but this morning the former seems to be taking center stage. Bah! If I could just sit at my desk, staring out the window and watching massive leaf-falls whenever there’s a gust of wind, I would happily be entranced by it.

+++

Time to get the smoker going. I cannot believe it’s almost 9 a.m. Minutes and hours can slip by unnoticed. They should not be ignored; they should be grasped and appreciated and celebrated and otherwise worshipped.

Despite the fact that we just took a short-distance, brief road trip, I crave another, longer one. Looking at a map of the USA, my eyes tend to drift toward either New Mexico and surrounding states, Oklahoma and Kansas, or Mississippi and Tennessee. In other words, a large swatch of the south-central part of the country. Once I hone in on any of those large areas, my eyes drift past the edges to nearby states. There was a time I would have liked to have taken only what William Least Heat Moon called the “blue highways,” or back roads. I still prefer the back roads, but the older I get, the more impatient I am to bypass geographic areas that offer little visual excitement; because, I suppose, the time left to me seems to get shorter by the day. My impatience sometimes leads me to take heavily-traveled roads and interstate highways. Obviously, I should have begun criss-crossing the country when I was much younger (but my impatience, then, was exponentially greater than it is today—odd, the competing obstacles of youth and its opposite). One of the reasons for my current interest in the south-central USA has to do with the season. Snow and ice tend to slow one’s travel and to increase one’s anxiety about driving. If, instead of December, April has just begun, I would focus on Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, and Ohio. The sights and smells and sounds of different parts of the country are unique; every state has something to recommend it.  The impatience of youth can lead to regret in old age. “I wish I had taken time to…” That is such a familiar refrain; I hear other people say those words and I hear my own silent voice agreeing with the sad acknowledgement that impatience has taken its toll on what could have been and even greater number of memorable experiences.

+++

Growing up on the Texas coast, fishing in Corpus Christi Bay and the Intracoastal Canal were among the pastimes I enjoyed. Salt water fishing seems quite different to me from fresh water fishing; I greatly prefer the former, probably because I had much more experience fishing in salt water. It has been so many years since I have gone fishing in either fresh or salt water that I have almost no recollection of the techniques I once practiced: tying hooks with monofilament line, baiting hooks with live shrimp, deciding when and why to use treble hooks and when to use bait-holder hooks, etc. I did not recall that bait-hold is the proper term for “regular” hooks, as I called them, so I looked up the terms. I was surprised to learn that worm, jig, circle, weedless, siwash, octopus, Aberdeen, and kahle are terms for other types of hooks; I doubt I ever used any of them. I think I would like to go “deep-water” fishing in the Gulf of Mexico—something I’ve never done—with an experienced guide who could teach me the basics, as if I had never been fishing. It has been so long, that might as well be true. I have no interest in catching fish as trophies; only fish to eat. But I am beginning to question whether fishing to eat, which I do not have to do to survive, is just my way of rationalizing the “sport” of fishing. I question so much about life on this planet; enough that I think I might like living on another one, one gentler and infused with more compassion.

+++

I hope to be able to use my smoker within the next few days. I took the big Prime grade brisket I bought a a few months ago out of the freezer several days ago. It should be sufficiently thawed that I can prep it for smoking (rinse, trim excess fat, apply rub and pepper and let sit (in foil) overnight, then let it warm to room temperature). I have resigned myself to the fact that the brisket will not be as good as one smoked in an offset smoker filled with mesquite logs. But my little electric smoker and mesquite chips will, I hope, be at least reminiscent of that Central Texas flavor. I do so miss Central Texas brisket from places like Blacks, Kruez Market, Cooper’s, Snow’s, and others that produce spectacular smoked brisket (and heavily-peppered, course-ground sausage).  I do not eat nearly as much beef or pork or chicken as I used to. But I need to get back into cooking so I can get a sufficient volume and sufficient diversity of nutrients in my diet. I’ve grown deeply lazy about meal preparation. We rarely have an evening meal anymore; perhaps cheese and crackers, etc., but not a “meal.” Lunch, often at restaurants, usually is our main meal of the day. That is expensive and not nearly as healthful as carefully and consciously planned home-prepared meals. Speaking of home-prepared meals, I have a sudden and intense hankering for creamed salmon over rice, flavored at the table with a few judicious shakes of white pepper. I would happily eat such stuff for breakfast; mi novia prefers “breakfast food.”

+++

Speaking from experience, I can say with conviction that feeling more or less like a human is preferable to feeling more or less like a zombie. My head remains stuffy, but the splitting headache has improved, changing into a lightly throbbing but entirely tolerable headache. A couple of acetaminophen should rachet that down even more; decongestant should finish off the traces of zombiehood.

+++

I will treat myself with kid gloves this morning; relax and stay home, rather than go to church. As far as I can tell, today’s Illumination Service will be a repeat of the service from a year ago and two years ago and maybe even further back. I feel that playing hooky today is perfectly legitimate, especially since I have watched and listened to essentially the same service more than once.  That having been said, I may go make my third espresso, then shave and take a shower.

Yesterday’s splitting headache lasted far longer than I expected, but a lengthy morning nap—and one even longer in the afternoon—kept my mind off of it for a good part of the day. I suspect the culprit is sinus congestion. Whatever the cause, it is back this morning. Of what use are sinuses? They are simply cavities in the head whose uses are incompletely understood. Sinuses are not critical to one’s survival, if these assertions from a July 16, 2006 article from the San Diego Union-Tribune are correct: “One can do just fine without sinuses. People born without sinuses, or who have them surgically replaced, don’t appear to have any significant problems.” I have jokingly commented, more than once, that I should have my sinuses removed to eliminate the trouble they cause me. I had no idea their surgical removal was possible (and still find that possibility quite surprising), given that they are just cavities…holes. I would think surgical removal of holes in the head would leave larger holes. I’m not equipped this morning to think clearly about the matter, thanks at least in part to this damn headache. But I will forge ahead.

+++

If I could, I would go back to bed and get some more sleep, but the headache and the fact that I am not tired suggest I would be unsuccessful if I tried. So, instead, I’ve been wandering the internet, looking for good news and finding none. At least none of consequence. It might help if I looked in places where good news is relatively likely to be found. Instead, I look in places where news of concern is common. I checked my oncologist’s patient portal to see the results of the lab work from Tuesday’s visit to her office. My interest in those results arose in response to a call from her office yesterday, informing me that the doctor wants me to have a “scan” as soon as possible because the lab results revealed a high level of “tumor marker” in my blood. Naturally, I explored what that might mean. Though not a reliable indicator, it could mean the return of my cancer (hence my oncologist’s interest in a scan). That would be ironic and, of course, troubling. It has been five years since my surgery to remove the lower right lobe of my lung—and only a a month and a half since I had the chemo-port removed from my chest. Mi novia properly reminded me not to worry, as there is nothing I can do about it—just wait until I get the scan and listen to the doctor’s assessment of the results of the scan. I am more curious than worried. I do hope to discover it is “nothing,” but from what I’ve read, an elevated CEA (that’s the blood test) could mean things  other than cancer are going on. We shall see. In the meantime, I will try to focus my attention on other matters, things more appealing.

+++

Last night’s dream(s) were vivid but simultaneously boring and challenging. Why, I wonder, do dreams often retrieve elements of actual experience, while merging that reality with circumstances that have no basis in reality? My interest in the “meaning” of dreams ebbs and flows. This morning, I doubt there was meaning in my nocturnal visit to the actual past and the potential but unlikely future. The very fact that I give any credence to the idea that dreams have “meaning” irritates me at this very moment. This morning, I am of the opinion that dreams are nothing more than the mind creating an internal audio-visual record of  thoughts that combine real memories with uncontrollable future reactions to them. Or something like that. I do not know. I just guess and call my hunch half-believable.

+++

Night before last, we joined six friends for another periodic World Tour of Wines dinner. We raved to friends about how the food at these dinners had improved enormously when a well-known caterer/restauranteur took over meal preparation and delivery. And then we were served luke-warm coq au vin that was riddled with small pieces of chicken bones. The appetizer, salad, and dessert were excellent…but the main course…Ugh! One flop after several exceptional successes is not enough to change my mind about the caterer. But considering the per-person cost, I was surprised at the menu selection. Stop it, John! If you think you can do better, give it a shot.

+++

My fingers rested too heavily on the keyboard as my eyes closed. I woke from an incomplete introduction to an upright nap to find a long, long series of lines of the letter “g.” That is a sure sign I need to stop attempting to think through my fingers.

From an article in this morning’s New York Times website:  “there are a more living cells on Earth — a million trillion trillion, or 10^30 in math notation, a 1 followed by 30 zeros — than there are stars in the universe or grains of sand on our planet.”

I cannot comprehend a number that large. I tried to calculate how much time, in years, would pass in that number of seconds. One trillion seconds is roughly 31,546 years. That analysis stopped me from attempting any further calculations. Some people—perhaps most people—might question why I attempted to undertake such a calculation; what possible value might there be in finding the answer? In practical terms, not enough to warrant going to the trouble. But in terms of understanding…and knowledge…and feeding my curiosity…and various other measures, attempting to establish comparisons with figures I might better comprehend, there is enormous value hiding in my query. If nothing else, trying to understand such huge numbers helps clarify for me how irrelevant I am in the larger universe. And even within a bucket large enough to hold all the grains of sand on this planet. The headache with which I started this day is being magnified exponentially as I try to make sense out of these monstrous numbers. I will never make sense of them; they will remain mysteries for at least the next one trillion seconds.

+++

My thoughts this morning are jumbled; too many unimportant things on my mind, competing with considerably more meaningful subjects. I have tried to sort myself out so I might write something interesting or thought-provoking, but success has not been mine. That being the case, I will stop trying. Instead, I will take something for my headache; with good fortune, the headache will disappear before too much time has passed.

Tonight, we will attend a wine dinner that has long been on my short list of social engagements. The wines tonight will be from the Bordeaux region of France. The food paired with the wines (or vice versa) will be, of course, French. “Of course” may be a bit presumptuous, in that caterers often have to adapt to the availability of ingredients in recipes of some cuisines and the taste of the audience must, unfortunately, be taken into account. I am not a food snob—I do not like everything—but if you’re going to have French or Italian or Ethiopian or Lebanese food, I think you ought to have those foods as close as possible to the way they are commonly prepared…not a bastardized version adjusted to satisfy an amalgamation of parochial tastes to appeal to any preferences (or none at all). Hmm…apparently I woke up a tad cranky this morning. The fact that I closed the cat up in the TV room so I don’t have to listen to her incessant yowling confirms that assessment of my mood. Growl!

+++

I thought I learned much of what there is to know about grief by experiencing it. But there is much more to it than I thought. Recently, I read something that suggested there are five or six “stages” to grief. I doubt grief can be so easily analyzed and categorized. Expressions of grief are not limited to mental or emotional displays. I am convinced that complex interactions take place between the mind and the body, so that neither component can experience grief without the other. Grief can affect either or both; when it is both, it can be debilitating. And it can lead a person down a very dark path. I’ll be learning more about grief when I visit, in about a week, with someone who has experience dealing with with the impacts of grief and ways to confront and deal with it. I have been interested in the topic of grief for a very long time. More recently, my interest has morphed from simple curiosity to a passionate desire to know what it is and how it can be derailed in some way.

+++

For the first time in well over a thousand years, I watched some game shows on TV last night: Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I think I used to watch Jeopardy with my mother; it was both fun and educational. There were some other interesting and educational game shows in years past (and may be today, but I have no idea what they might be). Shows like Password and College Bowl. None of those shows were high-brow educational; just fun, entertaining, curiosity-fueling educational. I was able to watch last night’s game shows because we have—at least for the moment—YouTubeTV, which gives us access to huge numbers of cable and streaming channels. I have missed PBS Newshour ever since I moved into this house, where we opted not to sign up for the limited options then available to us for television service. We then opted for streaming a few reliably good sources like Netflix, Amazon Prime Video (well, that comes with Amazon Prime), Acorn, and Paramount Plus. I now have a broader range of options, though I doubt I’ll use more than a couple with any regularity; most of my watching will remain on the originally-contracted streaming channels.

+++

Sometimes I feel woefully ignorant of the structure and operation of the governments of even large, powerful countries—but occasionally I learn that my embarrassingly limited knowledge is encyclopedic in comparison to others who I would expect to be at least moderately aware. Schools teaching “civics” that is limited to U.S. municipal, state, and federal governments is valuable, but utterly inadequate. We, collectively, should understand the way other countries’ governments function. The political operations of countries like Iran and India and Japan can have enormous effects on the U.S., so we all should be cognizant of how they are functioning. WAIT JUST A MINUTE! How much impact do I have on any of those countries? Given that I have NO IMPACT of them, why should I keep up with them? How will that prepare me for…whatever? Those questions are irrelevant; as human beings, we have an obligation to understand the world in which we live, so that our impact on that world is as gentle and as positively productive as possible. Right! Wishful thinking does not turn ideas into reality. Ideas are strictly fantasies unless they are implemented. This back and forth is going nowhere; we’re going to have to “agree to disagree.” Nonsense! I do not have to accept your opinions (for that’s all they are) any more than you have to accept mine! Hmm. But we’re two people in the same body. Two people operating out of the same skull, with the same brain. How can that be? If we’re both in the same place at the same time, is it possible to hold conflicting opinions? Yes. It’s one of the things I do best. This paragraph began as a result of my thoughts about unexpected developments in Dutch efforts to form a coalition government. I just never got around to exploring my thoughts about that…at least those thoughts did not emerge from my fingers. Not yet, anyway.

+++

I know who you are…some of you. I’ll be thinking about you today. Don’t do anything to upset my positive thoughts, please. Just have an uneventful, pleasant, relaxing day. As for you I do not know, if any; ditto.

My thoughts this morning are tangled, as if some are fresh and new, yet are entwined with old, ragged ones. Together, those multigenerational thoughts form a grey web that blurs those thoughts, a translucent film that impedes ideas from coalescing into answers. The clarity of philosophy I had hoped to experience this morning eludes me. My philosophies pair perfectly with their opposites; I see and understand too many sides to every issue. Philosophies should compete with one another, not attempt to prove the rectitude of competing philosophies that are in outright conflict with themselves. But who am I to make pronouncements about the proper behavior of philosophies? Listen to what I say, but beware of believing. The world plays tricks on itself every day.

+++

An unguarded afternoon, which intoxicants can free of the behavioral rules normally followed during the course of that part of the day, can leave a person feeling embarrassed and regretful. The same thing can happen, of course, during other dayparts. But the comparative infrequency of such free-flowing afternoons tends to amplify brittle emotional reactions. Daypart. I started using that term to differentiate between different segments of the day; I heard the term quite some time ago, as used by television executives. The way I divide the day into components differs from the way others might. Daypart is a term that originated in broadcast programming. Some broadcasters separate their schedules into these various dayparts: Morning, Daytime, Early fringe, Prime time, Late news, Late fringe, and Late night. My days tend not to have as many parts. But sometimes, the number of dayparts in my depiction of the passage of a day can be astonishingly large. I strayed quite a distance from my opening thoughts. And that may be best. My thoughts can ricochet like bullets fired into the corner of room that has solid steel walls. Fragments of the bullet (or the thought) are left behind each time it hits a solid surface. With enough power propelling it (which, I realize, does not exist), the bullet (or thought) eventually would lose all its mass, which would have been left on the solid surface.

+++

Most of the items on our to-do lists (whether physical lists or just mental accounts) are not vital. In fact, only life-or-death obligations are absolutely necessary. [Even then, those items can be ignored, leading to deadly outcomes.] The rest are options, albeit sometimes obligations that—if not completed—can have extremely unpleasant consequences. When deciding what items to attack from an impossibly long to-do list, one may find it helpful to order the list by priority—or by severity of consequences. I am not suggesting I regularly practice this (I cannot claim to have ever done it, at least consciously); but it seems to me like sound reasoning.

+++

I am no more a poet than bacon is a vegetable, but I sometimes feel compelled to write poetry. Free-verse poetry often strips away unnecessary words, leaving only the words required to tell a story or deliver a message. Somehow, that spare style can be exquisitely beautiful, using negative space to complete the picture sketched with a smattering of words. I have written only a few poems of which I am proud. And, of course, I do not remember much about them. I do remember one of them, but only its message, not the words used to craft that message; I had to copy it to produce it here. The poem, Into Salt.

Into Salt.

The water was gentle that February day, the waves
subdued as if they knew we were coming and why.

Salt in the air and in our eyes.  Water splashing
against the beach and running down the rivers on our faces.

Wading, slowly, into the warm salt water,
hating every step and cursing every breath untaken.

Holding onto one another the way we
no longer could hold onto her.

Releasing the contents of a temporary plastic
urn into the permanence of an infinite sea.

Impossibly hard, brutally final, an ending come too early
in a world in which we too often say what we should too late.

The gentleness of the water was unwelcome,
waves should have pounded the sand,
wind should have shrieked in rebellion.

She had been someone who loved and
was loved, someone who cared and was cared for.

That final soul-crushing goodbye broke life into a million
shards, like brittle glass that cannot be made whole again.

You just go on, remembering what melted into salt.

+++

Yesterday’s bloodletting took just a few minutes. I was taken to an examination room at the far end of the medical suite, where a nurse made quick work of filling three tubes with my blood. She took my blood pressure (which was considerably lower than it is when I take it at home) and asked me questions about my medications. And then she sent me on my way. As I left, I was told I have an appointment scheduled in about four months for a follow-up with my oncologist. The longer the time between appointments, the better.

+++

The cat woke me (for the umpteenth time) around 6. I had expected to get up considerably earlier, but being awakened frequently during the night made me decide, unconsciously, otherwise. I am awake now, but can imagine a nap in the not-too-distant future.

Roughly thirteen years ago, essentially all news media were focused on the plight of 33 Chilean miners caught inside a collapsed gold and copper mine.  Ultimately, they were trapped for  69 days before being rescued. Media coverage for the 41 miners who have been trapped beneath a collapsed Himalayan tunnel since November 15 has been far less all-encompassing. The story of the Chilean miners did not have to compete with Ukraine and Israel and Gaza, so the relatively low level of media interest in today’s story may be understandable—to an extent. But I cannot help but wonder whether the story coming out of India deals with people the media realizes are not valued as highly by the public as are people in Chile. I do not have an answer; I only have some curiosity which cannot be satisfied. Just minutes ago, rescuers reached the Indian miners—I hope the outcome is as positive for them as it was for the Chileans.

+++

Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken. Although its light is wide and great, the moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

~ Dōgen Zenji ~

That quotation has fascinated me from the very first time I read it. I think I was enamored with it because I have experienced the wonder of looking at a little drop of water and seeing reflected in it my face and the entire landscape behind me. I marvel at that incredibly common reality. There is nothing about it that should surprise me, yet when I have seen the world reflected in a raindrop of a blade of grass I marvel at the magic.

+++

Another medical incursion into my privacy today—fortunately, it’s only a quick blood draw. I am not quite sure the lab work was scheduled for today by my oncologist, inasmuch as I do not have any more appointments with her within the near-term, but I will dutifully obey her instructions. I do sometimes listen to the admonitions of my doctors; when the instructions suit me, I follow them to a tee (I do not know how to write that…is it a golf tee or the letter T or a cup of freshly brewed tea?).

+++

The cat was rescued from the boarding house yesterday. So, at midnight, 2 a.m., and about 6 this morning, she worked on her “wakey!-wakey!” routine. If I had a house with a large porte cochère in front of it—a covered area big enough to serve as a “pet relief area” in rainy or snow weather—I might invite a cute little dog to move in. Perhaps the dog would be able to convince the cat to remain quiet until after I get up at, say, 5:00 or 5:30. Dog dreams.

+++

Time for another tiny espresso. It’s amazing how little I drink, compared to the amount of coffee I consume (when I consumed coffee regularly). Two or three little mini-cups and I am satisfied. I will now go pursue satisfaction.

I spent the last two hours writing and rewriting the president’s message for the church newsletter. The darkness I bring to so much of what I write on this blog found its way to the first three drafts—which I started writing the day before yesterdays—of the newsletter message. I abandoned and deleted those drafts—darkness is not what the congregation wants to see in messages from the president. The fourth draft may be acceptable. I will let it settle for a while and read it again; I will ask mi novia to read it and give me her opinion. I could never have been successful as a paid assignment-based writer because my mood dictates, in large part, what spills from my fingers onto the keyboard. Oh, I can try to override my attitudes, but the degree to which I am successful in that endeavor is hit-and-miss.

+++

A recurring, but not frequent, theme in my writing involves my fantasy about starting over. Not from the beginning, but from the present. I have written about leaving everything behind, including (perhaps especially) my identity. All I would take is the money I could lay my hands on—I could not start over, at least not satisfactorily, in abject poverty. I would go to a place no one knows me and I would present myself as someone quite unlike the man I am. The history I would share about myself would be radically different from my real history. I would try to be an extreme extrovert, but that might be impossible for me to pull off. Failing that, I would have multiple personalities—I would be extroverted until I could no longer fake it and I probably would just be extremely shy and withdrawn. Or, maybe, I would make it easier on myself by simply shedding my historical surface self; that would not require acting. Just be me, but with a completely artificial past. Perhaps I would have been an artist or a tenured professor of psychology. Or maybe I would have been a farmer. Something very different from reality. It might be easier to conceal my past by pretending I am suffering from amnesia, having lost all memory of my past as a result of a tragic mountain-climbing accident, in which I slipped off of Mount Everest just after reaching the peak. Ach! The history would not be important; it would be the new present that would matter. How would I make friends? Would I? Would I even try? I have had issues with friends; actually, the issues involve defining who constitutes a friend and who constitutes only a pal. There is a difference, I have found. Friends reliably and consistently make time for one another.  Pals, not so much. But that’s another matter. I’m writing here about my new identity. How could I explain just showing up someplace? Amnesia might do it; I remember nothing of my past, including where I am from. I emerged into the present moment fully-formed but without any knowledge of history. Who is president? I don’t know; I’ll  have to check the newspapers. What year is it? Ditto. But I would need to know how to use modern technologies like computers, cell phones, etc., etc. That might take some thought. I am not sure just why I keep returning to this odd fantasy. It has been with me for many years; the first occurrence probably took place when I was in my early forties. Hmm. My version of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” but without the same impact. I should let the entire fantasy spill out of my fingers; one day, perhaps.

+++

An eye doctor appointment today…I hope to discover what’s causing a recurring irritation in my left eye, along with a grey film that sweeps back and forth, blurring my vision when it does. I will take a list of concerns. The doctor will wonder what kind of bizarre patient she has in her chair…some guy with a list of complaints about his eye, including dissatisfaction with his vision, his prescription lenses, and the earpieces of his glasses (they have created permanent indentations in both sides of his head, making him look like he was patched together from unrelated parts).

+++

Enough said. For now.

An advertisement’s tag-line caught my attention this morning: “It’s the giving season.” There was a time such an acknowledgement—that generosity and altruism has temporal limits—would have raised my ire. Time has tempered me, I suppose. Today, seeing that not-so-cleverly-expressed suggestion—that it is “time” for investments in expressions of care, appreciation, and love—just depresses me. A few years ago, a few of my acquaintances recognized the unpleasantness of the “seasonal” nature of giving by jointly agreeing to make giving to loved ones and to strangers in need a monthly affair. I liked the idea…a little…but it seemed a bit contrived. Yet the alternative, I think, to scheduling such stuff is to change one’s nature so that reminders to be generous and altruistic are unnecessary. I prefer the latter. Unfortunately, I only preach it; I have thus far been unable to make myself become the person who practices it.

+++

I slept much longer than usual last night. I went to bed very early and, in spite of waking several times (beginning at 3), I went back to sleep. I got up after 6. And I’ve been dawdling ever since. I think I was in bed for 10 or 11 hours. Sometimes, I feel the need to sleep much longer than usual; perhaps it’s necessary for me to occasionally recharge.  I’m still dawdling. We plan to go to church. First my S-I-L will visit for awhile. And I still must shower and shave and get dressed in clothes suitable for public viewing—paint-stained sweats and flip-flops would be frowned upon by even the church’s progressive congregation.

+++

The only leaves I see on the trees outside my window are bright orange. A few evergreens brighten the scene, as well. The ground is littered with brown leaves. Some people might the view outside my window as drab; I think it is beautiful.

+++

Time for me to hurry. Though I am not in the mood to hurry, I must scurry, nonetheless.

Plans change. Flexibility enables such changes. Thus, flexibility is good. For example, our plans last night included dinner at Doe’s, but on arrival, we discovered it was closed for the day. So we made an adjustment. Instead of steak, we had Vietnamese. Considering how hungry I was (not very), a vermicelli bowl was preferable to a mass of beef. And, earlier in the day, we viewed the Annie Leibovitz exhibit at Crystal Bridges, as planned, but did not go on to see the rest of the museum; we were tired and desired a nap…and some afternoon wine. Flexibility. This morning, after breakfast with mi novia’s family, we will drive back home, saving considerable money by checking out of the motel a day early. Flexibility. We can come back any time, at our pleasure. And we shall. We are flexible.

+++

I understand how small groups of like-minded people can decide to form communes of one kind or another. By pooling their financial resources, they can create refuges that offer them protections against a society gone mad. The protections afforded them cannot be guaranteed, but banding together improves their chances of avoiding the insanity of dangerous social deviance on steroids. Unfortunately, pursuing such protections requires risk-taking and bravery, two elements in short supply. We (the collective “we”) are too comfortable to take risks, even when avoiding those risks is more dangerous and the avoidance is more likely to result in chaos. We think “it can’t happen here…not to us,” but it can. And it might.

+++

Time to move along, here.

Another atypical Thanksgiving. Like so many millions of others, we spent the day on the road, but our destination for the day was not “home” or “family.” Nor were we aiming for a traditional Thanksgiving meal. Our objective was to reach an upscale motel. Our food intake for the day began with a breakfast/lunch of fast-food fish sandwich and fries, followed an hour or so later by a “pig in a blanket” (in lieu of a hoped-for apple fritter, which was sold out) from a small-town chain bakery. Later, at the motel, we shared a bag of pretzels, some cheetohs, ice cream sandwiches, and diet Cokes. And some red wine, later, while we watched an assortment of swill on cable TV. Today, we will go to a Crystal Bridges Museum to view an exhibit of photographs by Annie Leibovitz. Tomorrow will be the “family” day, when we will have breakfast with mi novia’s daughter and son-in-law and her grandson, who are to be in town for an Arkansas Razor backs football game.

There was a time when I eschewed tradition. Lately, I sometimes wish I could experience certain holidays (like Thanksgiving) as they are presented by savvy marketers. And as I experienced them, in part, in my youth. I guess I am occasionally overcome by waves of sentimentality for life as I wish it had been and could be. Gatherings of family have become rare, almost to the point of existing only in the imagination. As we age and as members of our family die, such gatherings are no longer possible. So we improvise and adapt. And “family” takes on new meanings, adjusting to new circumstances and new realities.

+++

Plans are subject to circumstances beyond our control. The Russian invasion of Ukraine…the Hamas attack on Israel…the Israelis’ ongoing retaliation…companies reneging on their promises…hurricanes…earthquakes…sudden illnesses… dislocations of financial markets…equipment malfunctions…the list is endless. So, what is the point of planning? Because circumstances that can derail our plans are not as likely as our plans playing out as intended. But we should, to the extent reasonable and possible, steel ourselves against those disruptive circumstances. Life’s journey does not always unfold as we intend.  Readying ourselves for unwelcome surprises can lessen their effects.

+++

I watched the last few moments last night of a broadcast last of a video, ostensibly made by a Palestinian woman who died shortly after it was made. My understanding is that she spoke of the untenable circumstances experienced by Palestinian civilians due to the unrelenting Israeli response to the Hamas attack. What struck me was that she appeared to me that she was wearing makeup. I am a skeptic. Though I have no doubt that innocent Palestinian civilians are being subjected to horrors beyond my comprehension, I wonder why this woman would have spent time and energy on makeup in such circumstances.

+++

Where does one’s control over one’s own life begin and end? The question cannot be answered completely nor satisfactorily. So why ask the unanswerable question?

Today is Thanksgiving. Ten years ago, I wrote a very lengthy screed about the history of the holiday. I will not attempt to rewrite it, nor will I supplement it with new information or new perspectives. It is what it is. Later today, mi novia and I will make our way to a place where we will celebrate Thanksgiving in our own unique way. I suspect our Thanksgiving meal may involve Chinese food. Black Friday, for us, will not focus on the greed of acquiring sale-priced items; instead, we will be museum visitors. Small Business Saturday will not involve greater greed on a smaller scale; instead, we will breakfast with members of mi novia’s family. I will make it my mission today to think about people and experiences—past, present, and future—for whom/which I have been, am, and will be grateful. Gratitude and appreciation are the objectives of the day. To the extent possible, I will try to maintain those objectives every day going forward. That is an admirable aim; I hope I have the discipline to accomplish the goal on a continuing basis. May that be true of us all.

+++

Many years ago, my late wife and I took advantage of one of my business trips to England by taking a ferry, after my obligations in England had been concluded, from the coast of England to the Netherlands. My memory of the experience is dim, but I believe we took a ferry from Harwich to Hook of Holland. From Hook of Holland, we went to Amsterdam, though I do recall how we made that part of the trip. After a few days in Amsterdam, we took a train to Paris. At the time, the Kingdom of the Netherlands was known for being an open, welcoming, tolerant country. Ever since that trip, when I witnessed an incredible openness, I have admired the Netherlands. The country is one of several European nations that have seemed to me to understand and appreciate the beauty of tolerance and diversity.

However, the just-concluded Dutch election revealed a massive change in Dutch voters’ attitudes, with an anti-Islam populist party winning a huge victory, capturing 37 of 150 seats in the lower house of parliament. The leader of the far-right Party for Freedom (PVV), Geert Wilders, has called for the “de-Islamization” of the Netherlands; he has said he wants no mosques or Islamic schools in the country. He also wants a referendum on the Netherlands leaving the European Union, a total halt to accepting asylum-seekers, and migrant pushbacks at Dutch borders.

Obviously, the enormous change did not occur in a void. A massive influx of immigrants over the course of the past several years has impacted the way immigrants are perceived. Many of the more recent immigrants have come from cultures radically different from that of the Netherlands. Though the Netherlands’ attitudes and the country’s welcoming policies toward immigration have been among the attributes that allowed immigrants to enter the country, many immigrants apparently find the country’s culture of tolerance intolerable. The clash of cultures and Dutch concerns about real or perceived threats from immigrants seem to have contributed to the backlash. Welcoming people with open arms seems to have had unintended consequences. Tolerance and diversity, once almost universally embraced in Dutch culture, appear to be decaying in the face of intolerance and a tendency for “birds of a feather flocking together.” Two cultures with different characteristics and attributes and values can enrich one another—but they just as easily can clash and attack one another. What can be done to encourage the former and discourage the latter? I wish I knew.

+++

Time for more espresso. I am grateful that I can enjoy that luxury. That little luxury is one of a million things for which I am more than a little thankful. I am incredibly fortunate and I know it. It’s sad to realize there are so many millions of people who are not as lucky. That is true every day, not just on this day when many of the fortunate few sprinkle some of their good fortune on the less fortunate. If only those sprinkles were enhanced and made more frequent. Giving someone a turkey dinner may satisfy our wish to feel benevolent, but I think poor people need money much more than they need turkey. Stop it, John! Go get your damn espresso and quit being so damn judgmental.

The glass of incandescent light bulbs is onion-skin thin. So, too, is the glass of fluorescent tubes. But that glass is remarkably strong, yet astonishingly fragile. When either of them break, the explosive shatter suggests the sudden destruction of a mysterious power that holds them together. Otherwise, why would they fracture so violently and so completely? Their glass illustrates a physical contradiction: incredible strength and almost unmatched frailty. Physics might explain the incongruity; but magic, too, might offer an explanation. If magic is the province of magicians, then physics must be the province of physicians. This is going nowhere; nor am I…at least not at the moment.

+++

This morning, I read a story about a man, who had just entered into the USA illegally in the Arizona desert. There, he encountered a young boy who had escaped from a vehicle that was involved in a terrible accident that left his mother badly injured. The vehicle was resting precariously on a mountainside. Rather than continuing his quest for work in the USA, the man stayed with the boy and intentionally calling attention the two of them. The man did that despite the fact that he knew he would be detained and deported if they were rescued. They were rescued. He was detained and deported. The man was honored for his life-saving efforts; his heroism. The man stayed in Mexico after the ordeal. The boy moved to Pennsylvania to live with an aunt (his mother died in the accident…his father had died earlier). The expected reunion between hero and the boy did not happen. Still, the story was heart-warming. And it left a question I cannot answer: would I have done what the man did, knowing the consequences? I hope so, but I cannot be sure because I have not had that experience. And I have my doubts. Doubting oneself is troubling.

+++

Sixty years ago today, in the midst of an already steep decline, human decency suddenly was ripped from our subconsciousness and bludgeoned until it was unrecognizable, its bloody and lifeless image etched permanently in our collective psyches. The dam broke with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, setting in motion the flood that emptied the remaining reservoir of innocence. Despite half-hearted attempts over the years, the dam has never been repaired. Stories we tell ourselves about the fundamental goodness of humankind are repeatedly revealed to be either well-intentioned fabrications or outright lies. Yet, our gullibility in full view, we cling to religion and dozens (or more) of other emotional analgesics, telling ourselves “hope springs eternal.” That attitude masks the pain of true knowledge; unvarnished understanding. Though the pain may be softened, the perpetual throbbing ache left by the weapons of reality is evidence of a wound that will not heal.

+++

I can take criticisms but not compliments.

~ James Taylor ~

I understand that emotional reaction to compliments; I have a hard time sometimes…I usually assume they are the result of a person wanting to be nice, not truthful. But when I give a compliment, I mean it, yet I wonder whether the recipient of my compliment things I am “just being nice.” Hard to know. I suspect it’s a little of both, when you look at all the compliments I have given, but I hate the idea of someone not believing the compliment was deserved.

He who wherever he goes is attached
to no person and to no place by ties of flesh;
who accepts good and evil alike,
neither welcoming the one
nor shirking from the other—
take it that such a one has attained
Perfection.

~ Bhagavad Gita ~

+++

The impossibility of understanding life accompanies us all our days. When, finally, we admit our inability to comprehend the incomprehensible, we stop attempting to explain the inexplicable. But the eternal mystery and the perpetual curiosity last as long as life confounds our capacity to know. Are those everlasting questions finally stilled? What happens to consciousness when it ceases to exist as awareness? Does it simply disappear, or does it change into another form—one that also defies the physical laws by which we define our existence?  Perhaps consciousness is the manifestation of a kind of energy we do not recognize, but that we take for granted. Unlike the physical world, it seems that consciousness cannot be precisely measured and cataloged. Some say sleep is the closest we can come to death without actually dying. Others argue that only total under total anesthesia are we utterly without consciousness and, therefore, in a death-like state. I doubt both—because both experiences take place in conjunction with a functioning physical body, one in which a connection, regardless of how tenuous, exists between two “living” states of being. Consciousness, therefore is still “there.” In death, consciousness has transformed into something no one fully understands.

+++

Now, on a completely different note, the matter at hand is this: I have had a hankering for nachos for the last day or two. Not the kind of nachos you might find at a stadium or movie theater—chips drenched in soupy yellow-orange cheese-like goo. The nachos I’m after consist of corn chips individually spread with refried beans and topped with shredded sharp cheddar cheese and slices of pickled jalapeños. But the ones I plan to make will be made even more delightful with the addition of magnificent chorizo imported from Arizona. If I were more energetic, I might make them for breakfast, but I must direct my morning energy, instead, to blowing leaves off the driveway before they become soaked, slippery, and ultimately slimy and steadfastly stuck to the concrete. So, the nachos will have to wait until lunchtime or dinnertime. I hope I can wait that long.

+++

This morning, I awoke early—roughly 4:30—to the sounds of a yowling cat. I got up, fed the beast, and attempted to blog. Twice I was interrupted by the cat, who insisted on sitting on my chest as I leaned back in my desk chair and massaged her face and neck and front legs. When I stopped and put her down, she seemed miffed for a few minutes and then confirmed her miffitude by yowling even more. She was extremely unhappy when, after I was notified by text and email that my grocery order was ready, I left to pick up the order. Poor creature; she believes my failure to respond instantly to her every wish is equivalent to the cruelty of physical abuse.

+++

Time to finish my third espresso, then blow leaves. Perhaps food will follow. And, maybe I will return to my philosophical inquisitiveness. I want to know what constitutes life. It is not simply the absence of death. It is something far more complex, but not necessarily any more meaningful. If there is any true meaning in either.

+++

I learned this morning that prothrombin is a plasma protein involved in blood coagulation that, on activation by factors in the plasma, is converted to thrombin. I had no reason to learn that fascinating fact, but I did it, anyway. I doubt I will retain that knowledge.

From a Long-Ago Archived Blog, Musings from Myopia, My Original Blog: Posted on August 10, 2008. 

I’ve grown so accustomed to using this blog to release pent-up (and not-so-pent-up) emotions. It’s hard not to let it be an easy outlet for my anger, fear, joy, loneliness, happiness, sullenness, emptiness, or angst. But there are some things one just shouldn’t share with a blog or, rather, with the rest of the world. Some pieces of our personal lives should remain private, hidden, and shielded from public view. But that’s increasingly hard to execute.

This is not news to most readers, I know. It’s probably not news to me. But today I am thinking about the value of anonymity or, at least, the desirability of anonymity. Try as we might, we cannot maintain anonymity the way we once could. Online searches of  Google or Intellius or dozens of other sites can give us details about people that we probably shouldn’t know and certainly shouldn’t want to know.

The identity of people posting messages on blogs or in chat rooms or simply responding to email messages is not private. With certain modest skills and basic tools at hand, one’s most private electronic communications to one’s innermost circle can be fodder for YouTube or FaceBook or god knows what else.

By the time it occurs to you that your identity, your entire life, is available for public view, it’s probably too late. Your secrets are out.

A would-be employer is reading your personal medical history with interest and horror and is busy deleting the job offer she had just written. Details of your visit to an abortion clinic as a teenager are being reviewed by investigative reporters, their neighbors, and your minister’s mistress. Your long-ago-expunged arrest record for DUI in the idiocy of your youth finds its way onto your employer’s desk at M.A.D.D. headquarters. Your sordid affair with a married biological weapons specialist in Second Life is thrown in your face by your spouse and your fellow members of the board of Amnesty International.

The hardest part of facing the fact that there is no anonymity anymore is that people you trust may be feeding details of your life to recipients who are hungry for the slightest shred of damning dirt. Either that, or you’re growing paranoid. But you better not let that cat out of the bag; it could be just the tidbit they’ve been looking for.

+++

Occasionally I dredge up the remnants of my original blog, which I called Musings from Myopia. Some of its contents strike me as funny. Other posts trigger memories of a time I cannot bring back; those can, and often do, bring me to tears. I am sometimes surprised by how often I mentioned my wife. That lifetime ago was so comfortable and, in many ways, perfect; I did not realize just how perfect it was until much, much later. Too late. That old blog, Musings from Myopia, had a consistent readership of one: my late sister. The lack of readers did not bother me in the slightest. I wrote it for myself, just as I write this one for me. Despite my frequent use of the old blog as a way to vent anger and frustrations, I recorded quite a lot of day-to-day minutia about my life. These days, I get both enjoyment and torment from reading those old posts. I sometimes think about gathering all of my blog posts…from all of my blogs…and then selecting many of them to edit for inclusion in a compilation. Some people might enjoy reading them. Most probably would not enjoy them in the least. Just another fantasy. Wading through several thousand pages of stream-of-consciousness-writing would be quite an undertaking. I am not sure how I would decide which of my posts to include and how much of each one I might extract for inclusion. It would be work. More work than I might want to perform. And it probably would require far more focused attention than I would be able to devote to the task. Still, I dream about doing it. But I probably won’t. I might find it terribly disheartening to discover, after publishing the monstrous volume(s), that sales of the book languished in the low two figures.

+++

I have no pressing obligations today. I will spend the day at home, perhaps doing some long-delayed housework, maybe forcing myself to do some long-delayed church-work, possibly just reminiscing about long-ago-missed opportunities. I cannot seem to force myself to adjust my frame of mind this morning. Just being alive takes too much energy. But the thought of quitting is overwhelming. So I will plod along.

The simple, banal, ordinary. Perhaps the least exciting is the most fulfilling. Excitement may be simply an exclamation point calling attention to what came before and after the exceptional. When life bubbles with activity that disappears with every instant, important natural events go unnoticed. Every mundane experience that is dismissed or neglected is a lost opportunity in the journey toward understanding.

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

~ Tachibana Akemi ~

+++

Safety is a myth. No one is safe, nor is any inanimate object. Everything and everyone is subject to the vagaries of the stars. At any moment, our sun could explode into a celestial fireball one hundred times its present size, incinerating everything within its incalculably hot reach. That cataclysmic event—which would occur with such speed and force that we would not have time to notice—would represent a microscopic disruption in the fabric of the universe. Instead of being blindsided by such a natural event, we could observe the destruction of our planet in the form of nuclear explosions and their subsequent imposition, almost instantaneously, of nuclear winter. Or just a random gunshot could take one out. Or an automobile accident. Or a disease or an injury resulting from climbing a ladder or stepping in front of a moving snow plow. Safety, then, represents a brief state of temporal and/or physical distance from danger. The brevity of safety is almost immeasurably short. But for the fortunate among us, it can go on for hours or days or years. All of us, I think, yearn for safety. The sense that one is safe extinguishes (or, at least, attempts to smother) the constant, gnawing fear that annihilation is just around the corner. Is fear a reaction to the idea of one’s experience of dying or to the idea that one has died? The latter is an impossible absurdity. If only we could wrap our heads around the idea that the cessation of our minds and bodies is simply another step in our transformation from one form to another (star dust and all that…), one’s safety would not seem so important. And one’s demise would not be viewed with trepidation; rather, it might be welcomed (although only after sufficient time has passed to enable one to fully experience and understand his life, which would take at least two lifetimes and then some…).

+++

Friendship has been in the news of late. I lately have read about matters of concern about friendship as reported by both CNN and NPR. Having had very few true, close friends during the course of my lifetime, I find the topic very interesting.  The title of  a CNN online article, entitled “Why most men don’t have enough close friends,” caught my attention. Before reading the first paragraph, I knew the ideas the author would address.  Vulnerability, emotional intimacy, and the attendant affliction: loneliness. The article attributes to Dr. Frank Sileo, a psychologist based in Ridgewood, New Jersey, the following: “social pressures remain that make it difficult for men to express the vulnerability and intimacy needed for close friendships.” That is as surprising as realizing the sun rises every morning. Dr. Niobe Way, a researcher and a professor of applied psychology at New York University says heterosexual men seeking closeness might turn to those they see as better at building relationships and feel comfortable exploring their vulnerability with: the women in their lives… Sileo says that approach may seem like a good solution, but it works neither for the men nor the women they look to; putting everything on a romantic partner can strain a relationship, whether it is going to a female partner exclusively for emotional support or depending on her to cultivate friendships and get-togethers for holidays and weekends. Men relying on women for emotional connections face another obstacle not mentioned in the article: the implicit social limits placed on male-female friendships. Both men and women—but especially women who are involved in romantic relationships—seem to fear how getting “too close” might appear to others, so they do not pursue or permit the same level of intimacy that female friends share with one another.  Socialization has many positive attributes; the limits placed on developing close friends do not represent any of them. Feelings of discomfort—implanted in our heads by irrational social pressures—should not override one’s sense of compassion, but apparently they do.

+++

Calm in quietude is not real calm.
When you can be calm in the midst of activity,
this it the true state of nature.
Happiness in comfort is not real happiness.
When you can be happy
in the midst of hardship,
then you see the true potential of
the mind.

~ Huanchu Daoren ~

+++

Gazing around my cluttered desk, I wonder how I let it get this way. Periodically, I organize my desktop, put away items I do not need with frequency, and otherwise introduce simplicity and minimalism to this tiny fragment of my life. It never lasts long, though. I allow myself to bounce from one thing to another, one idea to another, one question to another. The amount of time and energy required to maintain simplicity and minimalism exceeds my willingness to slow the process of thinking and daydreaming. So disorder…appearing almost like unchecked chaos…returns to what once was a clear desk. I enjoy and appreciate order—apparently not enough, though, to maintain it with any regularity. What, I wonder, would Huanchu Daoren say about me after observing my workspace…and me?

+++

What will this morning tell me I have not heard before? When I look in the mirror, will the face gazing back at me be any wiser than the one who was there yesterday? Does it matter? Who’s asking? The questions will go unanswered.

I can imagine interviewing each visitor to this blog. I would ask for narrative snapshot of their lives…where they were born, where they grew up, what they remember most vividly about their early lives, their parents’ political views, their religious philosophy, their favorite colors, and what about their spouse/partner/aloneness is especially appealing. An interview might take less than an hour or several days, depending on what I learn about them. My guess is that I would like to meet at an independent coffee shop for the second round of questions and conversation. Later, we would have a glass of wine at a little alfresco café; wouldn’t you know it. we’re in Paris! Because the popular tourist attractions are swarming with people almost around the clock, we would explore neighborhoods and follow people out of their houses to wherever they want or need to go.  I would get quite a lot out of you during our interviews. I might find you had been a pickpocket when you were a little boy. Or that you left the scene of a hit-and-run accident the day after you got your driver’s license. Or that your mother won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2029. Or that you want to talk to me about what’s on your mind. Even more.

+++

A couple of days ago, I mentioned in passing an interesting article I had read. The author, Maria Popova, wrote some words that resonate with me. She said, “we…simply cannot fathom how something as exquisite as the universe of thought and feeling inside us can vanish into nothingness.” In an earlier issue of the same blog publication, the quoted Goethe: “It is quite impossible for a thinking being to imagine nonbeing, a cessation of thought and life…in this sense, everyone carries the proof of his own immortality within himself.” This concept—the inability to imagine “non-being”—has come up with some regularity in the minister’s sermons/musings. Perhaps the fact our bodies eventually feed into the matter of the universe cements the point that we (humans, animals, etc.) are never “gone,” but are simply moving along the spectrum of celestial composting. Yet I think the point is not necessarily the cessation of our physical being’s functions; it is the inability to imagine the sudden and eternal disappearance one’s of consciousness. That’s what confounds us. Intellectually, most people probably do understand the end of consciousness; emotionally/mentally, though, probably not. No matter how hard we try. No matter how intense is our commitment to believing in the end of consciousness. If we were to imagine the end of consciousness, our consciousness would provide the assumed understanding, which negates the very idea of the absence of consciousness. A riddle. A conundrum. A dilemma. An impossible certainty.

+++

I could eat my weight in fried green tomatoes…dipped in spiced cornmeal and cooked in almost-smoking-hot bacon grease. That’s the way I had them as a child. Before we knew how bad bacon grease is for humans. I do not accept the idea that we should completely stop using foods that are “bad” for us. But I do accept that we (that is, everyone) should completely avoid all tobacco products. I suspect my psyche is chock-full of such conflicting philosophical foundations; absolutes and certainties surrounded by exceptions. I do not consume bacon grease the way I did when I was young; but I will willingly expose myself to the risk associated with occasionally eating a LOT of fried green tomatoes cooked in bacon grease. Everything in moderation. Except, of course, for the things specifically designed and intended for over-indulgence.

+++

Some perceptive blog readers may have noticed that this is my second post of the day. It replaces the non-post (i.e., the virtually empty post whose value even as a space holder is essentially zero). Well, I had to go to the grocery store, where I bought frozen broccoli, Velveeta cheese, and mushroom soup. After that kind of experience, I just naturally felt the urge to have a third espresso and write the story of a fleeting moment or two.

+++

A person vows to go the gym to remake his body. He sees a physical image of his body as he thinks about his reformation. Does the person who goes to a psychologist/therapist create an image of his mind…in his head…of who he wants to be? I suspect the person who desires or needs therapy wants only for the emotional pain to be extracted or expunged. Although I can imagine seeking help to replace one’s personality or otherwise radically change the persona—an introvert wanting to be an extrovert or a redneck wanting to be an Ivy League intellectual. These ideas bounce around in my head from time to time. I could just ask people to share their thoughts, but I tend to think of these things only when I am alone with my keyboard…and I have a bad habit of failing to write them down because “I’ll make a point of remembering them later, so I won’t need to write them down.”

+++

Large numbers of chicken pot pies should be kept in the freezer all winter long. If you have a freezer full of chicken pot pies, there is no question whether you will last the winter—chicken pot pies are all the certainty you need.  Frankly, though, I could do without the chunks of chicken. I would be perfectly happy with more carrots or peas or whatever.

+++

The time is approaching 10 a.m. This is not right! I should not be sitting at the keyboard at this hour.

Quantum mechanics is a fundamental theory in physics that describes the behavior of nature at the scale of atoms and subatomic particles.It is the foundation of all quantum physics including quantum chemistry, quantum field theory, quantum technology, and quantum information science. So says Wikipedia. Though some people are deeply skeptical of everything one finds on Wikipedia, I am not skeptical of Wikipedia. I suspect there’s less deliberate misinformation on Wikipedia than in the world at large. I cannot provide my suspicion to be true, of course, which is the best kind of suspicion to broadcast to the world. I cannot provide it right; you cannot prove it wrong. The perfect fit to enable us to fight about something pointless. Something absolutely meritless.

+++

I am not suited to writing some days. This, apparently, is one of them.

Wind seems to have fled from my location. There is no wind. Not even a little. Where could it have gone? Will it ever return? How does one measure the absence of wind?

+++

Early mornings have become cluttered with responsibilities, obligations I would rather slot into different times of the day but which seem to insist on interrupting pre-dawn serenity. Not so very long ago, I could get up, swallow a few pills, make coffee, and slide into my reflective morning routine. The addition of weighing myself, swallowing a much larger handful of pills, feeding the cat, herding the cat into a room to muffle its vocal yowls, stabbing my finger to measure blood sugar, taking and recording my blood pressure, and sometimes taking ten minutes or more to set up and use a nebulizer…those add-ons interfere with my desired simplicity. Some days, I want nothing more than to ignore those obligations and return to carefree mornings. I long for a simpler time. We all do, it seems. But complexity seems to be overtaking our lives. We face commitments that entangle us like heavily-fertilized kudzu. Few of these obligations are especially demanding, but collectively they hungrily devour our time, leaving us with little but memories of happy-go-lucky freedom.  Damn. Damn. Damn.

+++

Probably my least favorite “volunteer” role was as an adjunct instructor at a community college, teaching a course in exposition management. When asked to teach, I felt obliged to agree. My job at the time, number two for an association of exposition managers, made it difficult to refuse; doing so would have reflected badly on my employer. So, I reluctantly accepted. I was given a syllabus to follow for the course, which as I recall involved three hours of my time, one night per week. The course was dull. I am sure my efforts to engage students in lively discussions were abysmal failures. The students, many of whom already had day jobs in the hospitality industry, were bored. The syllabus seemed overly simple. I would have rather been at home. I do not recall how long I taught the course; it wasn’t long, but it felt like a century. I have not thought about that experience in years; I think it came to mind this morning as a result of my online search for careers one might pursue after age 70. Among the several suggested options: adjunct instructor (which triggered the memory) in a field related to one’s career. I have absolutely no interest in teaching about association management (I probably would advise students to pursue something meaningful, instead). Other options suggested in one of the articles included “writer” and “artist.” I like to write. I occasionally dabble in art. But the idea of having an obligation to write on a subject that might be dull or to write on a deadline holds no appeal. And my artistic capabilities compare unfavorably to a four-year-old. So, this whimsical early morning exploration into a new career fizzled before I finished my first caffeine fix. It’s probably best—I am growing to appreciate naps, an activity not likely to be an acceptable accompaniment to launching a new career.

+++

Time to release the cat from its TV-room prison. The beast has taken to sleeping on a soft blanket on a Stressless lounger in that room, but the moment I get up she insists on food, entertainment, and opportunities to yodel. So I’ve tried putting her in there and closing the door. But I hear her howling and yowling again, so the brief respite is over. I may become a hermit, if only for a month or two at a time.

Imagine yourself sitting one evening on a big flat rock high above the slow-moving water of the Mississippi River. As the air cools, you feel a gentle wind against your face. Suddenly, the wind grows much stronger; you reach out to grab the gust. Though it is strong, you successfully wrestle it to the ground and hold it down as you consider what to do with it—place it in a metal-capped clear glass observation jar or drown it in the Big Muddy.

Wait! Is it actually possible to put your hands around the wind? I suppose not. You’re not clutching the wind; you’re holding onto a stray piece of air caught in the frenzy of the wind’s movement. The wind you hoped to capture whipped away, leaving you empty-handed, except for that fragment of air. As the wind swept past, it chuckled at your feeble attempt to catch it. You open your fist, releasing the scrap of air back into the atmosphere. Just then, a gust sends the newly-freed shred of air sailing away from you. What an utterly pointless endeavor.

Wind and air occupy different places on the spectrum of experience and understanding. One needs the other, but the other prefers to be left alone to luxuriate in invisibility. They are related only to the extent that they often occupy the same space on the scale of perception. Otherwise, they are as different as night and electricity.

Air is an incubator for wind. Air urges soft breezes to try harder; become more powerful and more controlling. Air has a stake in wind’s success. But even if wind’s efforts collapse into absolute calm, air continues to thrive…if stagnation is synonymous with flourishing.

Some days call for breaking through the confines of normalcy. Plundering the boundaries of today’s version of sanity in pursuit of the thrill of madness. I admire and envy the fortunate few whose careers call for them to engage in that pursuit as they write television and film screenplays, substituting fantasy for reality. Others participate in the process by willingly suspending their disbelief, engaging in imaginary thinking as Coleridge suggested. Crazy is a word denounced for its harsh mockery of people who suffer from some form of mental illness or imbalance. That is unfortunate, in that crazy is the quickest and most descriptive word to use for either whimsical or maniacal deviation from the “norm.” In my book, crazy is not necessarily judgmental; it is merely descriptive. Of course, one must exercise care so as to avoid behaving as so many ignorant and/or stupid people so often do. All right, then. Back to reality for a bit.

+++

Yesterday’s brief but delightful “Friendsgiving” gathering at a nearby state park represented life as it should be—welcoming, sharing, caring, engaging…happy. Conversation, food, and wine in a natural environment suited to light sweaters and the abandonment of protective emotional shields combine to offer deep contentment and appreciation. If everyone practiced this kind of…ah, well, it’s just a dream, a fantasy to think we could possibly sustain it, especially in a world so full of suspicion and selfishness. But even a short-lived celebration of the sort that took place yesterday can energize one’s sense that humankind still has a chance to overcome its fatal flaws.

+++

Silence is a friend
who will never betray.

~ Confucious ~

Sounds and images comprise only a fraction of our experiences, yet we rely on them for the vast majority of our understanding. We augment those two components of experience with interpretive thought. And what’s left? Touch. Smell. Taste. They matter, of course. Just not as much…usually. But touch can be powerful; sometimes it seems more powerful than hearing and sight. And it is, of course. Hugs, Kisses. Expressive entanglements of skin against skin. The senses are incubators of emotions. And they serve as fuel for the intellect. Absent one or more of the senses, the ones remaining become more muscular; their normal capacities are amplified and extended. I sometimes wonder whether a person might enhance all of his senses by deliberately disabling each of the others—thereby forcing the ones remaining to compensate for the loss.  Fascinating. If only for long enough to write these words.

+++

I read an intriguing discussion of death and what happens when we die. I recommend it.

+++

Time to plunge into the orange forest. Or, at least, to drive through it on the way to breakfast.

Certain ideas can be so powerful, so beautiful, that merely thinking about them can bring one to grateful tears. Of course, in order for tears to fall, the mind that thinks about those powerful ideas must be open to their ability to unleash unbounded gratitude. Gratitude for, not gratitude to. Simple, but overwhelming, appreciation for the mere fact that an idea can be embraced by an understanding mind.

Zen in its essence
is the art of seeing
into the nature of one’s being,
and it points the way
from bondage to freedom.

~ D. T. Suzuki ~

Zen is not a thing. It is an idea—an idea whose foundation is beauty and serenity and receptivity to an environment in which peace resides comfortably. But I am not a practitioner of Zen; I am only an observer. So my concept of Zen may be radically different from those who are more deeply engaged in the simple complexity of Zen Buddhism. There is room in the universe for enormously divergent ideas, yet no room for hatred. Hatred, though, muscles its way into consciousness by strangling tolerance and leaving it struggling to survive. Love—the kind that carries with it the broad, overwhelmingly powerful enchantment with everything—is the only idea or emotion or experience that can overpower hatred. Unfortunately, conquering hatred does not occur automatically. It requires active engagement and support—too often missing in this tiny pocket of time we occupy.

+++

Meditating deeply…
reach the depth of the source.
Branching streams
cannot compare to this source!
Sitting alone in a great silence,
even though the heavens turn
and the earth is upset,
you will not even wink.

~ Nyogen Senzaki ~

+++

Peace, at all costs. At ALL costs? No matter that the costs might be war or famine or abject, unending poverty? The war to end all wars. Such a dream. A naive, hopeful, gullible dream. Yet there are those among us whose naiveté and hope and willingness to believe in the possibility of everlasting peace may one day be the sparks to achieve the unachievable. Their willingness to believe the unbelievable may be the only true salvation—saving us from ourselves.

+++

Even with the fuel of two espressos, I remain uncertain about whether I have the brainpower to think as deeply as I desire. Actually, I am certain; that amount of brainpower has always eluded me. Yet I want to think into being the ONE solution that will solve every problem. The single answer to every question. The impossibly simple explanation that will untangle all the world’s confusion, past and present and future. I do not have to be the one who thinks into being that solution; I would be delighted for anyone to think into existence that all-inclusive answer to every troubling question. Even if the thinker were someone I hold in pure, unmitigated contempt—I want that someone to think into reality the ideal environment in which unending joy replaces endless misery. That is not asking for too much, is it?

+++

The Christmas season—which has not yet begun, but which one could never tell by looking around at all the decorations—will never again be the celebratory period it once was. My wife died just six days before Christmas. Since that time, I have felt myself spiral downward for a month or so before that awful anniversary, lasting for a month after. Even during that period of depression, though, there are many times when happiness breaks through the fog of grief. But that fog remains; not as thick, perhaps, but there it is. I am eternally grateful to mi novia, who comforts me and demonstrates her love, even when I am at a low point. I am grateful to return that love. Yet that comfort can feel like a double-edged blade. Eventually, time may dull the sharp edges that visit me every day; especially the ones that slice into me at certain predictable moments. Time will tell, perhaps.

+++

It is late, already 8. I have been dragging lately. Dragging more and more. Even caffeine seems to have no appreciable impact on my energy level. Could be age, I  guess. How in the hell did I ever get to this advanced age? It’s a miracle or a curse.

The hour I spent writing when I arose early this morning was time I needed to release steam from a sealed container.  Had I let the words that gathered there metastasize into sharp sentences and fierce paragraphs, the container could have exploded. The words I wrote remain in my head, but they are invisible now; sealed off from places where eyes might see them. But they remain in me, aching to be released. That constant battle continues.

+++

This morning, I found my book, The Essence of Zen. The timing was perfect; I needed it.

Solitude is freedom.
It’s an anchor, an anchor in the void.
You’re anchored to nothing,
and that’s my definition of freedom.

~ John Lilly ~

And another…

The One and the All.
Mingle and move without discriminating.
Live in this awareness and you’ll stop worrying
about not being perfect.

~ Seng Tsan ~

Drinking tea can, it is said, help sooth one’s mind. I am not sure whether it works with me; I should try it again. Very soon. I am not sure whether espresso has that effect; I’ve had two shots of espresso this morning. Even with The Essence of Zen open to words of wisdom, I am not certain about the soothing impact of espresso.

Another quotation that speaks to me:

He who knows
he has enough
is rich.

~ Lao Tzu ~

Hmm. I think I have had enough…more than enough. I still need something to remind me of the way to become settled.

Within yourself
is a stillness and a sanctuary
to which you can retreat at any time
and be yourself.

~ Herman Hesse ~

That’s it. That is the one I need. A sanctuary to which I can retreat, free of the chatter and grating noise of certainty and discord. It is the one I need, but is it attainable? It is. Simply withdraw for a time. Ignore the flood of selfishness that seeks to overcome altruism. Breathe pure air, unsullied by the smoke from arsonists’ fires.  Pet the cat. Listen to her contented purr. Imagine being hidden in a delightfully comfortable cocoon. Engage with the world around you as if asleep.  Ignore the fray for as long as it takes for steam to become ice.

I’ve been drawing a blank about what to write this morning. Everything that comes to mind would require far too much time and energy and would leave me and anyone reading my words angry and depressed. Finally, I decided I would simply extract some wisdom from a book that, for years, I have kept on my desk within an arm’s reach. But I glanced around my desk…it wasn’t there. I turned and skimmed the bookshelves…apparently not there, either. My heart sunk. But I am confident it must be somewhere nearby. It has to be. I would never had gotten rid of it. The little black book, The Essene of Zen, has been my reliable counselor for several years. It does not tell me things I do not already know, but it reminds me to think more deeply about things I know already. I simply must find the book. And clear off my desk so the book can claim a place within easy arm’s reach,

+++

For now, though. Another shot of caffeine. It is late. The day already is attempting to get away from me. I cannot let that happen. I will grasp the day. For you Latin-speakers, that would be capiunt diem.