Irrational Thought as Residue

After watching the second of only two seasons of Dehli Crime, I am deeply disappointed that a third season is unavailable (and, perhaps, has not been nor will be produced). The show portrays the Dehli police force as comprising mostly dedicated, but badly underfunded and unappreciated, public servants. Police behaviors in the program are reminiscent of a time in the U.S. when police beatings of suspects—in the station house—were condoned and, if not accepted, at least willingly tolerated. I wonder, though, whether the foundations of that statement are based on implicit assumptions about “a more practical time.” Or words to that effect. Was there ever such a time? Or has its “recollection” been cleverly planted in the public psyche by a master manipulator with an undecipherable master plan? Hey, don’t snort your dismissal of my comment!  It may be a valid expression of a wildly sophisticated and perfectly pristine strain of paranoia.


Off to the oncologist this morning for what I hope and expect will be a routine review of the results of my recent CT scan, which (if all goes according to deep desire) reveals “no change.” This trip to see her follows two separate trips to prepare for today’s appointment. First, I had to go in for a routine blood-letting. And a few days after the blood draw,  I had the CT scan. I plan to take it moderately easy for the rest of the day. But not really.


My mind this morning is on the distance between Tucson and Flagstaff, a tad more than 250 miles. Between them, the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix interrupts travel to and from. I have passed through both ends of that north-south journey and a bit of its middle ground. I like some aspects of both Tucson and Flagstaff for different reasons and for different seasons. But both places are at varying degrees of risk of a sudden and severe—possibly even catastrophic—loss of sources of water. Arizona is a harsh and beautiful country. So is New Mexico, my favorite of the two territories. And both are in perpetual danger of urban, suburban, and rural dehydration. Is the appeal worth the attraction? I think the answer changes from “no” to “yes” as a person ages and reasons that “the end” probably lies beyond an invisible horizon.


My creativity and the stamina in my fingers apparently are out for coffee and a cinnamon roll this morning. They’re certainly nowhere to be found in or around my desk. The gaping white emptiness of my computer screen yawns at me, as if bored with my fingers’ expressions of mindless energy. And then that energy disappears…as if in a “puff” they become invisible; only its shadow can reveal where it went. I surrender, for the moment. I will be content to think and will not intrude by sharing those irrational thoughts with you. My irrational thought this morning may be a residue of a 20mg gummie I consumed last night. I slept in a bit this morning and seem to be in a modest fog. Hah! I laughed last night, thanks to the fact that my shoulder pain either disappeared or was hidden.

About John Swinburn

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