John Swinburn

At long last, the most recent phase of the horror is ending today, Election Day. No one know how long the next phase will last. Will it be only long enough for the most disgusting, corrupt, hateful, amoral, dangerous politician and wanna-be dictator in history to be silenced by the courts in his efforts to overturn a fair election? Or will the next phase usher in an unthinkable terror: the wanna-be dictator achieving his aims? Time will tell.

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Would it not be wonderful if all world leaders—and their willing and reluctant followers—would adopt the following principle?

We commit to work together to maximize, for every single citizen of the world, the benefits of each and every one of our policies and our actions and to eliminate and, at worst, minimize any ill-effects of those policies and actions.

Utopian fantasy. The thing is…it’s possible. Rather than dismiss it as a silly utopian dream, if world leaders would actually lead the effort to change civilization, it could be done. Am I optimistic about the possibility? I wish I could be fervent in my belief humanity has the capacity to collectively change our direction, establishing a universal culture of compassion. I am afraid I am an unwilling realist, though.

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Today’s appointment with a radiologist will establish the next phase of my cancer treatment. I will learn what to expect in the way of radiation; length and frequency. If it is like my radiation almost six years ago, it will be five sessions per week for six weeks; a total of 30 sessions in all. Even though each session is painless and of short duration (around 15-20 minutes, if that), the frequency is what makes the process unappealing. The daily 46-mile round-trip into Hot Springs is not particularly taxing, but it does get old fairly quickly. Perhaps I’ll be surprised today; perhaps both the frequency and length of treatment will be considerably less than my initial experience, six years ago, was.

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Let us put our minds together and see what life we can make for our children.

~ Sitting Bull ~

Ideas that once seemed interesting, clever, or otherwise intellectually stimulating seem to have grown smelly and stale. They once carried the stimulating aroma of new-mown grass in the Spring. Now, though, they remind me more of the stench of mold; like partially composted weeds and leaves. Metaphors and similes are the best I can do to describe the transition between youthful exuberance and the gradual decomposition that accompanies the golden years. Physical changes are more obvious, of course, but the energic thinking of youth begins to fall flat over time, as well. Enthusiasm declines over time as reality overtakes idealism. The fortunate among us are able to adjust, turning the passion of youthful thought into intensity and conviction in later years. Those people learn to blend judgment with wisdom, transforming tired, time-worn ideas into exciting concepts—simply by viewing the world from new perspectives, born of experience. How does one become one of “the fortunate among us?” I suspect there is no single method; no process that works for everyone. First and foremost, though, it takes commitment; marshalling all of one’s mental strength. I write as if I had the answer.

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My late wife’s sister is undergoing a lumpectomy this morning.  Mi novia took her to the hospital this morning, will wait during the procedure, and will take her home when the process is complete. My Mexican brother’s wife underwent a biopsy of lumps in her breast a few days ago, after flying the U.S. for diagnosis and treatment. I may hear something today about the results of the biopsy. My two remaining brothers have had cancer diagnoses and treatment, and so have I. My late brother had cancer of the kidney. My late wife had a mastectomy to treat her breast cancer. The prevalence of cancer stuns me. Until the last several years, I knew cancer diagnoses were widespread, but only after it began to effect my family so much did the scope of the disease really sink in. Even learning of treatable and/or curable cancer is bone-jarring, but the breadth of the disease, past and present, in my own family suddenly seems to almost overwhelming. I look outside at the thick grey clouds, leaving the morning in darkness even at this late hour, and I feel that the sky is echoing the depression I feel at the moment.

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A dream I had two nights ago is etched into my mind. I do not remember all of it, but I recall enough to remain disturbed by it and to wonder why the hell its bizarre experiences took place in my brain. Do we dream more vividly as we age? Are our dreams more closely connected with experiences in the past than they were in our youth? I wonder about dreams, but nothing I’ve read satisfies me with answers about what they are, why they take place, what (if anything) they mean, and so on. Perhaps intensive psychotherapy could shed some light on my dreams; or, instead, maybe it would reveal darkness I do not presently know is there. Probably not. I know that darkness.

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Depending on the ultimate results of the vote counts, I may consider joining the Canadian armed forces to launch an invasion of countries that threaten the Canadian way of life. If that were not to pan out, I think I will offer my services to the joint Icelandic/ Camaroonian Space Exploration Program—I could well become the first person to step onto the surface of Gliese 667/Cc, which is only 22 light years from Earth. With advances in cryogenics, I just might make the trip alive. In distance that’s a little easier for me to understand, the exoplanet is 129.338 Trillion miles from home. Those Icelandic/ Camaroonian space explorationists really shoot for the stars. [John was executed by an inexcusable pun enforcement firing squad.]

We control clocks, but we do not control time. Yet we assume human dominion over clocks is equivalent to temporal sovereignty. It is not. Temporal sovereignty is the exercise of political independence, authority, and control over time, according to Mark Rifkin’s book, Beyond Settler Time: Temporal Sovereignty and Indigenous Self-Determination. I have not read the book; in fact, I learned of its existence only this morning when I explored whether the phrase, temporal sovereignty, had been used to describe the sense of control over time. Time is simply a frame of reference to which we refer when comparing or contrasting the occurrence of events. That frame of reference does not require human involvement…not even the acknowledgement of humans. It does not require, but can involve, us. But we seem to think that, without us, there is no such thing as time. The only way to test that belief, of course, is to extract us (humans) from all universal experience. That is, we go away…completely. A problem then arises, though; how is time (or its non-existence) measured in our absence? Wait! Is this leading to support for the concept of humans having temporal sovereignty? Are the questions sufficiently important to devote time and energy to finding answers? Well, yes and no.

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I am too tired to think. Too weak to move out of my chair. Thirsty, but the prospect of making my way to the kitchen is almost overwhelming. Oh, I’ll make it. Eventually thirst will overpower fatigue. Hunger, though, has left the building. I forced myself to eat yesterday, in spite of my body’s rejection of the idea. I was to go to lunch with a friend yesterday, which I wanted very much to do, but I did not feel well enough. I needed to be home, where I could collapse into bed if necessary. I need to eat; no doubt about it. But the idea of eating anything is utterly unappealing. I’ve been going through Ensure nutrition shakes with abandon, though, so I’m getting necessary calories and vitamins and minerals, etc. There is more than ample food of all kinds readily available; at some point, I’m sure I will eat it. I’ll give myself an objective: east breakfast within the hour. Almost two weeks have passed since my most recent chemo; the damned side-effects seem to last longer with every infusion. Or, maybe, I’m contributing to my own fatigue by not eating enough. I once believed I was not a stupid man.

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Now, more water and more Ensure. And a banana. And maybe some yoghurt.

Today is my late sister’s birthday. She was the eldest of two sisters; the third of six children. Time is a bitter beast that smothers hope; no matter how long or short, in the end time is capricious. Everyone expects the promise of a lifetime; it is never long enough. I’ve said it all before.

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Mi novia and I wondered aloud the other day about the origin of the word Glazypeau, a name given to a local road, a nearby church, a creek, and perhaps other things. We’ve seen it printed as Glazier Peau, as well. I think I searched for the word in the last year or two, with no luck. But this morning I came across this, extracted from Wikipedia:

Glazypeau Creek is a stream in Garland County, in the U.S. state of Arkansas. Glazypeau is derived from the French “glaise à Paul“, referring to a nearby salt lick.

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I distinctly remember the day, when I was about 22 or 23 years old, that a 30+ year old psychologist with whom I worked insisted to me privately that I had entirely missed signs that a young woman was flirting with me. The three of us, along with several other people from work, were having after-work drinks at a bar across the street from our Houston office. I argued with the guy, who held his ground. “Ask her over to your apartment when we leave here; I guarantee she’ll go,” he said. I did as he suggested. He was right. I should have known. As usual, either I missed flirtatious behavior entirely or I awkwardly misread behavior as flirtatious when it was not. A few days ago, I stumbled on a Facebook feed claiming something to the effect that “here are the X-number of signs that a woman over 50 is flirting.” In all the years since the episode in Houston, I have never been able to tell with any degree of certainty whether someone was flirting with me—quite possibly because it was such an extreme rarity. The Facebook feed caught my attention, though I knew it probably was invalid, just click-bait. Just in case it had some validity, I read the piece. Several of the “signs” seemed like they could, indeed, be flirtatious. But they were some of the same signs I embarrassingly misread in the past. Perhaps they might be reliable indicators of flirtatious interest if ALL of them took place at the same time. Even then, though—with my history of being so dead wrong on those few occasions when I thought I was the target of flirtation—I would need that psychologist to assess the situation. But at my age, the importance of flirtation is miniscule. The fact that badly-written click-bait even nudged my attention is an absurdity.

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Upon mi novia’s recommendation, I watched a documentary last night, The Menendez Brothers. I found it interesting, but I was not as thoroughly convinced as she that the brothers’ motives were entirely as they claim…though I believe they experienced horrendous abuse. Justice is an incredibly complex concept; far too involved and intricate to be fully understood by the human mind. Some acts—even horrible, unconscionable acts—justify forgiveness. Simultaneously, though, justice asks whether different people would be forgiven for the same acts. Like situational morality, situational justice asks us to judge the extent to which consistency is “just” or whether consistency can be cruel and unusual.

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Back to the old ways. I got a call from my oncologist’s office yesterday afternoon, asking me to come in Monday for a infusion of magnesium and an IV fluid drip. Because of another doctor appointment on Monday, I could not commit, so I am scheduled for the procedure on Wednesday. The week is full of medical “stuff.” If I have any hope of completing these interminable processes within a reasonable timeframe, they are worth the demands. If they are are perpetual, I have to wonder.

Until the objects of erasure become deeply personal, they were just things. Or places. Or people. Or the combination of people and places and experiences that defined childhood. Or so many other fragments of one’s life history that can be touched or felt only through photographs or memories. Sometimes, the emptiness left by erasure is welcome: the bully who moved away—the father whose permanent departure opened a window of relief—the poverty that one experienced, but did not cause—the poisonous atmosphere that cultivated bigotry. Other emptiness, though, left aching vacuums, impossible to fill: deaths in the family—close friends who suddenly withdrew—the childhood home torn down and replaced by a a convenience store or a quick oil change shop—the abrupt transition from believing one had good friends to realizing they considered the relationship a casual, dispensable acquaintanceship. The palpable emptiness left by erasures leaves wounds. The wounds may heal into scars or they may refuse to form a transitional scab, leaving evidence that some vague, long-ago experiences were injuries that never healed. I could fill a book with explorations of my own erasures and the wounds left behind. But that might suggest the erasures were more consequential than they really were. Yet even the barely visible blemish, left by a shallow and superficial wound, is a mark…a scar…evidence of change wrought by experience. Differentiating between significant and insignificant erasures is difficult. Unless the effects of an erasure are clearly observable and obviously painful, perhaps it is better to leave them alone and let them adjust to a life that does not need them any more.

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Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.
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People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

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As I sit here, my eyes closed and my head bowed slightly, I could fall asleep quite easily. But I slept almost 12 hours last night, after going to bed early around 7 p.m. and waking at about 6:30 a.m.  I think I may be sleeping just to avoid the dullness of being awake. Television holds no interest. Reading will remain difficult until I have my eye repaired. And I am not sure reading will hold my attention long enough to warrant picking up a book. Aches and pains and other health-related matters, none sufficiently bad enough to merit medical intervention, are still annoying enough to make me think I might ask for something to numb the experiences. A mild ear ache, constantly dripping nose that bleeds in response to blowing it, headache, and various other physical complaints make me want, more and more, to be anesthetized for a few days just to get a respite from those damn annoyances. There, I’ve just verified it; I want to sleep so I do not have to experience the negatives of being awake. If I would just stop the chemo—or go back to different drugs—I suspect all my unpleasant symptoms would be gone within a week or two. But that respite probably would defeat the purpose of the treatments, so I shall persist for the moment. I might try to convince the docs to give me morphine, though…doses just strong enough to alleviate my mild pains and cause me to enjoy uninterrupted sleep. That effort, of course, would be futile. They would never go for it. Ach.

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If I had the energy to blow the leaves and acorns off my driveway, I would. Some people reading that sentence might think I have lost my mind…that I am suggesting I would bend down close to the concrete and huff and puff with a powerful breath to clear the detritus fallen from the trees. No, I may have lost my mind, but not to that extent. I would use a leaf-blower that emits a loud, obnoxious noise to do the work. Carrying the blower, though, and walking around the driveway would require more energy than I have. So, I’ll wait until the yard guys return; they will do it faster and more completely than I would, anyway. I might, though, blow the leaves and acorns off the back deck, though. Or I may not. No need to tidy up for guests.

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I radiate anger. Whether the world is the object of my anger or my rage is aimed at my reaction to the world are questions whose answers eludes me.

Brief, but brilliant, lightning flashes. Explosive crashes of thunder that seize control of the heavens and roll across the sky. Rain. Plain rain. Just a bit of water to moisten the bone-dry ground. There is no way to know whether those bolts of lightning will grow in frequency or energy. No way to predict whether thunder will slink away, losing its powerful, earth-shaking ability to frighten all the living creatures beneath it as its bellicose roars softens to incoherent, impotent silence. Pre-dawn darkness, amplified by a thick cover of clouds, offers no clues to the future of the storm. Predictions lacking evidence are simply bold projections, based on emptiness and the imposition of fear. Volcanoes are not “normal.” Hurricanes and tornadoes are not “normal.” But are they “natural?” Childbirth is a “natural” event, but is it “normal?” Or has childbirth been “abnormal” from the very beginning? Are volcanoes and hurricanes and tornadoes “natural” responses to “abnormal” events? Logic is missing from what we call “natural” and “normal” events. When there is no logic, there is no connection. So we invent one…comprised of witches who slaughter pumpkins. And we create monsters who live in urban tunnels, where they conduct hideous experiences involving innocent children and molten metals. And the witches sharpen scalpel blades before they scamper off into the forest for their castration expeditions…hunting just one target, a billionaire psychopath, a “breeder” whose associates are psychotic in the extreme. Happy Halloween!

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My physical weakness has surpassed its former levels. Or should I say it has plunged to levels not heretofore seen? Or felt? Today a friend is again taking me to an oncology appointment, where the medical staff will stab me in the chest to draw more blood. I hope they will extract the weakness that resides inside me, leaving me more powerful, more energetic, and more alert than I have been of late. I woke about every half hour last night. I feel like I could sleep for hours without interruption. But I felt that way last night, too; something (the need to pee…my guess) rousted me out bed. If I keep sleeping so damn much, my strength will wither. Would I rather sleep or retain my strength? Sleep seems to have an upper hand in this exchange.

Sleep is an escape; a refuge from all those prickly parts of reality that serve as reminders of the thorns that hide barely beneath comfortable, smooth surfaces. Yet even sleep cannot smooth the spikes. Sleep softens them just enough to make their points slightly more tolerable. A little less brutal. But still sharp and punishing. Still coated with defensive dust that burns like hot coals when their tips pierce the skin.

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The Global Peace Index (GPI), produced by the Institute for Economics & Peace (IEP), is a complex measure that takes into account military expenditures, internal security expenditures, private security economic outlays, homicides, suicides, and a long list of additional metrics. The 2020 global impact of violence, evaluated by examining the impact of violence as measured by the Lloyd’s Register Foundation World Risk Poll revealed attitudes toward risk and violence across 145 countries. According to IEP, “The experience of violence is highest in sub-Saharan Africa, where there are five countries where more than half of the population have had a recent experience of violence.” But the fear of violence was greatest among Brazilians, where 83 percent were worried about being a victim of violent crime. However, actual experience of violence is said to be greatest in Namibia; there, 63 per cent of the population experienced either serious harm from violence, or knew someone who had such an experience in the two preceding years. The most peaceful county, based on an amalgamation of measures, was Iceland; the countries that joined Iceland in its high ratings of peacefulness were New Zealand, Denmark, Portugal, and Slovenia. The least peaceful country: Afghanistan. The largest regional decline in peacefulness during the year preceding 2020, according to the IEP, was North America. The IEP reports that “The primary driver of this fall in peacefulness was a deterioration on the Safety and Security domain, especially in the United States, where growing civil unrest led to increasing perceptions of criminality and political instability, and more violent demonstrations.” The United States’ worldwide rank of peacefulness in the 2020 report was 122…just beneath Azerbaijan and just ahead of South Africa. Yet Americans are taught to believe that ours is the greatest country in the world. The evidence against such a bold and obviously erroneous claim is enormous. Instead of doing our damnedest to make it so, though, we insist on promulgating a lie so we can feel better about ourselves. How can we feel better about ourselves when we knowingly lie about who and what we are? It’s not just our rank on the Global Peace Index; it’s our insistence that truth does not matter, just as long as we convince ourselves to believe our own lies. We have enormous potential. Instead of living up to it, though, we satisfy ourselves by claiming our minimal adequacy is the greatest gift ever delivered to the rest of the world.

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There’s something about being awake and alone at 4 in the morning that forces me to acknowledge the truth about who we are…what our culture tells us about ourselves. We live in the land of opportunity, we say to ourselves; but most of us fritter away that opportunity by always  taking the easy way. It’s as if we feel we do not need to invest in ourselves—financially, intellectually, physically, even morally—because we think we have the innate right to demand we be treated like the royalty we choose to believe we are. In the process of insisting we be treated as if we deserve honor and respect and worship, we behave like useless fools without even the sense to laugh at ourselves.

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I received a few cards for my birthday, just over a week ago, including one which featured this printed image on the cover. A couple of others—fancy Jacquie Lawson e-cards featuring kinetic art and music—were a tad more “traditional” in message, but were delivered in a decidedly modern format. And, then, there were one or two traditional paper cards, delivered by the U.S. Postal Service. A number of birthday greetings launched from Facebook found their way to me, as well. No matter the format, nor the method of delivery, it’s nice to be remembered with birthday cards. I, who tend to use plain email or text messages to send birthday wishes (if I send them at all), should remember that more formality than a quickly-dashed-off message conveys greater heartfelt emotion. A message that obviously involves some preparatory thought, whether traditional or not, can deliver more meaning; more apparent affection.  But is that really true? Probably not. Simply remembering…or taking action upon being reminded…is enough. Still, I should make a bigger deal out of sending such celebratory acknowledgements. Will I? Only time will tell.

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Once again, I was awake long before 4 a.m. this morning. That is not surprising, given that I slept a good part of the day yesterday and went to bed before darkness fell last night. But the fact that already I am ready for a nap again—at 5:30 a.m.—is bothersome. My annual physical is scheduled for five and a half hours from now. Perhaps the doctor will be understanding. Maybe he’ll refrain from judging me for drifting off in the examination room. If I return to bed now and nap for four hours, I should have plenty of time to make it to the doctor’s office—after rousing myself from a deep and restful sleep. I showered not long before dark yesterday, so I should not have an offensive smell when I enter his office, as if I died young. This is doable. It is.

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The sky remains dark, much the way it was when I woke over and over and over last night. What animals, I wonder, are scurrying about just outside the doors and windows? Are they friendly, or are they full of rage and ready to tear at the screens? I will not attempt to find out. That effort would take more energy than I have available at the moment.

Whoever you are, I hope you read the paragraphs below. I wrote and published them on this blog on September 14, 2013. They represent the topics and the intensity of some of my writing in years past. They illustrate who I used to be; before my writing and I deteriorated into a memorial to sickness. When I wrote this post, just over eleven years ago, I had the ability to think; to express real ideas, rather than simply to whine about my misfortune. Of course, my thoughts at the time actually were not my own—but, at least, they recognized worthy thinking in someone else. This morning, after sleeping for roughly fifteen hours straight, I still could acknowledge thoughts that had some merit. Perhaps all is not lost.

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Yesterday, I went to a nearby branch of the Dallas Public Library to pick up a book I’d requested, Celebrating the Third  Place: Inspiring Stories about the “Great Good Places” at the Heart of Our Communities. I haven’t finished the book yet, but I’ve read enough to become enamored of several of the places described in the stories I’ve read: Annie’s Gift and Garden Shop in Amherst, Massachusetts; The Third Place Coffee House in Raleigh, North Carolina; Crossroads in Lake Forest Park, Washington; Horizon Books in Traverse City, Michigan; Old Saint George in Cincinnati, Ohio; and Square One Restaurant in San Francisco, California.  The book was published in 2001; some of these may places no longer exist (Square One doesn’t); what is important to me is that they did exist and that they met a need, a longing, for a place where people could find community and camaraderie and acceptance.

The concept of The Third Place has had deep appeal for me ever since I learned of Ray Oldenburg’s book, The Great Good Place.  In fact, I’ve been interested in the concept since long before I learned of Oldenburg’s book, but Oldenburg gave the idea a name, an identity.  Here, in a nutshell, are the characteristics of a Third Place:

It is neutral.  No one is obligated to be there and there is no financial tie to the place.
Conversation is a key activity, though not necessarily the only one.  The Third Place is a place people come to talk and to listen.
It is accessible and accommodating, easy to be there and get there.
There are plenty of regulars who spend time there, people who serve as hosts or guides to those new to the environment.
The Third Place is low key, relaxed, absent pretense. Everyone can feel comfortable.
The atmosphere is relaxed, the mood is playful.
It is warm, comfortable, and homey. It is a home away from home.

In the foreword to Celebrating the Third Place, Oldenburg says something about the need for third places, something I think would resonate with most of us:

We may not need third place association to build a town hall anymore, but we sorely need it to construct the infrastructure of human relationships. Ever since the solidifying efforts of World Ward II passed into history, Americans have been growing further apart from one another. Lifestyles are increasingly privatized and competitive; residential areas are increasingly devoid of gathering places. To the extent of our affluence, we avoid public parks, public playgrounds, public schools, and public transportation. (Emphasis is mine.)

I think Oldenburg nailed a key contributor to the growing isolation we feel in our society: our own success, our own affluence, is silently smothering our sense of community.  Why go to a public park when we can create a park-like setting in our own back yard?  Why take children to a public playground when we can entertain children with big-screen television and video games?  Why take public transportation when we can enjoy the convenience and luxury of our own cars?  Increasingly, we are choosing convenience over experience. Our own financial success is shredding our social fabric.  We associate only with those of like socio-economic status, sacrificing the intellectual and emotional growth and understanding that can and does occur when we truly become part of a community.

Oldenburg says something else in the foreword that gave me pause. He said: “Our society, alas, has become much like Tocqueville’s homeland, in which governmental agencies are expected to do whatever needs doing. Yet what government does is done remotely and impersonally; its focus is on our weaknesses and dependencies and its policies define us accordingly.” Given my very, very strong sense that government should do what needs doing, I initially reacted negatively to that idea.  But it occurs to me that often I want government to step in because the private sector does not, at least not in consistent, dependable ways.  The private sector–our community–is abandoning us and I am asking government to step in to do the job that “we” fail to do for ourselves.  I will not stop asking government to do that…I believe government should step in when “we” can’t or won’t do what should be done to ensure our society is just.  But, ultimately, I would prefer that we Americans work to reshape our society into one that is more democratic, caring, and cohesive.  That’s why I find the third place so appealing.

I’ve written several times about the third place, about wanting to create a third place where I live (wherever that ends up…we still don’t know where and when).  I know I can’t do it by myself and, in fact, I don’t want to; that would be anathema to the idea!  But I know I want to be a part of creating such a “place” whenever and wherever we “land” in  a place we can call home.  The idea is always on my mind. I’m always, always thinking about it.  Whenever I find a place with some of the characteristics of a third place, I find myself getting excited about it and I want to talk to the people involved in making the place what it is.  But I am well aware of the fact that there are plenty of imitators, people who create places that are meant to look like, but in fact are not really, a true third place.  So I always temper my excitement with a dose of skepticism.  Maybe that’s anathema to the concept, too, but I can’t help myself.  I want to find, and talk to, people who drank the koolaid, people whose interest in creating and sustaining a third place is more about community than about money.  And I’m always on the lookout for people who are willing to talk about and, perhaps, ultimately risk their own time and money, to create a third place.

I won’t tire of talking and writing about this.  One day. One day…

The human soul, according to certain anonymous and potentially reliable sources, is tiny—smaller than the smallest piece of glitter. That fact, coupled with the essentially infinite size of the universe, explains how it is that billions upon billions of people who have died since the emergence of humankind have not clogged “heaven.” Heaven is exactly the same size as the universe, you see, and offers plenty of room for all those miniscule pieces of glitter. Each human soul is afforded what we Earthlings would call a one thousand cubic acre plot to serve as our soul’s eternal resting place, after our bodies have evolved into the building blocks of forevermore. Those plots of space-time are more than adequate to provide eternity for the semi-souls of our pets, which explains how we expect to frolic with our long-dead dogs and cats after our own time has come. The interactions between post-mortem human souls is not as easy to explain, though, inasmuch as each of them (according to those anonymous and potentially reliable sources) is restricted to movement within the thousand-acres cubes. This ongoing, unanswered question is the subject of extensive research; to date, though, the answer remains an unsolved mystery.

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Speaking of heaven and such, I saw something yesterday I thought was quite a generous offering to a would-be dictator:
        Let us pray for him: Psalm 108: 8-9

Not being familiar with that particular Psalm (and the others), I looked it up:
        8. Let his days be few; and let another take his office.
        9. Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.

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The hottest star in the universe is said to be WR 102, with an estimated surface temperature of 377,540°F. The star is located approximately 8,480 light years away in the constellation Sagittarius. Astronomers and astrophysicists say it is nearly 300,000 times brighter than the sun. A distinct relationship must exist between temperature, brightness, and distance; what that association is, though, confounds those of us untrained in such celestial matters.

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Once again, I went to bed early and slept only fitfully for much of the night. My gut noisily accompanied its mild discomfort and urged me to be ready, just in case I might be overcome by nausea. So far, so good. But when I got up, sometime after 6, I looked in the mirror to see a bloody nose. Apparently, sometime during the night, I got into a bar fight. And lost. I have never been much of a fighter. My only involvement in a true fight, that I remember, took place while I was in high school after a night of drunken revelry when my small group of friends stopped at a gas station. I found offensive something my friend, Mark, said to me, so I took a swing at him. He swung back…much harder. I still have a nearly-invisible scar, more than 50 years later, beneath my lower lip. I discarded the shirt I had been wearing because it was awash in blood from my wound. I do not think Mark and I repaired our friendship. I learned just a few years ago that he died several years later, after getting a Ph.D. in oceanography (I think) and forming a moderately successful pharmaceutical company. What my fight with Mark and Mark’s subsequent career and death have to do with my fitful sleep last night is beyond me. But there you go. That’s how the mind scurries down rabbit holes sometimes.

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I will not attend church this morning. The bloody nose and potential nausea argue against it. And I might be able to get the sleep this morning that I failed to get last night. Mi novia, though, will trot off to the sanctuary to listen to an insight service. It’s conceivable I might watch and listen online, but I’m making no promises to myself in that regard.

Tinnitus can be mind-numbingly annoying. Fortunately for me, it is not continual… though, lately, it seems to be increasingly common. Right now, for example, I hear sounds like crickets; thousands of loud crickets —probably drunk and looking for trouble—doing their damnedest to ruin any possibility of experiencing even a smidgeon of serenity. Crickets that should be crushed, poisoned, electrocuted, or otherwise silenced. Ever since I woke two hours ago, the noise has been a consistent buzz or rasp or chirp or whatever noise crickets make when their primary objective is to cause me to feel anger, grief, and a growing desire to stab both my eardrums with an icepick. Because of my distaste for pain and because I would rather hear something than nothing, I will not acquiesce to my absurd thoughts about inflicting on myself excruciating pain and perpetual deafness. The irritating insects, though, are not the only upsetting tinnitus noises. Fairly often, I hear the rhythmic pounding of my heart…thumping and thumping and thumping until I feel like screaming or physically removing the beating beast with a sharp knife and a pair of heavy-duty surgical retractors. Again, though, I always choose to live with the repetitive bass guitar playing in my ears, rather than to die in the throes of intense pain, with a scalpel stuck in my chest and a cold stainless steel instrument grasping at a non-functioning blood pump. In an attempt to deal with the disturbances in more peaceful ways, I am trying self-therapy—as in mentally restructuring my brain. I’ll try writing something mindlessly stupid; something that might cause readers (and myself) to believe I have gone over the edge…lost my mind…successfully performed a self-lobotomy.

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The story is that color photography was not possible until 1861, when the first color photograph was unveiled by Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell. That is the story. Reality says otherwise. The reason color photography was not possible until then was because color was not available until 1860. Until then, the world was almost entirely greyscale. That is the reason we see only black & white—greyscale—images in older photos. For a similar reason, we do not see any Buick 1904 Model B automobiles because, of the 37 built that year, none survived. Fourteen Buick Model Cs from 1905, which had a list price at that time of $1,200, still survive today; like color photographs, none were possible much earlier, because Buick Motor Company was not incorporated until 1903. As everyone knows, it has always been impossible to build Buicks before the company’s formal incorporation.

Facts and fantasies swim in the same oceans. If I were to show you a color photograph of a 1901 pink Buick, you would immediately recognize it—not as a fake, but as a fantasy. Yet you would not be sure whether my color photograph of a pink Buick of more recent vintage was real or artificial.

How do you tell which of two different versions of song lyrics is legitimately original?  Say, for example, two strings of words said to be from the Jimi Hendrix tune, Purple Haze:

Excuse me while I kiss the sky
Excuse me while I kiss this guy

The answer is so obvious I will not even waste your time, nor mine, to explain. Other variations between fact and fantasy are not quite as patently obvious. But some are. So, the message I send is this: do your research. Explore the possibilities. What is the earliest year in which Purple Haze could have been written? It is impossible to say with certainty, but with the knowledge that the world was almost entirely greyscale until 1860, 1860 is a safe bet. However, knowing that Jimi Hendrix wrote the song when he was  about 24 years old and that he was born in November 1942, it is impossible that the song was written before 1966. Logic, it seems, plays a part in differentiating between fact and fantasy, when reality is introduced into the equation.

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Yesterday’s energy dipped and then spiked. Earlier this morning, if a heart monitor had been attached to my chest, the device’s line would have zig-zagged like a seismograph recording a an earth-shattering earthquake. The second cup of espresso probably did nothing to smooth the line, but the caffeine in my system seems to have dwindled a bit over time. I feel the bursts of energy seeping out of me, leaving me ready for a little rest…perhaps even a nap.

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I am so very impatient to end this 10-month-so-far experience with the effects of lung cancer and its treatment. But the chemo will continue and radiation therapy soon will be added to the mix. The options, I suppose, would be to try “natural” therapies (with little or no evidence they work) or to stop therapy all together and let nature take its course. I am not prepared to do either. Other people have undergone treatments—far more difficult and life-altering—for years; prolonging and improving the quality of their lives. I, too, should be able to deal with whatever I must to successfully battle this interruption to my tranquility. I do not want it said about me, “He was a chicken-shit whiner who gave up without really trying.” Instead, I’d prefer it said, “Amazingly, he survived with cancer well over 40 years, winning the Boston Marathon for the last 10 of them. The fact that he lived to age 121 was an inspiration.” Of course, I would have to collect welfare for many of those latter years, so I may have to rethink this.

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Hmm. I seem to have walked away from my computer a few hours ago without posting what I wrote earlier this morning. Since then, I’ve gone to my blood-letting appointment, driven (yes, I DROVE) mi novia to a little bakery for baked goods (what else?), and had a welcome surprise visit from a friend who brought us spectacular goodies and wonderful conversation! A pretty packed morning for a frequently-fatigued geezer, I’d say. My anticipated energy boost has returned, so I’ll be ready for my post-chemo injection in a couple of hours. I feel like I’ve shed about 20 years! I must take advantage of my temporary youth while I can, before the poison cancer-killing chemicals reclaim me as their plaything.

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The patch of brilliant yellow and brown and chartreuse leaves I viewed less that a week ago, all on one tree across from my window, has changed. Essentially all the leaves on that tree have turned orange—accented with light green slivers. The rest of the forest snapshot remains various shades of green, interspersed with browning leaves. Fall is here, at least in part. But even the recent spike in temperatures is expected to decline again in the next few days, just in time to pair the look of Halloween with the feel of the season.

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I expected to feel rather energetic for a few days after yesterday’s chemotherapy treatment, as has been the case after previous ones. But this morning, my energy seems to be trending downward; not low, but heading in that direction. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had nothing to eat or drink since around 8 last night, in preparation for the fasting labs in a while, which in turn precede my annual physical next Tuesday. Aside from reaffirming the cancer diagnosis, I wonder what the doctor will discover? I can imagine him saying,

“You, sir, are suffering age-related degeneration! It’s time for you to give drunken sky-diving a whirl! Or might find considerable appeal in Formula 1 racing. Depending on your risk tolerance, you may want to explore dueling with live-round pistols. Something, anything, to drag you out of this physical funk—or whatever it is.“

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A calculator, which I have not used in a very long time, sits on the edge of my desk, taking up room unnecessarily. Next to it are two pen & pencil holders, filled with pencils and pens (of course), long with scissors, a highlighter, a screwdriver, and some small tools that were used to assemble a treadmill. Most of the contents, like the calculator, have not been used in quite some time. The rest of the desk is littered with paper for recycling, paper for filing, old and useless magazines, and assorted other materials and devices that belong somewhere else or nowhere at all. Clearing off the desk would not be an especially onerous task, but it would require me to make decisions to either discard or properly store the stuff. But that would be pointless, wouldn’t it? It would simply give me ample space to lazily place other unnecessary junk in my way. I need an infusion of permanent motivation. Perhaps I can persuade my oncologist to add some to the bags full of chemicals her staff causes to drip into my body every three weeks. The steroids, alone, seem to have lost their power.

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Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.

~ Carl Jung ~

Some mornings, I write a post for this blog from start to finish, as if the words were waiting impatiently to be released from the prison of my mind. More often, the words hide within my brain’s recesses, revealing themselves only after carefully assessing the potential dangers that might await them in the open. Occasionally, though, the words remain safely hidden in their protective caves, shielded from condemnations or complaints—declining to show themselves for fear of unpredictable recriminations. I wonder whether, then, this blog’s posts materialize (or fail to materialize) from the mind of just one man or, instead, emerge from distinct personalities that share a common residence. Evidence of the latter is scattered throughout this blog—conflicting opinions, incompatible emotions, and ideas that are at odds with one another. That sort of chaotic mix might be found—in more extreme cases—in a murderous pacifist who rejects both violence and peace. A person who, when not feeling utterly apathetic, loves and hates with equal intensity. This morning, I have taken several breaks from writing, pausing just long enough each time to switch personalities. This happens so often I have long since forgotten which one is the real me. If, indeed, any one of them can make a legitimate claim to reality.

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After mostly unsuccessful efforts to sleep last night, I finally rose for the day just before 4 a.m. I have been up for about an hour as I write this. My first, and possibly only, expresso of the day is gone. The cat has been fed, much earlier than usual. I’ve consumed a café mocha flavored Ensure, strongly encouraged for several months by my oncology care team and mi novia to help counter my tendency to skip eating. I am working on drinking artificially-flavored, electrolyte-laden water to counter my history of dehydration. The day, so far, is like most other days—except it has begun far earlier than usually has been the case for several months…but is typical of my life in the days pre-cancer. I miss those days when I was up every day by 4 or 5 when I felt a close kinship with the very early morning hours.

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A whirlwind of healthcare procedures and processes are in store, both for mi novia and for me. She has an appointment for labs this morning, in preparation for her annual physical. My labs, for my physical, are scheduled for tomorrow. Our respective physicals are on next week’s schedule—both on Tuesday. Today is another day of chemo treatment for me, meaning several hours in the oncology clinic’s treatment room. If the day-after schedule follows my history, I return to the oncology clinic for a post-treatment injection tomorrow. I return for another physical therapy session (yesterday was the first) on Monday. Our medical matters are not the only ones. My oldest brother’s wife soon will fly to the U.S. for assessment and treatment of two lumps in her breasts; my late wife’s sister has been diagnosed with a malignant lump and has scheduled a lumpectomy. Human bodies apparently are magnets for disease, especially as they age; hence the checkups and relentless treatments that command so much time and money. Were it not for excellent insurance coverage, both Medicare and supplemental policies, I would have long ago either used up every nickel of my retirement money—or died. Or both.

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Both of us voted early yesterday, casting our votes with the full knowledge that they express principles and positions that run counter to the vast majority of people around us…in this county, this state, and this region of the country. Not too terribly long ago, differing political philosophies rarely were enough to generate blind rage and heartfelt hatred. Times have changed, though. In some places—probably including this one where we live—one is not safe expressing minority political positions. Political philosophies define friends and enemies. Both sides of the left-right divide claim the other is populated by dangerous, un-American traitors who wish to utterly vanquish their opponents…to the point of wanting them imprisoned or dead. And both sides each make invalid claims, unwilling to recognize that their own seething hatred triggers the same in the other. Religion, often said to be an important factor in creating brotherly love, is instead used as a deadly weapon; a justification for conquest and control.  The only reliable solution, I think, is extinction. I would rather believe the animosity that is tearing us to shreds can be eliminated or controlled, but my faith in humanity is insufficient to support that belief. Which of the personalities holds that position, I wonder?

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Manic depressive. I think I understand the description better with every passing day.

Invisible walls behave like cages with no space between their invisible steel bars. Are people contained inside those walls eager to break out and punish people presumed to have built them? Or were the walls erected by apprehensive inmates to safeguard against outsiders who may wish residents harm? Once constructed, invisible walls take on an aura of permanence. The only way to eliminate the border between fear and freedom is to deconstruct the wall, brick by invisible brick. Bar by invisible bar. Threat by perceived threat. Building invisible walls may take just minutes. The complex process of removing them piece-by-piece can take the remainder of a lifetime.

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Contrary to the way it is often described, good espresso is not black. It is extremely dark brown; a nearly opaque liquid beneath a thin surface layer of creamy deep beige foam. Its appearance, though, is no guarantee of its flavor or its quality. Even its aroma can be deceiving; a strong, appealing odor can hide a sharp, metallic bitterness. Good espresso’s bitterness is both rich and subtle—it has a hint of sweetness underlying its pleasant, acrimonious bite. This is just my opinion, of course. I am no expert. I am no connoisseur. Nor do I try to be. I pay attention to the flavor and smell; the way it feels in my mouth. An espresso I find extremely pleasing could be deemed undrinkable swill by afficionados. Let the afficionado or expert judge me. Let them mock me, if they consider me to have an untrained, uneducated, hillbilly palette. One day I might look back at my judgments today of espresso and think unkindly of my taste buds; that’s okay. For at least 50 years—maybe closer to 60 years—I loathed the flavor of licorice. Suddenly, though, one day I tasted a salty Dutch licorice and was instantly transformed; I wanted to go back in time and taste licorice during all those years I detested it. Before I fell in love with the taste of what I consider good espresso, I did not enjoy espresso in the least—I found it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. In years past, I liked having an occasional Compari—no longer; I find it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. And that may change one day.

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My strength has diminished considerably during the last ten months. During the same period, I have lost quite a lot of weight (I am down an astonishing 75 pounds from my peak weight of a few years ago). The recent weight loss has come, in large part, from loss of muscle; not so much from the loss of fat. The reduction in muscle coincides with my declining strength. My oncologist referred me to a physical therapist. The purpose is to help me regain my strength and muscle. Today will be my first session with the therapist. Tomorrow will be my umpteenth chemotherapy session at the oncology clinic. I doubt I will feel inclined toward physical therapy next week, inasmuch as the chemo sessions tend to sap my energy. But time will tell, as it always does. I certainly would like to regain all the strength I have lost (and then some), but none of the weight. I’d like to lose the flab and fat. I’d like to have the toned and sculpted muscles of a 25-year-old Olympic swimmer/ sprinter/weightlifter. I’d settle for a less, if necessary.

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Today is my niece’s birthday. As long as I can remember my own birthday, I will remember hers; it’s two days and many, many years after mine.

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Thanks to being entertained by watching police procedurals and other films and videos  involving murder, I am familiar with the linkage between murder by strangulation and the hyoid bone. Coroners on these shows often deduce that a person was murdered by strangulation if the hyoid bone is broken. For your information, the hyoid bone is (according to Wikipedia) a “horseshoe-shaped bone situated in the anterior midline of the neck between the chin and the thyroid cartilage.”

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Celebrate today; it is the only October 23, 2024 you will live to see.

The oncologist who has been treating me seemed generally pleased with the results of my most recent PET-scan, which revealed a reduction in the standard uptake value (SUV) of some of the “regions of interest.” The SUVs of a cluster of sub-centimeter left periaortic lymph nodes, though, had increased. SUVs greater than 2.5 (all of mine are greater than that) are highly suggestive of malignancy, so the war is still on. But the decrease in values suggests the chemo is working, so the same combination of chemo drugs will continue. True to her promise yesterday morning, the doctor consulted with a radiologist about the prospect of using radiation to deal with the sub-centimeter left periaortic lymph nodes; she called last night to tell me the radiologist confirmed the wisdom of using radiation on them—she will schedule it. Ideally, of course, the cancer would be eliminated by the chemo; but the positive response to the treatments is good news. Still, I want to know whether these findings have any effect on “staging.” That’s a question for the next conversation.

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My late wife’s sister, who remains a very close member of my family, baked an exceptionally tasty apple pie for my birthday yesterday. She brought it over, along with vanilla ice cream, yesterday afternoon. She, mi novia, and I celebrated my continuing aging (and the good oncological news) with one slice each of pie à la mode; I was proud that each one of us had sufficient discipline to stop at one slice, though I could have eaten the entire pie and all the ice cream without their help.

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Science is responsible for humans’ assumption that bees’ (for example) behavior is controlled genetically, not intellectually. But what if science is wrong? What if, due to humans’ inadequate or incorrect understanding of the fundamentals of insects’ brains, we have it all wrong? What if bees, mosquitos, ants, beetles, and all their close and distant relatives are at least as intelligent as humans and are waiting for just the right time to launch an all-out assault on humanity’s control of the planet? It would surprise us, no doubt, to discover that cicadas long ago solved the challenges related to nuclear fission. We would be equally stunned to learn that, during the 30-to-60-day life cycles of honey bees, they document and publish practical instructions for applying the physics of winged flight to 2000-pound steers. And that might be only the beginning. The superior brainpower of lizards and snakes, long considered by humans as the Neanderthals of the reptilian world, could be unleashed to implement unspeakable developments in molecular biology. Earthworms and slugs might be enlisted to undermine the foundations of all the world’s high-rise buildings, leading to unprecedented disasters…imagine a cluster of 225-story buildings collapsing on top of hundreds of older, smaller buildings around them. And it might only get worse. It is too late to offer parity to our close cousin apes and monkeys and to all non-primates. They do not want equality; they insist on dominion…absolute domination.

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Cellophane was invented by Swiss chemist Jacques E. Brandenberger in 1900, while attempting to create a cloth material that would repel, instead of absorb, liquids. During the course of his efforts, he discovered that viscose would repel liquids, but the fabric to which it was applied became stiff. Over time, he abandoned the idea of a liquid-proof fabric, opting instead to focus on softening viscose film by adding glycerin. Cellophane, so named by combining the words cellulose and diaphane, was patented in 1912. I stumbled upon this information quite by accident when searching Wikipedia for something entirely unrelated. And I learned that cellophane is biodegradable. It seems to me that subsequent discoveries, leading to what we now call plastic wrap, have largely replaced a biodegradable product with one that persists in the environment for approximately ten bazillion years.

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Truth exists on a different axis from falsehood. Both, though, share the concept of a circular continuum…but on perpendicular planes.

Overnight, a few people from my high school graduating class—people I only vaguely remember and who probably do not actually remember me—wished me happy birthday, thanks to a Facebook group administrator who kindly and dutifully posted a reminder. He posts birthday reminders for members of the class, as well as old obituaries on the anniversaries of those who have died. Lately, a few members of the group have posted questions and comments about whether a 52-year reunion of our graduating class should be held—reunions were held to celebrate the 10, 20, 30, and 40 year anniversaries, but not for 50. For various reasons, I have attended none of the reunions. And I have had almost no contact with my high school classmates since graduation. My so-called high school friendships were shallow and disappointing. Why I am even remotely curious to know the turns taken in the lives of fellow students since then is beyond my understanding.

When I started writing the first paragraph, darkness had begun slipping away, revealing spots and streaks of daylight where the sun had already begun to melt the night sky. In the time it has taken me to write this much, the horizon has brightened to a milky-beige. Higher in the sky, the color is closer to a very light, dull grey-blue, with grey decidedly predominant. I just returned to this paragraph to update my observations about the sky; it is now pale blue, the color of a robin’s egg.

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The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

~ Pablo Picasso ~

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A few weeks ago, I saw photographs of several elaborate sand sculptures created as entries into a competition on the beach in Port Aransas, Texas. The images were stunning—intricately crafted figures created by exceptional artists. All of the sand sculptures are no doubt long gone now, washed away by high tides and waves. I would think the artists would be sad to see their creations dissolved into the water, but a comment by one of the artists that I recall reading suggested otherwise. To that artist—and probably others—the act of creating the sculpture was satisfaction enough. There was no need for the art to be preserved; having made it was sufficient for the creator. I admire that attitude.

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There is no kidding myself; I am a little nervous about today’s visit with the oncologist. Though I expect interpretations of the results to be mixed between slightly positive and slightly negative, my reading of the PET-scan report could be completely wrong. I should push those thoughts out of my head; I should know in less than two hours. There’s no point in worrying at this stage. That argument is as valid as the one insisting the condemned man should look on the bright side, as the guillotine blade slices through the air on its way to his throat.

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An orange-cranberry scone, accented by another cup of espresso, would please my taste buds at this moment. Unfortunately, it’s my understanding that the only place I know of that used to sell such delights, Starbucks, no longer offers them. My espresso is better than theirs, but I doubt I could replicate the texture and flavor of their orange-cranberry scones. I think the last time I had one of those delightful, joy-inspiring products was at a Starbucks in Dallas, where I stopped for a break when I took my long morning walks.

This morning’s news of Philip G. Zimbardo’s death one week ago at age 91 reminded me of the controversy surrounding the Stanford Prison Experiment. In the experiment, Zimbardo and a team of his graduate students recruited college-aged males to participate in what was planned to be a two-week experiment. The young men were to spend that time in a mock prison in the basement of a building on the Stanford campus. After just six days, the experiment was terminated because the men playing the role of guards became psychologically abusive and the “prisoners” suffered a variety of unexpected emotional reactions. Zimbardo was roundly criticized for the fact that he participated in the study, serving as the “superintendent,” an active participant in the experiment and not simply a neutral observer.  Psychology and sociology classes I took during that period spent significant amounts of time reviewing the study and critiques of the way it was carried out. Despite its flaws, the abandoned study offered fascinating insights into the powerful effects that assigned roles can have on participants. It gave clues, as well, to the ways in which prison environments can transform individuals’ behaviors in very short periods of time. The experiment spurred other research, as well, that led to all manner of questions and answers concerning psychology and sociology, in general. I think the questions and discussions surrounding the ethics of Zimbardo’s experiment may have been among the topics that ignited my interest the social sciences and prompted my decision to get a degree with a major in sociology. That and the fact that one of my brothers had already followed that path, with a master’s degree in sociology, focusing on criminology. Another brother’s involvement in linguistics sparked my interest in that discipline, as well. I wonder whether I had any interests of my own during my college years or whether, wanting to latch onto something, I gravitated toward their interests? Hmm. Food for thought and fuel for musings.

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Physical energy and psychological energy probably are closely linked to one another, but each may exist on its own, to some extent. Physical energy may not rely heavily on psychological energy, but I doubt the reverse is true; psychological energy almost certainly depends on adequate supplies of physical energy. If I were asked to define those two forms of energy, I probably would stumble and admit my understanding of them is incomplete. Pushed further, I might admit I do not know that they are different from one another. In fact, I might reveal that I know absolutely nothing about them…even whether they exist, except in my own mind. The difference between knowledge and belief is stark; one is based on a person’s understanding/perception of measurable observations—the other requires no evidence whatsoever. When I write, I  tend to allow my words to wander in the same way my thoughts wander. Hence, the sometimes difficult-to-follow (for the reader) connections between the ideas I record. Because my fingers cannot keep up with my thoughts, my writing may seem to be embedded with gaps between apparently unrelated ideas. On the other hand, when my thoughts slow to the speed of cold molasses, my fingers may try to fill in the empty spaces with incoherent splashes of language. That is why, on the road to understanding, the shoulders often seem caked with mud.

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A few years ago, I began writing a story that involved mermaids swishing their tails to propel them through the leaf litter on the forest floor. These mermaids were forest mermaids, not the kind we read about that use their tails to swish through water. Like so many other dozens…more likely, hundreds…of stories I have begun, this story about forest mermaids has never been completed. So many unfinished stories remain in my head, waiting to be released into the wild when the time is right. Will the time ever be right?

Looking out my windows, I see a canvas of multiple shades of green, all protected from direct sunlight by shadows of the house and the trees behind it. But my eyes are drawn to a patch of brilliant yellow and brown and chartreuse leaves, accentuated by rays of bright sunlight that makes its way through the shadows. Strips of blue sky show through the dense woods in front of me. All of this is a replay; I have seen it all before. No matter how common, though, the scene always is equally calming and breathtaking. Every time I rest my eyes on the repetitive beauty in front of me, I sigh in appreciation, I suppose, or wonder, or both. Just now, I watched a large, withered yellow leaf drop from one of the highest branches, twisting in the breeze. Rays of direct sun briefly caught it on its trip down, making it appear to sparkle magically as it made its way to the ground. Another leaf just danced down to the forest floor, mimicking that first remarkable display. I feel fortunate to have seen that mundane spectacle…a reward of sitting and staring out the window.

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A summary of the results of yesterday’s PET-scan were posted, within a few hours of its completion, on the oncology clinic’s portal. I carefully read every word, hoping to understand, before my appointment on Monday, what my doctor would learn from the results. I might as well have been reading War and Peace in the original Russian, along with an occasional paragraph in Tagalog. My guess, after wading through a full page of abstruse messaging, is that there is some good news and some not-so-good news. That guess may be utterly off-base; my prognosis may give me a dependable ten years or more…or the potential of only months. I will have to wait until Monday morning to know…and, even then, I suspect the scan’s mixed messages (if, indeed, that’s what they are) may make it impossible to predict the course of the disease. Certainty is not assured.

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Preservation of one’s own culture does not require contempt or disrespect for other cultures.

~ Cesar Chavez ~

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Before she left on her brief trip, and at my request, mi novia bought a couple of bags of frozen cooked shrimp. I thawed some last night and ate them with a very mild dipping sauce. It occurred to me while enjoying them that they represented my second seafood meal of the day, having stopped for a late lunch of lobster bisque after the PET-scan. And seafood was a topic of conversation during part of the drive home…or was that the day before…or both? Whenever the discussion(s) took place, the conversation included praise for flounder and scallops and shrimp. And my thoughts turned to a recent appetizer meal that included calamari steaks. I have always enjoyed seafood, but lately I seem to have developed an even greater appreciation for it, while simultaneously finding beef and chicken not quite as appealing as they once were. Mussels and clams and oysters and all sorts of fish are special treats for me. The problem with eating all such creatures and beasts is that they are sentient. Whether farmed or wild, they are killed to satisfy human appetites. The morality of such behavior is debatable; but do people question the “morality” of lions “brutally” killing water buffalos for food? Do we question the morality of feeding animal-based diets to pets? I have trouble arguing either for or against the human morality of consuming “meat” of whatever kind. As difficult as it is to imagine the agonizing slaughter of antelope by hungry leopards, though, I do not think of those felines as immoral. The manner of raising livestock and slaughtering them for food, though, is a moral issue, in my mind. Is it sufficiently difficult to think about, though, to spur me to make the effort to ensure that I eat only “ethically-produced” meat? On one hand, I do not consider myself a hypocrite; on the other, I do.

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It is nearing 10 a.m. My dawdling is becoming a refined habit.

Yesterday, the ophthalmologist diagnosed my vision problems as anterior basement membrane dystrophy. His proposed “fix,” beginning with my left eye, is to perform a superficial keratectomy. Superficial keratectomy involves surgically removing and smoothing the corneal surface of the eye.  According to the doctor, the solution is almost always successful. The right eye, suffering from the same condition but not as severe, would follow the successful healing of the left. After I returned home yesterday, when I did some research about the condition, I learned the condition is also called map-dot fingerprint dystrophy, a diagnosis I received when experiencing similar symptoms several years ago, quite a while before I moved to Hot Springs Village. At the time, eye drops alleviated the symptoms. Recently, when I visited a local optometrist, I mentioned to her that years-ago-experience and told her of the earlier diagnosis. Until yesterday, I did not realize the badly degraded vision in my left eye and the accompanying itch were simply a new iteration of an old problem. The initial recovery from the procedure general takes 3 to 7 days and complete healing can take 6 to 8 weeks. I scheduled the procedure for next month; the problem has been wrecking my vision for a long time and I am more than ready for a solution. Assuming the results of today’s PET-scan are good, I will keep next month’s appointment for the procedure.

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Freeway traffic, especially during the commute rush, tends to be an anxiety-inducing experience for me—even in and around Little Rock. The tension arising from bumper-to-bumper, high-speed, automotive near-entanglements causes my neck, shoulders, chest, and arms to tighten. The tightness remains for a while, even after leaving the unsettling experience behind me. I was delighted, therefore, when my wonderful friend offered to drive the “back road” to Little Rock yesterday for my appointment with an ophthalmologist. Instead of the nerve-wracking, high-speed drive on I-30, she took the almost-traffic-free route on Highway 9 to an equally peaceful, tree-lined country into west Little Rock. The difference in my state-of-mind between traveling the high-stress course versus the low-stress itinerary had an enormous impact on how I felt upon arrival. The fact that I did not have to drive yesterday, even on a country back-road, also helped my frame of mind considerably.  Sometimes, wisdom and serenity are almost indistinguishable.

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Another friend will give me a ride to today’s PET-scan appointment today. Though I am confident I would be more than capable of driving myself, there is no question my ongoing fatigue could have a negative impact on my response time and my mental sharpness, if I did. So I am more than a little grateful that I am able to depend on her generosity and willingness to give up her own time to make my day quite a bit easier. I think I am finally reaching the point of understanding the truth in what I am told: “Do not look at it as an imposition…your friends want to help you.” I know I feel strongly about wanting to help friends; I am not quite sure why I have always been hesitant to accept help, thinking it an imposition on others.

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Until announcements of his death spread like wild fire through news and entertainment media, I do not think I had ever heard of Liam Payne, nor his former band, One Direction. I have no doubt his fall from a Buenos Aires hotel balcony was a catastrophic blow to his family, friends, and fans, but I wonder why the media pounced on the tragedy with such force and volume. The reason probably rests in the fact that consumers of media seem to have a ravenous appetite for morbidity. Consequently, the media happily obliges the public with all the gruesome details of airliner crashes, celebrity deaths, wars, mass shootings, murders, ad nauseum. And the public’s hunger for such distasteful news gives the media reason to dig up as much of it as possible. But why do people seem to have so much deep fascination with such emotionally distressing stuff? If I knew the answer, could I do anything to change human nature so people would recoil at such news, rather than revel in it? I am afraid not. I sometimes wish I were not part of the same species that finds the revolting so compelling.

The final, anxiety-ridden weeks before the upcoming presidential election feel like the terrifying moments between a high-speed skid on a dark, wet, slippery highway and the subsequent, inevitable crash. By the time the sounds of grinding metal and shattering glass can be heard, an eternity has passed. After silence embraces the carnage, survivors—if there are any—need a few seconds to process what has happened. And then the long, uncertain future begins. Anxiety takes a different form; time slows to an agonizing crawl. Prospects for tomorrow become cloudy. The path forward becomes precarious, unpredictable, insecure. No matter the ultimate outcome, the immediate future promises pervasive bleakness. The election, like the calamity on the road, does not immediately end. Vote counts and recounts and challenges may go on for days…weeks…or longer. Hospitalizations, rehabilitations, and funerals play out in slow motion after the crash. And we do it all to ourselves.

+++

I will be a passenger on the road to Little Rock this morning, thanks to the gracious generosity of a friend. She has agreed to do the driving so I do not have to determine whether I am capable of making the trip by myself. Though I probably could do it, I do not feel like trying and discovering I am wrong. I hope the ophthalmologist, who specializes in corneal issues, can quickly identify and solve my problem. The vision in my left eye is extremely blurred. Not ideal for driving, nor reading, nor watching television, nor other vision-dependent activities. We shall see.

On Monday, I will get the results of tomorrow’s PET-scan. With good fortune, the results will reveal that my chemo treatment is working as hoped and planned. So many things go right so often; but knowing the potential for “things” to go badly wrong is enough to amplify gratitude when there’s good news and magnify the disappointment when the news is bad.

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The appeal of desolate places is difficult to understand and much harder to articulate. But for people who are drawn to distance—the privacy of insulating space—the allure is strong and incredibly obvious. Part of the attraction involves numbers; the fewer people in close proximity, the better. Up to a point, but not to the point of absolute isolation. Except that absolute isolation is the point from time to time. Yet, for most people who deeply value solitude, camaraderie is as important—camaraderie in the sense of very small numbers of other people who are extremely close. A small group—perhaps as small as one—of others with whom one is comfortable in sharing intimate details of one’s thoughts and emotions. Crowded cities are not conducive to the kind of desolation these people seek. Prairies and private, hidden refuges separate from the frenetic activities of throngs of people are better suited to such people. The world in which we live is geared toward social engagement, though. The privacy of insulating space is increasingly difficult to find; those places are harder to reach. So adjustments are forced on those not-so-social beings. Weekend getaways. Vacations to decidedly unpopular destinations. Retreating into one’s own private domain. Anything that permits escape from the mental and emotional pressure of engagement for a little while. That need for escape does not indicate that a person is anti-social or desires permanent solitude…he or she may thoroughly enjoy limited social interactions. Escape simply provides relief from the constant bombardment of life in an overly-social world. Temporary relief is better than no relief at all. The price of relief can be loneliness, but loneliness often accompanies the swirl of engagement, as well. Solutions can solve one problem and exacerbate another, thanks to the complexity of human emotional needs. Balance, the supposedly ideal solution, is a theory seldom proven.

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Enough of this morning musing. For now.

Inside the house, 71°F feels cold. I can only imagine that, outside, the temperature of 48°F must feel positively frigid. The HVAC unit remains on the “cooling” setting, but the air temperature indoors needs no downward adjustment. I am tempted to switch the system to “heating,” but in this in-between-season, I might frequently have to change it back and forth to match the circumstances. Perhaps switching the system off, instead, would make more sense. Maybe a pair of gloves and a sweatshirt on top of the sweatshirt I am wearing would be even better. And it’s past time that I abandon the flip-flops in favor of foot-warming slippers. I am old. I am not in the best of health. It is, therefore, natural for me to feel cold, even when the temperature is a balmy 71°F. I was comfortable in bed a while ago. Why did I desert it? Competing interests, with the desire to begin my day winning out over luxurious warmth: that’s what prompted me to get up. I may be in the process of changing my mind.

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Turkeys appeared in the forest near our house for the first time in a number of months. We saw six large, plump turkeys yesterday morning. ‘Tis the season, I suppose. Why do I see the creatures only “in season?” That question prompted me to explore, ever-so-briefly, for an answer. My guess was that the answer lies in their food foraging habits. The answer I found, on the wildturkeylab.com website, satisfied me:

…when the leaves start turning colors, wild turkeys typically shift their home ranges. This shift comes as turkeys enter winter flocks and focus their attention solely on food and safety. Fall foods are dominated by acorns in forested landscapes and waste grain in agricultural landscapes.

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“My church doesn’t approve of assisted suicide and yours probably doesn’t, either.” So said my attorney, after I told her I do not want to be placed in a nursing home as I near the end of my life and that I want to be able to take pills or otherwise end my life on my own terms. I did not tell her I do not care what her church, or mine, might think of such a decision. Nor did I say such a decision is entirely personal and the church has no business “approving” of it or not. I could have challenged her…but what would have been the point? She is free to accept, or to reject, whatever position to which she feels inclined. Clearly, though, she and I have different positions on the matter. Does it matter? No. Not as long as she does not attempt to impose her view on me. And vice versa…except it’s hard for me to say there is any legitimate moral justification for preventing someone from ending their life, if that life would be physically or emotionally excruciating. Best for me to stay out of the fray, methinks. I should go on record (if I haven’t done so already) that I want to be cremated after I die (but not before!). Or kicked to the curb as food for vultures. Or used for medical research. Or otherwise disposed of as cheaply as possible. I do not expect to care, after I die. So do with me what you will; it matters not.

+++

Due to a change in the oncology center’s schedule, I have no appointments today and tomorrow. Hallelujah! And thanks to good friends who have graciously interrupted their days to drive me to and from medical appointments on Thursday and Friday, I need not worry about whether I am fit to drive myself (mi novia has important obligations on those days, else she would drive, as usual). I consider myself extremely fortunate to have such truly generous, giving, helpful, caring friends.

+++

Darkness prevails outside my windows. In spite of the fact that I chose to venture out into the cold house when I woke this morning, I am now thinking about returning to bed, to that warm, comfortable cocoon. Thinking hard about doing that.

Sitting in the front row of a monstrous hotel ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of youthful FBI agents of every color and gender, I felt out of place. Sensing my discomfort, two agents—who looked to me to be no more than eighteen or nineteen years old—took me under their wings. But only briefly. During a short break in a presentation, both of them left their seats to flirt with female counterparts. Among the female agents was my late wife, who was sitting somewhere in the multitude of law enforcement children. She had just been hired; this event represented her first exposure to FBI culture. I scanned the audience for her amid the ocean of faces, but the sheer numbers made it impossible to differentiate one face from another. I decided to call her, instead. But she called me first and left a voice mail: “I’m going for a walk. Back in an hour or so.” For some reason, I had to leave and could not wait that long, so I tried to call her back. But my phone was exceptionally complex and I could not figure out how to make the call. To avoid disrupting the people around me, I left the ballroom and tried again in an empty corridor outside.

Just as I began fiddling with the phone, an FBI agent approached me, pleading to use my phone. I told him I had an urgent call to make, so he could not. He continued badgering me and I relented. But instead of making a call, he chatted with a woman who had joined him. I shouted for him to give me my phone. He drew it close and said it would take just a moment. “I lost my phone,” he said, “and I have to call headquarters.” I did not care. I demanded he release it. He jumped inside an elevator, whose doors had just opened. I followed. I seized my phone and scrambled away to another empty corridor in a distant part of the hotel.

There was more, of course. But the rest of the dream is shrouded in an odd fog, gritty like sand and awash in the stench of a stagnant backwater filled with the rotting corpses of sea creatures. “Sea death,” I remember thinking, “oceanic fatalities.”

+++

The weather has turned, with promised temperatures not reaching 80°F until October 23, and then barely touching that level for only four days. I feel like I am missing autumn; the entire season will be gone before I know it. Temperatures that once felt luxuriously cool are now uncomfortably cold. I attribute that to my chemo, but my weight loss could be responsible. Or, of course, it could be both…or something else entirely. My three pairs of blue jeans—purchased not long ago to replace the ones that slipped to my knees if I did not wear suspenders—have followed their predecessors’ behavior. I attribute that to the weight loss; it certainly is not the chemo…though the chemo probably is playing a role in the weight loss. This morning, as I dressed in preparation for a visit with the estate attorney, I found I could not cinch my new belt tight enough to keep the jeans from falling down after a few steps. Back to suspenders. Dammit. I am not slim, though. Just un-muscled with layers of fat protecting those shriveling threads of power.

+++

Mi novia just reminded me to hurry up…eat something quickly. The meeting is at 8:00 a.m. and it’s approaching 7:25 a.m. Okay. I will stop now.

There is nothing of consequence I want to share at the moment. Three days of intermittent round-the-clock sleep has done nothing to restore my energy. So, I’ll try to sleep some more, in the hope a continuation of the same will have different results.

I sat at the table, just off the kitchen, gazing absent-mindedly at the trees outside the windows. The forest view, which had seized my attention from the first time I saw it, was no longer as captivating as in the past. Trees that once mesmerized me had become common; uninspiring stalks of wood dressed in dull green and earth tone foliage. Leaves, turning brown and muted yellow as the season started to change, were devoid of the brilliant reds and oranges that, not so very long ago, I anticipated with gleeful enthusiasm. Everywhere I looked—inside, outside, walls, ceilings, the sky, the floor—the scene was similarly drab and flat and dreary. That is, until I looked down, where the back of my hands rested on the table.

The palms of my hands sparked a memory from my childhood. Some of the kids I played with had declared themselves palm-readers. One of them—I do not recall who—announced that two normally distinct lines on my palms merged into a rare single line, which had deep meaning. Though I do not recall what he said about the meaning, I recall claiming to reject such juvenile superstition while, secretly, being fascinated by what this rare physical defect might actually predict about me. That youthful embrace of the possibility that palm line superstitions could actually forecast my future have long since dissolved. But that memory at the kitchen table and the vaguely murky scenery around me at that moment combined to briefly resurrect in me the gullibility or, perhaps, desire to rely on “signs” to forecast the direction of my life. That short return to childish naïveté lasted long enough for me to think about a few episodes of my life and wonder whether I should have known to expect them to unfold as they did…if only I had listened more carefully and remembered the predictions or declarations or whatever was given to me.

My senses returned to me soon thereafter. I realize the dull emptiness in which I was submersed as I sat at the table probably played a role in dredging up that odd memory. Now, I wonder whether my mind will replay all these thoughts whenever I allow the world around me to feel flat or stale or colorless.