Vagueness—or imprecision—inhabits a “nearly” incalculable number of words in the English language: Many. Some. Almost. Few. Probably. Thick. Short. Considerably. Close. Near. Far. More. Less. Hard. Likely. Occasionally. Quite. Extremely. Low. Rarely. Fast. Mostly. Often. Nearly. Soft. Frequently. Long. High. Possibly. Quickly. Thin. Unlikely. Slowly. Rapidly. Tall. These words and others like them—in various forms—litter conversations, speeches, news reports, gossip, and written communications with uncertainty. My point? Nothing in particular…just an unstructured and possibly misleading observation I noticed leaking from my mind after I awoke this morning. Distance and proximity, by the way, are related concepts. Pleasure and pain, too, belong to the same tribe. I believe joy and anguish have familial ties, too, but when checking my thesaurus, I found that so-called reference book refuses to acknowledge their relationship. That gives me reason to believe in the questionable malleability of referential truth.
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My lethargy/fatigue/weariness has curtailed our binge-watching behavior of late. Until recently, we habitually watched two, three, or more consecutive episodes of our favorite film/TV series most evenings. Shows like Mayor of Kingstown, Blue Lights, etc. But recently, I have run out of steam each night after only one or two episodes of the latest season of Shetland. The flurry of activity involved in remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms in the last week has made daytime napping more difficult, so I am trying to make making up for it by going to bed extremely early.
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Cancer or its treatment, I have discovered, can wreck one’s settled affinity for flavors and /or the body’s appreciation for and/or tolerance of piquancy. Yet another reason to loathe the impact the disease or its potential remedy has on one’s body. For most of my life, I have had a passion for hot and spicy foods…Indian, Thai, Mexican, Moroccan, etc., etc. Since commencing treatments for my second round of lung cancer, though, my tongue and digestive system tend to complain bitterly when I try to indulge in that passion. Though wine and alcoholic drinks do not cause such discomfort, they no longer have a taste that is as appealing to me. An occasional glass of wine or a “short” gin & tonic have a tolerable flavor, but not as delightful as once was the case. The relaxation and slight pleasure I used to feel after a drink or two, though, now accompanies my consumption of certain medicinal gummies. “Adapt or die” may be a relevant aphorism in such circumstances. In my case, though, “and” might be more realistic than “or,” at least beyond the short term. A slight adjustment to the words of Woody Allen ring true for me: “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when conscious of pain before and while it it happens.”
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Rabbits. Wildly excited, goofy rabbits may invade at any moment. They bring nothing to fear, but fur itself.
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