Learning from the Canadians

Posted on July 13, 2019 by John Swinburn

The concept seems solid:

“If you think about the composition of meat, it’s actually five things,” Ethan Brown says: “Amino acids, lipids, trace minerals, vitamins and water. All of that is available to us outside the animal. What animals do is take a tremendous amount of plant material and a lot of water and use their digestive system to convert that to muscle that we then harvest as meat. What we’re doing is starting with the same inputs—plants and water—and using heating, cooling and pressure to produce meat directly from plants. If we’re capable of pulling those amino acids, lipids, trace minerals and vitamins directly from plants, we should be able to successfully transition the human race from using animals to harvest meat.”

I mean, if we convert the raw materials of iron, chromium, nickel, manganese, copper, and carbon to stainless steel, we ought to be able to convert plant materials to meat. And we do. “We” meaning companies like Beyond Meat, of which Ethan Brown is founder, and Impossible Foods and probably dozens, if not hundreds, of other companies that are or will jump on the non-animal “meat” bandwagon.

I extracted Brown’s quote at the top of this post from an article in Maclean’s, Canada’s national affairs and news magazine. Much of the other information I obtained on the topic of meat substitutes came from the same article, so what I am writing here may be unique to Canada…but probably not.

The market for non-animal “meat” products is growing exponentially. And the beef and dairy industries in Canada are taking notice and responding defensively, as typically happens. Rather than confronting disruptive change with acknowledgement and appreciation, business reacts in fear, which in turn generates attacks against the threat. In Canada, the Quebec Cattle Producers Federation launched a complaint with the Canadian Food Inspection Agency, arguing that Beyond’s products should not include the word “meat.” “Meat” is defined, they say, as “carcass derived from an animal.” That’s a pretty weak argument, I think, inasmuch as the company suggests in its product names that its products are “beyond” that animal-based product.

The concept of converting naturally-occurring plant products into edible food that looks and tastes like meat fascinates me. While it’s intriguing, though, I am innately skeptical that the process of making those conversions is as gloriously good for the planet as some claim. How much energy/water/product is used in the process and how does it compare to naturally-occurring meat? And how much energy is actually saved (if any) by producing and transporting artificial meat compared to locally-raised grass-fed beef? Lots of questions. The questions notwithstanding, the topic intrigues me no end. And, having grilled and eaten a Beyond burger at home, I can attest to the fact that the substitute is damn near the real thing (though my wife disagrees with me).

I look forward to learning more as time goes by and as the “fake meat” industry grows. And, by the way, I also look forward to trying lab-grown meat that, unlike the substitutes, is the real deal, just not from a live animal. For now, though, I understand it’s out of my price range, at hundreds to thousands of dollars per pound.

***

I read something else in Maclean’s that grabbed my attention. Shannon Proudfoot, an Ottawa-based writer for the magazine, wrote a piece that appeared last October (2018). In it, she revealed the most “thunderous epiphanies” about truly mundane aspects of life that people shared with her. These epiphanies were embarrassing “aha!” moments when people realized they had misunderstood facets of life that made them feel stupid. But we’ve all been there. Some of my favorites:

  • Shannon finally realized that her mother, when she opened egg cartons in the grocery store and rolled each egg, was not counting eggs but was, instead, checking to ensure none were broken;
  • A guy “thought Arson was a guy.” The news would say “Arson is suspected.” And I was like, ‘Another one?!? They gotta catch this guy!’
  • A woman didn’t realize that Dr. Spock and Mr. Spock weren’t the same person until she was a grown woman. She was always baffled how a fictional Vulcan became the expert on raising real human babies;
  • Another woman thought the Wheel of Fortune host’s name was Patsy Jack until she was 19. Her roommate at the time informed her it’s actually Pat Sajak after she yelled at the TV screen “Yeah Patsy Jack!”
  • A man thought artichoke hearts were from an animal that he pictured as being similar to an armadillo. He thought it was disgusting that people would buy jars filled with animal parts.
  • Another man said, “I thought money laundering was physically washing the money and hanging it to dry to get cocaine residue off of it. A whole room of people silently stared at me after I announced this.”

I have my own such idiotic epiphany, though it was not so much an epiphany as a temporary failure of thought and logic. I was in a junior high school class when the teacher asked me to identify which word from a list was not real; which one was gibberish. I’m not sure what all the words were, but I think they may have included forearm, forehead, forenose, foreleg, and forefinger; the one I picked was “forehead,” because there’s no such thing as a forehead, right? Wrong. I realized soon after I made my pronouncement that I was mistaken. The rest of the class erupted in laughter and I turned beet-red at my faux pas.

Posted in New and Regained Knowledge | Leave a comment

My Father was a Carnivorous Xylopolist: A Rambling Recollection

Posted on July 8, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yes, my father was a xylopolist. I did not know that until just a short while ago. Somehow, some way, I stumbled across the word online. I didn’t recognize it, so I looked it up. It wasn’t in the free online Merriam-Webster dictionary, nor on dictionary.com. But I found it in plenty of other places. And the definitions consistently corresponded with my father’s occupation, at least his last one. He was, indeed, a xylopolist. That is, a person who sells lumber. Depending on which definition one accepts, the term describes a person who sells fine timber, fine lumber, or who simply is a lumber merchant. They all describe my father.  Though he didn’t specialize in fine hardwoods, he sold his share of fine hardwood lumber. And he sold the highest quality redwood and cedar, lumber that today would be impossible to find and even more difficult to pay for. Of course, he sold plenty of yellow pine and larch and fir. He didn’t have the benefit of global communication and global research that today feeds us information about our endangered forests. And he spoke often about forest product management; the timber companies, he believed, were harvesting only timber that would be replaced by the companies’ timber farming practices. And it’s possible that was the case. But our appetite for lumber has outstripped our ability to replenish the supply of wood. That’s easy to see when you go to a lumberyard to find good lumber, heart wood with few if any knots. It’s just not there. Instead, warped, cupped boards filled with knots are in ample supply. I suppose there’s still high quality lumber to be found, but it is directed toward outlets that supply high-end architectural suppliers who serve businesses and individuals with limitless cash. The one-percenters, as it were.

The same people who can afford high-end lumber can afford prime steaks and the very best vegetables and the finest seafoods. You know, the stuff that is picked over by chefs from fine dining restaurants before it goes to high-end grocery stores. The leftovers go to mass market supermarkets and the dregs, then, go to those scarce markets that supply impoverished food deserts.

My mind seems always to bend and twist even the simplest subjects into the stuff of skeptical debates and cynical assessments of man’s inhumanity to mankind. I suppose it’s natural. Or, if one is a one-percenter, it’s the inevitable angry outpouring of the resentful common man. But let’s change the subject, shall we?

My father enjoyed steak and bacon and pork chops. He was an omnivore, not a carnivore. But he was carnivorous; he was an eater of flesh, as am I. I’m becoming less so in recent years, but I still enjoy a bloody steak. My father liked his meat cooked more “done” than do I, though truth be told, I can’t remember specifically how he liked his steaks. I think he liked them medium to medium-well, but that’s really a guess, based on faulty memory. After all, it’s been almost 35 years since he died; my memory of how he liked his food cooked has faded almost entirely. But I know he liked meat. He was especially fond of bacon. I remember (albeit vaguely) that he arose very early in the morning when I was a kid and he cooked a lot of bacon. He cooked it the way I liked it; cooked through, but still a bit limp. At least I think that’s how he cooked it. I’ve never much liked crispy bacon; it seems overcooked, almost burned, when it’s too crispy. I think I inherited the bacon appreciation gene from my father. And, the bacon-texture appreciation gene, too.

I may have inherited other traits from my father. Like a predisposition to lung cancer. My father died of lung cancer when he was 81 years old, after years of coping with a terrible cough. My cough, of late, reminds me of his; convulsive fits of coughing whose purpose seems designed to rid the bronchial tubes of mucus coatings.

Aside from these few attributes, and a few more I may one day write about, I am unlike my father. Our personalities, I think, grew from different roots. Although I sometimes think we’re more alike than I will admit. I wouldn’t begin to know how to write a character in a novel who would resemble my father. I don’t think I ever knew him well enough to write a character that even resembled him superficially, much less emotionally. My recollections of him are built, in no small part, on second-hand recollections of others. I suspect the same is true of my memories of my mother, though they are more vivid than my recollections of my father. This focus on early and not-so-early memories is, again, a reminder than I have only vague memories of much of my life into early adulthood. And, for that matter, from early adulthood to the present. It’s as if my life blurs as I live through it. The pages of my book of personal history are covered in thick layers of dust. When I brush the dust from the pages, the ink of the underlying letters smears and become almost illegible.

Recollections (or the lack thereof) of my early life almost always drift into melancholy. I’ve had enough melancholy for the day, so I’ll stop writing now.

 

Posted in Family, Memories | Leave a comment

Conversation with Myself

Posted on July 5, 2019 by John Swinburn

The U.S. Department of Agriculture first printed its “Special Report on Diseases of the Horse” in 1890. It was reprinted in 1896 and later revised and reprinted in 1903, 1908, 1911, and finally in 1916. The 1916 edition, and possibly the earlier ones, included this sentence: “In the mare the thickening of the walls of the bladder may be felt by introducing one finger through the urethra.”

I came upon this information while trying to find a sentence in which the word “bladder” is used to describe something like the rubber bag inside a football. Though I found a very few examples, none of them satisfied me. I was looking for an alternative to “balloon,” because I had used “balloon” in something I wrote last July 5 (in 2018, that is) to describe my head; empty, save for air, and lacking in creative ideas. It occurred to me that I could describe my brain as a hollow bladder instead of an empty balloon, hence the search for usage of “bladder” in a sentence. I wanted to be certain I wasn’t manufacturing definitions to suit my mood; I needed visual reassurance that my intended usage was proper. Instead, I found that my brain is similar to a vessel intended to contain horse urine.  But, as I suggested earlier, my vessel is empty and as far as I know has never contained horse urine. Perhaps my choice of “bladder” was unfortunate. Maybe I should have stayed with “balloon.”

The point I planned to make was that a year has passed since I wrote about the absence of ideas in my head and little has changed with respect to its contents. My head remains empty, vacant, uninhabited by creative thought. One might think that, on the day following Independence Day, my head would be filled with reflections on freedom or self-determination. But, no, such thoughts only create questions about whether freedom and self-determination truly exist or whether we delude ourselves into believing in ideals that have no basis in reality. So I choose vacancy, instead. Vacancy is preferable to clutter drenched in doubt, ambiguity, and skepticism.

Ideas twist and circle around themselves, meeting in the middle and moving along to recreate themselves again. Think of the symbol for infinity, the lemniscate (also called the lemniscate of Bernoulli). I once knew the word and, I believe, used it for some obscure reason but I don’t recall why or when and I can’t find a record of using it, at least not on this blog. That’s neither here nor there, though. My point is that ideas refresh themselves in a never-ending loop. Bladder or balloon; they’re the same thing with just a slight twist. There’s no appreciable difference between my brain and the urinary sac of a mare, if you believe the words of the “Special Report on Diseases of the Horse.”

Infinity, by the way, is not a number, according to something I read online. Yet the same scholarly explanation asserts the lemniscate symbol represents an infinitely large number. Later, it goes on to say, “Infinity is not a number. It does not represent a specific number, but an infinitely large quantity.” Methinks mathematicians may not be especially good with language. Of course, it could be that I am neither good with language nor capable of understanding mathematical logic.

Lest I leave lemniscate inadequately explained, let me incorporate a formal definition: “In geometry, the lemniscate of Bernoulli is a plane curve defined from two given points F₁ and F₂, known as foci, at distance 2a from each other as the locus of points P so that PF₁·PF₂ = a².”

Maybe my head isn’t empty. Maybe, instead, it is filled with shattered fragments of information I never fully understood, even when they were part of a whole. Perhaps the creativity I crave is there, but shredded with pieces missing. That might explain my affinity for infinity and why I want the use of the word “bladder” to matter.

If I let it, this conversation with myself could balloon into something infinitely large and impossibly complex.

Posted in Just Thinking | Leave a comment

Language Crimes

Posted on July 4, 2019 by John Swinburn

Go ahead, call me a Grammar Nazi. But, actually, t’s not grammar. It’s vocabulary. Here’s a heading for a story I read recently on CNN.com:

“Man breaks in to rob a Florida Wendy’s but stops to make himself dinner first.”

The heading, as well as some of the story’s content, just set me off. The guy did not “rob” Wendy’s. He burglarized it in the wee hours of the morning, when no one else was there. Robbery is defined in law as: “the felonious taking of the property of another from his or her person or in his or her immediate presence, against his or her will, by violence or intimidation.” Breaking into a fast-food joint after hours, when no one is present, is not robbery; it is burglary. It might be vandalism. But it is NOT robbery. Journalists who call such an act “robbery” should be summarily fired and their credentials snatched from them and publicly burned, along with their reputations.

Less than two weeks ago, a woman in Hot Springs Village posted an alert about a “robbery” that took place after hours at a local business. The “robber” was the only person present during his break-in and subsequent efforts to purloin goods from the business. Despite the woman’s lack (I assume) of a journalist’s credentials, my immediate response to her post was to want her ejected from the Village for commission of a language crime. I believe she should have been arrested and imprisoned for a period of no fewer than two months, during which she should be subjected to an intensive lexical intervention.

Despite my sensitivity to monstrous misuses of the English language, I realize I commit such blunders myself. But I do not believe my infractions are as serious as those that cause me such consternation. And my offenses tend to be typographical blunders, rather than ignorance of proper usage. Ignorance of the law of language is not an excuse.

I can’t say why some of these breaches cause me such distress. They do, though. They really set me off. I have little to no compassion for people who break certain rules out of illiteracy or its cousins. Assuming illiteracy has cousins.

My sensitivity to language misuse runs counter to my understanding that language is in a constant state of flux. Definitions evolve, spellings change, usage adjusts to changes in population, etc. I know these things. So my requirement that a certain set of rigid rules be followed is somewhat hypocritical. On the one hand, I defend the flexibility of language; on the other, I am intransigent in my insistence that my rules be followed. I laugh at myself, sometimes.

I make a mockery of linguistic integrity. I wonder if the sentence I just wrote has ever been written before? Well, if one assumes Mother Google knows everything, the sentence is unique to me. Finally, I’ve written something new! I make a mockery of linguistic integrity. I hereby chronicle my accomplishment. If I see those words in print again, in the same order, I will expect to be credited with the manner in which they were ordered.

Actually, I think it’s a crime to attempt to harness language for one’s personal benefit. That being said, novelists and poets could be considered criminals. If one assumes they exploit words for personal gain, that is. If their use of words is for the greater good of humankind, on the other hand, they may be benefactors. It’s all a matter of motive, isn’t it? The same might be said of an assassin. If the killer takes a certain politician’s life out of personal acrimony, the actor is a murderer. If he acts out of patriotic regard for his fellow countrymen, eliminating the politician’s treacherous march toward dictatorship, he may be called a hero. Yet is it the assassin’s motives that matter in this case, or is it the public’s perception of the consequences of the act?

***

I went to the gym this morning for the first time in approximately forever. My intent is to begin rebuilding my stamina and, then, rebuilding my strength. I spent only fifteen minutes on the treadmill, achieving only three-quarters of a mile at a speed of 3.2 miles per hour. I set the machine’s incline to one percent for about half the time and one-half of one percent for the remainder. By the time I’d spent fifteen minutes on the machine, I was beginning to sweat profusely. After I got home, I started coughing. And coughing. And coughing. I have a long way to go before returning to my “old self” in terms of stamina and endurance.

***

In honor of all the people trapped and caged at our southern border, I opted not to make a traditional American breakfast this morning. Instead, I made migas (Spanish for crumbs), a popular dish in the Mexican community in Texas. It’s a simple dish of scrambled eggs, fried strips of corn tortillas, cheese, jalapeños, onions, and crumbled bacon. I made a salsa to go with it; roasted tomatillos, onions, garlic, cilantro, and serranos, mixed at medium speed in a blender. Nice meal, if I say so myself.

 

 

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An Unhappy Place in My Head

Posted on July 3, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, I finally began the slow, arduous task of painting the deck. Even though I haven’t yet found someone to complete the replacement of deck boards, I decided paint needed to go on the scraped and sanded boards.

Only one coat has gone on part of the deck, so the appearance may improve with a second (and possibly a third) coat. I hope so. The one coat I put on yesterday gives the planks a uniform color, but the cracks and warped boards show through the paint.

I still have plenty of surface preparation to do. But I want to paint the areas that are ready for painting to prevent the sun from doing any more damage to the bare wood. So, I did some touch-up sanding yesterday and began painting. Today, if the weather cooperates, I’ll finish the surface preparation on the area I started painting, finish applying the first coat to that area, and apply a second coat to the section I painted yesterday. Then, on to the next section. I suspect the job will require at least ten days; that’s because I can’t do very much at a time before needing to stop and rest.

Temperatures yesterday while I was painting reached the upper eighties. There was a time when such heat didn’t bother me, but that time has passed. I had to stop working and come inside several times, just to rehydrate and cool off. The painting part of this project will take far longer than I anticipated, simply because I don’t have the stamina to plow through the job. If I hadn’t already spent close to $2000 on the project so far, I think I would start from scratch with a decking company and have them remove all the old decking and replace the entire thing. I got a bid of $11,000 to do that a couple of years ago; I suspect a competent decking company would charge twenty percent more.

I don’t know if it’s my age, my sedentary lifestyle, my battle with lung cancer, or a combination; whatever it is, I just can’t do the work I once was able to do. There’s so much that needs to be done around the house and yard, but I don’t have the strength or energy to do it. And I can’t even find reliable, competent people to pay to do it for me. I have visions of dozens of projects that, if ever completed, will make our home a more appealing, more attractive, and more comfortable place to live. But those visions seem, this morning, to be more hallucinations than dreams. I’m not in a happy place at the moment.

Posted in Rant | Leave a comment

Strangely Canadian

Posted on July 2, 2019 by John Swinburn

“Canada is the largest exporter and the second largest producer of mustard seed in the world, accounting for 75-80 per cent of all mustard exports worldwide, according to the Canadian Special Crops Association.”

So says HUFFPOST Canada. I have no reason to doubt it, though I find it odd that the information was presented as a slide in a slideshow purportedly about the Most “Canadian” Words and Phrases; the word for the slide was, of course, mustard. I’m relatively sure mustard is not a uniquely Canadian, nor is it used in unique ways by Canadians. But I am not certain. Relatively sure leaves room for doubt, whereas certainty does not.

I find myself drawn to articles and stories about Canada because, deep within the bowels of my soul, I believe I am Canadian. I would not be surprised one day to learn I was snatched, as an infant, from a Canadian birthing centre and spirited away to Mercy Hospital in Brownsville, Texas, where I was switched with a tiny Texan. That little Texas boy now lives in coastal Nova Scotia, where he is retired from a distinguished career teaching linguistics at Dalhousie University in Halifax. He also was a professor of sociology and social anthropology. Lucky bastard! He was rumoured to have been engaged in a torrid affair with a current faculty member, Taghrid Abou Hassan, before his retirement. But she denies ever having met the man; I believe her. Some say he started the rumour; he does have an overactive imagination, after all, one that causes some to say he lives in a dream world. His name? Oh, he’s really nobody. You don’t need to know his name. Oh, what the hell, his name is Calypso Kneeblood. Or it may be James Kneeblood. Or maybe it’s Preston Kneeblood. Yeah, that’s it. Preston Kneeblood! His friends and students called him PK. More about PK in another post, perhaps.

Anyway, back to the Most “Canadian” Words and Phrases. Many of them are not linguistic tags that would tend to identify the user as Canadian, so I’ll ignore them. I’ll focus on the words I find interesting for one reason or another.  Like these:

    • Hydro: This word refers to electricity, presumably electricity generated from hydroelectric generators.
    • Deke: A word, rooted in hockey, referring to a player “faking” a move. According to HUFFPOST Canada, it also can mean “to detour,” as in, “I’m going to deke into the store after work to buy beer.”
    • Two-Four: A 24-beer case.
    • Toque: A close-fitting knitted hat, often with a tassel or pom-pom on the crown, generally worn in the winter.
    • Gitch: men’s briefs, used mainly in Saskatchewan and Manitoba.
    • Gut-foundered: Craving food.

I won’t be able to pass for Canadian until I master these words, along with many others, and until I become much more familiar with dozens and dozens of unique Canadian customs. If not for the fact that Canada’s mustard crops are largely, perhaps exclusively, grown in the prairies (think Saskatchewan), I might become a mustard farmer when I master the culture and move to Canada. Alas, I do not wish to live in Saskatoon or its environs (though, to be fair, I’ve never been to the city, so I shouldn’t knock it).

Canada is not all maple syrup and mustard seed. That is, the country has its share of right-wing nutcases, fascist pigs, and nasty politics. But if the good, peaceful, progressive people of Canada politely demand the country maintain its sense of decency and civility, all will be well. I’m counting on it. I have the sense that I will return to my real birthplace before too many more years pass and I’d like it to be the kind, gentle, forgiving place it was in the early 1950s.

When I finally take that giant step toward what must surely be called destiny (that is, when I move to Canada), I think I’ll start in the eastern part of the country. Perhaps Nova Scotia or Prince Edward Island or Newfoundland. Then, in a dozen or a hundred or a thousand years, I’ll slowly make my way across Quebec and Ontario and points west. Eventually, I may find myself in Victoria, BC. Or, I might reach the Pacific coast and then begin a leisurely circle, heading north for a while and then east. I might find myself in a community called Déline, Northwest Territories. There, I would learn a painful lesson about the Dené people, whose men died of cancer, in large numbers, after being exposed to radioactive materials. I would learn, too, how the Canadian government supplied uranium from the area to the United States, which in turn used the material in the manufacture of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Even happy stories sometimes have ugly undersides.

I don’t think I’m alone in knowing very little about the geography of Canada, nor about its culture and history. That’s an embarrassment I believe I share with the vast majority of people who grew up in the United States. We know very little about other countries, even our close neighbors to the north and south. We’re indoctrinated, from grade school on, to believe the United States is the center of the universe and that our country is “the best.” Questioning the veracity of those claims subjects one to ridicule, at best, or accusations that one is traitorous. I used to think such parochial “education” was an accidental byproduct of a system designed to instill a sense of pride in the place we call home. Today, I believe we were, and are, subjected to intentional jingoist training meant to serve those in power. Knowledge of our neighboring countries’ geographies and cultures serves no useful purpose to our country’s commandant-class. Such knowledge could, in fact, endanger their positions of power and privilege; so, we are spoon-fed a diet of hyper-patriotism that purposely excludes much detail about the rest of the world.

How is it, I wonder, that genuine patriotism and pride has gone so badly off the rails? That question has too many answers that require too deep a dive into our nation’s psyche for me to even begin to answer here. So let me return to my future Canadian citizenship.

Inasmuch as I was, by birth, a Canadian (remember, I was snatched away as a child and left in a hospital in a Texas border town), I think my affinity to my home country has its roots in my genes. Canadians, as you are no doubt aware, are genetically unique; their (our) genes predispose us to our well-known Canadian traits. It’s no accident that Canadians, as a class, are known to be polite, kind, and of above-average intelligence; it’s in our genes. Oddly, that is true whether the Canadians in question are Aboriginal Canadians or, as I call them, late-comers. Apparently, our genetic makeup arises, in part, from the soil. Whether First Nations, Inuit, newly-born Quebecois, or Banffite Albertan, soil-borne Canadian genes permeate our gene pool.

I suspect that, when I move to Canada, my genetic Canadianism will be activated. I’ll be more receptive to information about Canada’s history, geography, and lifestyle. And the information will stick; growing up in the U.S., I (along with most of my fellow countrymen) was coated in some sort of hyper-slippery knowledge-repellent that causes “foreign” information to slide off my brain cells. It’s like WD-40 but even more lubricous. Anyhow, when I return to the country of my birth, I’ll begin the process of absorbing one thousand years’ worth of knowledge. My transformation won’t take long; I suspect I’ll be fully Canadianized by my third year of permanent residency. Part of that process, of course, will be my inevitable introduction to that Texan who took my place: Preston Kneeblood.

It’s coincidental, I suppose, that Kneeblood has lived his entire lifetime with a yearning to “return” to Texas. But, given his deeply progressive political views, he has always known he would not fit in. Still, he imagines he could enjoy a life of peace there if he could just live in isolation, perhaps in a desolate area of west Texas, far from cities. And he’d have to be miles and miles and miles away from the nearest oilfield; he could not abide the stench and noise of drilling rigs and the men who work on them.

But this post isn’t about PK, is it? No, it is not. But it is about to come to an end. I feel confident, though, that more will come about my life as a returning Canadian.

It’s just after 5:30 and I’ve been up for two hours. This is madness. I should be asleep in bed. Instead, I’m hallucinating about things Canadian. Perhaps if I play a French-language audio CD while I sleep, I’ll be fluent in Canadian French by the time I awake.  Hah! I doubt I’ll go back to bed at this hour. That, too, would be madness. I’ll just drink my coffee and wonder what’s up with this world we live in.

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy | 3 Comments

Ćevapčići

Posted on June 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

Last night’s dinner consisted of ćevapčići (pronounced, as best as I can determine, “chevopcheche”), sliced purple onion, and sliced tomatoes. I made the ćevapčići from a pound of 80/20 ground beef, one-third of a cup of lukewarm water, and a package of ćevapčići mix. The ćevapčići  mix was probably well past its “use by” date, inasmuch as we bought it more than a year ago at a Serbian-owned auto shop/car wash/convenience store on the west side of Hot Springs. Its age, though, did not detract from the flavor. I learned from the director of pari mutuel betting for Oak Lawn Racetrack in Hot Springs that the business sells Balkan foodstuff. I met the Oak Lawn woman through a fellow writer, who suggested he and I write about her history; she was born in the former Yugoslavia and immigrated to the U.S. when she was about eight years old. She’s fifty-three or fifty-four now. But she is not what this post is about. It’s about ćevapčići.

When my wife and I visited the business a year (or more) ago, we were intrigued by the packaged foods and we bought several things. Only recently did we realize we had let them sit in the pantry, unused and unappreciated. So we decided to take action. Hence last night’s dinner. I admit that I was prompted to take action by the fact that the package of ćevapčići mix was made in Croatia, a place we’ll be visiting (me for the second time, my wife for the first) within the next few months. Anyway…

I made ćevapčići sticks, using beef. I cooked them on top of the stove, in a skillet. I would have preferred to have grilled them, but for many reasons I won’t get into here, I couldn’t. Dammit! Dammit to hell! Ach! Well, that’s history now.

I cooked the “sticks” as best I could, then we ate them. I was expecting fast food quality. I got seriously tasty quality, not at all reminiscent of fast food. Damn, it was tasty!

The fact that I used a packaged mix was bothersome, to me. So, next time, I’ll prepare the spices myself. Assuming I can find them and can combine them in appropriate fashion.

Ethnic foods impress me. I find the accomplishments of other cultures to be both inspiring and fascinating. And impressive in the extreme. That’s why I attempt to emulate them. At least that’s part of it. There must be something else. I suspect the fact that other cultures are not so damn arrogant and self-important has a little something to do with it.

I try to love everyone and everything. I fail miserably. But I think my endeavor is an admirable goal. I hope you succeed where I have failed.

Posted in Food, Philosophy | Leave a comment

A Northern Thai Birthday Celebration

Posted on June 29, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday was my wife’s birthday, so we went out to dinner last night in celebration. She had mentioned to me after we had lunch at the place, kBird, a couple of months ago that she would like to return for a special dinner to celebrate her birthday. She had noticed a hand-written announcement of a weekly Khantoke (a northern Thai special dinner). Normally, kBird is open only for lunch, when they serve Thai food from central and southern Thailand, the stuff most Americans expect when eating at Thai restaurants. But these once-a-week Khantoke events depart from American “tradition” to explore foods that most of us never experience. According to one of the staff who spoke to us last night, kBird is the only restaurant in the USA that serves this style of northern Thai food.

I should describe kBird. It is a tiny spot, located inside an old, yellow house in a residential neighborhood a little bit north of the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences. I would guess the place could comfortably seat about fourteen to eighteen people, but at last night’s dinner, there were twelve of us and it would have been crowded with a few more. Much of the food prep work is done across the counter from the dining area. The cooking is done in what I assume is a kitchen right off the dining/prep area. The staff  last night consisted of four people, including a guy who I assume is either the owner or the lead among a group of owners.

At any rate, experience it we did. The cost for the dinner was $49 per person, taxes included (slightly higher if paying by credit card), plus tip. The place is BYOB (we didn’t, but the other two tables, one of six people and another of four, did). We were the only solo couple in the place. I think it would have been even more fun had we had another couple or two join us.  We could have accommodated two other people at our table, but it would have been extremely tight when they brought the food, which is served family-style.

For the price, we were treated to a 12-item menu, plus dessert, that included the following:

    • steamed sticky rice (picked up with one’s fingers and rolled into balls for dipping in sauces)
    • phak soht & nung (fresh and steamed Thai vegetables)
    • nam prik ong (chile-based sauce made with dried chiles, ground pork and tomatoes) ;
    • a meat plate that included:
      • pork rinds,
      • fried chicken with makwaen (I have no idea what makwaen is),
      • sai oud (an intriguing Thai pork sausage, typically eaten fermented but uncooked; ours, though, was cooked “to temperature” to comply with FDA regulations or some such requirement),
      • nam prik noom (roasted chile dip for the meats), and
      • haem (fermented pork);
    • yam makheva yao (smoked eggplant salad);
    • gaeng hanglae (Burmese-style pork curry with ginger and peanuts);
    • kanom jeen nam ngiew (pork & blood cube curry with red Cotton tree stamens);
    • aep bplaa duuk (catfish with herbs, steamed in banana leaves), and
    • a sweet rice-based dessert with sliced mangoes.

I could not get very good photos, so I’m not posting them. Suffice it to say there was a LOT of food on the table. It was all delivered to our tables before we began eating.

We learned from our host that northern Thailand is considerably cooler than the central and southern parts of the long, narrow country (more than 1,000 miles from south to north). The northern part of the country is more arid, too, so coconut palms do not grow there. As such, coconut milk (which is ubiquitous as an ingredient in many Thai foods with which I am familiar) is not found in Lanna Thai (northern Thai) food.

The meal provided more food than we could eat. We tried, but could not finish all the dishes. Most of it, I think, is not really suitable as “leftovers,” but one of the sauces, in particular, seemed like it might work, so my wife put it in a to-go container to take home. We’ll see, today, whether it weathered the trip home.

All in all, I’d say the evening was a delightful way to celebrate my wife’s birthday. We both left full and happy with the meal and the experience.

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Debatable

Posted on June 28, 2019 by John Swinburn

I wonder how quickly the field of Democratic presidential hopefuls will shrink to a manageable number? As in, fewer than five. And, then, just two or three. With one standout among them.

I watched most of the first two Democratic debates. My top picks so far are: Julián Castro, Corey Booker, and Elizabeth Warren from the first night’s debates and Pete Buttigieg and Kamala Harris from the second night. If I had to pick one candidate today from among those I consider the top five, I would pick Pete Buttigieg, though the remainder of my “top five” group all have potential. I’ve grown less and less confident that Elizabeth Warren could garner enough support to beat 45. And what about Biden and Sanders? Both of them came across as relics during debate night number two. As much as I like Bernie, I think he lets ideology rule over practicality. And I think Biden is a nice guy, but he’s just not nice enough to counter his deficits.

Even though Buttigieg is among the lesser-known candidates (though his stock has soared since the beginning of this year), he is the one whose policy positions most appeal to me. His ideas seem based on deep thought and a thorough understanding of the country’s place in history in this dark shadow of the American dream. He’s obviously extremely intelligent and rational. He’s young and energetic and seems to me far less enamored of holding onto ideas simply because they are Democratic than the other candidates.

I hope the field of Democratic candidates thins very, very quickly so that there’s time to build a huge outpouring of support for a set of solid ideological underpinnings that should (will?) turn the mood of the country around. I think the candidates who said we are in a battle for the soul of America are right. If we lose the battle next year, the war is over and the country will be on an irreversible downward spiral.

 

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Indistinguishable Facts and Fictions

Posted on June 26, 2019 by John Swinburn

The horizon, what little I can see of it against the black outline of tree trunks and leaves, is salmon pink. Or coral. Oh, I don’t know; the color is hard to describe and hard to look away from. It’s gorgeous. Above the salmon pink band, the color fades to tan then, as my eyes move higher, to blue. I think the signs point to a clear sky when the sun peaks above the edge of the earth.

It’s too early for me to be thinking about having lunch in Bangkok, but that’s one of the things on my mind at the moment. I read an article on NPR’s website shortly after I woke up, around 4:30, about Raan Jay Fai, a seven-table street food restaurant in Bangkok. The article primed me for lunch; I’ll have to wait until 2 p.m. (local Bangkok time) to eat; even then, I may not get in. The line for available non-reserved seating starts early. Two young women from Austin, Texas stood in line beginning at 7:30 a.m. to get in the day they enjoyed (that is, raved about) the food.

I don’t have any plans to go to Bangkok, but I would love to eat Bangkok street food. I do have plans to go to Croatia, though, so I started checking online for places in Dubrovnik we might want to visit while on our own time. As expected, I found dozens of places that sound intriguing, but several of those are described as “fine dining” establishments, which I do not plan to visit. I found plenty of others, though, that sound appealing. For example, Ala Mizerija sounds like my kind of place. It’s not the sort of place one expects to find a full meal; instead, I think I’d be happy with the anchovies bruschetta, some “small fried fish,” and a glass of house white wine. Or red. Whichever they bring to the table. If I can’t go there, I’ll be happy with Dingdong Korean Restaurant. Or, I suspect, anyplace else.

Speaking of restaurants, I’ve come up with another pop-up restaurant concept. I call my imaginary place Impromptu. Its physical location will be wherever I happen to be when the freshest, highest-quality ingredients and the appropriate cooking tools and equipment are available to me. I’ll send an email alert to people who have signed up to be notified of Impromptu’s availability, notifying them of the general time-frame for the meal and the geographic area they will have to go if they opt to have lunch (or dinner). Once I get commitments in response, I’ll send the address and the specific serving time. The menu will depend on the available ingredients. Guests will not choose from a menu; rather, they will be served the menu I create. Not a great scene for picky eaters. But adventurous eaters will be in for a treat.

The locations for Impromptu are apt to be existing restaurants that close on Sundays and Mondays (like many around here do) or in venues that have large commercial kitchens, like some churches here do. (I’m thinking, specifically, of the Christ of the Hills United Methodist Church; I’ve been in that kitchen and I know it would work.) I suspect other churches have the facilities I’d need. And Coronado Center, too, has a kitchen, but I have not seen it. It seems wasteful to me for venues to go unused so much of the time (churches, especially). I think pop-up restaurants would be a great way to take advantage of their down-time. Not only for food service, either. Live performance space. Musical shows. Pop-up Third Places that provide comfortable, welcoming places to simply sit and enjoy coffee and tea and read the newspaper or work on jigsaw puzzles. I think I’ve gone off on a tangent, haven’t I?

Impromptu is not my first imaginary restaurant. No, I think the first one is The French Kangaroo, which is the name I’ve since given to our kitchen, wherever we happen to live.  And Cobra is what I call my idea for a multi-ethnic restaurant whose menu changes day-to-day, offering spicy dishes from around the world. There may be others. Some of my fictional characters, too, own restaurants, taverns, bars, and what have you. For example, Calypso Kneeblood is the proprietor of Fourth Estate Tavern in Struggles, Arkansas. And another character, Willem Svart, does not necessarily own (but might) yet frequents a place called Scrawl, which serves a mix of Scandinavian and South African cuisine in an environment designed to be a third place. Scrawl is a little like the Beehive gastropub in Hot Springs Village, but Scrawl is far edgier and has a more extensive menu that, if I were to write more about it, would change frequently. Scrawl might meld into Impromptu, if I were writing about it. Which, I guess, I am.

A French woman who now lives in the San Diego area, a woman I know only through the ether (Facebook and her blog, etc.), writes fiction that incorporates fine cuisine. Or, perhaps, it’s that she writes recipes for dishes I consider fine cuisine, then incorporates them into her fiction. No matter. My point is that others indulge their passion for food and fiction in ways that may not mirror my behavior but, at least, demonstrate that I’m not alone. She and I encourage one another and, I think, appreciate one another’s writing. I know I appreciate hers.

My fictional restaurants would not become part of a hyper-successful restaurant empire. They might be, at it were, a “flash in the pan” that flares and then dies out in an instant, only to be reborn in another form in another place. Like Calypso Kneeblood and his brothers or cousins or whatever relations they are to one another. Kneeblood’s brother, James, once opened a bar in old East Dallas. He called it The Third Place, an utterly unoriginal name for an utterly unoriginal place. James is the guy who had five oddly-named daughters by several different wives. His daughters were Phaelaysho, Rumour, Mexican, Inebria, and Lugubria. James disappeared from my fiction some time ago. I suspect one day he will be found in a jail cell in New Orleans, serving a two-year sentence for extensive destruction of private property. When he’s finally released, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he opens a bar and grill in a dying town in west Texas. If the places were bigger, Struggles, Arkansas and this as-yet-unnamed town in west Texas might be called sister cities. But “city” is far too grandiose a term for those places.

***

Returning now to reality, my cough seems to be improving since my doctor prescribed a diuretic and potassium. He thinks the cough could be the result of fluid retention, which might include fluid in and about my lungs. I hope the pills do the trick, though I’m not sure whether they are “fixing” the problem or simply eliminating the symptoms for the short term.

I visited another doctor yesterday (as I wrote about briefly yesterday afternoon). He spent about 45 seconds with me, after spending about 45 seconds reviewing my chart. He didn’t need to spend more time. He sent me on my way, suggesting I do not need to return. That’s good.

I’m tired of doctors, though I’m glad they’re available. Now, if I could just reach the point of not needing them, all would be right with the world.  But perhaps I need a different kind of doctor, like a psychiatrist. That’s a story too long to tell after having written so much fluff for so long.

If the sky cooperates, I may be able to sand a bit on my deck today and, if the stars align, begin painting. Hallelujah! But I’m not going to count my chickens just yet, lest I discover sticky, dried yolks all over the deck.

What do you get when you combine flavor with whimsy? Flimsy. I don’t know, it just came out. I could not help it. It’s as bad as it gets.

 

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Brittle Memories

Posted on June 25, 2019 by John Swinburn

It hasn’t been long since I finished my chemo and radiation treatments, but apparently I’ve tried to erase the experiences from memory. I say that because I returned to my radiologist’s office for a follow-up this afternoon and all the sensations I felt on a daily basis rushed back to fill that empty space from which I tried to eliminate them.

On one hand, I hate this place; it feels clinical and sterile and hopeless. On the other, my time here undergoing treatments may well have extended my life by months or years. So I appreciate this cold, hard place. But I still don’t like it.

My radiologist told me I don’t need to return unless I have specific issues I want to discuss with him…as long as my surgeon and oncologist continue to follow me.

I was surprised by my reaction. It was different from my response while being treated. I guess the whole of the cancer experience was more emotionally onerous than I thought.

 

 

 

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The Child Who Is Not Embraced by the Village…

Posted on June 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

I have seen this proverb before but, for some reason, the depth of its meaning did not reach me until I saw it yesterday. Yesterday, its truth became so obvious to me that I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand and wondered how I could have overlooked the wisdom contained in those words. “The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” We wonder why mistreated and ignored young people engage in self-destructive behavior and perform acts that degrade even further the environments into which they were born and left to make do on their own. We wonder. Well, the Ethiopian proverb gives us the answer.

The words go beyond ignored or mocked or mistreated youth. People in the workplace, in the family, around the neighborhood. Everywhere we have the opportunity to engage and accept people. We also have the opportunity to isolate and ignore or reject them. When we choose the latter, we risk becoming the trigger for unpleasant or even violent responses born of rejection.

As I contemplate this proverb, I think of the migrant children being held along the Mexican border in conditions that resemble concentration camps. U.S. officials responsible for their detention and the conditions under which they are held should consider this Ethiopian adage because, one day, those children may well “burn down the village to feel its warmth.” What village? The village that began life in 1776, of course.

Posted in Compassion | 2 Comments

Jeremiad

Posted on June 23, 2019 by John Swinburn

As I skim materials I’ve written in months and years past, I realize my collected works could well be called Jeremiad. That is,  “a prolonged lamentation or mournful complaint.” Also, “a cautionary or angry harangue.” Those definitions come from Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary. In fact, I’ve been known, right here on this blog, to refer to various of my writings as diatribes, screed, and philippics.

Given that I use this blog as an outlet with which to express my thoughts and opinions, it’s safe to assume that my world-view isn’t particularly effervescent. In some ways, I’d like to change that. But in others, I think changing my world-view would be tantamount to replacing the person who lives in my skin. Both objectives could be persuasively argued, I think. Staying true to oneself is an admirable position to take, on the one hand, but self-improvement has its value, as well. And “staying true to oneself” requires knowing what is true of oneself, a state of being I’ve frequently noted does not apply to me; that is, I don’t who I am, at my core. That’s a topic for another time, though. Or, rather, other times.

It’s relatively rare that I write cheerful, uplifting, or otherwise counter-depressive. I suppose that’s natural, given my innately morose disposition. But am I really innately morose? I think not, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. Try as I sometimes do, I cannot snuff out the eternal optimism that grows like kudzu inside my head. Yet, wrapped around that optimistic kudzu, cynicism in the form of aggressive English ivy fights for control.

I make light of my bleakness but it’s not really suited to facetiousness. Despite the fact that my somber writing may mirror who I am, it shouldn’t. Humans are meant to enjoy the world we inhabit, not to wallow in despondency. But writing that struggles to escape that sense of dispiritedness and desolation is actually, I’d argue, a good sign. It demonstrates that one continues to fight and refuses to give in to the gloom and melancholia that breeds within.

During the entirety of 2014, I wrote my Thoughts for the Day every single day of the year. Many of them were affirmations. A few were especially dull and depressing. But more were positive than negative. And I guess that’s true of my posts, in general. A mixed bag. Yet for some reason I tend to gravitate toward the ones that suggest dejection. Maybe they represent better writing. Or maybe they suggest a need for salve. And that might be the thing that draws me to them. I think I will continue to reflect on all this. I’ve been doing it for years and I see no compelling reason to stop now.

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Compassion for Monsters

Posted on June 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

Feeling compassion for people whose ill will and animosity shine like beacons of hate is not easy. But it may be necessary. If we are to have any hope of healing the divisions that have brought the world to the brink of an explosive rift, the likes of which we have never seen, we have to practice compassion. Even for monsters. Because they, too, are victims. Their attitudes and behaviors may have been shaped by a lack of compassion. Perhaps experiencing it first hand can turn monsters into, if not angels, tolerable beings.

The question for me, of course, is whether I can live this dream. Can I actually adopt this attitude in my interactions with other people? The jury is out, but I think the preponderance of the evidence suggests the likelihood is slim. That’s the problem, isn’t it? We know what we should do, but we fail to do it. We know the answer, but we allow our flaws to refuse to accept it. So, we behave like the beasts we wish to overcome.

We become the monsters who need compassion, all the while wishing we could simply forgive the monsters we’ve identified in others. Catch-22, I think. Or some semblance thereof.

Posted in Philosophy | 4 Comments

Time is Money

Posted on June 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Time is money. That apothegm means, to most of us, that time is a valuable resource and, as such, it is better to do things as quickly as possible. But I also see it from another perspective. That is, one sometimes can invest either one’s own time or one’s own money to accomplish a desired outcome and certain situations suggest the former is the best investment.

A video I watched this morning, showing a guy repairing a rusted-through spot on a car, brought the maxim to mind. The video demonstrated that, for a few hours (or less) of one’s time and energy and about $20, the car could be repaired. Though the video did not mention how much a professional body shop would charge, I think (based on a few estimates I’ve gotten over the years) the cost for a professional job would exceed $800. The finished products would not necessarily be of the same quality, but the outcome in both cases would be acceptable to most of us.

The question the video raised in my mind was this: how is it that we (modern-day Americans) have forgotten that we once did a lot for ourselves that we now pay others to do for us? We fixed our own cars. We sharpened our own knives. We patched our own clothes. We maintained workshops that served as our general do-it-yourself headquarters. Today, though, we tend to find other people to solve our everyday problems. We have grown either too busy or too lazy (or both) to do for ourselves those things that, once, would not have been done had we not done them. Instead, we pay others to do them for us. In so doing, we are in essence saying our time is more valuable than the time of the people who are doing the work for us. Put another way, we apparently believe the money we save by doing it ourselves is insufficient to warrant expenditure of our own time; our time is worth more than the monetary cost of “farming it out.”

Ultimately, I think it often boils down to individual choices in which we say to ourselves, “I don’t want to do that. I’d rather pay someone else to do it than do it myself.” Some would call that sloth. Because I engage in that kind of behavior, I would choose another word: lethargy. It’s a choice we can make because we have ready access to money.

Paradoxically, it’s a choice we make because we assign greater value to the time spent by someone else accomplishing the work to be done than to our own time doing something else. We’re willing to pay someone else more than we would “pay” ourselves in discretionary time.

I base all this theoretical stuff on my real-world experience. I pay other people to do things that I am (or once was) perfectly capable of doing myself. I could, in a pinch, take an inch off the length of a pair of jeans and hem them. Instead, I use gas, time, and money to take my jeans to a place down the street, where they will do it for me. I pay someone to do yard work, house work, paint, install toilets, etc., etc. etc. I’ve grown fat and lazy. And, apparently, old.

That last one, the age thing, accentuates the value of time. Not monetary value, necessarily, but quality-of-life value. Do I want to spend a day blowing leaves while choking on pollen or would I rather take a leisurely drive in the country?

Yet I still find myself spending time doing things I’d rather not do because paying someone else would simply be too costly (in monetary terms) for me to feel good about it. For example, a year or two ago, I replaced the headlights in the old 2002 Camry. My cost for the two headlights was about $150. I spent a good two or three hours doing the work. And I did not enjoy it. But I felt better about the work when I considered that I would have had to pay close to $800 to have an auto service center do the work.

Time is money, indeed.  Benjamin Franklin did not coin the phrase, by the way. Franklin used the phrase in 1748 in an essay titled Advice to a Young Tradesman. Quote Investigator found an earlier use, in a 1719 periodical called The Free Thinker. Well before that, variations in wording were used to express the same proverb. Two of them are: “The most costly outlay is time” (attributed to Antiphon) and a 1572 Discourse upon Usury, which noted that “They saye tyme is precious.”

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The Appeal of Doubt and Uncertainty

Posted on June 17, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday morning, after the regular church service, I watched and listened to a TED Talk entitled “The Gospel of Doubt,” delivered by Casey Gerald. Hearing Gerald’s words was like listening in on my own thoughts. But I have nothing in common with him. I am not a gay Black man nor did I grow up in a broken home, emerging from extreme poverty to attend Yale and Harvard, nor did I work on Wall Street, nor did I form MBAs Across America. Despite having almost nothing in common with him, his message resonated with me. His admonition to embrace uncertainty could well be the philosophical theme of my life. He is far better at articulating the philosophy.

I almost never speak up during our post-service conversations and yesterday was no exception. I listen intently, though, and I try to understand the perspectives of others who choose to share their thoughts. As I listened to the comments yesterday, it seemed to me that Gerald’s message did not break through to many people around the room. Though in some cases they spoke passionately about the “take-aways” they got from his TED Talk, I sensed that many in the room heard the man’s words as if he were in support of their certainties. I heard a different message, a message that suggests we question everything.

Certainty is lethal. Only by allowing ourselves to be open to new ideas, new philosophies, and new realities are we able to grow intellectually. But we have been so well trained in staking positions that often we don’t realize that we’ve taken them. Yesterday, as I listened to the comments from the audience, it occurred to me that rampant assumptions about the “right” beliefs guided much of the conversation. For example, unquestioned support for capitalism as the “right” economic framework formed an underlying assumption of several statements. Rather than allow themselves to explore possibilities outside our experience, I got the sense that some of us inadvertently staked a position that said, in effect, “I know what I believe is right.”

I understand the mechanisms involved in the process. We don’t know what we don’t know, so we don’t know what to question and what to accept. It’s easier to articulate the problem than to solve it, though. The audience for yesterday’s TED Talk was among the most open-minded I’m likely to encounter outside academia. (Even in academia, where “question everything” is a mantra, academics tend to stake positions and fiercely protect them.)

I don’t know how to enable and encourage people to let go of their certainty in favor of embracing doubt. I wish I did. The world, I think, would be a better place if all of us allowed for cracks in our beliefs. I don’t advocate that we abandon our beliefs or our principles or our fierce sense of right and wrong, only that we give serious consideration to the possibility that our certainties rest on foundations built of eggshells and snow.

We tend to defend that which we know. Politically and socially, we tend to think our ways are the best ways. Even when confronted with evidence that other forms of government or social investments may work exceedingly well in other places, we are rabid in our attempts to find evidence why “it won’t work here” or to seek out flaws to support our certainties. Maybe capitalism isn’t the “best” economic system. Maybe republican democracy isn’t the “best” political system. Maybe there’s room for socialism or communism or social democracy. Or maybe, if we believe capitalism feeds the systemic amorality of American life, we’re wrong. My point is that we ought to be open to new ideas, new beliefs, new perspectives. We ought to admit that we may be wrong about literally everything. That is not to say that we assume we are wrong, only that we could be. And if we are, we ought not fight tooth and nail to defend an indefensible position.

Back to my experience yesterday. I didn’t disagree with many of the comments I heard. But I heard opinions, passionately held, that suggested to me that the holder overlooked the admonition to embrace doubt. The people who expressed the opinions are intelligent and open-minded. Yet they did not recognize (it seemed to me) that many of their statements were made on the basis of what they fervently believed to be truth. Doubt wasn’t in the room. And, though I recognize it at a distance, I do the same thing with some frequency. I embrace doubt, but I exhibit certainty. How can we expect doubt to lead us where we need to go if we insist on being certain about where we want to be?

I have no satisfactory answers. Only questions. Thousands and thousands and thousands of questions.

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Someone Else

Posted on June 16, 2019 by John Swinburn

Can you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?

I came upon this pithy aphorism-in-the-form-of-a-question while I was searching for the words of a common platitude that admonishes us to refrain from comparing ourselves to others. Naturally, encountering the question with which I began this post derailed my search for the platitude; at least temporarily. As I considered the interrupting question, about a subject with which I’ve wrestled my entire life, I wondered why we tend to attribute such profundity and meaning to these witty little maxims. It’s as if the wisdom of all human experience is encapsulated in them. If only we could unlock the limitless sagacity contained in a short string of syllables, we would achieve true Understanding. Of course that’s not true. These adages can, at best, trigger intellectual and emotional considerations that may, if we’re lucky, lead to slightly more knowledge of ourselves and the world around us. But they won’t unleash wave upon wave upon wave of wisdom, drowning our ignorance in a sea of enlightenment.

The platitude for which I originally searched suggests we avoid comparing ourselves to others because doing so either crushes our self-confidence or builds it to unsustainable levels. The wording of the precept varies, but the concept varies only a little from phrase to phrase. But, regardless of the structure of the advice, the message is clear and consistent. With so much agreement between various forms of the axiom, it must be true; right? Perhaps, in many cases, it is. But I would argue that comparing oneself and one’s circumstances to others can bring reality into sharper focus. For example, when I was undergoing treatments for lung cancer, I was unhappy about what I was going through. But, during the processes, I realized that my pain and discomfort and inconvenience paled in comparison to what many others were going through. That realization did not “cure” me of my unhappiness, but it caused me to feel greater empathy for those unfortunates around me and to feel less self-pity for myself. The following quote, attributed to the Buddha, puts comparisons in a different light:

Let us rise up and be thankful,  for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.

“There’s always reason to appreciate what we have, who we have close, the good fortune that befalls us, and the misfortune that doesn’t.” I wrote that sentence in a Thoughts for the Day post I wrote in November 2014. The Buddha quote expresses that reason for appreciation.

Though I said in  a paragraph I wrote just moments ago that such adages “won’t unleash wave upon wave upon wave of wisdom,” maybe that’s not entirely true. They cause us to think and to explore why we think the way we do. And that exploration leads to greater wisdom; at least we become wiser about ourselves.

The two concepts I’ve been exploring this morning, self-knowledge and comparing oneself to others, fit together quite well. Mentally, I am creating a pair of lists. The first is a list of who/how I want to be. The second is a list of who/how I am now. I compare the two to identify what changes I must make to enable me to transform the person in the second list into the person in the first. But there’s a piece missing. That second list is who I am now, after the world told me who I should be. Well, the world didn’t tell me. But it shaped me. It replaced the natural me with the person who responded to others’ expectations. That will be the perpetual struggle, I think. Trying to peel away the layers of “stimulus-response” identity to uncover the identity unique to this mass of cells that form my mind and body.

When I think of such things (the entire string of thoughts comprising this post), I feel rather sad. I feel I’ll never be able to find that original me, so I’ll never know who I was before I allowed the world to transform me into who I am. I’m pretty sure I’d like that original me much more than the current version. But then I think, again, of the Buddha’s suggestion of thankfulness and I realize I may not be happy with who I am, but at least I’m not the monster I could be. I have so much for which to be thankful, and I am, indeed, thankful for all of it. But sometimes, it’s not easy being me. Yet it could be far harder being another person, so I’ll make it my mission to avoid being that someone else.

 

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Afflictions

Posted on June 15, 2019 by John Swinburn

Just over nine months ago, I went to my primary care physician to see about a persistent cough. Thus began my experience with lung cancer. At least that’s where my experience with the medical establishment’s engagement with my lung cancer began. Who knows how long the tumor had been growing inside my right lung? I don’t. My oncologist said she didn’t. She guessed it was quite some time, based on the final determination of the tumor’s size.

That first cancer-related visit with my doctor, on the heels of the final legs of my brother’s lengthy hospitalization, seems like a lifetime ago. Since then, I’ve undergone countless x-rays, PET scans, blood draws, CT scans, an infuse-a-port installation, a lobectomy of my right lung, four chemo treatments, a pulmonary capacity test, thirty radiation therapy treatments, and god knows what other tests, probes, and procedures. I don’t think my body has ever fully recovered from all those invasive and intrusive experiences. My weakness remains. Shooting pains continue, though not nearly as severe as they once were.

I’ve tried to “buck up” and get along with my life as if nothing has happened. And, really, I thought I could do that. I thought my body would heal, quickly and completely. But it hasn’t healed as quickly as it once did after such traumas. My age, I guess, is asserting itself. My body is saying, emphatically, “you’re not as young as you once were.” No, that’s not it. It’s saying, “You’re getting old, you’re wearing out, your tissues are decaying faster than they can replenish themselves.”

My physical decline today is emphasized in how I feel this morning. I ache. I hurt. I feel sore and slow and uncomfortably infirm. Yesterday’s hours of sanding and scraping and sawing and otherwise engaging in an almost endless battle with elderly deck boards and youthful young timbers brought me to today’s realization. My body informs me this morning that my efforts yesterday were the province of young men; and my body is paying the price of bravado and pride. Maybe if I would just wait until I fully heal, such work would not take such an enormous toll on me. But I’m afraid that’s probably not the case. Once the assaults on one’s body outnumber the body’s healing responses, the body begins to get tense and attempt to shield itself from the onslaught. Full recovery seems impossible when the body is shrinking away from its environment.

I shall do no more on the deck today. In fact, I’ll wait to work on it until the predicted period of rain, which is expected to begin tomorrow and last at least a couple of weeks, is behind us. Perhaps by then, I’ll have sufficiently healed to enable me to do the work that needs to be done. Or, perhaps, I’ll relent and let the most recent contractor come back. Or hire someone else. I’m still waiting for the most recent contractor to provide a replacement 2x6x16 and a receipt for $170 in lumber purchases. Even without those things, though, I will push forward. I want the deck complete and usable before mid-summer is upon us.

I want. Yeah. I want. But will I get? We shall see.

***

How does one know when one is supplying enough comfort and support to someone going through tough times, but not too much? When does being available begin to seem like “hovering?” But when does one’s efforts to avoid cloying concern, instead, make one seem distant and uncaring? I suppose it’s just a matter of making one’s intent clear and asking for honest reactions and direction.

Those questions were on my mind when I was in the midst of my cancer treatments; not so much for me, but for people who wanted to be available to me if I needed them. I could tell that some people were uncomfortable, not knowing quite what to do or say to me. They didn’t want me to feel like I was being smothered, but by the same token they didn’t want me to feel like I couldn’t rely on them if I needed them. I’m not sure I was as helpful as I might have been. I could have just told people I appreciated their concerns, but I needed my space. Or that I could use an ear and a shoulder. But too often, I think, I just remained silent, hoping people would just “get it.” Too often, I think, I assume other people can sense my emotions. I don’t know why I make that assumption, because I know I can’t sense theirs. Another lesson for another time of deep reflection. This isn’t that time.

***

Humans are symptoms of the diseases that have befallen our planet.

Humankind is a disease whose wide-ranging symptoms afflict our planet.

Is it one or the other? Or both?

Posted in Cancer, Health | Leave a comment

Drenched in Thought

Posted on June 12, 2019 by John Swinburn

In mid-November 2012 (and many other times, before and after) I wrote a little about why I find Buddhism refreshing. Among my thoughts seven years ago was this one:

It (Buddhism) is a refreshing perspective,  far more appealing to me than any “religion” that requires me to suspend my disbelief and far more appealing than what I consider “militant atheism” that expends its efforts to condemn religious beliefs instead of supporting freedom of belief (or lack thereof).

Today, I feel the same, but at a higher pitch or greater volume. As I consider Buddhism’s Four Noble Truths, the intricate complexities of life seem simple, although presented in an unpleasantly mystical way:

1. Suffering: Life always involves suffering, in obvious and subtle forms. We always feel an undercurrent of anxiety and uncertainty.

2. The Cause of Suffering: Craving and fundamental ignorance cause suffering. We suffer because we mistakenly believe that we are a separate, independent, being. Alan Watts captured our misconception when he said:

We do not “come into” this world; we come out of it, as leaves from a tree. As the ocean “waves,” the universe “peoples.” Every individual is an expression of the whole realm of nature, a unique action of the total universe. This fact is rarely, if ever, experienced by most individuals. Even those who know it to be true in theory do not sense or feel it, but continue to be aware of themselves as isolated “egos” inside bags of skin.

I learned once, and did again, that the painful and futile struggle to maintain this delusion of ego is known as samsara, or cyclic existence.

3. The End of Suffering: Our obscurations, those efforts we make to hide our connections to the universe, are temporary. Someone once said they are “like passing clouds that obscure the sun of our enlightened nature.” Thus suffering can end because our obscurations can be purified and an awakened mind is always available to us.

4. The Path: According to Buddhism, by living ethically, practicing meditation, and developing wisdom, we can take the same journey to enlightenment and freedom from suffering that the Buddha took. We, too, can wake up.

The problem I have with this, as well as every non-religious “path” toward happiness or awakening or clarity or whatever you might want to call it is this: I don’t know whether I really believe it or I simply want to believe it. So either I don’t trust the philosophy, no matter how appealing I find it, or I don’t trust myself to be able to distinguish knowledge from desire.

Unitarian Universalism holds some of the same appeal but, at the same time, I am equally skeptical of it. Yet its seven principles are rooted in morality and decency as defined in Western culture; and I can buy into them.

Ultimately, I suppose, my internal struggles with philosophies of existence come down to my struggle with knowing who I am, at my core. I’ve written about that so many times. I would think the sheer volume of writing about exploring myself would have led me somewhere that offers answers. But that is not the case. I’m still just as lost as I ever was. As I’ve said probably dozens of times before, Paul Simon put the words in my mouth: I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.

Religion, in and of itself, is not the opiate of the masses. Religion is just a thin shred of the broader opiate, philosophy. Philosophy is what guides us. It permits us to determine morality which, in turn, seems to need religion to serve as its anchor. I see Universal Unitarianism more as a philosophy than a religion. But most UUs tend not to see it that way. And I see Buddhism as a philosophy, too. Philosophy and religion intersect in a complex web, but they are not the same thing. Religion needs philosophy for sustenance. Philosophy stands on its own; it does not need religion for support. “Opiate” is not the right term, anyway. Philosophy does not dull one’s senses and weaken one’s control over one’s mind; it does just the opposite. Religion, on the other hand, does both. So maybe Marx was right, after all. Maybe religion is the opiate of the masses and philosophy is the potential antidote. Obviously, my mind is shifting with every stroke of my fingers on the keyboard.

I think all of this can be distilled, for me, into a few questions. Why am I the way I am? Who am I? What do I believe about life and the human condition? Why do I hold those beliefs? Simple, right? It’s taken me sixty-five years to begin forming the questions. It will probably take another sixty-five years to frame them properly. And another few lifetimes to draft and polish and embrace the answers.

On an entirely different subject, today is a brother’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Brother!

Posted in Philosophy, Religion | Leave a comment

Authenticity in Appetite

Posted on June 11, 2019 by John Swinburn

I find it interesting that definitions of passion conflict with one another. For instance, on one hand passion can mean ardent affection or strong sexual desire but, on the other, it can mean an outbreak of anger, as in a crime of passion. Yet one’s passion for grapefruit never, to my knowledge, equates with citric anger (nor is it synonymous with a sexual attraction to its fleshy segments). In the right mood, I can enjoy the inconsistencies of language to the point that I get a sense that language was invented as a means of expressing whimsy. But, of course, whimsy is a concept that requires language for its expression, so language could not have been created to conceive of a concept not yet conceive. I suppose, though, whimsy can be expressed in art or even in facial expressions, so language isn’t necessarily a precursor to whimsy. According to Merriam-Webster, the first known use of the word whimsy, defined as whim or caprice, was in 1605. But the online version of the definition goes no deeper; I’d like to know precisely how, in 1605, the word whimsy was used. Context, please! But, no, M-W chooses to be mysterious and seductive. If I let myself yield to my curiosity, I will find myself immersed in a pool of etymology, drowning in obscure words whose histories will pull me deeper and deeper into a never-ending search for meanings. “The autopsy revealed both lungs were filled with scraps of dead language, many syllables of which had Grecian origins, leading us to the conclusion that his death was a Greek tragedy.” Passion and whimsy seem an unlikely pair of words, don’t they? Whimsy is an annoying word that I associate with bored, intellectually deficient, stay-at-home-concubines or sculpted male paramours who paint wall-hangings that read “Home is Wear the ♡ Is.” I know. I intended to write “wear.” I ran from the room, screaming, as they called after me with witless aphorisms.

***

Usually, after I read articles on BBC.com, I feel at least moderately enlightened, as if I have been infused with new information that improves my knowledge of the world. Yesterday, though, I read an article that concerned me a bit. The article suggested, in an oblique sort of way, that the Indian food recognized the world over as Indian food is not truly “authentic.” That is because many of the ingredients Indian food aficionados expect in their Indian food dishes are not indigenous to the subcontinent. Potatoes, tomatoes, hot chiles, cabbages, cauliflower, peas, and carrots are not native to the region, yet they are essentially required in many Indian dishes today.

The article suggests/implies/hints that the only truly native Indian cuisine is that prepared for meals once each year by the family’s eldest male on each of the death anniversaries of immediate family members for the religious shraadha rite. Ingredients used in those meals have been native to the subcontinent for at least a millenium.  The author says, “the food eaten after the religious shraadha rite showcases the indigenous biodiversity of the Indian subcontinent. It’s a rich medley of unripe mangoes, raw bananas, cluster and broad beans, sweet potatoes, banana stems, taro roots and a succulent called pirandai (veld grape). These ingredients are flavoured with pepper, cumin and salt, while soft yellow mung dal provides much of the protein.”

To be fair, the author never says, specifically, that today’s Indian cuisine is not “authentic.” But I think that perspective is implied. And, to that, I say “nonsense.” Cuisines everywhere evolve over time and as new ingredients become available and as sources of traditional ingredients disappear. I think it is impossible to point to any “ethnic” cuisine and say it is “authentic.” At least not when that word suggests the cuisine has not changed since its creation. I think we ought to think of cuisines in temporal terms. “Contemporary Mexican food.” “Late eighteenth century Afghan cuisine.” That sort of thing.  The food of India changed with the advent of trade with Europe and South America and so forth. I vaguely recall reading that the availability of ethnic foods in the U.S. increased dramatically beginning in the late 1960s, when significant changes in both trade and immigration policies took place. I wish I remembered where I read it; I’d like to explore that more. It would be interesting, I think, to compare the number of ethnic restaurants in the U.S., by ethnicity, year-by-year, to the changes in trade and immigration policy. I suspect someone has already done it, though I’d love to replicate the work just to see if the concept holds.

The more I think about “authentic” ethnic foods, the more certain I am that there is no such thing. The foods of all cultures are always in the midst of radical transitions, a result of enormous changes in agriculture, transportation, immigration, trade policy, deforestation…the list could go on forever. My interest in “fusion” foods is nothing new (except to me, and even for me it’s actually an old interest); fusion foods are the cuisine of planet Earth, thanks to human adaptation.

Speaking of passion, and I was, I have a passion for food and a thirst for information about it. I find food intriguing to the point of lusting after knowledge about it. Thirst. Passion. Lust. There you have it. Language doing its thing, creating intellectual passageways in the brain that connect unrelated concepts. Another light bulb just went off in my head. How is it that the term “sexual appetite” came into being? I equate appetite with food. So, a passion for food must be the result of a sexual appetite, right? I’ve leave it there.

Posted in Food, Language | Leave a comment

In the Absence of Proof

Posted on June 10, 2019 by John Swinburn

In the absence of proof there is no truth. Lacking incontrovertible evidence, every experience is a lie, every memory is created in a cracked vacuum suddenly filled with biased fiction. Evidence cannot prove an event never occurred, so whether it did nor not is immaterial. Without evidence to the contrary, it must have taken place. And vice versa. If an event is said to have occurred, absent evidence, it most certainly did not.

Historical records are suspect. Even contemporaneous records are created after the fact, so they cannot be trusted. The subject of their documentation is colored by the lens through which the contemporary historian interprets “facts.”

The colors of facts are not black and white but, instead, a million shades of grey and green and fuschia and every tone along the spectrum. Facts look different from every angle of observation. An irrational tangle of metal, from one angle, looks like an irrational tangle of metal. From another angle, the one from which the artist see it, it casts a crisp shadow of a dead President. The visions are not really facts. They are interpretations of perception.

Scientists will tell you…at least the honest ones will…that proof is impossible. Proof is an illusive objective that can never be determined because all the facts can never be known. But scientists rely on evidence that support theories to which other scientists readily subscribe. If evidence refutes a theory, the theory changes to reflect the evidence.

Especially now, when facts are treated as utterly subjective and personal, we can be sure only that the more information we get, the less we know. We cannot rely on the preponderance of evidence because evidence is like truth; without proof, it is meaningless.

“We hold these truths to be self evident…” We did, once. We valued rational thought and accepted the conclusions to which it led. We disagreed, even with rational arguments, but we based our disagreements on mutually accepted facts. Beliefs colored our world, but facts tended to support our beliefs. And even if our beliefs had no factual basis, we accepted and acknowledged that reality.

There will come a time when we return to the rationality of the early twenty-first century. Until then, we must muddle through as we try to drown out a voice belonging to someone we hope will become the subject of an artist’s irrational tangle of metal.

Posted in Philosophy | Leave a comment

Phrases

Posted on June 9, 2019 by John Swinburn

Not long ago, I wrote a somewhat depressing philosophical screed that included concepts and phrases I’ve never used before. Phrases like “tetanus fog” and “smothering with a cellophane pillow.” I didn’t post the discourse on my blog, but I kept it for personal reference. I do that quite a lot. I write what’s on my mind, intending not to share it but to record my frame of mind for my own purposes. I want to try to remember what was on my mind that caused me to write such foul, ugly stuff. The only way to try to remember is to record that foul, ugly stuff.

I remember, but didn’t write it at the time, that I seesawed between “cellophane” and “diaphanous,” opting for cellophane because I think of something that’s diaphanous as being permeable to air. I wanted a word that would conjure an image of a pillow that cut off the flow of air, even though I used it as a metaphor, not as a description of an actual experience.

The same is true of “tetanus fog.” It was intended as a metaphor that would evoke an image of an imaginary mist that seizes the muscles, making speech impossible. I don’t know where that term came from. I searched Google for it this morning and came up with a handful of “hits,” but none of them were even close in meaning to what I intended. So perhaps I finally came up with something original.

I’m not sure why I am writing about what I wrote but have not shared. I don’t plan to share it for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I think it is the product of a foul mood translated into poor writing. And it reveals more of me than I choose to reveal; a depressed core that I should excise somehow. But I was, and remain, fascinated with the terms I latched onto while writing it. Smothering with a cellophane pillow. Tetanus fog. Maybe I’m writing this so that I will one day stumble upon this post, see the phrases, and say to myself, “Eureka! Those are the words I’ve been looking for!

 

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Freedom to Interpret

Posted on May 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

Those words from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, in the context of the rest of the lyrics, are subject to a thousand interpretations. In my view, the tune is a poem set to music. Taken alone and absent context, they summon an equal number of explanations. Everyone reads those words through a prism or hears them against background noise, the sounds of experience.

While the authors of poetry and musical lyrics (one and the same, in my view, so from here on I’ll just call them poetry) might have had a specific meaning for the words in mind, the consumer of those words is free to assign different meanings to those words. In my opinion, that’s one of the attractions of poetry, the freedom it gives both the writer and the consumer. I remember times in high school, especially, when my teacher would insist on looking at every word, every line, to get at what the poet meant. Those times frustrated me to no end because I knew, even then, that we could never get a what the poet “meant” unless the poet conducted the line-by-line discussion. And I knew, even then, that part of the allure of poetry is both the mystery of its meanings and its ability to get the reader to think about the words and give them meaning that makes sense to the reader.

Sometimes, the meaning contained in well-written poetry can be transparent; the poet’s intent can be obvious. I said “well-written.” Maybe. In my view, the only well-written poetry with meanings that are obvious are poems that call the reader or listener to action. For most poems, though, the call to action is the call to read and reflect and assign meaning that matters to the reader or consumer.

I wrote a poem a few years ago that had very specific, highly personal meaning to me but, to most others, probably means something entirely different if, indeed, it means anything at all:

Into Salt

The water was gentle that February day, the waves
subdued as if they knew we were coming and why.

Salt in the air and in our eyes. Water splashing
against the beach and running down the rivers on our faces.

Wading, slowly, into the warm water,
hating every step and cursing every breath untaken.

Holding onto one another the way we
no longer could hold onto her.

Releasing the contents of a temporary plastic
urn into the permanence of a sea of infinity.

Impossibly hard, brutally final, an ending come too early
in a world in which endings are so often too late.

The gentleness of the water was unwelcome,
waves should have pounded the sand,
wind should have shrieked in rebellion.

She had been someone who loved and
was loved, someone who cared and was cared for.

The final soul-crushing goodbye, breaking life into a million
shards like brittle glass that cannot be made whole again.

You just go on, remembering what melted into salt.

I wrote the poem as a remembrance of the day that my family, a year after her death, scattered my sister’s ashes in the Gulf of Mexico. That was a very hard day.

Poetry provides an outlet when nothing else will do. Its meaning, to both writer and reader/consumer, is defined both by words included in the poem or lyrics and those left out. In artists’ language, the latter would be called negative space.  In the poem above, there’s no mention of my sister nor my family. The only clue that it is about ashes released into the water is the mention of a plastic urn. Lots of “negative space” in the poem.

Here’s another poem, inspired by the same sister. I’ll comment about the poem below.

Heathen Saint

What of a heathen saint,
a woman whose actions lack
covert motives, a guardian of
goodness, a paladin of such purity
even snow cringes at the comparison?

She was neither nun nor pastor nor
preacher, did not even believe in God,
so spent her Sunday mornings away from
hymnals and flowers and the sound of
uplifting worshipful organ music.

But she believed fervently in people,
so she toiled on Sundays, like every day,
to repair the detritus of the night before,
the shrapnel of broken dreams and abandoned
hopes and children left to fend for themselves
while parents offered delirious sacraments
to suicidal addictions and personal demons.

Some think Sunday mornings unsuited
to the stench of cigarettes, stale beer, and
cheap whiskey, that odors of night sweats,
urine, and fear have no place on Sunday,
a day some set aside for reflection.

But she believed in people and that
she could make a difference every day.
She fought dogma that traded the
fragrance of drunks in church
pews on off-days for a meal
and a soft place for their heads;
she asked for no quid pro quo.

She traded safety for relevance and
comfort for concern, leaving herself
open to the consequences of compassion.
The world was a better place with her,
and remains so now, because of her.

Again, the poem was inspired by my sister. It was not, strictly speaking, about her. The words meld my recollections of her with my idealization of a modern-day “saint.” This poem, like the first, relies on “negative space” for its meaning and impact…at least to the writer. Without saying it outright, the poem derides those who cling to religion for salvation but whose behavior is at odds with their “beliefs.” It intended to do that by suggestion  Absent my explanation, I don’t know what readers/consumers of the poem might think it is about. I don’t know whether they like it or hate it or find it easy to dismiss with no strong feelings either way. A poem’s imagery often resides in the head of the writer and the reader, not in written words. For that reason, among others, a poem can (and usually does) mean different things to different people.

The first two stanzas of another poem I wrote a few years ago also rely in part on “negative space” for their meaning:

Penury

Poverty slams doors
and binds them shut
with shackles purchased
with the fruits of avarice,
thick ribbons of greed
sewn from raw hubris and cold
conceit.

Devoid of the fibers of
kindness, these braids
weave a crusted cloth, spun into
clothing worn in unearned
shame by victims of circumstance
thrust upon them by someone else’s
excess.

These two stanzas are screaming metaphors. The rest of the poem, too, relies entirely on metaphors to express rage at the existence of poverty. The metaphors in the first two stanzas and the remainder of the poem cast blame for poverty on greed and excess and hubris. I think (but I’m not certain) the writer’s intent is clear throughout the poem. I think, but I’m not sure, the reader’s or consumer’s understanding of the poem will coincide with my intent in writing it. But if the reader doesn’t interpret it in the way I intended it to be interpreted, that’s all right. Because it’s poetry. If I wanted to be sure the reader would clearly understand my meaning for the words I used, I wouldn’t have written a poem. Instead, I would have written an essay and I would have explained in great detail and in multiple ways what I intended. I would have tried to ensure that no one could possibly read my words and “misinterpret” them to mean something I did not intend. But I didn’t write an essay. I wrote a poem. Poems are open to interpretation. Whether that interpretation corresponds to the poet’s intent is immaterial.

As I finish writing this post, I’m asking myself why I wrote it? I think, perhaps, I wrote it to emphasize to myself that I believe the value of poetry to both writer and reader resides in the meaning each assigns to it. And that the meanings assigned by writer and reader need not coincide, because poetry is extremely personal. And poems need not matter to everyone who reads them. It’s okay to dismiss an individual poem as irrelevant to oneself…if, indeed, it truly is irrelevant.

Posted in Lyrics, Music, Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

Con-Fusion Foods and Cultures

Posted on May 21, 2019 by John Swinburn

I can’t stop myself. My mind keeps returning to an idea I expressed on this blog on Christmas day almost six years ago. It was December 25, 2013 that I proposed creating fusion dishes that would marry the flavors and textures of Mexican and Indian/Pakastani foods. Yes, I realize the idea might be considered by some as gastronomic or culinary appropriation. But as I’ve argued before, it is not appropriation; it is cultural celebration, giving recognition to and appreciation for the foodstuffs of other cultures.

By now, my idea (which I had not heard from others at the time) is not new. Just yesterday, I read an article in the Dallas Observer about a new (started in 2018) food truck, Halal Mother Truckers, that serves “Pakistani Tex-Mex.” Regardless that my idea has been appropriated and adapted elsewhere (yes, I know, I probably wasn’t the source of the idea), I intend to pursue it in my own kitchen that I call The French Kangaroo. The dishes I plan to prepare (over time) include:

  • lamb vindaloo tamales;
  • chicken vindaloo tacos;
  • tandoori carnitas;
  • lamb fajitas;
  • bhindi masala burritos;
  • gobhi Manchurian empenadas (to really mix it up);
  • baigan guisada enchiladas;
  • shrimp biryani con frijoles refritos.

I’ve been talking about doing this for, literally, years! It’s time I stop dreaming and start executing. When I do these things, I will write about the experiences and post photos, both here and at The French Kanagaroo. Speaking of TFK, it’s embarrassing how little I’ve written/posted to the page in recent months…and months…and months.

As I think about some of these prospective dishes, I envision additional cuisines slipping into the mix. Caribbean jerk chicken tacos, perhaps. Or German sausage biryani. Or, perhaps, chiles rellenos filled with doro wat alongside raita and basmati rice. The combinations could be endless. I can imagine a bowl of linguini flavored with leftover sauce from lamb vindaloo (if there is such a thing) and slices of nopalitos.

***

Schools should, from an early age, teach children about different cultures. Cultural differences should be celebrated. Not just foods, but ideas. Customs. The objective of preserving cultural identity, while ensuring cultural acceptance and assimilation, is a tough one. But it merits serious consideration. If we survive the asshole in the White House, we ought to try to restructure our own society so that we collectively appreciate and understand other cultures. Food gives us the opportunity to introduce other cultures to us and to introduce ourselves to other cultures. But it’s not the only way. Understanding the cuisines of a culture cannot replace understanding the beliefs and norms of a culture. I suppose I’m writing these words to emphasize that I recognize that we won’t accomplish world peace through food alone. But it’s a start.

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Worry Does No Good

Posted on May 15, 2019 by John Swinburn

Most of the time, I succeed at keeping my health off my mind. But sometimes the topic surfaces and swings a machete, as if it has been waiting just beneath the surface of my consciousness for the the ideal time to slash at me with a hatred unequaled in the universe.  In those moments, waves of hopelessness wash over me. I feel like I have no control over whether my body will give me another twenty years or another twenty seconds.

But I do have control and I know it. Not absolute control, but enough to dramatically increase my chances for longevity if I would only exercise that control. Exercise. The use of that word is coincidental, isn’t it? I should get regular exercise. Eat better. Reduce my intake of alcohol. Buy and try horse liniment on my awfully arthritic joints, the stuff a woman recommended to our minister.

Regardless of knowing I have a degree of control, and knowing what I should do, I have assiduously avoided those reasonable courses of action.  And I see no especially meaningful indication I will embark on that life-affirming change of habit and behavior. Instead, the evidence suggests I will continue just wishing. Just hoping. Not praying. But that might come next. Anything, it seems, other than the self-discipline and self-love, if that’s what it would be, to move me toward salvation. No, not that kind. Personal salvation. That kind.

I think part of the issue is this: it seems I keep getting hints from my body that lung cancer was just one of my problems. More recently, thanks to the x-ray my oncologist ordered but never bothered to tell me about, I am concerned about gall-stones. Or other maladies that could befall me. Thanks, in large part, to those damn bad habits over which I seem unable to exercise any self-control. Eating. Drinking. Vegetating. Avoiding exercise and motion and other such activities that might debate my mind about my body’s slothfulness. The exercise avoidance is actually a matter of getting incredibly winded after only mild exertion. For example, I just can’t seem to catch my breath for several minutes after I walk up the driveway to take the trash to the street for pickup.

Back to my health. I shouldn’t be worried, based on what the doctors tell me, but sometimes I do, anyway. Even though it’s been only two months since I completed my cancer treatments (I finished radiation first, then chemo shortly thereafter), I find myself wondering whether “they might have missed something.” And even if not, I learned shortly after my diagnosis that lung cancer tends to recur, either locally or at distant sites in the body. I read an article online this morning that includes these statements: “In fact, many patients with NSCLC have been cured by surgery. However, there are also many cases that fail to achieve a cure following surgery. In fact, 30% to 55% of patients with NSCLC develop recurrence and die of their disease despite curative resection.” Those significant percentages, I guess, contribute to my ongoing sense of…what is it…not really fear, but worry…or something. Not panic…I don’t know. Something. I know I should just get over it. There’s nothing I can do to stop cancer if it’s in my body. But, then, I keep going back to what little I’m doing about my overall health.

I hope these moods, whatever they are, don’t last forever. I hope I can get over the periodic feelings of hopelessness. Fortunately, those feelings don’t last long. But they seem to be more frequent and longer-lasting now than they were a month or two ago. I may be overstating what I’m feeling, too. I don’t think hopelessness is quite the right word. Maybe melancholy or despondency fit better. Or simply sorrow. Whatever the word, I need to find a way to put an end to those sensations. They haven’t interfered with anything but my mood so far, but I worry that they might. There’s that word again: worry. Worry does no good. I know this, intellectually. My emotions, though, seem to override my intellect far too often.

Damn. I need to get on with my day and wash this gloom out of my mind. I should replace my gloom with good news. I hired a handyman to work on the deck, replacing the people I fired. He will start on June 3 and expected the job to take three days. Good news. I hope. And I’m going to lunch with a friend today and out to dinner with my wife and, maybe, her sister tonight. The sun is shining. The temperature is moderate. Lots to be happy about. So get on with it, John!

Posted in Cancer, Depression, Emotion, Health | 2 Comments