John Swinburn

Maybe it is the change of seasons—the fact that Winter is officially over and Spring is upon us (or, for those in the southern hemisphere, Summer just ended and Autumn has begun). I doubt the change of seasons in the southern hemisphere can be held to account, so if there’s a seasonal connection, it must be the version reserved for the northern hemisphere. While the seasons may play a part, I am certain they are not entirely responsible. It’s the wanderlust again. That’s what’s making me edgy—the urge to hit the highway, Route 66 style. That is, with no constraints imposed by a plan—because there would not be one. And no destination; just “go.” I long for that boundless road trip, but I like having my home base, too. In other words, I want opposites: dangerous safety; boring adventure; freezing heat; boiling ice; you get my drift. The impossible. But that is what drives fantasy, is it not? Impossible dreams. The unfolding of the world—and events in it—in magical fashion, free of life’s ugly flaws and traumatic disappointments. That, in itself, is a fantasy.

The sudden disappointment of a hope leaves a scar which the ultimate fulfillment of that hope never entirely removes.

~ Thomas Hardy ~

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My philosophy is fluid. Or, as I am wont to say, it is contextual.

Wait! THAT statement could be misinterpreted. Someone might interpret it to mean my core beliefs could be swayed by circumstances. It’s not the BELIEFS that could swayed; it’s the circumstances surrounding their application. For example, I oppose the euthanasia of animal rescue shelter guests after a certain period of time passes. On the other hand, I favor euthanizing animals, rather than leaving them to fend for themselves in a harsh environment.

It is hard to say how the paragraph above coincides with my philosophy about humanity, but, somehow, it does. Perhaps it is because it reveals that the addition of information to one’s understanding can alter not only one’s understanding but the way in which one reacts to it. A person who vacillates between opposing positions is not necessarily “wishy-washy” but, instead, may simply be highly discerning. He may be able to simultaneously see a set of circumstances from multiple perspectives. Depending on perspective, then, he may made very different decisions about what he experiences.

Logic tells me to bear such stuff in mind before making judgments about people. But emotion tells me to disregard logic and go strictly with my gut. Naturally, I sometimes find myself hating and loving a person at the same time. Fortunately, my ambivalence usually applies only to people I do not know well.

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We humans measure wisdom with antiquated tools. Rulers and balance scales cannot do an adequate job of determining the scope and size of an immeasurable characteristic. But we try to employ the tools we use to measure the physical world to measuring the philosophical world. Those two worlds are in different places. Different dimensions. Different purposes. Sometimes, they blend together effortlessly. But, often, they clash. They square off, passionately insistent that only one worldview really matters. They learn, though, the truth: one’s worldview is irrelevant. It’s one’s ability to adapt to radical change.

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I do not understand the “threats” posed by China. Though I see clear evidence of belligerence and hostility on the part of Russia, China does not seem especially bellicose. I sometimes get the sense that the USA is, as often as not, the one stirring the pot between us and them. Let me add this: if the “threats” include the natural byproducts of competitive commerce, I do see them. China seems fully prepared to take over the world from the standpoint of economic muscle and precision focus. In my opinion, that competition is not necessarily politically combative or contentious; it’s the nature of capitalism. Obviously, China is quite adept at capitalism, despite “our” claim to fame as the world’s preeminent capitalist society. We might once have legitimately held claim to that title, but no more. We rested on our laurels while China and various other Asian countries/economies perfected their strategies. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

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Talent. Is it an innate characteristic, or does it require planting and intense cultivation?

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The crows outside my window are loud. Obnoxiously loud. Annoyingly, irritatingly, offensively loud. I generally admire and appreciate sounds from the natural world. But these…these disgusting squawks that sound both artificial and demonic…they are right up there with chiggers and mosquitos, in terms of their repulsiveness. They give the natural world a bad name.

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The topics of intimate conversations can be dull. Deadly dull. But intimate conversations can save a person’s sanity. They can reinforce one’s sense that the world is not entirely chaotic; that there are fundamentally good aspects to a sometimes seemingly miserable cesspool of irredeemable losers. Intimate conversations are the discussions about anything and everything that take place between good friends; meaningless drivel and life-changing secrets, all kept in strictest confidence without need of a reminder about its confidentiality. Because intimate conversations are, by nature, limited. Never more than two people. Even in their drab overcoats, these dull, grey conversations can revive the irretrievably lost, bathing them in colorful garments invisible to everyone else.

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I am drifting in and out of vacancy. My mind wanders off and refuses to return without significant prodding. Enough. Maybe I should light some incense and tell my mind to chill.

One-fingered blogging. The only devices in the house with internet access are smartphones. With tiny keyboards designed for little-bitty people with itsy-bitzy fingers. The reason the usual internet devices are unavailable is that the loudest, most violent, damn-near-heart-stopping clap of thunder I have ever heard (and its accompanying lightning bolt) killed the modem. The only device in the house that was killed in the attack. Among the few sophisticated electronic devices that went unprotected against electrical spikes. The modem is totally dead. No lights. No noise. Nothing. Ach! But AT&T says a replacement will arrive by FedEx today. Good. In the absence of the internet last night, we watched a Pixar film, Cars, that mi novia has on DVD.

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I am ashamed of how addicted I am to the internet. Even though my smart-phone has a tiny keyboard and a tiny screen, I find myself checking the news, searching on Google, and otherwise indulging my addiction. Perhaps I should check myself in to a Buddhist monastery where the monks practice and enforce on visitors a vow of both silence and of technological abstinance.

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Mi novia is used to her Kindle, which she relies on to supply her with a steady stream of…mostly non-fiction books (I think). I sometimes am slow to adapt. Though in most circumstances I am quite comfortable with technology, I can be something of a Luddite when it comes to books. Magazines, newspapers, etc., etc. are no problem…but books? Still, I have a pretty new Kindle. I should shame myself into using it.

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Normally, after having been up for an hour (up at 4 again), I would have skimmed the news, played a word game or two, and just started on my blog post. My technological tragedy imposed a different routine on me. After feeding the yowling, gluttonous cat (Phaedra) and making coffee, I set right into writing this post. One-fingered typing imposes its own set of limits on blogging. Realizing that this blog post, like so many of my others, is just a diary reveals others. It has become just a daily journal. I hereby vow that, soon after I have internet access again, I will give thought to writing about more philosophical matters. And sometime thereafter, I will act on those thoughts. An utterly immeasureable objective! Hah!

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I have gotten this far, in fits and starts. But I will go no further. For now. An early breakfast might be just the ticket for laying the foundation for a day that’s beyond acceptable. 🙃

A 12-hour sickness. That is the only way I can think of to describe my experience yesterday afternoon. Not long after I returned home from a meeting at church, I quite suddenly started feeling ill. I developed a headache, my feet and hands felt ice-cold, I was feverish, and I shivered so much that my teeth chattered. Although the temperature in the house was about 75°F, I needed multiple blankets to warm me; only after spending an hour or so under those blankets did I stop shivering. Mi novia checked my temperature: though not high enough to be concerning, it was, at 100.5°F, about three degrees warmer than normal. I spent several hours reclining on a sofa, under three blankets, until I moved into the bedroom around 10:00 p.m. During those hours on the sofa, my gut growled relentlessly, though no pain accompanied the noisy racket. When I woke this morning around 4:00, I felt much better: no more shivers, only a mild headache, and no longer feverish. I do not feel like running a marathon, but I am much closer to “normal” than I was yesterday afternoon and evening. That having been said, my mind feels strangely “fuzzy” this morning, as if I were recovering from anesthesia. I should engage in follow-up from yesterday’s church board meeting, but I do not feel quite up to giving that chore adequate intellectual attention. Maybe later in the day. Oddly, though I had no dinner, I am not hungry this morning. I wish I knew what happened to make me feel so suddenly sick; and why I feel better this morning. I hope the improvement is not temporary.

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The CIA World Factbook offers a rather sterile, indifferent picture of the Faroe Islands. An “arts” piece on CNN.com presents a more human, rather emotional portrait of the nation from the perspective of a photographer,  Andrea Gjestvang, whose photographs capture the stark, unforgiving landscape and the islands’ male/female imbalance. The nation’s population is weighted toward men, with 107 men to every 100 women. After reading the CNN.com piece, I searched the internet for details about the country and, later, for photographs of its rugged landscape. The place is absolutely stunning in its beauty, though its harsh, mountainous character suggests it would be a hard place to live. The average high temperatures throughout the year range from the low 40s to the mid 50s; the average lows range from the mid 30s to the mid 40s.  And the island climate is marked by frequent cloud covers and high winds. A harsh, rough, demanding place of spectacular beauty. I think I might love to spend time there, but it seems like a place that does not treat aging, physically unfit, old men especially well. I suspect life on the Faroe Islands demands physical and mental and emotional strength. I probably would not find it easy to live on the Faroe Islands, simply because the prevalent language (Faroese) is not in my repertoire. According to the official site of the Faroe Islands: “Faroese is similar in grammar to Icelandic and Old Norse, but closer in pronunciation to Norwegian.”

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Though I have been up for nearly two hours, I suddenly feel very tired again. Here it is, a quarter to six, and I am feeling a bit weak and sleepy. Damn! Maybe a nap will revive my energy.

For the second consecutive night, I was awake well before 4. In fact, I was awake before 3. And by 2. But I stayed in bed until roughly 3:25, determined to get to sleep. By 3:25, though, I recognized the effort would be fruitless. So I got up. I hope to get to sleep again, perhaps by 5 or 6 or 7. Whether or not I am successful, I have decided to skip the men’s church breakfast this morning. There’s no point in trying to either speak or listen coherently after a night of insomnia. I wonder whether my writing in the next little while will be as incomprehensible as are my thoughts at the moment? When I look back on what I write, I will have the answer.

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Yesterday afternoon, during an aimless drive through the backstreets of Hot Springs, we listened to a fascinating All Things Considered segment on NPR. The short piece covered the results—and interpretation—of the sequencing of Ludwig van Beethoven’s genes. The segment covered far more ground that I am prepared to write about this morning, but the bottom line (as I remember it) is that Beethoven’s hearing loss and his severe gastrointestinal issues, along with suppositions about his consumption of alcohol, may well be explained as the results of the intersection between the composer’s genetics and his habits. His genes, by the way, were sequenced from samples of his hair. Apparently, there’s plenty of his hair from which to sequence genes.

I do not need to know what I learned from the ATC segment. But hearing such stuff is an incredibly delightful experience. It is a shame that so many über-conservative slugs are so hell-bent on reducing or eliminating funding for public radio programming. It’s as if the bastards are intent on dumbing-down their constituents—perhaps with the objective of bringing the voting population down to a level on par with the politicians.

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If my moods could be measured as electrical signals, represented on an oscilloscope, the patterns on the screen would form a regular sine wave, with peaks and valleys of equal strength, size, and distance. I know almost nothing about sine waves, so my description may be utterly meaningless; but at least I know what I mean, regardless of whether anyone else does. The peaks of the waves would represent feelings of hope and confidence. The valleys, despair and doubt. Over time, the peaks would diminish in size and strength. The valleys would dip lower and longer. At some point, the pattern would flatten to the point that there would be no discernible rise and fall; to use a term I hear bandied about occasionally on medical dramas, it would flat-line. Hopelessness. Capitulation to the powers that strive to paint everything dull gray. Not the vibrant grey I find so appealing; instead, the gray that drowns every streak of color in inescapably hideous drabness. When that gray attaches anchors to every affirmative emotion, the world becomes pointless. Life becomes an error that can be corrected only through erasure. God, I know how bleak that must seem. And it is. But that describes the low point on the oscilloscope. The valley that becomes the flat-line. With enough of a jolt, the pattern returns to its regular wave form, but there’s never any assurance that a jolt will have enough power to drive the line back to “normal.”

I will ignore this bleakness. It is the product of two nights of insomnia. And, probably, the outcome of inhaling a few fine hairs from a cat sitting on my forehead.

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I had a great idea yesterday: sell my car and use some of the proceeds to buy a cheaper, older one. I would use the balance of the money from the sale to have some work done on the house; new kitchen counters, perhaps, or painting some cabinetry, and/or some other desirable projects. But, after learning how much I might expect to get from my nearly-seven-year-old car and how much an even older car that lacks much of what I find appealing about my car would cost, I have abandoned the idea. It was not such a great idea, after all. My car would fetch less than I would have to spend on a car a few years older and far less “upscale.” I tend to tilt at windmills. I dream. I fantasize. I imagine a world that does not exist. Crap! It worked so well in my mind…

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It is just after 5 now. I think I will try again to sleep. Attempted slumber. It sounds like something for which I might be arrested and jailed. I hope not. I would not do well in a cell. Not well at all.

Thanks to Phaedra, I woke about 3:45 this morning…well, it wasn’t entirely Phaedra’s doing. Whistling from my BiPap mask caused me to awaken, but Phaedra took advantage of the situation by stepping on my head. I was ready to get up, anyway. In pre-Phaedra days, I would have gotten up and stealthily gone about my morning routine. But nowadays I must be conscious of her presence. Even when she allows me the solitude I seek, I remain aware that she could appear at the French doors to my study at any moment, staring at me through the glass panes and yowling to be admitted. In days gone by, the doors would have been open. No more. Because she might come in and take up residence on my desk, on top of my keyboard.

I think Phaedra is cute. She is, by and large, a pleasant presence. But she can be an intruder, as well. She can and does infringe on my relationship with the wee hours of the morning. Perhaps I will get used to sharing my solitude with a cat. I can only hope.

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Three Spanish-language series we have watched/are watching recently have at least one thing in common: Jose Coronado. And two of them have another commonality: Luis Zahera. Unauthorized Living (original title: Vivir sin permiso), Wrong Side of the Tracks (original title: Entrevías), and The Snow Girl (original title: La chica de nieve) quickly captured our interest, from the moment we began watching them. The two actors I mentioned, Coronado and Zahera, are ideal for the roles they play, though their roles are quite different between the series. If anyone who reads this post has watched any or all of the series, I would be interested to learn of others’ reactions to them.

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Some mornings—and this is one of them—I have a very strong desire for a breakfast that includes sausage patties laced with fiery spices, hash browns, and baked tomatoes. Two of the three are acceptable; the hash browns, not so much. Unfortunately, even if I accept that hash browns are off the menu, because I have no sausage in the house I cannot accommodate my desires. I could bake a Compari tomato or two, but even that would not fulfill my wishes. Baked tomatoes should use big, juicy slicing tomatoes. The bottom line is that my strong desire will have to wither over time, unfulfilled. Damn it. I may go out today and buy sausage and slicing tomatoes so I can accommodate at least some of my gluttonous lust tomorrow.  The reason I am so hungry this morning is that I did not have dinner last night. I did not have dinner because I had a big, inappropriate lunch yesterday: a restaurant meal of alambre.

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It is a fantasy. An imaginary existence. Something unlikely, but attractive in an odd sort of way. I dream about a scenario in which I take a long road trip; a journey to clear my head and sort out the confusion that has been building for ten years or more. What do I want to be when I grow up? Really. What vocation would I choose if I had it to do over again? That doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is this trip. This long, wandering, drifting search. I find myself several miles from Elkhart, Kansas, at the end of a gravel road. The house is old but well-kept. Set in the middle of forty acres, the house once was a farm house. But time has taken its toll on the farm; it hasn’t been used to grow crops in several years. Yet it did, once. And it was prolific. Everything planted there grew. Vegetables of every stripe and variety. And it could happen again. I see it, in my mind’s eye. Suddenly, I make a decision: I will buy this place. And I do. One hundred and ninety-four thousand, seven hundred dollars. It’s a steal. I pay cash for the place. And I move in. A year passes. The place is surrounded by lush plants. More tomatoes than I could ever count. Lettuce. Broccoli. All sorts of herbs. Squash. More squash. And more and more vegetables. I never really thought I would become “Farmer John,” but it has happened. My Kubota tractor is a trustworthy companion. I get it up and running every day just before sunrise. Quite the success. But I left something behind. I forgot to mention I might not return right away. Ach! Damn! I’ll never be forgiven. And then I realize; it’s just a fantasy. I do not own a tractor.

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I picked up my completed tax returns yesterday. Before I left the preparer’s office, I noticed a mistake: the IRS was instructed to send my tax refund to a bank where I no longer do business. That was easily fixed while I was in the office (the routing number was correct, but the bank name was not).  When I got home, on closer inspection I discovered the account number to which the refund should be deposited was incorrect. I had noted both corrections (with yellow highlighter) on materials I had supplied to the preparer when I submitted materials for completing the return. The lesson I learned, quite by accident: double check the work of tax preparers. Paid professionals make mistakes. We might wish they didn’t, but they do.

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Daybreak is about two hours away. For some reason, I cannot seem to summon creativity this morning. So, a few minutes before 5:30, I will stop trying to write anything of consequence. It’s just not in me for the moment.

Mi novia probably has investigated you. She probably knows more about you than you have shared with her; maybe more than you have shared with your family. One of her hobbies tends to keep her investigative skills finely honed; she explores the backgrounds of people she encounters or reads or hears about. It is an outgrowth of her career as a fraud investigator. I sometimes wonder how much she really knows about me. Certainly she knows more than I have told her. And she knows about my family. Not must my immediate family, but my family history. Where they came from. Who they married. What careers they chose…or were chosen for them. Not everything, of course. But considerably more than I know. And she may know how many marriages you have had and where you were married. Whether you have been arrested and, if so, why.

Actually, I am rather dramatically overstating her propensity to investigate everyone she encounters. In fact, she tends to limit her sleuthing to newsmakers, especially those who are in the news because of criminal accusations against them. So, you do not need to worry that your secrets will be exposed. Even if she uncovers them, she will not spread them like runaway viruses. Tranquilo.

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Dreams may be outlets for expressions of shame or embarrassment. That possibility occurs to me this morning because of two situations I recall from my dreams last night. In one, I was riding in an open-air train car through a crowded downtown area, on the way to a spot where I would rent an automobile. The shame came as I recognized that I was the only one smoking a cigarette and that the smoke could be bothersome to other riders. But I did not stop. Shame continued as I insisted to one of two companions, David Garcia, that—after I had rented the car—I knew exactly where I was going. Even though I had only vague recollections of the way to our destination (an enormous permanent festival that covered several dozen blocks in every direction), I assured him I knew the way. There was much more to the dream that than; but the only “message” I got out of it was its apparent relationship to expressing shame or embarrassment. Hmm.

Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence you have not already tested.

~ Elizabeth I ~

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Several times during the night, as I shifted from one side to another or from my back to my side, the pain of arthritis woke me with a start. I have become a proponent of the search for either a cure or a reliable pain-killing treatment for the condition—something that would either eliminate the pain or mask it completely, without the mess of creams and such. A one-time injection or a single treatment consisting of swallowing a small, unobtrusive pill would be ideal. See what you can do, will you?

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The soothing, slightly warm waters of a swimming pool, hidden behind the high walls of my rural compound, would feel delightful right now. Outdoor “mood” lighting spaced around the base of the walls, behind lush vegetation would provide the only illumination, other than the moon and stars. I would swim and float in the nude; there would be no reason to wear a swimsuit, because there would be no need to conform to irrational social conventions (social “abnorms,” I sometimes call them). Guests, if I had them, would have to adapt to nudity in the pool. Once inside, though—and dry—I would don loose-fitting, extremely comfortable attire.

At one end of the pool, a hot tub equipped with powerful water jets could erase the aches and pains of daily life and the decay of advancing age. Depending on how I felt after a swim, I might let the water jets sooth my aching muscles. This morning, I might skip the pool and spend a few hours letting the jets chase the aches away.

My mind is rife with fantasies. Lately, I have discovered the appeal of clandestine foreign service, for example. If I could live my life over, I might devote more time and energy to my studies, with an eye toward a career in furtive observation and secret data collection, analysis, and application. Deterring foreign operatives from accomplishing their objectives, which would mirror mine, has some appeal. Of course, it is possible that the story I tell about my career history is simply a cover for the real thing. It is entirely possible that my multiple—but far-too-brief—trips to other countries were sponsored and funded by the U.S. State Department. What other legitimate reason could I have had to travel to Moscow, Beijing, London, Marseilles, Dhahran, Lisbon, Madrid, etc., etc.? I might well be a retired spy, in other words. But, probably not.

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As I wrap up this stream-of-consciousness blather, you might assume all of the “junk” that goes though my mind does not leave much room to think about you. But that is not the case. I think about you more than you think. And I think about others in your circle more than you think. It’s all part of my exploration into how we’re all connected in some form or fashion. We are. The threads of connection are both as thick as rope and as thin as a strand of a kitten’s fur. If you look at them closely, you will see how intertwined we are with everyone and everything.

It was either the urgent need to pee or the cat’s footsteps on my face that woke me. Regardless of which intrusion on my slumber was responsible, I was rousted at roughly 5:00 this morning. I knew yesterday that this morning’s health-related routine would expose yesterday’s irresponsible behaviors. It was no surprise, then, that my weight increased, along with my blood glucose number. The fact that I got essentially no exercise yesterday exacerbated the situation. If I can muster the energy today, I will make up for three days of slothful behavior. And if I can retrieve the discipline that seems to have gone dormant, I will return to a healthy diet; no more donut holes, cookies, and other such goodies. And I will not go overboard on popcorn. Radishes must again be my go-to snack. And celery sticks.  Some days, though, I wonder whether complying with dietary restrictions is wise; I am denying myself simple pleasures just to delay the inevitable. Everyone dies, eventually. How much time, really, am I getting from these routines? Perhaps the payoff is avoidance of a slow, excruciatingly painful, demise. But there’s no guarantee of that. It’s like buying a term-life insurance policy, betting it will pay off before the policy expires, turning its alluring benefits for beneficiaries into useless, vaporous memories.

We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.

~ Francois Rabelais ~

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Thinking such morbid thoughts (depending on one’s perspectives) causes me to examine other restrictions on behavior. Why adhere to social mores when the only penalty for breaking the rules is public contempt? How difficult might it be to cope with—and survive—contempt? Perhaps being shunned would be uncomfortable, but surely it is survivable, right? It is a matter of determining the cost-benefit of “bad” behavior, isn’t it? It’s true that I might be excoriated for making advances toward a married woman, resulting in the cost of being castigated by people who matter to me. But if my overtures were successful, I would need to evaluate the benefits of the transgression, analyzing the relative “weight” of the positives versus the negatives. Incidentally, this conversation is strictly hypothetical. No romantic relationships were harmed in the making of my points.

But, on a more serious vein, the penalties for breaking the rules, whatever they are, must be sold as serious and either physically or emotionally (or both) painful. Otherwise, the rules would have little effect on restraining or encouraging (depending on the context) behavior. Even if the actual pain of transgressions is minor, we must sell it (and buy it) as far more painful than most people can tolerate; and far more long-lasting. The alternative to good behavior (breaking the rules) must be presented as monstrously undesirable. I suspect we all know this, though our knowledge is, for the most part, buried in the subconscious areas of our brains. So, we are brain-washed into thinking our infractions are potentially life-shattering and horribly painful. Better to behave, we therefore think to ourselves, than to misbehave and taste the resulting sweet nectar. This rumination leads me to this: how has this hidden set of behavioral modification practices and principles come into being? What are the benefits to society for some of the least offensive restrictions with which we live? I am sure this topic could be fodder for a lengthy and potentially interesting exploration. But I am getting older by the second. I cannot afford to waste my time on such matters. Except, of course, to write about them.

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Three people have made unsolicited comments about my new glasses. Most people, it seems, are like me: we notice that “there’s something different about the way you look,” but we can’t quite put our fingers on it. So we keep it to ourselves. We’d rather be safe than sorry. We’d rather not say “have you lost weight?” for example, for fear of opening up a conversation about the person’s diagnosis of terminal cancer. But the real issue is this, I think: I (and many like me) are simply not especially good at recognizing changes in others’ appearances. We do not pay sufficiently close attention to details of a person’s appearance to know exactly WHAT is different; we know (or don’t) only that something is different.

As it happens, I think I will take my new glasses in for a reevaluation. The frames are okay; but the lenses seem perpetually “smeared,” as if they have a fine film of oil on them. I think they were not properly polished. We’ll see what the “lenses in two hours” people have to say about my complaint. Assuming they hold onto the glasses, I will revert to my other glasses; they still work perfectly well.

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You are on my mind. You know who you are. You are right to think what you think.

Hiding emotions is a practice almost all people employ. The reasons for hiding them are as varied as the emotions being hidden. Sometimes, people attempt to hide them from themselves. Secret emotions may be hidden to avoid hurting someone else: I think that pianist is far more accomplished than my friend, the piano player. Or they may hide ‘forbidden’ desires: I am drawn to her like a moth to a flame; I wish she felt the same way, but she seems firmly committed to her husband.

I suspect people in extreme emotional pain may hide their emotions to avoid the certainty of an “intervention:” Life is incredibly difficult for me and I see no way out of this pain, so I have decided to commit suicide. Emotions are complex states of mind. They should not be dismissed as fleeting responses to equally temporary moments. But neither should they consume one’s every waking hour and, then, provide structure to unpleasant dreams.

Poetry can provide an indecipherable (to everyone but oneself) outlet for hidden emotions. Poetry can hint at the emotions driving it, yet it can conceal them just enough to make those who read or hear its words unsure of the genesis of the poem. I suspect hidden emotions are among the most common triggers for poetry. Even poems that shove fierce emotions in the poetry-consumer’s face might hide underlying emotional prompts.

Despite my apparent inability to hide some emotions (as evidenced by floods of tears, on occasion), I reveal only a tiny fraction of them to anyone but myself. Rage, love, anger, disappointment, contempt, infatuation, passion, tenderness, mockery—all of them find comfortable places inside me to hide. When I lose control of my ability to contain any of them, I seem to morph into a different person. I wonder, which of the two people am I, really? I wish I knew, but I am afraid to know.

Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.

~ Allen Ginsberg ~

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Last night’s dinner with friends from church was delightful. Though I call them friends, we do know really know them well, but we have wanted to know them better. The dinner helped fulfill that desire. From the moment we walked in their house, we felt relaxed and comfortable. I suppose it was their friendly, relaxed demeanor that made me feel immediately at ease. That is a rarity for me; I tend to be rather guarded when I enter new social situations. But that was not the case last night. The fact that they both seemed completely at ease and relaxed had a calming effect on me. Our conversations—at least their contributions to our discussions—were fascinating, too. As usual, I listened and observed far more than I contributed to the conversations, but unlike some situations, I did not feel even slightly out of place or uncomfortable with my relative silence. And the food was good. I hope my sense of the experience—that the evening was a success—was echoed in their assessments of our conversations. By the way, I learned that their taste in television and film is very similar to ours; their appreciation of Scandinavian crime thrillers binds us together!

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Another of my occasional habits is to look back at what I wrote on “today’s date” in years past. I indulged that habit this morning as I read what I wrote seven years ago today. My post on that day was entitled, “Becoming Canadian.”  The substance of my March 19, 2016 post dealt with my desire to visit Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia, Canada. And, perhaps, to buy a house (along with the pottery business that was operated out of it). Annapolis Royal was designated the ‘most livable small town in the world’ by the U.N. in 2004.  The post included the following revelation about me: …I get restless, you know? I think, perhaps, I was born to be a vagabond, a  wanderer. Really, John? Maybe. I would like to dip my toes into that possibility, one day, and see whether a lifestyle in which “home” is more an experience than a place would suit me.

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Five o’clock on a Sunday morning. Half an hour after I got up, I wrote the following paragraph. But I wrote more, later and I re-ordered my writing to better reflect my sense about the world in which I live.

During the thirty minutes since I slid out of bed, I’ve made coffee, fed a bit of canned food to a yowling cat, and read various bits and pieces of news, etc. Among the news that attracted my attention:  failed efforts to change the name of the Audubon Society in recognition that its founder was a slave owner and trader and did other “despicable things.” And, as usual, Putin grabbed headlines; today for his visit to Russian-occupied Mariupol, Ukraine. In other news: Wyoming was the first state to ban abortion pills; the immediate Past President of the United States says he expected to arrested on Tuesday; a deadly earthquake has shaken southern Ecuador and northern Peru; and other matters that are, in the overall scheme of life on Earth, irrelevant to me. I am not suggesting these headlines are irrelevant to humankind—only to me and the actions I take during the course of the day. Yet, still, I read about them and allow myself to react, both intellectually and emotionally. I need to relax my brain which, in turn, might allow the tightened muscles in my face and neck and shoulder and arms and back to loosen a bit. Okay. I will stop writing for a few moments while I light a cone of incense; perhaps it will accelerate my decompression.

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I smell the aroma of the burning cone of patchouli incense. My intent in lighting it was to calm my somewhat frazzled thoughts. Whether it works will be answered over time; the next fifteen minutes or more. In the interim, I will write. I might better serve my own pursuit of serenity by delaying my usual activities; but I have a routine from which I hesitate to deviate—for reasons that are, to me, inexplicable. Oh, I do occasionally deviate from my one truly reliable routine, but when I do I feel out of sorts for a while. So I try not to wander too far from my customary morning behavior (already changed, thanks to Phaedra’s yowling meows, the purpose of which I have yet to discern).

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I am ready for my second cup of coffee. The first one is almost gone, but what remains is ice cold. A fresh, hot cinnamon role would be nice, too, but my diabetes-based dietary restrictions prohibit (well, “discourage” is probably a more appropriate word) that culinary enjoyment. I could write for hours, but no one would be willing to invest the time required to read it all. So, I will call this already-too-long post “finished.”

Only time will tell whether the relationship will endure. Time will reveal the existence (or absence) of patience. Time will reveal the tolerance (or lack thereof) for fine fibers of fur on every exposed surface. Time will reveal whether my sudden dry cough is a response to the weather or to something over which I have about as much control. Clearly, the clues have made it obvious: mi novia and I adopted a young (we think) cat. In deference to me relenting on the idea of introducing a cat to our house, mi novia allowed me to name the yowling beast. The name I gave her: Phaedra.

With a name like Phaedra, this cat is going places. There’s no question she has a bright future, in the spotlights, when she is going to shine as bright as the brightest star. That’s assuming both of us (make that all three of us) can come to some sort of agreeable middle ground on matters about which we might have disputes. Like insisting on crawling into my lap, and then over my chest to top of my head while I am sitting at the computer, trying to write. And like stepping on my face, and then swishing her tail so that it tickles my eyebrows and my nose (I refer here to Phaedra.) And jumping onto my desk, blocking my view of the monitor, while I am typing. I feel confident that the relationship has a better than 40/60 chance of success. There are plenty of other areas in which accommodations will be required. One accommodation that will not be part of any negotiations: tearing at floor rugs or seating places (like chairs and couches, especially if covered in expensive fabric or hide). Perhaps the most surprising aspect of this new experience is saying to one another: “We have a cat!”

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One bit of news this morning struck me. According to report by the Associated Press:

The International Criminal Court said Friday that it has issued an arrest warrant for Russian President Vladimir Putin for war crimes, accusing him of personal responsibility for the abductions of children from Ukraine.

The article goes on to say the warrant against Putin “was the first time the global court has issued a warrant against a leader of one of the five permanent members of the U.N. Security Council.”

I wonder whether, if Putin showed up at a U.N. Security Council Meeting, he would be detained, arrested, and jailed? I wonder, too, whether and how diplomatic immunity applies at the hyper-global level?

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For the first time in far too long, I wore one of my fedora-style hats when we went out on errands, etc. yesterday. Though I rarely wear them for the purpose of keeping my head tolerably warm, that was precisely the reason yesterday. And it worked beautifully. While the rest of my body shivered in the brisk, very cool, wind, my head too it in stride. I like wearing hats, but I have an irrational concern that I look goofy when wearing hats. Other men can look quite stylish in a fedora; I look like a hillbilly making a pointless effort to appear to be a member of a rich European royal family. Of course, it may not be irrational. There usually is a seed of truth in even the most outlandish stories. Regardless, I may start wearing my fedoras out. I think I wrote about my annoyance of being unable to find reliable advice about when (and when not to) wear hats and what to do with them when entering a place where it’s not appropriate to wear them. If I didn’t write about that, I am sure I intended to. But while I’m writing about it, the idea that there is some intrinsic
propriety in hat-wearing is absolutely preposterous. It is simply a weird social custom that varies by which social behavior influencer is current in vogue. I have the freedom to wear my hats (and to take them off or leave them on) any way I want and anywhere I want. (More or less.) But I choose not to exercise that freedom, for two reasons. Vanity. Fear. I will explain neither. I  hope the words clearly convey the concepts. Maybe one day I will be sufficiently “brave” to wear my  hat without caring whether others like it or not.

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Yesterday afternoon was extremely enjoyable, spent in conversation and laughter with a close friend. A day earlier, another couple of good friends were here for a mixture of volunteer “work” and a brief bit of “catch up.” I wish those casual get-togethers were far more frequent. While casual, but more formal, affairs are nice, the more impromptu, unplanned, and unstructured gatherings are far more my style and my preference. In reality, impromptu gatherings are rare because virtually all of the people in our sphere are retired, but deeply involved. They have all manner of volunteer and familial obligations and many are involved in at least a tangential way with several organizations. I wrote, day before yesterday, about finding one’s tribe. In my imagination, my tribe would be close by almost all the time.  We would collectively agree on a place to create a compound, in which we all would live in our private, closely-spaced homes. That compound would have common facilities, as well, like big barns, big gazebos, swimming pools, big indoor crowd-gathering spots, large and well-appointed commercial kitchens, etc.

Our conversations yesterday afternoon included discussions of “park model” mobile homes on plots of land developed exclusively as “park model parks.” It would require dramatic downsizing, but I truly believe that would present no problems for me. I can live with far less than I own now. And simplifying my surroundings might well boost my measure of tranquility. The conversation about distant places that look and feel very different from where I am now reignited my wanderlust or whatever it is that makes me feel restless and ready to move. Now approaching my real “sunset years,” I finally am coming to grips with the reality that buying a house ties one down. I think, given the opportunity again, I would have sold my house and rented something else for a term. When the lease expired, I would decide whether to renew or to move on to the next adventure. That’s the way I feel now. I may have a different point of view tomorrow. That’s the reason making big, permanent decisions should require lengthy periods of consideration. In my case, I would go back and forth between ownership and rental before, I think, finally deciding on rental. I wonder if there’s something to an adaptive interpretation of the concept of the “seven-year-itch.” Perhaps, instead of ending monogamous relations after seven years, the “seven-year-itch” were to refer to ending commitments to a place or a field of employment or some other attachment.

I probably could make a case for various iterations of the “seven-year-itch.” I moved here in 2014. I think it was around the end of 2020 or the beginning of 2021, around seven years “in” more or less, that I became almost frantic to want to hit the road; to get the hell out.  Though not a multiple of seven, my twelve years away from my old business and old career might be triggering a celebration of freedom from the handcuffs of the business world. I could go on. But my “evidence” would grow increasingly thin. It’s not time that dictates our thoughts or behaviors; it’s our recognition of the potential damage time can do to our lives that prompts us to examine our options.

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Tonight, we’re joining a couple of other friends from church for dinner at their house. We were the high bidders at the church auction when the dinner was auctioned off. It has been months since we won the bid; finding time that works for all four of us was a challenge. I am sure it will prove to have been worth it. We’re looking forward to getting to know them better. I think it would be invigorating to participate in a dinner with other church members once a month. Not necessarily as a big group, but as a small gathering. Whether host or guest, I think I’d find that interesting.

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At any moment, I could get in my car and drive for days. Into Kansas or Iowa. Pricing rental rates for small houses in semi-rural communities. Or New Mexico. Or Arizona. Someplace that might be friendly for a month or two. But I probably won’t. I will wait patiently until my calendar obligations and the seasons join hands in holy availability. Then we will drive north and east to Ohio to visit my brother and his son and daughter-in-law. But on the way back I might swerve sharply west or east, drifting northward or southward as I go. I have a months-long desire to see places I’ve either not seen or seen only from the fast-moving-visit related to an association’s in-and-out meeting. Months-long-desire probably is not the right term. I admit to language mistakes. I make them far more frequently than I should. If there were a financial penalty for language abuse, I might be standing at an intersection, asking passers-by for spare change. If the penalty involved physical beatings with a leather whip, I would be scarred and bleeding and begging for the pain to end,.

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I had a strange thought, as I am wont to do. Imagine that both houses of the U.S. Congress have passed a bill making it legal to assassinate the President of the United States. The bill has survived a presidential veto, with a near-unanimous vote  in the House and Senate. The bill is now law. The President calls troops to the White House to provide round-the-clock protection.

On that note, I will end this rambling, almost incoherent, drivel. I may break my fingers just so I can force myself to stop letting my sanity slip from my brain with every touch of my fingers on the keyboard.

Millions of Americans defend their decisions to minimize their tax obligations, saying they are simply taking advantage of existing, unfair loopholes in tax laws. “I may disagree with the law, but as long as it lets me legally reduce my tax burden, I’m going to take it.” I am among those Americans who continue to use that justification for securing our affluence. This morning, I read a book review that caused me to begin thinking much more deeply about the morality of “living by the letter of the law.” The book, entitled Poverty, by America, was written by Matthew Desmond, a Princeton sociologist and author of several other books (Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City; Race in America; The Racial Order; and others). According to the book review, Desmond argues persuasively that the U.S. has more poverty than any other advanced democracy because the rest of us benefit from that embarrassing fact. He advances the argument that expenditures on our social programs direct most of their benefits to those who need them least. He argues that understanding the roots of intractable poverty requires us to examine not only the uber-rich who benefit from obscenely favorable opportunities to take advantage of public policy loopholes. Instead, we must look at “ourselves… we the secure, the insured, the housed, the college educated, the protected, the lucky.” Desmond does not suggest the average American beneficiary knowingly and willfully takes advantage of and perpetuates policies that keep people in poverty (though I think some of the recipients of the greatest financial benefits are, indeed, aware of what they are doing). One solution—perhaps the only one that might truly solve the dilemma—is for Americans to join together to become poverty abolitionists.  For that to happen, hearts and minds must change. People like me must not only willingly give up tax benefits and governmental subsidies, we must aggressively demand massive changes in policies so that will erode entrenched poverty. Until we take actions to do that, we will be complicit in the perpetuation of poverty. The book review caused me to look at my own complicity in the problem. I plan to read the book. That might be even more sobering.

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French President Emmanuel Macron’s decision to push through legislation to increase the retirement age in France from 62 to 64 has set off a firestorm of sometimes violent and destructive protests. The news I have read so far has not answered some important questions about the legislation, such as 1) at what point would the change take effect?; 2) would people close to the lower retirement age be subject to the change?; and 3) what are Macron’s arguments in support of making the change at any specific time, rather than waiting until some point in the future? I have plenty more questions that short snippets of “news” do not even begin to answer. In fact, the “news” I have read so far is abysmally uninformative; it is as if the writers/editors had places to go when given the assignment to deal with the story and, therefore, whizzed through it as quickly as possible so they would not be late for their dates. But I have to take responsibility for my ignorance; I cannot lay all the blame on journalists. It is up to me to do my own investigation into the matter if it is sufficiently important/interesting to me. Yet I have gotten used to being spoon-fed the “news” and, therefore, have almost forgotten that I have a responsibility to think for myself and explore issues for myself. More sobering stuff. Nikki Haley, recently announced candidate for the Republican nomination for president in the 2024 election, has suggested changing the retirement age for people who are now in their twenties. As much as I find most of Haley’s positions offensive, I think she is showing some bravery in suggesting changes to a system so deeply entrenched in the American psyche. Yet most of the people who share my political perspectives will almost certainly attack Haley for even considering the possibility of making any changes; back to Matthew Desmond’s arguments, we bristle at anything that could impact the more affluent among us. I will be the first to admit that a deep, deep, deep analysis of Social Security, Medicare, and the taxes that fund them must be conducted before any changes are made. We need to find the truth about how and whether taxes collected for those programs have been/are being siphoned off to fund other governmental activities and programs. But the idea that ANY governmental program is absolutely untouchable is, in my view, absurd. Life is all about change; some positive and valuable, some negative and harmful. We need to truly understand the effect of change and alternatives available to us…and their positive effects and their potentially harmful impacts. Ach! I’ve gone off course again.

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I feel hypocritical for writing what I’ve written so far this morning, because I would fight tooth and nail to prevent changes to either Medicare or Social Security if those changes would reduce my benefits. But if I force myself to think logically—remove emotion from the consideration, entirely—I think I might have a different, and more defensible, position. I belong to a church that espouses an almost rabid respect for open-mindedness, but I would be willing to bet that the majority of people who participate in it would react to proposals to “mess with” Medicare or Social Security in the same way I would. Self-protection is natural, but it can be a grim reminder that one’s philosophies are put to the test in the real world.

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If today unfolds as planned and as I hope it will, a friend will come over later on. We will relax and chat and luxuriate in one another’s company. Before that, though, I may explore the possibility of arranging to get a massage. My shoulders and upper back are incredibly tight and tense and more than a little painful. Massage might alleviate those unpleasant symptoms of…whatever it is that causes those unpleasant symptoms.  I have scheduled a haircut for early Monday morning; perhaps I can follow-up on that with a massage. I can afford to pay someone to give me a massage; many people cannot. Perhaps I should, instead, contribute the money I would spend on a massage to some worthy cause. Thinking about Desmond’s writing gives me pause. Ach! I do with the world were more equitable. I wish all of us who are financially secure were willing to be satisfied with less so that everyone might be on more of an even keel. Pure fantasy. A wish and a dream.

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Winter continues. Nighttime lows in the upper twenties and lower thirties are expected for the next four nights. I shiver to think about it. But that’s what blankets and warm clothes are for. And for the fortunate among us, reliable heating systems and warming fireplaces.

When I awoke this morning, a question—What is peace?—was on my mind. Perhaps the question arose from a dream, though I do not recall the context of a dream in which that might have been a burning question. Regardless, as I woke, my mind struggled to arrive at an answer to my question that did not rely on a negative, e.g., Peace is the absence of conflict. I wanted a positive answer, one that focused on an affirmative quality. A quick look at a dictionary offered only a few possibilities; most definitions suggested some variation of freedom from commotion, strife, or violence. A couple of definitions, though, offered more positive explanations of the word: tranquility, serenity, stillness.

While I mused about what constitutes peace, I sifted through my email. Coincidentally, I found a message that posed a similarly “spiritual” question. I have subscribed to Progressing Spirit for several years, a newsletter that portrays itself as a resource for explorations in theology, spirituality, and current events. Today’s edition expressed a question from a reader (John, another coincidence), who asked What is the difference between religion and spirituality? Included in the response, written by Rev. Dr. Matthew Fox, was the following thought-provoking comment (though not entirely satisfactory in some aspects, it provided fodder for thought):

The word “religion” today conjures up dogmas, doctrines, institutions, hierarchy, buildings, organized worship, rules, positions on topics of the day ranging from extreme right (“Christian nationalists” or “Opus Dei”) to a more thoughtful effort to discern how to apply values to complex moral issues.

I think many people find these sociological and complex versions of religion to be a heavy weight to carry at this time in history when so much is shifting beneath our feet. We are moving from the age of Pisces (symbolizing dualism by two fish swimming in the opposite directions) to the age of Aquarius, which is much more mystically based, water being a sign of depth and panentheism (fish in the water and water in the fish, God in the water and the water in God) and therefore spirituality. Think of John of the Cross: “Launch out into the deep.”
In a nutshell, spirituality is our experience of the Divine.

Fox’s statement, suggesting the definition of religion (as well as spirituality) can be influenced by the “times” in which it is considered, rings true for the definition of peace, as well. Yet another argument that context is key to understanding anything…everything. In the case of religion and spirituality, taking into account the temporal context (and everything taking place in that context) is necessary to understand the two concepts. Though Fox drifts into what I consider the metaphysical (and, therefore, subject to my powerful skepticism), he nailed the sources of distaste for religion (dogmas, doctrines, institutions, hierarchy, buildings, organized worship, rules, positions on topics of the day, etc.).

My detour into religion versus spirituality, though brief, brought me a little closer to the answer to What is Peace? I am not there…yet…but I am making progress. Peace may be the experience of (or state of) tranquility, serenity, and emotional stillness. Unfortunately, the present state of the evolution of humankind makes peace elusive; a little like the ivory-billed woodpecker, it is said to be either extinct or so rare as to be visible only to the incredibly fortunate few—who happen to be in the right (deeply secluded, deeply isolated) place at the right time.

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Find your tribe. That is genuine advice to people who have essentially given up. Given up on finding that elusive state of mind: happiness. Given up on being able to immerse themselves in casual, almost familial, and exceptionally comfortable relationships. Given up on making an impact on the world.

Find your tribe. It’s a simple admonition, but one incredibly difficult to act on. Because of human uniqueness. We’re all very different. We might share political perspectives, but adhere to radically different and possibly competing religious philosophies. Or we might enjoy the same food and drink, but find physical comfort in settings that are almost diametrically opposed: soft and casual, well-worn furnishings versus extremely ornate and rigidly formal. Or we might like the same kinds of music, but enjoy listening to it in different settings: boisterous, crowded, loud concert venue for one but intimate, quiet home setting for another.

Ultimately, one finds and becomes a part of a “tribe” only after sorting through the commonalities and differences and establishing priorities between them. When enough of one’s highest priorities are in alignment with others’ and those not in alignment are at least tolerable, a person can call the people “who fit the description” members of one’s tribe.

Yes, but…there’s always a but. It is not only one’s own sense of connection that matters. The others, the ones a person determines are his tribe, matter, too. They must feel a similar bond. And they must feel connected to every other prospective member of the tribe. Only when all potential participants have reached the same conclusion does a “tribe” become more than a fantasy. That universal agreement, which takes place almost unconsciously and without specific intent, is a rarity. But it does happen. Usually, due to the complexity of “tribal” relationships, the number of members of a tribe is small; two or three or four…maybe six or eight. Rarely any more. Smaller is more common. And the smaller the number, the less likely the members are to consider themselves members of a “tribe.” Instead, they just call themselves close friends. But that is what defines a tribe; close friendships.

Viewed from that perspective, membership in political organizations or churches or avocational groups does not constitute belonging to a tribe. The relationship may be “tribe-esque,” but tribes share more than a few similar likes and dislikes and attributes. Tribes are, by nature, small. And people change. So members of a tribe may grow apart. As members leave, new ones may join. And the departing member of a tribe may be rudderless and unaffiliated for a while. Or forever. Unlike families, tribes can dissolve. But, wait. Families can dissolve, too. So what differentiates families from tribes? DNA, mostly. And the dissolution of tribes, as painful as it may be, probably is not as heart-wrenching as the dissolution of families. But, if membership in tribes represents happiness, what occurs when a tribe dissolves…or when a tribe never materializes…or when a person never finds his or her tribe? I suspect depression is the outgrowth of such circumstances. Or even more acute psychological trauma. I am sure I must have read about such stuff while I was in college; and more, thereafter. But it bears research and reading again. To confirm what I think. Or to correct my understanding. The world changes around us. And we change, modifying the world in the process.

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This morning, I join men of the church for breakfast again. And this afternoon I participate in a Zoom discussion to learn about some church management software. I am not in the mood for either. But I am not in the mood to do much of anything. I’d like to go back to sleep for the next several hours, instead, followed by a nap. Sleeping can empty one’s mind of depressing thoughts. Or it can infect one’s brain with bizarre dreams in which one’s movements are somehow restricted so that walking two blocks is an excruciatingly slow process. And the brain can wrestle with the absence of prescription medications and a broken icemaker in an unfamiliar house that one seems to believe is “home.” I would rather chew and swallow light bulbs. That might make the dream disappear into the darkness.

Today is the 74th day in the Roman calendar, notable as the Roman deadline for settling debts and the date of the assassination of Julius Caesar. The Ides, in the Roman calendar, was one of three fixed points (the other two being the Nones and the Kalends) of a month, from which the days of the month were counted backwards. I do not quite understand the scheme; but I have no reason to believe the internet would lie to me about something so obviously momentous. If William Shakespeare found the Ides of March an important date, who am I to dismiss the gravity of the moment? And, falling one day after what we have come to call Pi Day of late, there must be some depth to the meaning associated with the 15th day of the month of March.  Superstitions arise from some truly odd ideas. Come to think of it, superstitions, themselves, are manifestations of truly odd ideas. Yet we continue to put stock in some of them, in spite of our protestations that “it’s all in fun…we don’t really believe in that superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” Right. Just don’t do laundry on New Year’s Day…because if you do, you’ll be washing for a corpse. And don’t forget to eat your black-eyed peas before that day disappears into the second day of the year…or suffer the potentially impoverished consequences.

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I make light of the silliness surrounding me, but silliness is insufficient to conceal the tragedies of living and dying. Life and its antithesis are brutal experiences, punctuated by fantasy. Only by permitting fantasies to interrupt reality are we able to get through the painful struggles of experience. Reflecting on and anticipating actual experiences are harsh reminders that we humans are programmed for pain and regret. Fantasies, if allowed to take hold deeply enough, can temporarily extinguish the flames of anguish. But the embers remain. And they will ignite again whenever the slightest breeze fans them. We can fool ourselves into believing “everything will be all right,” but we know the reprieves will only last a short while before being inundated by another excruciating acid bath.

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Be of better cheer. Ignore reality. Swallow happy pills. Do whatever is necessary to overcome the drabness that accompanies the recognition that hope, on the road far ahead, is faster than one’s pursuit of it. Sing. Pay no heed to the screeches pouring forth from the lips; assume the noise is just a brief interruption of that usually beautiful voice.

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Time is passing by; the clock claims it is after 7. I believe it. The sea can be beautiful, but it can twist itself into inescapable currents. Do not drown. Take only a brief dip.

For 20 of the last 36 years, Iceland has had a woman serving as either president or prime minister. After the September 2021 Icelandic election, 30 of the 63 members of parliament (48 percent) were female.  Not only do women comprise almost half of Iceland’s parliament, the country’s leadership is quite young, compared to the United States. The current Prime Minister, Katrín Jakobsdóttir, is 47 years old. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, Þórdís Kolbrún Reykfjörð Gylfadóttir, is 35 years old. The two women, by the way, left yesterday on a trip to visit Ukraine. If their plans came together as reported by the Iceland Monitor, they flew to Poland, from which they continued their journey by overnight train. I imagine they are in Ukraine now. I would find it fascinating to listen to the conversations that take place between them and their Ukrainian hosts.

Iceland is the only NATO member that has no standing military force. According to the CIA Factbook, 99 percent of the residents of the country are internet users. The same source says, “…it aims to provide a fixed broadband service of at least 100Mb/s to 99.9% of the population by the end of 2021…” Obviously, that aspect of Icelandic data in the CIA Factbook has not been updated recently. If the CIA is listening as intently as we sometimes are led to believe, someone with the Agency will take note of my comment and will take steps to update that outdated information.

I may be too old to be able to easily adapt to life in Iceland, but I am not too old to admire the country’s political and lifestyle leadership. Iceland is, in many respects, extraordinarily progressive. Yet, as I have written before, certain of its customs seem (to me) to be deeply entrenched in an archaic past that lives on in the present.

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Most of the news media I scanned this morning seemed to have been written and/or edited (or produced) by the same team. Same stories, same slants on information, same obvious biases. Even BBC.com, which sometimes veers off the traditional news path, seemed this morning to mirror CNN and NPR and the Associated Press. Aljazeera is not quite as American-centric, but the English language version of the service’s internet presence obviously is geared toward English speakers. I wish I could read and understand Arabic and German and Russian and Spanish and various Chinese languages and dialects; I might then feel I had access to legitimate news; news that had not been whitewashed or otherwise cleansed of ideas and perspectives to which my government/societal “minders” would rather I not be exposed. I would love to feel sufficiently knowledgeable to be truly capable of making my own decisions about world events; rather than feeling very much like I am being led to believe what Information Central wants me to believe. I realize, of course, my sense of being subject to some form of mysterious “state” mind control must appear paranoid. And it may be. But I believe many, if not most, governments—from national to regional and even to the local level—practice information manipulation to the extent possible within their realms of influence. Too much curiosity on the part of citizenry can no doubt make governance more complex and far more difficult; much easier to derail that curiosity by manipulating and limiting access to “news” that serves governments’ purposes. I am not an anarchist. But as I age and grow impatient—as I watch my fellow citizens readily lap up bullshit from Fox News and CNN and MSNBC and a plethora of radio and television talk shows that probably are funded by political parties and guided by political and slanted social perspectives—I can imagine making the transition from hopeful progressive to angry anarchist.

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Despite my festering anger, there’s an inexplicable gentleness growing alongside it. A sensitivity nourished by near-isolation in a forest. An emerging rebirth of my love for certain forms of poetry that acknowledge the beauty of both the natural environment and humanity…or, certain aspects of the latter. I find myself wanting to share that appreciation of what could be, what can be, if only we would collectively insist. If only we would gently but persistently demand that all of us lay down our weapons and behave as if we were, indeed, humans. Rather than demented beasts hungry to tear our adversaries to bits with our teeth and drink of their blood.

Last night and the night before I watched a couple of episodes of a documentary, narrated by Morgan Freedman, entitled Our Universe. The program’s videography and its special effects were stunning. The content of the narration was awe-inspiring. Thinking about Time and whether it has a beginning and an end…trying to wrap my mind around the concept of nothingness…considering the impossible complexity of Life and Matter and Energy and…Everything. It’s almost enough—but not quite—for me to understand the allure of religion; answers to unanswerable questions. Considering the spectacular nature of EVERYTHING! It’s enough to make me forget the pettiness of politics and religion and hatred. It’s enough to make me feel only love and appreciation…for a little while, at least. And then the feeling begins to fade and I long for a loving embrace; the universe wrapping itself around me in comfort and joy. Arousing in me a sense of pure amazement at even the simplest things. Pine needles. Ants. Helium balloons. Water. WATER! Volcanoes and gentle breezes. Pie. And pi. Today is Pi Day, you know. Mathematics is not a human invention; it is only a human interpretation of the natural world. Mathematics is an attempt to impose order and to understand the order that exists. Goats. I love watching baby goats play. Their behavior defines innocence. So does the behavior of puppies; and humans’ loving responses to them. But not all humans respond in that loving way. That realization begins to bend beauty into rage. So it’s time to let it go.

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Today is the final day of facilitating my Articulating Your UU Faith seminar. I am not in the mood, yet, to try to identify whatever “faith” I have in me this morning. And, after that, I will learn a bit more about Constant Contact. I would rather spend the afternoon with a friend and let the day flow around us in a happy embrace. I do have some control over my time, do I not?

The National Library of Medicine (NLM) says this (among other things), about physiological changes associated with emotion:

The most obvious signs of emotional arousal involve changes in the activity of the visceral motor (autonomic) system. Thus, increases or decreases in heart rate, cutaneous blood flow (blushing or turning pale), piloerection [JS note: aka “goose bumps], sweating, and gastrointestinal motility can all accompany various emotions.

The NLM goes on to explain that “These responses are brought about by changes in activity in the sympathetic, parasympathetic, and enteric components of the visceral motor system, which govern smooth muscle, cardiac muscle, and glands throughout the body.”

When musing about the body’s response to certain emotional triggers, blushing and tears (crying) came immediately to mind. As I considered the contents of the NLM article, which I only skimmed, I began to appreciate the complexity of the relationship between the mental and physical components of consciousness. And a quote in the article, attributed to American physiologist Walter Cannon  (1871-1945), helped me more fully understand that various emotions and the body’s responses to them take precedence over others: “The desire for food and drink, the relish of taking them, all the pleasures of the table are naught in the presence of anger or great anxiety.” One of my favorite concepts, the idea that context plays an enormous role in virtually all of our experiences, comes into even sharper focus as I think about Cannon’s observation. A story I recall writing quite a while ago illustrates this point. The response by a male character to the behavior of another character, a woman, differs dramatically between two situations. In the first, in which the two characters are in a social setting, the woman touches the man’s arm during their conversation. The man does not react, physically, but thanks to the omniscient narrator, we know he is, emotionally, extremely excited by her innocent touch.  In the second situation, in which the two of them are alone, her touch on his arm prompts him to pull her close and kiss her passionately. [As it turns out, he misinterpreted her touch as an overture, which, we learn, it was not. His deep embarrassment about his misreading prompted him to disappear, permanently. The story is too long and involved to continue explaining here…]

As is often the case, I do not know why the body’s physical responses to emotional incitements was on my mind. But, as usual, I allowed that random thought to guide my curiosity this morning.  It’s interesting, what a persons sometimes finds, when curiosity is allowed freedom to pursue answers.

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I had a strange dream early this morning. I returned to my house from being away for a week or more, to find that children from across the street had dug a deep hole in my back yard, uncovering some sort of electric-powered pump that seemed to have a role in my swimming pool (which was never visible in the dream). Through a series of interchanges with the kids and, then, the tall and imposing father of one of them, I became highly agitated. I expressed outrage that the kids had the gall to dig up the pump without my knowledge or consent. The father dismissed my anger as an overreaction. The interchange escalated. I demanded that the hole be filled, returning my yard to the state it was in before my departure. Next, some men from the “water department” were in my yard. The tall neighbor had called them. He had accused them of being idiots when they told him they were going to fill the hole and charge him for it. That aspect of the dream seems to dissolve at that point, replaced by a friend from my youth (who looked the same as he did in high school) who wanted my help in staging his furniture on his screened front porch (he had just moved in from out of state). Among the things he wanted: to borrow some of my furniture from my front porch; to have me help him put his couch on my roof so he could have a better “view.” I suggested that putting the couch on my roof would require some construction adjustments; otherwise, the couch would slide off…and I did not want to invest in construction that could cause my roof to leak. The dream seems to have ended about then. Both aspects of the dream worried me (the unconscious me, not the conscious, cognizant, fully aware me). I was afraid of being physically attacked by the tall neighbor. I was afraid of upsetting my high school friend who was just moving in. Odd. Truly odd.

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I have developed a bit of a crush on Laura Ramos, a Cuban actress who plays Gladys, Nelson’s mother, in Wrong Side of the Tracks. No, not really. It’s not a crush. I just find her character quite attractive. Vivacious. Energetic. Physically alluring. Her smile is beautiful. And her teeth… There’s something about her teeth that I find fascinating. At 44 years old, she is a veteran actress, having acted in television, film, and theatre since she was 21. Already, in her youth, has had a 23 year acting career. Ramos is not the only appealing actor in Wrong Side of the Tracks. José Coronado, Luis Zahera, Nona Sobo (a Spanish-born actress of Thai ethnicity) , Maria de Nati, and others do nice jobs of engaging viewers in the show’s plot. The show is two seasons long, with 24 episodes. We have quite a few left to watch. I like having interesting programs awaiting my focused viewing.

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Today, I shall spend most of the day paying some attention to the smoker. It will be jammed with future meals for at least six hours. When it’s all done, I will be able to freeze quite a few protein-rich main courses, making the preparation of dinners in the coming weeks an easy, satisfying undertaking. For now, though, I will have something simple for breakfast.

As I skimmed the news this morning, one story affected my emotions more than any other.

More than news about the obscenely high cost of housing in Hong Kong—and the financial distance between the richest and the poorest in that city.

More than my fury at the Norfolk Southern CEO’s refusal to commit to compensating residents of East Palestine, Ohio for the damage done to their property values as a result of the recent, catastrophic train derailment.

More than the relative absence in Big Media of news about Russia’s assault on Ukraine—have media executives decided that audiences have grown weary of news about the war?

More than stories about the heart-wrenching impact on California of the “atmospheric river” dumping unprecedented amounts of rain and snow on large parts of the already water-logged state.

The news that crushed me was the story about the death of Kiska, the last killer whale—orca—in captivity in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. Kiska was roughly 47 years old. She spent the last 43 years of her life in captivity, swimming in circles in what was described as a cramped tank, alone. The Whale Sanctuary Project described her as “the loneliest whale in the world.” According to the Whale Sanctuary Project, describing Kiska’s behavior in the tank in which she was held captive:

Video footage and eyewitness accounts depict Kiska’s behavior as repetitive and lethargic. When not swimming in slow circles or bashing herself into the side of her tank, she often simply floats in place, staring at the emptiness that is the inside of her tank.

Reading about Kiska’s death, and a bit about her life in captivity and efforts to retire her to an ocean-based sanctuary, deepened my sorrow. Several years of legal battles, bureaucratic processes, and competing commercial and protective interests delayed Kiska’s transfer to a planned sanctuary in Port Hilford, Nova Scotia. Just last month, the mayor of Niagara Falls announced the possibility of a sale of Marineland, where Kiska was held captive; the mayor’s announcement (in which he committed to the safety and care of the facility’s animals) revived excitement that Kiska would finally be transferred to a sanctuary. But she died, reportedly of a bacterial infection, on or around March 10.

According to the Whale Sanctuary Project:

…Kiska gave birth, as a young adult (at Marineland), to five calves. All of them died young: Athena, Hudson, Nova, Kanuck and one who didn’t survive long enough to be named. Studies suggest that orcas’ capacity to feel deep, complex emotions rivals or even exceeds the emotional capacity possessed by humans. The bond between mother and calf is so deep that it is hard to imagine the grief and trauma of each of Kiska’s losses over the years.

News about the whale’s life and death did more than simply sadden me. It wrecked me for more than a little while. The reality that humans capture, confine, and put on display a creature as magnificent as an orca is stunning to me. I cannot fully fathom the absences of compassion that must be required to permit such an atrocity, much less to actively engage in it. But I will admit that my judgment of the people involved in the 44-year confinement of Kiska may be clouded by my emotions. Perhaps the people who confined her and looked after her and fed her felt they were caring for her in the best way they could. If so, my loathing for them could be reduced a notch. But, still, their confinement of the creature was, in my view, a despicable act. I am glad the Canadian Parliament, in June 2019, passed Bill S-203, the Ending the Captivity of Whales and Dolphins Act, which phases out the captivity of cetaceans in Canada. I am sorry the Act was not enacted many years earlier, though, which might have given Kiska at least a few years’ taste of freedom.

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More church today. I am not in the mood for church, but will attend anyway. Even after quite some time, now approaching five years, as a member of the church, I still do not like calling it church. I have come to accept that it is, indeed, a church but my bias against the idea of church—hardened by roughly 64 years of disdain—has not yet been worn down. I have no better name for it, though. “Fellowship” does not quite do it, nor does “Gathering.” I have not found a satisfactory word that erases my bias at the same time it adequately describes the way the institution helps fuel certain aspects of my psychological and other emotional life. Maybe I am just a stubborn curmudgeon, intent on defending my sometimes indefensible disdain for anything that calls itself—or is called by others—organized religion. Sometimes, I long to be more firmly committed to my bigotry. I wish, at times, that my prejudice were more fierce in its hold on me. If that were the case, I would not have to wrestle with recognizing possible flaws in my thoughts or beliefs. But I have a tendency to question myself and what I think I believe. That questioning puts up an almost insurmountable roadblock to certainty. Certainty would be so much more comfortable. Refusing to allow possibilities that call into question my perspectives would make my emotional life a smoother, less chaotic experience. Unless, of course, the refusal itself might run counter to everything that drives me. Ach!

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I ate some delicious cake last night, as well as two cookies. And I had some pasta and a wonderful soup that included potatoes. All of those edibles tasted incredibly good, but they contributed to a blood glucose measurement of 114, considerably higher than I want. No carbs for me today. At least not much. Only a VERY little amount, if any. I wish I did not have to refrain from alcohol and severely limit my intake of carbs, etc. This evening, I would like to enjoy a big helping of pasta arrabiata and a glass of dry red wine. And, after dinner, I would like to sip on a gin & tonic and munch on some highly caloric, carb-rich snack crackers. Almost eight months have passed since I had a drink of alcohol (though I have had a sip of mi novia’s gin & tonic or her wine, from time to time). And during the last two months I have dramatically reduced my intake of carbohydrates and cut back on my consumption of food, in general. The only obvious benefit of those changes in my habits is the loss of about 34 pounds since last July, 14 of which have dropped since the beginning of the year. Weighing the benefits between gustatory freedom and greater physical flexibility, I would have to say the latter is of longer-lasting value. But the former is a joy I deeply miss. Ah, well. Such is life; life as a living, breathing, decaying organism.

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Speaking of food…I’m really not hungry. Maybe a glass of tomato juice will be enough…

Sleep visited me last night, but only during brief encounters. I waited for what seemed like hours before I fell asleep, only to awaken minutes after beginning to doze. Each subsequent course of sleep and waking followed a similar short cycle. Finally, around 4:45, I gave up on getting a “good night’s sleep.” I already regret that I was unable to get to sleep quickly and sleep soundly; later, when the day demands my energy, my regret may blossom into full-fledged bitterness. As I returned to the first paragraph of what I had written this morning, I realized my writing sprang forth from an unusual insomnia. If I had dreams last night, they have long since turned to vapor, leaving empty my memories of my sleep state. I could have been dead during the few hours of “sleep” I got last night. I might have unknowingly experienced what death will be like. Just dream-free unconsciousness that cannot be replaced by consciousness. Perpetual nothingness, unaware of the disintegration or incineration of the body and everything in it. The thought is not grisly or unpleasant; it is just interesting. Intriguing.

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Grave mistakes can be impossible to correct. Or, rather, they can be so painfully difficult to correct that they seem impossible to undo. And the consequences of reversing mistakes can be nearly as devastating as realizing, too late, the mistakes were made. Avoiding decisions that can carry with them enormous gravitas is probably the easiest and least painful route. But failing to make them leave lifelong “what if” questions unanswered. Those dangling questions, impossible to answer after the fact, exist whether or not the decisions or mistakes were made. Either way, one decision or another was left unmade; one can never know whether the decision made or the one left to dangle in perpetuity was the mistake. The outcome of either one can feel like the consequence of a mistake. There’s a phrase to describe that dilemma: “Damned if you do, damned if  you don’t.”

What if I had taken that job? Or what if I had rejected the job offer? What if I had asked her to marry me? What if I had turned down that promotion? What if I had embraced her overtures? What if I had completed graduate school? What if I hadn’t had the operation? What if I had dropped out of high school? What if I had been more diligent in my studies? What if I had pursued veterinary medicine? What if I had joined the Peace Corps? What if I had fled to Canada? What if I had joined the Air Force? What if I had burned my draft card? What if…?

Those questions are the tip of the iceberg; millions more follow endlessly on their heels. The consequences of actions not taken or decisions not made are impossible to know. Too many variables we cannot anticipate can intervene—or not—to make forecasting the future a reliable endeavor. But almost all of us do it. We worry, after the fact when it’s too late to change things, about actions taken or not taken. What if things had been different? What if???!!! You have no way of knowing, so worry is a waste of time. Such an easy admonition, but such a difficult notion to adopt as a component of one’s point of view.

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Between too much and too little is an amount that is “just right.” The concept applies to cream in one’s coffee, anger betrayed in one’s tone of voice, and honesty about one’s desires for a person married to someone else.  Wait! That last one sounds dangerous and contrary to the ethics/morals drilled into us from the time we were children. Explain, please. Just as any amount of cream in my coffee may be too much, so can even a sliver of extra-marital desire be unforgiveable. But, like so many other matters as we slide through life, judgments about even the most sensitive issues are contextual. Context can explain, and in some cases excuse, behaviors and/or thoughts outside the sphere of what we generally consider appropriate. Excessive levels of anger in one’s voice might be permissible in circumstances in which one’s offspring are found to be dealing in potentially lethal drugs. But even in the context of dealing dangerous drugs, anger might be entirely inappropriate if another aspects of the context also involves the child feeling neglected and potentially suicidal. And, back to that matter that tends to raise hackles, even a degree of lusting after someone else’s spouse can be “just right” if the object of desire is trapped in a deeply unsatisfactory marriage in which the partners have been separated for years. In all probability, there are probably dozens…maybe hundreds or more…of contextual factors that would readily excuse various levels of concupiscence, labelling them “just right” for the circumstances. This is hypothetical, of course. But, as I think back on people I have known over the years, it is not far from reality. Almost anything we label “too” something—whether too little or too much compassion or too little or too much sugar—is valid only in a specific set of contexts. Yet, rather than arbitrarily accepting or rejecting the appropriateness of labeling or mislabeling, we make micro-assessments about the conditions surrounding decisions. We take into account a person’s diabetes (or lack thereof) when making judgments about the amount of sugar in her tea that is “just right” for her. We make that judgment by taking into account, too, whether she has just eaten four glazed donuts or three stalks of celery. Our judgements may be wrong, but they are not random; we incorporate—often unconsciously—matters that factor into the appropriateness of her behaviors. My bottom line here is this: getting to what is the “right amount” of anything, whether behaviors or thoughts or combinations thereof, is complex and contextual. There is little or no black and white in judgments of what is right or wrong. At the very least, circumstances can excuse or, at the very least, explain decisions that might seem wrong on the surface. But maintaining the sense of fairness required to refrain from being judgmental is a monumental task. It is a task worth undertaking, though. In my opinion. If nothing else, the task exercises and strengthens one’s ability to feel and exhibit compassion.

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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

~ Thomas Gray ~

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I watch. I observe. I take in what goes on around me. I try to avoid immediacy in making decisions unless immediacy is absolutely required. I want time to think and assess situations. There are times, of course, in which immediate decisions or judgments must be made. More often, though, we allow ourselves to be bullied into accepting the need for immediacy when no such need exists; it is a matter of urgency only in the minds of people who have convinced themselves that a decision cannot wait. Too often, we blindly and without challenge accept the bullying behavior. We adopt it, too, as if failing to make instant decisions will yield catastrophic results. In reality, delaying decisions—until all the facts are in and have been given adequate consideration—rarely leads to cataclysmic outcomes. But perhaps I argue for deliberative decision-making not because it is rational, but because it is my preferred style. Maybe I am attempting to justify my preferences, as if they are the only logical ones. Is it possible, I ask myself, that “deliberative decision-making” is my excuse for wasting time? Because, perhaps, I may believe that delaying decisions reduces the likelihood that, once made, the decision will be a bad one?

Sometimes, I view the world through two lenses of a microscope; one view is massively enlarged and the other is dramatically reduced. The larger image give clarity, but to a much smaller section of the world. The smaller image encompasses a much broader section of the world, but not in such fine detail. I wonder, is there a midpoint that would reduce the need to examine the world from two different perspectives? And I answer: sometimes.

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Today is Saturday. NAACP meeting. Game night. A day to show off my new eyeglasses. A day to combine business with pleasure. Neither of which is what it pretends to be. Business is not. And pleasure is just a hologram; an imaginary image that looks markedly different from my definition of pleasure. But those are old images; pictures from my youth. Youth is such a malleable time. A time in which actual experiences are replaced by undeveloped imaginations.

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It’s a long title. And it may make no sense to anyone but me. And, possibly, not even to me.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

~ Voltaire ~

There is nothing special about today. It is not an anniversary of any kind, as far as I know. It is not a holiday. There is no special event to celebrate. At least no special event that means anything to anyone but me. But Microsoft photos insisted on reminding me of a carefree afternoon, several years ago, when my late wife and I stopped at Bubba’s Catfish-2-Go, a semi-permanent food trailer located on the far side of Hot Springs. Microsoft saved the photo I took that afternoon—my late wife smiling at me as she enjoyed fried catfish and shrimp and hush puppies—and decided to thrust it in front of me as I was writing my blog post for the day. That photo retrieved my happy memories of the experience of that warm, sunny afternoon. But it also caused the embers of absence to flare. Seeing the photo triggered something else: memories of the tune and lyrics of a song by Loudon Wainwright, entitled, “Missing You.” The entire song reflects the way I sometimes feel, but a single snippet from the third verse captures the effect: “And it’s hell on earth, Missing you.”

I do not want my memories to intrude on or trample my joyous present. But sometimes they are so strong that I have no control over them. They simply overwhelm me and drown me in emotion. Neither the present nor the past hold sway over the other, but they sometimes seem to compete with one another, as if they cannot—or should not—exist in the same mind. But, of course, they do. I need to find ways of coping with the sense of guilt or regret or whatever it is that occasionally slams me with a blow to the chest or a kick in the neck. And I will. Just a matter of time.

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Yesterday afternoon, a substantial number of members of the UUVC congregation watched Mission: Joy—Finding Happiness in Troubled Times. The film was the focus of a special event team, led by a past president of the congregation, along with another past president and one or two others. I should have (but will, belatedly) verified the identities of all who organized the showing and thanked them profusely. I was very glad I had the opportunity to see the film and to discuss it afterward. The documentary was based on a face-to-face conversation between His Holiness the Dalai Lama (leader of the Tibetan School of Buddhism) and Bishop Desmond Tutu (leader of the Anglican Church of South Africa), who became fast friends, though seeing one another only a very few times. Though the two religious leaders adhered to very different religious beliefs, their close friendship illustrated how mutual respect and a willingness to avoid taking oneself too seriously can open doors that otherwise could have been permanently sealed. Obviously, the two men had very different religious perspectives, yet they used those differences as tools to form bonds, rather than as artificial wedges to keep themselves separated. Neither man showed judgment of the other, nor of the other’s religious beliefs, though each teased the other about certain aspects of those beliefs. The teasing was the behavior of two very close friends who respected the other’s differences. That was, for me, among the most obvious lessons of the film. I found connecting that concept to the message contained in the film’s title to be straightforward;  “finding happiness in troubled times” does not require abandonment of one’s own beliefs or principles—it only requires respect for others’ beliefs and principles. Mutual respect—between individuals and between groups of people and between nations—dissolves wedges of mistrust or hatred or suspicion. In fact, mutual respect prevents the growth of those cancerous attitudes. The contents of the documentary carried many other valuable messages; that one, though, was the key message for me.

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Today’s plan includes a trip to Little Rock to pick up a sports jacket and tailored shirt…and to select the fabric for another tailored shirt. I had planned to look at desk chairs, as well, but I think I will put that off. There is no urgency to satisfying the desire for a more comfortable chair—the one in which I sit usually is just fine. Only when I sit in it too long does it really bother me. Beyond the objective to retrieve new clothes and order more, a stop at Costco or Sam’s or someplace like them is in order. There could be more. I want today to be as much about leisure as it is about accomplishment. Lately, too many days have revolved around calendar obligations. Today is no different. But I want to make it different. I want to be free to ignore the calendar if I wish; at least for a while.

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As I look back on my writing, I realize it might seem to readers that my mind focuses almost exclusively on myself. That may be the way my writing makes it appear, but that really is not the case. I do not know what other people in my sphere think; not really. None of us do. Rather than try to incorporate their perspectives, which I might misrepresent or misinterpret, I try to limit the jumbled assemblage to my own thoughts. At least I hope I am not selfish or entirely ego-driven. Yet that may be the way I appear from the outside looking in. Knowing I cannot think others’ thoughts, though, I try not to worry. I try only to limit my judgments to myself.  I am not always successful; I realize that, too. As the minister of the church often suggests, though, I am attempting to become a better version of myself. That should be easy, but it’s sometimes much more difficult than it might seem.

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Our recent television viewing has included a Nigerian crime thriller (Blood Sisters) and a Spanish drama/thriller (Wrong Side of the Tracks).  We started watching This is Where I Leave You, but it did not grab us, so we opted to leave it for a while; we may return to it when the right mood strikes. After Dehli Crime, nothing seems quite as interesting and gripping as we’d like. The acting in Dehli Crime was excellent; good enough to overcome its abysmally inadequate sound.

Tomorrow, we will again attend an NAACP board meeting, followed in the late afternoon by another “game night” at church. I enjoyed playing Sequence last time. I have no interest in most games, though. Especially games in which a complex strategy involving deeply bizarre knowledge about birds: their habits, habitats, their evolution, and other abstruse stuff. Games should, in my mind, be simple and relaxing. While I understand the appeal of games of strategy and intellectual challenge (e.g., bridge, chess, etc.), they do not appeal to me. I want leisure. Deep, comforting, mind-softening leisure.

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The trees are beginning to show signs of life. Leaves are peeking out from branches that appeared stiff and dead. Weeds are showing in rocky landscapes. Chiggers cannot be far behind. And snakes, slithering along roadsides and doing their best to sneak into unprotected garages. And mosquitoes certainly will begin foraging for human blood in the not-too-distant future. What a glorious time to be a parasite on the planet!  Enough happy talk. I need something for breakfast or I will wither away.

Words; as tender as the fur of a newborn kitten. Or as harsh as a cudgel crafted from the dried carcass of an elderly rhinoceros. From softness to coarseness, a spectrum of textures whose offerings range from comfort to cruelty. We learn the obvious, blatant differences early in life. The more subtle ones take time, awkward experience, and embarrassing memories of excruciating emotional pain. Yet imagination can mimic memory, persuading a person to recall events or experiences that never happened. Or, more commonly, imagination can overwrite memories, erasing the unbearable with the more mundane. Fantasies often rely on words. The look in a person’s eyes can be misleading. Words, though, can clarify emotions. Yet words intended to soften an emotional blow can muddy one’s understanding, manipulating it to the point that words’ intended message gets twisted around completely. Honesty, cleansed of words intended to lessen its harshness, is sometimes painfully embarrassing in its directness. But repetitive honesty becomes addictive, because it removes deceitful undergrowth. It carves a path of truth in a forest of tangled lies, making the way forward far easier to see, to understand, and to follow.

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Rain is falling again. Looking out my windows, I see fog and heavy rain. Together, they cause distance to dissolve into a grey, otherworldly experience. A place I want to avoid, both for its coldness and its callous disregard for its effects on my disposition. It is my understanding that the frequency and volume of rain will diminish later today. That promise is not sufficiently precise for me to know whether to look forward to the change or to dread it. Maybe both. Or neither.

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My willing obligations today include: breakfast with a clot of old men; participation in a committee meeting; and watching and facilitating post-experience conversation about a documentary film involving a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Bishop Desmond Tutu. I was planning to watch the video beforehand so I could give adequate thought to how I might want to structure the post-film discussion. But I changed my mind. I decided I wanted to challenge myself to watch it with enough intensity to enable me to facilitate conversation without preparation. I hope that decision does not wreck the experience for everyone. After the film and after the audience and I dissect it verbal scalpels, we will enjoy a baked potato bar. Some of us will, anyway. In an effort to achieve acceptable levels of glucose in my blood, I have sworn off most carbohydrate-rich foods, including potatoes. In lieu of the baked potato bar, I may partake of a lettuce, radish, cucumber, and tomato salad.  Or something equally inviting and exciting. I have not been as rigidly adherent, lately, to my own dietary plan as I hoped I would be. For a while, I stuck to it with a striking adhesive quality. But I have slipped a little. A bite of (and an entire) Atkins bar, ostensibly low in carbs but, in reality, an intensely carb-rich and obscenely addictive source of sugar. I would not be surprised to learn that the manufacturers of these candy-like “foods” incorporate cocaine or heroin or fentanyl in their recipes, making an innocent bite of someone else’s Atkins bar into a gateway to a powerful, almost unbeatable addiction. Probably not, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Stranger things have happened, as the old saw goes.

Somehow, I went off course in the last paragraph. This section of today’s blog post was hijacked by a lunatic who took it into a completely different direction from the one I intended. Unfortunately, my original intent has long since escaped my brain; it is wandering aimlessly through the house, trying to find unlocked doors or windows that will allow it to escape into wilderness freedom. That’s what original intent does, when accidentally released from its stainless steel ankle bracelets.

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I have things I want to say, but I cannot do that today. Speaking to someone face-to-face requires that person’s presence. And it can require bravery and the kind of honesty that can put one in danger of treachery or other unpleasant and untoward experiences. But honesty can uncover joy, as well. Until reaching the point at which it is impossible to “unexperience” the experience, it is impossible to know which. By then, of course, it is impossible to undo what has been done. To recapture that which has been released. To turn back time to a “safer” moment, when honesty did not thrust one into a limelight that looks suspiciously like a target. With crosshairs that meet directly in front of the heart. Or the head. Either way, a bullet following the target would succeed in an instant kill. But we’re not talking about death and hunting. We’re talking about something entirely different. And when I say “we,” I of course mean “I.” For you were not privy to this conversation until this very moment, were you? And, still, the discussion confuses you because its genesis was based on letters, syllables, words, sentences, and paragraphs cobbled together over unknown periods of time. It could have been mere seconds. It could have taken literally years. I’ll never know. Though “never” is an absolute; and I tend not to trifle with absolutes. Because absolutes refuse to admit an infusion of facts that might alter the outcome of one’s thought processes. Bang on! The upshot of that statement is this: nothing is certain. (Although, “nothing” implies an absolute trying to slip in through the back door. I must put a strong padlock on that door if I hope to keep riff-raff from sneaking in and having her way with me.) Perhaps I should have said “Uncertainty is highly likely.” Or, maybe, “Very little is certain.” Or “Certainty is elusive.” Or “Many things are uncertain.” Or, perhaps, I should just let my head explode in the chaos and confusion. If there is no answer, what’s the point of asking the question? Yet one does not know the absence of an answer until the question is asked. What a conundrum.

I do not appreciate being teased. Not in the least. In fact, if truth be known, I loathe being teased. When teased, I transform from a committed pacifist to a mercenary soldier with a taste for blood. When Spring first teased me with her gentleness and soft touch, I was taken in. I believed the implication of her warm embrace. But, suddenly, I recoiled from her grip, growing cool and uncomfortably moist, on my arm. I knew her too well! She was nothing short of severely hypocritical; as in, the extreme…like, psychotic. The moment she teased me with her allure, I knew. As I said, I loathe being teased. So you can imagine my reaction at the latest attempted seduction. That’s right, I slammed the door on her cold heart. She’ll probably make a couple of half-hearted attempts to trick me into believing her short-term redemption. But I won’t accept her teasing anymore. She must first see the light…convincingly. I want the embrace to feel unmistakenly warm; the kind of warm that permeates the air on a crystal clear day in late May.

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I have plenty to do around the house. And I want to do it. Or, at least, have it done. But I do not seem to have the mental energy to attack the tasks. I look at the undone tasks with dead eyes and weakness. That will change, though. When the weather is reliably comfortable. To me. I prefer a little more warmth, sometimes, than some other people. When it comes, I may turn into a whirlwind of energy. The possibility exists, of course, that I will continue as a mass of stagnant, humid, chilly air. That cannot go on forever, because/for ever has no end.

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We are used to globes. Spheres. Physical entities that makes it easy to understand the absences of a beginning and an end. At any one place on the globe, the “beginning” of a straight line encircling the sphere will return, becoming “end.” The cycle repeats infinitely. But how does one comprehend a similar conceptual issues—the universe having no beginning and no end. And even if that endless universe sprang from the “big bang,” what existed before the “big bang?” Nothing? Endless nothingness? I cannot wrap my shaggy little brain around that concept. Now if the universe were a sphere… No, there’s something outside of a sphere. Here, we’re talking about something that has no outside…because it encompasses outside…it is the endless everything.

In the overall scheme of things, human beings are as close as possible to infinitely small as things can get. And massively, monstrously, enormously irrelevant. But fundamentally harmless. Except to the planet and each other, the loss of neither of which would upset the balance of Nature. We are not necessary, but we think we are. We tell one another, humbly, that we are the most intelligent, most advanced, most powerful, most glorious creatures on the planet. Ask the ant colonies and colonists. To them, we are bungling beasts that recklessly and carelessly ruin entire bioscapes. Whole forests. Lakelands. We bulldoze mountains. And the ants are not the only ones. Cardinals and sparrows get a bird’s-eye view of our mindless attempts to take imperial control over Nature. Almost every other species watches in amusement, rage, or disgust as we attempt to sully the planet. Many of the watchers are not worried; the planet will recover in short order after the gluttonous, destructive parasites have left.

I suspect the timeframe will be considerably shorter going forward than it has been going back. It takes time and repeated mistakes to perfect imperfectability. Only after making multiple failures over an extended period of time does the premier failure take shape.

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Mocking another’s beliefs is almost guaranteed to have negative effect on changing the person’s ideology to mirror one’s own fantasies. None of us are privy to the Truth. We may have hunches about it. We may have “evidence” that supports a theory. But we do not have access to the Truth.  The Truth is too big and unwieldy and impossibly complex for us to comprehend its scope or size or purpose. We can touch on one end of it or another, but those ends are an unfathomably, exponentially large number of light years in the distant future or past. By the time one end of the Truth appears to be clear and absolute, another end has replaced that Truth with a newer and far more complex version, proving once and for all that Truth is contextual. We have been taught the opposite. If this is True, can situational ethics be far behind? Will morality begin to look different from one person to the next? Oh my God! I think it’s already happening! How will I know what is moral, then?

Thankfully, Child, I have the answer! For a limited time, autographed copies of Swinburn’s Guide to Situational Ethics, Moral Loopholes, and Other Forms of Illicit Pleasure are available for just $99⁹⁹, plus tax, title, and dealer prep. If you are not certain about what’s right and wrong, this book’s for you! With it, you will learn to defend your brazen attitudes as if they were legitimate philosophies. In no time, you will become the morally bankrupt creature you’ve always wanted to be!

I’m kidding. I do not have such a book. Please do not seek me out, wanting a copy of the book. Again, it is not real. Like so many things I write, it is a figment of my imagination. While some such fantasies reflect a person’s hidden desires, this one may not. Who knows? I certainly don’t.

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Off to engage with the day!

I am not brilliant; my intellect is insufficient to produce remarkable solutions to the hauntingly complex problems that have plagued humankind for millennia. But I think my intelligence is adequate for learning new information at relatively high speed. I do not need remedial instruction to understand the fundamentals of police work; detective work. But, then again, I suppose I would need some form of  instruction. And an age-lift. I would need those adjustments in order to qualify to get on the “fast track” to being a detective for a city police department. When it comes down to brass tacks, though, I am not sure I would be willing to suffer through the long slog of “learning the ropes.” I would much rather be thrown in to the chaos and left to my own devices. Screening in (or out) by virtue of OJT. I suspect I would survive the tests; assign to me a murder of two to solve and give me access to all the facts surrounding the case. Let me determine what more I need to know and how to obtain that knowledge. I would prove myself. Or some poor, innocent stiff would be accused of murder, thanks to my exemplary police work, while I insist that the evidence against him is irrefutable. That scenario is just one reason I long ago renounced my endorsement of the death penalty; I am capable of catastrophic mistakes that could, in the wrong circumstances, lead to irreparable harm. Execution of innocent people…that sort of thing. Despite the difficulties at this late stage, of finding my way onto a police force, I think I would enjoy the investigative work associated with being a police detective. But my romanticized vision of the role refuses to be constrained by bureaucracy.  No mindless paperwork for me. And no mind-numbingly annoying rules; I want and expect absolute freedom to pursue justice. Breaking a few rules here and there is a necessary accompaniment to good investigative work, according to my reality. But, to be clear about it, I am the only one permitted that freedom; all my colleagues will be expected to follow the straight and narrow. I need to be able to rely on their boundless supplies of consistency; investigative work unsullied by creative thoughts and actions. Just another fantasy. One of hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. Maybe millions. But just one of a small number I can reveal publicly and retain my reputation. My reputation? What, exactly, is that? Does everyone have a reputation, or do reputations attach only to people who sometimes color outside the lines?  You never hear a person described like this: “He had a reputation for being deadly dull.” That’s not a reputation; it’s a prelude to a meaningless obituary that describes the deceased person’s utter irrelevance. “He died after long being afflicted with a wretchedly monotonous, thoroughly forgettable, personality. He was tolerated, but not liked. Nor loathed. He was simply “there” as if being “there” was adequate reason for his existence. Hmm. Hmm, indeed.

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Yesterday’s visit at my oncologist’s office supplied me with the news I’ve grown accustomed to hearing: neither the blood tests nor the CT scan revealed anything of concern. Though I expected that message, hearing its confirmation was a nice sound. I am never worried about what I might learn during those visits, but I feel a little more relaxed and have a sense of relief when the “good news” visit concludes.

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My half-cup of coffee is cold. My back aches from sitting in a wretchedly uncomfortable desk chair. My attention span shows striking signs of exceptional impatience. I have things to do, obligations to fulfill, but no interest whatsoever in taking the steps necessary to complete them. I am in one of those periods in which I relish the idea of disappearing without a trace. No one would notice my absence because all memories of me would disappear. I would then be absolutely free. Free to become a practicing pacifist or a cold-blooded vigilante. Answering to no one; not even myself. Just wild. Untamed and unexplained. Dangerous in the extreme. But somehow attractive while exuding vibes of danger and excitement. More fantasies emerging from ill-defined dissatisfaction. A dissatisfaction rooted in contempt for the world; no single thing, but a flood of single things that twist around others, forming a thick, inescapable cage comprised of thick rope. Rope made from all those twisted single things. I have nothing to complain about; nothing legitimate, anyway. But I will complain, nonetheless. I will howl my complaints in the emptiness of the darkest nights. And the air will send back echoes; no meaning, just noise.

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If I am going to face the day, I better begin trying. Now.

After watching the second of only two seasons of Dehli Crime, I am deeply disappointed that a third season is unavailable (and, perhaps, has not been nor will be produced). The show portrays the Dehli police force as comprising mostly dedicated, but badly underfunded and unappreciated, public servants. Police behaviors in the program are reminiscent of a time in the U.S. when police beatings of suspects—in the station house—were condoned and, if not accepted, at least willingly tolerated. I wonder, though, whether the foundations of that statement are based on implicit assumptions about “a more practical time.” Or words to that effect. Was there ever such a time? Or has its “recollection” been cleverly planted in the public psyche by a master manipulator with an undecipherable master plan? Hey, don’t snort your dismissal of my comment!  It may be a valid expression of a wildly sophisticated and perfectly pristine strain of paranoia.

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Off to the oncologist this morning for what I hope and expect will be a routine review of the results of my recent CT scan, which (if all goes according to deep desire) reveals “no change.” This trip to see her follows two separate trips to prepare for today’s appointment. First, I had to go in for a routine blood-letting. And a few days after the blood draw,  I had the CT scan. I plan to take it moderately easy for the rest of the day. But not really.

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My mind this morning is on the distance between Tucson and Flagstaff, a tad more than 250 miles. Between them, the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix interrupts travel to and from. I have passed through both ends of that north-south journey and a bit of its middle ground. I like some aspects of both Tucson and Flagstaff for different reasons and for different seasons. But both places are at varying degrees of risk of a sudden and severe—possibly even catastrophic—loss of sources of water. Arizona is a harsh and beautiful country. So is New Mexico, my favorite of the two territories. And both are in perpetual danger of urban, suburban, and rural dehydration. Is the appeal worth the attraction? I think the answer changes from “no” to “yes” as a person ages and reasons that “the end” probably lies beyond an invisible horizon.

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My creativity and the stamina in my fingers apparently are out for coffee and a cinnamon roll this morning. They’re certainly nowhere to be found in or around my desk. The gaping white emptiness of my computer screen yawns at me, as if bored with my fingers’ expressions of mindless energy. And then that energy disappears…as if in a “puff” they become invisible; only its shadow can reveal where it went. I surrender, for the moment. I will be content to think and will not intrude by sharing those irrational thoughts with you. My irrational thought this morning may be a residue of a 20mg gummie I consumed last night. I slept in a bit this morning and seem to be in a modest fog. Hah! I laughed last night, thanks to the fact that my shoulder pain either disappeared or was hidden.

Pride is a response to oppression—not the only response, necessarily, but one response. And it is a powerful reaction, one that can overwhelm almost all the other replies to attempts to smother one’s sense of identify. I am not the source of that philosophy. It is the philosophy that undergirds the message delivered by a short BBC video. Or, I should say, it is my interpretation of the video’s underlying message. The video, which examines Jamaicans’ extreme pride in their identities, defends Jamaicans for what the producers of the film suggest in an almost universal characteristic of native Jamaicans. That universal characteristic that, not coincidentally, also is an attribute equivalent to one of the “deadly sins.” Interesting. But not sufficiently riveting for me to spend the rest of this Sunday exploring the concepts. Like many topics I encounter while searching the internet for ways to replace disinterest with passion, this one slips between rocks at the ocean’s edge and drowns. Too bad. If it had hit a bit—a lot—closer to home, I might have grabbed it and clutched it close to me in the hope it could rescue me from irrelevance. Despite my usual reverence for BBC videos, this one did not strike a nerve the way so many do. It is not bad—the message is thought-provoking and, for someone who is not me, very likely extremely interesting. But I was not moved by it. It was interesting. But it did not bring tears to my eyes nor a broad smile to my face. Sometimes, the absence of a strong reaction to something meant to evoke a powerful response can be as telling as the presence of that kind of response. The key, then, is to determine why it failed to move me; or why I failed to be moved by it. That is a topic for investigation another time. This morning merits a look at other elements of the reality surrounding me.

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The muffled noise—heard across an indeterminate distance and through sound-deadening walls, windows, and doors—sounded a little like raspy breaths being taken by a sleeper. Or a light, open-mouthed snore. But, yesterday, when I finally went to explore the noise, I decided it was the loud, rapid-fire “whack, whack, whack!” of a woodpecker in a tree behind the house. The moment I opened the back door, the muffled sound was amplified several-fold. I could not see the bird making the racket, but I had heard that noise before and had seen the culprit making it: a pileated woodpecker ripping into a tree with its powerful beak slamming into a tree trunk with the speed and power of a hydraulic air hammer. Try as I might, though, I could not see the creature. I saw a few other, much smaller, woodpeckers, but I knew they were not making the noise, as they flitted from tree to tree. But after a while, and after I encountered various other bits of evidence as to the bird(s) responsible for making the noise, I decided it was not a pileated woodpecker after all. No, it was one of the much smaller birds. Birds that looked too delicate to make such a monstrously loud noise. Yet their size hid the ability to mimic the sound made by heavy equipment. Their deadly beaks and powerful neck muscles combine to enable them to tear into pine trees and hardwood oak with a fierceness one tends not to associate with creatures so small and seemingly fragile. I wish I had actually seen the noisemaker; that would have sealed my certainty. But I am adequately sure that the sound was produced by one of those nondescript birds, smaller than robins but possessing beaks more powerful than the jaws of alligators. I recorded the sound on my phone. One day, I will record the sound and will capture an accompanying video of the actions of the source. And that will verify my suspicion, converting conjecture into certainty.

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I will smoke another couple of chunks of pork loin today. I may smoke some cream cheese at the same time. The idea for the cream cheese came to me from a post I saw on Facebook. I may buy some sausage and chicken and, perhaps, a few other smokeable tidbits that react well to being frozen and, later, thawed to make an easy main course for lazy-day meals. Maybe I should refrain from eating meat; my tiny contribution to making the planet more compassionate. At the same time, perhaps I should refuse to drive gasoline-powered vehicles, especially gas-guzzlers. No, I think it is better to avoid thinking in absolutes. Cut back on meat-eating: already in process. Rely on increasingly energy-efficient vehicles: already underway. Condemning others while engaging in the same behaviors for which one condemns them is known in the wider world as hypocrisy.

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I got up early and put a load of laundry in the washer. It is now in the drier. Soon, I will remove the dry clothes and hang them up. A good start to what promises to be a clear, cool day. And off I go to explore the universe.

My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain strikes me as an odd label for a radio program, but every time I hear an episode of the National Public Radio (NPR) show, my judgment of the title disappears. In its place, I have great appreciation for the people responsible for creating and continuing the series; and for the people who share their stories. The same gratitude wells up in me whenever I hear another NPR program, StoryCorps. Both programs tend to unearth a store of humanity buried beneath the grit of skepticism and suspicion—and uncertainty about the innate goodness of most people. They wash away enough of the grime of everyday  to reveal some of the compassion that seemed to blossom in me while I was a college student studying sociology.

For some reason, when I consider the seeds of my generally liberal perspectives on life in general, my thoughts often return to my time in college, especially to the exploration of sociology. Though I credit my upbringing—lessons from observing the way my parents and siblings interacted with the world around them—with forming the framework of my worldview, much of the “meat on the bones” of that structure grew from what I discovered in studying fundamental precepts of social institutions and social engagement. So, though I often dismiss the value of my “college education,” certain elements of the courses of study I pursued have had a profound effect on me. Those studies caused me to think critically about all sorts of human relations and their contexts. I developed a healthy skepticism about accepting as fact many of the “truths” the formed the bases of biases to which I was exposed. That healthy skepticism competed directly with the unhealthy skepticism I had about reasons for many group behaviors. I learned to apply critical thinking skills and to force myself to examine underlying, and erroneous, reasons for some of my more egregious biases. And to correct them for myself.

I’ve probably written all of this before. I suspect the reason I am writing it again now is simply to remind myself that there are legitimate reasons programs like My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain and StoryCorps often tug at my heartstrings. It’s not that I am overly sensitive or insufficiently masculine; instead, it is because I learned to merge my critical thinking skills and compassion into a means of making sense of the world around me. At least that’s part of it. Or, at the very least, it’s an explanation I can accept and embrace.

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A chill in the air this morning (it’s 41°F now, at 6:15) will moderate as the day progresses, peaking at 63°F this afternoon, between 1 and 3. Meteorologists’ predictions happily forecast clear skies all weekend, with afternoon temperatures nearing 70°F tomorrow afternoon. I would welcome even warmer temperatures; I would not object to being surrounded by 80-degree air. That level of warmth might finally remove the chill I feel deep in my bones. My hands, which seem to be almost perpetually ice-cold, might finally warm to the point of real comfort. During the last several days, despite temperatures in the forties and fifties, the only way my hands could feel tolerably warm was to hold them over the open flames of the fireplace. There were times I almost wanted to douse myself in gasoline and set myself ablaze, just to feel a flash of comfort before being consumed by the excruciating pain of self-immolation. I did say “almost;” I am not completely out of my mind. Not that the act of self-immolation always is a symptom of extraordinary mental deviance. Sometimes, it is an act of exceptionally powerful religious belief. Or so I’ve been told. But never, I might add, by someone who has set themselves on fire. Hmm. I believe my thoughts have been diverted from weather to something far more complex. Although, in fact, weather represents an assortment of remarkably complex phenomena. But, then, so does fire. Combustion constitutes the visual transformation of physical matter to energy; perhaps it is more correct to say combustion represents the release of stored energy. I’m no physicist, though, so I would not take my blather as gospel.

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We finished watching season one of Delhi Crime, an Indian series. The first season is based on a real event, a brutal gang rape that took place in mid-December 2012. The program is, in my opinion, absolutely superb; excellent acting, superb direction, and great casting. My only complaint, and it is quite a significant one, involves sound quality. When the characters speak English (they constantly switch back and forth between English and Hindi), it is sometimes impossible to make out what they are saying. Only when the characters speak Hindi are subtitles displayed; yet their heavy accents, coupled with poor sound quality, leaves the viewer completely in the dark as to the actual dialogue when they speak in English. That major flaw notwithstanding, season one of the show is absolutely riveting.

After watching such an intense set of episodes in season one, we opted to take a breather; we did not begin watching season two (which focuses on an entirely different set of crimes). Instead, we began watching a 2014 comedy-drama entitled, This is Where I Leave You. Thus far, I have not been overly impressed, but at least watching the beginning of the film allowed me to decompress a bit from the heart-pounding intensity of Delhi Crime. Whether I continue watching This is Where I Leave You remains to be seen.

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My blood glucose dropped to 98 this morning, even though I did not take Metformin yesterday (nor will I today). The pause from my usual morning and evening “dosing” came in the form of instructions from yesterday’s CT scan; I was told to stop taking Metformin for 48 hours because the IV “contrast” used in connection with the scan could cause some kind of unhappy interaction with the Metformin. Speaking of the temporary hold on eating the big white pills, their absence apparently has made me hungry. I think I will address that sensation by swallowing breakfast. And off I go.

Evidence of a new season, masked by cold recollections and icy memories, struggles to assert itself. Early morning brightness might reveal clues about what is to come, but grey, wet skies hide the sun. Yellow daffodils scream their stories as they try to avoid death by drowning. A short road trip in the dim light might tell me more. But it may have nothing more to say than, “Wait.” And so I will go, but will impatiently wait.

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Thunder and lightning, remnants of fierce windstorms that overturned trucks and damaged homes five hours west, visited during the night hours. I hear mourning doves expressing grief and regret—the aftermath of a chilling, brutal night for creatures who rely on the safety of tree limbs for protection against storms. My mood this morning was scarred by the shrieking howls of weather radio warnings in the wee hours. That mood remains, a dislocation of what might otherwise have been a peaceful sleep. No matter. The drive to the imaging clinic will alter my mood. I will be unable to sleep—or breathe—on the CT scan table, but afterward I will treat myself to a handful of drugs, the reward for growing old. But coffee and a late breakfast might renew my energy. Time will tell. It always does.

As far as I know, last night’s threats of tornadoes in our immediate vicinity did not pan out. The forest surrounding the house remains standing. To my knowledge, the roof above my head in intact. While carnage and devastation may be widespread nearby, I cannot see it. So, all is right with the world. That is the way we sometimes see things. As long as we’re all right, we’re satisfied. No matter that blood may cover the highways and byways all around us; if it is not visible, it does not impinge on our ability to enjoy a carefree existence. Yet what good does it do to ferret out bad news? Especially if there is little or nothing we can do to lessen its impact? I have mixed feelings about that.
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Once again, the products of British curiosity have expanded my own interest in and knowledge about matters about which I knew very little. This time, the revelation surrounds a term for a dying language, Kouri-Vini. Kouri-Vini is a language—whose origins have beebn traced to Louisiana—the roots if which are based in the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Also known as Creole, the language, whose name (Kouri-Vini) comes from the Creole pronunciation of the French verbs “courir” (to run) and “venir” (to come). According to a article on the BBC.com website (part of a BBC series called Rediscovering America), along with some supporting materials, the language is spoken by fewer than 6,000 people. But the language is experiencing something of a resurgence as young people who live in, or have connections to, the the 22-parish region of south-west Louisiana known as Acadiana are making efforts to reclaim the language. Interest in recapturing the language is growing among both professional linguists and people whose heritage includes Creole culture. When I hear Kouri-Vini spoken, I hear the unique sounds of French, combined with “something else” I cannot quite put my finger on; it is at once pleasing to the ear and exotically “foreign.” Though I have hear bits and pieces of it all my life, and though I have known about “Creole” for about as long, it was only this morning that I encountered the term, Kouri-Vini. And that experience was thanks to the British Broadcasting Corporation, or BBC.

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The thing about democracy, beloveds, is that it is not neat, orderly, or quiet. It requires a certain relish for confusion.

~ Molly Ivins ~

In other news this morning, I read about a 40-year-old man, Mark Muffley, who checked bags at the Lehigh Valley International Airport for  an Orlando-bound flight. The bags contained explosives, hidden in the lining of a rolling suitcase. I suppose we will hear more about that situation—or not—as the investigations into the matter play out. And I skimmed an article about the case involving allegations against South Carolina attorney Alex Murdaugh, who is on trial for the murder  of his wife and son. The facts of the case seem ripe for incorporation into a crime novel and/or crime drama and/or crime documentary. But why the case is so prominent in national news stories when there are so many other stories which could have far greater potential effects on our society is a mystery to me. And Aljazeera reports that Turkey has launched a probe into 612 people in connection with the catastrophic building collapses caused by the recent earthquakes. I looked for positive, heart-warming stories—meaningful reports that would offer evidence of humankind’s generosity and goodness. Apparently, that section of the news has been censored for some reason. Or there’s an intrinsic lesson there, buried under layer upon layer of irrelevance.

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I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

~ Jack Kerouac ~