John Swinburn

My hands are cold, as are my feet. I have not had to rely on my cane so far this morning, but if my feet get any colder, I may watch them crack into icy pieces of flesh-colored glass.

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Rāga, a melodic framework for improvisation in Indian classical music, is central to classical Indian music. Each rāga consists of an array of melodic structures with musical motifs; and, from the perspective of the Indian tradition, the resulting music has the ability to “colour the mind” as it engages the emotions of the audience. [extracted and adapted from Wikipedia].

After trying, without success, to identify an appealing and freely available film or series to watch last night, I took temporary charge of the television’s Amazon Music control. In short order, I picked an album on which two (apparent) brothers played rāgas on sitar. My efforts to comprehend the structure and purpose of rāgas were wasted, in the same way my past efforts to understand traditional Western music have left me dazed and confused. That bewilderment notwithstanding, I enjoy listening to both. Later in the evening, I stumbled on an album cover printed entirely in either Japanese Hiragana, Katakana, and/or Kanji; some of it could have been Korean text…I remain embarrassed not to know. That album featured a lone acoustic guitarist. This morning, after trying for a full hour to find the music I heard last night, I gave up. Something is awry. And it could be me. Both albums, as different as they are to my usual musical preferences, were pleasing—relaxing and evocative of some sort of serene confusion. I want to find the albums again, but I do not wish for my search to have any urgency—somehow, that would defeat the purpose.

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Finally, a few days after becoming aware that the controls for the fireplace no longer worked, a guy came out yesterday to service them. The sentence I just wrote could be interpreted to mean the guy who came out to service the fireplace controls had, a few days earlier, become aware they no longer worked. That is not what I meant to write, but I typed it anyway. My mind seems, some days, to be encased in a fog just thick enough to make the expressions of my thoughts incomprehensible. Perhaps even thicker that “just…enough.” I imagine that the empty spaces between brain cells are filled with a gelatinous goo that gets firmer and firmer as it sets. And, as it sets, it encases my thoughts in an indestructible rubbery substance that—like a monstrously strong bio-adhesive— adheres to the inside of my head. That’s the downside of the fog, but the fireplace works.

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The founder of an association management company in Chicago for which I worked must have been in his mid-eighties when I left the job around 1988 or 1989. In my dream last night, he had not aged since then. But the company had grown enormously and had launched a respected public relations agency arm. A splinter group of a construction industry client association were trying to withdraw from my employer’s management by making untrue accusation about the company. The founder of the company learned of their bad deeds; he and I paid them a visit, along with several of my colleagues, during which he put on boxing gloves and beat the liars senseless. After giving them a physical pounding, the founder summoned his PR staff and instructed them to ruin each member of the splinter group, individually. The last I remember of the dream, I was wading through chest-high grass while trying to find my way back to downtown Chicago.

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Comfort is far more important than money.

Despite the fact that I felt a little like microwaved end-of-life, yesterday’s gathering of friends for a traditional Thanksgiving meal lifted my spirits. The group was small—eight of us. Had it been significantly larger or smaller, the closeness of the atmosphere might not have gelled the way it did. From the perspective of a mostly-quiet observer, yesterday’s easy intimacy between people who truly enjoy one another’s company was more than just a successful holiday. It revealed the emotional structure of the concept of Thanksgiving. Neither mi novia nor I are particularly enamored of tradition, in general, but when the meal, the décor, and the people combine in just the right way—like they did yesterday—tradition takes on an almost magical aura. After spending several enjoyable hours with friends, I took a two-hour nap, followed by an hour, more or less, of semi-consciousness. During that hour, I decided to return to bed for the night. Eight o’clock. When I was younger and healthier, I would have been irrationally embarrassed by going to bed so early; youth is so damn frivolous and so lacking in wisdom!

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Sometimes, I feel like I am walking on air. Turbulent air. As if I am making my way to the front of an jet airplane’s cabin while the craft makes its way through a vicious storm.  At least I can steady myself by grasping seat-backs in the airplane cabin. And I can have similar success at home by trying to stay upright in a hallway; leaning against the walls works. But when the turbulence strikes midway across an open and airy room, I have to rely on my sense of balance to avoid giving the rough air the upper hand. Thus far, my sense of balance has not failed me; and I do not expect it will. But I recognize, too, that regularly replenishing my fuel and spending it wisely…that is, eating enough and putting my muscles to regular use…are the best ways to avoid confronting turbulent air.

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Santa Claus stood in the doorway,  staring at me, his trembling right hand clutching the still-holstered grip of a Glock 19. Sneezy and Grumpy crouched behind the old man’s massive legs, hiding their misplaced rage behind those two thick oak stumps clothed in red felt. Bashful, pale, breathless, and face-down on the floor behind them, did not seem to be responding to Doc’s efforts to revive him. Saliva and vomit dribbled from Dopey’s mouth, his right hand around a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey between his legs where he sat on the floor. Centrifica, Santa’s then-illicit-lover, was slowly edging out of the scene when Brad Pitt arrived, wearing his Sinbad outfit.

“Whoa! What’s the deal here? Is Bashful…dead?” Pitt’s face, usually the image of pure macho, was suddenly bleached white; his forehead oozed sweat and his whole body shivered as if he had been immersed for hours in an ice bath.

“He’s hanging on,” Santa mumbled, his eyes still fixed on me. “But if he dies, I’m gonna aerate this guy’s chest,” he continued, pointing to me. “And little miss Centrifica’s gonna get it, too!”

Obviously, Santa thought Centrifica and I had been engaged in a more than casual relationship. And he mistakenly believed two things about Bashful: that Bashful had been involved in a threesome with Centrifica  and me and that Bashful was male. No matter how things worked out, this was going to be a potentially deadly situation.

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Several years ago—after I retired but before I moved from Dallas to Hot Springs Village—I tried to interest several people, one by one, to join me on a road trip by Greyhound bus. One by one, my suggestion was dismissed as ridiculous, silly, pointless, or otherwise without any merit. Whatsoever. Every one of my would-be traveling companions expressed disdain for the idea. Not only did they have no interest, they were completely unwilling to even consider the possibility.  I could have opted to travel alone, but I wanted to travel with a companion; someone who could serve as an emotional anchor as we wandered long stretches of late-night roads, among strangers. But, after exploring the idea with everyone I thought might be willing to see the trip as an adventure, I slowly came to realize my desire was just a dream, the kind that does not invade reality as I hoped it might. The destination(s) were unimportant; I just wanted to have the experience. It might have mirrored the one I had when I was a kid (no idea how old…or young), when two friends and I traveled by bus from Corpus Christi, Texas to Dallas, Texas. My aunt hosted us for a couple of nights and gave us rides to and from Six Flags Over Texas, then sent us back to Corpus—again by bus—despite a disturbing experience on the trip north. A passenger sitting behind two of us kept reaching between the seats, trying to fondle us; when, finally, we told the bus driver, he stopped the bus and ejected the man. The details are a tad fuzzy, but I remember both relief when he was put off the bus and concern that he was left on the highway in the middle of nowhere.

Greyhound Stations

Something—I do not know what—sparked my curiosity again this morning in intercity bus travel. That curiosity led me to the Greyhound website. On a whim, I decided to check into the cost and timing of a round-trip ticket from Little Rock, Arkansas to Tucumcari, New Mexico. I was surprised to discover (remember?) that Greyhound does not serve Little Rock. So, I tried Memphis, instead. Bingo. The available bus on December 1 from Memphis leaves from the Memphis Bus Station at 2:30 a.m. and arrives at a McDonald’s in Tucumcari 17 hours later, after a transfer in Oklahoma City. Another scheduled departure leaves Memphis at 2:55 a.m. and arrives in Tucumcari almost 23 hours later, but that schedule is sold out. Return trips to Memphis depart Tucumcari just after 2:00 a.m. and get to the Memphis Bus Station 24-½ hours later, at 3:40 a.m.

Intercity coach used to be the travel choice of the poor. It probably still is, but it is not dirt cheap any longer. But the cheapest fare from Memphis to Tucumcari is only $117.97; I guess in today’s economy, that IS dirt cheap. One of the reasons I’m interested in travel by bus is to observe who the passengers are. I doubt I would see any well-to-do people riding the bus with me and the rest of the riff-raff (including poor students). But that may be a biased perspective. Whether bus riders tend to be from lower income brackets or not (I still firmly believe they are), I suspect their world-views differ from people who would not be caught dead on a motor coach whose passengers embody the stereotypes of the poverty-ridden.

My superficial scan of online information about assaults, other crimes, and injuries/ fatalities revealed that quite a lot of information has been published about intercity bus line safety. Transportation Research Board, Federal Transit Administration, Bureau of Labor Statistics, and a host of other organizations and agencies track such stuff. Police agencies, though, tend to keep records of types of crimes committed, rather than by locations. It makes sense, but…wouldn’t it be nice to have the data sliced and diced in ways that might reveal valuable insights about where crimes are committed, by type?

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The topic of this post is tangentially relevant to today’s holiday. I wonder whether a significant spike in bus travel occurs on and around Thanksgiving Day?  I wonder whether anyone else is even remotely curious?

When clouds gather unexpectedly, I quietly ask myself whether something is going on above or behind them. Are Greek or Roman gods deliberating about something important? Matters of celestial significance? Or have greedy politicians corruptly snatched the power away from mythology and now are using that control to eliminate the thorns that interfere with the comfort of their coup d’é·tat?

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I still feel a sense of sanctuary, but I hear sounds like the walls—made of egg shells—are cracking, then imploding into a thousand misshaped pieces. Once broken, it is said egg shells cannot be repaired. But, when the walls of a sanctuary begin to fracture, does some mysterious force cobble the fragments back together and seal them with a protective emotional shield? Does the sanctuary outlive its physical expression—or, once demolished, are its protections forever gone?

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Crepe myrtle leaves, before being shed by their most branches and twigs, turn bright orange-red, the color of fresh rust on new steel. If I had been asked, two months ago, to describe the transition of crepe myrtle leaves from their shiny green summer look to the point they have reached today, I would have been inaccurate with my reply. Memories can take up so much space that they run out of room. Or it could be shrinking space, not expanding content, that crowds out memories.

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Proceed with caution. A warning. A plea to exercise care. A suggestion that trouble lurks ahead. A piece of ominous advice. An admonition to be wary of the unknown.  People who are enamored with the fog of language and have an almost perverse affection for thesauruses (thesauri, for the snob set), are called word nerds; they refer to their enemies, with derision, as illiterati. Ah, but if only the animus between nerds and illiterati could be confined to limited to words. Both sides of the battle, though, carry weapons “for protection.” Nerds insist their weaponry is for defense; illiterati justify carrying arms by asserting they are for preemptory offensive engagements. Inf fact, though, both factions lie; weapons are carried as security blankets to combat fear. Both groups’ fears differ in their expression…one more likely to be forthright and the other wearing a mask that hides motive.

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I think I am emerging from the fatigue and related side-effects of my most recent chemotherapy. Ever since the middle of last December I have been fighting illness—two hospitalizations for pneumonia at first, followed by a recurrence of my lung cancer after five years. Various other physical frailties attempted to derail me during the course of this year, but I have so far successfully plowed through them. Yet when I realize it has been almost a year since these intrusive health issues began again, it occurs to me that 2024 has largely been a lost year. And, if recent oncological experiences and plans are any indication, the process will continue for an indeterminate period. It could amount to perpetual maintenance of an unsatisfactorily low level of existence. Ach.

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My eyelids are red and puffy. My eyes are rough as a cat’s tongue. The skin on my arms and legs torments me with its angry and dry attitude. My hair is thinner and shorter than the fur on a newborn kitten, struggling to survive. Unused skin and flab hangs loosely from my chest and gut, crying out for a back-alley cosmetic surgeon to return me to a version of myself that never existed.

Except for the occasional foray into the chaotic world beyond these walls—chiefly through the portals of madness…television and internet access—this house has become a sanctuary. Here, an insular cocoon provides protections against the decay of civilization. Those protections take many forms: an undeveloped forest, an absence of neighbors, a refusal to tolerate the inevitability of unwanted intrusions, and a fierce insistence that this safe haven is an impregnable fortress. In other words, dreams and fantasies—combined with unrealistic interpretations of reality—serve as imaginary shields against the unknown and unwanted. This refuge—this asylum—has taken on the mystical attributes of a personal monastery. Something about a private monastic life has always held enormous appeal, fascination, interest…an irresistible draw. But, at the same time, it has been utterly inaccessible. An impossible dream. This morning, though, the distinctions between impossible and achievable seem to blur. Perhaps the obstacles have been placed, historically, by the mind’s inflexibility; its tendency to classify reality as an either/or proposition. Maybe, instead, reality is circumstantial. Maybe reality is defined by the context within which it is measured. And that leads to questioning whether monasticism can exist on a sliding scale; can one lead a monastic life only when one needs that experience, switching back and forth to maintain equilibrium? Recognizing this sanctuary may be the first step in acknowledging the several forms of protection. Emotional safety and outright rebellion can exist in the same person and in the same place. It simply must be recognized and cultivated and protected from encroachment when encroachment has the potential to do the most damage.

Illness can do collateral damage to healthy people. I mean the healthy people who suddenly find themselves feeling obligations to care for the sick. While they may willingly take on those obligations, the sense of responsibility and the demands of care must eventually evolve into unwelcome burdens. Lives that had been punctuated by freedom and enjoyment begin to be defined by the burdensome tethers of  unplanned commitment. Caretakers, who gladly took on the responsibility, are surprised to witness soft tethers transform into cast-iron chains affixed to shackles. The softness of caring stiffens into the rigidity of obligation. Caretakers are not at fault; it’s the real or seemingly endless nature of responsibility. A blemish that grows in size and scope and need.

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After two consecutive days of extreme fatigue, today began in a way that looked remarkably like a third was about to unfold. I woke early, stumbled through the process of putting on comfortable clothes, and wobbled out into the kitchen. After feeding the feline beast, making espresso, and doing the other mundane things I do most mornings, I went to my study to explore news of the world; to attempt to escape the private reality to which I have grown unhappily accustomed. The news did nothing positive for my mood. But a promotion for My Unsung Hero, a National Public Radio program, caught my attention. The program tells real-world stories about brief but impactful interactions between strangers that changed lives for the better. I read about a reunion, after 15 years, between two such strangers. It was a simple story, but one that stripped away the grey shroud that had covered me from the moment I woke. I remain tired and weak, but my perspective on the day and on the value of compassion have improved considerably. Each of us needs a daily shot of positivity like I experienced this morning. It may not solve all our ills, but it can open our eyes to buried possibilities.

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I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown. I was last seen crawling into an overused bed, where I sank beneath the blankets like an iron anchor in a murky ocean. Even after the authorities tore off the sheets and covers and emptied the ocean, I was not found. I was hidden between cotton fibers; they looked in the wrong places. While they were scratching their heads at my inexplicable disappearance, I slid through a wounded window-screen and into a USPS truck that took me to an Amazon warehouse. From there, I skipped from shelf to shelf, always a step or two in front of Jeff Bezos, until the occasion of the fullest moon, when I rose to the occasion and planted my face there. A face, though, is not the same as a person; it is only a symbol of the secrets buried deep inside the brain. My symbol, then, resides on the lunar desert-scape, but my secrets remain in orbit around one of the sun’s planetary children. The astronomically-trained eye might see me as an asteroid, while the astrologically-trained eye might see me as a symbol of the confluence of time and anti-matter. But the fact remains: I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown.

U.S. culture generates an inherent nervousness in us. Fears of judgment, ranging from mild disapproval to rabid condemnation, shape our behaviors. We are an uptight culture, bred to color between the lines and closely observe cultural mores and behave accordingly. Men are indoctrinated to limit evidence of their emotions. Their penalty for expressing emotions is ridicule, at the least. From there, it rises to mockery, taunting, becoming a social outcast, and even physical intimidation. Women, on the other hand, are rewarded for revealing their emotions, though it would not be a surprise to learn that base male behaviors cross gender lines. People who do not identify as binary probably are subject to much more intense psychological (and physical) attacks. Transforming cultures into supportive networks is a pipe-dream, I am afraid. At least within a lifetime. Ach.

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Forty-three minutes elapsed between the time I woke this morning and the moment I sat at my desk to think and write and wonder. During that time, I peed, clothed myself in sweats, fed the cat, took my morning pills, brewed a tiny cup of espresso, and trudged into my office—carrying an Ensure nutrition shake, a bottle of Propel electrolyte water, my espresso, and my phone, while steadying myself with a cane. All that time…for such simple tasks that should have taken less than twenty minutes in total. How is it, I wonder, that my movements feel constrained, as if I had been slogging through a kiddie pool filled with cold blackstrap molasses? Is this the way old age feels? Or are the sensations I feel the results of some temporary effects of poisons circulating—deliberately—in my bloodstream? I like to think the latter, as I am not sure I can tolerate them from now on. Time. Time will tell. Or time will tease.

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We’ve had the same ideas, the same thoughts. But we’ve been afraid to express them. That’s true of so many people. We subscribe to the limits placed on us for no legitimate reason, just because it’s easier than contesting them.

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There is so much more on my mind this morning, but I do not have the energy to express many of my ideas and opinions. One day, perhaps I will open up and say exactly what I think. That might offend a lot of people, but it might be welcomed by a lot of others. Time. May. Tell.

This morning, when I stand up, I feel slightly dizzy. When I walk, the sensation sometimes gets stronger. The dizziness/weakness may owe its existence to a very tame health-fest yesterday; eating healthy foods, etc. and getting comfortable with a gummy. The healthy aspect got a bit derailed with a tad of alcohol. Even though I should not have consumed mind-altering substances, that fact that I did gave me a glimpse of the younger, more energetic guy who occupied my body before I had a second take on cancer. Sometimes, you have to refresh your soul by breaking the rules and taking risks. Now, if I could just steady this wobbliness… It is entirely possible that the solution is an early morning nap.

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Once again, it’s almost 6 am and I wonder where the last two hours went. Almost every morning lately, I struggle with two competing sensations. The first one has the effect of making me feel that every second drags on eternally. Simultaneously, though, those two hours come and go in less than an instant; it’s as if my mind was frozen for two hours. I know what happened during that time, but I was not there.

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Here it is: Saturday. In days of yore, the day would have warranted a relaxing celebration. Today, it merits either: 1) attempting and failing to catch up on missed sleep; or 2) doing errands. But not both. And no celebrations. We’ve been led through chutes into narrower and narrower passageways; early training for the coming 24/7 workday. Saturdays tend the crack under the pressure of cramming 8- to 10- days of experience into a single 24-hour period. That’s a problem for the emerging workforce to address. The redundant and retired have little to no stake in the game, so we can simply site back and watch. I heard rumors about a revolution, but they may not have been rumors. Time will tell. It always does.

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What led to the drought? Is it meant to chastise me for my empty-headedness? Or to punish me for allowing my brain to frazzle? Or something else; something more serious? Something that could fundamentally change me? The problem could be caused, or exacerbated, by the reduction in my intake of meaningful information. When my morning posts changed from contemplations and curiosity to whiney reporting on my health; that’s when it began! The focus on my mind has narrowed; I am no longer as curious or probing about the edges and corners of life. It’s as if I have blinders on, blocking my peripheral thoughts and visions.

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Intellectual rebirth. That’s what’s necessary. Something to revive the spirit of rabid curiosity and tolerance of ideas that compete with mine.

You must be bored to tears. You are here, on this blog, for inexplicable and indefensible reasons. You learn nothing of consequence here. Yet here you are, at least at this moment and for long enough to read these words. Perhaps it is morbid curiosity; wondering what it’s like to observe the thoughts of someone who obviously is inching ever-closer to the precipice of a 10,000-foot sheer cliff in his quest for flight. Or maybe it’s the irrational appeal of experiencing madness by proxy. I share those thoughts. All of them. And more. I cannot quite grasp the point of returning here almost every morning, spilling the often indecipherable contents of my mind to anyone who happens to stumble by. My inability to comprehend the purpose notwithstanding, I continue to do it. It is possible that my rationale is hope; hope that someone will see evidence of a kindred spirit in the randomness of thoughts and words and emotions that I throw at the screen. Or it could be a selfish quest for recognition; narcissism expressed on the public stage of semi-literacy. A good psychotherapist could have a field-day in determining “why” with me. Yet maybe not; he or she might quickly determine that it’s all a mask; an artificial face crafted with my keyboard and fingers to hide the real one—the blank one. The fact that I do not actively market my piece of internet real estate suggests, to me, that my reasons for writing and publishing here are internal. Not driven by an interest in boring you. But I could be wrong; it’s not uncommon.

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Forest scenes transform abruptly on the morning following the first assertive chill of Winter. The season’s introduction of cooler weather—a month or more earlier—changed the trees and shrubs from a kaleidoscope of thick, leafy shades of green to a thinning tapestry of brown, yellow, gold, and orange. The scope of that introductory change, although immediately noticeable, did not compare to the radical metamorphosis brought about when Winter unapologetically announces her arrival. Suddenly, a three-dimensional oil painting becomes a two-dimensional water-color. The volume of leaves that concealed the sky behind and above the trees shrinks to a trace. Leaves that blocked the sky now litter the ground. Trees that had seemed chunky and stout instantly appear thin and graceful. They appear to have shed the bulk of sumo wrestlers, instead becoming acrobats that dance in the slightest breeze.

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I woke this morning, for the umpteenth time, just as daylight began to slither through the trees behind the house. I wish I had stayed up when I got out of bed around 4; had I done it, I could have had more time to think, ponder, contemplate, and mull. But, instead, I went back to bed, hoping to sleep, and I did. But I dreamed another utterly confusing and troublesome dream during the subsequent two hours. Another reflection involving clients and past employers I loathed, disturbing and regrettable interactions with my late brother, and other artificial experiences I would rather not allow in my head. My head must be clogged with misgivings.

The murkiness of knowledge bedevils humankind; not because of what it is, but because of the way we define it. One of the principle definitions—which misleads us into misunderstanding—is this: “the fact or state of knowing; the perception of fact or truth; clear and certain mental apprehension.” Implicit in that definition is the assumption knowledge is fact- or truth-based; that knowledge is “clear and certain.” Knowledge is not an absolute we find. Rather, knowledge is a broad understanding we perpetually seek. In our attempts to uncover truths, we tend to celebrate when we believe we have found unalterable facts. But the universe, and everything in it, constantly plunges deeper and deeper into change. We cling to steadfast certainty until long after evidence thoroughly negates it. Our propensity to delay exploring—and finally accepting—challenges to our knowledge impedes progress we might otherwise have begun to make toward eventual understanding.

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I skimmed an archival piece from The Marginalian this morning that spurred me to think about the differences and similarities between romantic and platonic love. Those subjects, alone, could absorb one’s thoughts for days…weeks…years. And, in fact, I am sure I will give considerable thought to the following passage from the article:

Under the Romantic ideal of love, we’ve come to expect that every great romance should also contain within itself, in addition to erotic passion, a robust friendship. But we hold with deep suspicion the opposite—a platonic friendship colored with the emotional hues of romantic love, never given physical form but always aglow with an intensity artificially dimmed by the label of plain friendship.

~ Maria Popova ~

Popova’s article deals with the author, Rachel Carson (The Sea Around Us, Silent Spring, etc.), her writing, and her strong relationship with a friend.

Specific elements of the piece (which dealt with Rachel Carson’s intense, loving, platonic relationship with another woman) made me think. I wonder whether a longstanding habit (among many writers and their correspondents, at least) is disappearing. Or has already dissolved? Carson’s letters to her friend, Dorothy Freeman, a local housewife on Maine’s Southport Island, have been saved and some of them (at least) published. Written biographies/histories involving writers and other public figures often include quotations from letters they exchanged with people who were important to the subject of them. How often do any of us write letters to friends or acquaintances these days…and how many of us save them? So many such exchanges in published literature have revealed so much about the correspondents; their thoughts, opinions, and emotions. Without the written evidence of their thoughts, left in the form of letters, we would not have the level of appreciation about those people that we do now. What of the future? If not letters, will we somehow have access to email, text messages, recordings of telephone calls? I doubt it, but of course my supposition may be completely off the mark. Some day, someone will look back to our time and our future and will reveal what happened when the exchange of letters ceased. Intimate reflections that personal letters reveal surely cannot be lost to progress, or laziness, can they?

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Whether last night’s experiences (and this morning’s, so far) signal the beginning of my expected unpleasant post-chemo side-effects remains to be seen. It seems to me that it’s a bit early; the treatment was on Monday. But if it is not early-onset chemo response, what is causing a whole raft of unwelcome symptoms? Headache, churning gut, tiredness that does not does not permit sleep, etc. Whatever. They could be worse. Just deal with it, John. As if there were any other choices.

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I have a church board meeting this afternoon. My involvement in the church lately has been so infrequent and superficial that I question the value of the few contributions I might make to board discussions. That notwithstanding, I will do my duty. If I feel as I do now, I will then come home and try to sleep. But if I have rebounded from whatever ailments these are, I may try to replicate some of yesterday’s physical therapy exercises. I need, desperately, to recover and rejuvenate the bodily strength I have lost during these past many (and ongoing) months of chemo; especially in light of the soon-to-be-added 27-session radiation regimen. Ach! What does physical therapy have to do with church? I am not entirely sure, but either there’s a connection or my wandering mind is bouncing around with a vengeance in my skull.

I never have shot a deer. I never have tried. But I have known people who have known people… And I do again. When I spent a year in grad school, one of my brother’s friends (all of us lived in Huntsville, Texas at the time) was an avid hunter and a generous guy. He introduced me to venison backstrap, prepared like chicken-fried steak. After I proclaimed my love of the meat and the way it was prepared, he occasionally gave me some of the bounty of backstrap from his hunting trips. Now, all these years later, I have a friend whose son is an avid hunter and a very generous person, as is my friend. Soon, I again will be the beneficiary of some venison, thanks to these wonderful people. Assuming I remember exactly how I prepared it before, which i expect I will, I will rejoice at the fabulous flavor!

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Soon-to-be in our “entertainment room.”

After my post-chemotherapy injection yesterday, mi novia and I went out to lunch (I was feeling pretty energetic), then to a furniture store. Intending only to look, we not only looked, we found and we bought. We soon will have a replacement for our old power loveseat—it still looks nice and is comfortable for a short while, but not long enough. The one we bought is a La-Z-Boy brand power recliner-loveseat; slightly larger than the one we have, plush, enormously comfortable, and studded with simple little unnecessary (but appreciated) luxuries (e.g., hidden storage areas,  drink-holders, built-in wireless remotes, etc.). Because the one we bought is a floor model, we got a nice discount from the retail price. We’re expecting delivery next Tuesday. I’m easily excited by the little things.

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I took advantage of a free trial of a service that shows me, graphically, the view and length of visits of recent visitors to this blog. I can see that most of the few visitors spent almost no time on any given page…even the entire site. I assume those on-and-off-in-a-flash visitors simply stumble accidentally onto my blog, see it holds no interest to them, and move on. Why else would someone spend as little as 4 seconds? When those “drive-by” visitors are excluded, for example, I discovered that on average only 3 to 10 people spent enough time on the blog to actually read a full post on any given day. That fact confirms the part of yesterday’s post that asserted “I pay for the privilege of talking to myself.” But I keep going back to my claim that I write this blog for me; and, then, I question that claim.

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An article published yesterday morning on the Minnesota Public Radio (MPR) website reported on an effort by defendants and others involved in a $47 million fraud trial to bribe a juror to deliver a “not guilty” verdict. The fascinating description of the way the attempted bribery took place captured my interest. Unfortunately, the article did not directly address specifics about the original crime of fraud, but links took me to other  articles  and, hence, the effort to bribe a juror. The webs of deceit of and the attempts to conceal them and the millions of dollars from the Minnesota USDA-funded school nutrition programs made for riveting reading. The juror, by the way, reported the attempted bribe, which led to an FBI investigation that uncovered “deleted texts showing chaos of bribe attempt in Feeding our Future (a school nutrition program) trial.” After watching a number of films and television series involving complex criminal activities and investigations, I can imagine how a person can get absolutely enthralled with conducting criminal investigation. If I weren’t so damn old and unemployable, I might pursue such opportunities. Not the crimes—just solving them.

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I have not been to church much in recent months, thanks to the after-effects of chemotherapy. But I may go this weekend, if my post-treatment fatigue, etc. does not catch up with me by then. The speaker will be Patty Hector, the former Saline County librarian who was fired by a Saline County Judge (someone I consider a narrow-minded, anti-knowledge clown) for refusing to relocate books the Saline County Quorum Court members found offensive. The Quorum Court recommended in April that the library “relocate materials that are not subject-matter or age appropriate for children, due to their sexual content or imagery, to an area that is not accessible to children.” Ms. Hector refused to bend to censorship and suffered the consequences; I admire her bravery and her insistence on sticking to her principles. I hope to hear her discuss what happened and how it took place and what open-minded citizens can do to overcome such ultra-conservative nonsense. I do not live in Saline County, but the threat is statewide…nationwide…global.

Bureaucracy has its limited place—monitoring organizational efforts on accomplishing declared aims; maximizing efficiency of action; preventing misuse of resources; and performing several related functions intended to ensure protecting against harmful deviations from the scope of organizations and projects. That mouthful, though, can grow exponentially. Through either unconstrained growth, malfeasance, or overzealous extension, vital functions can expand into activities that were not contemplated in a bureaucracy’s original intent. And restraints and “corrections” initiated when bureaucracies are claimed to have gone awry may worsen the problems. Or they may lead to carving away the meat, along with the fat, and ripping into the bone that keeps the bureaucracy standing. Somewhere between corpulent and emaciated, bureaucracy tends to serve its limited purposes. Its limited purposes are at risk when it becomes bloated; it can replace the efforts it was intended to monitor. When it is starved of resources and unable to function effectively, the protections it was meant to provide disappear. When those protections interfere with malevolent intents of powerful people, those people promote the notion that an extremely valuable bureaucracy is unnecessary; or dangerous. The real danger takes shape when the targets of the propaganda believe the lies.

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Six hours and one-half hours between the time I left home yesterday and I returned; only a a little longer than I had expected. The infusion room at the oncology clinic was jammed to overflowing with patients; some where sent back, only to be told they would need to wait until a chair was vacated. My favorite nurse told me the scheduling process had gone haywire; she and the doctor were scrambling to see all their patients and monitor progress of those who were there for infusion treatments. Fortunately for me, I was seated in the last available chair when I was ready; people who arrived later had to wait. I overheard a conversation between a husband (whose wife was in treatment) and another patient, explaining (I think) that his wife had seven hours of treatment three times per week. My complaints about time, in that context, are trivial.

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The forecast for Friday and Saturday nights this week calls for nighttime temperatures to fall into the mid-to-upper-30s. Somehow, I missed the transition between uncomfortably warm to uncomfortably cool. And I do not remember experiencing the movements from hot to warm and from cool to cold. Shoot. Perhaps next year I will be lucky and will experience and remember the distinct adjustments between Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, and and to Winter again.

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My blog has been the target, for two or three days running, of bots that flood it with dozens and dozens of “hits” that seem to make my posts periodically unreachable. I used the features of a plug-in that supposedly should have corrected the problem, refusing access to visits from a specific IP address. The restriction worked only for a while. This morning, I tried another way of blocking the bot. I have no interest in learning how to protect my blog against automated idiots, nor against the bastards who automate the idiotrons. But my other option, which I have gone to before, is to spend several hundred dollars for an internet security expert (from my blog host company) to solve the problem. Is this blog worth spending that much for protection? I vacillate between “yes” and “no;” this morning, I am leaning toward “no.” This blog, which I promoted as intended for observations and conversations rarely includes any conversations. I had great expectations, all those many years ago when I created it, but only my satisfaction with my observations have come to pass. Another decision about where to spend my time, my thoughts, my writing, and my money. 4850 published posts and 650 drafts that say very little to very few people. I pay for the privilege of talking to myself.

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Lately, semi-spicy hummus with pita chips or wheat crackers has become a fallback snack in lieu of lunch. I truly enjoy hummus, especially the stuff livened with a semi-spicy red-pepper and olive oil mix. I think I will add some items to the menu: kalamata olives, pimiento-stuffed green olives, sliced cucumbers, tomato wedges, pickle spears, and some little cubes of mixed cheeses. My preference for wine to go with the meal, which I will have later in the day, will be a good cabernet sauvignon or, perhaps, chianti. Fortunately, mi novia is a fan of most of these things, as well. A good friend of ours has, on more than one occasion lately, brought us baskets of goodies. I plan to reciprocate soon. Knowing her affinity for charcuterie boards, I should add a variety of meats. Another friend, who regularly brings snacks when she comes to visit, also warrants such treatment in gratitude for her gifts…both of her time and her goodies. And other friends, a couple we see less frequently than we’d like but whose company we enjoy immensely, are on my list of people who matter enormously and for whom my gratitude will be expressed again soon. I am in that mood; wanting to let people know I think of them often, even though I may not express my gratitude as frequently as I should.

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It’s almost 9. I’ve been typing and editing and retyping and pausing for quite a while. My espresso cup is empty. My Ensure container contains nothing but droplets of Ensure. All that remains of the breakfast banana is the peel. I may eat something else; I should, before yesterday’s chemo treatment robs me of my hunger—no idea when that might happen; could be a day, could be a week. Its timing is not consistent.

Art by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

Shadows result from interrupting light between its source and the target of its illumination, creating dark, two-dimensional silhouettes on a surface. A name given to the process of intentionally creating images—by controlling the distance between the light source and the interruption and the distance between the interruption and the surface—might be two-dimensional sculpting with shadows. But the images might simply be called shadow art. However, the interruption of the light source might be made from three-dimensional objects. Incorporating two-dimensional objects, three-dimensional objects, and a light source necessary to observe both may add complexity to and deep appreciation of the understanding of dimensions.  The image here, frequently viewable on the internet as a stunning example of shadow art, was created by Tim Noble and Sue Webster, whose art “involves arranging various objects and debris into seemingly chaotic compositions that serve as a bridge between contrasting realities.” Obviously, the arrangements of the objects that interrupt the light source must be incredibly intricate; absent the light source and the “canvas,” the intricacies would appear to be meaningless trash. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Understanding is in the brain. Appreciation is in the mind.

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Suddenly, it’s almost 8:00 a.m.; time to rush into town for my chemo-therapy session. Somehow, I’ve spent close to two hours sitting at my desk—reading, thinking, and writing. Time is not a reliable measure of experience, nor can I depend on time to keep me informed of my obligations. Even the calendar often abandons its responsibilities in that regard. And, so, off I go. Home again by 1 or 2 this afternoon, I think.

Happy memories remind me who I could have been; painful memories confirm who I am. If the guilt embedded in painful memories could be erased, the memories, too, would disappear. So, any lessons learned from that guilt and those unpleasant memories would dissolve, as well, leaving me unaware of my deepest and most damaging defects. As much as I might want to forget them, scars etched into my memories force me to acknowledge who I was—and who I am—and that I remain capable of behaviors that reveal the unforgivable side of me.

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It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

~ Samuel Beckett ~

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I read an explanation of drowning that asserted a person can drown by inhaling as little as a quarter of a cup of water. On one hand, that fact—if, indeed, it is a fact—made me want to rely on intravenous injections to avoid dehydration. On the other, it made me think it wise to carry a quart of water with me at all times—in case of an emergency.

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The crows are silent this morning. They may have been silent for several mornings, but only this morning did the absence of their loud cackles register. It’s not just the crows, either. The smaller birds that hide behind thinning clusters of leaves as they flit from branch to branch seem to have disappeared, as well. How is it that I haven’t noticed before? Perhaps today is the first day the trees are empty. But that is only an uncertain observation; a possibility that cannot be verified, thanks to my inattention to the world around me. Except for having just now heard mi novia‘s voice, I could be the only person left on Earth; I know now there are at least two of us. Or just one…and a recording of her voice. Nothing can be confirmed with absolute certainty. We believe, but we cannot know. We think we understand, but we may be confusing truth with illusion. Still, there are no screeching crows. But, if they are here, I have grown deaf to their earsplitting mockery. And blind to their presence. It is entirely possible that they are all around me and I am the hallucination. I exist only in their minds. The birds are deranged and I am the delusion…complete with an imaginary mind of my own.

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I have delayed my shower and shave more than once in recent days. Today it MUST be done. If for no other reason than to save the oncology nurses from the stench of a dirty old man tomorrow morning. I could wait until the morning, of course, but the possibility that I could wake late might cause the poor healthcare team to be overcome with the odor of age and decay. Wait, readers might think I am writing the truth. No, I am prevaricating; no particular reason, other than a desire to mislead and cause confusion and near-chaos.

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There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.

~ Dante Alighieri ~

The early morning sky remains dim and sleepy, waking from a long night. Steamy fog rises from the surface of a pond, blurring the images of egrets and herons standing in the water, just a few feet from shore. The air is slightly cool but damp, a bit sticky with rising humidity. Except for an occasional distant bird call, morning’s deafening silence commands the ears’ full attention. The serenity accompanying this experience will be brief. Soon, sunlight will brighten the soft greys of morning light and chase the chill from the air. Sounds will fill the empty space in the air. Silence will recede, just a recent memory, as birds chatter, insects buzz, and wind rustles through reeds and grasses. As the day ages, prevailing calm shatters and slips away, replaced by intrusive noises and the savage chaos of what we charitably call “normal.” I try to remember the calm I experienced, but it slides irretrievably into the vagueness of history. The hazy morning, the fog, the regal water fowl, the impressive silence…they reside in a place that no longer exists except in a fading recollection.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.

~ Thomas Moore ~

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People frequently equate the term “soulmate” with a spouse or romantic partner, but that equivalence is based on a misunderstanding of the word. While it is possible that one’s spouse or partner fills that role, it is just as possible that someone else may serve as confidante, confidant, companion, advisor, etc. But, because of misunderstanding the word, people who might otherwise be prospective soulmates for one another may recoil at the suggestion; a connection or bridge between them may, instead, become an uncomfortable moat. In my opinion, males are especially likely to be reticent about considering anyone, especially another male, a soulmate. On the other hand, females may be too quick to identify another female in that way, when the two of them are simply friends. In reality, though, I may be just as confused by the concept as anyone else. It is entirely possible that a soulmate is simply a “woo-woo” term for a close friend. Or something else; something I have yet to understand…something I do not grasp.

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Lately, I have been getting caught up in memories of my dreams. I remember long, quite complex dream sequences that differ from day to day, but that share certain similarities that suggest strong connections between them. Last night, I had three different dreams that somehow merged into one. One involved very large, extremely expensive panes of glass that were to be sent by freight train to San Antonio, but were accidentally broken. Another dealt with a woman who was remodeling an office suite with the help of people she knew—part of the remodel was to add plumbing for a coffee maker and part focused on a large spike being driven through the wall of the office suite into a bedroom I shared with one of my brothers. The third piece featured an extraordinarily expensive wine dinner that was to launch a cruise. Each dream segment was extensively detailed, except for the merged elements, which were blurry and confusing. The similarities bothered me and made me wonder whether my subconscious was attempting to send me cryptic messages.

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I breathe fire, therefore I am a dragon. I lay on my back in the snow, waving my arms and legs, therefore I am an angel. I fantasize about fear and loathing in Las Vegas, therefore I am Hunter S. Thompson. I daydream about living alone on a massive, secluded ranch, therefore I am hermit. I inhale water from the Pacific Ocean, therefore I am a pacifist. I tell time like an old clock, therefore I am wound up. I speak in mixed languages, therefore I am a tongue twister. I was born on a pig farm, therefore I am a baconative. I throw thunderbolts, therefore I am  Zeus. I leak blood, therefore I am hemophilia. I harvest grain with a frozen tool, therefore I am an ice sickle. I twist DNA into silent coils, therefore I am a mutation. I demonstrate poverty, therefore I am a poor example. I am a bovine behind the curtains, therefore I am a cow hide. I bend my arm like pasta, therefore I am elbow macaroni. Sometimes, stupid is the only solution.

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue.

~ Francois de La Rochefoucauld ~

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One’s senses can be at odds with one another. For example, the experiences of sitting in front of a roaring fire while looking outside a window at freshly fallen snow can cause competitive sensations: the sight of the cold landscape can overwhelm the sensation of warmth. Even as the heat of the fireplace warms the room, the body’s reaction to viewing the wintery scene can overcome the sense of comfort offered by the fire, with shivering gooseflesh and chattering teeth. The aroma of freshly-cut grass, though, might temper the frigidity of a winter scene. Those conflicting experiences, though, are not assured. Inconsistencies may rely more on state of mind than on the power of one sense over another. Imagine, for example, introducing a strong odor of gasoline to the experience of viewing a snowscape from a room warmed with a fire; if gooseflesh and chattering teeth arise in response, real fear—not imaginary cold—is apt to be the culprit

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Only after I had been awake for several minutes—long enough to take my morning pills and sip on my first cup of espresso—did my memories of the dream begin to become clear. Oddly, though, my mind placed most of those details in temporary reserve, while I analyzed a few of its specifics. Like the fact that the remnants of an ice storm looked like small hollow spheres of ice that had been cut into equal-sized pieces—leaving rounded-bottom cups littering the ground. And, then, it occurred to me that the little cups might have taken the shape of  leaves, as water formed on them, froze, and then slipped off the leaves to the ground. But the ice that had caused the roof of my employer’s office building, located in a large, empty field, to collapse had the same shapes. The reserved memories began to intrude on that conundrum. I remembered that I had returned the night before from a fake business trip to New York City. I recalled that I lost my suitcase—perhaps left in the cab I took to get home or left in my front yard overnight, where it was stolen, or absent-mindedly left in baggage claim at the airport. And I remembered the part of the dream in which I was frustrated that I could not find my razor—and then realized I had no clean shirts to wear—as I prepared to go to work. I remembered I needed to call my supervisor, the CEO of the organization that employed me, but my cell phone was in my lost suitcase and I had forgotten the telephone number. I borrowed a phone to call that forgotten phone number to ask for that same number I called. And then I went to the building and wandered around it in shock at the extensive damage the ice had caused. From there, I made my way to the airport, where many hundreds of people waited in lines as they searched for their lost luggage. Those who had found their luggage were willing to give me their claim checks; I had a reason to collect them, but I do not recall what it was. My telling of the dream leaves out many of the utterly inexplicable parts…which probably were crucial to the tangle of mental confusion that may have spurred the dream. If only I could weave all the details into a story with a coherent fabric, I might understand. But I do not. I can only harbor suspicions about the genesis of the dream and accept its mysteries as a price I must pay for something hidden deep in the recesses of my brain.

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My vacation from cancer treatments is almost over. The routine begins anew next Monday, a tad more than three weeks since the most recent chemo session. A day after, I return for a post-chemo injection. Later that day, I will undergo another physical therapy session.  If the radiologist’s estimate was correct, radiation will begin sometime next week. Assuming the post-chemo responses have not begun in earnest, I will attend the church board meeting on Thursday. The following week, I suspect, will be one for intense rest…that is, sleep in the extreme. Except for Thanksgiving, of course. We’ve been invited to celebrate with friends that day. I keep wondering how long chemo will last; until significant improvements are seen in various scans, the doctor cannot say with any certainty. I hope chemo and radiation, together, will stymie the growth of cancer. I know I’ve said it more than once: this is getting tiring in many, many ways.

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There once was a time. There will be again.

Roughly fourteen years ago, I published a post on another of my personal blogs (one I have long-since ignored and essentially abandoned). Today, when I returned to that blog and that post, I was reminded that life changes quite a lot over time. But the person who lives it tends to remain the same, except for the changes wrought by unwelcome adjustments. People die. Friendships blossom, then lose their petals. Expectations shatter. Promising relationships dissolve in the face of time or distance or disinterest. Dreams collapse. Hopes, confronted by reality, disappear. Those  changes do not transform the person, though. He is the same man, just bent and dented and disfigured by experience and the sting of wisdom. Fourteen years ago, I wrote about wanting to accomplish long-held wishes and objectives. The intervening years have not fundamentally changed those aims, but the desires held all those years ago have encountered obstacles—some of which are insurmountable. Fourteen years can radically change certain aspects of a life. In my case, those years heralded the replacement of late middle age with a period of greying and regret borne of neglect. Reading between the lines of that fourteen-year-old post, I encountered enthusiasm, some of which has since withered. But I discovered that some of the experiences that have occurred since then are alive with possibilities. And, of course, I realize I am not the only one whose life has changed over time. We’re all the same as we were, but very different. And open to new possibilities.

You and I are akin to passenger tires in some ways. If we experience some sort of damage, we can be patched in much the same way tires are repaired. Over time, though, the wear and tear of daily experience takes a toll too great for simple repairs to correct. For tires, full-scale refurbishment sometimes provides a way to avoid sending them to the trash bin. When you and I reach the point at which repairs are too complex, too expensive, or simply impossible, the options are limited and stark.

There was a time, when tire treads had worn uncomfortably thin, that the tire was not simply discarded. Rather than pile old tires in massive heaps that occasionally caught fire and poured black smoke into the air, enterprising folks gave the tires new life by retreading them. Retreading tires of commercial trucks is still fairly common, but not for passenger cars; the increased longevity of modern passenger tires and the fact that their materials are thinner than in years past is said to explain the decline in retreading car tires.  Today, when passenger car tires reach the end of their safe and useful lives, typically they are replaced with new tires, complete with a warrantee of tread life.

That is where you and I differ in some ways from tires. When we reach the end of our useful lives, replacement parts cannot make us new again. Like tires that have reached that point, replacements are brought in. Young people are stronger, quicker, and usually cheaper than the dinosaurs they replace. That notwithstanding, efforts continue in the search for ways to temporarily delay the inevitable acknowledgement that you and I have reached the point at which we no longer have utility. Sentimentality, not efficiency, guides the way you and I are treated after we reach that unfortunate pre-departure destination.

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When virtually every hour of every day is spent either sleeping, wanting to sleep, undergoing one kind of medical treatment or another, or wondering whether the treatments will ever end, one begins to question the value of the process. Even though the process does not involve ceaseless pain, immobility, or other significantly unpleasant physical experiences, the relentlessness of restrictions and the fatigue-based prevention of “getting on with life” can be maddening. I haven’t partaken of mood-altering gummies in quite some time; perhaps that would break this cycle of impatience and boredom and simmering anger directed at the universe.

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We watched a few episodes of a Canadian police procedural drama (19-2) last night. I am waiting to be drawn in to it. It is not bad; just not especially riveting thus far. Maybe the problem is that I am distracted by a very runny nose, red and itchy eyes that feel like they have a coating of rough sand over them, and various other physical annoyances. Morphine might take care of the physical annoyances, but it probably would cause me to sleep through all four seasons of the show. I do not have access to morphine, so my conjecture about its effects is useless. I cannot think of any series or any film that I think would provide me with an absorbing experience; none of my old favorites seem particularly interesting at the moment. During last night’s TV watching session, I ate half a pint of ice cream; it was more an automatic response to its presence than a genuine desire for the taste of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Food—any kind of food—holds little interest to me. I realize I have to eat, but it is hard to do. I’ve been better at it lately than in the last week or so, but the thought of food does not do anything for me. I forced down a mocha-flavored Ensure this morning, but I do not want anything else. Maybe I should try watching morning television; I haven’t done that in years and years. But the very idea of watching either news or cheery morning chit-chat is enough to make me gag.

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Clearly, my mood this morning is not suitable for any day of the week, especially Wednesday. I should go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day. But I won’t.

Sanity is a matter of perspective; relative to madness, normalcy, and a cluster of other factors. Behavior often signals insanity, but perfectly normal behavior—accompanied by radically deviant thought—sometimes offers clues to insanity. The term, insanity, is out of favor these days, though, because the word is considered judgmental. Psychiatrists tend to prefer to use psychosis, I think, which seems to me equally as judgmental and derogatory, as are the words craziness, lunacy, and madness, among others.  For that matter, calling a person insane or abnormal are judgmental and derogatory pronouncements. Mentally ill, a phrase coined (I think) to remove the stigma associated with many of the other terms, comes with a stigma all its own. Language is not the problem, in my view. The problem is attitude or misunderstanding or ignorance or fear or a combination of those things—and more. And judgments based, in part, on a deficit of compassion contribute to the matter.

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Starved for affection. Hungry for love. Thirsty for companionship. Is it just me, or do others see the connection between humans’ physical needs for fuel and our needs for emotional sustenance? Fortunately, I do not feel lacking for those emotional needs. But I feel for those who do.

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Yesterday was another day like so many others; I was tired all day long, possibly because I was fighting a perpetual runny nose that’s been annoying me for several weeks. When I think about my upcoming radiation treatments—every weekday for 27 days—I wonder whether I will have the energy to cope with them along with the chemo treatments and related medical appointments, etc. Damn. It.

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Enough of this. My thoughts are jumbled, tangled, and otherwise twisted into tightly-woven knots that defy being untied.

We cling to one another in the mistaken belief that expressing our collective disappointment will give us a voice to which “they” will listen…as if our little pods of rage and fear will breed in us strength and power. We seem to think name-calling and condemnation will work for us, the way it worked for them. But, unlike us, they were not trying to change minds. They simply enjoyed belittling us and our world-views. They responded to our derogatory statements about their perspectives as if ours were words of ridicule. And they were right, of course. We thought we could shame them into seeing things our way. But, instead, our condescension provided them with additional motives and ammunition. We mocked them for worrying about the price of food and gas. And we called them racists and monsters for fearing the influx of undocumented immigrants. We laughed at their irrational concerns about the economy—although they might have to work two jobs (or more), our IRAs were doing just fine. Instead of trying to educate them about the critical value of immigration—instead of gently coaxing them to view the issue with understanding and compassion—we did all we could to embarrass them for their stupidity and their heartless animosity. Rather than trying to understand the source of their economic worries, we insulted them for their ignorance. Next time—if there is a next time—we might try a little understanding and compassion for them and their concerns. Not by adopting their positions, but by rationally considering their perspectives and offering appealing and creative ways to address their fears. Not by accepting their political leaders, but by modeling civility.

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Most Americans—and, probably, most others—do not give much thought to economic theory; and even less to the practical aspects of different economic systems. We simply accept (or give no thought to) claims, for example, that capitalism relies primarily on market forces rather than governmental mandate. If we examine economic transactions closely, though, we see that market forces (e.g., supply and demand) are either buttressed or weakened through governmental intervention/dictate. Economic theories and economic practices are far more complex than I once thought; perhaps that is why so few of us invest much mental energy trying to understand them. Viewing economics through my unsophisticated lenses, it seems that the concepts of supply and demand—alone—should offer enough of a foundational core to allow me to understand economic theory. But this morning, as I read a few snippets about economics, I came to realize just how complicated the subject can be. For example, I learned just today that autarky is an economic system of self-sufficiency and limited trade. And I read that mercantilism and capitalism are related, but some of their individual attributes differ significantly. Finally, I concluded that economic theory interests me…to a point. Beyond that point, my mind drifts into thoughts of meteors and butterflies and the ingredients in food-coloring, among other riveting matters of interest. Just one more example of my wide but shallow interests. I do not have the wherewithal to delve deeply into most subjects. My superficial knowledge of many subjects can mislead some people into thinking I may know more than I do. Other people can see right through the veneer of understanding to the core of ignorance below.

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Today is Veterans’ Day. That fact generates an array of thoughts; some involving appreciation, some centered on regret. Nothing is simple, really. Nothing is black and white. Black can be considered very dark white; white can be considered very light black. Grey is the most revealing color of all.

Identical images, seen through the same eyes, evoke radically different emotional responses, depending on the viewer’s frame of mind. In once instance, inconsolable sadness emerges at the sight of a photo of Earth from the International Space Station. Another view of the same photo unleashes an overwhelming sense of appreciative awe. Despair versus hope. Anger versus peace. Dozens of other combinations of and contrasts between attitude command enormous degrees of control over what we think, what we feel—what we see.

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Gratitude at finding a shelter from cold, driving rain differs from gratitude for the protection of living in a modest, weather-resistant house. And gratitude for the luxuries of living in a mansion differs from both of them. Circumstances. Context. The spectrum of experience. Perceptions about our encounters with the world depend largely on how our actual situations compare to what could be—either better or worse. Expectations enter into the experience. If a person expects to go through the door into a luxurious mansion but, instead, walks into a one-room home, shattered expectations may color the extent to which gratitude and disappointment do battle in the mind.

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Sadness and depression are different beasts. Sadness is like a piece of fragile pottery that can be broken into smaller pieces that are relatively easy to discard. Depression, though, is more like a piece of solid granite, but one that grows with time. Depression does not readily respond to efforts to break it apart. It almost seems to feed on efforts to change it or destroy it. Sadness, usually, is temporary. Depression, often, is tenacious and relentless. It may begin as a fleeting grey shadow, but it becomes darker and more dense as time passes. And it establishes a nearly indestructible and impenetrable cocoon. Its eradication relies on killing its energy source without sacrificing its host. The same is true of cancer. Cancer is not the source of depression, though. It simply supplies sustenance. For perspective, consider this: to starve someone, you might kill the farmer who provides food. Depression is a complex, labyrinthine process that gnaws away at hope and self-confidence. Sadness is easier to see and to solve.

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It’s damn near 8 a.m. How could I have been sitting at my desk for well over two hours? Time flies when your mind is at the far edge of the universe, trying to return to a place you’ve never been.

Ach, the wretched souls who react in terrified deference to monsters who make threats in thundering voices! The poor innocents who fear the oppressors’ spit-shined, steel-toed boots and cringe at the tyrants’ relentless intimidation! The time will come for those tortured souls to rebel, en masse, and to bring their tormentors to justice…tinged with revenge, retribution, and reprisal. Those horribly abused victims will throw their assailants into vats of boiling tar as they shout, “Revenge is ours!”  

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The rotting hides of dead bananas leave a powerful smell. They invite fruit flies and ruin the appeal of the flavor of the fruit. After smelling the decomposing brown strips of the peels, the aroma of a banana smoothie degrades; it stinks like a banana’s corpse.  The same thing happens with meat. Whether raw or cooked, meat left on the counter for days decays, leaving a pervasive stench that cannot be eliminated or covered up with stronger odors—there are none stronger. The phrase, “smells like death,” describes the scent of decomposition. Some perfumes seem to have been created in an attempt to replicate the revolting stink of horrid rot; a slightly sweet aroma enveloped within a miserable stench that makes the eyes water and the stomach churn. There is a reason some businesses ask clients not to wear “smell juice.” Some medical offices, for example, request that  prospective patients refrain from wearing perfumes and colognes because patients might find them offensive—that’s understandable, especially if the products’ bouquet smells like death. But some scents are incredibly alluring; certain foods (some cheeses, for example) smell so good they prompt honest people to steal them to get just a taste. So I’ve been told.

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Carefully remove each successive layer of paint from the canvas. Beneath all but the last will be another attempt to obscure the original painting. The first coat, the one covering the canvas, will reveal a message in graphic form. That message, an almost photographic depiction of the murderer’s laughing face, will give you all you need to put the killer behind bars. Or to assure his disappearance for all time. You are a police officer. The victim was your niece, just a toddler. Remember, the definition of justice is malleable. Forgiveness is either a powerful strength or an immeasurable, unforgivable weakness. You decide. No one but you will ever know the choice you made.

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Mi novia made linguine alle vongole (linguine pasta with clams) for dinner the other night. The dish was excellent! Ideally, it would have been made with clams in the shell, but fresh clams are hard impossible to come by in central Arkansas, so she used canned clams. When I lived in Dallas, I made the dish with canned clams, too; “fresh” clams might have been available there, but their cost would have been prohibitive and their claim to “freshness” would have been questionable. Lately, I have wanted to cook, but I tire so quickly standing at the kitchen counter that I have to pause and sit for a while to enable me to complete the process. That’s depressing and upsetting; if I had the energy, I would howl plaintively at the universe in objection to my situation. Actually, if I had the energy I would make briam (Greek-style roasted vegetables) or steamed vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, asparagus, and green beans, flavored with a bit of balsamic vinegar). I am in the mood for massive amounts of veggies, probably because I haven’t had many vegetables lately. Now that I think about it, the time and work involved in steaming vegetables is minimal; I may do it today or tomorrow.

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Potential, when realized, transforms possibility into achievement. Unrealized potential is a reminder of what might have been—or might yet be—except for insurmountable obstacles or insufficient effort. Potential rests somewhere along a continuum from essentially impossible to easily attainable to readily achievable to reachable only through herculean effort. Each of one’s accomplishments—or lack thereof—can be measured against a scale of difficulty versus effort. For example, achieving a perfect score on a rigorous math test is a more impressive feat by a person who has difficulty with math than by a person who quickly learns the subject. Using an identical standard (i.e., the test) to measure accomplishment or potential is flawed, though. The standard set for the higher-performing test-taker should be adjusted upward to the extent that a valid comparison between the two can be made. Potential is difficult to measure; comparisons between individuals’ potentials is even more complex. At some point, we have to answer the question: what is the point of making comparisons? The answer may reinforce the value of comparisons; or it may invalidate the concept.

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Artists of all kinds—painters and writers and sculptors and more—can choose freedom. Enjoying the privilege does not require that it be given to them—they do not need benefactors to bestow it upon them.  They can simply seize it. Because they are not tethered with chains to hideous realities, they can experience worlds of their own making. That is not to say hideous realities will not pursue them with a vengeance. Yet even in the midst of being torn to pieces in the relentless jaws of captivity, their versions of the world as it should be cannot be imprisoned. The scent of freedom becomes a contagion; once it has been released, the thirst for its source is unyielding.

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Freedom takes many forms. The simplest, perhaps, is solitude; achieving the wish to be left alone. Nearly as simple and strong is true companionship; and the unquenchable desire to know someone cares.

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An asteroid twice the size of Earth’s moon will be discovered in the coming months. Hidden for centuries (or longer), locked in orbit behind Mars, it will come into view (with the naked eye) just after its discovery, which will coincide with breaking free of Mars’ gravitational field. The asteroid will be on a collision course with Earth. Nothing can stop it. Much of Earth’s population will gather on the shores of the planet’s oceans to witness the impact. Of course, no one will tell what the impact was like, because no one will survive the obliteration of our planet. And thus will end the story of planet Earth and, incidentally, humanity.

On May 4, 1970, on the Kent State University campus, four students died and nine others were wounded (one of whom was permanently paralyzed) when 28 National Guard troops fired 67 rounds at a crowd of unarmed protesters and student observers. In the span of roughly 13 seconds, a protest against expansion into Cambodia of the Vietnam war  had turned into a massacre. The Guard’s engagement with the students that fateful day came after several days of student protests, some of which had involved significant vandalism and had become violent. Post-event investigations, though, revealed no precipitating incident; protesters’ behaviors had not changed—the Guardsmen simply turned toward them and fired. The Kent State Massacre, as it became known, triggered examinations and recriminations; killing unarmed student protesters was deemed “unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable” by the President’s Commission on Campus Unrest. Fifty-five years later, on May 4, 2025, would a massacre of undocumented immigrants protesting their deportation be deemed “unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable?” Would an investigation of the slaughter even be permitted?

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Getting five one-stab, one-dot tattoos on my torso yesterday (to serve as reference points for my upcoming series of radiation sessions) may have dissuaded me from giving serious thought to getting a decorative tattoo, unless I could have it done while I am under sedation. My God, those five “pin-pricks” felt like I was being stabbed with a rough-surfaced ice pick drenched in alcohol! If the discomfort of the application of those tiny tattoos was even remotely similar to how application of a decorative tattoo would feel, I think I’ll opt to chew on light-bulbs, instead.

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When I woke this morning with a completely clogged nasal passage, I blew my nose in an attempt to breathe. Though blowing my nose cleared the nasal passage, it triggered an extraordinarily long-lasting gusher of a nosebleed. Finally, nearly three hours later, my nasal passage is completely clogged again—this time with dried blood. The trash cans in the primary bathroom and the kitchen both are filled to overflowing with blood-soaked paper…tissues, napkins, paper towels…I used anything I could to absorb the flow. If I could stem the flow of my nasal drip—eliminating the need to blow my nose—I think the nosebleed might permanently heal on its own. Otherwise, I’ll have to periodically sit upright, lean forward, and pinch my nose just below the bridge for 15 minutes. While trying my best to prevent the area around me from looking like it was visited by a horrible, brutal, blood-thirsty monster.

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I have grown increasingly dissatisfied with the human species. While never completely enamored with my fellow homo sapiens, my appreciation for the vast majority of them has diminished more than I once thought possible. This reduction in gratitude for like creatures applies, as well, to myself. If I had the ability to remake myself into any creature I wanted, I think I might become an octopus. In fact, I may have been an octopus all along, just disguised to look and act like an imperfect replica of a human being. Second choice, perhaps: redwood tree.

I have heard variations on the admonition many times. The version that’s most meaningful to me is this:

“It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.”

If the game is one you’ve never played—and one you hoped you never would—you have to play it by ear. In other words, if the game involves juggling red-hot scalpels, you may have to invest in few pairs of leather welder’s gloves.

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My radiation treatments begin today with what the medical team calls a “simulation.” Here is how the Weill Cornell Medicine Radiation Oncology website describes the process:

During the simulation, the treatment setup will be simulated by positioning the patient on the flat couch immobilized by specially designed devices. The patient will then be aligned to the reference low-energy lasers in the room and be marked on the skin with tattoos. Finally, a CT scan will be performed to acquire the anatomy involved in the treatment. This important CT scan will be used to identify the lesion(s) and surrounding normal critical organs for developing a treatment plan that will guide the treatment machine to target the lesion(s) accurately and spare critical organs as much as possible. The simulated setup will be exactly reproduced before each treatment by matching the reference lasers in the treatment room to the tattoos and comparing the 2D/3D on-board images with the simulation CT scan.

The process of getting approvals, working out schedules, etc., etc. could take two weeks. Once the actual radiation treatments begin, I will have 27 treatment sessions (consecutively, on weekdays, as I understand it). The radiologist with whom I spoke yesterday told me he would use either 5 or 9 beams (depending on some complex analyses I do not fully understand) for the treatments. Aside from wanting the radiation to focus exclusively on the cancerous lymph nodes, his attention will be highly focused on avoiding damage to my duodenum and to the aorta where it crosses the duodenum. Or something like that. Scheduling chemotherapy, radiation therapy, physical therapy, and all the related/supporting medical procedures and tests is going to be quite the feat. I hope the members of the medical teams will coordinate between themselves—if I have to do the coordination, I will be concerned about the coordinator’s competency.

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Here I am, writing the same kind of stuff I always do, even though yesterday’s election signaled massive, ugly, unpredictable changes in this country. I act as if I can rely on the future as if the future will resemble the past. Ach! I just have to keep reminding myself, as do we all:

It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.