For some reason, beef and pork lately have almost no appeal to me. Chicken is okay, but not something I crave. The only thing that sounds particularly appealing to me is ceviche. Halibut ceviche, in particular. Any firm, mild-flavored white fish would satisfy my desire for ceviche, I think, provided it was prepared properly. That is, cut into small bite-sized pieces and soaked for a few hours in a marinade of lime juice, diced tomatoes, diced jalapeños, and diced cucumbers. What sounds good, though, might not actually be good for me. In fact, nothing that settles in my brain after a few minutes of mulling over it actually sounds especially good. Food, in general, does not really interest me. That notwithstanding, I have been eating more than I’d like. The result has been that I’ve gained a few pounds and have had several instances during the past several days in which my stomach has rebelled against forced consumption. Watermelon sounds quite appealing, but we are literally MONTHS away from watermelon season. I’ve tried watermelon-flavored electrolyte water; I believe people should be paid to drink the stuff and not required to pay to drink it. Cookies sound good, but recent experiences with cookies have proven that sounds can be deceiving.
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(has been continued, though should be forgotten)
The terrorism and drug-trafficking charges against Skazer Tartman were said to have been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt during the trial, which was conducted entirely in secret, out of the public eye. The judge’s identity was not divulged, nor were the identities of the witnesses who testified against Tartman. But it was common knowledge that the only persons seen going into and out of the courtroom during testimony were Ginger Pinkwell, Hope Chusovitina, and Kimmy Ri. In a highly unusual turn of events, the trial judge—whose identity was concealed by a black hood and whose voice was altered electronically—announced the verdict and sentence during a news conference. The sentence imposed on Tartman: death by starvation. Inasmuch as the Federal statutes did not provide that a sentence by starvation could be imposed, appeals were filed immediately by both the prisoner’s attorneys and by the Federal prosecutor who brought the charges against Tartman. Due to “death threats against the condemned man,” the unnamed judge ordered that Tartman be transferred to an unknown, high-security Federal holding facility. Freedom of Information requests filed by numerous media outlets about the trial, the jury (if there was one), the judge, and Tartman’s location and condition were denied. It was as if he had simply disappeared…an perhaps had never existed.
Ginger Pinkwell’s home was burglarized and vandalized shortly after Tartman’s trial. Nothing of significant value was destroyed, but several life-size nude photographs of the mayor were removed from her bedroom closet. She did not disclose that the photos were stolen, but one particularly revealing and shocking photo was copied and distributed to both local and national news media. Though Pinkwell claimed the photo was fake, several experts said otherwise. It was, they said, an authentic, un-doctored photo of Pinkwell and Tartman engaged in activities not suitable for viewing by young children.
(to be continued or forgotten)
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According to The Weather Network, the temperature outside when I woke was 20°F but, thanks to the wind and humidity and other factors, the wind chill made it feel like it was 10°F. The actual temperature has risen to 23°F, but the wind chill remains stubbornly stuck at 10°F. The idea of traipsing out into the frigid morning has no appeal to me, whatsoever. But appealing or not, I must go to the cancer center to get irradiation and have chemicals dripped, therapeutically, into my body. Oh, joy! At least I get to leave the house. It’s odd; I do not find “going out” the least bit appealing anymore. I prefer to crawl under the covers, where my mind tells me I am sitting on a stone wall, gazing at the ocean and sipping on an espresso. The espresso seems to go with me everywhere I imagine going. I may have developed an addiction to the stuff. I am fortunate in that my addiction is to drinking a foamy, deep brown liquid and not to consuming a powdery white substance through my nose. Which I have never done, by the way. That must make me pure, like the driven snow…an unusual simile in the context of a not-so-oblique reference to cocaine.
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The introductory piece to an opinion series on “How to Live with Regret,” published August 8, 2004 in the New York Times, includes reference to Daniel Pink’s book, The Power of Regret. Cornelia Channing, the writer of that 2004 opinion piece, says this about Pink’s book:
…Pink argues that regret is an unavoidable fact of life and that it should be embraced as a useful and instructive emotion. What we regret, he says, can teach us about who we are. It helps to reveal what we want, what we fear, what truly matters to us and what doesn’t.
Perhaps the reason I find Pink’s assertion appealing is that I seek absolution from who I was—who I am. Maybe, as Pink’s argument suggests, the fact that I feel such regrets reveals who I am, at my core…that I am not such a worthless bastard, after all. But that would be too convenient; too easy to be pardoned for behaviors that cannot be washed away, leaving a clean slate. If regret were so easily discharged as evidence of “growth” or “improvement,” regrettable behaviors would not be so…regrettable. Ach. I should read Pink’s book. It is unwise to make assumptions about complex arguments and assertions on the basis of third-party analyses.
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Time for a shower. I must arrive at the cancer center in an advanced state of cleanliness. The only way to accomplish that, in my opinion, is by showering. So, off I go.
