Another year of uncertainty begins. Like so many years before it, the outcome of this new year cannot be predicted with any degree of confidence. The challenges facing humanity— and the planet we inhabit—might finally overwhelm us, leaving only shattered fragments of smoldering detritus in place of what we once were. Or, this sparkling new year might end in the luminous glow of unimaginably wild and glorious success, well on our way to a near-term future that lacks all the unspeakably cruel and intolerable problems we have nurtured since our unknowable beginning. As much as I would prefer to place bets on the latter outcome, I am afraid that gamble would be an exercise in indefensible hope. Yet speculating on the apocalyptic version of “maybe” might well result in an equally unproductive wager. Predicting the future may be an intriguing form of entertainment, but forecasts that lean heavily, on the whole, to either side of the spectrum of “good” versus “bad” probably fail miserably or succeed wildly. Likely to more closely resemble “actual” results are prophesies that mix “good” and “bad” outcomes with large swaths of guesses that suggest “it depends on who defines success and failure…and how.” If success is defined as the continuation of life, humanity in general may have a good chance of succeeding for another year or another decades or another century or even another millennium. But if that definition refers to individual human lives in the short-term, some time-limited success is possible. Yet, if the definition refers to individual human lives, success has an expiration date after which success is surrendered to death. In that thinking, though, people are incapable of succeeding. And death is synonymous with failure. I suppose the same logic can be applied to humanity in general. In either case, it would behoove us—both individually and collectively—to strive toward an agreement about what constitutes success. Though, in honesty, any such agreement probably is nullified in death. How long, I wonder, will this year last?
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I have noticed a dramatic increase in the length of some posts on Facebook. Those longer posts almost always take the form of “stories.” They usually are posted by a commercial entity—frequently an organization or individuals involved with publishing or history or some other source that seems unrelated to the subject of the story. Many times, in reading the comments left by readers, the commenters’ snarky statements mock the stories as having been created by Artificial Intelligence (AI). When I read the stories, I think I understand what prompted the mockery. The writing seems to have been produced by a writer who tends to intensify the story with dramatic embellishments. Something else strikes me; the writing style can be quite similar to mine. Short, dramatic sentences written to emphasize the emotional gravitas of earlier, scene-setting, sentences. When I find myself comparing my writing to “theirs” (whoever “they” are), I tend to think the writing is reasonably good, but in love with itself for its obvious dramatic thunder. And I then grow embarrassed with my own writing that lends itself to such comparisons. I seriously doubt my writing has been influenced by AI writing, inasmuch as my writing long preceded AI writing. But I wonder about the source of my writing style? And I wonder whether any unique value my writing may once have had has dissolved into digitized vapor?
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The bookshelves in my study are filled with books, the remains of a vastly larger collection I had before I moved from Dallas. In advance of the move, I gave away or sold a large number of books to Half Price Books because the volumes took up far too much space. Since moving to Hot Springs Village, I have relieved myself of many additional books. Still, though, my shelves are filled with books. I have not even opened most of them in the nearly eleven years I have lived here. Nor have I invested in a Kindle or its kin as an alternative to physical books. I blame my eyesight for my distraction from reading; I am not sure where the blame rests for the fact that I cling to books I have long-since read or that I have long intended to read. Maybe it’s the idea that simply having books to display portrays me as a man with an intellectual side…or suggests I am more well-read than is the case. While those may be among the reasons to blame my dust-collecting collection, the core reason, I think, is that I tend to revere physical books. Simply looking up at my shelves give me an odd sense of comfort. They remind me of ideas that took shape or impressions I developed about the authors while I was reading them. “Book people” (whether real or, has-beens like me—impersonators) use books as mental destinations; safe places where thoughts can blossom without risk of ridicule or suspicion. I envy good writers who can do more with words than simply allow ideas to spill forth from their minds. Truly good writers have the ability to shape and mold those words into cohesive collections that educate or entertain or encourage or warn readers about real and artificial forces that swirl about, hidden from those of us who are less competent with language.
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Yesterday’s chemo session did not take place. Instead the oncologist prescribed IV fluids and wrote a prescription for antibiotics. She changed the chemo plan because I have felt weaker than usual for the last few days and have fallen back into my habit of sleeping more than I am awake. I will return next week to get the chemo I missed yesterday, assuming my condition improves. I have a low white blood cell count (Leukopenia), which had dropped again for the second consecutive time, making me more susceptible to infections. Will I EVER be able to live a semi-normal life again? I suppose it’s far easier for me, an old man with the tendencies of a recluse, than for extroverts who thrive on interacting with others.
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Sisal rope, made of natural fiber from the rugged Mexican Agave sisalana plant (related to Agave tequilana). While the sisalana plant is used primarily durable fibers, it is said to be useable in making a liquor similar to tequila. I have no idea what the liquor is called, nor where it can be found.
