John Swinburn

To take my mind off the fact that we were leaving Ajijic and Mexico behind us, I decided to watch a movie on the two-and-a-half-hour flight from Guadalajara to Dallas. I selected Los Perros, a Chilean Spanish-language film with English subtitles. I subsequently learned that it is the second major film directed by Marcela Said, who also wrote this film. It’s a damn good thing it had subtitles; the quality of the audio was atrocious in the plane and the words I heard compared only modestly to the Spanish I know.  The film tells the story of a woman in her early forties named Mariana, used to wealth and its attendant luxuries thanks to a wealthy father (who we learn has a checkered past). Mariana is more than a bit arrogant and  steeped in privilege she uses as a grating, soft, but effective cudgel when she needs it. She is undergoing fertility treatments (one guesses at the urging of her husband) but isn’t much interested in that, nor in much of anything besides her dog. She refuses to tie the dog up, which results in its forays into a neighbor’s yard on multiple occasions. On the third occasion, the neighbor brings the dog home and threatens to shoot it if he finds it in his yard again.

Mariana has other interests, including running a small arts-related business, horseback riding, and jumping (on horses, that is). The latter develops into an interest in her considerably older instructor, Juan, who had been in the Pinochet-era army, as had Mariana’s father. Juan is under indictment for unspecified crimes connected to his military service.  In a rather odd turn, Mariana attempts to learn details of Juan’s history by trying to seduce a police detective; the plan backfires in important ways, but gives her some insights into Juan’s role in the Pinochet government.

Neither Mariana nor Juan are likable personalities; they have fundamental character flaws and behave in unpleasant ways. Yet as a viewer, I think most people will come to feel some empathy for the negativity in their lives and even some sympathy for them. They are, to use a phrase I often use to describe characters about whom I write, “good people who do bad things.” But their goodness is questionable. Yet when things happen to crush their respective fragile spirits, we empathize.

It occurs to me that Pinochet may never have been mentioned in the film. Whether it was or not, I am relatively certain the film deals with the crimes created under his dictatorship.

By the end of the film, one feels dissatisfied with the unresolved, unknown outcome. On the other hand, it was precisely the process of suggesting answers that were not provided that kept me interested and engaged.  The title, translated into English as “The Dogs,” is easy to understand as the film progresses. I’d give this film a solid “8.” While the film is a bit slow to develop, I liked it.

As I am wont to do, I decided after returning home (and because the clock changed and gave me an extra hour to do with what I like) to explore a bit about some of the film’s actors. Antonia Zegers played the character of Mariana. Zegers is a well-known television actress and has appeared in numerous stage and film productions. Zegers is 45 years old, I learned from the IMDb website. She separated from her husband in 2014 and, a year later, took up with a Chilean musician nine years her junior.

During my exploration of the actor behind Juan’s character (Alfredo Castro), I found the following comments about the film (Los Perros) in Variety magazine:

“The Dogs” marks Said’s follow-up to “The Summer of Flying Fish,” her debut, a critique of Chile’s bourgeoisie’s disavowal of political realities that was selected for Cannes’ 2013 Directors’ Fortnight, proved one of the new Latin American AMC-Sundance Channel’s first two pick-ups from Latin America, and established Said as one of Latin America’s distaff directors to track.

Castro is 61 years old and is an accomplished actor and, according to IMBd, “theatre director…pedagogue, playwright, and founder of Teatro La Memoria, a theatre company that marks a milestone in the history of contemporary Chilean theatre.” Interestingly, he has a history of collaboration with Pablos Larrain, described by IMDb as “Chile’s greatest movie director” and, perhaps not coincidentally, the estranged husband of Antonia Zegers. Even in Chile the romantic entanglements of actors and directors are headline events, it seems.

During my exploration of the film I watched and the people involved in its production, I came across the following Chilean films I’d like to watch one of these days:

• El Verano de los Peces Voladores (The Summer of Flying Fish)
• La Vida de Los Peces (The Life of Fish)
• NO

There are more. For some reason, I find more depth in foreign films noir than in American films, even films of the same general genre. Most of the foreign films of that broad type I’ve watched seem to leave more to the imagination than do American films, which seem to “spell it all out for you.” Or maybe I just don’t follow foreign films as well, due to my reliance on subtitles. I’ve been intrigued by various Scandinavian films in the same way, as well as a few French films.

My sister-in-law treated me to a salon pedicure and she treated my wife to a salon foot massage while we were in Ajijic. I have become a fan of pedicures. My toenails are as short and well-groomed as they’ve ever been. The rough callouses on my feet are softer and less well-defined. My feet feel attractive! (I know they’re not, but they feel that way.)

I’ve always wondered about the allure of pedicures. What, I wondered, could make a woman (in my experience, discussions about pedicures and their value have been conducted by women) spend good money on foot and toe “work?” I know now. My pedicuriosity has been satisfied. Perhaps “satisfied” is not the correct word. Perhaps “triggered” or “sparked” or “launched” would more accurately describe the situation. The pedicure experience, alone, is enough to warrant reasonably frequent return trips to Ajijic.

If you want to know the name of a place where they give good pedicures, it’s Christine’s Hair Salon in Ajijic. According to their Facebook page, a pedicure is 250 pesos, or about $13. With a generous tip of, say, $3 (about 60 pesos), you’ve gotten a nice pedicure for only $16 US. From what I’ve been able to gather online, you’d pay at least $50 for a pedicure in Little Rock and frequently considerably more.

Okay, next I will polish up a post I wrote about a film I viewed on the flight to DFW from Guadalajara. And maybe I’ll just post it. Two posts in one day. Just like the old days.

I already posted about our experience last night at Teocintle Maiz restaurant in Ajijic, but I’ll memorialize it here because previous posts are easier for me to find on my blog. Last night, we had a magnificent dinner. I ordered sauteed octopus. Janine had pork ribs with black mole. For a starter, I had huitlacoche cream soup. Janine ordered indias vestidas (fresh squash blossoms filled with cream cheese and kernels of corn, then deep-fried).  My sister-in-law ordered guacamole for the table and there was more among the four of us.  My sister-in-law chose poblano chicken breast for her entre and my brother selected birria de pollo. The entire meal worked out to about $34 US per couple.

We started the day’s meals with a visit to a little French-owned pastry shop across the street from a brew-pub we’d eaten lunch the day before. We enjoyed an alfresco breakfast, choosing from among a small but delicious assortment. I had a “traditional” breakfast of eggs over easy with bacon. It came with a hard French roll and a very nice dog begging for food at the table. For a change of pace, I ordered a latte instead of black coffee; I could get hooked.

My sister-in-law drove us down to a bank where we withdrew cash from the ATM, then dropped us on the main Ajijic square. Janine and I walked around the village center, pausing occasionally to look inside shops and galleries. We walked all the way down to Lake Chapala, walked a ways on the malecón, and then wandered to La Nueva Posada, where we had lunch outdoors at the hotel’s restaurant. Ajijic-style fish tacos for me and an interesting chicken curry dish with pineapple for Janine. From there, we drifted back toward the square, expecting to hail a taxi to take us back to the house. Apparently, all the taxi drivers were on siesta, so we hiked home along the carretera; not a long distance (maybe a mile or so), but a very difficult and sometimes dangerous trek over broken concrete, uneven cobblestone, and too near speeding drivers. Still, an interesting adventure!

Here are a few photos from our experiences so far. Food and the like.

We’ve only been in Ajijic since Tuesday afternoon. Yet already I feel more relaxed and distant from the madness of 45 and his demented minions. The village of Ajijic is a mixture of cutting edge modern culture and grim reminders of the absence of adequate education and the presence of abject poverty. Yet poverty here is a part of everyday life. I don’t think poverty here is viewed with such judgmental derision as it is in the USA.

The subdivision (fraction enter) in which my brother and his wife live is one of both relative and real wealth. About seventy-five percent of residents are Mexican, the remainder ex-pats from the USA, Canada, and a smattering of Asians and others. The homes in the central part of the village are, by and large, small and rather ramshackle places, though pockets of relative wealth are visible in renovated apartments and stand alone houses. The village readily mixes residential and commercial, so it’s easy to walk to get groceries, visit restaurants, pay electric bills, etc. Having been here such a short time, my observations are mostly speculations for now. But they are my first impressions.

Yesterday, we had lunch in a brewpub, after spending part of the morning at the tiangus (Wednesday weekly market). The two experiences were like viewing the world from two opposite poles. Both were truly enjoyable experiences, but they offered glimpses into the contrasts between poverty and wealth, possibilities and certainties, and hopes and expectations. I may try to explain what I mean by that one day after I come to grips with it myself. I the afternoon, I had a two-hour massage by a woman who explained that she was realigning my muscles to their proper orientations to one another. My career sitting behind a desk, she explained, had done unhappy things to me. She offered that, after her therapy, I might want to abandon the planned treatment of getting injections in my neck. She suggested I seek out a Bowen method therapist to work on my bone spur issues, rather than a chiropractor. We’ll see.

I had a disturbing dream last night. In part of it, I was in a meeting in which I had a bitter disagreement with a man I found intensely irritating. Somehow, that morphed into a situation in which I discovered it was 10:00 p.m. and I had failed to do anything about organizing a work-related party that was supposed to have started at 9:00 p.m. at a hotel. I fumbled around and gathered up three or four bottles of wine and a few boxes of crackers and took them to my car, where I had to wait for other cars to move before I could get out. I made my way to the hotel, where I found a sparsely attended event in which the guests were understandably upset that there was food or wine. The hotel staff then went into high gear to produce food and wine, but the catering manager admonished me for planning an event that involved me sneaking into the venue with food and wine. I apologized profusely to the catering manager and the guests for completely dropping the ball. Everyone seemed satisfied and sympathetic, save for the one guy with whom I had an earlier disagreement. He said, repeatedly and with a demonic smile, “I’m going to get you fired for this!” I knew he would. I deserved it. I had no excuse for forgetting to make arrangements for an important event. Several times during the latter part of the dream, I thought I must be having a dream, but then slipped back into fearing for my job and reputation. Finally, at 5:30, a loud boom, like a gunshot, woke me. I’ve heard several similar explosive booms since. But I’m fortified with coffee now. The booms don’t scare me!

Our adventure begins Monday afternoon. We board a flight for Dallas, stay the night at an airport motel, then fly to Guadalajara on Tuesday. From there, we’ll get a taxi to Ajijic. And there we will unwind. The unexpectedly full calendar will cease to exist for a while. The obligations of retirement will disappear. The commitments we’ve made without realizing we’ve made them will be put on hold. Vacation. That’s a welcome word.

I’ve allowed myself to over commit. I wasn’t forced. I’ve taken on the role of treasurer of the Writers’ Club. And membership data maintainer. And newsletter writer and distributor. And presenter. And on and on and on. And I’ve allowed myself to commit to being the newsletter editor for the Unitarian Universalist church. And I took on management of an art show for an artists’ club. I’m stupid in some senses. But I’m withdrawing from some of these obligations. If my effing arm stops hurting so I can write–really write–I’ll drop more of them.

But I need someone to take my place. I’m easily replaceable, believe me. A trained monkey could do most of my duties. But I’ve gotten off track, haven’t I? We leave for Mexico tomorrow! Oh, yes!

I will eat guacamole more than I should. I will drink tequila (and other alcoholic beverages) more than I should. I will refrain from exercise more than I should. But I will have a wonderful time!  I will spend time conversing with my very intelligent brother and sister-in-law and that, alone, will make the trip worthwhile. God, I need time to unwind from whatever it is that is keeping me tightly wound. I need an escape valve. And Ajijic is it.

A member of the Unitarian Universalist Village Church sent a message to some members of the congregation, maybe all, suggesting it might be appropriate to have a conversation about how the church might assist the Unitarian Universalist Puerto Rico (UUPR) congregation as they attempt to help the island recover. I sent a message to the UUPR Facebook page, asking how other congregations might be able to help. Here’s the response I got this morning, in the early hours:

Hi John, Thank you for your patience. As one news organization rightly pointed out, we should have moved to the Recovery Phase yet we are still in Emergency Phase one month out. 80% of the island is still without power and even though the statistics show 71% have running water, 100% of it is still unsafe to drink as it is not being chlorinated yet. Consequently recovery efforts are painfully slow. We are working on an initiative with a local NGO whose management I am personally familiar. http://www.conprmetidos.org/ Before the disaster, it was a nonprofit seeking to attract PR millennials back to the island for their businesses, etc. So they already had staff working on island development, but have had to pivot to island recovery efforts. The important thing is that they have trained people on the ground who are trying to appraise needs (keeping in mind it is still impossible to each some communities other than by helicopter). No public schools have yet reopened and when they do only a fraction will be able to do so. They are sadly looking at a lost year of education for students. I wanted to give you this overview so you wouldn’t think we were ignoring your kind and generous offer. Hopefully this week, we can iron out the details of assistance. Most likely it would be for a congregation to “adopt” a Boys/Girls Club location to get it up and running. These facilities (there is at least one in every city in PR) are serving as community centers in a way no other organization can. The aid would be to provide a generator (hopefully solar), and water purification so activities and maybe even some educational programs could start to take place. So please stay tuned! We are eager to match up congregations with needs on the island — and there will be so many. One estimate I have seen is that it will take $91 billion, yes, billion, for all the recovery efforts, and 5-6 years….

I don’t know whether the UUVC congregation can adopt a Boys/Girls Club. But anyone who reads this message can help in some way. There are many organizations collecting cash to help PR rebuild. Here’s a place to start.

A good night’s sleep and a nice day following improved my mood considerably. Today was good. Two meals “out” and far too many calories, but worth every bit. I spent part of the day wrestling acorns and leaves off the deck and part thinking about our upcoming visit to Mexico. A good day. A good day to turn 64 and a good day to be 64.

I suppose I should mark the occasion in some fashion. So I will. About eight minutes ago, I turned sixty-four years old. That doesn’t sound like much, I’ll admit, but it is monumental to me. I’ve reached a point in my life at which I have to admit, “I’m old.” That is odd and ugly. Not that I admit it, but that I feel I must. I know people decades older who are not old. But I am. I don’t know just what it is, but I feel spent. Used up. Finished. This birthday is one I’d just as soon not have. I feel as if it’s the last one I’ll experience. That’s macabre, I know, but it’s just the way I feel. I’m alone on my sixty-fourth birthday. My wife is in the next room, watching television. Yet I’m sitting here alone, watching my computer screen change with every tap of my fingers. And, so what? Nothing. That’s what. Nothing.

After a long, strange day and evening, tonight just seemed to call for wine and cheese. It would be a relaxer, a way to slip into the evening rather than be thrust into it with no adjusting timeline. So I made it be so. Here’s bleu cheese, parmesan, and white cheddar accompanying a sliced plum and a nice fat olive. With a glass of cabernet sauvignon. I enjoyed it. And I enjoyed the occasional calls that had no voice on the other end of the line. I did not enjoy the sound, tonight, of acorns raining down on the deck in rapid-fire fashion. Before we left for our engagement late this afternoon, I used the lawn blower to remove all the leaves and acorns from the deck. A short while ago, the rain of acorns was incredibly loud. I suspect my work was for naught.  Notwithstanding the acorns, I do love the forests here.

I wrote the following on Facebook on September 25. I’m copying it here just so I can more easily find it; to know where my mind was on that day.

Remember. This country was founded on principles of decency and honor. We’ve failed to achieve our objectives many times, but they’ve remained. Even in dark times, when “leaders” are ignorant and blind, the rest of us must remember our direction. We must remain true to the compass that guides us. Patriots love this country and rightfully call its failings into question just as they celebrate its greatness. Nationalists love themselves and do their best to paint themselves as patriots. They’re not patriots. They are narcissists whose only value is in attaching themselves to empty promises and false pride.

From the very first moment I heard it, Pachebel’s Canon in D reached into me and drew out tears. I cannot for the life of me understand what it is, but that music always reduces me to tears. It’s not that I associate it with any specific event or category of event; the music has no connection (in my mind) with weddings or funerals or anything of that sort. It just causes me to well up with emotion unlike anything I’ve known. If I were a religious man, I’d say the music conjures God. But it’s not that. It’s something real, something enormously moving. I decided to see if I’d written about it before. I have. Five years ago, I wrote “I always come back to this music when I need to feel that the world is beautiful.” That’s all I said. And maybe that’s all I need to say. Tonight, perhaps I need to feel the world is beautiful. I know better. It’s ugly and dangerous and lacking compassion. But it has potential.

Tonight, as my arm and elbow throb and my shoulder aches, I listen to Pachelbel and I wish I had been born in a different time, a time in which one person’s empathy and compassion mattered. “As if we mattered.” Ach, but we don’t. We matter to a precious few, but we don’t matter to most. That’s the problem. We should matter, but we don’t. And that may be the final bell that tolls. When we come to realize we’re just a mistake, an error that had potential but failed to meet it, we ought to seek out that bell and make it ring.

I’m just so tired of pain and Trump and people wallowing in self-pity because their views did not prevail.  So I listen to Pachelbel and realize the two pity-party people who’ve opted out of the experiment don’t matter. But I weep for them, too, because they’re lost and searching, too.  Some days, I wish there were a God. Or a Devil. I’d be willing to make a deal with either of them if I could erase the pain of generations and educate the uneducated about the demon they worship.

I write “stream of consciousness” stuff that makes no sense to anyone but me; I know that. But I write it because I know that, later, I’ll come back to it and it will make perfectly good sense to me. And it will be fodder for something that may, in some tiny sense, matter to someone, someday. But probably not. I have to realize, too, that my words may mean nothing to anyone but me. That’s painful, but it’s a reality we all must face. Did our lives matter? Ultimately, in the big picture, probably not. In the more focused, smaller image: maybe. A little.

I’ve been distracted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. My mind has been elsewhere. I suppose part of it has been fear. Fear that the cause of the pain in my arm and shoulder might be worse than a pinched nerve. Or that whatever the cause, it might be a permanent condition. Or that the solution will reveal that my horrifically expensive insurance was designed with an “out” for the insurance company, so that I’ll be faced with either permanent pain or financial ruin. These are worries that have no place in my brain. They’re manufactured from fear; they don’t arise from facts. They’re part of an enormous web of “what ifs” that, once allowed to fester into their ugly potential, seem to take on a life of their own. I can control those fears, those stories spun by my imagination. But I’ve allowed them to pull me in and spin me into a tightly wound rubber band.

Among the consequences of my distraction is what amounts to my abandonment of my writing. That’s not healthy, because writing is one of the things that keeps me partially sane. It provides a release valve, albeit not necessarily an obvious one, for pressures I create inside my head.

I can’t blame my distraction entirely on my fears about my arm and shoulder pain (which, incidentally, has declined significantly and is far more tolerable than it once was). I’ve given my calendar permission to enslave me, which is a distraction in itself. I have obligations damn near every minute of every day. Most of them are obligations I’ve taken on willingly. A writers’ group meeting.  Working on a writer’s group website and sending meeting reminders and keeping club financial records. A class on weather warning. Taking a vehicle to a mechanic. A driving class from AAA to cut my insurance rates. Another meeting with writers. An international wine and food event. A tour of garden railroads. And then there are obligations I take on begrudgingly; visiting the chiropractor and scheduling a CT scan (maybe).  None of these really command my time. But they fill my time. I could cancel any one of them or all of them, but that would create issues of another kind. All these obligations and commitments rob me of time I should use to do work around the house. And they rob me of time when I ought to be writing.

I look forward to a commitment that will take me away from all these other commitments. We’re scheduled to go to Mexico next month, where we’ll spend ten days without obligations (I hope); just being lazy and absorbing the gentleness of place. Maybe I’ll write. Maybe not. I will be “on vacation.” That’s such an odd thought; being “on vacation” from retirement. I thought retirement would be like a permanent vacation. But vacations of the past, of which there were precious few, carried with them their own stresses. I suppose retirement is like a vacation, after all.

Meditation. That has some appeal. Meditation to bring about serenity or, at least, cool acceptance of circumstances. I’ll get back here more frequently when I’m ready and when it feels right.

Those of us who own computers—and there are millions of us—are fortunate in the extreme. The mere fact that we are able to play with (or work with) machines that give us capabilities far beyond anything our molasses minds could do on their own is amazing. It suggests we need not worry about where our next meal is coming from, nor where we will sleep tonight.

“¿Fuiste a la playa ayer?” preguntó Diana.

“No, fui al mercado y luego al cine.” Linda sonrió y se rió.

Perhaps I’d learn Spanish faster if, instead of writing in English, I wrote in Spanish.  Of course, I’d have to supply a translation, so that would add to the word count. Aha! I could write short novellas, offer translations, and could then say they were multilingual novels.

The translations, so far:

“Did you go to the beach yesterday?” asked Diana.

“No, I went to the market and then to the movies.” Linda smiled and laughed.

Tal vez aprendería español más rápido si, en vez de escribir en inglés, escribiera en español. Por supuesto, tendría que proporcionar una traducción, por lo que añadiría al recuento de palabras. ¡Ah! Podría escribir novelas cortas, ofrecer traducciones, y luego podría decir que eran novelas multilingües.

The last translation is not fair, as it was supplied by Google Translate.

La última traducción no fue justa, porque Google Translate lo proporcionó.

Thanks to this morning’s newsletter (Fast Forward)  from the Boston Globe, I learned that today is the 120th anniversary of the launch of the first subway in this country. At 6:00 a.m. on September 1, 1897, one hundred people rode the subway through a tunnel under downtown Boston.  I had assumed that the first subway was in New York City, but my research this morning revealed that New York’s first underground commuter line did not operate until October 27, 1904. Almost thirty-six years earlier, the city’s first elevated line opened. New York’s rapid transit system is the largest in the western world, butsystems in Beijing, Shanghai, Seoul, Tokyo, Guangzhou, and Moscow eclipsed its ridership. The New York system, though, is the largest in terms of the number of stations (472). On September 23, 2014, more than 6.1 million people rode the New York subway system,

But today’s celebration is about Boston’s innovation, not New York’s, nor the other systems with greater ridership. Have I ever mentioned I am easily distracted, starting my writing with the intent to write about one subject, but drifting off into other areas almost without realizing it? Maybe I should explore what I’ve written to determine whether I’ve mentioned that before. But not yet. Not now.

There’s much about Boston I find appealing. Even before I learned that it set the pace for public transportation in the United States, I liked Boston. I like the in-your-face honesty that characterizes the city. I like its rough-and-tumble personage. I like Santarpio’s Pizza. I like the JFK Library. I appreciate that Boston is largely a very progressive Democratic stronghold, a place where the obligations of society are honored and practiced. Obviously, not all people in Boston are progressive Democrats, but the city votes the way I wish the country at large would vote. Sure, Boston has its share of problems, but it leans left, the way I like a city to lean.

I like the fact that the Boston Globe (and other outlets, I’m sure) reminded the people of the City of Boston that yesterday at 5:00 p.m. was the deadline to take items to Boston City Hall for people stranded in Texas by Hurricane Harvey. The collection effort solicited baby formula, toiletries, non-perishable food, blankets, new clothes, and diapers. Additional collection centers were established throughout the city. The items are to be packed up and shipped to Texas today, September 1.

Congratulations to Boston the 120th anniversary of it subway system.  And for being the city it is. I’d like to visit again. I really would.

I read this morning that some people, especially in Congress, question whether a legitimate role of government is to help people deal with and recover from catastrophe. The argument, as I understand it, is that neighbors, not government, should help neighbors during catastrophe. Communities should help themselves; government should not step in to do what neighbors ought to do.

I contend that government is simply a formal version of neighbors-helping-neighbors. Government is an amalgamation of neighbors, joined together for a common cause. Government is of the people. It is the people. What is it about government that makes people feel so strongly that it is only a medium for handouts?

The Texas Republican delegation in Congress, almost to a person, voted against providing funding for the recovery from Hurricane Sandy. The fact that they opted to abandon their neighbors to the north may come back to bite them; I hope that bite comes only in the form of a political lashing, rather than in the form of a lesson in hypocrisy. I don’t think there’s any question that the people in Texas want and need federal financial support to help cover from Hurricane Harvey. I wonder whether the Texas Republican delegation will be hypocritical, or whether they will vote against support for Hurricane Harvey victims. I hope they reveal themselves as hypocrites, rather than giving their political philosophies greater import than their constituents’ well-being.

I think it’s impossible to write, with any degree of realism, about living through a flood like that facing the people in and around Houston, Texas today. It’s not just Houston. We ought to remind ourselves that Bay City and Richmond and Rosenburg  and dozens of small towns on and near the Texas coast are under siege. I believe, with all my heart and soul, that people with the financial means who opt not to donate money to address the catastrophe befalling our fellow humans in the affected areas are not decent humans at all. That awful judgment assures me a place at the uninvited fringe of decency. So be it. I am opinionated and judgmental. I am unforgiving at a point. I am unwilling to show mercy when mercy is unjust. But I hope with all my being that the people who live in the shadow of Hurricane Harvey and his successive iterative incarnations survive. Ach. I hate watching people lose everything.

My post last night, in which I complained about not having speech-to-text software, led me to do a search this morning. Sure enough, I found free speech to text software online at https://speechnotes.co. I am surprised that it is reasonably accurate, though it does require me to go back in and make changes and corrections.

I remember dictating letters on my first “executive” job. I spoke into a microphone, recording my voice. I feel like I’m doing exactly the same thing now, inserting punctuation with my voice. My secretary transcribed what I spoke. I knew how to type; but I had no typewriter in my office. Instead of buying me a typewriter, my employer paid a secretary. To be fair, she did far more than type my correspondence. But it seems odd, today, that a person would be employed to transcribe the words of another, a person who is perfectly capable of typing for himself.

I hope I’m able to continue doing this with my real writing. That might make it easier for me to get to the point of having a book. Although I think I think better through my fingers then through my mouth. We’ll see. Now I will copy this and make the corrections necessary and post it. We’ll see how that works.

I remember only vaguely reading George Orwell’s The Road to Wigan Pier and Homage to Catalonia and Down and Out in Paris and London and Keep the Aspidistra Flying and Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four.  But I read them all. My memory of the books is hidden behind too many years and drenched in impenetrable darkness, but I do remember I loved his writing. My developing sense of humanity was tethered to Orwell’s beliefs., though probably not all of them. Most of the time, when I read his books, I felt like I was reading the works of someone with whom I agreed almost entirely. I read his books as fast as I could lay my hands on them. And I sought out people with whom I could discuss them. It was as if the books sparked something in me that I had not, theretofore, known existed. They were like fire to me. I found few people who were as enthused as I, though. And, I suppose, that’s when things began to change. I don’t know how. Perhaps it was the unenthusiastic response I got from professors. Or students. Or who knows who. I remember, though, that I was disappointed somehow that my fierce interest in Orwell’s books did not meet with universal support.

There foregoing paragraph has absolutely nothing to do with what’s on my mind tonight. Tonight, I’m reliving an enjoyable day, a day during which we drove to the Shangri-La Resort near Mount Ida for lunch. I had a cheese burger with jalapeños. My favorite wife had chicken fried steak. My sister-in-law has a burger. Each of us had pie: lemon meringue for my wife, blueberry for SIL, and cherry for me. Good pie. Or, as I like to say, “Damn good PAH!” Then we drove to Mount Ida and wandered in a second-hand store and an art gallery. Both were intriguing. And then we drove home.

I’m not entirely sure what got me thinking about George Orwell. Perhaps it was our cheetoh-in-chief and his drunken-Facebook-equivalent speech in Arizona last night. Perhaps it was the thought that we may, at any moment, be involved in nuclear war. Or perhaps it was coincidental. The latter is unlikely.

To ease my troubled mind, I’m drinking wine tonight. I started with a delightful French rosé. Then I switched to New Zealand red. If I had any in the house, I might move on to single malt Scotch or mescal.

I’ve been thinking, seriously, about taking four days off from whatever it is I do and spending those four days, instead, at the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs. I need a kick in the rear to get me writing. Solitude and guilt might do it. A .357 magnum pressed to my temple might do the job, too, but I have no energy in pursuing that possibility. Perhaps there’s no cure. Perhaps I’m a wannabe writer who won’t finish anything worth finishing. I do consider myself talented. I write well when I write. My writing no doubt needs improvement, but I’m pretty goddamned good. Except I don’t know how to write real stories. Stories with a beginning, a middle, and an end; stories that make people want to read them. Stories that pry emotions from hard hearts. I think I have it in me, but I can’t for the life of me drag it out. Instead, I seem to be a pretty decent tactician. I do dialogue reasonably well. I can grab the reader from the start with something jarring or stunning. But I peter out along the way in the process of telling the story. The novel I’ve been trying to write is losing interest; or, I should say, I’m losing interest in it. It’s not the challenge I thought it would be. Or, perhaps more realistically, I’m not the writer I thought the subject would bring out in me. Crap. I’m writing self-assessments, as it I were looking for pity. I’m not. I’m looking for something that might convince me I’m actually a writer and not a wanna-be. I think, though, that’s exactly what I am. I am like thousands of others who are decent writers, but not superb writers; they, we, are destined to wish for outcomes that will never happen.

I have said for years that I write for myself. That’s true, but only to a limited extent. But ultimately I write for an audience I do not know. I write for people I hope will be reached by what I write. The odd thing is this: I have no idea who they are. Are they aging geezers like me? Teenagers enmeshed in hormonic guilt? Who? I don’t know. Maybe the “they” I write for don’t exist. Maybe the “I” I write for doesn’t exist.

When I get into one of these moods, I wish I’d become a merchant marine. The salt water and hard work and endless loneliness would have cured whatever ailed me.