My moral opposition to the death penalty may not necessarily apply to all people who are…or deserve to be…given the sentence. But the phrase “death penalty” probably should not apply in such circumstances, either. Perhaps “vengeful freshening” would be a more appropriate description, albeit one that might require some explanation. The term would describe the process of purifying—by way of unmitigated revenge—the social context which the condemned person has sullied through his or her actions. In reality, I doubt I could ever willingly condone carrying out actual “vengeful freshening,” but I might do all I could to make eligible criminals believe with all their hearts that a terrible, excruciating vengeance was about to be exacted. Make him or her experience horrible fear like no other. The problem, of course, is certainty—or the lack thereof. Subjecting someone, later exonerated of all charges, to such terror would be inexcusable. Unforgivable. Contemptible in the extreme. So, the question of exceptions to my moral opposition to the death penalty becomes truly problematic. Maybe I should stick to my original, steadfast opposition.
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The only complaint I have about my espresso machine is that it does not sufficiently heat the water. I have gotten used to—more or less—lukewarm espresso, but I’d prefer it to be several degrees warmer. As it is, though, even brewing it into an insulated glass espresso cup does not keep the espresso warm enough; it cools so rapidly that I often find myself drinking unpleasantly chilly liquid. At least it’s espresso, though. I shouldn’t complain too loudly. I could invest in a better machine. Or I could follow online advice, which includes warming my cup before making the espresso. Or I could revert to plain coffee.
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After my radiation treatment and my chemotherapy session today, I may learn the tentative schedule for my next PET-scan. I am anxious to get it scheduled…to get it behind me…to learn what it tells the doctors about the degree of success my treatments have had since the last scan. In the past, my expectations about the results were generally fairly positive and hopeful. Lately, though, I am not quite as optimistic…though I do not know why. I have no concrete reason to have anxiety about the results; but it’s there, regardless. I have been receiving chemotherapy treatments for a year now—or just a week or two shy of a year—about four times as long as I originally expected the treatments to last. The fact that the chemo drugs have been switched at least twice or three times may have something to do with my concerns. I keep telling myself, though, there’s no reason to worry, because I can’t change the progress (or slowing) of the disease. A full year of “life on hold” is more than enough. Buck up, whiner!
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Stained glass. Ceramic sculpture. Painting. Wood carving. Hundreds…maybe thousands…more. Things I either have not done or have not done well. If I had dedicated my energy and time to honing my skills and sharpening my creativity, I might have developed enough ability to enjoy such pastimes. It’s always the same, though. I run out of interest long before I achieve even a shred of competence. The interest always returns. The competence always is at least an arm’s length away; the arm immobilized in a wire and plaster cast, surrounded by padlocks.
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The difference between fog and smoke is obvious, except when it’s not. I hope I see thick fog outside my windows, shielding the trees from view. But the density of the grey masses flowing past my house is more like smoke. Fog does not smell of burning wood, though, so I think we’re safe for the time being. Unless, of course, the fog gets much thicker. If that happens, we could drown. The drive to Hot Springs this morning will be like feeling our way through clouds, unless the air clears quite a lot. This dreary morning is doing its best to smother, or drown, good cheer. Some mornings, when the fog is like this, are appealing; not this one. The fog is an annoyance. But, already, it is thinning. All will be well.
