John Swinburn

Eyesight is remarkable. If you think deeply about it, you have no choice but to come to the conclusion that your eyesight is nothing short of magic. And if you consider the amazing variations of eyesight among other creatures—eagles and lizards and horses and so forth—the concept of eyesight become more than simple magic. It is the embodiment of an impossible-to-understand occult integration between the self and the external world. We can only imagine what it’s like to have eyes on the sides of our head. We have to wonder whether beasts with such optical configurations see in stereoscopic vision…which causes us (me, anyway) to wonder if that’s how I see the world. Do I see in stereoscopic vision? And if I had only one eye, would I see the world in two dimensions instead of three? I can answer that question, of course, because I have the ability to close one eye. Some animals are said to see only in shades of black, white, and grey; dolphins, seals, and bats, for example. That “fact,” though, assumes we “know” that cones have the same function in those animals as they have in humans.  I have to acknowledge, of course, that medical professionals and other scientists know quite a lot about vision. So eyesight is not exclusively a part the realm of magic and the occult. Yet it bridges the divide between them. Consider that we sleep with our eyes closed, yet we “see” in our dreams. There is so much we do not know and so much more we do not know we do not know.

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A few minutes after 5 yesterday afternoon, just moments after the NOAA weather radio screeched a thunderstorm warning, I think my heart stopped. A booming crack of thunder as loud as any I have ever heard or felt shook the house, then instantly echoed as if bouncing off every cloud in the sky. Simultaneously, all the lights in the house dimmed. They recovered for a second or two, then went dark. Through a series of text exchanges, we learned that a tree in front of mi novia‘s ex-husband’s house was struck by lightning at roughly the same time my heart stopped pumping. Despite multiple attempts to report the outage to Entergy, our electricity provider, its online system did not acknowledge the power failure. Finally, I was able to report it to a telephonic automaton; the tone of its voice when it assured me the problem would be explored and resolved, was unconvincing. And, then, we waited. Sometime in the deep of night while I slept, many hours later, the power returned. This morning feels like another “normal” morning. But I hear growling echoes of thunder, reminding me that the power of Nature, unharnessed, dominates the trappings of control with which humans attempt to manipulate our world. Rain is falling again this morning, Nature’s attempt to wash away memories of yesterday’s and last night’s show of force. Even Nature, though, cannot erase such an experience. Only Time can do that. But Time only hides such ordeals; experiences etched into the fabric of the mind remain forever accessible. A little overdramatic, perhaps…but my creative fibers feel a little arthritic this morning, so a little stretching may be in order.

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The pains, usually in the upper right quadrant of my torso, once were extremely brief and infrequent. But they have been lingering longer when they occur, which is becoming more often. And they tend to be more intense lately. Despite all the X-rays, CT scans, ultrasounds, etc., doctors have been unable to determine their cause. The guesses have included pleural effusion, abscess, and various other possibilities, all of which apparently have been ruled out. The discomfort they deliver is not intolerable; the pain is not excruciating. So there’s no real urgency to know the source, at least not to alleviate unbearable pain. But, still, I suspect knowing the root cause might be beneficial in other ways to the doctors treating me for whatever ails me. If the only way to find out, though, were to spend time in the hospital, I would say it’s not worth the time and effort. Medicine has not come as far as I would have hoped at this stage of human evolution. Drat.

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Are all cannibals strict carnivores? If the Sun had puppies, would they be hot dogs? Are moments in the Future properly called post-historic times? Oh, only if the moments are after we’ve stopped keeping written records.

Emptiness. The fuel that drives missiles and bullets. Dark, sinister emptiness. It propels knives through tender skin. Bones shatter in the presence of emptiness. Emptiness triggers explosions and ignites fuses that transform oil storage tanks into fiery cauldrons of liquid diamonds. Emptiness, as thick and fiercely hot as molten steel.  So monstrously hot that the sun is ice in comparison. Entire galaxies dissolve into steamy mists in its presence. Emptiness fills a dangerous void, converting space and time and mass and volume and distance into everything…and nothing that remains.

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I am too old to be the leader of the free world…whether in fact or merely in my own mind. That role belongs to someone old enough to have shed the vanity and arrogance of youth and young enough to maintain a firm grip on the wisdom of age and experience. Age, though, and its tendency to correlate with (or not) such characteristics is just one qualifying or disqualifying attribute. Intelligence is another—I’m not bright enough to qualify, either. Charisma has a role to play, too, but only when paired with trustworthiness, compassion, honesty, altruism, and an sense of moral obligation cast in stone. Given that candidates who possess the requisite criteria exist only in my imagination, the ongoing search for someone to fill the role is an exercise in futility.

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It has long been my belief that reading English language versions of newspapers based in other countries can enable readers to understand perspectives not documented in domestic news sources. Reading articles written in native languages probably would be eve more enlightening, but are impossible with my language limitations. This morning, I read an article—obviously an opinion piece—in the English language Turkish newspaper, Yeni Şafak. Whether or not the opinions expressed by the writer, İhsan Aktaş, are based on defensible facts, the positions he takes clearly express both deeply-held beliefs and long-standing frustrations. True or not, the “facts” as he sees them color his world-view and are sufficient to allow him to feel justified in his perspectives. To give oneself the opportunity to learn from such articles, one occasionally must overlook “inflammatory” or “triggering” language. This particular article to which I refer is entitled Will the Stench of Colonialism Be Cleansed from Africa’s Scorched Lands? Another paper that can help readers appreciate perspectives other than the ones usually presented to Western readers is the Tehran Times, (which, by the way, published an interesting op-ed piece (dated May 18, 2025) entitled President Trump and the Name Persian Gulf). I suspect radically differing perspectives will be available in the coming days to people who read both Israeli and Iranian papers. I am confident reality exists somewhere in the tangle between the biased motives that drive the papers to publish their unique viewpoints on “truth.”

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I woke to the sound of wire shears snapping barbed wire.  I lay awake for several minutes, listening to the wire being stripped off the fence and rolled into loops. Soon, after the air became quiet, I heard the soft padding of footsteps on the wooden slats of the porch floor. And, then, a new sound. Razor wire being released from a tightly-wound roll makes a sharper sound than barbed wire being collected into loops. A higher pitch, almost like the reverberations of a coiled spring freed from tension. When I peeked out the window, I saw that the thieves had placed the roles of barbed wire on the bed of a pickup. And I saw razor wire wrapped tightly around my cabin. Strips of razor wire spread only a couple of inches apart at every window and every door.  If I tried to escape, I would be cut to pieces. But when I smelled sulfur matches and gasoline and smoke and saw the flames all around the cabin, I realized I had no choice. They had spilled the contents of all my petrol cans along the base of the outer walls and lit it with kitchen matches. I  had no choice; I had to through the roof. Fortunately, reacting to a recent horoscope in Sunday’s paper, I had installed a hydraulic-powered roof when I built the helicopter. Romeo and Gretel were waiting for me in the copter cab; Hansel and Juliet had lashed themselves to the rear rotor. I was disappointed in Hansel and Juliet, who had lost their son, Chris, when they ran over his legs with a propeller attached to a powerful Evinrude motor on their new boat. I would have thought they would have learned a little something about propeller safety from that snafu, but apparently not. I had no time, though, so I started the chopper motor and watched Hansel get decapitated and Juliet lose her right arm as the rotor spun. With luck, though, we all got away before the cabin exploded into a fireball. Ben Casey, M.D. happened to be nearby and he managed to save H & J. But they were subsequently lost in a freak desert snowstorm in the Ouachita Mountains.

Last night’s dinner provided a rare opportunity for social engagement for me. I am advised by medical pros to avoid much contact with people, considering risks to my immune system. But the evening turned into more than a simple social event. It put on display the possibilities of maintaining and even strengthening family ties after difficult circumstances could otherwise have caused those ties to fray or come undone. Dinner was hosted at mi novia’s ex-husband’s house, with whom she maintains cordial, friendly ties. Visiting from out of state, their daughter provided captivating humor, making everyone feel comfortable. My late wife’s sister, now a very close friend of mi novia‘s and a friend of mi novia‘s ex-husband (and, naturally, still a good friend of mine), joined the gathering.  And, of course, mi novia and I were there. The interactions between all of us were more than communications between friends. They were the words and facial expressions and welcoming openness between family members. The atmosphere was one in which everyone seemed to fit together quite well…like a strangely abstract but immensely appealing jigsaw puzzle. I would call it an intriguing sociological study in overcoming frictions and unavoidable life-span events. But it was much more than that.

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The morning split into fragments, beginning at 3 when I got up to pee. I decided to go back to bed then, rather than start the day. An hour later, I woke again, but was not ready to abandon sleep, so I returned to the comfort of unconsciousness. Yet an hour later, it happened again; again, I decided to get some more sleep. At 7:30, I woke, got up, and put on my morning attired…only to return to bed to get a few more minutes of sleep, at the urging of mi novia. Finally, at 9:30, I woke again, but stayed in bed until 10:30 before I forced myself to get out of bed. Each of those fragments of morning provided me with either dreams or delusions, every one different. I cannot decide, with any certainty, whether these different mental visions offer evidence of a vivid imagination or psychoses spinning out of control.

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In some fashion, Time (as a noun) is defined as involving a sequential relationship between any event to any other event.  None of the roughly three dozen generally accepted definitions of Time involve the possibility that Time has mass. The idea—that the concept we rely on to fuel our clocks—is dismissed as ludicrous, if it is acknowledged at all. The reason for treating Time as a mass-less concept is that we do not properly define mass. We assume mass exists only in “things” we can see or cause to be seen. But there is evidence that Time is recognized by some astute physicists as having mass. For example, the phrase “Time is money” implies that Time must have mass, if indeed it is equivalent to money, which virtually everyone would agree has mass. If you will agree that “yesterday” refers to much more than a single day, that is, an amount of time far greater than “today,” I hope you will acknowledge that “yesterday” has far more mass than “today.”  If you will not give me that, then surely you will admit that the center of a tree trunk is older than the surrounding bark, which is why the core of a tree is heavier than its protective shell. I then challenge you (whoever you are) to consider the weight and mass of a tree trunk in the context of Time. If you can wrap your head around that correlation, your chances of understanding the true nature of Time are greater today than yesterday.

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The past cannot be cured.

Elizabeth I

Observing myself from the perspective of a moderately curious watcher, I see what once was a robust generator of power; a complex, dynamic engine. Its strength, though, has declined with time and a lack of maintenance. The thousands of miles of tiny wires—almost microscopic in size—beneath its surface now carry barely enough current from its weak battery to power its remaining electro-mechanical gears. The rest either are locked frozen or  broken and decayed, hidden from the casual observer. Other onlookers might see a “working” device, but I see a fragile, paper-thin metallic skeleton that, with the slightest tremor, could break into a tangled mass of wire fragments and shattered gears. I dredge my memory for recollections of the moment when my inattention and the passage of time joined forces to set the course for irreversible decline. No matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint a single critical threshold. Any one of the matchsticks or dominoes or toothpicks I used to construct the generator that became my lifetime—or every one of them—could be the one to finally give way. But perhaps there was no design flaw. Maybe the tipping point was, instead, an explosive suggestion triggered by an age-related timer. Or a container of flammable ideas set alight by fiery rhetoric. I wonder, though, whether anything causes the arc to bend and plummet in a downward spiral? Is it simply a natural cycle, one for which we celebrate the beginning, but not the end?

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Life would be so much less stressful if all human beings were to agree that bacon, eggs, and pancakes for breakfast is the universal cure for ennui…and that menu were readily available to (and desired by) all the people. I would be satisfied with an alternative menu…maybe congee or miso soup or papaya, for example…if everyone else would agree to it.

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My oncologist’s nurse told us yesterday that the oncologist (who we did not speak with yesterday) had mentioned to her that she thinks I might be thinking about stopping all chemo treatments. Maybe I inadvertently suggested that to her? I’m curious about the oncologist’s take on that course of action…how might that change things for me? Until such a possibility begins to seem like an actual option, decisions about the future feel like fantasy fiction. But, then, such decisions take on an entirely different dimension; irreversible reality. Flippancy no longer flows quite as easily.

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Today is the birthday of one of my brothers…the second birthday among my siblings this month. And this month follows on a month (May) in which another family member (a nephew) had a birthday. And, of course, mi novia had a birthday just days ago. I’m changing my attitude about birthdays, I think; we should celebrate them with vigor! The more I think about birthdays, the more I appreciate how much they mean to those who have them and to those who know others that have them.

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It’s late. I think I’ll have a piece of watermelon to celebrate, thanks to someone special.

Sight is imaginary. We only imagine the night sky. Proof of that assertion is readily available in the form of brilliantly colored photographs of distant celestial objects. We see the brilliant colors in those photos only by manipulating light—filtering out one kind or color, allowing film to capture only one kind or color…we see the imaginary…the “what if” that hides behind unfettered revelation. This concept leads to a question but not to an answer: what would we see without any interference…without even a hint of external influence? Would the world and all the objects in it be transparent? Or would we see anything at all? Might we be like blind moles, feeling our way through an invisible world? Would our inability to see…anything…convince us that everything is simply an illusion? Would we come to conclude that we, ourselves, are just fantasies of imaginary beings? Our curiosity might spawn more and more questions until our emptiness is full; no more room to wonder.

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My admiration of Nordic noir television crime series took root when I watched what was billed as the Department Q trilogy several years ago:

• • The Keeper of Lost Causes
  • The Absent One
  • A Conspiracy of Faith

The series, based on books by the prolific Danish writer Jussi Adler-Olsen, led to another TV crime series, Department Q, released just last month. I was prepared to be disappointed by this one, a British English-language offering created by Scott Frank and Chandni Lakhani. My preparedness was unnecessary. Having watched six of nine episodes of season 1, I am thoroughly entranced by the show. I won’t bother describing the series (neither the original nor the new). I’ll leave it here: both are captivating, entertaining, and well worth the time invested in watching them.

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Only by viewing spiral galaxies from incomprehensibly long distances do their waving arms come into focus. Absent the benefit of vast distances, our eyes would be unable to see the patterns on display by the swirls of stars. Without powerful telescopes and amplified light, coupled with distances measured in light years, spiral galaxies would appear as mere dots in the dark night sky. Distance, though, adds dimension to the flat blackness of eternal space. Distance lifts the veil from our eyes, permitting us to see—but not to understand—that proximity blinds us to the beauty surrounding us.

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Another visit to the oncologist today. Lab work. And more magnesium dripped into my bloodstream. I wonder whether my body will ever have sufficient magnesium without having it drip-drip-dripped into me? Probably no answers. Better no answers, though, than answers I would rather not hear. Although I’d rather hear answers than have them withheld. That’s not a worry. At least I think not. I’m free to think about distance and vision and light and emptiness; without interference.

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I do not recall whether I ever actually wrote a story that included a character named Satanica or whether that character has simply been waiting in the wings for me to incorporate her into a story. That’s one of the problems with creating countless new names for characters that pop into my head; sometimes they get lost in the crevices and hidden caves in my brain. It is entirely possible that entire families of the lost live in there; perhaps even villages full of people have gone missing—stumbling into tunnels that are subsequently blocked by falling mental debris that obstructs the exits.

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Most of my time is spent indoors, in this house where I sit writing most mornings. The air conditioning works quite well; often better than I’d like. When I venture outside (a rarity), I relish feeling the wave of heat wash over me. If I had the right lounge chair/outdoor recliner, I could go right to sleep in that luscious heat. A few minutes is all it would take, though. In no time, I would feel as if the sun had moved much closer to me, starting fire to my cheeks by licking my face with its flaming surface. The planet needs a thermostat; one over which I have control. Maybe the planet doesn’t need one; maybe it’s just me who wants to have that power.

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Reasons must exist for my sometimes sour mood when I wake, but I cannot put my finger on them. I can only guess at the causes of my unpleasant attitude and its accompanying surliness. Perhaps general bodily discomfort is at fault. Or maybe it’s a low-grade headache that refuses to go away. It could be my innate sense of self cracking my fragile shell. Resentment about cancer might do it, but I think I’m over that. I am sure there are other explanations; whether they can be held accountable is an open question. If I were to describe myself on mornings like this, I would call myself cynical, skeptical, derisive, contemptuous, misanthropic…just open the Thesaurus and let the acidic descriptions fly. It’s probably best for me to get back in bed and hibernate for the remainder of the day, I think, than to try to overcome my moodiness. The latter might simply exacerbate my unpleasant frame of mind. But if I go back to bed, I might resurrect some dreams I’d rather leave dormant. Yet if I stay awake, I may spend my day thinking about dreams I barely remember, trying to determine whether they are responsible for my mood. Ach.

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When a home health nurse visited yesterday, she inadvertently revealed that she is supposed to spend thirty minutes with me. I think the time is longer than necessary, in that she completed checking my vital signs and repeated the questions she asked last week…at least twice…and still had time to kill. I learned a little about her current husband, during that half-hour period, and that she is in her second marriage. She divulged a tendency to disregard formal English grammar by using “ain’t” at least twice, among other notable terms demonstrative of language butchery. None of these points warrant poking fun at her or otherwise demeaning her background, but there are times when I need to justify my contemptible behavior. I did not let on to my attitude, though, so she left with her dignity intact and I remained behind, soaking in shame, when she left.

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One of the weaker synonyms for “euthanasia” is the phrase describing the act as “putting [a living being] out of misery;” That is, causing the humane death of someone who is suffering. Another expression has been suggested to describe an act that shifts concern from an individual enduring undeserved suffering to one or more individuals who cause suffering in others. The articulation of the act uses the language of genealogy as clarification: euthanasia, once removed. Some people refer to the act as extreme vigilanteism. The terminology attached to it is irrelevant, though; it is one of the few concepts for which words do not matter. Only the concepts and the carry-through matter. Euthanasia, once removed can be executed (pardon the pun) in several ways, including assassination, mid-summer abandonment in inaccessible deserts, desertion by sailing away while the subject of the act is in a body of water sixty miles from shore, and various others.

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I wonder whether I’ll learn anything new when I visit my oncologist tomorrow? It always comes back to that. Argh! Mi novia could use a break from the unflinching attention I pay to my physical condition. My curiosity and interest get depressingly older by the day. Or the hour. That does it. A nap is in order.

Today is my sister’s birthday. If she were close by, we’d celebrate the occasion with appropriate local shindiggery. But we have to be satisfied with a long-distance electronic “wave” to one another, inasmuch as she lives roughly 2000 mile away. Fortunately, though, she dropped in for a visit a few weeks ago. Unfortunately (and coincidentally), when she dropped in, I was in the hospital. It all worked out, except my plans to spend time giving her the grand tour of modern day Hot Springs Village and environs went to hell in a handbasket. Such is life. Happy Birthday, sister sibling!

A tendency toward familial distance is one of the lamentable aspects of modern mobile society. On the other hand, mobility can provide modern humanity with insulation from our parochial past and opportunities to explore the wider world. I can only imagine the discomfort of still living in the environment of enforced bigotry of modern-day Texas… well, no, I am afraid I can do more than imagine it… But that is enough reflective reality for now.

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Several years ago, my late wife and I accompanied my very same birthday sister on a Road Scholar tour of Provence, followed by using a villa she rented outside of Avignon as a base from which to explore. My oldest brother and his wife, along with the next-oldest brother, joined us at the villa. Not long ago, I came across photos I took during the adventures. Cheese shops. Streetside seafood markets. Mountain villages. Ranch and seaside scenes from the Camargue. It was an extraordinary experience. Gazing at a photo of a huge cooking container (that looked like a wok) full of shrimp paella made me hungry. And an image of a monstrous pot of fresh mussels did the same. My health…or lack thereof…won’t allow me such adventures nowadays. Quite the shame.

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A thousand years hence, giraffes will have evolved to become tree-climbers. During their evolution, the long-necked creatures will have migrated to what is now called northern California, where they will spend most of their days foraging in the tops of giant redwoods. When humans ruled the Earth, before the giraffes adapted to a radically-changed environment, human experimentation with inter-species genetics led to breeding of hybrid creatures which combined the least appealing characteristics of pigeons and hippopotami. That god-awful mistake will have led to unspeakable scenes of public parks awash with foul-smelling statues drenched in slippery goo. In that future time, animals and a few trees will not be the sole examples of mutation, though. Venus flytraps will have grown in size to compete with redwoods and their carnivorous appetites will have become absolutely ravenous. It will not be uncommon to see Venus flytraps clamp their jaws shut around ten-thousand pound cattle and to hear the plants’ digestive juices convert the animals to rivers of liquid fertilizer…nutrition for the forest floor. In this distant future, children will be fed a diet of sugar-coated isosceles triangles for breakfast, thereby eliminating time-worn questions about the value of geometry. All other humans will subsist on beet borscht and brontosaurus jerky. It’s all true. Just ask Alice.

A fiction writer’s stories reveal more about the writer than about the characters who appear in his fiction. That assertion is laced with assumptions, of course. It implies and assumes the contention is based on facts. It assumes knowledge about the motives and mindsets of fiction writers. And it assumes (if only through grammar-fueled implication) writers are male. Strip away the assumptions and there’s almost nothing of substance left. Just wasted clusters of emptiness bound together by unreliable scraps of indefensible claims. Words, when used as offensive weapons, slice through sinew as if through rendered fat. Another example. Again, a foundation for both truth and lies—an argument made as if a claim of veracity, rather than simply an attempt to set the stage for preemptive mental combat.

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My dreams seem to be growing more clear and more troubling with every new episode of unconsciousness. Dream settings range from shark-infested lakes to Mexican villages drenched in ostentatious wealth. One of the nightmarish experiences began in the middle of a large lake in which the shoreline was too far away and too far above water to allow me to climb onto dry land. In another, I tried unsuccessfully to keep up with a wealthy young couple who were running between check-out counters in an expensive Mexican shopping mall, spending obscene amounts of cash on leather and jewelry and lavish men’s designer suits. The reason for the hurry, I surmised from listening to the sales clerks, was that the mall would close at the impending sunset and fill with bats. Oddly, the circumstances did not seem even remotely like a horror story; just a naturally unpleasant transition I wanted to avoid. Many more memories of strange dreams in my brain await resurrection. But I want to expunge them from my recollection and sleep in peace.

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I suspect it was a chigger that bit me behind my left knee a day or two ago. The itching sensation it left for me (that’s still present) is reason enough for the little bastard to die a horrible death. I feel the same about cancer, but I want to be careful about what I wish for…you know, I don’t want to get things confused so that I die a horrible death, rather than the cancer. I know that should be understood, but I want to be quite clear about it.

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Though I’ve already had my regular breakfast (banana, espresso, and Ensure), I’m still a bit hungry. I’m in the mood for coffee-flavored ice cream. Then, I’d like to go back to sleep. Last night, a power outage began around 11:10 pm and lasted until 12:40 am. Even that brief interruption to the night’s opportunity to sleep was sufficiently disruptive to revive an overwhelming sense of fatigue.

When I sleep, a sandy crust forms between my upper and lower eyelids and at the corners of my eyes. I wake to the sensation that my eyes—glued shut by sleep-devils while I rested—were targets for permanent closure. This is not a lifelong experience. It has taken place for only a year or two, coinciding, I think, with the time I have been at war with my body. So, it could be attributable to chemo drugs. Or I might have accidentally stumbled into vapor emitted by an angry witch…isn’t that stuff supposed to cause optical crustaceans? Hmm. The sense when I wake is a bit like having barnacles clinging to my skin. Whatever it is, it really doesn’t matter. There’s always some new malady attracting my attention, trying to distract me from my chief complaint. The other annoying affliction I find particularly disturbing at the moment is the intermittent feeling that a steel spear dipped in lemon juice remains lodged in my middle-right chest; but I’m getting used to it. No, it’s not really that bad. I just tend to over-dramatize. But the sandy eyes…that’s real…and annoying.

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The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.

     Sophocles

It’s a sad man my friend who’s livin’ in his own skin and can’t stand the company.

     Bruce Springsteen

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Except for the nightmares (night terrors, some call them), sleep is a fabulous refuge from unpleasant intensity. From stress. From perpetual assured mental strain. From irreversible discomfort. Properly prepared, though, one can enter a sleep state with the knowledge that it will accompany a pleasant fantasy. Once there, though, that state can go haywire, becoming what seems to be an eternal circle of Hell. Or so I’ve heard…been told…seen.

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Speaking of sleep, it’s time for another nap.

After yesterday’s afternoon visit with the oncologist’s staff for another blood draw and infusion of IV fluid, we took advantage of the time (well after the lunch hour, when the restaurant was almost empty) to stop for a late lunch at The Pho House. I’d like to visit the place more often…for the food, of course, but there’s an attitude about the place that draws me to it. The table where we sat is at a window that looks out on the pictured lilly pond. The summary description resulting from a Google search reads as follows: The Pho House is emotional, experiential cooking. Dishes that carry memory, pain, joy, and reflection. I look forward to visiting its sister restaurant/coffee shop/whatever that’s not yet open (its strip-center location is undergoing a slow, loving, pre-opening construction process): East Remedy. When I read the owner’s posts and ruminations on Facebook, I find myself interested in learning more about his perspectives and what drove him to create restaurants that seem to have foundations in Eastern philosophies.

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I’ve had an odd fantasy in recent days, borne I’m sure of my health-related challenges during the past many months. In the fantasy, I am on a table surrounded by a team of medical specialists who are preparing me for a planned five-year medically-induced coma. The purpose of the coma is to give the doctors and their teams plenty of time to repair all my many physical flaws and to allow them to fully heal. When I am brought fully out of the coma, if all goes according to plan, my body will be that of a 40-year-old man. Before sedation, the doctors review the repairs to be made:

• replace length of intestines removed during 1990 surgery with strong, durable, and perfectly functional artificial version;
• return heart to its healthiest condition before bypass surgery;
• implant a “seed” that will grow to replace the lower right lung lobe removed when a cancerous tumor was extracted;
• “scrape” internal veins, vessels, tubes, etc. to return them to pre-blockage condition;
• remove all alien cells and growths (e.g., cancer, polyps, tumors, etc.) and “immunize” my body against future invasions;
• rebuild the configuration of my teeth…remove the diastema, straighten both uppers and lowers, whiten all teeth, bring gums into perfect, healthy condition;
• examine and repair, as necessary, all internal organs;
• return my head of hair to the condition and density it was in when I was 55;
• repair the deviated septum in my nose/sinus cavity;
• repair or replace the ingrown toenail on my left foot;
• remove unattractive and unnecessary fat from my body;
• using electrical stimuli, etc. (or whatever works) that replicate the actions of strenuous exercise, build and shape muscles throughout my body (achieving a 40-year-old’s body) so it is in prime condition upon awakening;
• upgrade my hearing so it is the very best humanly possible;
• repair or replace my eyes so my vision is the very best humanly possible;
• using electrochemical techniques to manipulate my brain and muscles, upgrade my mental abilities so that I can speak fluently in multiple languages;
• using the same techniques (or whatever works), implant knowledge at least equivalent to the World Book Encyclopedia and/or Google in my brain; and
• repair any other flaws noticed during the renovation process.

I can only assume all the repairs, replacements, adjustments, and other improvements will “take,” so I will have—at the conclusion of the lengthy process—become a “more perfect version of a perpetually imperfect creature.” Some of this is vanity, of course, but I think much of it has arisen from my realization that I did not appreciate my better functionality and my greater comfort when my body was in considerably better shape. I’d like to be able to pay close attention to the experience of being quite healthy. As it has been, I’ve not given it the notice nor the appreciation it deserved; without this renovation, I will not be able to capture it for future happy memories. Ach! The 1988 song by Cinderella,  Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone) was dead-on. You’d think that, with all these repairs and replacements, etc., I must have been incredibly attractive before the ravages of time washed over me. You’d be wrong, as you’d come to realize when the renovation is completed. Such is life. I can live with that…as I have for many, many years. But the health part…oh well.

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Another bizarre dream last night. I fired my largest client and my entire staff (some of whom I had never met), leaving my company with an almost nonexistent revenue stream and no one to take care of the company’s obligations to other clients. After firing my client, I got into a physical struggle with one of its past elected leaders and I choked a staff member before I asked him to stay just long enough to get through managing a conference. The dream ended with me arriving very late to a meeting with a potential client, where my former staff were seated around a conference table, enjoying friendly, casual conversation with the client board of directors. I wanted to disappear, but the door locked behind me.

Life is not what you expect: it is made up of the most unexpected twists and turns.

      Ilaiyaraaja

Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.

Carl Sandburg

People who know me well are few and far between. But those who are reasonably close to me often know my passion for many things and ideas and practices Canadian and British….and other cultures outside the U.S. I’m sure I’ve written about my admiration for appealing matters unique to Iceland and Germany and Finland and Mexico and Croatia on and on and on. Scandinavia, as a region, belongs on that list. Had I spent more time in more places, I am confident I would add many other countries and regions to my “favorites” list. But physically visiting a place is not required for me to including it on my list; I’ve never been to Iceland, but I’ve read enough about it to feel comfortable adding it to my list. And my limited time in Croatia, especially Dubrovnik, merits that country’s inclusion. My experience in and around all of these places is limited, though. I base my appreciation on opinions formed by quite restricted exposure to minimal engagement; I realize my assumptions and attitudes are biased by what may be (and probably are) prejudiced snapshots. In most cases, I can defend my appreciation for places—even with their shortcomings—and acknowledge my biases and explain my limits of acceptance. That is true of my appreciation for the U.S. (declining, though it is). This country has far more unpleasant eccentricities than I’d like, but I still find it sufficiently appealing to live here…much of the time. I wish raving U.S. nationalists would adopt my perspective on this country and others. My assumption is that every place on the planet has something that could be attracting or appealing if we’d only allow ourselves to dismiss our animosity toward it. It’s not just “us,” of course. Many other cultures that are taught to despise our country and our culture could stand more than a little a bit of deprogramming. Damn; this topic has drifted east, west, south, and down. Such is the way I think.

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The sounds of birds in the trees might change from calls and songs to growls and barks. And dogs, expressing their animosity toward strangers at the gate, could call their discomfort, singing songs of warning. And we would be surprised to hear cows signaling their hunger with honking and ducks raising a ruckus with incessant mooing, while geese flying overhead quack their way on their journey south or north.

How odd would those unexpected changes be? Would we be as deeply surprised if we deplaned at the Tokyo airport and heard almost everyone speaking Spanish? Or if we arrived on a cruise ship at the port in Anchorage to find everyone speaking Greek? What would our reaction be on our arrival through the Chunnel to Calais, to be met by people who exclusively spoke Mandarin Chinese? Would that reaction be something like the one we would have upon hearing only Russian spoken at the to Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport? Naturally, we might expect a mix of multiple language at each place; but to be met with universal monolingualism of the “wrong” language?

Considering the surprising experiences we would encounter if our world’s were suddenly changed in fundamental (but not necessarily earth-shattering) ways, is an interesting exercise in how we might deal with bias. What if the tastes (and experiences) of consuming soy sauce and wasabi were reversed? How about being served thinly-sliced raw chicken when you ordered carpaccio? Would an order of steamed bay lemon-meringue pied delivered to your plate surprise you when you asked for spinach?

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I’ve heard this is true, but I’ve not experienced it first-hand.  🙂

There is nothing that compares to an unexpected round of applause.

Lynn Abbey

Sherwood, a two-season British crime drama we’re watching on Britbox, holds my rapt attention (so far, at least) with every episode. I rate it very highly and would recommend it to anyone who enjoys British crime dramas as a genre. The storyline differs considerably from the actual story, but its parallels are clear. The experiences that triggered the series involved two murders in Nottinghamshire in a community that still suffers from the rifts created from the 1984-1985 miners’ strike.

The brief on-screen reference to the situation upon which the story is based prompted me to explore just a bit of the history that led to the series. The real circumstances that inspired it make an equally (if not more) riveting story. After we finish the second season (and, perhaps, a third season said to have been announced), I plan to do a bit of research into what prompted the original murders and led to one of the biggest (if not largest) manhunts in UK history. I have no plans to “use” the results of my inquiry, other than to feed my interest…but it will give me something to do with my significant amount of free time. My search for information will begin here.

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I find it a bit hard to come to grips with the knowledge that I have a terminal disease but no idea how long I might have to live; it could be several years, though more likely (I think) it is several…or a few…months. It’s considerably less likely that it could be just weeks or days. The side-effects of treatment so far have not been nearly as hard on me as they are on some people, but they are sufficiently intrusive and disruptive that I’d rather not have to deal with them. But, so far, I can cope. Even with events like my most recent hospital stay: two weeks, including several days in intensive care. I think back to my diagnosis of cancer’s recurrence, December 2023, and count too many visits to the emergency room and admissions to the hospital. I find myself frequently searching the internet for more information that might give me a clearer idea of what to expect in the coming weeks and months…or longer. By now, of course, I realize I probably am wasting my time. But, still, I want to know, so on the chance I might stumble upon something useful, I keep looking. The fact is that no one has an answer; the closest thing to an answer is a guess—the value of which is questionable because of all the constantly-adjusting variables. In an ideal world, I’d wake up and discover that all this cancer crap and all the hospitalizations and so forth have been just unpleasant dreams. But I know better than to put any stock into the idea of an ideal world.

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Distractions lead to consequences we should anticipate but—because of the distractions—don’t. Following a news story or reading an email, for example, instead of paying attention to the pavement in front of us might result in stepping off the subway platform onto the tracks, in front of a speeding train. But our lack of attention may result in taking a step that puts us just one step away from a car bumper as it whizzes by, thus saving us from a leg amputation or worse. Some people, commenting on both, might say “it’s the will of God.” Others might explain the events simply as “random occurrences.” Still others, expressing certainty in words and tone, would assert, “they’re both the luck of the draw.” And a few might claim the situations arose in response to the “kind of person” involved in the events: “dimwit,” for example, in one instance, or “a good guy getting repaid for a good deed,” in the other. The main differences in the explanations, though, amount to this: some are judgmental, some are not. Some people who are affected by distractions are given the benefit of the doubt; others are viewed as beneficiaries (or deserving victims).

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Pets are kept for many reasons, each reason unique and personal. Among the motives are companionship, stress reduction, fear/protection, status/prestige, control/power, etc. Understanding the motives for keeping dogs is simple: they generally offer companionship and can offer protection. Domestic cats…hard to fathom, but companionship is claimed to be a driving force in cat-keeping. Some people view tigers, lions, and other such exotic felines as conveyors of status/prestige to the owner/keeper. Horses; I’ll have to ask around about them. But what about snakes? Who wants to keep snakes and why? Maybe it’s similar to the motive for exotic big cats. Perhaps it’s some sort of demented connection to the creatures’ potential deadly bites…power, control…something a little weird, I would guess. Why is this issue on my mind at the moment? No clue; probably an accident. Or it’s someone else’s interest that got misdirected by time and damaged energy fields and then landed in my brain.

After nearly thirteen years of devoting almost daily mental energy to writing this blog, I notice my interest diminishing in spending time on it every morning. The decline in interest is not new. Though I do not recall exactly when my commitment to writing in it daily started to slide, I think it may have been as long as two years ago; maybe longer. If I had the energy right now, I suspect I could scan posts and identify the month or two when the change began. It coincided, I think, with the time the quality of my posts dropped; nothing I posted seemed to make me proud of what I was writing. That would have been the time to take a long sabbatical from my morning routine, but I kept at it—failing to notice how empty and unfulfilling it hade become for me. I took increasingly frequent breaks, but they were never long enough to sever my sense of commitment. I kept feeling the self-imposed sense of obligation that I almost had to write. Even when I looked at what I had written and correctly judged it to be swill, I continued writing. Even when I looked at what I had written and thought it looked suspiciously like what I had already written (like this post), I kept clawing at it in the hope my persistence would pay off. Revealing, I hoped, the glimmer of gems I might uncover and polish…with just a little more work. Those moments—when I decided to spend time repairing instead of replacing…should have triggered a full-on self-assessment and redirection. Now, I wonder, whether one reaches a point at which rebirth, for lack of a better term, is impossible. And I wonder whether I reached that point months and months ago. Physically, I know there is such a point. No matter how much attention is given to one’s body, that attention will never restore a seventy-one-year-old physique into that belonging to a twenty-five-year-old. Mentally, I have just as much confidence.

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A truck loaded with roofing materials just stopped in front of my house. Hmm. They’re not here to restore my roof.

I wore a business suit as I waded into Lake Balboa. Ignoring instructions shouted by a tall, athletic looking man who looked to be in his thirties, I managed to splash my way to the halfway point. An invisible group of people lining the sandy shore seemed to be the intended recipient of the man’s directions; he seemed not to notice me, but was keenly focused on them. At least I think they were the target of his attention. As far as I could tell, the beach was empty—but something held his attention.

The scene changed—or else my attention shifted. Swimmers—my oldest brother’s sons— appeared nearby. I asked whether they could see a float close by, something I could grasp to keep me from sinking and drowning. First, the youngest one replied, he had to find a bathroom, where he could change his clothes.

Another scene change, This time, the same nephews—joined by several other people—stood with me at a check-out counter in a country store. The aisles of the store were filled with dusty cans and big cardboard boxes filled with over-sized fruits and vegetable hidden beneath thick layers of dust. The periphery of the store was open to what seemed to be endless farm fields. Onions, watermelons, okra, cauliflower, and other, unidentifiable, vegetation sat in random rows and hills.

Yet another scene change. The ex-wife of another brother appeared. She held a pair of scissors, with which she snipped healthy sprigs of cilantro from dry and dying plants—then, she tied the sprigs into bundles, using thick strings of sisal fiber.

At some point, I realized all of these scenes had been repeated several times. I was both watching and re-watching and—acting in—a movie, both as part of the audience and as a member of the cast. Minor changes seemed to have been made with each viewing/participation, but I knew the revisions were immaterial and that the film was a true-to-life reenactment destined to be used, somehow, in court.

I woke, gasping for air; choking on wet dust and dry mud. Lest this oh-so-realistic be confused for the outline of a documentary, I must admit it constitutes only a simple outline of a labyrinthine dream.

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Yesterday, I read a compelling article in the New York Times about the Canadian Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) law. Almost every time I consume information about Canada’s approach to complex issues such as euthanasia, physician-assisted suicide, etc., etc., I admire Canada more. Despite being an emotion-charged matter with supporters and opponents on both sides of a difficult issue, Canadians have tackled it logically and in a dignified manner. I want to be Canadian.

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Barely after 8:00 a.m. and I would love to return to bed for an hour or six.

Language skills tend to become more complex with age. Ask a five-year-old the difference between soot and smoke; expect a confused response or no response at all. The same question presented to a ten-year-old is likely to elicit a more sophisticated, although probably wrong, answer. A fifteen-year-old will question your motives in asking. Twenty-year-olds will suggest you consult a dictionary. The twenty-five-year-old is apt to suggest that language skills and vocabulary are related, language skills apply vocabulary within the context of communications. From 25 onward, both language skills and vocabulary decay, leaving a soot-laden residue in the areas where they were used and smoky remains wafting away in the surrounding air.

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We watched episode five (I think) of Rotten Legacy (original title: Legado) last night. It is a European Spanish-language soap opera, but the storyline is sufficiently intriguing to merit watching. The primary reason we began watching, though, was that we noticed the starring actor is Jose Coronado, a Spanish actor we have grown to appreciate and admire as we’ve watched four or five films in which he stars. He is a good actor, formerly a model, who can mold even modestly junky movies into entertainment. Watch Wrong Side of the Tracks or Unauthorized Living first, though; they’re better and offer a better show of his talents.

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I should be doing my physical therapy exercises right now, but for some reason I prefer to do them in absolute privacy. Inasmuch as that is not available at the moment, I continue to blog, though I have very little of interest about which to write. Like recent mornings, though, I feel better-suited to napping than to exercise or blogging, thanks to restless nights and low energy. Another morning of repetition; blogging, tiredness, etc. Dull stuff that’s not conducive to either creativity or sociability.

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I paid the IRS and the state of Arkansas a relatively large amount of money (for me) yesterday, thank to my handling of some of my investments last year…I paid much more attention to maximizing income, versus minimizing tax obligations. While I wish I had not had to pay so much, I do not resent paying taxes; I resent people who do NOT pay their fair share of taxes. I got an extension, which is why I did my taxes so late. I’d rather delay paying them for several years, though, thereby giving me extra spending money in the short term…though what I would spend it on as I sit in my house almost 24/7, day to day. Yesterday, though, we went to Bangin’ for a burger lunch. We were the only patrons when we visited. It was quite nice, sitting underneath a comfortable awning at casual tables…very rustic and relaxed. I’ve been advised to eat more protein, even though protein-rich foods do not have much appeal lately…but yesterday’s meal was very satisfying.

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I am getting far too tired to stay at my desk. I’d actually rather sit in church than sleep, but I don’t have the energy. Ach.

This morning, I scanned a few online articles from various English-language newspapers around the world. Why, I wondered about many of the articles, did the editors choose to publish them? To understand the interest in and value of local news around the world, one must first understand the context of the information in which the stories are presented. Without knowing the background of a current budgetary stalemate about infrastructure repairs in Malmö, Sweden, for example, a reader cannot rely on a newspaper article to deliver a solid background on the subject. As I thought about such mundane matters, I quickly skimmed local interest articles from Helsinki and Kyiv and various other places. My reading about the importance of context confirmed its value. But a true understanding of local matters often depends on an understanding of the geography of a place. Looking at online maps can help, but they are far too abstract to provide a concrete picture of geography. The more I wandered around the internet earlier today, the more I came to realize the value of photographs; but, especially, videos. And live web-cams, combined with maps and descriptive, narrative information helped me develop some of the best information I could hope  for in the shortest amount of time. Skyline Webcams is an easily accessible resource of webcams that cover much of the planet. Google Earth, too, brings much of the world to one’s computer monitor. But I think the best way to fully appreciate the people and places on this planet must be to delve into every reachable spot on Earth. Unfortunately, such an undertaking would require spending several million lifetimes in exploration. In an ideal world, I could pick a place and instantly be transported there, where an extremely friendly and amazingly knowledgeable local would cheerfully share his or her experiences with the place with me. I’m particularly interested in learning about Bridge End, Shetland, though all I know about it now is that it is quite remote.

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My siblings and I, joined in the group by a spouse and a spouse-like person, held a nice but all-too-brief Zoom video-call yesterday. There was a time when I subscribed to a professional level of Zoom, but the expense of the service made me downgrade to the free version;  only 40 minutes per call before the connection is unceremoniously lost. I wonder what the most popular video call service is today? One that works for Apple and Android (and whatever else) devices. Tell me if you know.

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It looks like I’ll be making a weekly visit to my oncologist from now until whenever; labs and conversation and such. My social engagement for the week, though my social life will include visits by physical therapists and nurses for a few weeks, at least. I find I do not mind being alone or nearly-so. That’s not news; that’s always been the way I am. But the occasional coffee and conversation would help pass the time. How does one know when enough becomes too much? Or when s0me is not enough?

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Once again, I need a nap to make up for the lack of sleep last night. Early to bed, but awake every two hours (at least) to punctuate the darkness. I need a switch…or, at least, a timer…that allows me more control of my “naps.”

Perhaps I can change my attitude on the day simply by giving myself the freedom to sleep for a few hours this morning. That might cure whatever psychological beast that troubles me. An alpaca-soft blanket that blocks out the world could do the trick.

I try, but usually fail, to avoid making self-diagnoses based on symptoms I exhibit. The latest diagnosis, the symptoms of which I have recognized for at least a year and a half, is hypersomnia. Until quite recently, I called the malady narcolepsy, but a more focused examination suggests idiopathic hypersomnia is the more appropriate label. According to the Cleveland Clinic, “Because we don’t know what causes it, it’s impossible to prevent it.” I know this: sleep is—for me—extremely satisfying. I wish it were not so, but sleep has become an extremely pleasing state of existence for me. If I could sleep around the clock (excluding troublesome dreams from my experience), I think I would be quite happy with my circumstances. Once again, though, I did not sleep well last night. I tossed and turned for a substantial part of the night, failing in my efforts to sink into a deep, satisfying sleep. Damn it. I feel, right now, like I could fall instantly asleep and remain in that state of unconscious bliss for several hours. But that would trigger repercussions that would simply make me increasingly angry. Serenity is what I’m after. Pleasant serenity.

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Someone who calls himself a realist has great self-confidence—when forecasting the weather—in his ability to predict the future. I call him a gambler. What I call him, though, does not matter as much as whether his predictions are reliably correct. When his forecasts are dependably correct, I refrain from applying a label to him, opting instead to apply it to myself.

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The world looks a bit dull and grey this morning, despite light blue skies with whisps of white, hazy clouds. Bright sunlight is visible reflecting off trees in the distance, challenging my perspective on the day. If I had wanted brightness, I would have welcomed it into my visual sphere. But, against my wishes, it shine on green trees, washing away the dull light of morning and leaving a polished, refined shine where I want nothing of the sort. I have no substantive control over my view of the world.

Not many years ago, when I lived in Dallas, the first thing I did every morning was to take an extremely brisk walk—averaging between two and four miles long. When I first started my early morning walks, the distance was considerably less. As time wore on and my endurance grew, the distance increased. After I retired, four miles became my baseline. Some mornings, I demanded at least eight to ten miles from my legs and lungs. But I got lazy, opting on many mornings to shorten my walks or abandon them altogether. I knew, of course, my stamina would decline with the reduction in exercise, but I convinced myself I could recover it in short order when I decided the time was right. I did not know, though, when the time was right. Apparently, the right time was long before I decided to return to my morning habit…after moving to Hot Springs Village, where I replaced my territory of flat walking paths with slopes, inclines, and steep hills. Diagnoses of lung cancer, CPD, and other such maladies in the interim made the return to responsible exercise activities more and more difficult. Yesterday, I started a formal physical therapy regimen again. This time, its primary purposes are to add a little time and a little higher quality to my life. It won’t take long to determine whether I have the discipline and the drive to make it work. And, given what’s “doable” in light of the energy and effort necessary, I will learn whether the process is worth the effort any longer. I have returned to challenge the philosophical assertion I’ve written about so many times before: “Le jeu n’en vaut pas la chandelle.” The game is not worth the candle.

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Two very different environments compete for my desires: a bustling big city, its population and experiences and opportunities for entertainment and education colorful and diverse and; a soothingly quiet, almost empty, countryside that gives me isolation in nature and freedom from intrusive human noise. When I think hard about those competing desires, I have to acknowledge that I actually prefer circumstances that offer incremental opportunities for adjustments. I seek both ends of the spectrum, but I regularly feel the need for temporary check-points between them. Yet, if I could select only two realities, I would pick both ends. And if I had to select just one…it would be one that mimics where I spend most of my time now.  I need quiet more than I need noise…serenity and silence more than energy and excitement. I am more comfortable in nature than in crowds. But choice is important. Freedom—to the extent safe and accessible—to experience the breadth of where I am. And where I want to be.

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Another visit with the oncologist today; labs and an injection to control aspects of my blood supply important to the reasonable health of that crucial system. I have other obligations today, as well. Though I do not have any real interest in fulfilling them, keeping on top of them will make life easier and more physically and mentally comfortable.

An impartial, country-by-country, comparative scan of domestic attitudes about immigration is essentially impossible. First, even the most well-intentioned attempt at impartiality is doomed by innate biases, many of which are invisible except from the outside looking in. Second, efforts to remove biases tend not to eliminate them but, instead, to counter them by endorsing opposing points of view—accidentally or purposefully. Other obstacles to unbiased comparisons arise at every turn. Only by arguing against positions one is attempting to protect, encouraging competing respondents to do the same, then agreeing to reject both sides’ perspectives, can one hope to achieve a true “cleansing” of bias. But by that point, one’s thoughts may be so confused that they are impossible to fully grasp. Getting to that stage probably is the closest one can come to impartiality.

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I am very, very hungry and very, very sleepy. But my hunger and my fatigue can be conquered only by specific (and unexpected) foods and deep (but surprisingly brief) bouts of relaxation. Eating cold applesauce, followed by entering a two hour period of uninterrupted sleep in a dark, quiet room should do the trick. While I am sleeping, my lungs should be supplied with concentrated levels of cool (but not cold) oxygen. Levels of food, sleep, and oxygen should be subject to automatic regulation so that they always stay at levels at or close to “perfect.” I will try to achieve that magic state now, but without the apple sauce; I’ve already had enough of that to keep my stomach from complaining loudly.

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Children should be taught to self-regulate their physical and mental well-being from an early age. We begin to regulate our ability to communicate…with very little external assistance…from the moment our awareness to the external world begins. The same abilities should be fostered in every facet of our experience. Babies should be taught to fly, for example, so they can achieve proficiency by the time they reach four months of age. Don’t tell me it can’t be done. Please. That would be a disappointment of immeasurably proportions.

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The first time I was exposed to the word “transmogrify” took place when I was in college.  It was a beautiful moment. I have not had a truly legitimate excuse to use the term since then, except to prove I could misspell it in more than one way. I did that while skipping rocks.

Another Monday. It could be a beginning like any other—the start of a new month or a new year. A chance to relinquish responsibilities or accept opportunities.  An occasion to claim victory or surrender to defeat. Or circumstances to simply allow the flood of life to wash over the world and take you with it, wherever it goes. Like every moment in time, today presents more than a million ways to begin a new experience and at least twice that number to abandon old ones.  Unchosen paths correspond with missed opportunities. Missed opportunities leave us with options no longer available…giving us chances to try them later or to reflect on losses we can never recover. Viewed another way, a Monday might coincide with an offer of a gift of tangerines that, if taken, retracts an offer of grapefruit and the provision of  a glass of tangerine juice. But if the offer of tangerines is accepted, apple cider and acorns may accompany it. If you’re after acorns, you may have to accept that you will never have access to watermelons. Every day’s complexities borrow fruits and nuts from someone else’s baskets.

Should we all remain hopeful? The answer is “yes,” but with a caveat: accept death and defeat as temporary obstacles. But be realistic; if you look at our species with a completely open mind, you will find we have been bred to be selfish and dim-witted. Even when our willful stupidity gets in our way and threatens to overtake all our potential, find work-arounds. Cultivate pop-cycles; once they have matured, use their sticks to build birdhouses.

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If, after a brief period being nursed by forest creatures, I wonder whether we humans would adapt to a harsh and demanding environment? Our morals today argue vehemently against conducting the experiment, of course, but I wonder, anyway. Would we develop our own languages, untethered to the noises our ancestors have left with us to serve as modes of communications? Had we been left free to evolve, would we have adapted to life in the water…able to freely live above, in, and below the water? If the planet continues to claim more of it landmasses for the sea, will our successors have lungs and gills and a taste for reading languages now used only by whales and wolves? Who will be first to replace a human’s spine with a salmon’s? Or vice versa?

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The enormity of change wrought by one’s personal experiences are not directly comparable to transformations caused by cosmic events, but correlations exist between them. For example, witnessing a simultaneous, massive, multi-fatality, high-speed wreck involving two hundred vehicles on an interstate highway arguably would not equate to watching a collision between planets Saturn and one the size of Earth. The larger, more distant event may visually appear less spectacular…but its affects probably would far exceed the one nearer to one’s eyes. Power and distance and the relative masses of involved objects influence the way we perceive—and actually process—disruptions in our experiences. Conversely, though, smaller and temporally less intrusive events that logic argues should have less influence on our experiences can overwhelm the more enormous ones. Time, speed, and our scope of understanding of events (and their relationship to one another) collaborate to influence the way we process events around us. My appreciation of the physics of all these factors, coupled with my admittedly limited understanding of all of them, conspire to provide obstacles to my understanding of “truth.” If I could better understand life and death, I might have a more thorough grasp of how to measure their size and distance in comparison with (and in contrast to)  one another. Clearly, life—my life, at least—is too short and the speed with which I collect and absorb facts too slow to reach that understanding.

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Time infatuates me. On one hand, the limited time available to enable me to learn is frustrating. On the other, time seems to recycle itself and to repair everything we break—machinery we make, coastlines we fill with debris, and choking mixtures of petroleum and dust, ruining the air we use so unwisely. Though I condemn our abuse of the planet and all our the time we waste by destroying it, I believe the destruction we leave behind eventually will be recovered and renewed by the very Earth we despoil so wantonly. So, I am not particularly worried about what we are doing to the planet; we’re doing it to ourselves and to some extent to future generations. But the planet and its creatures…except people…will emerge stronger than we are. So what if it takes 20 million years? Why are we in such a worry—and in such a hurry—to achieve perfection? All of us, every creature of every kind, lives for a while and then dies, so we have time to repair the damage we cause and to let the planet repair what we have done to it. And to each other. Oh, I get angry about it…perpetually…but then I realize how worthless anger is. Now, if I could just hang on to that realization and let it guide me and my behavior…

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I sit here at my desk, short of breath, yet taking deep breaths of the serene but worthless rage of understanding—that pointless self-assessment that might have had an impact on me had I conducted the evaluation half a lifetime ago. I see myself as a little above average, intellectually, yet willfully stupid in almost every way. If only I had changed course ages ago, abandoning efforts to prove my intellectual wherewithal and, instead, embracing the reality that I have everything to learn.

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I wrote my most recent post on April 30. From that point, my physical condition took a steep dive. I was taken by ambulance to the Emergency Room of CHI St. Vincent Hospital on May 2, where I was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit ICU); I stayed there for several days. During the early part of that stay, mi novia received a late night call, informing her that I had gone into Ventricular Tachycardia (V-tach), a rapid heart rhythm that can lead to cardiac arrest. She was told the ER staff might need to use “paddles” on me to put my heart back in normal rhythm. Fortunately, that was not necessary.  A few days later, I was transferred out of ICU to a regular patient floor. And from there, days latter, I was transferred to another hospital’s physical therapy unit for in-patient therapy. I was released to go home from that unit on May 15. My memories of the entire hospital experience are fuzzy; some are quite unpleasant. Follow-up visits to my family practitioner, a pulmonary specialist, , home health care specialist, and my oncologist have focused on  “what’s next.” I can summarize yesterday’s visit with my oncologist with the following quotation extracted from her written post-visit report: if [he experiences] continued decline, [he says he] would consider hospice care.

I will henceforth visit my oncologist weekly, until reasons to take a definitive course of action emerge. It will be my decision, with input from others, to determine the point at which efforts to prolong my life exceed the value of enhancing its remaining quality. My experiences during these two weeks of hospitalization helped me understand the options. The choices between treatment and palliative care are complex. In my case, the time and circumstances involved in tolerability are as yet unclear. Time will tell.

This morning’s espresso seems unusually harsh and hostile and bitter, as if it harbors an especially sour attitude. Of course, the bitterness may be less attributable to the espresso than to me. One’s frame of mind often colors one’s perceptions to a greater extent than does physical experience. In other words, a  person can paint a psychological landscape more vivid and more impactful than reality. I could spend hours exploring the thought processes that led to my present state of mind, but that would necessarily involve an imperfect reconstruction of dreams…with no assurances that the investigation would bear fruit. A cursory reflection on the dreams I remember from last night reveals that I told my late sister, who was sitting beside me in a car, that I have a highly negative reaction to being tickled. And I remember being involved in a major remodel of an old office building’s lobby and a private suit of offices. In the same dream, I made a left turn against a red light while driving a fire truck and, later, barely avoided being crushed when an enormous pine tree next to me was felled by an arborist. Despite the nonsensical nature of those fragments of my dream life, something powerful and meaningful and realistic enough to impact my mood was triggered by my dreams. Maybe. But, perhaps the spark that ignited my reaction to the morning espresso had nothing whatsoever to do with my dreams. I may never know what caused the chaos in my gustatory experience that took place a while ago. That unknown “something” may remain a mystery for all time. We rarely think about all of the questions we have had that never get reasonable or reliable answers…or any answers at all. Our entire lives are riddled with such learning opportunities that we miss. And that same lifespan is filled by receiving and accepting incorrect answers to important questions, thereby forming faulty foundations upon which we build our entire lives. How interesting…that an “off-taste” from a demi-tasse cup might lead to a misguided lifetime based on fallacy.

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One more episode of The Glass Dome (Nordic noir) to go. Whether the limited series will have another season (beyond this first one) is an unanswered question. This Swedish language film was filmed, in part, at UCSD’s Geisel Library in La Jolla, California. Another example of misleading an audience that assumes it was filmed in Sweden. Why not film it in Kinshasa, the Democratic Republic of the Congo? I do not like the main character, a Swedish criminologist who was abducted as a child. That may have been the intent of the screen writer, the director, and the actor who played her (Léonie Vincent); if so, they did a fine job with her character. The film is at once too slow, inadequate in its explanation of the main character’s flaws, and almost riveting in its storyline. We’ve watched five of its six episodes (on Netflix).

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For some reason, humans seem to understand and accept that all of us will die, yet we cannot comprehend the possibility that, at some point, all remaining humans will die at once. That, we seem to believe/feel, is unthinkable. Yet we collectively assert that the future is not guaranteed. The competing logic of those ideas is obvious, yet I rarely (if ever) hear it discussed or read about it. Are we either hopeful pessimists or despairing optimists? Or does some other descriptor better fit the manic-depressive brainstorm in which we engage?

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Mars, Inc. has relented and will now add “alpha male” M&Ms to its assortment of candies. They’re all-white and extra bitter. They melt down when mixed with multi-colored M&Ms. They have no nuts.

~ Variation on a meme posted by an old high school acquaintance ~

I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more.

~ Anne Frank ~

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I did not bargain for permanent hair loss, but I think that’s what I got. Not total hair loss; most of it, though. The stuff that grew back is a mix of fine, patchy white whisps combined with a thin but wiry grey fur-like substance that refuses to respond to a comb. I was banking on just a single round of chemo that caused temporary hair loss; instead, I went through several rounds of powerful, hair-depleting chemicals, followed by a new regimen that mimics that side-effect. The old-man hair, coupled with baggy skin and incorrigible wrinkles, converted me from someone who looked younger than his age to a man who appears to have celebrated two or three centennials. And I no longer have eyelashes. My beard, which seemed never to have advanced far beyond the teenager’s prepubescent stage, now grows so slowly that I shave only occasionally…more than once a quarter, but not by much. Thinner eyebrows, too. And under my arms, where once there were mats of unruly hair, there is nothing remaining but long, old-man wrinkles. The same is true of other spots where hair used to grow. When I compare photographs of me from just a few years ago to recent images, they look like snapshots of different people: one an obese man with a full head of hair and the other a scrawny, nearly-bald, shriveled geezer with evidence that his muscles have been depleted, along with his fat (but the former at a considerably faster rate). I’m not complaining (well, actually, I guess I am, but it’s more of a gripe than an angry grievance), but it gives me something to bitch about. One day, though, my “standard” hair may grow back and I may recover from my body’s attempts to murder me. The only way to find out if that will happen is to wait and see.

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Science fiction does not describe the genre of the dream. Only after thinking about it for quite a long while did a more accurate term emerge from my mental confusion: dimensional fiction. The setting for most of the experience seemed to be a vast—horizon to horizon—field of fresh, untouched snow. During the course of the dream, I discovered what I thought was a perfectly level landscape actually was gently sloped upward toward the distant horizon, where I spied a brown bear. When we—someone else was with me, I don’t know who—finally reached that remote place, we discovered the enormous snow field abruptly ended at a sheer cliff. The land below the cliff—and as far as we could see toward the horizon—was littered with tiny images of farms, villages, and roads. Our view of that scene was like the view from an airplane; our altitude above the land made the scene look small. After we came to the cliff, we followed it to the left for quite a distance until we came to two doors. A man from the valley met us there and demonstrated the way in which the door transformed him as he walked through it; he changed from a valley dweller to one of us: a snow searcher. In fact, he did not change; only his clothing changed. The other door, he explained, would make the change permanent. If a valley dweller walked through it, she permanently would become a snow searcher. If a snow searcher walked through it, he would irreversibly become a valley dweller. Those were the only two options, he explained. “We are two-dimensional,” he said. “The so-called third dimension is just a mind game.”

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We build prisons to protect us from who we might become. Or who we were. Or who we are. Even after all the years of putting people in chains or cages, we still cannot decide whether we are administering punishment or revenge. Clearly, we have given up on rehabilitation or “correction,” although we refuse to publicly admit it. Yet we blame prison administrators and guards for failing to return inmates to the streets as productive, law-abiding members of society. Responsibility for those failures, though, rests with us; with society that refuses to accept people who have spent time imprisoned for their crimes. And with employers who refuse to give people we have locked away for their crimes the opportunity to earn an honest living. When we berate employers for failing to “do their part” in helping re-adapt to society, we forget to ask ourselves whether we would employ those “criminals.” Or, if we ask, do we answer honestly or do we accept the reality that we are afraid; that the risk is too much for us to handle?

Many matters that once seemed important to me have lost their appeal. No, that is not true. They probably lost nothing—the changes took place in me. I question what happened to make their importance wane. Did the shrinking gravity I felt for matters I once deemed important coincide with personal maturation? Or was it something entirely different? Perhaps, over time, I thought more deeply about them; realizing I had elevated their value. Maybe, instead, the importance of other matters grew to such an extent that the issues I believed important diminished by comparison. If I were to offer examples, you might better understand what is on my mind. But my explanations might necessarily be so long, convoluted, and possibly awkward or uncomfortable that I choose to leave the topic; hidden behind a thick, grey, protective curtain.

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I frequently rely on The Weather Network app on my computer for a daily forecast. Today, I noticed a button beneath the forecast, labeled “Suggest an Outfit for Me.” On a whim, I pressed it. Among the recommendations:

• Top: A light, breathable short-sleeve shirt or a tank top to keep you cool.
• Bottoms: Comfortable shorts or a flowy skirt to enjoy the warm weather.

I do not believe I have ever owned a tank top. I am certain I have never owned a flowy skirt. Not that I couldn’t, of course. But I think The Weather Network must have mistaken me for someone else. Then, again, maybe the app meant for me to wear what’s commonly and crassly known as a wife-beater undershirt and a kilt. Yet, again, I have never owned those items of clothing. I may just stick to wearing a cape and alligator leggings.

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My “stomach” is making intermittent sounds like a sick cat and a clogged sink drain. Coinciding with those noises, I feel emphatic gut pains. This is not really “new,” but it’s not a continuing matter; more like a weekly reminder that my innards are responding unhappily to the presence of toxic chemicals delivered to my bloodstream. And then distributed into my abdomen for some reason. Doctors know that many chemo drugs have such side-effects. I wonder whether researchers spend any appreciable amounts of time attempting to remove the components of those drugs that cause such discomfort? (While, of course, retaining their cancer-slowing and/or cancer-killing properties.)  I feel rather bloated, too, as if large balloons in my body are about to reach the point of popping. That could ruin a person’s day. A dictatorship, though, could destroy a country’s history and ruin its citizens’ present and future.  A massive popular uprising could…well, you know.

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How much of what we are told about China and Russia is true? And how much of what we “know” about the USA is pure propaganda? I have many, many doubts about the legitimacy of virtually all sources of “news.” While some news media do their best to present facts, too many accept fundamental premises delivered by both international and domestic governments. To challenge them…especially domestic sources…is considered unpatriotic. In truth, though, I believe challenging them is an obligation.