John Swinburn

I tried to maintain my composure, but it was a losing battle. Why is it, so very long after the fact, I am unable to maintain the stiff upper lip we hear so much about? As much as I know it’s okay to express emotion, I don’t think I’ll ever accept that concept at the cellular level. I loathe my inability to remain stoic when stoicism is precisely what’s needed and expected.

I have promised myself for untold months that I would sort through and select for self-publication the dozens and dozens of short stories, vignettes, poems, daily utterances, and assorted other output of my typing fingers. To date, my promises have been hollow. But today, I vow to complete my pledge to myself before this year is out. It’s not merely selecting from amongst publication-ready material; it’s selecting material with potential, editing and polishing (or, in some cases, finishing) it, and learning the nuts and bolts of production through one of the major outlets (e.g., Lightning Source, CreateSpace, etc.). Today is March 16. I will accomplish my objective before my birthday this year; it will be a birthday gift to myself.

Good actors can display emotions at will, as if they simply flip a switch. Their emotional demonstrations appear effortless, but they are not. The perfect combination of subtle changes in the mouth, eyes, cheeks, forehead, and manner of speaking occur only after repetitive practice and good coaching. Usually. But not always. Some people just have the natural ability to flip and emotional switch in their heads, triggering all the right reflexes. The same is true of writers. Some are just naturally talented. Others need enormous volumes of practice. I claim membership in the latter group, which is why I am writing this mindless little piece and why I continue struggling against a tide of emotions telling me I’m just not a natural and, therefore, ought to give up. I’m neither a natural nor a quitter, though, so I slog forward in the muck and will continue to do so until I find that switch, hidden somewhere inside my head.

A new nation, conceived in liberty, and fiercely and unwaveringly dedicated to the proposition that all people are created equal. That’s what I’m after. Among the many questions such an objective summons are these: 1) would this new nation exist within geographic boundaries or, instead, only within philosophical boundaries; 2) what roles would individual citizens—whose citizenship is either by choice, chance, or circumstance—play in this new nation; 3) what form of governance would ensure the success of this new nation; 4) does this new nation already exist in another part of the world; and,, most importantly, 5) at what point will humanity awaken to the reality that only through acknowledging and embracing global citizenship is there hope for justice and equality? Tilting at windmills, knowing the exploding sun will engulf them in flames long before they bend to my will.

I’m taking an earlier-than-halftime- break from watching an FX film that, so far, exceeds my expectations. I started watching it because I relate to its title: “I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore.” Yes, I realize that says disturbing things about me, but that’s neither here nor there. I like the writing. I like the acting. I like the premise. I like everything I’ve seen so far. But, during this break, I’ve read more about the film. And now I feel depressed and afraid. That’s the price of strolling around aimlessly in filmdom, I suppose.

While I’m baring my soul, I thought tonight of something else that troubles me. I am as artificial as anyone I can name. I seem to have made myself up. I don’t know who the “real” me is because I’ve always manufactured who I am to fit the circumstance. That’s depressing. Especially so because I wouldn’t know how to recognize the real me if I saw him in the mirror.

I suppose I’ve written about this unhappy predicament before; that’s because it’s an unhappy predicament.

I did buy tomatoes and provolone cheese today, so all is not lost. Not yet. When one can buy tomatoes and consider the future of said tomatoes amidst cubes of that hard, hard cheese, there’s still something to grasp in this life. It may be artificial, it may be meaningless drivel in a pointless world, but it’s something.

Did I tell you, Dear Diary, that we’re having dinner with a gathering of Unitarians (what’s the right term: herd, flock, murder…what?) on Saturday? Well, we are. We’re last-minute fill-ins, chosen because we’re participating in a “dinner for eight” group to start soon. The instructions emphasize “it’s not about the food, it’s about the social interaction.” That’s the hardest part for me. I want it to be about how a vibrant appreciation for food can build social interactions. Well, that’s for another time.

If you’re reading this, you are among the privileged few. And I appreciate your presence. I would appreciate, even more, your comments. Pro, con, argumentative, supportive, upset, or delighted. I truly would.

I suppose I’d better get back to the movie. But if I don’t, they will still be there tomorrow. (But, as Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) said, “for you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not.”)

How do we train bigots to change their attitudes? I don’t know it’s possible. That’s why I haven’ t ruled out mercy killings.

Crushed emotions, spilling out in tears, flood an embrace as if interlocked arms were a dam and the space between two people were a reservoir. When the dam bursts, a lifetime of regret will flow like a river, drowning everyone in its turbulent depths. Anyone within earshot will succumb to the pain expressed in the torrent of sobs.

I’ve stipulated it in my will. I have completed and filed my medical directives. I’ve done what I have been advised to do to tell my family and the medical professionals who might be present in what could be my last hours: do not keep me alive by artificial means. If the likelihood is high that I will not regain my ability to interact with and enjoy my family, let me go. If I would require attachment to a machine to keep me alive, let me die. If my quality of life would suffer dramatically, let me die. Or, if you’re truly a humanitarian and I refuse to die on my own, kill me as painlessly as possible and don’t get caught.

Tonight, I watched a documentary called Extremis. It made me sad to realize, while thinking through the film and the people who are NOT allowed to die with dignity, that some people are forced to live through unspeakable physical and/or mental pain to satisfy their survivors’ craving for closure or their delusion that God will step in to address the obviously erroneous circumstances surrounding a loved-one’s imminent demise.

If I Die. What an absurd comment! Of course I will. I hope that moment will be a while in coming. A long while.

A few days ago, as my wife and I were out doing a long list of errands, a thought entered my mind from nowhere. And I spoke about it to my wife. “Nobody seems to talk about hydrophobia anymore. I remember when discussions of hydrophobia were as common and predictable as the sunrise.”

I went on to explain recollections of conversations about hydrophobia, memories from my very early childhood in the city of my birth, where I lived only until I was five years old. Those conversations are ancient history, but I recall them. There was quite a lot of talk about hydrophobia back then.

My wife looked at me as if I were hallucinating. “Hydrophobia? Fear of water?”

Yep, that’s what I recollected it means. But my memories of the conversations suggest that hydrophobia was related to rabies. I asked her if she had never heard the term used in reference to rabies. “Never.”

So I inquired of Father Google, who offered some clues as to my recollections of hydrophobia and rabies. Father Google explained that hydrophobia is an extreme or irrational fear of water and that fear is symptomatic of rabies in humans. Further investigation revealed that hydrophobia used to be (and perhaps in some contexts remains) synonymous with rabies, perhaps because people who contract rabies have painful throat spasms when trying to swallow.

Now, I cannot recall the circumstances surrounding these very common discussions of hydrophobia. What might have given rise to those conversations and why, nearly sixty years later, did their memories pop into my head? I tried to find out by inquiring further of Father Google about hydrophobia and the city of my birth, thinking an outbreak of rabies in humans might have taken place in the city in my early years. My search yielded nothing. But further efforts revealed that, many years earlier, three Texans (two of whom lived in the city of my birth) had traveled to France so that one of them could be treated for hydrophobia by Pasteur. The patient, bitten by a wolf on March 9, 1888, was admitted to Pasteur’s institute on March 30. When the three men returned to New York City on May 6, 1888 they were, according to an article published in the New York Times the following day, firm believers in Pasteur’s treatment.  One of the men was Dr. A.E. Spohn of Corpus Christi, Texas. Spohn Hospital, now CHRISTUS Spohn Hospital, was named after the man.

None of this explains my recollections of common discussions of hydrophobia, nor why those memories popped up of late. But, in line with mining memories (which was among the topics of today’s Village Writers’ Club presentation by Janis Kearney), I thought I’d better write a little to help jog my memory. I had planned to write this post, anyway, but Janis’ comments made more emphatic my commitment to do it. And so I have. But, as you might have surmised by reading this far, I tend to get sidetracked when doing my “research.” But I do so enjoy wandering down those odd little rabbit holes.

Sultry spring shrinks in horror as the glacial scream of dying winter rings in our frigid ears. The cerulean heavens rage with cold stillness in the brittle morning air. Even the certainty of summer becomes dubious in light of this brutal reminder that we are not in control of the weather, nor of our lives.

It is, of course, too early for Spring to have arrived. But temperatures reminiscent of late Spring and even early Summer suggest a change of the season and trees have begun to blossom, yielding to the onslaught of unseasonal weather. Yet the chill in the morning air, though not a winter chill, acknowledges Mother Nature’s efforts to retain her frosty attitude about climate change. She doesn’t like it. Nor do I. A late winter, flush with heat and temperatures approaching 80F, foreshadows the potential for a volcanic summer. I wrote a weather forecast, in jest, a year or five ago predicting tornadic straight-line wind thunderstorms with hail stones the size of cars raining down on North America, followed by daytime high temperatures climbing above one thousand degrees and nighttime lows dipping to near absolute zero. Perhaps that tongue-in-cheek forecast, while absurd, wasn’t so far-fetched after all. I read something yesterday that noted in matter-of-fact language that earth’s sun will, predictably and with a great degree of certainty, die in the far distant future, eliminating all life on Earth in the process. I think humankind is doing what it can to expunge Earth of life long before that eventuality comes to pass.