My very long-time habit of waking extremely early seems, unfortunately, to be dissolving. This morning, I woke just after 6:30, a full hour later than my normal “latest” time to wake. The loss of an hour or more of my private time of isolation may be “healthy,” but I truly miss those lonely hours. It is not just the length of time alone I miss, it is the darkness. There is something about looking through the windows into empty blackness that sooths me. Pre-dawn darkness, when I am alone with my thoughts, nourishes my imagination and feeds my need for the purity of solitude. Yet, I have slept in lately. This morning, I woke around 4:15 to pee, but chose to return to bed, where I slept for more than two more hours. I could have, as usual, gotten dressed and padded out into the dark house, but instead I decided to take just a few more minutes to rest. A few more minutes. Maybe it’s just the remnants of my severe cold that is keeping me from my old familiar patterns. I truly hope so. And I hope I can readjust my sleep habits, returning to the reliable hours of darkness that replenish my…what is it?…soul, for want of a better word.


An acquaintance, with whom I have not spoken in quite some time, is a gifted writer. A few years ago, she wrote a short book that she chose not to try to publish. Instead, she shared it with just a few of her colleagues who, like her, enjoy writing. I was fortunate to be among them. She called the book’s genre “granny porn,” in that its plot revolved around a group of elderly men and women who lived in an old house which served as home to a co-ed group of old folks who were sexually interested and active. It’s interesting to think back to my youth and even my middle age when, I remember, the idea of sexually active oldsters was essentially unheard of—almost preposterous. Why the idea that libido might simply dissolve into disinterest made any sense is beyond me. I suppose the tendency for issues of intimacy seemingly to become increasingly private as one ages might contribute to the idea that sex is restricted only to the young. I am not sure what prompted me to think about “granny porn” this morning, but as the matter has surfaced in my brain it makes me think. I wonder whether “granny porn”—based not purely on prurient interests but on the natural evolution of sexual relationships as one ages—might develop a strong following among people in their sixties, seventies, and eighties? Of course, at some point one’s interests in sex must begin to wither simply as a matter of changes brought about by aging. But until then, I would think that literature based on reality, rather than uninformed assumptions, would have a reasonably good-sized market. I doubt I’m going to write much pornography, but someone probably should. 😉


Last night, we watched five of six episodes of a Netflix limited series entitled, Hold Tight.

IMDb‘s description of the series does not do justice to the storyline: “When a young man goes missing soon after his friend dies, life in a tight-knit, affluent Warsaw suburb slowly unravels, exposing secrets and lies.” Set in modern-day Warsaw, Poland, the series started slow, in my view; slow enough that I considered trying something else for the evening’s entertainment. But I am glad we stuck with it. By the beginning of the second episode, though, I was committed. By the end of the fifth episode, I was riveted. While initially a bit difficult because it was performed in Polish with English subtitles, it did not take long to forget that I was not “hearing” it in English.

Harlan Corben, the writer on whose work Hold Tight and several other Netflix limited series is based, is deeply involved in the television/film production of a number of his works. I suspect I will explore some of his 34 novels in the coming months and years.


Mi novia and I went out for a late breakfast this morning, thanks to the absence of some of the normal ingredients of breakfast. Subsequently, we made a trip to the post office and then drove by the site(s) of the tornado that damaged several buildings in and around the Jessieville schools on Monday. From there, we drove just a little north to the approximate area where a body was found off Highway 7 North.  That, and a stop at a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for me, was our excitement for the morning. Only after returning to the house and dawdling for a while did I realize I had not finished writing my blog for the day. Curses! I really must get back on track so my sleep cycle corresponds to my writing processes.  And now, as it nears noon, I will cogitate on the matter. Until tomorrow, I expect…

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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