John Swinburn

My wedding anniversary approaches. In a matter of days, my wife and I will have been married for  thirty-seven years. We will have lived together for between thirty-eight and forty years by then (I don’t recall precisely when we began “living in sin,” but it was quite some time before we agreed to allow the state to sanctify our commitment). The fact that I do not recall the year we moved in together is testament to the fact that we viewed intimacy from a more casual perspective than our parents (and, by the way, many of our contemporaries and their children and grandchildren); not an earth-shaking adjustment to relationships but, rather, an easy comfort that grew out of familiarity. Our celebration of the event will conclude with dinner at one of the newest and most upscale restaurants in Hot Springs, Arkansas, The Avenue. The Avenue, located inside the the Waters Hotel (formerly the Thompson Building) recently  opened after an extensive renovation to the property.

We will commence the celebration with a trip, tomorrow morning, to the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. An exhibit I’ve wanted to see at the museum, Border Cantos, is ending soon, so we decided we ought to hurry and see it before it goes. On Wednesday, on the way back home, we’ll make a brief detour, stopping outside Winslow, Arkansas to visit a friend and former employee who just bought five acres in the country; she opted to abandon Dallas for the wide open spaces.

It occurs to me that we build monuments in our minds to the experiences we’ve lived through, like our wedding and our thirty-seven years of marriage. But we (i.e., people, “we the people”) also build monuments to experiences we should have had, and would have had if we’d taken the opportunities presented to us. That idea just sprang into my head as I was writing this; it’s too abstract and only tangentially related to what I’m writing here to warrant a more extensive exploration at this moment. But it’s sufficiently intriguing that I wanted to get it down “on paper” so I can attempt to recapture it some time in the future. While I’m writing, though, let me consider this: is it possible (or likely) that our memories are shaped as much by wishes as by experience? Do we recall what we wish we’d experienced, rather than what actually happened? The answer, of course, is “yes.” Not always, but sometimes. If that’s the case, then how can we differentiate between accurate memories and memories bent and shaped by desire or, conversely, distaste? I think this train of thought belongs in the fiction I write; and one day it will be so.

This has been a stream of consciousness message, brought to you by coffee, insomnia, over-thinking, and genuine daydreaming.

Yesterday, I ordered samples of several products that, if their promises hold, could transform the appearance of our fireplace and, perhaps, the look of the brick on our house. As I wrote a few days ago, I was considering putting in an order. Instead, after looking at many of the company’s products, I contacted them by email, asking which of their several products might be best-suited to accomplish the look I want to achieve. Their response was by and large a non-answer; “you might want to get a sample of this product or that product to see which one is best.” But they did suggest one product might not work. Their response notwithstanding, I ordered samples of several products. I decided I might as well determine immediately whether any of the products can accomplish my aim: turning a pinkish/whitish/grayish conglomeration into a light mottled grey.

This morning, as I consider what I did, I began to question my sense of reason and rationality. The cause of my self-doubt arises from the fact I spent my time and energy addressing aesthetic issues as opposed to more pressing practical issues. Specifically, the deck. Less than two yeas ago, we had our deck cleaned, sanded, and painted with a product ostensibly designed to protect and restore badly weathered decks. That decision, it now seems, was a bad one. The considerable expense associated with it was wasted.  The deck is peeling worse than before; the boards are splitting and cracking and I’ve come to the conclusion that the deck boards need to be replaced, which will be an extremely expensive undertaking.  That’s the first thing that caused me to question my sanity. The second thing is the fact that an area of the trim and siding, a good twenty feet off the ground—damaged by wildlife (probably woodpeckers, I learned yesterday, courtesy of the Garland County Extension Service)—needs repair. That should take precedence over brick color, methinks. So, what was I thinking when I decided, instead of tackling the more pressing matters, to devote my energy to aesthetics? I suppose I was thinking of aesthetics to take my mind off the more pressing and far more expensive issues.

Perhaps a second cup of coffee will help ease my mind. It’s been a good hour since I began sipping on my first one; all that remains of that once hot, dark brew are a few drops at the bottom of my mug. I’ll remedy that right now, then turn my attention to other, more pressing matters.

Tomorrow is the first day of April. Perhaps that transition will give me the kick in the rear I need. I need to work on the yard, the driveway, the deck, the bathrooms, the roof, the garage, and the workspace behind the garage. I need to determine whether the skyroom can be made tolerable during summer months. I need to decide whether living in the United States under a Trump administration can be even moderately tolerable. I have things to do!

But I’ve been negligent of late. I’ve ignored things that should have commanded my attention. I’ve failed to perform functions decent human beings would never consider ignoring. Ach. I’m a bad man, at least I am on occasion. And, just now, I remembered that I did not retrieve the hummingbird feeders from the deck! The memory was triggered by what I have come to call “raccoon noises” outside the double doors of my study/guest room. I think I hear the bastards sucking the nectar out of the jars! If I had a raccoon rifle tonight, I’d use it.

But back to the transition. What does it take to light a fire under me to ensure that I do what must be done? It would help if I had the appropriate tools. And a pickup in which to haul them. Have I mentioned before my deep-seated desire for a pickup? Ah, I thought so. I need a pickup. And some gravel. And bark mulch. And some fiercely heavy rocks that would make my imaginary pickup scream in pain as its shocks were compressed by the weight of more rock than I need.

What else do I want? Well, I keep returning to Leon Redbone’s “I Want to be Seduced.” I doubt, though, that a forty-ish blonde with dark glasses and high cheekbones will respond to Leon’s exhortation. So, what else? I want to start a garden. Now THAT’s something I might get behind. Or maybe not. We shall see.

I spent an enjoyable evening at a dinner for eight. My wife and I joined six other people from the Village Unitarian Universalist Church for conversation, camaraderie, and a very nice meal to which all participants contributed. The view from our host’s home was exquisite; we like our view, but hers is extraordinary! After arriving back home, I returned to the task I left unfinished before we left: examining options for staining brick.

The brick on our fireplace, and indeed all of it on the outside of our house, is an unappealing pinkish/whitish/grayish mix that we find unattractive. Our recent decision to repaint the living room, changing the walls from taupe to light grey actually accentuated the displeasing aspect of the fireplace brick. So I’ve been exploring options. I do not wish to paint the brick. We have examined the possibility of putting stone or artificial stone of a more appealing finish on top of the brick. But we have not liked aspects of the latter. So we resorted to searching for methods to stain the brick; we’d like it to be a light, mottled grey. The ONLY decent options we found are products from a company located in England, Dyebrick. The company offers an array of options that I think would work. Why, though, are there no US companies that offer something similar? Well, if they do, they do a thoroughly crappy job of promoting their services online. So, I may well decide to order a “test pot” from the British company. The cost is not awful, by any stretch, but I’d rather get something that doesn’t have to traverse the Atlantic to get to me. I shouldn’t complain. I really shouldn’t. It’s a personality characteristic of mine that I find utterly reprehensible.  Maybe I’ll order a test kit tomorrow.

Have I mentioned the chairs? Well, we ordered five chairs (plus a broken one) from a woman who runs a small furniture reseller (she buys ‘in-demand’ hard-to-find furniture and resells it). The dining chairs we bought are identical to the ones we have now, save for the fabric. Once we get them, we will reupholster them (and the ones we have), so that we can seat eight or more people around our dining table (which comfortably seats four, but when both extensions are used, can seat up to eight). I may have written before about our efforts to buy a new dining set. This purchase extinguishes that effort. Unless, of course, we decide to buy a new table anyway. I like the table we have, when the extensions are not in use; when they are, I find it unattractive. I probably have deviant taste that doesn’t matter in the real world.

I finished a poem earlier today, one that I plan to enter into a contest associated with a writers’ event I plan to attend in early June. I have much more to write, but for the conference contests and to submit to journals. Whether I finish any of that writing remains to be seen.

In other news, I have almost decided to abandon the idea (that I’ve probably never shared here) of changing phone carriers from AT&T (which I consider the embodiment of corporate greed and for which I have nothing but seething, volcanic contempt) to Consumer Cellular. Everything about Consumer Cellular looks better than AT&T except one thing: Consumer Cellular phones cannot be configured to use outside the USA. I don’t know when my next international trip may take place, but whenever it does, I want to take a working phone with me.

Let me end this post-midnight diatribe by saying this: grudges and judgments come back to haunt people by robbing their holders of that one, final opportunity to express love and compassion and to apologize for all the wrongs the holders committed. When I read schlock that says “never go to bed angry with your spouse,” I agree. And it extends to friends and family and random strangers who’ve been the subject of one’s wrath.

That leads to this: “And if I die before I wake, I pray all who beheld me know I forsake, all the pain I may have caused, and I hope all the world’s hatred is terminally paused.” It sucks as poetry, but it works as aspiration.

I’ve not been in the mood to write lately. It’s not that I have writer’s block; it’s just that I’ve had nothing I wanted to write, either fiction or nonfiction. That happens from time to time. So I allow myself to withdraw from writing and from this blog for a while. I sense, this time, it may be longer than usual. So, I thought I’d just put it out there in case my sense turns out to be correct. And, of course, I may opt to write without sharing anything on the blog; I do that a lot, anyway. I think I’ll sit back and contemplate life and its peculiarities for a bit. Things like “does daydreaming about the decapitation of a sitting president suggest evidence that one has a dark side?”