Watching a soundless video of the Fagradalsfjal volcano in Iceland, which has been erupting for the past three days, inspires awe. The beauty of orange and white-hot molten lava, spraying into the air and splashing down on the mountainous terrain, is stunning. But I suspect watching, live from a point near the caldera, and hearing the deafening explosions of an erupting mountain as belches fire and smoke, would be both breathtaking and terrifying. Nothing compares to reality. That is not to say I would always prefer “being there” to watching “there” on video. Feeling comfortable and safe, versus feeling miserable and threatened, has a lot to be said for it.
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I now am president of my church’s board of directors. Within minutes—literally—of my first public appearance in that role, I was inundated with questions, comments, and complaints that merited the attention of someone who, at least in terms of title, could do something about it. None of the questions, comments, and complaints were frivolous; all really did deserve attention. And though none of the matters constituted an emergency, some of them require more urgent attention than others. I view the role of president as an opportunity to serve the congregation; even when nearly overwhelmed by all the “stuff” needed attention, I think I will feel grateful for the chance to respond to the wants and needs of the congregation. It’s nice to be “needed.” Even when “need” is a considerably stronger word than is called for. (Do you not know not to end a sentence with a preposition, John? And can you confuse the meaning of a sentence by using negatives in self-negating pairs?) Fortunately, the responses do not all fall to me. The other members of the board, committees, and congregants at large have an important role to play. And that is good.
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We have been watching, on Amazon Prime, a television series that first aired in 2014. The series, called Mozart in the Jungle, revolves around the transition from an “old” orchestra director (Malcolm McDowell) to a much younger, more energetic, and extremely creative Mexican musician/director (Gael Garcia Bernal). Bernadette Peters has an important role, as well, along with several others who play key characters. The show is labeled a comedy. I thought I was tired of comedies, but I’ve discovered I’m tired only of absurd or slapstick comedies. We’re on season two (I think) of four seasons. Based on what we’ve seen so far, I am sure I will reserve a high rating for the series.
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Obscene atmospheric heat is returning. Meteorologists predict we will experience heat index values of 108°F today between noon and 8 PM, during which a heat advisory is in effect. Rivers of hot, humid air are flooding much of the country, following on the heals of tragically historic downpours in the northeastern states. The damage is done. Whether it can be reversed or, at least, slowed is debatable. What should not be debatable is that human activities are sufficiently responsible as to warrant widespread action. But what “should not be” actually is; large numbers of brainwashed people accept that violent spikes in temperatures and unprecedented weather events simply represent natural fluctuations in climate. Climate change, they claim, is an act of God, not caused by humans. An angry, diabolical, deranged, fierce, punishing God, I guess.
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This morning, I cannot focus on any one topic. My mind is flitting about like a butterfly on speed. Though I am sitting at my desk, I feel like it is taking all my energy to enable me to stay here; if I were to cut the straps of control, I think I might fly out of the chair and bounce off the walls and the ceiling. The power to propel me thusly, though, does not reside in my body. It must be driven entirely by my mind. A mind drenched in a special kind of adrenaline that accelerates only thinking, not action. A mind spinning, almost out of control, and ricocheting off of everything it touches. I guess the best term to describe my state of mind at this moment is this: keyed up. It’s as if I am ready to burst with energy. But I know the energy burst would last only a fraction of a second, burning itself out with remarkable speed. Next.
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Once upon a time, I considered myself somewhat reclusive. I suppose I am, even today. But not deeply reclusive. Not as reclusive as I once was. And not continuously reclusive. Just periodically reclusive. And not thoroughly reclusive. Only slightly reclusive. To the degree that there are times when I want to be reclusive with someone else to keep me company. So, what term applies? Reclusive seems a bit much. I can think of no other word that means “slightly, periodically reclusive, but reluctantly willing to be in or near the spotlight for very brief periods.”
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I am a much better listener than talker. My tongue frequently gets tied when I speak. Or my brain locks up while attempting to process thoughts. Rather than relying on my lips and tongue, I count on my fingers to speak for me. That presents a problem when communication calls for giving a speech. The boredom of watching someone type probably surpasses the boredom of listening to someone speak, even when the speaker drones on and on. I simply cannot imagine sitting behind a lectern on a podium, on a raised chair, typing comments to an audience. The boredom of that scenario would be exceeded only by standing behind the lectern, reading—in an excruciating monotone—a prepared speech. So, the answer is to untie my tongue and learn to think aloud. I used to do that quite often. I suppose I am just a little rusty. Or, perhaps, corroded to the point of needing a hammer to break away layer upon layer of decay.
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It’s just now 7 o’clock. Time for more coffee and a bit of time on the deck before the temperature and humidity conspire to make sitting outdoors insufficiently comfortable.
