John Swinburn

Today was special, not because it was filled with activities in which we rarely have the opportunity to be involved but because we enjoyed what was available. After we visited several stores in search of fennel, we finally found it at the Kroger on Airport. It wasn’t visible in the vegetable section, so we asked Jesus, a young guy whose badge said he was a member of the produce section team. He led us to the place it should have been, but the bin was empty. He asked us to wait and then ran back to see if he had some on back.  A few minutes later he came back, carrying a box on his shoulder. He opened it up and, voila, fennel. But it was in pretty sad shape. My wife said she was most interested in the bulbs, not the fronds or leaves. He then offered to take it to the back, cut off the leaves, and put the bulbs in a “discount dollar bag” for us, which he proceeded to do. Outstanding customer service! (When we got home, I sent an email to Kroger, asking the company to acknowledge his superior service and give him a hefty raise.)

But that wasn’t the only thing we enjoyed that made today special. On the way home, I half-joked to my wife that we might stop at SQZBX Pizza for a draft beer. She suggested, instead, that we visit Core Brewing’s new(ish) pub on Central. So we did. She had no interest in going there. She offered it only because I’d talked about it for a month or more. So we did. I tried two of their draft beers and chatted with the bartender. She tolerated the experience and played Words with Friends.

Both experiences today were magical in a sense. I’m glad we found the fennel, because my wife wants to try two recipes that call for it (fennel is, by the way, a Spring vegetable!). But I’m delighted that my wife suggested we stop at Core; she’s the love of my life!

In a dream early this morning I experienced a place I’ve never been but which consisted of elements of various places I’ve either lived or been. A wall of glass doors and windows at the back of the house, much like my current home, looked out over a large back yard that sloped steeply away from the house. An enormous fig tree blocked the view to the left. At the back of the yard, a tall wood fence topped with two or three feet of chain link fence marked the edge of the property. Beyond the fence, a mass of dense underbrush stretched as far as the eye could see. I was standing at one of the windows when I saw a large cat, a tiger I think, peer over through the chain links. Another big cat, a leopard, nudged the tiger aside and peered over. Next, a bobcat poked its head over the fence. The bobcat was much larger than real bobcats. It was only slightly smaller than the other two cats. I called Janine to come look, but as soon as she came through the door (which I somehow knew led to the garage), the cats slipped out of sight. I pointed to where they had been and she stared intently at the spot. In an instant, the huge fig tree began shaking violently. As we wondered what could be causing such shaking, an enormous black bear climbed down from the tree and ran toward the back fence. As it ran, though, it became apparent to both of us that it was not  a bear. It was a gigantic skunk, all black with no white stripe. Suddenly, I wondered where the dogs were. No sooner had the question come to my mind than I saw both of them at the back door, wagging their tails wildly as torrential rain drenched them. Worried that the creatures outside the house might hurt them, I hurried to open the door between the garage and the back yard. I opened the top of the Dutch door and the dogs jumped up on the ledge of the lower part of the door and climbed over into the garage. And then the doorbell rang. I think it was about then I woke up.

I don’t know the last time I saw a Dutch door. I bet it must have been sometime in my childhood. I’ve not had a dog since childhood. And I am relatively sure I’ve not seen large wild cats climbing around my back yard since…forever. But something about the place (aside from a wall of mostly glass) suggested placed I’ve known. And I think, in the dream, I was conscious that the house may have been in Africa, a place I’ve never been. Odd stuff. And the bear-turned-skunk was an odd experience unlike any I’ve had, but the way the bear shimmied down the huge fig tree looked like I think a bear would look shimmying down a fig tree. I’ve probably seen enough videos of bears coming out of trees that my recollections of those scenes flowed into my dream.

Oh, there was more to the dream, but I just don’t recall what else. I just know there was more, but my mind just won’t allow it to come to the surface. A psycho-surgery procedure might unearth the rest of the dream, but I’m a little hesitant to go asking for such a procedure lest the surgeons either: 1) accommodate my request; or 2) have me involuntarily committed for making it. Early this morning, after I awoke from the dream, I did a bit of research on psycho-surgery, simply because the term popped into my head out of nowhere. I wonder if there’s a connection with my dream? Who knows?

The smiling faces of friends and acquaintances can hide haunting secrets, painful memories, and dark experiences that will never see the light of day. We’re like icebergs, revealing only a fraction of our selves and keeping the bulk of what we think and who we are hidden beneath a thick wall of privacy. We don’t even know that we’re hiding our true selves; we only know that the public face isn’t really who we are. And when we think about what we’re hiding from the world, we realize we’re hiding just as much from ourselves. Who are we, in fact? Are we simply responses to the stimuli around us, or do we exist separate from our environment? Is the happy-go-lucky guy in the mirror just a manufactured image, cultivated by the people with whom he interacts? Is he real, at his core, or did he come into being as an expression of the people with whom he’s spent time and the places where he’s lived? Some days, I feel like I don’t know who I am. Is there a real me buried beneath the layer upon layer of trained responses? Had I lived without the input of my environment, would I be a different person, a different being? I think I would. I think I would be more introspective (if that’s possible), less concerned with what others think of me, and more capable of focused attention. The older I get in this body, the less I’m able to stay focused. My mind spins like a top on a jagged, broken tabletop. Enough of this.

I read a lot about cultural appropriation. And I get it. But, like so many other issues that tend to create friction where none previously existed, a burr seems to have grown into a full-fledged mesquite covered in monstrous thorns. I understand the indignation that arises when people “appropriate” an element of another culture and claim it as their own. But I do not understand the rage that accompanies “appropriation” when full credit is given to its source. Does my appreciation for and enjoyment of Mexican food count at cultural appropriation? What if I modify “original” recipes to better suit my personal tastes? Must I ask someone for permission? And how about hair styles? I’ve seen considerable anger over dreadlocks on white people, along with assertions that the hair style is a statement by black people asserting their African ancestry. Perhaps adoption of dreadlocks in Rastafarian culture counts as a recent claim to the style, but research suggests the style originated in India or Egypt long, long ago. So, if someone appropriates the style, who is the party injured by the appropriation? And, frankly, why does it matter that people outside the originators’ culture appreciate and adopt a hair style or food preference or anything else?

I can think of very few culture-specific things that are truly unique to the culture. Historical contributions outside our realm of experience color all aspects of our lives. I, for one, appreciate and am happy to acknowledge the contributions of other cultures to my enjoyment of the one in which I live. Barbecue’s history is not uniquely WASP, but should I not use my grill because that method of cooking did not originate in my culture?

My reading of the outrage over cultural appropriation is this: it’s a symptom of a deeper anger at one culture’s dismissal of the contributions of another. Frankly, at that level, I understand and can appreciate the anger. But I believe that anger could just as readily be channeled in another emotion, joy, over the fact that an aspect of one’s culture is so appreciated that people outside that culture adopt it. As long as it’s not claimed as one’s own (as in, I created this), I think cultural “appropriation” is, in fact, an expression of deep appreciation.

Now, that’s off my chest. Of course, if someone reads this and thinks I’m dead wrong, I’d like to hear how I’ve missed the mark.

Unexpectations. That’s what I call them. Experiences that one realizes will take place without any prior planning. You know they’re coming, but you don’t know why. And you didn’t know to expect them. I discovered, quite unexpectedly, that a woman I’ve met only once in the real world is visiting Hot Springs this weekend, along with her partner (what else does one call a male attachment one assumes is a lover…a lover?). Her daughter, I gather, is here, either as a resident or as a prospective resident. Here, being Hot Springs. Not the Village. The Village is a lifetime and 22 miles away. 

Anyway, I learned of the trip and suggested we get together. At the moment, we’re talking dinner with a huge entourage at McClard’s. I don’t know about that. I’d prefer SQZBX for pizza, but I nobody asked me. And McClard’s is by far better known for a long, long time. We’ll see. Isn’t it odd that someone from a lifetime ago can pop into the periphery of one’s life and suddenly seem important? I hope I can see Paula and her brood. If not, at least I’ll know I tried. As if that matters. Sometimes attempted connections make no difference. I once connected with someone else, a lifetime ago, and have never connected again, at least not in the same way. There’s still time, I guess. Or maybe not. 

I decided this morning I should make a record of our recent trip to Texas and back, if for no other reason than to jog my memory at some point in the future when I ask, “What year did we make that trip to Houston and Corpus Christi?”

We had long planned to drive to Corpus Christi to attend a July 26 launch party for an anthology of authors with connections to Corpus Christi. Our itinerary, which was to be extremely flexible, was to include a stop at my brother’s house fifteen mile outside of Huntsville and a visit with my niece in Houston. From there, we would go to Corpus Christi and after a couple of days would meander back northward, possibly through Central Texas and to Dallas, where we’d stay a day or two with friends.

Those plans changed when my brother was rushed to the hospital in Huntsville, then transferred to Methodist Hospital in Houston for treatment for an abdominal aortic aneurysm. After a couple of days in the hospital, they sent him home for a few days until he could be scheduled for surgery on Tuesday, July 24.

We decided to drive to Houston on July 24. We arrived at the hospital around four o’clock in the afternoon, where we met my niece in the cardiac surgery family waiting room. She told us that his surgery had been completed around 2:30 and he had been taken to the cardiac ICU, but not long afterward he had been taken back into surgery due to internal bleeding. We waited and waited and waited with only one or two “updates” that indicated he was still in surgery and that the doctors were trying to stabilize him. Finally, around 8:30 (I think), the surgeon came out to give us an update. During the initial surgery, he had removed my brother’s spleen because it was in the way of the surgery required to repair the aneurysm.  It had become apparent during my brother’s short stay in the cardiac ICU that something was terribly wrong, so he was taken back into surgery. The doctors opened him up again and searched for the source of the internal bleeding, while giving him transfusions of more blood.

The sutures used to close the wound had apparently failed when my brother’s blood pressure spiked. After they found the source, the surgical team closed the wound and monitored my brother’s status for quite some time. The second surgical intervention lasted several hours, perhaps even longer than the first one. The doctor said my brother had been stabilized and would be taken to ICU again shortly. Soon, another staff member came out and told us we should be able to go to ICU in fifteen minutes or so. That came and went and we decided it was time to go in, but when we entered, we learned it would be another ten minutes. Finally, we were allowed to go in. My brother was in a section of the ICU that had around fix or seven beds. He was hooked up to all manner of tubes and wires and an incredibly array of medical apparatus. He was marginally aware we were there, but he went in and out. The anesthesia was still in control of his consciousness. Finally, we left for the night. My niece stopped on the way home and bought an assortment of wonderful tacos from a place called El Rey.

The next morning, we went in to see my brother again. He was still marginally conscious and still had a breathing tube in, so he could not talk, but he was aware of our presence and squeezed our hands when we squeezed his. We left for Corpus Christi after noon and got as far as El Campo before we stopped for lunch at Mikeska’s Bar-B-Q. Despite the signs claiming the place had BBQ that was famous all over Texas, we thought the food was on the very low end of mediocre, lousy enough that we’ll make a point to never again stop at any place claiming to serve BBQ under the Mikeska name.

We got to Corpus Christi around 4:30, maybe a bit earlier, and checked in to our motel, which is in an industrial area a good fifteen minutes from downtown. We decided to go exploring, so we drove up Leopard Street to Padre Island Drive and, from there, to a shopping area where South Padre Island Drive intersects with South Staples Street. We had a target in mind: my wife brought two sacks full of books that she had planned to sell at Half-Price Books in Houston, but she learned online that there was one in Corpus, so she decided that was the place to go. We did. She sold half of her books for $10.50 and left the rest of them, which the company would not buy, to be given away to libraries or schools or other such place in need of books. From there, we slid over to a Chinese restaurant called Taiwan for dinner. I had an acceptable meal of Chinese food and my wife had a Filipino dish called Pinakbet. She liked it. I thought it was fine, too.

The next morning, we had breakfast at the motel, then went out wandering. We cruised Ocean Drive, then headed to Padre Island. For lunch, we headed downtown, where we ate at Water Street Oyster Bar. I liked whatever it was I ate, but I don’t recall just what I ordered.

After a bit of a rest back at the motel, we headed out to Hogemeyer’s Barbecue Barn, the site of the launch party. We had assumed that the light hors d’ouevres and refreshments would reflect the type of restaurant where the event was held, but we discovered that the owners of the restaurant simply let the event organizer use the space. The organizers brought in some appetizers including sandwiches and hummus. Interesting mix.  We met a few people, then sat down to nibble. Soon, the readings began. The organizer announced that the readings would be in alphabetical order, but that soon proved not to be the case. I wanted to read, but did not know the plan, so I just sat and listened as a number of people, apparently selected by the organizer in advance, read their pieces. Finally, I motioned that I’d like to read. So I did. But I only had three minutes, so I couldn’t even begin to read the entire story. I decided to start in mid-story, possibly making it to the end; I didn’t. I was alerted that time’s up before I finished. Oh, well.  The evening was soured a bit when I opened the anthology to see the editor’s comments under the heading “Forward.”

The event ended by eight o’clock and I was still hungry. We stopped at a convenience store and I bought a bag of chips and a six-pack of beer to top off the night.

We left for Houston the next morning, Friday, expecting to go to my niece’s house and then to the hospital. As we were making our way there, she called and asked if we’d be willing to meet her and her husband at their favorite Mexican place, Teotihuacan.  Well of course! So we made our way there, using our GPS and good sense to guide us. I had intended to buy lunch, but Ignacio beat me to the punch as he was heading out the door to go back to work.

We then went in to see my brother, who was still in ICU. He was more aware and alert than he had been a couple of days earlier, but still in a fog. It was a bit difficult to know when he was fully conscious of what was going on around him and when he was hallucinating or confusing dreams with reality. But we communicated. By then, his breathing tube had been removed, so he could speak, but his voice was very weak and feeble. Clearly, though, he wanted out of ICU. He hated the noise and the constant activity around him and the other patients, but he knew he had to stay until he was well enough to be moved to a private room. On Saturday afternoon, July 28, he got into his room. He was quite happy to be out of ICU, though he was still very weak. I told him I would go back to Houston when he gets out of the hospital and will stay with him at his daughter’s house until he is able to get by without my help.

We hit the road moderately early the next morning, reaching Texarkana around 1:00 p.m., when very strong thunderstorms whipped through the area. We couldn’t see well enough to keep driving, so we pulled into a gas station/convenience store and bought some fried chicken and a jalapeño for lunch (to accompany the Scoops version of Fritos and jalapeño bean dip we’d bought along the way). After the rain slacked off a bit, we hit the road again and make it home about three hours later.

Since we’ve been home, my niece has been sending us updates on my brother’s progress. At this stage, we have no idea when he might be released from the hospital. The medical team is trying to get his insurance company to authorize time in in-patient rehab, but we don’t know the status as of yet. Last night, when I called my brother, he said he expected to be in the hospital for another week or two, followed by in-patient rehab, but that may or may not be based on good information. He’s still not completely free of having fuzzy thoughts and confusion; last night he said he had been on the phone with someone trying to sell him insurance when I called earlier and got a busy signal. Somehow, I think it’s unlikely that an insurance salesman called his hospital room to try to sell insurance. But there you go. That’s the story as it stands.

I learned yesterday of a young man’s death. He made the irrevocable choice to end his life by leaping to his death. I can’t help but think he might not have done it if he’d waited just one more minute. Perhaps in that one minute he would have realized the darkness, as bad as it must have been, would have been temporary. But once he flung himself off the building, his decision was irreversible. The darkness overcame his will to live. His pain overwhelmed his hope. I will never know what went through his mind in the weeks or days or hours before he made that horrible decision. I knew him only as a passing acquaintance, but I feel a sense of loss, nonetheless. I’m stunned by the news and I feel empty, knowing that I didn’t realize that, beyond his outward appearance, he was dealing with a life or death struggle.

During our time in Houston last week and weekend, I had several wonderful conversations with my niece, many of which led me to ideas that would make great stories. Naturally, my memory of said conversations is only of the “this would make a great story” moments, not the actual stories themselves. My failure to remember perfectly good story lines upsets me, not so much because I’ve lost a story concept, but because I seem to be losing my mind memory.

The solution, I’ve decided, is to have a video camera permanently installed in my forehead. But, because I’m generally a practical guy, I’ll have to figure out a few things first. Number one, because the device will have to run on batteries (who wants one’s movements to be limited by the length of a power cord?), I’ll have to figure out how to easily change them out. And, because a large video camera protruding from one’s forehead would startle and upset some people, I’ll have to install a very small camera, something in miniature that’s easily hidden by make-up or hair carefully positioned to cover the thing. The on-off button must be hidden, too, as must the button to record, zoom in and out, etc. The installation of this permanent device will require considerable time and talent, not to mention money, two of the three of which are sorely lacking and the third (that is, the first) is an unknown quantity. I suppose I need to consider how I will transfer files from the device to my computer for playback and permanent storage, as well.

You’d think the practicalities I’ve already addressed would be all I’ll need to consider, wouldn’t you? Well, there are legal issues to factor into the undertaking, as well. Some states require two-party consent to record audio and, I assume, video. Others require only one party to know of the recording. Yet others may not require any of the parties being recorded to know it. So, I’ll have to install a computer with a real-time link to state statutes so that, as they change, the device will be updated accordingly. Naturally, because it would be impractical to physically update the device with the legalities of recording based on knowing whether I’m in one state or the other, the computer must include a global positioning satellite (GPS) link so there’s no question which state I’m in (and to ensure the correct links to state statutes).

The device must have some method of notifying me whether recordings are being made and whether I must notify others. I envision the projection of a holographic image that only I can see, informing me of the laws governing recordings, based on my location as calculated by the GPS. If I’m in a one-party state, the hologram might read, in green text, “One-party state. You’re good to go.” If I’m in a two-party state, the hologram could read, in red text, “Two-party state. Inform others of  recording.” If that latter message flashed before my eyes, another message could follow—something like this that I could read aloud: “You’re not going to believe this, but I have a video camera implanted in my forehead and I’m going to record our interactions, okay?” My guess is that the other party or parties would assume a mental meltdown had caused those words to spill from my mouth and would readily agree. Or, if not, I’d just insist. “All I need to do is to inform you. As far as I know, there’s no requirement for consent, only for notification. So be forewarned: anything you say can and will be used to enlarge and enhance my video archives.”

It occurs to me that the cost, both financial and mental, of a permanently installed video recording device might bankrupt me, monetarily and emotionally. A less expensive and, perhaps, less intrusive way of tracking story ideas would be to write notes in the little spiral notebook I carry with me almost everywhere I go. Why I do not write these ideas down is beyond me. I do, on occasion, but more often than not I’m too much “in the moment” to interrupt the conversation by jotting notes that, in many cases, would have to be extensive.

There MUST be a solution that’s not so intrusive and costly. Aha! I have it! I simply need to hire a very small, almost invisible secretary, someone unemployed for so long that even the meager salary I could offer would seem a windfall. I would need to find someone small enough to fit in a shirt pocket. He or she would be held accountable for keeping track of where we are and for monitoring state recording statutes. And, because I’ve never bought tiny little steno pads for someone so small as to fit inside my pocket, the responsibility for purchasing those products would fall to him or her. I would, of course, pay for the cost of those work-related tools. Now that I think of it, though, writing notes that would then have to be typed seems silly. I’d need to get him a tiny little computer with a tiny little keyboard. The issue with batteries would be much like the issue with batteries for implantable video cameras. I’d have to feed this person, wouldn’t I? What does a tiny person eat? And what about eating in restaurants—would I need to bring along tiny plates and utensils? I mean, one can’t assume restaurants keep a stock of such things for people of all sizes, right? Ach. There’s so much to think about, not the least of which is the concern about why this very small person has remained unemployed for so long. Could it be that he is simply not good at being a secretary? Or was he caught embezzling from a former employer? Does his prison record have anything to do with his difficulty in finding work? There are too many variables here. I think I’ve talked myself out of hiring him. I’m sorry, fellow, to have wasted so much of your time in interviews. Good luck in your job search!

Well, that was a blind alley, wasn’t it? I think I might just pursue something that’s been right under my nose all along. All of us are under constant surveillance everywhere we go. No matter where we go, there’s a video camera keeping an eye on us. Grocery stores, department stores, even on freeways. Cameras constantly watch us. It’s 1984 on steroids, folks. And our electronic devices monitor where we are and who we’re with. How many times have you been in a restaurant when someone takes a photo of their meal and, an hour later, you notice on Facebook that you are in the background of the person’s poorly-framed food shot? That’s what I mean! Everywhere we go we’re being recorded. Maybe not all video, but we’re being watched.  Inasmuch as someone already is recording us, the trick is simply to hack into the Universal Network (some people still call it the World Wide Web or internet, but it’s become the Universal Network where all data are collected, logged, and available for the right price). The Universal Network is as solid and stable and as impenetrable as the records in the Equifax credit database, so an early teen with a Kindle Fire should be able to get it and retrieve anything I need.

Even after all I’ve written, I don’t remember the stories that triggered my “I need to remember that so I can write about it” moments. But what I’ve written may be worth another look some day to see if there’s sufficient seed and adequate soil for a story to grow from the manure I’ve spread by tapping the keyboard with my fingers. More coffee. That’s what I need, more coffee!

Facebook is too public for me. Though I’d like to express myself to friends and family, Facebook is, to me, the equivalent of posting a full-page ad in the newspaper. I’m more inclined to send individual letters to people I know. On the other hand, Facebook has a broader reach than my messages. If my friends and family were regular readers of this blog, I could count on it as a relatively private way of communicating with them. But it’s been years since they have regularly read my blog. Proof positive that what I write bores even my wife and my brothers and sisters. That’s more than a little painful to know, but I understand that, as a writer, the words I put down with my fingers are more for me than for anyone else. I have to believe that or I will spiral into depression. And so I believe it. This blog is not for anyone else but me. Only for me.

My wife and I got back to Hot Springs Village yesterday after a whirlwind trip to Houston and Corpus Christi. The Corpus Christi leg of the trip was to attend a book launch, an anthology of writers with a connection with Corpus Christi. I grew up there, from the time I was four or five until the time I left for college at eighteen. So the framework of who I am formed during my Corpus Christi years. But I don’t remember a lot from those years. Yet I know I am who I am because of them.   The trip to Corpus was not stress-free. My brother, who’s seventy-seven years old, underwent surgery for an abdominal aortic aneurysm about the same time. It was nerve-shattering stuff. We spend an evening in Corpus, celebrating my one and only publication of fiction work, then headed back to Houston. We spent time in cardiac ICU for days. When my brother was put in his own room, we headed home (a day later). But I’m returning as soon as he is released from the hospital so I can help look after him until he regains his strength.

In the meantime, I have obligations to fulfill for my church newsletter and the history project that’s aiming to document the first fifty years of Hot Springs Village. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem as important as it once did. Frankly, at this moment, I don’t care about HSV and its history. But I committed, so I’ll do what I can.

Though my brother is doing well and there’s nothing to suggest that anything will change in that regard, I want to cry. I want to upload the emotion that’s been building up in me for days. And I can only imagine my niece’s stress. But she seems so utterly calm. Maybe she didn’t get the same gene I got. I suspect not. My brother tends to be relaxed and able to deal with adversity far better than I. But I am a crybaby. I am not someone you’d want around you in an emergency. I am useless. I function, but not with hope. I assume the worst, I guess. I don’t think I’m always that way, but lately, I feel that. I feel like I ought to find a box and a bottle of gas and just fade, fade, fade away. I know. That’s selfish. I won’t do it. But there are days when I feel utterly defeated and useless. Crap. I guess today is one of them.

But I should be happy. Finally, today, I sold my sister’s old truck. I got far less than I should have, but it’s no longer a financial burden. Yet even knowing it’s gone causes tears to well up in my eyes. I should never have sold it to begin with. I should have kept it as a family heirloom. That’s no longer an option. Never was, really.

A day or two or three from now, I’ll make the nine-hour drive to Houston again to pick my brother up from the hospital and take him to his daughter’s house. I’ll spend whatever time I need to spend looking out after him and then drive home. I hope he recovers fast, both because I want to go home and because I want him to recover and go home where he belongs. Ach! I am so damn willing to wake up from a dream!

It’s been years since I spent more than just moments listening to Emerson, Lake & Palmer. But I dedicated a bit of time to listening to them a couple of evenings ago. What prompted me was a recent NPR piece dedicated to Fanfare for the Common Man by Aaron Copland. I love that music. During the broadcast, EL&P’s version was mentioned, so I listened the other evening. And I listened to Copland’s version(s), including one by the London Symphony Orchestra, directed by Copland. I love them all. But back to EL&P. I wasn’t utterly enamored to the group back in the day, but tonight I developed a new appreciation for their creativity and energy. Knife-Edge is incredible! It held me in rapt attention. And then I listened to Abaddon’s Bolero. Amazing! And Brain Salad Surgery!  And Karn Evil 9 1st Impression, Pt. 2. Holy mother!  These things took me back to a time I’d truly forgotten. A time when I was a loud, reckless kid. There’s good and bad to that, of course.

I listened to various versions in which Copland was involved in one way or another. I loved them all. But I fell deeply in love with one by the Minnesota Orchestra, with Eiji Oue. That music not only can, but absolutely does, bring tears to one’s eyes.

From there, I went to Mozart, Piano Concerto No. 21, Elvira Madigan. I didn’t realize how much I remembered of classical music. Well, it’s not that much. But I remember that it moves me. It’s easy to understand, having listened to EL&P alongside much more traditional versions of the same music and then following it with classical pieces from renowned composers, how music today traces its roots to a long, proud tradition of emotional “noise” that connects us to our souls.

I awoke an hour or so ago to my wife’s voice telling me there was a scorpion in the sink. I arose, walked into the bathroom, and looked into the sink. Yes, there was a very large, very lively scorpion there. Scorpions are no strangers to us. I place sticky insect traps in our garage at least once a week and they tend to fill by the next week with a number of scorpions. Yesterday, I counted how many scorpions met their demise by getting stuck to the flat strips of insect attractant: nine of the beasts had died (or were on their way there) since I last put out the traps. But large, unruly scorpions in the house are uncommon sights. And this one in the sink was very, very large. Perhaps it came up the drain? I don’t know. Regardless of how it got here, I don’t like scorpions in the house. So I murdered the thing, using a piece of flatware, a table knife. The creature did not expire peacefully. Even as I severed its body, its pincers tried to grip the air, fiercely sweeping back and forth. Its “tail,” curling and uncurling in rapid succession, attempted to kill its killer. Finally, the monster stuck to the knife and I carried it out to the garage, depositing its corpse onto the sticky trap, where it will stay until next Wednesday, trash day.

Waking to a call to kill a scorpion tends to get one’s adrenaline going, so I have been unable to even consider going back to bed. Instead, I went online to amuse myself. In so doing, I caused my heart rate to spike and the veins in my neck to bulge. I am a scorpion killer AND I am stupid. What possessed me to read the news? Why would I willingly expose myself to reports of the egotistical and idiotic ramblings of a malignant reptile occupying a position that once was revered? I am stupid, as I believe I said before. Unlike the post-digested rat feces in the White House, though, I know it. Let me lower my heart rate for a moment, please.

There. That’s better. This, too, shall pass. There will be a time when the aquifers beneath the Arizona deserts will be flush with water. There will be  a time when the carbon monoxide filling our atmosphere will have dissipated, replaced by fresh and natural vapors that will restore the planet’s atmosphere to its normal balance and will deflect the Sun’s most dangerous rays back into space. All of the animals roaming the Earth will be part of the natural order. Humans? Don’t be silly!

There’s an obvious contradiction between my views of the idea and my recent murderous behavior. In the ideal view, Earth will have returned to a natural state, free of the deviant attacks perpetrated by humankind. In today’s reality, though, an innocent scorpion that stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time was savagely butchered by a beast who longs for a time when beasts don’t sully the planet. Methinks there’s a lesson to be learned from the recognition of the dissonance therein.

The time is now 5:08. The likelihood that I will return to bed and get some sleep is declining with each passing moment. I just checked the outside temperature which, according to the gauges and computer reports, is an ungodly 85 degrees Fahrenheit. That fact, alone, is evidence that humankind has committed a sin against itself and Nature. Nature would not, of her own accord, allow pre-dawn temperatures to rise above 79 degrees.

I know this, because I’ve had conversations with Nature in which she said to me, in no uncertain terms, “I would never permit pre-dawn temperatures to rise above 79 degrees, unless compelled by the Forces of Darkness to do so. In fact, I would not permit temperatures to exceed 73 degrees except to warm humans that their wanton ways have consequences.”

Shortly after expressing those thoughts to me, Nature coughed and began to cough convulsively. She passed soon after, leaving us to cope, alone, with what we’ve done to our planet.

My thoughts remain with the poor scorpion. Why did it choose (if scorpions can make conscious “choices”) to go into my wife’s sink in the bathroom? How would this story have been different if it had, instead, climbed up on my flip-flop and waited patiently for me to slip into said footwear as I arose to go to the bathroom or get up for the day? Would my mind have wandered to the drying aquifers of Arizona had the scorpion opted to stay outside this morning? If a chance encounter with a scorpion can impact my thought processes so dramatically, then it must be true that a butterfly’s wings disturbing the air on another continent can, indeed, affect the climate in North America. We do, indeed, rely on “the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.”

It’s no longer 5:08. I’ve allowed my mind to wander and my fingers to rest, so it’s now 5:26 a.m. Time to stop filling space with meaningless drivel and, instead, fill my cup with something more valuable.

A blogger, a man I’ve never met but who seems in many respects to share some of the emotional framework that keeps the flesh on my bones, wrote today about losing a friend and mentor. His mentor was a teacher, several years his senior, who recognized my friend’s need for a resource, a counselor ready to offer support and advice. As I read of his experience, I felt both pain at his loss and envy that my friend had the good fortune of having such a mentor. I’ve always wondered what my life would have been like if I’d had an older and wiser counselor; not to direct me, but to offer guidance and opportunities for input.

My father was fifty years old when I was born, so by the time I was fifteen and ready for advice and counsel, he was a sixty-five-year-old man ready to retire. I was the sixth of this children to need and want something in the way of advice, but by that time he was tired, I think. I don’t remember any substantive “father to son” advice from him. And I don’t recall any male teachers or other father figures who might have offered that father-to-son advice that I’ve always felt I missed growing up. I don’t know the details of the  youth of my friend whose mentor just died, but I suspect the presence of his mentor was a substitute for a father who wasn’t there in the way that we traditionally think fathers should be “there” for their children.

I do not fault my father in any form for failing to be my mentor. I don’t know how a sixty-five-year-old man could relate to a teenager who was just beginning to bud. I’m nearly sixty-five years old now. I would advise a fifteen year old kid to find someone else with whom he could relate; I’m neither interested in nor willing to invest my energy in a child at this stage of my life. That sounds cruel and selfish. My father was neither. But he had invested his time and talent in five other kids by that time; he was tired. Even if another adult had been available and willing to be available to serve as my counselor and guide, I doubt that I would have accepted the help. I was an angry kid. I still am in many ways. But I guess today the anger is directed at myself for having been unwilling to open myself up to people who were willing to help. I know they must have been there, but I was an angry kid, unwilling to accept help.

At any rate, I feel for my friend for his loss. He feels guilt, I think, that he did not take the time to go see his mentor recently, before the man died, to tell him how much the man meant to him. I understand his sense of guilt, though I think it’s misplaced. I am sure, based on what I’ve read about their interactions, that his mentor was well aware of how much his mentorship was valued and how strong the bonds of friendship had grown. Regardless, loss is hard. It’s brutal. That is true of life itself. I’ve known that for years and that’s why I’ve sometimes pondered ending it. But I won’t. Because there’s too much to learn, too much to appreciate, that outweighs the pain.

Yep. I’m wandering and making little sense. I do that sometimes. Like whenever I write and let my fingers be guided by my brain.

There’s nothing appealing about my blog. No reason a person would want to come back to read it after they stumbled upon it once. In one sense, I’m okay with that. But in another I wish I had the capacity to write something of interest that would appeal to a broader audience. I’m here to tell you that’s not going to happen. This blog is mine and I will write what I want to write. I do wish more people would visit and comment, but that’s not why I’m posting here. I’m posting here for me. I think there are people “out there” who would love to read what amounts to my journal and expository of some of my writings. But they are few and far between. Such is life in the expressive mumblings of a man like me.

The sounds of the monthly “deep” cleaning at my house drove me away this morning. The woman we engage to help in this monthly task brings loud vacuum equipment and noisy brooms. Well, the vacuum is loud and disruptive and I feel like I’m in the way, no matter where she is in the house. So I choose to leave. This morning, I am sitting at Melinda’s Coffee Corner (I think that’s the official name), drinking an iced coffee and attempting to avoid being blinded by the sun. I’m sitting at the chest-high counter in the front of the place where windows allow ample sunlight from the early morning sun in the east. I long for blinds or shades or large piece of plywood to block the light. I could move, but I’ve set up my computer and my coffee and my cell phone on the counter, so moving would be an enormously taxing undertaking. It’s far easier to sit here and complain that the building was built at the wrong angle to avoid blinding sunlight from streaming through the windows.

As I sit here, I overhear snippets of conversation between two women who are talking about the state of the country. I can’t hear enough to know what they think of it. I’m assuming that, if they’re bright, they think the country is going to hell in a hand basket. I think I hear one of them talking about the French resistance during World War II; this is a good sign.

My wife just texted me, asking me to pick up a green tomato and a couple of peaches if I opt to drive up the road to Sarah’s, a little fruit and veggie stand we’ve visited only once. I think I shall. I’m up for some adventure!

I got a hair cut yesterday. I asked for it short. It’s relatively short. But not quite what I have in mind. I realized today, though, that the quality of my haircut isn’t particularly important. The quality of my tears matters more. The depth of my emotions tends to have more import. And that brings me, as irrationally as possible, to this:

I wonder whether any research has been undertaken to examine the relationship between feigned bone spurs and malignant narcissism? Surely some scholarly work has been conducted in an effort to identify and isolate a correlation between feigned bone spurs and sociopathic behavior, don’t you think? A connection must exist between feigned bone spurs and the absence of a moral compass. The link between the two must be so strong that, absent high-resolution imaging evidence to support it, a claim that one has bone spurs should be ample evidence of the need for a mental health hold on the claimant. That is, lock the person up for a full-on mental evaluation. I’m talking long-term here. As in lifelong incarceration. Because, as we all know (having seen sufficient evidence to support the assertion), feigning bone spurs can lead to behavior capable of ruining civilization. At the very least, lifelong incarceration would give the patient the opportunity to get a no-comb-over haircut.

Mortality sucks. Reminders about mortality suck almost as much as the thing itself. My brother is in the hospital in Houston, waiting to learn when the surgeons will perform an operation to repair an aortic aneurysm. That’s serious stuff. Not frequently deadly, but serious and nerve-wracking And it’s the sort of potentially unpleasant surgery that reminds us of our mortality. Which, as I will remind you, sucks.

If all goes according to plan, the surgery will be done, post-operative healing will be speedy, and everything will be back to normal. That’s what we all hope for. But of course we worry that things will not work out according to plan. We worry that the plan can derail and cause all sorts of problems leading to outcomes unlike those we hope and expect to see.  Worry is idiotic, I know. If I can’t control the outcome, worry is a waste of emotional capital. But I can’t help but spend it. I can’t just say “it is what it is.” Would that it were so. Would that I could just accept that the world will spin without my input and control and I must simply accept it. Well, I do, in a way. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want, desperately, to have some influence over the situation.

Many years ago, this same brother who is in the hospital tonight, drove to Dallas after my open-heart surgery to spend time as my nurse-maid for a while during my recuperation.  I stand ready to do the same. My plan for next week was to go to Corpus Christi for a launch party for a book by Corpus Christi authors (including people like me who grew up there). I want to go to that party and read from my story. But if I need to be with my brother, that will most assuredly take precedence. Isn’t that the way it is with all decent humans? And I do count myself amount them, even if there are days…months…during which I don’t think of myself that way at all.

Sorry. If you tried to read my last post and coudn’t, it’s because I didn’t intend to post it and have taken it down.

I’m now entirely incompetent of late.

I am trying to sell my Ford Ranger. It’s the Ranger my late sister bought new in 1997. I “inherited it” when she died in 2010. Or shortly thereafter. And I kept it for a while. But I sold it to a friend after a few years, when it became apparent I wasn’t going to use it much. And then we moved to Arkansas. And I thought I wanted a truck. And so I bought it back from my friend. And I drove it back to Hot Springs Village, stopping along the way to address serious front end issues. And it’s been a year since. What the hell was I thinking? I have no use for it. I rarely drive it. I spent $36 every month for insurance. So I’m trying to sell it. That’s my story. I’m sad to sell my sister’s truck, but she would understand. She was the champion of the underdog. God, I miss her.