John Swinburn

Most people experience the world around them as normal.  While a farmer friend in a distant state expresses appreciation for good weather and a productive growing season, a friend in a distant country is grateful that the latest barrage of missiles did not destroy his apartment complex. The appreciative farmer views a productive farm as normal. The grateful apartment dweller considers missiles raining from the sky as normal. In fact, though, neither experience is normal. Normal does not exist; not as we might think. The state of being that we call normal is just a deviation from chaos. How can a person who has never wanted for anything be considered normal? He can’t, because there are so few like him. But how about the person who has lived her whole life just a day away from starvation? She’s normal, if for no other reason than she lives among thousands who face the same threat. I argue against myself so often; my win-loss record is about 50-50. Sometimes, seeing matters from multiple perspectives is a curse; from those points of view, it is possible to see that solutions and contradictions pair poorly with problems and harmonies.

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For the first ten or fifteen minutes of last night’s debate, I worried that it would not go the way I hoped and expected. Trump was unexpectedly coherent and focused in those first few minutes, while I thought Harris seemed wooden and weak. But then it changed—completely. I was not as enamored of Harris’ performance later in the debate, as were the network anchors, but she improved dramatically in short order, while Trump dissolved into the pathological liar I have always believed him to be. Some of what Trump said was simply incoherent; most of the rest, extreme distortion and pure fabrication. Despite the obvious differences between the candidates, I fear the possibility that Trump could win; every rational American of voting age MUST be registered and vote in November to avoid that existential horror.

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Finally, only five months after the initial deadline, my taxes have been filed. I requested an extension, not because my return is complex but because I was lazy. I will get a combined $8 refund between State and Federal taxes. I prefer to keep my money, as opposed to lending it to taxing authorities.

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Just across the driveway, high up in the branches of a big oak tree, I see what appears to be delicately shaped crystalline Christmas decorations. When I look to the right or left, I see glass globes dancing wildly with every gust of wind. The shiny spheres are green and yellow, the same colors as the leaves of the tree. And so are the images of the bearded man and the tall, thin woman. These images—all of them—are the result of a psychological phenomenon called pareidolia, which causes people to ascribe meaning to random patterns. I wrote about pareidolia on a post about six years ago. I had to think hard about the word this morning before I remembered its meaning. As soon as it clicked with me, I started remembering seeing images in clouds’ puffiness; dogs, cats, sailing ships, human forms, etc., etc. Perhaps one day I will have to work hard to remember images of glass globes in trees.

Sunday night, just before bedtime, I realized I was scheduled for two MRIs (lumbar and thoracic) early the next morning. So, we left the house at 6:15 yesterday morning to make my appointments. The rest of the day is a blur; I am sure I slept quite a bit, but otherwise I do not recall much about the day—though mi novia and I watched a tad of an Agatha Christie mystery, featuring Hercule Poirot, last night. This morning, I woke late—about 7:30—and made avocado toast for breakfast. A short while later, because I felt extremely weak and tired, I went back to bed. I drifted in and out of sleep until just shy of 11:30, when I decided I had better get up…so I did. And that describes the extent of my experiences since Sunday night. Those experiences—the enormous amount of sleep and the exhaustion/fatigue—are increasingly common as one’s chemotherapy continues; according to what I read. The more I read about cancer and its treatment, the more I learn that my reactions to ongoing chemo is normal. Day after tomorrow, Thursday, I will have another chemo session. The doctor’s calendar suggests it will last three hours; from experience, I know to expect at least four hours and maybe five. I used to believe the effects of chemo would begin to disappear within three or four days following treatment; I know better now. It’s almost as if I can count on only a few truly normal days between treatments, which are administered three weeks apart. And my expectation that I would undergo four chemo sessions has been erased; I am not sure just how many treatments I will receive, nor how long it will take to complete them.

Maybe I will know more after Thursday. But a substantive update will probably have to wait until at least this week’s treatment and the one that follows in three weeks. I am tired of being tired; but my experience thus far has not been especially difficult, so I will try not to complain. It is what it is. Eight-plus months, so far, dealing with the recurrence of my cancer, with two bouts of pneumonia thrown in the mix. Try as I might, it’s not easy to avoid being depressed from time to time. Looking outside, I see beautiful blue skies. The outdoor temperature is 79°F. If I had more energy, I would enjoy soaking in the wonderful weather, but even a short walk would leave me winded and weak. If I had more energy, I might scream. But I need to conserve what little I have for celebrations when they are appropriate.

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.

~ Washington Irving ~

The unconscious mind expresses grief through memories of events that never occurred—but for which the griever would gratefully pay—with years of his life—to have experienced. Grief has its own prescriptive economy, supported by a currency of tears and regret. Unlike an exchange economy, the economy of grief does not allow for barter. There is nothing to buy or sell or trade; just exquisite memories of a glorious history and longing for an impossible future. Dreams of beloved experiences and missed opportunities are the coin of the realm of grief. There is a vast sea between Irving’s unspoken love and unspeakable love; grief resides in that emotional chasm.

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You’re born, you live for a time, and then you die. Describing one’s lifespan in such simple terms begs the question: what is the point? It would be a stunning surprise to learn that an enormous majority of people have no interest in the question. Whether they are religious or not, most people (I think…) want to believe human life has a point. But ask them to articulate that point and they tend to stumble and mumble…they want to believe there’s a point, but they are not quite sure what it might be. Try as we might, humans largely have been unable to identify and express that point, except through religious assertions laced with contradictions and magical thinking. Or with arguments based on premises completely lacking in logic. Some find it hard to accept the possibility that life—human or otherwise—has no purpose. That life just is. And then, later, it isn’t. But if there is no point to life, why do we consider it sacred? Perhaps because we want to believe we matter. And of course we do…to a limited number of others. Perhaps we consider life sacred because that belief places constraints on most of us; taking a life would be too easy and too common if we did not consider life important. That it has a point. But, really, does it? What matters, I suppose, is not whether it has a point but, rather, whether we believe it does.

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When does old age begin? Does it coincide with a specific number of years or a specific physical condition? Is one’s mental status relevant to defining the commencement of old age? The beginning of old age probably is contextual—in other words, it depends. In a population in which a large proportion of people live beyond 100 years, old age may start at 85.  A population in which the average age is 45, old age may begin at 60. A similarly difficult-to-answer question might be: When does youth end? Is that, too, contextual?

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From early one mourning to late in his life
he wept and remembered pulling a knife
on a defenseless young soldier on the front line.
He stabbed the poor boy and stole all his wine
and blamed the old captain, who only drank gin.
The captain was sentenced to die for his sin,
but the killer recanted, so the captain was spared
by the judge and the killer, who actually cared.

The idea of assimilating immigrants into American life is just as delusional as assimilating American immigrants into Ugandan life.  In neither case does one culture absorb one group into the other. Rather, the native cultures must adapt and accommodate the immigrants, just as immigrant cultures must adjust to their new hosts. The initial difficulties that both hosts and guests (for lack of better terms) have with the other are based on the degree to which each must change in response. Those difficulties are based on the erroneous premise by each that immigration brings about a net loss of cultural identity, rather than growth of cultural assets. In other words, hosts expect their cultures to be diluted and guests expect their cultures to be dissolved. Those expectations, if not managed properly, become self-fulfilling prophesies. And those expectations, by the way, are manifestations of fear. The key to managing the fear is to find ways for both hosts and guests to understand that blending, not assimilation, of cultures enriches both. But to “…find ways…to understand…” is far easier said than done. Only when hosts and guests simultaneously search for, and reach, that understanding can fear be held at bay.

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Flames of a wood-burning fire mesmerize me…a reasonably small, easily managed fire. Forest fires, on the other hand, terrify me. But watching videos of even massive conflagrations as they consume hundreds or thousands of acres captivates me. The way flames swirl, seeming to create their own fierce and windy weather, inspires awe—even in the face of horror. A manageable fire—in a pit designed to contain it—is beautiful. Witnessing logs transform into flames and smoke and ashes is an almost mystical experience. I think I understand why fire is or has been so deeply revered by various cultures. Perhaps I should proclaim Prometheus as my patron pagan. Probably not, though. Despite the stunning beauty of flames of a raging fire licking the sky, the horrific damage it can do is beyond comprehension. Fire is at once beauty and hideousness; love and hate. Fire provides warmth. And it can be used as a weapon. Flames are gorgeous, yet dangerous, contradictions.

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One’s fantasies are beyond private. They are secrets so intimate a person is just barely willing to share them with himself. If a person were to reveal his or her deepest fantasies to anyone else, they could be used as suicidal weapons or as indestructible emotional adhesive.

Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It’s a way of understanding it.

~ Lloyd Alexander ~

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The heads of the CIA and Britain’s MI6 spoke together on the same stage for the first time this weekend. Except for the gravity of the decisions they must make, often on the basis of incomplete or uncertain information, I might enjoy taking on their roles for a while. But I do not need the stress, so I will not pursue that possibility.

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Just a few more days until my next chemotherapy session; 3 to 5 hours of sitting in a not-entirely-comfortable recliner. The effects of my last treatment should have dissipated by now, but I remain perpetually exhausted. I woke this morning with a slight headache; it is still slight, but now it throbs in time to the beating of my heart and the irritating noise only I can hear. Nothing even remotely terrible, but sufficiently annoying that I give occasional fleeting thoughts to swallowing all my remaining narcotic-laden pain pills. But I know better than to do something irrevocable; so I just wait for today’s version of normal, when I will be able to sleep again.

Some of the most dangerous people are those who are intellectually stunted and indoctrinated in extreme, regressive conservatism. Absolutely the most dangerous, though, are those who have a superior intellect and who are indoctrinated in extreme, regressive conservatism. The phrase, regressive conservatism, is misleading. A different (and perhaps new) term, regressivism, more correctly describes the extreme, fascist-tinted political, social, and fiscal philosophies of people who cluster near the far-right end (the barbarism sector) of the humanitarianism scale. Intellectually advanced regressives can argue their viewpoints persuasively, despite the fact that their foundational philosophical assumptions often are invalid; the unindoctrinated intellectually stunted are easily swayed by them. Their persuasive capabilities are the pillars of their intense threats to modern society. Confounding the problem is the fact that regressives call themselves conservatives; and the rest of us let them get away with it. We lump them (who I’ll call rabid regressives) with the much more traditional conservatives. Traditional conservatives’ philosophies may differ from those of us who are left-leaning but, at least, whose philosophies are measured along the same spectrum. Rabid regressives claim to be conservative in their philosophies, but in my view they are as different from conservatives as are liberals/progressives. Conservatives and liberals exist in the same universe; rabid regressives exist in a parallel universe in which everything is broken and can be repaired only by wealthy overlords. These thoughts are leading nowhere. But perhaps they may be used to persuade actual conservatives to escape the parallel universe and return to the real world.

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What would Jesus do? What would Attila the Hun do? What would Buddha do?  What would Jeffrey Dahmer do? Role models abound—but do we really understand what we are doing when we deliberately decide to put ourselves inside the head of someone else (or even a fictional character) and behave the way we think they would? Is it not a bit presumptuous to think we have a clue as to how they might behave in a specific set of circumstances? I realize, of course, the concept of following the teachings or behaviors of a role model is meant to guide our own thinking about morality. I question whether we need to imitate or mimic someone else. If humans are innately moral (an altogether different question), models should be unnecessary. If we are not, what obligations do we have to conform to parameters of behavior that go against nature? If professional ethics (and personal morality) were not an issue, I would like to arrange for a number of sets of infants to be reared in two different environments: One would be exposed to “normal” socialization, including teaching about right and wrong, morality in general, etc.; the other would be reared without such teachings. At some predetermined age, the children’s
morality quotient (for lack of another term) would be measured. Alas, professional ethics prohibits such experimentation.

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A friend sent me a link to an intriguing concert by an exceptional young Norwegian musician who performs and records under the name Aurora; her full name is Aurora Aksnes. Listening to her sing reminds me of the Irish singer-songwriter who records and performs as Enya. Though quite different in many ways, both of them have ethereal voices that pair perfectly with the accompanying music. More about her at her Wikipedia page; to watch (listen to several pieces at the least), here is a YouTube video:

My disappointment at waking late again was tempered this morning by a breakfast of carrot cake. And I look forward to more cake and an assortment of other tasty delights for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, I had to miss the party; but the party came to me. I am eternally grateful for thoughtful friends…you know who you are.

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Cats are basically untrainable, but they are accomplished trainers. Or would it be more accurate to say they are expert manipulators? Given their innate narcissism and egotism, coupled with a pronounced lack of compassion, the latter description is more appropriate. Our knowledge of those characteristics notwithstanding, humans allow ourselves to be deluded, duped, conned, deceived, and otherwise misled by the conniving beasts. The consequence of their trickery, though, seldom is life-threatening, so we forgive them—in the hope that next time their displays of affection will be genuine. Purring is a display of a cat’s arrogant self-congratulation for its successful dishonesty. We interpret it, though, as evidence of affection—exactly as they intend. Shrewd creatures.

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Early in the month—a time when one hopes income will exceed expenses, if only by a shred. When the month comes to a close, measurements and calculations reveal whether that hope was justified or realistic. The timing may differ from place to place and person to person, but the concern about money lasting at least as long as month is nearly universal. Whether economic exchange is governed by units of money or by barter, it is a constant stressor. Throughout history, humans have relied on economic reciprocity. Communism, though, relies (conceptually) on economic altruism. “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” Human evolution could have favored communism; instead, it favored various forms of capitalism and control. Universal benevolence would be preferable to unfettered greed. Achieving that state of affairs would require a massive thinning of the herd, though, which would be contrary to the core concept of universal benevolence. Capitalism, on the other hand, is not bound by benevolence. My ability to think coherently about economic theory is severely limited by an astounding lack of knowledge and an overabundance of fantasy.

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This morning’s dream: I was to make a presentation about security in mystery shopping. In the presentation, I was to use a loaded revolver that had no trigger guard. Somewhere in the dream, I was abandoned by friends who left me at a pharmacy, where I wanted to buy cigarettes (an ugly theme in my dreams of late). I lost my presentation notes and my phone and, for a time, misplaced the gun—which somehow had been dropped in water. Two people from my association management past—Tommy Mills and Lorri Kern—were in the audience for my presentation. Another member of the audience taunted me; I threatened to shoot him, but the woman in charge of the class promised to deal with the jerk. There was much more to this tangled dream, including walking through a deserted industrial area beneath a decaying freeway, but I cannot remember how some of the seemingly unconnected scenes might have been related. I felt intense stress during the entire dream sequence; I wonder whether I really felt stress or whether the stress was purely imaginary…like the dream?

The thoughts rattling around in my head this morning are interesting but irrelevant. For example, how many times can one halve the distance between two objects before the objects physically touch one another? Logic tells me they will never touch, because half of an even infinitesimal distance is still space. If it were possible to measure distance with such precision that ¹⁄₃₂ the width of an atom could be gauged, halving that distance would yield an even smaller space. But I find it impossible to imagine two marbles separated by ¹⁄₆₄ the width of an atom; in my mind, they would touch one another at that tiny distance. From a practical perspective, this consideration of distance is irrelevant. Theoretically, though? It may be just as irrelevant, but it just might be a crucial component to understanding a fundamental reality that could explain the inexplicable. My brain is far too limited and slow for me to ever hope to understand such matters. I wish I were exponentially more intelligent—and could apply that intellect to the real world—than I am. But I am not. My intellect is closer to that of algae than to Einstein. Irrelevant?

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There was a time when I was much more doggedly curious than I am today. I sometimes attribute the loss of fierce curiosity to age-related decay, but occasionally I have to acknowledge the part lethargy plays. Perhaps advancing age acts as fuel for lethargy, so the decline of inquisitiveness is both a result of decay and the growth of indifference. But indifference is not it, at least in my case. I am curious; just not sufficiently motivated or intrigued or otherwise compelled to invest the energy necessary to convert interest to action. In other words, I want to know, but I am too lazy to learn. Yet that condition is not age-related; at least not entirely. Even as a kid, I fantasized about an injection of a fluid that would, when triggered by electrical charges, magically endow me with knowledge. For example, I could become fluent in Spanish with one injection and possess a thorough knowledge of physics with another and a mastery of astronomy with yet another. If and when those electrically stimulated injections become available, I would like to be among the first recipients.

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We got our COVID-19 boosters and our flu shots yesterday. As a result (I assume), my left shoulder is sore this morning. It is impossible to tell whether my sluggishness this morning is related to the injections, but it would be unusual for it to be associated. I have been fortunate in that in the past I have not had any reactions to those vaccines. Mi novia feels the same soreness, but I sense she may feel a bit more of a reaction than I. Time will tell. Perhaps it is her turn to nap a bit during the day.

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Yesterday’s online version of the New York Times offered 100 Easy Dinners for Right Now. Skimming the article and the recipes linked to it sparked my interest in cooking, but almost all the dishes of the greatest interest to me would require buying ingredients that would use only some of the groceries. If I can muster enough energy, though, I think I could come up with enough dishes to use up all the ingredients I would need to buy. Dishes like sticky miso salmon bowl, lemon-garlic linguine, peanut butter noodles, vegetable yakisoba, shrimp pullao, coconut-lime shrimp, eggplant adobo, chana masala…and the rest.

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It’s after 9. I loathe sleeping in until after the sun rises. A large part of the day is wasted when that happens. Ach!

Years ago, my late wife and I took a train from St. Paul, Minnesota to Whitefish, Montana. I do not remember what motivated us to take that route, nor what we wanted to see during the few days we stayed in Whitefish. I remember clearly, though, the scenery as we traversed parts of North Dakota—hour after hour of empty prairies. And I remember overhearing other passengers complain about how the view outside the train’s windows was dreary and bleak and maddeningly dull. That is not what I saw when I watched the miles go by. I found captivating the desolation that other passengers found boring. There was something supremely serene about that isolated, repetitive landscape. Reflecting on that experience, I think gazing at the prairies was akin to meditation. I saw incredible beauty in those vast expanses of natural grasslands. My memories of Whitefish are vague. The snow-capped mountains and forests were spectacular, of course, but they did not get etched into my memory the way the flatlands of North Dakota did. I wonder whether I would see the same scenery if I were to make a return trip? Do my memories of the lonely landscapes reflect reality, or have I modified my recall to fit what I want to have seen?

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Last night, in conversation with friends, the matter of the “next stages” of our lives came up. None of us has an interest in battling the challenges of home ownership for the rest of our lives. All of us were in agreement that some form of housing in which the costs and responsibilities for maintenance, upkeep, yard work, etc. would be borne by someone else (knowing full well, of course, that the costs will be borne by us, whether directly or not). The appeal of townhouses or condos, in which costs of “home ownership” would be shared, probably would be offset by the fact that such “independent living” arrangements would involve close proximity to neighbors. Privacy would diminish at the same rate as individual obligations. Some of the conversation, though, triggered me to think about a modified version of co-housing, in which small groups of friends would buy or build individual low-maintenance homes on land configured to provide individual/family privacy and ready access to others in the group when needs arose. A small group of people might be able to jointly fund a limited staff to handle limited maintenance, housework, and so forth. At this stage of our lives, though, the time for planning and executing such a concept probably has passed. But maybe not…

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Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance.

~ David Mamet ~

The human body presents obstacles to reverence. Numerous innate flaws interfere with our abilities to fully experience awe in its most spectacular forms. At best, our eyes only hint at what the visual world might offer if their acuity equaled or exceeded that of the eagle. When our eyesight degrades or fails, even that mediocre vision disappears. Human hearing, never as acute as many other creatures, decays with age or illness. We strain to process sounds, ultimately forced to guess at the meaning of noises we hear. Common afflictions like tinnitus rob us even of our ability to experience true silence. Our senses of taste and smell and touch, too, represent feeble attempts to help us process the world around us. The senses on which we depend to interpret the world around us are no comparison to the precision  of creatures whose senses eclipse our own. Technologies have enabled us to create devices that far exceed our own sensory capabilities. Only the brain, for now, seems to have an edge over technology in many functional areas—with the notable exceptions of certain computational capabilities and a few others.

These thoughts have led me to conclude that the functions of our eyes, tongues, noses, ears, and skin could be replaced by technologies that feed information directly to the brain. In today’s world, in which we regularly unleash machines’ more advanced capabilities, most of our bodies’ functions (and, therefore, most of our bodies) quickly are becoming extraneous. But achieving the ability to integrate the superior abilities of non-human technologies with the brain is a stumbling block…for now. Once seamless integration between the brain and those superior sensory replacements is achieved, humans’ understanding and appreciation of the world around us will be amplified exponentially. Imagine being able to read from the pages of a book a quarter of a mile away…or, when looking at a bee, seeing a super-high-definition image of the microscopic fibers protruding from its eyes…or hearing, at a distance, the rustling of grass as a snake slinks by in search of prey…or smelling the unmistakable aroma of freshly-cut cantaloupe from a roadside fruit and vegetable stand, long before you reach it. Obviously, the challenges of linking the brain to sensory receptors will require a better understanding of the nervous system and more advanced miniaturization capabilities and many other practical advances. Yet the difficulties of harnessing that information and those abilities will be worthwhile. The benefits will go beyond simply enhancing sensory abilities; by replacing the body with miniaturized machinery, humans’ nutritional requirements will decline radically…so, no need for mass agriculture on the scale necessary today. A question sure to arise about this concept is this: what about procreation…even if all we need is another brain, we need some way of ensuring the future of the species, right? No, in fact. Once we achieve the capacity to experience awe in every facet of our lives, we can comfortably accept extinction. Whether we will is, of course, an open question. And there’s the matter of unintended consequences, always an element of surprise that can derail even the best laid plans.

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I had every intention of going to church yesterday morning—until sometime in the wee hours of the morning. That is when I thought through the simple process of attendance—showering, getting dressed, going to the car, making my way into the church, engaging in conversations, and on and on—and determined the effort would be more than I was willing to make. The physical effort would not be difficult, but I was not prepared to exert the necessary mental energy. As it happens, I slept far more yesterday than I have slept in a long, long time. I hope that sleep helped adequately refuel me for another day; a day in which I can be more alert, more active, and more interested in life.

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Another weird dream. I was at a trade show, where I was supposed to represent my employer, which sold highly advanced audio-visual equipment. Three or four colleagues were with me. I took a break from setting up our booth and went outside into a dense, very busy downtown area. I bought a pack of cigarettes; even though they were my preferred brand, they looked and tasted different. Two of my colleagues brought their pets with them, a dog and a sheep; both had collars, but no leashes. I was asked to look out after the animals, but I could not keep up with them in the crowded streets because they lacked leashes. I went looking for them, wandering from street to street, to no avail. Finally, I decided to go back to the convention center, but I did not know where I was, nor did I know where the convention center was located. And I did not know what hotel I was staying in. Somehow, I managed to find the convention center, but I did not know where to look for my trade show. I did not know the name of the show, nor the name of the company I worked for. Finally, I found the entrance to the hall where my show was being set up. A large crowd lined the entryway, which was blocked by singers and dancers. I suppose that is when I awoke.

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So far, today seems like it will be a pretty good one. As well it should be; it’s Labor Day. Celebrate all the people who toil on behalf of others…the folks who try to keep the fabric of society from fraying beyond repair.

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Saturday was my sister-in-law’s birthday, a momentous one. Her daughters and granddaughter visited. If not for my iffy condition, I would have liked to have made the trip to Mexico to join in the celebrations. Such is life. Obstacles abound.

Greed and the thirst for power are symptoms…symptoms of a mental disorder actively cultivated by people who mistake wealth for intrinsic value and possessions for worth. Neither that mental disorder nor my interpretation of the symptoms that emerge from it will be found in the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). The DSM attempts to remove judgment from the classification of mental disorders, which is as it should be. But for people, like me, who find certain mental disorders both offensive and intentional, judgments—harsh judgments—are appropriate. And those harsh judgments warrant the next phase in the assessment of people who take pride in their deviance—that next phase combines punishment with vengeance. Put another way, people who display an unnaturally powerful craving for wealth and control deserve to be rewarded with retribution. Several people come to mind when I think of extremely offensive and intentional symptoms: Donald Trump; Elon Musk; J.D. Vance; supporters of those men; among many others. I have no power to inflict retribution on any of them; but my passionate appetite for vengeance them cannot be denied. Some days, that desire is sufficiently strong that it makes me understand how otherwise decent human beings can cross the line between humanity and unrestrained, barbaric savagery. Rage can smolder for months—even years. Once the embers reach a certain temperature, though, the inferno cannot be quenched until an all-consuming fire transforms smoking wood and molten metal and living tissue into harmless ash. Imagining the fire is not as satisfying as fanning the flames, I suspect, but it is safer.

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An hour in an oncology treatment chair yesterday was enough for me, though I was not being given chemotherapy. Just IV fluids and magnesium, the latter of which continues to be perpetually lower than normal. Several other components of my blood, too, always are low; and several always are high. I assume the cancer and/or the chemo are responsible for the deviance from normal, but I just realized I rarely know with any confidence what is causing the aberrations. I forgot to mention to my oncologist that I have begun to feel mouth sores on my lower lip. I know mouth sores are among the dozens of side-effects of chemo and I have read what to do about them…to keep them from getting intolerable. I am so ready for chemo to end, but I suspect that will not happen, at least not for a good while. A normal life is, for now, out of reach. The closest I can come to it is to give myself over to dreams…and hope they are pleasant ones. But, as I will readily admit, I am for now one of the lucky ones; my symptoms can be annoying, but they are tolerable. Some people face almost impossibly unpleasant experiences. I have great good fortune in that my symptoms are only irritating, not intolerable.

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A man I have known for several years (from church) died Tuesday night after a long battle with an aggressive form of cancer. Other members of the church are dealing with broken bones and various other physical mishaps and maladies. Others have succumbed to the ravages of life during the past year or so. Time refuses to stop…even to pause…to allow the realities of the cycles of life and death to sink in. Given no choice, people simply must deal with existential change.  Or fight it against all hope that the cycles of existence will continue in a perpetually repeating pattern of varying levels of health or illness. The recurrence of my lung cancer, discovered at the end of 2023 after five years with no evidence of cancer, was unexpected but not really a surprise.  I think I am still processing that fact, nearly nine months later. The original plan to address the recurrence has been abandoned, due in part to allergic reactions to some chemo drugs and in part to side-effects. So, instead of a four-cycle chemotherapy treatment, followed by two years of immunotherapy (basically the same as chemo, but with different drugs), I am now in the midst of another four-cycle chemotherapy treatment, which will be followed by an as-yet-unknown treatment (after CT scans and/or PET scans). How long, I wonder? It depends on whether and how my body responds.  If I could erase all this from my mind for a few days, I think I would feel considerably better; at least mentally. I am not scheduled for another visit to the oncologist until September 12; I  hope nothing interrupts that hiatus.

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We had a late lunch yesterday at Waypoint Marina, a burger joint on the water not far from our house. Mi novia has a smash-burger, which she judged as very good, and I had a yellowfin tuna poke bowl, which was very good…even better than I had expected. The place was close to empty, though there was a small group of people eating outside on the deck. I hope the place survives, though how a spot designed primarily for tourists can be closed on Sunday and Monday (especially SUNDAY), is beyond me. A few years ago, I ate lunch  there after church on Sunday; I do not understand the rationale of a weekend closure for such a place.

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Today is Saturday. Eh. There’s a day like this once a week. It’s as common as Mondays and Wednesdays. I am in the mood for a bloody mary, but I won’t have one. Not right now, anyway.

Mi novia called my oncologist’s office yesterday to report that I was weak and my blood pressure was quite low again—and to ask whether I should return for more IV fluids. A return call from the cancer center advised me to cut my blood pressure medication and to return this morning for more IV fluids and another infusion of magnesium. Today being Friday, the office nearby (less than 20 minutes away) is open; that is where I will go in in less than 45 minutes. I suspect I have already rehydrated myself, thanks to consuming what seems like a massive volume of water, but I will follow the doctor’s advice and mi novia‘s rabid insistence. I wonder whether my day-to-day experience will ever return to what I once considered normal? The current version of normal leaves a lot to be desired.

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There was a time when a ready reserve of energy was always available to me; when I wanted or needed it, I simply called it up. Ever since I began this seemingly endless round of chemotherapy treatments, though, I have to gently coax—or prod—my energy to surface. Only through persuasion does it cooperate. That is not entirely true. Sometimes I feel just fine…two weeks or so after a round of chemo. It occurs to me that I may be experiencing a placebo effect; the fluids the nurses pump into the port in my chest may be harmless fluids that I simply believe are harsh chemicals. The medical team could be playing with me…laughing hysterically behind the scenes when I report psychosomatic side-effects. How incredibly embarrassing that would be! Of course, I do not believe I am being tricked, but….hmm.

+++

I have decided to get rid of my pricey treadmill. If I can sell it, great. If not, I will donate it to an organization or an individual who may put it to good use. A home health nurse who visited me after my last hospital stay suggested I stay off of it because it could present a danger to me if I tried to use it during one of my “weak spells.” That’s been a while ago, but the idea still resonates with me. By freeing up the space in my study, I could turn my desk to face the door and still look out the windows. In fact, my view would be bigger and broader and more enriching. In times past, I would have insisted on selling the thing for top dollar, but I no longer feel the need to squeeze every available penny from the unwise expenditure. The money has already been spent. The lesson has been learned/re-learned/ reinforced. Spending money on fantasies is a waste, although I might feel more inclined to throw money at luxuries than at promises I should know I will not keep.

+++

The older I get, the more unsure of myself I become. I used to think I knew things. Clearly, though, I simply bought into my own arrogance. Now, I question everything I once believed I knew. That mindset opens up an entirely different set of possibilities to explore. Science has the right idea; everything is…and should be…open to question. Until I have been exposed to absolutely everything (which I think is utterly impossible), I cannot really know anything.

+++

Time to saunter into the kitchen and then to the car and then to the oncologist’s office. I slept far more than I needed last night, but I suspect I might want to sleep even more when I get home. Or maybe not. I do not know.

I want to spend hours alone, applying brilliant colors and muted greys and browns to a large, stretched, artist’s canvas. The reason I need solitude while I paint is not absolutely clear; I know only that I feel a need for absolute privacy while attempting to produce art. Perhaps my unsuccessful experiences with paints and brushes and palate knives and canvas have taught me that the output of my unskilled hands always is an assured embarrassment. Maybe I do not wish to share my artistic incompetence during my attempts at express a flawed creative process. In my mind, I know exactly what I want to create, but my hands cannot translate my abstract visions into reality. Despite my desire to paint, I know the results of my efforts will fall far short of what I hope to produce. Still, though, I sometimes want to keep trying—wishing beyond possibility that one day I will magically train my hands and my eyes to cooperate with my brain. But I am impatient in the extreme. I do not want to learn…I do not want to be trained…I want only to be magically transformed into a talented artist imbued with stunning creativity.

+++

My expected short visit with my oncologist yesterday was extended by an hour so IV fluids could be dripped into my bloodstream. My doctor judged that dehydration contributed to my much lower-than-normal blood pressure (85/53) and, thus, to my exhaustion/fatigue. I felt much better after receiving a bag of saline solution, so her judgment apparently was on the money. I do not understand why I find drinking sufficient fluids (to guard against the condition) so difficult. There are times I am incredibly thirsty, but more often I have to try to force myself to drink water. Sports drinks, with their electrolyte content and slight sweetness, are more tolerable at such times, but even they have little appeal. I think I read that excessive sleep can contribute to dehydration, as well; considering my marathon napping sessions after chemotherapy sessions, my time in bed could contribute, as well. Ach.

+++

A couple of naps during the day yesterday did not successfully revive my energy, even after rehydration therapy. I was better, but still quite tired. I was able to watch another episode of Shetland (this time, while resting in bed) before surrendering to sleep around 8 pm. By 3 am, I was awake, but hoping to be able to sleep again; very little luck there. After drifting off for a few minutes at a time, I finally got up around 4:30. Fed the cat, made a cup of espresso, and stumbled into my study to think and write and curse myself for failing to give sleep another try. I may give it another shot. It’s almost 6:40 now and the sky is leaking dim sunlight through the trees. I am hungry, but I cannot think of anything I want to eat. Vanilla ice cream sounds a little interesting, but the freezer keeps it so cold that it’s hard to scoop without letting it thaw just a bit. And I am impatient, so waiting won’t do. I’ll just try to abandon my thoughts of food and, instead, convince myself to slip into unconsciousness for another half hour or so.

After three consecutive nights of insufficient sleep, I woke this morning feeling utterly exhausted—despite the fact that I slept for at least five hours during the day yesterday. I have to stay awake this morning because I have an appointment with my oncologist. Shortly thereafter, I meet with an attorney to update/replace my will, living will, power of attorney, and various other legal materials. Though it’s just prudent to update those legal documents, the process seems just a shade morbid, as if I am focusing on end-of-life matters—which, of course, is exactly what I am doing. Better to clarify my intentions than to leave a mass of tangled questions for others to work through.

+++

I cannot stay awake. I will rely on mi novia to wake me before it is time to drive to the cancer clinic. She insisted on cancelling her hair appointment this morning so she could drive me. Given the way I feel right now, that was a wise decision.

Yesterday morning, I relaxed on the deck as delicate streams of smoke rose from a burning cone of incense, forming elaborate swirls in the nearly-still air. I caught a glimpse of movement on the road, through the trees below and behind the house; first, an adult doe ambled by, then a fawn, and finally another adult doe. The pair of serene sights were just coincidental, of course, but I sensed they were profoundly and purposely peaceful, as if they were intended to envelope me in an embrace of tranquility. That placid atmosphere lasted only a short time, but long enough to shape my thinking for a while—smoothing the rough edges and softening what later would become a somewhat angular day.

Too much of the rest of the day focused on trying to sort out healthcare appointments. My normal oncology appointment schedule was disrupted by the oncology nurse’s two-week vacation, which will almost double the oncologist’s already tight schedule. Other obligations are being added in the near-term: a meeting with an attorney and, sometime before long, a visit with an ophthalmologist who specializes in damage to/diseases of the cornea. Two more MRIs will be added to my normal medical appointments next month. Ach! I would rather relax on an inflatable float in a large, private swimming pool. The sound of water lapping the edges of the pool would quiet the burdens bouncing around in my head.

+++

If the weather forecasts are reliable, we can expect cooler temperatures—both day and night—on September 3 and 4. Eventually, the on-again, off-again stifling heat will reach a longer pause; I will then sit on the deck and soak in the cooler weather with espresso in the morning and, to a limited extent, wine or a mixed drink (gin & tonic) in the evening. Listening to the sounds of birds and watching the creatures flit from twig to twig is entertainment for the geriatric set. Though I sometimes make gentle fun of myself for appreciating such raucous merriment, I always—even as an arrogant young man—have enjoyed the simplicity of such pastimes. Hearing people mock others for their preferences—especially deriding people whose choices tend to be rather sedate—tends to make my blood boil. My affinity for tranquility can be overwhelmed by my desire to inflict excruciating retribution against such inconsiderate bastards.  Have I deviated from the path of serenity, again?

+++

While mi novia was out playing mahjong yesterday, I summoned a little energy and a touch of creativity. I thawed and chopped a bag of frozen smoked brisket, added canned kernel corn, pinto beans, and fire-roasted tomatoes, and then jazzed it up with cumin, chile powder, garlic salt, and pepper. We had an early dinner not long after mi novia returned from her weekly foray into the world of high-stakes gambling. A one-pot dinner like that is incredibly simple to make and quite enjoyable to eat, even when my appetite is not especially strong. A big Greek salad is another wonderful meal that I should (but rarely do) make regularly.  I need nothing but the salad and the dressing to make me happy; the recipe I use is always some variation of this:

Greek Salad
Ingredients

Greek Salad Dressing

• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 teaspoon dried oregano
• 1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1/4 cup good red wine vinegar
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1/2 cup high-quality olive oil
• 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

For the salad

• 1 English cucumber, cut lengthwise and sliced ¼-inch thick
• 4 cups chopped Romine lettuce
• 1 green bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
• 1 red bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
• 1 yellow bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
• 1 pint grape or cherry tomatoes, cut in halves
• 6 ounces feta cheese, cut into ½ inch cubes*
• ½ red onion, sliced in half rounds
• ½ cup pitted Kalamata olives
• 16 black or green olives
• ⅓ cup fresh mint leaves

The dressing is good on almost anything, by the way.

+++

Phaedra becomes more appealing almost every day. Still, though, she should not tear up rugs (or furniture or anything else) with her claws. She should understand and speak English, as well. And she should respond to my commands. Or requests.

Too much time has passed since I enjoyed the aroma of a burning cone of patchouli incense. There’s something about that smell that helps improve my outlook on life. But the odor of incense—whether patchouli or something else entirely—is off-putting to many people, so I have stopped burning any incense cones in my study. And it’s too damn hot most of the time lately to sit outside on the deck and luxuriate in what seems to me to be the fragrance of serenity. This morning, though, the outside temperature is only 70°F at the moment, so I might break the cycle of abstinence for a short while; soon, the morning air will make sitting outdoors more than a little unpleasant.  Maybe the smell of incense will help ease the throbbing in my head. And, perhaps, it will brighten an attitude that calls out for brightening.

+++

My pounding headache this morning may be attributable to last Thursday’s chemotherapy infusions. But maybe not. It could be entirely unrelated to chemo. The same is true of site-specific joint pain. I do not know what difference it would make if I knew, with certainty, the reasons for the discomfort. I sense, though, that I might feel less perplexed by the aches and pains if I understood their source and how best to deal with them. None of the pains are awful; just irritating and annoying. They sour my mood and set an unwelcome stage for the day. Another night of on-and-off insomnia did not help. The good news, though, is that for the most part my post-chemo experience since Thursday has been better than previous rounds. I should not complain, then. But I do.

+++

The vision in my left eye has been degrading for several months. Even with drops and ointments prescribed by an optometrist, the itchy dryness and badly blurred vision have gotten worse. The optometrist said she would refer me to a cornea specialist if the treatments were ineffective; it is past time to ask for the referral. I doubt the problem is related to chemo or to cancer. Whatever it is, though, it is maddening. I cannot read comfortably. Watching television is unpleasantly “choppy” and imprecise. And it’s not just my vision; dry skin, too, is not responding to ointments and the like prescribed by the dermatologist’s APRN. I wonder whether my body simply is decaying from overuse? Aging has become something of an enemy to me. Mentally, I feel as young as ever. Physically, I am unable to ignore the growing number and severity of signs of deterioration. I could use some strong infusions of youth right now. The assertion that youth is wasted on the  young has more than a kernel of truth to it.

+++

I want conversation. But not conversation about cancer or politics or the decline of humanity or the horrors that face so many millions of people on Earth. What, then? Talk about how colors can alter one’s perspectives…discussions about the beauty of oceanside cliffs…how wild animals’ instincts enable them to teach their young how to hunt and protect themselves…the aurora borealis…why ripe peaches can be so fabulously tasty…the way poetry can draw out an incredible array of emotions…a thousand other topics that reinforce one’s sense of awe at the universe around us…even the simplest things like eyesight and hearing and taste and touch.

+++

If I’m going to smell incense, I should do it now.

Once again, I chose not to go to church this morning. Though I feel reasonably good this morning, the fact that my chemotherapy side-effects could blossom at any moment (coupled with advice to minimize social situations that could expose me to infections) suggests I should not attend. I had hoped to be able to watch the service online, but the last word I heard about streaming was that it is temporarily unavailable. Such is life. I might opt to sleep, instead. Last night, for the first time in a great while, I did not sleep well at all. I was awake for at least half the night; maybe more. My napping time has declined quite a lot in the last several days, as well. I will bring this (lack of sleep) up during my next visit with my oncologist.

+++

Is it healthier, mentally, for a person to worry about a large array of issues or to limit concern to just a few (assuming, for the moment, that worry is not a bad thing)? My thinking on the matter is that a large array of issues might lessen the strength of individual concerns, thereby reducing the stress caused by worry. But the reverse may be just as likely to be true: the more matters one worries about, the the greater the anxiety one must combat. My worries seem to sweep into my mind in waves; some with numerous concerns, some with just a few overwhelming issues. Lately, my few issues are: the upcoming presidential election (and its potential to spark massive problems, no matter the result); my own cancer; and my sense that the decay of compassion in the human species may be irreversible. When the number of matters grows, it grows exponentially: the food supply; poverty; Christian nationalism; homelessness; culture wars; the existence of Fox News; military actions and military wars; forest fires; highway safety; inflation; collapsing infrastructure; climate change; dozens of concerns about specific other people…the list could go on for days and days. I realize, of course, the near-universal advice is don’t worry because, unless one can do something about the matter, worry is pointless. But that is far easier said than done. And maybe my question is nonsensical. No matter, it’s still something I think (or worry) about.

+++

Increasingly, reading through online English-language newspapers and other news sources based in other countries disappoints me. Though not an everyday habit, I like to at least skim a few headlines from England, Germany, Iceland, China, the Middle East, Canada, Mexico, etc. If the headlines suggest I might learn something interesting or valuable that I would be unlikely to learn from domestic sources, I read the article. There was a time no so long ago that I learned quite a bit about those countries’ domestic issues and their published perspectives on world events. During  the past few years, though, many international news sources focus very heavily on US news, with domestic matters receiving considerably less attention. I wonder whether a global collapse of traditional journalism is contributing to this change or whether other factors are bringing about the transformation? Perhaps the sources I follow are adjusting to a English-speaking centric readership whose interests focus on the U.S.? If only I could read and understand other languages, I might find completely different information and opinions; the sort of stuff I have always enjoyed reading. Lately, though, I feel I am being fed limited, oddly parochial information—no matter the source—that has a very narrow, US slant. Our thinking about globally relevant matters is far more valuable, I believe, if we analytically and critically process information delivered from multiple sources—with different perspectives. Judgments still must be made as to the likely veracity of the information stream, but at least reading several viewpoints gives us opportunities to choose on the basis of various inputs.

+++

I should shower this morning. And I will…well, sometime today. Maybe I will skin  an alligator, as well.

Women and people of color and minorities have had to deal with socially-imposed constraints for millennia, I suspect. Men, to a much lesser extent, are expected to accept limits on their experiences and behaviors, as well. Most such restrictions placed on men undoubtably are less rigid and probably far less emotionally damaging, yet they represent obstacles that can be difficult to circumvent. Whereas career options available to women, people of color, and minorities historically have been severely limited, some socially-imposed career restrictions have prevented from pursuing non-traditional career choices. Nursing, for example, was among the few socially-acceptable career choices for women for a long time; at the same time, male nurses were anomalies; looked upon as odd or out-of-touch. Some of the most common career choices for women (if they were permitted to have careers outside the family) included secretarial, seamstress work, telephone operator, personal services (like hair stylist), and domestic work in others’ homes. People of color and other minorities were even more limited. Those careers were largely unavailable to men; men who pursued them were looked upon with disdain, often. I think men and women who eschewed traditional work have tended to be actively discouraged from non-traditional careers. For example: tattoo artist; horse-racing jockey; painter; sculptor; mortician; fiction writer; and practitioner of Eastern healing practices. There are hundreds, if not thousands, more…but my brain is not cooperating with me any longer; at least not on this topic. So I will abandon it for now. I may return later to find that I never should have started writing this.

+++

Speaking of careers, though, I think I might have enjoyed work as a police detective; but not as a uniformed police officer. Mi novia‘s enjoyment of her career as a welfare fraud investigator suggests she would have appreciated detective work, as well. I had many ideas about what I “wanted to be when I grow up,” but I explored only a few of them. And those I explored never received enough of my attention to know what they might have really entailed. I got bored with my own interests too easily. Or the discouragement I encountered when I spoke of my interests was enough to dissuade me from further exploration. I still am not sure what I want to be when I grow up. I’ve written all this before, haven’t I? Despite just stumbling into a career, I got lucky to the extent that it provided me with the means to retire in reasonable comfort. Association management; one of those careers few people realize exists. And, unfortunately, one of thousands of careers that, ultimately, infrequently make any appreciable difference in the world in which we live. Or maybe it was just mine that did not matter much; but I do not think so. If we all had become passionately philanthropic self-employed farmers, we might have been fulfilled as human beings, in spite of our poverty and back-breaking work.

+++

Swirls of pine needless rained on my car as I drove home through the forest a couple of days ago. In some places, the roadways were covered in them, making it seem like I was driving down a forest trail, rather than a street. Before too long, the broadleaf trees will begin changing colors and dropping leaves. The withering temperatures of summer will (I hope) give way to cooler and much more comfortable weather. Sitting on the deck will become more than just tolerable; it will be enjoyable. Birds will be more visible when the leaves do not provide as much camouflage, though those here for the summer will be gone until next year. Some days, I feel like I could spend all my time peering into the forest, just watching the seasons change. And some days that’s exactly what I seem to do.

Hope is a wish unassisted by action. Hope sometimes is the only crutch, though, that will allow a person to stand or even to sit upright. Wishes supported by action are more effective than hope, but only if the actions inspire confidence. When they do not, hope may be the only reasonable alternative. Hopelessness is not a chosen state of mind; it follows on naturally when hope is dashed by the onslaught of reality. It also is known by other names: acceptance or resignation.

+++

Once again, the chemotherapy process ran to five hours yesterday, two hours longer than scheduled; nothing having to do with my treatment, just the result of a very crowded clinic, some of whose patients require more time than others. I am comfortable with that reality. I’ve come to expect longer visits than the schedule indicates; I do not have anywhere else I have to go or anything else I have to do. Today, I return to the closer, temporary, clinic for my regular post-treatment injection, which is intended to minimize the risk of infections associated with the chemotherapy.

+++

We watched some of last night’s finale of the Democratic National Convention (mi novia watched more than I). Kamala Harris is a good speaker, in my opinion, and her message was powerful. I wish the other Democrat speakers would not resort to tit-for-tat attacks on their opponents.  Mentions of Trump’s and Vance’s attacks on them (and others) are ripe for being called out, but resorting to the T&V tactics is beneath them—and such reactions will have no positive impact on even “iffy” supporters of the orange blight. [It’s okay for me to bad-mouth the bastards (though I know I should not)…I’m not running for president.]

+++

Perhaps it’s the anticipation of the chemo after-effects that’s robbing me of even a shred of creativity this morning. It’s not the effects themselves; they haven’t begun yet. I want to write some fiction, but I know I quickly will reach a point at which I do not feel like continuing; just another unfinished story. So, lately I avoid adding to the hundreds of incomplete tales I’ve begun over the years. Maybe, though, I will before long take some time to revisit some of the more promising unfinished pieces. Time will tell.

Mi novia is extending a kindness to someone who needs help this morning, so I will drive myself to visit the oncologist for today’s chemo-treatment. If I felt the need, I could ask any of several friends who have offered to help when needed, but I feel just fine this morning and should for a day or longer. The negative side effects of today’s treatment, if any, will not commence for at least a day or two. Today’s chemo will consist of replacing the two most recent treatment drugs with two different ones. Their side-effects, on paper, seem similar to previous poisons, so I have an inkling of what to expect. Yesterday was the first day in quite a while that I haven’t napped during  the day (but I did go to bed earlier than normal). My attitudes about my cancer bounce around between acceptance, resignation, disappointment, anger, depression, and combinations thereof. If the treatments could promise (or even make possible) a cure, I might add hopefulness to the list. But the aim of prolonging life with sufficient quality to make it worthwhile helps. I have read that many people live with lung cancer for many, many years. Even those with Stage IV lung cancer sometimes live for several years after diagnosis. I expect a “re-staging” sometime before long, after more CT scans and/or PET scans. If meditation could clear cancer from my thoughts, I might dive into it with a vengeance.

+++

A Google search for guided meditation yield roughly 53.8 million results. By removing the qualifier, guided, expands the search results to an astonishing 691 million. Reintroducing guided and adding another qualifier, hypnotic, reduces the count of results to a still-unmanageable 549,000. Clearly, the information available through these various keyword searches is overwhelming. I’ll have to find another way to expand my knowledge…if, that is, I am sufficiently motivated to pursue that intellectual and/or emotional growth in this corner of my life.

+++

I was on my second of two trips to Dubrovnik, Croatia—about eleven years after the first—that I first heard about official responses to the chaos of over-tourism. While the first trip was mostly business, I had a few opportunities to stroll through the streets of the old city. Plenty of tourists wandered about. But the limited crowds made the town seem lively, not crowded. Eleven years later, though, I was among the throngs of tourists who clogged the streets. The vast majority of them (but not I) arrived via cruise ship. I remember learning that the city’s mayor recently had informed the cruise ship lines of upcoming changes in tourism policy: that the number of ships arriving and the number of passengers allowed to disembark soon would be restricted. And I learned that the city had begun sounding sirens or horns prior to ship arrivals to alert citizens…to give them an opportunity to vacate tourist areas if they wished to avoid choking crowds.

During the past year or so, I have read a number of news stories about popular tourist destinations—especially in Europe—taking action to control over-tourism. Venice, for example, according to an article on Euronews.com, “…has restricted tour group sizes as part of its mission to regulate huge crowds and improve local life. Venice has banned tour guides from using megaphones and limited their groups to 25 people.” The city also has prohibited cruise ships from entering the Venice lagoon. Rome prohibits sitting on the famed Spanish Steps, among many other prohibitions designed to minimize the crushing impact of over-tourism. A July 23 article on Reuters.com says, “Last month, Barcelona pledged to shut all short-term lets by 2028 to contain soaring rental prices for residents. And earlier this month, images of an anti-tourism protest went viral after a few protesters used water guns to spray tourists amid growing rallies against mass tourism in Spain.” Just this morning, I read an article on BBC.com about a proposed 5% tourist tax for Edinburgh, Scotland. While the proposed tax ostensibly is not designed to discourage tourism (rather, authorities claim, it is intended to fund improvement of public spaces), it responds to concerns exacerbated by tourism.

Tourism is a both a blessing and a curse. The revenue from tourism is vital to the economic vitality of many, many places around the world. But, as more and more people have both the time and the money to travel, tourism can take an enormous toll on those very places. Residents must cope with throngs of people whose presence sometimes is offensive and damaging. Crowds get so large and unwieldy that the inherent appeal of a growing number of tourist attractions is becoming overwhelmed by the crush.  Some of the solutions that immediately come to my mind are, on second thought, unfair and unrealistic. Others would be horrendously expensive and, perhaps, unworkable. One idea, though, while expensive to implement, might be worth exploring: 3-D experiential theaters. Rather than traveling to Norway’s and Sweden’s furthest northern reaches to see the Aurora Borealis and Lapland reindeer, a spherical theater with surround-sound and precise environmental control (e.g., temperatures, odors, wind, etc.) could provide a near-real experience. Admittedly not the same as an actual experience, of course, but far less hassle. And a portion of the fees collected from the experience could be funneled back to subject cities/regions/countries.

+++

Damn! It’s already 8:30! How could I have been sitting at my desk for so long? I do not understand how time can put me in a trance for so long.

Suddenly, my Facebook feed is awash in commercial posts/advertisements offering (for a fee) advice and support for people with lung cancer. I suspect I recently must have opened a random post about lung cancer. That would have led Facebook‘s sophisticated algorithms to determine I am a candidate sucker, who’s willing to part with my money in return for a misguided hope that whatever the advertiser is selling will wipe away my cancer. I understand how people—even people who are not easily misled—can be manipulated by fear to grasp at straws. I loathe people whose lust for money is so consuming that it overcomes any shred of human decency they might once have had.

+++

Finally, after months and months of trying to justify my inexcusable delays, I gathered and organized the materials necessary to complete my 2023 Federal and State tax returns. The process took very little time, inasmuch as I maintain files for that purpose throughout the year. Yet it is easy to procrastinate, even when the only identifiable product of my procrastination is anxiety. The ease with which one can get an extension from the April 15 (plus or minus) deadline to mid-October is partly to blame; why NOT put it off, when getting an extension is so easy? My next step is to deliver my tax materials to an accountant for filing—I cheerfully pay someone else to argue with the IRS on my behalf in the event any part of my tax return is challenged. I cannot imagine, though, any legitimate reason for a challenge.

+++

When I look in the mirror these days, I see a bald man. Despite what some men without hair might tell you, bald-headed men do not automatically look sexy. In order to look sexy, I am pretty sure their facial features, their skin tones, and the rest of their bodies must pair well with their cranial shininess. The rest of us have an exaggerated appreciation for hats and caps, though at some point we just say “screw it” and ignore the fact that our naked heads do not seem to match our bodies. I have a growing appreciation for women who, having lost some or all of their hair, opt to avoid trying to hide the tops of their heads. My late wife, whose scalp never fully recovered from her chemo-induced alopecia, did not completely embrace the fact that her post-cancer hair was extremely thin—but after the initial shock, she did not try to hide it. Her attitude was, I think, “it is what it is.” Whether that is simple resignation or bravery or courage, I have enormous respect for that perspective. I think women have a much tougher time with alopecia than do men, thanks to societal attitudes. Because baldness is so much more common among men than women, the experience is much less traumatic for men. That’s the way I see it, at any rate.

+++

I remember blowing soap bubbles as a kid. Thinking of that this morning makes me want to do it again.

Most of my life, my hands have looked like the chubby, pudgy hands of a child. Neither bones nor tendons nor veins were visible beneath their plump skin. I cannot recall precisely when the appearance of my hands began to change; I know only that the changes began to take hold sometime in my sixties. Finally, after decades, the back of my palms began to lose their chunky look. Veins became increasingly visible. I could see tendons that, previously, had been hidden beneath fleshy layers of skin and muscle. I remember being pleased when my hands started to lose their unnaturally youthful appearance. But the transformation from a child’s hands to the clutches of an old man took place surprisingly fast. Too fast. Almost overnight, I saw myself change from a maturing teenager to a fossilizing, post-middle-aged, man. Somehow, I missed young adulthood and middle-age; even the encroachment of the golden years crept by unnoticed. Suddenly, my hands reveal that the greater part of my lifetime has surreptitiously inched past. Electricity can be stored and retrieved; no battery yet exists to store time. Time is a precious commodity lost forever if not transformed into accomplishment. The appearance of one’s hands hint at the story of one’s life, but only deep self-reflection can divulge whether the tale is one of achievement or decay.

+++

A few years ago, I wrote a short story that was included in an anthology of the work of writers with a connection to Corpus Christi, Texas. If not for the fact that the publisher (William Mays) was so accommodating, I would not have bothered to submit my story. Mays occasionally posts links to my story (and others) on his Facebook page.  Here is a link to my story, On Open Water, for anyone who wants to know about the kind of things I used to write—before I turned my attention to empty words.

+++

Today’s news stories could have been written a week ago. Or a year ago. Or sometime shortly after the Civil War. Even the most exciting news of late is dull; it carves slabs of disinterest into thin slices of detachment. There are no calories in detachment—only massive doses of rancid sugar and enough carbohydrates to fill all the oceans of Earth. Rancid sugar, by the way, is calorie-free. Eating it is like swallowing fish hooks in the hope of having halibut for dinner. Sometimes, irrationality is the only salvation.

+++

I have never owned a shotgun, nor a 9mm pistol. While I am admitting to a poverty of weapons, I do not and have not owned a nuclear weapon, either. But I have owned automobiles and knives and I have had ready access to stainless steel wire suitable for use as a garrote. All of those instruments can be used to commit murder and for self-defense. The same is true for a shovel. And, when employed carefully, a stick of dynamite. The world is extraordinarily complex. So are we all.

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When shafts of sunlight shine on pine trees, clumps of pine needles sometimes are illuminated so that they appear to be still-shots of lime-green explosions. My perception of that scene would be far easier to share if I could paint what I see, rather than try and fail to describe it.

The sounds of high winds and heavy rains confirmed that we were experiencing the effects of a powerful squall. Darkness, though, prevented us from seeing tree trunks bend and limbs twist in response. Lacking the ability to see what was happening in the forest around us, we retreated into what I have decided to call the Entertainment Sector, AKA the TV room. There, we continued our tradition of watching the Shetland series on BritBox. Later, throughout the night, thunder and lightning and the sound of howling winds reminded me of the storm assailing the forest. I pictured frightened animals cowering beneath any shelter they could find. I felt undeservedly safe and dry, with just a sheet over me to provide just enough warmth to balance the coolness of the air conditioning. When I got up this morning around 5, evidence of last night’s storm—distant thunder and flashes of blue light—suggested the event was not yet finished. And when I began typing a while ago, the electricity flickered just long enough to plunge the house into darkness and to shut down my computer. Despite the on-again, off-again flicker of the lamp in my study, my computer has remained operational ever since I rebooted it. Now, around 6:30, I can see pieces of the dimly-lit sky through the trees outside my window. The tree branches are almost still. The wind is no longer howling. A notice from the property owners’ association a short while ago advised caution in venturing out, saying tree limbs and electric power lines may be blocking roadways. A message posted by an acquaintance several hours ago on Facebook called attention to power outages and hazardous road conditions throughout the area. When the light of day is sufficient, I will try to determine whether there is any significant damage to the forest surrounding the house. What I will do if I find evidence of damage is questionable. What will the animals—those that cowered in fear overnight—do if they encounter damage to their forest homes? They do not have the option of calling Animal Services for assistance. No matter. The forest will heal.

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Sleep may not cure anxiety or depression but it can mask or muffle those maladies for awhile. Consciousness, which amplifies the effects of emotional trauma, provides collection points for stress. And it offers pathways for stress to maneuver its way throughout the body, spilling out of its home in the brain to the extremities and the body’s core. To that extent, consciousness should be considered a facilitator for stress and its brethren. Sleep, on the other hand, should be considered either a passive weapon against stress or an addictive, narcotic-like, analgesic. Addiction to sleep, then, may be a symptom of emotional trauma. If that is true, then what is insomnia—a sign of emotional resilience? There may be something wrong with the logic employed in the classification of sleep as symptomatic of trauma. I ache for more sleep; I may nap before long, if for no other reason than to clear my mind of shattered light bulbs and smoldering evidence that arson is akin to fascination with solar flares.

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There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.

~ Federico Fellini ~

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Muscles are strengthened through use. I wonder—seriously—whether electrical stimulation of the nerves, which in turn can cause muscles to contract and relax, might accomplish the same thing. I do not think for a moment that this thought is unique to me; I suspect it has been proposed, tested, and debunked thousands of times. But what if…? To test the idea, I would be more than willing to allow myself to be attached to a TENS (transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation) device configured to cause muscles in my arms, legs, abdomen, back, chest, etc. to contract and relax repeatedly in my sleep. I can only imagine waking up one day, after a 60-day experiment with a TENS device, to see bulging arm muscles, six-pack abs, and legs as sturdy as the trunk of a massive mesquite tree. Dreams. Fantasies. Visions. No; delusions.

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Does passion ebb with age, or does it simply collect itself into an ever-more-compact sphere, whose gravitational pull is exponentially greater than the sun?

Cats feign affection when it suits them—that is, when affecting affection might lead to satisfying their selfish desires. Feline affection is a strategy, not a genuine emotion. Dogs, on the other hand, tend to fall in love quickly and completely. Demonstrations of canine affection reveal a remarkable emotional scope and breadth. Compared to wading in the shallows of a cat’s tolerance, exploring the vast depths of a dog’s true love is like darkness versus light. The feline attribute that saves cats from being discarded like the miserable, uncaring, self-absorbed beasts they are is this: their uncanny genetic predisposition to using a litter box, with no training. If dogs required no “house-training” nor daily walks, every vagrant cat (they’re all inherently vagrants) now living in undeserved comfort would be replaced by a devoted and loving dog. Cats—aloof and haughty—hold their human subjects in disdain. Dogs—frenzied in their loyalty—adore their human friends and families, holding them in the highest regard. And, with apologies to Shakespeare:

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man (or dog) ever loved

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I have become quite selective in my out-of-house experiences of late. Warnings given to me to avoid over-exposure to crowds of people limit my ventures “out” of late. I have gone out to eat lunch twice (or more times?) in recent days, but the places were not crowded, so I have felt reasonably safe from crowd-borne diseases. But learning about people in my extended social circle who have gotten COVID-19 or other unpleasant afflictions keeps me away from many places I might otherwise go. To church this morning, for example. I hope my absence is not interpreted to be an intentional slight to anyone; it’s okay, though, if people simply consider my behavior evidence that I am sinking into hypochondriacal derangement.

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The few days preceding a full-scale chemo treatment are not reliably “good” days, but they tend to be better than the several days…or week, plus…after. If the interruptions to my routine were limited to chemo, they would be more tolerable. But there’s always a return for a post-treatment injection and at least one return the week (and, sometimes, two) after. And the blood draws. And the other tests, like PET-scans, CT scans, MRIs, etc. I had an MRI of my brain recently; it was all good. I’m to be scheduled for an MRI of my back and spine and more sometime soon. It is to be done to determine whether bone or joint issues might be responsible for some pain I’ve experienced. I do not look forward to a full-on MRI; the last one I had, years ago, was something of  a nightmare. The MRI is not so bad, but my back on a hard steel table for a long period causes pain far worse than the pain the MRI might help identify. I rather hope the schedule is tight and I cannot get another MRI for weeks. Or months. Wishful thinking.

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As long as poverty, injustice and gross inequality persist in our world, none of us can truly rest.

~ Nelson Mandela ~

When long-dormant memories surface unexpectedly, they sometimes reveal a personality that no longer exists in its original form. Regardless of how much time and experience have eroded those memories since they were first recorded—and subsequently erased—kernels of that abandoned personality remain intact. Circumstances in play when those recollections emerge determine whether the seeds of the past flourish or decay—whether they sprout into noxious kudzu-like weeds or disappear, withering into dust.

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Last night’s thunder and lightning left no traces of rain; if, indeed, any rain fell. Had I not been so tired when the flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder woke me, I might have gotten out of bed to see and hear and feel the squalls roll through. I love stormy weather—it feeds something primal in me, something that reassures me I belong in the realm of Nature’s ferocity. I am not simply an observer of Nature’s fury when I watch in awe as blue veins of jagged light spill from the sky. I am a willing participant in the overwhelming  power of an incendiary universe.

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Watching and listening to live music in a crowded venue filled with exuberant celebrants does not excite me. In fact, the crush of throngs of people and the overwhelming cacophony of music transformed into high-volume noise repel me. Unlike so many other people, I think listening to music is most enjoyable as a solitary endeavor; or one shared with only a select few others who treat music as meditation.

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Just two hours have passed since I got up. “Just” two hours. The speed at which time drifts away astonishes me. I can never get those two hours back. Instead of treating those hours as precious gifts to be fully savored and etched into my memory, I have allowed them to slip by almost unnoticed. Had I been more fully present during those two gone-forever hours, I might have extended to them the reverence they deserve. But I have frittered away the experience and my appreciation for it, as if I had access to a limitless supply of time and understanding. If I let myself mourn wasted time, though, I will waste even more in a pointless exercise. Today is an opportunity to shed the anchor of regret, if only for a little while.

Instead of the oncologist’s APRN, I saw the oncologist yesterday. She explained planned changes to my treatment regimen, beginning with next week’s chemo injections. The negative side effects of the drugs used thus far were largely behind the change. Once I go through the cycle with the new chemo drugs (taxotere and cyramza), options may include clinical trials with other treatments. Because my cancer cannot be cured, the path forward probably will involve ongoing treatments as part of an attempt to keep the disease at bay for as long as possible without making life miserable in the process. I am resigned to that reality, though I am not especially thrilled with it. The certainty is that, ultimately, cancer will win the war; the uncertainty is that the process could take years and years of skirmishes…or it could happen much sooner. Or, of course, I could be killed beforehand in a decisive battle of the Second Civil War or in a grocery store parking lot hit-and-run incident. Predicting the future gets increasingly difficult when there is no reliable guarantee there will be a future. Death is not a purely personal thing; it is a tear in the social fabric, a disruption to the peace and comfort of those who must cope with its aftermath. Life is a temporary eternity, an endless cycle of pleasure and pain whose finish is the permanent erasure of experience. It is hard—maybe impossible—to imagine one’s own death because there is nothing to imagine. These thoughts are not morbid; not in the least. They are simply expressions of a curiosity we can never satisfy.

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Acceptance does not equate to hopelessness. Acceptance acknowledges reality; hopelessness attributes sinister motives to reality. There must be better—and more precise and correct—ways of differentiating between the two, but trying to think of what they are is akin to swimming in a pool of cold molasses.

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Will early November this year bring with it a new Morning in America or will we experience Mourning in America, instead?  Or will November ripen into December and rot into January? Will decisions we record at polling places be accepted and respected, or will corruption taint the results? This is the sort of gut-wrenching worry that keeps me awake sometimes or wakes me from fitful sleep. If I were to heed my own advice, I would make plans for responding to circumstances, whatever they are. But when I try to decide what I should do, I get caught up in a battle between fury and fleeing.

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With every episode of Shetland, I am overcome with fernweh. The rugged coastlines, steep cliffs, rolling hills, rock walls along lonely country roads, and relative absence of some of the more hideous examples of greed combine to make me want to be there. I realize, of course, that the series does not accurately depict the islands, but it’s not accuracy I’m after. It’s fantasy. I read that Shetland has had only two murders in the past 50 years, versus at least one per episode on the series. Sometimes I prefer reality to fantasy.

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The morning has grown old; it’s getting close to 8. Hours have slipped by without my notice. Hmm.