This rain on this cool, overcast, dark afternoon is not especially heavy, but it is relentless. Today’s weather could have been imported from the countryside outside a village in England’s Lake District, where people are unafraid of getting wet. At the end of a day’s work, villagers trudge along narrow, hedgerow-lined roads—barely wide enough for two cars to pass on another—as they make their way to country pubs that serve locally-brewed ales and stouts and bitters, ideal accompaniments for steak and kidney pie or bangers and mash or curries introduced by Indian immigrants. I remember experiences that time, in all likelihood, has rendered stale and outdated, though. The pubs I recall from numerous trips to England in years past may have disappeared, replaced by American-style fast-food restaurants that serve bottled beer. The noisy chatter among neighbors sitting at the bar probably has now been drowned out by deafening music and the unregulated volume of people speaking loudly into their smart phones.
I think I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. Had I had known fifty years ago, what I know today, I might have extracted myself from the irrepressible influences of modern-day America, opting instead for a culture better-suited to people who deeply appreciate certain attributes of the past; people who are relics, like me. Advancing age and retreating health, though, unfortunately have joined forces to make such an option unwise today, if not impossible. I realize, of course, that the passage of time tends to brighten recollections of happy times and soften or dim the recall of difficulties and struggles. That notwithstanding, I believe certain aspects of life in different times and different places appeal to me in ways that “here” and “now” cannot successfully imitate. The best alternative might have been to re-create, to the extent possible, attractive historical settings and to appropriate cultural practices to match them. Cultural appropriation is viewed negatively by many people—who consider it offensive thievery. While I will not argue that such theft can occur, I would argue that given proper implementation and attribution, it is not theft but, rather, an expression of appreciation that demonstrates esteem and high regard.
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This afternoon’s post may be an attempt to atone for the flippancy that drenched significant portions of the one I wrote this morning. My excuse, as flimsy as it is, for the impertinent frivolity of this morning’s message is that I was quite tired, after spending eleven hours in bed and rising very early at around 4:15. Though I remain tired, I think I have erased most of the whimsy that contributed to my detour into only-slightly-controlled madness. It wasn’t just whimsy and frivolity, though. It also was an attempt to combat an unexpected and surprisingly fierce episode of feeling depressed. That sensation is no longer as powerful as it was, though I can almost feel pieces of the remnants ricochet off my brain every so often.
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Today was my first doctor’s appointment of the week, an annual follow-up with a urologist. I have another chemo session scheduled for mid-day Friday, which probably will steal much of my energy within a day or two afterward. Maybe that’s what triggered the feeling that I had stepped into a bottomless canyon—another several days of wanting to sleep around the clock. That’s one of the more challenging aspects of ongoing chemo; once it starts, it’s like stepping into another dimension in which time simultaneously accelerates to the speed of light and decelerates to a thousand times the speed of darkness.
