Things on My Mind

Posted on May 6, 2019 by John Swinburn

I learned yesterday that one of my brothers, from whom I unfortunately have been estranged for more than two years, is in the hospital. He is to undergo a heart catheterization and placement of a pacemaker as a prelude to an investigation to determine whether he has a bleeding ulcer. Despite our estrangement, this is deeply upsetting news. But, I’m afraid, it doesn’t influence the estrangement. We have a long history of periodic estrangement, virtually all of them based in some way on our opposing political beliefs and/or positions on matters relating to society’s roles and responsibilities for the less fortunate.

The last time I communicated directly with him was in mid-February 2017. I sent him an email, telling him that we were planning to stop in Houston and saying we wanted to visit with him. He responded that I shouldn’t plan to visit with him. I inquired why not? He replied that I had written something extremely negative on my blog about people who supported Trump and that, basically, he had no interest in having anything to do with me because of what I’d written. He said he just wanted to be left alone.

I didn’t respond. He had on several occasions before angrily cut off communications with me (and with other members of my family) because he disagreed with us over what I considered trivial matters.  This time, I opted to just leave it. If he wanted to reconnect, he would. Thus far, he hasn’t. I hope his medical problems are quickly and successfully resolved.

***

Our neighbors invited us over last night to enjoy a glass of wine. They also wanted to give us a first look at a new anthology published by our writers’ group. The husband of the pair provided artwork for the cover (and inspiration for some of the collected writing); the wife contributed several of the collected writings. And I contributed a few pieces of my writing to the anthology, as well. Two pieces of the artist’s work that inspired some of my writing are included in the book, as well. I just might buy a few copies of the book when it’s available.

After thumbing through the book (just a sample…the first full press run won’t be available for a while yet), our conversation turned to politics, as it usually does when we visit. Our neighbors share our political leanings, so they can speak openly about their frustrations with and hatred of the current administration and its Republican enablers.  Last night, though, I expressed my frustration with the actors on our side of the aisle. I expressed my frustration with the grandstanding Democrats who, rather than using finesse to get William Barr to testify before the House Judiciary Committee, blustered impotently without result.

As a reminder, Barr’s refusal to testify was based on the committee’s insistence that Barr be subject to questioning by the committee’s lawyers, not just committee members. By using finesse, I mean this: agree to Barr’s demand that only the committee members ask the questions. But, after he is seated, base questions on committee lawyers’ surreptitious input (i.e., let staffers feed questions to the committee members in notes). Instead, the Democratic committee members allowed pride and political grandstanding to get in the way. It seems to me that the committee is more interested in “showing Barr who’s boss” than getting the illegitimate Attorney General to testify. Members of the Trump administration have already shown that they have absolutely no respect for the Constitution and no regard for years and years and years of political protocol. Pushing them against a wall will not change their contempt for the rules that have governed American political life since the founding of the country. So, bend with the times; lure the bastard in by acquiescing to his demands, then set the hook in his fat cheek and reel the lying SOB in!

Anyway, I made my displeasure with Democrats known last night. My neighbors are Democrats through and through. My disgust with Democrats and suggestion that what this country needs is a strong third party unbound by artificial ties to political loyalties did not go over well. It’s all fine now. But I think they were surprised that I am not firmly in line with the Democratic caucus. I feel strongly that the majority of national politicians of all stripes are partisan snakes whose primary interest is in maintaining their cushy jobs and the benefits attendant thereto. If I could, with a snap my fingers, cause the entire political ruling class to disappear, I would replace them (at least temporarily) with members of the Folketing (Danish parliament). I’d want that to happen sooner rather than later, inasmuch as the right-wingers in Denmark seem to be making depressing inroads in the Danish culture. I’m afraid that wouldn’t be enough, though, to repair the damage done to our culture over the years. My finger-snapping must also eliminate from our society the right-wing fanatics hell-bent on eliminating the racial and cultural diversity of the nation.

While I was ranting about the idiotic Democrats in Congress, I ranted about the idiotic and utterly impractical mindset that calls for essentially opening our borders to anyone and everyone. In a perfect world, that openness would be wonderful. We do not live in a perfect world. While I’m in favor of making entry into the country relatively easy, I acknowledge that our economy cannot withstand an enormous, ongoing influx of unemployed people who would have to depend (perhaps for generations) on governmental assistance. We ought not to devote so damn much attention to keeping people out, though. We ought to devote attention to allowing people to stay, safely and securely, where they are. Give tax incentives to businesses to locate in countries like Honduras and Guatemala and Nicaragua and El Salvador, thereby employing people in those countries. Ensure that those companies pay decent wages so people can live comfortably. Offer more financial assistance to the governments (or NGOs), but monitor what is being done with that aid instead of simply sending cash and walking away. Ask people in those countries to help determine how we can best help them rebuild their social and business infrastructures. Ask them how best to combat gangs and violence. Admit that the U.S.A. doesn’t have all the answers.

***

I wrote the paragraphs below on October 26, 2014, five days after my 61st birthday.

I learned that meteorologists (and others) classify winds in a number of ways, one of which is in accord with a scheme that names them based on speed or strength, their direction, and/or their duration. Short bursts of high-speed wind are called gusts when roughly parallel with the earth’s surface; very high-speed bursts of high-speed winds perpendicular to the earth’s surface, directed downward, are downdrafts.  Long duration winds are classified according to their strength, from breeze to gale to hurricane to tornado (which is relatively short-term, but not compared to a gust). Wind may arise from local differences in temperatures between the earth’s surface and the air mass above it or by differences in rates of absorption of solar energy between terrestrial climate zones.  And, of course, the density of air between adjoining areas can trigger inflows or outflows of air masses, AKA wind.

A single paragraph cannot begin to explain the complexities of wind.  Nor can a single paragraph begin to explain why I felt like a switch had been flipped on my wind-interest meter to cause me to seek information about wind.

I stumbled upon the post in which those paragraphs appeared when looking for the word “estranged” in my blog. I found the word in four posts, none of which mentioned the estrangement I wrote about above. But seeking that word led me to four wildly divergent pieces. One of them documented my assessment of the Chilean film, Los Perros, directed by Marcela Said. Another post dealt with a tiny Facebook group for  bloggers; the word appeared in a comment about one member’s relationship with her sister. Yet another was a pure fiction piece of writing (entitled, Tin Soldiers and Nixon’s Coming), just a vignette, that on reading this morning, convinced me that I should return to it and develop it into a full-fledged short story or more. The last estranged-infected post summarized the day I had just experienced, including a pizza party for the child of a woman who was estranged from her husband. It was in that same post that I waxed poetic about the marvels of wind.

The fact that I can find such enjoyment simply by looking back at what was on my mind in months and years past makes my blog worthwhile to me. It’s really just a plaything, a toy to keep me occupied and out of trouble. Without it, I might be organizing an armed insurrection or a planning a bloodless coup. Speaking of insurrection, this post marks the seventh use of the word on this blog since its inception.  One such post also included this paragraph prompted by an unpleasant interaction with a hot barbecue grill:

Tonight, I’m in the mood to capture hummingbirds and force them to listen to my complaints, kill chickens that exhibit even the least bit of scorn for my eating habits, skin grill-sellers, vaporize gas grills and their progeny, and set fire to the Milky Way for its willingness to host bad actors.

It’s a damn good thing it’s impractical (or impossible) for me to act on my worst impulses.

***

My presentation to the congregation of the proposed Long Range Plan for the church went well. Either I bored the congregation to tears or confused them completely. After the short presentation, I asked whether there were any questions. There were none. I moved to approve the plan, a member seconded it, and I called the question. Unanimous support. The congregants just wanted to get the hell out of the sanctuary and have lunch.

 

Posted in Anger, Family, Frustration, Government, Politics, Rant, Regret, Stream of Consciousness, Writing | Leave a comment

The Problem with Lawns

Posted on April 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

According to the Food Revolution Network (FRN), lush, green lawns cover about 32 million acres of land in the USA, twice the amount of land used to cultivate the fruits and vegetables we eat. The average lawn, again according to FRN, uses about 10,000 gallons of supplemental water (excluding rainwater) annually. Assuming the average lawn is about a quarter of an acre (my guess), that means that every acres of lawn uses 40,000 gallons of supplemental water each year. If my math is correct, that 32 million acres of lawn require 1 trillion, 280 billion gallons of supplemental water each year.  That’s 1,280,000,000,000 gallons. That’s one hell of a lot of water going toward plants that provide no nourishment to us.

Until moving to the side of a mountain, I’ve had a lawn with each house I’ve owned/lived in. I watered them, fertilized them (in most cases), cut them, trimmed them, and otherwise did what I needed to do to keep them looking good. And lawns can, indeed, look good. But so can vegetable gardens. In fact, I would argue, vegetable gardens can look absolutely beautiful due in part to their diversity. Think of purple and green leaves, different textures, multiple color fruits and vegetables. Gorgeous! And gardens use less water than lawns. According to FRN, gardens use about 34 percent of the water required in lawns. So, if my math is correct, we’d use 435,200,000,000 (435 billion 200 million) gallons of water per year if we switched, saving 844 billion, 800 million gallons.

Obviously, we’re not going to suddenly transform all lawns to gardens. But I wish we’d try. Aside from saving water, imagine how beneficial it would be to have ready access to fruits and vegetables in the event of massive commercial crop failures or the collapse of our food distribution systems.

And that’s what’s on my mind this morning (among other things).

Posted in Food, Water | 1 Comment

Paying for One’s Sins

Posted on April 25, 2019 by John Swinburn

I would have shared this on Facebook, but I suspect it would be offensive to some people who don’t share my sacrilegious sense of humor. I almost sprayed coffee through my nose while I watched this video.

I may actually write a bit this morning, so this post is simply a prelude to whatever odd idea wins the battle to escape from my head and make its way to my fingers and, ultimately, the world of the internet.

Posted in Humor, Religion | Leave a comment

Gender Noncompunction

Posted on April 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

Background…

Preston struggles, almost alone. He longs for love and compassion. But he knows better than to ask for them. In an atmosphere of crushing loneliness, an admission of vulnerability could destroy him. His fragile bones might shatter into fine sand. Gossip about his weakness could disperse what’s left of him, spreading his remains with every defamatory breath and coating the cosmos with ashen dust.

Some men feed on loneliness. Some men need it as much as they need food or water.  That odd craving for isolation, coupled with a crippling thirst for affection, sets them apart. In this stark, dark, brittle world, they thrive on loneliness. Loneliness provides the pain they needs to fuel the sense of loss and abandonment that arise from that godforsaken loveless world. Loneliness is a partner whose solace is real, who understands the wretched intricacies of hopelessness. Loneliness is like oxygen or blood. Without it, the life would drain from their bodies like water from a sponge hung from a tree in the high desert.

In a sea of self-doubt, he hides his emptiness behind masks of his own making. To the world beyond the secret prison of his mind, he seems strong and self-assured…almost buoyant. But he is the consummate actor, a talented imposter whose fear reveals itself only through self-loathing disguised as fits of anger.

Foreground…

There’s nothing there. He’s an illusion, that’s what he is. Run your hand through his image and you’ll find that he is just a hologram.  They say he’s a  photograph of an interference pattern which, when properly illuminated, produces a three-dimensional image, as if he were real. He’s a couple of steps beyond that cheap magic, but he’s still just an ignis fatuus. Yet he’s impressive in the sense that he seems real. It’s not just his image, either. It’s his voice, his throaty laughter, even his body odor after a few hours working in the yard. His imperfections will take you in, too. They’re almost too real to be fake. But, trust me, he is no more a man than I am a kitten.

Underground…

“Heather Hockley’s husband died a couple or three years ago. I think it was cancer of some kind. She never told him about her affair. I mean, what good would it have done? And the affair was over and done years before.”

Danna Smithers never opened her mouth without spewing  story no one wanted to hear. She was incapable of “yes” or “no” answers. She insisted on explaining the differences between positive and negative before getting to her point. But her explanations often were her points. Monica Lear said Danna suffered from diarrhea of the mouth.  Danna called Monica a “hard-hearted bitch.” They were friends, though they would never admit it. Both of them considered Preston Bright a loser. That was the one thing upon which they agreed. And Danna was right about Monica, by the way. And Monica was right about Danna.

Posted in Writing | Leave a comment

No Imfinzi for Me

Posted on April 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

I’ve written before about Programmed Death Ligand -1 and the immunotherapy my oncologist recommended. Apparently, the drug she wanted to use for immunotherapy (Imfinzi (generic name, Durvalumab), which would be administered once every two weeks for a year, is very pricey. Its use has been approved for patients who have Stage 3 lung cancer and who have been treated with both chemotherapy and radiation. BUT, it has not been used (or, perhaps, approved) for patients who have had surgery to remove the cancer. That rules me out. But the doctor tried, anyway, to get insurance approval to do the immunotherapy. Her application was rejected because I don’t meet all the criteria. I am actually relieved. I did not want to go to her office every two weeks for a one-hour drug therapy session. So, now I won’t have to. Of course, the absence of the immunotherapy means I won’t be getting treatment that could (theoretically) reduce the chances of a recurrence of my cancer. But that’s life. Or, rather, that’s Programmed Death. Couldn’t they have come up with a less sinister-sounding name for the genetic coding (or whatever it is)?

So, for the immediate future, the only engagements related to my cancer (the absence of which in my body has been confirmed, to the extent confirmation is available) will be periodic monitoring and periodic blood work. I’m crossing my fingers and toes in the hope that I am among the  patients diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer that survive for many, many years. One of the frightening aspects of lung cancer is that, even after it has been “defeated,” it tends to recur. Apparently, that’s more true of lung cancer than other cancers, although I’ll admit the avalanche of competing and conflicting data on the subject is almost overwhelming and impossible for me to fully grasp.

Although I’m glad that I won’t have to schedule my life around immunotherapy treatments, I’m not thrilled that I’m missing out on a potentially (theoretically) valuable maintenance treatment. But, as I said, that’s the way it goes—that’s life—it is what it is—that’s the way the ball bounces—c’est la vie—that’s the way the cookie crumbles—that’s the way the marshmallow melts.

Posted in Cancer, Health | Leave a comment

Sharing Ideas and Experiences and Droning On

Posted on April 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

One of the many benefits of writing stream-of-consciousness blogs (or diaries or daily journals or any other form in which one’s thoughts are recorded for access in the future) is the ease of retrieving what was on one’s mind at any given time. I remember writing about an idea for a science fiction piece in which one’s thoughts could be retrieved after death. Essentially, it involved “mining” the brain with electrochemical probes that captured data points that could be interpreted or translated, resurrecting specific thoughts from a dead person’s brain. I dismissed the idea (though not entirely) because my understanding is that the brain works in a manner similar to RAM, versus the way a flash drive works.

Thanks to last night’s trigger (dreams, of course), the thought came back. I dug up several things I’d written and thought about them as I mulled over last night’s dream(s). What if, I pondered, my earlier idea would work…not on the brains of dead people, but on the brains of the living? Might we be able to “play back” dreams? Or, even more intrusive and potentially embarrassing (and possibly dangerous), what if we could play back a person’s entire thinking experience?  Think of the money to be made with that technology! The potential revenue from promising to maintain the confidentiality of personal fantasies, alone, could be staggering! That’s how this post began. Let me steer it back toward real recollections, though.

My dreams haven’t been particularly vivid, or stayed with me if I had them, in recent weeks. Until a couple of nights ago. Two nights ago, I had a very vivid dream; I woke during the dream and thought about getting up and writing about it, but I didn’t. Now, I don’t remember what it was about. I remember only a couple of the key people, people I know well. But I don’t remember any details; only that it was odd.

Last night, I had another odd one…or it might have been two. It wasn’t as vivid, but I remember some of the details. I hired a guy to move a bunch of material from a garage (maybe the garage attached to my present home) to off-site storage. He backed a box truck into the garage and, in the process, ran into a set of drop-down stairs leading into the attic. When I expressed how upset I was with him (because he ignored my screams to “STOP!” when it became apparent he was about the smash into the stairs), he feigned being deeply hurt. I think I then got in a car and drove west, across west Texas or New Mexico. I stopped at a couple of gas stations/convenience stores, where I had trouble finding the doors leading to the convenience stores inside. None of the doors were plate glass; they were large, wooden doors, unmarked with signage of any kind. Finally inside one of them, I stumbled around and found a place to order a soft drink over ice. I tripped over something and had a very hard time getting up. I remember saying to people around me, none of whom offered to help, “I wasn’t always this old. I never had trouble getting up before I reached this age.” The final scene of the dream, before I woke with an urgent need to pee, found me at the door to the men’s room. I was holding my large, ice-filled soft drink as I tried to enter. Before I did, the door opened and I saw a line of people waiting to use the urinals.

A fellow blogger recently wrote that no one has any interest in the dreams of other people. He suggested that listening to or reading about others’ dreams are equivalent to watching paint dry. And he’s probably right. Most people probably have no interest in the fantasy lives of people they know, much less people they don’t know (if dreams represent fantasy lives, which I’m not convinced they do). But I have always been intrigued by dreams. More so my own dreams, of course (which I think is natural), but I’m similarly entranced by others’ dreams. I view others’ dreams as windows into their lives. The window panes may be made of tinted and translucent or opaque glass, but they offer peeks into their minds. I suppose the same can be said about my dreams. But I’ve long since stopped trying to understand the meaning, if any, of my dreams; yet I still find them fascinating.

Returning to the theme of dream or memory playback, I am confident humans will achieve that capability in the not-too-distant future. Provided, of course, we do not annihilate the species before we attain that technological breakthrough. If and when that happens, the ethical issues surrounding those capabilities will be stunning. At what point do we say “we cannot share any dream or memory without the informed consent of the owner of that information?” Will there be a point at which we may force the release of the information; for instance, after reading a recollection of a murder from the killer? And what of the memories of infidelities? Does the privacy of one’s secret thoughts trump the cuckolded husband’s right to know of his wife’s indiscretions? These thoughts do not seem new to me. Have I written of this recently? Hmm. I don’t know and I’m not sufficiently curious to take the time and energy to find out.

***

Last night, we went out to dinner with seven other people, two of whom celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary. We ate at 501 Prime, one of the high-end restaurants in Hot Springs. My wife had scallops with polenta; I had very rare ahi tuna over a bed of rice and mushrooms (with wasabi, soy sauce, seaweed, and assorted other goodies). Most of the other people a the table had steaks. HUGE steaks. One woman ordered an 18-ounce rib-eye; her husband had one almost a big. Almost everyone, except for the celebrating couple, ordered their steaks cooked medium-well to well-done. To each his own. But, what a horrible thing to do to Prime beef! Most people took to-go boxes home with them; we did not, inasmuch as our meals were sized for humans, as opposed to prepared as family-sized helpings for packs of wolves.

***

I saw my oncologist yesterday. No real news there. Except she still doesn’t seem to bother looking at my chart before entering the examination room. My CT scan, she said, was unremarkable. She didn’t mention the abdominal x-ray. But this morning, I received an automated email, informing me that the results of the x-ray had been posted to my patient portal. The report on the results included one bit of information I found a little concerning: “Coarse calcification in the right upper quadrant may reflect
cholelithiasis.” One interpretation of that statement involves the presence of gall-stones. Another, even more disturbing, says this: “It may indicate disease in the gallbladder, adrenal glands, kidneys, pancreas, lungs or chest wall. Disease processes associated with calcification in these organs include echinococcal cysts, calcified renal cysts, chest wall masses and degenerative cystic lesions of the pancreas and adrenal glands. However, if calcification is associated with porcelain gallbladder, the incidence of carcinoma is high. Treatment consists of cholecystectomy with a careful search for malignancy.” After reviewing the report, my first action was to send a message to my primary care doctor, asking whether the radiologist’s impression suggests any particular course of action.

My recent experience with lung cancer and subsequent aches and pains and other medical unpleasantness seems to be turning me into a hypochondriac. I’ve said it before. I don’t really mean it, but…you know, I should probably not ask Mother Google medical questions, because she delights in taunting me and causing me anxiety. That’s just what Mother Google enjoys.

***

In spite of last night’s culinary indulgence, we’re going to do it again tonight. Tonight’s dinner out will, again, involve our church’s “dining out” endeavor, for which my wife is providing planning and orchestration. We were “adopted” by a group that took pity on us for having decided not to join a group because, by joining, we would have caused a group to be larger than it was intended to be. They decided the addition of the two of us would not ruin the experience for everyone else. So, tonight, we visit The Beehive, the nearby bar and small-plate restaurant that could easily serve as my afternoon hangout every day. The beer and wine, alone, could keep me happy every day of the week.

***

And that about does it. It’s now 7:43 and some seconds, far later than I’d normally be writing. But I had a lot of drivel to drone on about.

Posted in Dreams, Fantasy, Fiction | Leave a comment

Heifer Ranch

Posted on April 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

I visited Heifer Ranch a couple of days ago. The visit, one of many periodic events orchestrated by the social committee of UUVC, was meant to accomplish two aims, I think. The first was to encourage more social interaction, outside of church, by church members and friends. The second was to emphasize two of the seven core principles of Unitarian Universalism: 1) The goal of world community with peace, liberty, and justice for all; 2) Respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part.

Eleven of us signed up for the event. We met in the parking lot at the east end of Hot Springs Village, where we gathered in groups to carpool to Heifer Ranch. I offered to drive and two women rode with me. I chatted with the woman in the front seat on the drive to the ranch. I chatted with the other passenger, who switched seat on the way back, on the drive back to the Village. I learned that people sitting in the back seat have a hard time hearing conversations taking place between the driver and the person in the front passenger seat. It’s a lesson worth remembering.

In a nutshell, Heifer International works to care for the Earth and to end world hunger and poverty. The organization does that first by educating families about animal husbandry and agriculture and then giving the families an animal (usually a pregnant animal). The recipient families commit to sharing the agricultural knowledge they gained with their communities and to give another needy family the next generation of the animal they received. The idea is to broaden the circle of shared knowledge and animal/agricultural resources.

The Heifer Ranch, which also serves as headquarters for Heifer USA, is a 1200-acre ranch dedicated to serving people in this country. The ranch raises cattle, sheep, goats, turkeys, ducks, chickens, hogs, and probably a few other animals. It used to raise Alpacas and Llama, but no more. There was a time when the Heifer Ranch sent animals from the USA to other countries in furtherance of its mission, but it became clear with time and experience that buying the animals in the countries where they would be given to families was more practical and more economical. So, when the decision was made to stop sending animals to other countries, the Llamas and Alpacas at Heifer Ranch remained until they died of old age or circumstances of which I know nothing.

Today, Heifer Ranch offers volunteer opportunities that allow people to learn a bit about agriculture and animal husbandry while spending time living on Heifer Ranch. Some people spend a few days; some spend a week or two; some spend several months to a year. The long-term volunteers have heated and cooled housing, as do some of the other groups, depending on needs and expectations. Others have the option of staying in a bunk house (formerly a barn) with no heat or cooling; the place is called the Heifer Hilton. I would not be comfortable sleeping in an open-air dorm filled with bunk beds awash in (mostly) snoring children. There may have been a time when I would have been comfortable with that, but I do not recall that time.

Upon our arrival around 1:00 p.m., we sniffed around the gift shop for a few minutes and were then directed to the dining hall, where we went through a serving line for our food. The meal was decent; strips of beef in a brown sauce, served over rice, along with broccoli, potatoes (for some…I was not served potatoes), a roll, and a salad bar. I believe all the food served to us was grown on the ranch. The meal, not included in the fee, cost $10, as did the entry fee. So, $20 for the afternoon.

After lunch, we watched a fourteen minute film about Heifer International and its history. We were then escorted back to the building where the gift shop is located. There, we were invited to climb aboard a flat-bed wagon that had a built-in bench around the perimeter and metal folding chairs in rows of four along the center. The metal chairs were attached to one another with plastic bands. It occurred to me that the people in the chairs could be thrown from the wagon if the wagon hit a bump an a speed any greater than ten miles per hour. I did not find out, inasmuch as the John Deere tractor that pulled the wagon never exceeded that speed limit.

During the wagon tour of a portion of the ranch, we saw fallow fields as well as newly-planted fields and gardens that were, we were told, used for Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) operations. As we made our way slowly around the ranch, our guide (a volunteer who, we learned, retired as a school teacher fourteen years earlier and has volunteered one day a week at Heifer Ranch ever since) explained what we were seeing. We saw various types of housing (both for volunteers and for visiting groups) and all sorts of out-buildings used in farming operations. One interesting area, called the Global Village, consisted of several plots where the buildings consisted of country-specific housing, built to mimic the types of housing one might find on poor farms in those countries. For example, Thai and Vietnamese huts, African mud houses, etc., etc. It is my understanding that visitors can stay in those buildings.

One of our final stops was at the show barn, a building with stalls and coops for chickens, turkeys, sheep, goats, ducks, and (perhaps) cows. We did not see cows in the show barn, but we did see them in the fields. Some of the cattle were quite curious when our tractor-led wagon stopped near they; I suspect they incorrectly anticipated we were strangers bearing food.

I took a few pictures, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, I could not upload them to this blog post. Maybe I’ll do it later, when the computer gods are more accommodating.

And so there you are. I promised I’d do it before month’s end, didn’t I?

 

Posted in Church | 2 Comments

Real or Imagined? Fact or Fantasy?

Posted on April 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

Drake used to admire writers, especially those whose command of language could bring people exposed to their words to tears or prompt readers to join uprisings. But now he understands that writers are simply manipulators, men and women who strive to sculpt the emotions of people who read. Writers diminish humankind by usurping the roles naturally played by parents and mentors; writers replace natural responses to the world around us with artificial reactions spawned by exposure to warped imaginations. Writers are demonic!

A woman once told Drake he could always tell by her visible clothing whether she was wearing underwear. Jeans always signaled nudity “under the canvas.” Only once did he have occasion to verify her words. He has since longed for more opportunities.

Now, tell me, is Drake’s memory real or did it erupt from a writer’s concupiscent imagination? And,  months or years later, when he picked up the telephone in the hope of persuading her to relive the experience, was he mistaken when he heard her ask, “Do you remember how quickly you left?” She was, of course, referring to a recollection of their single full-on engagement. It was that event that took place at hypersonic speed because Drake was young and more than a little drunk and frightened and incredibly libidinous. It was earlier, long before the phone call, that she said “I hope the next time will be a slower, more leisurely undertaking.” Yet Drake’s recollections might not be his own. They may have been planted in his brain by a writer. Drake might simply be a character whose experiences were concocted to guide a reader’s imagination down a hazy path.

But that could be Drake’s true memories talking, too, couldn’t it? Did Drake remember those events or were they merely mental inventions? Is Drake real, or are these “memories” of his simply creations of my own making, formed to manipulate your thoughts, dear reader? “Am I real,” Drake asked, “or do I exist only in a writer’s mind?” The interesting thing about that question is that existence “only in a writer’s mind” changes the moment another reader sees what the writer has written. And Drake knows that. He knows his existence, whether real or imagined, is confirmed the instant a reader willingly conspires with the writer to make it so.

See? Writers’ imaginations are demonic and debauched and, from time to time, nostalgic or forward-thinking. Writers sometimes wish they could relive the past. Or reenact it in revised form. Or craft a future suited to their desires. Yet aren’t writers people, too? Aren’t they composed of atoms and molecules and hopes and dreams like the rest of humankind? In other words, aren’t they irrevocably flawed beings whose most ghastly visions portray not necessarily who they want to become but, instead, who they hope to avoid at all costs?

Yes, I realize the paragraphs I’ve written thus far skip, maddeningly from third person to first person to second person. Yes, I appreciate that writing in such a fashion tends to confuse and annoy the reader. And, yes, I understand casual readers (and, in fact, not-so-casual readers) may not consciously grasp the difference. Therein rests the opportunity to manipulate. Confusion can be either a writer’s enemy or her friend; either a rival or an ally. But you knew that, didn’t you? Of course you did. One need not be a writer to know that. Readers know better than writers the chaos of confusion and its effects on understanding.

But what about Drake? Perhaps unlike you, Drake had always wanted to be a writer. Yet he had been lazy; unwilling to invest the time and effort necessary to excel at the craft. His years in college were simply temporal expressions of privileged procrastination. And he knew it. He knew he was stalling, though he did not fully comprehend why. He often wondered, aloud, “will I, at some magical moment, know what I want to do with the rest of my life?” People in his presence at those moments either laughed or stepped away from him, seeming to sense they were in the presence of someone slightly unhinged. For Drake was, if nothing else, slightly unhinged. You probably knew that, too, didn’t you? That is, of course, if you believe in Drake’s existence…beyond the writer’s mind, I mean.

Yes, I’ve gone off course, haven’t I? We were talking about Drake’s desire, inhibited by his indolence, to become a writer. When  he concluded his future would rely always and exclusively on the availability of easy opportunities, regardless of discipline or field of endeavor, his ambition died. He no longer made half-hearted attempts to become a writer. Six months after receiving his bachelor of arts degree, with a major in humanities, he tore up ten applications graduate schools. He had hoped to pursue a professional career in veterinary medicine or chemistry or engineering. “Hope” might be too strong  a word for it. It was more a sense that, if a suitable opportunity presented itself, he might take it. But no such opportunity presented itself.

Drake taught himself to type while he was in high school. That writer’s skill, though it didn’t lead him where he wanted to go, served him well after college, when he sought clerical jobs. The fact that he was a male who could type instantly elevated him to the role of manager in clerical pools comprised almost exclusively of women. Though he recognized the inherent unfairness of that male privilege, he accepted it as an easy opportunity.

By now, you know Drake, don’t you? Though he hasn’t spoken directly to you, you know him as a lazy guy whose lethargy consistently overshadows his ambition. The reason you know him in that way is that I have told you as much. The questions I suggest you ask yourself are these: “Is this writer telling me the truth, or is he manipulating me in some way? And, if he is manipulating me, what are his motives for doing so?” Those are the questions I recommend you ask and answer.

Now, if I were to begin speaking directly to Drake, making you (the reader) privy to the conversation, the confusion about third person and first person and second person would grow exponentially. So I’ll not do that. Just know that, if I wanted to do that, I could. You see, I’m writing this blog post. You may have decided long ago to stop reading it because it’s either uninteresting or confusing or both. In that case, I’m talking to myself. Writers can manipulate their own minds, too, you know. We can fabricate intricate tales so convoluted and so improbable that we confuse ourselves. And in our confusion, we find ourselves struggling to understand what we have written and why. Just imagine the plight of our characters! How can Drake ever find his footing if I write about him in a way that confuses not only Drake but the real and imaginary people around him? Drake has no hope of becoming a fully-formed human being, not when the writer telling his story behaves as if he were, in fact, Drake. You know, unwilling to invest the time and effort necessary to excel at the craft.

You might be wondering why, in the second paragraph, I mentioned Drake’s experiences with the jeans-wearing woman. Did that event leave a scar or in some other way shape the direction of Drake’s life from that point forward? Or, was that entire scenario simply fabricated? Did it have some point? If Drake is real, you might ask him. If he is not, you might ask the writer. If the writer answers your question, though, you might well challenge the veracity of his answer. Because writers are simply manipulators, men and women who strive to sculpt the emotions of people who read.

Posted in Writing | Leave a comment

Meandering Mind with Punctuational Affliction

Posted on April 16, 2019 by John Swinburn

Notre-Dame de Paris burned yesterday. As I viewed television images of Parisians and others singing while the iconic building burned, I thought of the immeasurable number of people who must have worked to build the structure over a two hundred year period. Who were those people and what did they think of the edifice as it rose from the ground? How was it that, between the years 1220 and 1250, laborers and craftsmen were able to construct two towers that exceeded 225 feet in height? They had no electricity and no power tools. I wonder whether anyone died while working to build the cathedral during the two hundred years of construction? I suspect so. And, if so, I wonder how (or whether) those people were honored?

Listening to the news last night, I caught just a bit of a report that at least one firefighter was injured battling the catastrophic blaze. But the news was, mostly, about the building itself and the staggering loss to the city of Paris. I saw an image this morning of the front page of Le Parisien, featuring a photo taken as the cathedral’s tower fell; the paper’s headline read Notre-Dame Des Larmes, “Our Lady of Tears.”

***

Until I learned of yesterday’s fire, I was looking forward to an outing today, organized by UUVC, to visit Heifer International Ranch. I will go, but my sullen mood isn’t well-suited to enjoyment. Maybe that will change. The ranch is a 1200-acre learning center that focuses on ways sustainable agriculture and food systems can combat hunger and poverty and can help in community development. I was looking forward to going. But now, thinking about how nine hours of fire can essentially destroy the results of two hundred years of blood, sweat, and tears (followed by eight hundred years, or more, of maturation), I’m not as enthusiastic. I suspect my mind will change when I get there. There will be about twelve of us. We’ll carpool from the east gate to the ranch, about an hour away. I’m surprised that I am not the only person who is going without a spouse; at least three others won’t be accompanied by their spouses. My spouse opted not to participate; she has something else on her agenda, though even if she didn’t I doubt she would have signed on to the visit. I’ve heard good things about Heifer International. I hope to be uplifted and impressed by what I see.

***

Next week, I will lead two “congregational conversations” about the recently-completed long range plan for our church. I participated, as a member of the committee responsible for developing the plan, in the process. We began last October and, after eight weeks of meeting on Saturday mornings for a couple of hours, now the plan is complete. We began the process with a full-day conversation, guided by a UU consultant, about the direction the congregation wants to head. The following eight meetings used the output from that initial gathering to craft the plan. After the two congregational congregations, we will present the plan to the membership for adoption.

The current committee chair asked me to lead the conversations for two reasons, I think. First, she has a condition the impacts her voice that makes it difficult for people to understand her. Second, I think she wants me to get a higher profile, inasmuch as I will become the chair in July. I haven’t been involved in high-profile presentations in quite some time, so this will be interesting. Maybe. Or maybe people will either fall asleep or will engage in open revolt. Time will tell.

***

I’m able to enjoy spicy food again, though that enjoyment comes with more pain than it once did. But the pain, now, is tolerable. Yesterday, I helped my wife finish off the remaining jar of Trader Joe’s Harissa Salsa that my niece brought us during a recent visit. We hope to replenish our supply soon so I can continue, gradually, to train my esophagus to gratefully accept highly-spiced foods again. I’m almost ready to open a bottle of Mrs. Renfro’s habanero salsa and give it a try; but I’m not quite there yet. Another few days, maybe. The pain remains, but I’m getting used to it. Maybe that’s my new normal; acceptable degrees of pain, over and above the “hurts so good” level I used to experience when I enjoyed heat-laden sauces and salsas.

Speaking of food (as I am wont to do), we bought a large skin-on salmon filet a few days ago. I’ve been thinking of preparing Gravlax con Cilantro y Tequila, a dish I made a year or two (or three) ago. The recipe came, I think, from Pati Jinich and her Mexican Table cookbook. I know I liked it. It only uses two tablespoons of silver tequila (early in the process), so it’s truly not a “boozy” dish. It takes about 3 days for the fish to absorb the flavors and, I guess, “cook” in a salt and spice rub. It tastes wonderful. At least I think so.

Yesterday, for breakfast, I prepared a poached egg for myself (my wife wasn’t in the mood for food). Not a fake poached egg, mind you; a real one. The kind cooked in a gently swirling pan of hot water. I haven’t poached eggs that way in a long, long time. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass, but I think it would become less so with regular practice. And I like real poached eggs much better than the kind we normally eat. We have an egg poacher that steams eggs as this sit in little metal cups suspended an inch or two about the boiling water. It’s not bad, but it’s an entirely different, and better, experience from the old-fashioned process.

***

I suppose it’s time for me to make breakfast this morning. Maybe I’ll make a breakfast BOT sandwich, AKA a bacon, onion, and tomato sandwich. If I had any avocados, I’d go for a BOAT, but I am avocado-less this morning, a truly sad state. I suppose I could make a BOLT, since we do have a lettuce-like mix in the fridge; you know, three different kinds of non-iceberg lettuce, along with arugula and such. I personally happen to like iceberg lettuce (it’s the crunchiness I find appealing), but my wife has never found it appealing. Because I can’t imagine eating an entire head of iceberg lettuce myself (and it would wilt badly if I kept it around for the better part of a week), I simply don’t buy the stuff. Except, of course, when I make the rare “wedge” salad. (I don’t know why I’ve gotten in the habit of using quotation marks when they’re really not needed; I think it’s a punctuational affliction.)

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Musings on Marriage

Posted on April 13, 2019 by John Swinburn

Today is our thirty-ninth anniversary. Despite my remarkably flawed personality, she has opted to tough it out all these years. Based on the experience so far, I guess our marriage is going to last. And I’m very glad and grateful that’s the case.

The concept of marriage, though, seems odd to me. How is it that two people can be drawn to one another to such an extent that they decide to commit to an entire lifetime of living with each other? I know, many marriages don’t make it that long. But a lot of them do. And that’s the part I don’t quite understand. It seem to me the odds of encountering someone with whom I feel adequately compatible to commit to living with them for the rest of our lives must be astronomical. But such unlikely encounters happen all the time. Yet, but for circumstance, the encounter and subsequent commitment almost certainly would have resulted in a completely different pairing.

I think people who have been married more than once offer evidence of what I suggest. The second or third or fourth (or whatever number you pick) marriage suggests that coupling occurs not because the “ideal” mate is out there, but because two people decide they have enough in common to outweigh the differences or faults or incompatibilities.  Arranged marriages (at least those that last), suggest compatibility is not necessarily required. The parents mutually agree that the lives of their respective children will be better within the settled pairing; they decide the couple’s individual and mutual needs will best be met by the support they can provide to each other. Marriages that occur without the immutable influence of parents mirror arranged marriages; except for the absence of external influencers.

But what about people who decide not to get married or who simply never find that “sufficiently compatible” partner? On the one hand, I think they miss out on the enormous emotional benefits of living with a person for whom the partner’s happiness matters more than one’s own. On the other hand, unmarried people do not have the sometimes maddening and restrictive and horribly confining constraints on their freedoms. And, I think, unmarried people can engage with others in ways that married people cannot (according to socially acceptable custom, anyway). No, I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about support that may not be as deep as the support one gives in marriage but is deeper than casual friendship. It’s hard to explain; words sometimes fail to adequately describe emotional connections.

In fundamental ways, chance encounters that either lead to marriage or not alter the course of our lives.  Marriages impact one’s decisions in many ways: seeking or accepting employment; moving to new locations (or not); having children (or not); lifestyle choices that include, or don’t include, physical activities and adventures; and on and on. The courses our lives take rely heavily not only on whether we marry or not. They rely on who we marry and when. Marrying early is apt to lead in one direction; marrying late is apt to lead in another. And, of course, not marrying at all leads in an altogether different one. It all seems so random; the course of one’s life depends on chance encounters and their strength or lack thereof.

Reading back on what I’ve written, I realize some people might misinterpret my musings about marriage as misgivings about marriage. That is not the case. I’m only going down the nearest rabbit-hole, as I always do. I think about things not because they’re attractive (or unattractive, as the case may be), but because I like to think and explore ideas. Even sacrosanct institutions merit intellectual meddling, in my view.

Back to reality, abandoning philosophizing about “what if” concepts. The chance encounter with my now-wife led me on a course for which I’m profoundly grateful. There have been plenty of challenges along the way, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Our lives thus fare have been, despite the tests, largely happy and fulfilling. I hope she feels, deep within, the same way.  We’ve supported one another during our respective battles with cancer and other health challenges. We’ve allowed one another to pursue job/career opportunities with the commitment that we would follow one another where they took us (though she has given up more than I ever did). We’ve wandered around the country, moving from place to place together, dealing with the torments that accompany relocation. And here we are, thirty-nine blissful years on (forty-one if you count the period during which we “lived in sin”), still there for each other, through thick and thin. It’s a happy anniversary, indeed.

 

Posted in Friendship, Love, Marriage | 2 Comments

The Truth as I Know It

Posted on April 11, 2019 by John Swinburn

Recently,  I wrote  about  Death’s Door  Gin.  I wasn’t  making it up. It’s a real thing. A large but surprisingly light (for its size) package arrived sometime yesterday afternoon/evening, while we were away. When I opened it, I found another package, surrounded by air-filled plastic bags; “bumpers,” I’d call them, to absorb the shock had the package been dropped. Inside the inner package, swaddled in more bumpers and bubble wrap and such protective gear, was the bottle of Death’s Door.  I subsequently learned the etymology of the spirit’s (and its maker’s) name: the Death’s Door passageway between Washington Island and the Door County peninsula inspired the company’s name. I should have known. Or looked it up before receiving the gin I tried so hard to obtain.

We haven’t opened it yet. And I’m relatively sure we won’t open it this morning. Probably won’t open it for a few days yet. Maybe even longer. The important thing is this: we actually have it in our possession.

After having reason to explore Death Door Spirits’ business a bit more thoroughly, I learned that it also produces vodka, white whisky, and Wondermint. Here’s what the website says about Wondermint: “Schoolcraft’s Original Wisconsin Wondermint Schnapps Liqueur is the first and only artisan craft peppermint schnapps in the world. Wondermint is a delightful blend of pure grain spirits with three times distilled peppermint extract, bitter almond, rosewater and a spike of absinthe.” I’ve never been much of a fan of schnapps, but I think I might have to engage in a little sleuthing so I can try this stuff. And I’m intrigued by the white whisky, described on the company’s website as follows: “Death’s Door White Whisky was a pioneer in the whisky category and has an 80:20 mash bill of hard red winter wheat to malted barley. The unique character of this spirit starts back in the process of fermenting the grains—utilizing a champagne yeast rather than a traditional whisky yeast.  The spirit is then double-distilled up to 160 proof (80% ABV), rested in stainless steel, proofed down to 80 (40% ABV) and finished in uncharred Minnesota oak barrels to help bring the “white whisky” together and to meld this unique spirits’ flavors.” Yep, I’ll need to get my hands on some of this stuff, too.

Both the Wondermint and the White Whisky will have to wait a while. I doubt I’ll put as much effort into getting either of them as I did the gin. Because the gin was for my wife. The other stuff would be for me. Mostly. Yet the idea of driving to Wisconsin has some appeal. And Door County has always lured me its way, though I’ve never actually been there. When we lived in Chicago, we talked about going, but never did.

But back to Death’s Door.  The distillery, formed in 2005, experienced some hard times over the years. It declared bankruptcy last November and was recently purchased by Midwest Custom Bottling. I finally, this morning, found some intriguing information about the company’s history and its financial experience. Here’ a link to an article in the Cap Times about the company’s declaration of bankruptcy; the article contains other interesting (to me) information about the company’s history.

I’m in love with the idea of struggling small businesses. There’s something romantic about entrepreneurs putting their hearts and souls into risky endeavors that could ultimately leave the risk-takers impoverished and beaten. I prefer the ones that continue to struggle, over the ones that succeed beyond their wildest imaginations. Of course I feel good for the wildly successful ones, too, but my empathy and sympathy and compassion remains fixed on the underdogs. I think that aspect of my emotional character was embedded in me during my childhood and early adulthood. One day I’ll write more about that; about my thoughts on why I am the way I am. That could take a ten-thousand-page book that, in all probability, would put the reader to sleep after page four. Maybe I should steer clear of that memoir.

My entrepreneurial bent remains with me. I’m no longer in a position to take significant risks, but then I never was. I never took the kinds of risks required of someone starting up a distillery or a brewery or any type of manufacturing operation. Manufacturers, especially small ones, impress me. Companies that actually produce products that people need or want impress me. Provided, of course, the companies don’t take advantage of their customers. I hold pharmaceutical companies in low esteem, even though they make needed products; I suppose some of them may be decent, but by and large I think they are contemptible in their greed. I do not want to start a pharmaceutical company. In fact, I can say with absolute certainty that I will never start a pharmaceutical company. Dammit.

I’ll write, one day, about the gin. I hope it meets my expectations. I hope its flavor carries me to the edge of euphoria and back. Too often, I allow my expectations to exceed the universe’s ability to meet them. And, perhaps, the universe feels the same about me.

 

 

Posted in Liquor, Travel | Leave a comment

Darkness

Posted on April 7, 2019 by John Swinburn

Darkness. I go to sleep in darkness and I awaken in darkness. But it’s not total darkness. It’s near-darkness, punctuated by pinpoints of light. The thermostat, the kitchen stove, the bedside alarm clock, the modem, and other devices that alert me to the presence of electricity and tell me enough to allow me to get my bearings. And there’s the vaporous mist of light from the reflection of the nearby street light; that light transforms blackness in deep, dark greyness. I use those tiny beams and washes of dim light to guide me, to help me avoid crashing into walls or doors. They don’t really illuminate my path; they just offer imprecise orientation for movement.

On those rare occasions, when the power is out long before or after the sun has disappeared from the sky, and those miniature guideposts disappear, I have nothing to serve as my pilot. Then, I understand blindness. I realize what it’s like to navigate in a known space whose parameters I’ve not bothered to memorize. I remember that there’s a wall somewhere in front of me, but I don’t know just how far. I recall that a table may be in my path, assuming I have correctly oriented myself to the space I occupy.

How long, I wonder, does it take to acquaint oneself to one’s environment in the absence of light, in the absence of sight? I suppose it doesn’t take long to get used to living space. Hyper-local distances are measured in easily recalled inches and feet. But what about neighborhoods and towns? How does one get used to dealing with longer distances in the absence of illumination? I remember, not long ago, seeing a television program that featured an architect who lost his sight but continued to practice. His work changed, though. He now practices architecture with the blind in mind. He understands that architecture is about touch and sound and texture and shapes and dozens of other expressions of place. I thought I’d written about that program on my blog, but I can’t find it. After I finish here, I’ll see if I can find it online. It’s worth seeing; it helped me come to grips with how people who are blind interact with their environments.

I once observed, on this blog, that time turns mountains into valleys and granite into sand. As I consider what the experience of blindness might be like, I have another observation. Darkness turns sound into distance and touch into sight. With enough time and practice, a sightless person can use differences in sounds to calculate or estimate distances. The clicking of heels on a tile floor sounds different when the walker is nearby than when she is far away. And the changes in those sounds indicate whether the walker is approaching or departing. A sightless person can use a cane to determine important characteristics of a walking surface. Is it soft or hard? Is it flat or on an incline? Is it smooth or rough? Without sight, other senses become more pronounced. One comes to depend more on touch and smell and sound. I’ve known this, intellectually, for a long time. It’s not new information. But for some reason, it resonates with me this morning. It is no longer simply data in my head; somehow, emotion is now attached to it and I think I understand it better.

It’s healthy, I think, to explore new things. It’s equally healthy to explore old understandings in a new light. Or, in this case, in a new darkness. That’s my opening salvo in the battle to make today one in which I learn more about the world and/or myself.

Posted in Emotion, Philosophy | Leave a comment

Opening Death’s Door

Posted on April 6, 2019 by John Swinburn

Several days ago, I received a promotional/informational email from Liquor.com. The message contained a list of gins that, according to the sender, represent the best of the beverage. My wife, a gin aficionado who rarely drinks any alcohol, found the list interesting. So, during a trip to a Little Rock liquor store subsequent to viewing the list, we picked up a bottle of one of the gins, Aviation Gin. The bottle, still unopened, awaits sufficient company from other gins on the list.

One of the others for which Aviation awaits is a Wisconsin-distilled gin called Death’s Door. Thanks to a bit of sleuthing, I learned that the gin’s distillery was in the midst of deciding to declare bankruptcy last October, but was seeking a buyer to save it from that ignominious end. I then sent an email to the company, expecting I would not receive a reply. But I did! The subsequent search and dead-ends was long, but the outcome (I hope) will be positive. Because I received some erroneous information, I have been promised I will receive a bottle of the gin, free of charge.

Now, why is Death’s Door of such interest? It’s because it’s made in Wisconsin. And our friends and neighbors are from Wisconsin. And we learned that my recent interest in the Wisconsin celebratory food, Cannibal sandwiches, was indeed a “thing” for them. On New Year’s eve (or was it the actual day?), they enjoyed raw ground beef smeared on pumpernickel or rye bread, topped with chopped onion and salt and pepper. What better way to celebrate my discovery of Wisconsin Cannibal sandwiches than with a shot of Wisconsin gin? Alas, since learning of our neighbors’ appreciation of Cannibal sandwiches, we learned they are not fond of gin. Damn! Oh, well, that does not prevent us from pursuing the celebration without them! Cannibal sandwiches and a Gin and Tonic. Or, instead of a Gin and Tonic, perhaps a Last Word cocktail? What, you ask, is a Last Word cocktail? I’ve never had one, but its ingredients are:

  • 3/4 oz. Gin
  • 3/4 oz. Green Chartreuse
  • 3/4 oz. Maraschino Liqueur
  • 3/4 oz. Fresh Lime Juice

The ingredients are shaken with ice and strained into a coupe glass. Our inadequately equipped bar refrigerator would need only the Green Chartreuse, Maraschino Liqueur, and fresh limes in order for me to make the drink. According to a witty comment accompanying the recipe, “This complex, herbal cocktail will win any argument.” Back to the liquor store! Maybe.

I sincerely hope the promised bottle of Death’s Door actually reaches us. If not, I may have to drive to Fort Smith to find a bottle (the guy who promised to send me a bottle said an unnamed liquor store in that city stocks the product). Driving to Fort Smith might actually be a happy respite from the mundane scenery (or mundenery, to use my latest portmanteau) in these parts. We would be able to visit our good friends who live there and could safely store enormous quantities of gin in their house, knowing the female component of the couple has an aversion to the spirit. 😉

Speaking of portmanteau, as you will admit we were, the word was (according to Google) first used by Humpty Dumpty in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass; the word was a combination of  porter (to carry) and manteau (a cloak). Fascinating, these things one finds during unexpected trips through the rabbit warren known as the internet! I learned, while wandering through the group of burrows that form rabbits’ playgrounds, that the name of the country, Tanzania, is a portmanteau of Tanganyika and Zanzibar.  Now you know. But, then, you may have known before, in which case I have wasted your time and, for that, I sincerely apologize. Let’s move along, shall we?

Food, liquor, and language. That trio seems to form the base of my interests. The first two can, if not properly restrained, can lead to unhappy and unhealthy outcomes. They can, as it were, take one to “death’s door” and beyond. But so can language. Loudly proclaim that Donald Trump a fascist idiot, during a Republican cult gathering, and wait to be shown to that door. But I’ve veered off course again, haven’t I? Well of course I have. But I’ll return to the right route.

Last night, we dined with six other members/friends of the Unitarian Universalist Village Church. We know four of them, but had met the other couple only in passing. Last night gave us an opportunity to learn a bit more about the couple. And it gave me an opportunity to try an intriguing menu item (Penne Arrabiata) from a relatively new (to me) restaurant (Dolce Vita). My meal was good. Worth another trip. Which is good, because we’re returning to the place next Wednesday with our Cannibal sandwich-eating neighbors.

In other news, I am scheduled for a CT scan on Monday morning, followed by an endoscopy next Friday. Perhaps, sometime during the week, my vacationing oncologist will have returned and will share with me my latest lab (blood) tests and the results of the x-ray of my gut. I was rather peeved that she insisted on an immediate x-ray, then left town without telling me what, if anything, it revealed. Another example of her failure to communicate. I should insist that she consume vast quantities of hard-boiled eggs as punishment for her oversight. (If you’ve not seen Cool Hand Luke, you won’t have a clue what a lack of communication and hard boiled eggs have to do with one another.) I hope all these tests and follow-up appointments keep me far, far away from death’s door. I have no interest in opening it at the moment.

 

 

Posted in Food, Health, Language, Liquor | Leave a comment

Returning to the Empty Well

Posted on April 5, 2019 by John Swinburn

This morning, as I am sometimes wont to do, I wandered aimlessly through some of my old blog posts, looking for evidence of creativity and talent. “Looking” is the wrong word. “Hoping” better describes my motive. What I found did not convince me that a repository of ingenious originality hides among the multi-syllabic muck, but it gave me reason to think there’s reason to mine the blog as if there’s ore down there, somewhere.

One vignette, an unfinished piece of fiction, struck my fancy. It dealt with an old writer’s years-old fiction manuscripts that foretold in detail current events involving the international community’s response to North Korean nuclear saber-rattling.  A Russian scholar of Asia comes upon the manuscripts and, after reading them, concludes they tell  about not only current events but forecast an ugly, cataclysmic future. The unfinished vignette only suggests what happens next.

I wrote the piece long before the current dance with North Korea began under the narcissist’s regime. As I read it this morning, I decided it could easily be modified to mirror recent realities and, then, it could lead to “predictions” about where a battle between maniacal personalities might lead. “Easily modified” is another erroneous assertion. A writer would require both motivation and mental energy, neither of which are in oversupply in my head. But, maybe one day…

Another piece, an essay of sorts, caught my attention.  Most of the post, which addressed the failures of the left and right to behave in civil fashion, leaves something to be desired but one sentence grabbed me, for some reason: “We are the reverse side of the ugly mask, the underbelly of the darkest reptile, the snake poised in the grass, ready to strike at the slightest disturbance of the leaves.”  The post, entitled “Self-Congratulation,” attacks the leveling of blame against others for being uncivil while the accusers fail miserably to behave with civility.  In case the reader of today’s post don’t pick up on it, that old post was directed as much to myself as to anyone. The sentence that attracted my attention could be edited to serve as my obituary: “He was the reverse side of an ugly mask, the underbelly of the darkest reptile, the snake poised in the grass, ready to strike at the slightest disturbance of the leaves, which he took as a provocation directly aimed at him.” But let’s wait to publish that obit, shall we? Even old men can turn over a new leaf.

I haven’t completely abandoned my dream of going through all of my writing, aiming to create a cohesive collection. But the dream is now hazy and matted with dust. Yet when I spend a while rummaging through what I’ve written, I tend to brush the soot from the dream. On occasion, I seen tiny reflective glimmers beneath the grime. Those fleeting glints of light energize me. But the energy has not, thus far, been sufficient to spur me to action.

Though I haven’t quite unearthed it, I think there’s a common theme hidden in most of my writing. If I can determine just what that theme is, the motivation I need to wade through hundreds and hundreds (maybe even thousands) of pages may bubble to the surface. I suppose my fear is that there really isn’t a theme; that all of my writing is just mental spillage with nothing in common except that it poured out of the same demented brain. And it’s not just the ideas that need to be good to merit forming a collection. The quality of the writing has to stand up to scrutiny. Especially lately, the last two or three years or so, I haven’t paid any attention to the quality of what I’ve written. Instead, I’ve just allowed my fingers to unleash the chaos that flows from my brain without regard to the quality of the communication.

I realize, of course, that this post is simply a rearrangement of words that presents the same ideas I’ve uttered a thousand times. The ideas just won’t leave me alone. I keep returning, hoping to drink from a well I sense will remain empty. I keep hoping to write something new, but I can’t even finish writing or polishing or otherwise completing the old stuff. Oh, well. If nothing else, my constant harangues may eventually force me to either do something or sever my fingers to stop the repetition.

Posted in Frustration, Procrastination, Ruminations, Self-discipline, Writing | Leave a comment

A Shot of Youth

Posted on April 4, 2019 by John Swinburn

The surprising experiences of one’s youth, suddenly reinserting themselves sixty-five years in, take one’s breath away. Just last night, one of those remarkable experiences both startled and stunned me, yet left me delighted.

I awoke in the darkest part of the night to percussive sounds of distant thunder. This was not the guttural growl like bass-note echoes in a deep canyon. It was the staccato sound of machine gun fire, a frenetic beat of a solo jazz drummer. Flashes, keeping time with the drum beat, bathed the walls of the room with intense blue light. The blue bursts entered the room, in rapid succession, from alternate windows, as if the lightning was spinning around the house, trying to find a way in through every pane of glass.  Though my description may make the experience sound terrifying, it was not. Instead, the cacophony of light and sound mesmerized me, each explosive blue eruption dancing in perfect cadence with the rhythmic noise. Seeing and hearing this remarkable atmospheric display took me back to my childhood, when I first witnessed that simultaneous miracle of Mother Nature’s rage and ecstasy. The experience transfixed me, as a little boy. And it happened again a few hours ago, when I got out of bed, went into the darkened living room, and stood staring through the plate-glass at the world outside my window. Each flash of lightning, seeming to emanate from a layer of low clouds above me, washed over a cloak of fog below, illuminating the valley and hills beyond in a dark blue blanket tinged with light blue, almost white, along the edges. As silly as it might seem now, I felt like I was witnessing a microcosm of the chaos and terrifying beauty of creation. The sense of magic I first felt as a child, when I saw and heard similar sights and sounds, returned last night. It engulfed me with awe, as if I had seen a miracle.

This morning, in the dull grey daylight, the appearance of the world outside my window is less impressive. The sky is solid grey, almost white, absorbing most of the sun’s light or reflecting it back toward the ball of fire from whence it came. But it’s the same sky that, last night, transformed a tired old man into a child again. I suppose the sense of awe at Nature’s displays never disappears. It hides behind layer upon layer of monotonous experience, but when unleashed it reveals in us youthful exuberance and childish astonishment. That’s a joyous combination in anyone, but especially in people who have reached the point that life seems just a jejune exercise in boredom. I recommend awakening and watching the sky during lightning storms.

Posted in Nature, Youth | Leave a comment

Fools and Poetry

Posted on April 2, 2019 by John Swinburn

My April Fool’s post on Facebook yesterday was too obvious. It fooled no one, at least not for long. Here is a gently edited version:

If I hadn’t seen the court papers myself, I never would have believed it. But she had the dates right and she knew things only someone who had actually viewed sealed court documents could have known. I’ve always told people I had no children, and I thought I was telling the truth.

Only after seeing the documents and after searching my memory long and hard did the mother’s name, Cherry Lansing, begin to sound familiar. And then—when her sworn testimony referred to a “young man, almost a boy, really, who came in to the bar with a guy named Gary…the boy drove a car with a vanity license plate—BADLAD”—it sank in.

She was the girl I met one night in a Houston strip joint, a bar not far from the office. Gary Bowling insisted I go have a drink with him after work. He picked the place. I knew it wasn’t the sort of place I should have gone, but I did, anyway. And that mistake has now come home to haunt me. Cherry Lansing’s testimony, along with surreptitiously-obtained DNA evidence from a drinking straw, confirmed that I am the father to her now 43-year-old daughter, Phaedra. And Cherry expects me to reimburse her for my daughter’s college tuition. The two of them also want me to pay for college for Phaedra’s 20-year-old son…my grandson, whom she inexplicably named Matador Zeus!

I can’t believe this is happening! I don’t know what to do. I can’t afford college tuition for two people! And I’m afraid Janine is going to throw me out of the house. If I have to sleep in my car, then at the very least I’ll have to buy a Toyota Avalon. The Avalon has plenty of room for me to stretch out in the back seat. I might be able to get the loan in Phaedra’s name, in which case I could sell the car, use the proceeds to help with the tuition repayment, and she would be stuck with the monthly payments. I never liked Phaedra, even before I knew of her existence.

In addition to the foolish April joke, I began Poetry Month by posting a poem, if you can call it that, I dashed off without benefit of analytical thought or corrective polishing:

Words were never meant as weapons.
They were intended as delicate caresses,
kisses that replace the rough edges of
hard days with soft, loving embraces.
They are touches that echo the smooth
channels of gentle river banks after long,
soothing rains transform streams into swift
torrents of impossible serenity, hidden beneath
movements so placid the earth doesn’t notice.
Words were meant to teach us to surrender, to
help us understand the beauty of acceptance.
They bequeath to us the ability to bask in the
renunciation of spurious victory, clinging instead
to the joy of compassionate failure, the failure that
accompanies decency and celebrates tenderness.

Perhaps I’ll write an actual April 2 post for the blog this morning. Or, perhaps, not.

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy, Attempted Humor, Humor, Poetry | Leave a comment

Wide Open Spaces

Posted on April 1, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday—during our drive to Morrilton and then to Russellville and to Dardenelle and, finally, back to Hot Springs Village—I realized again how much I miss wide open spaces. I love looking at pastures and flat, open land that stretches to the horizon. Though there was not a lot of the latter along our route yesterday, there were enough broad expanses of land to rekindle my passion for open spaces.

As we drove south from Dardenelle, we saw evidence of the kind of work that creates open pastures in the forests of Arkansas. Enormous swaths of land that had been heavily wooded forests had been stripped bare by bulldozers and tractors and other heavy equipment. Logging trucks and monstrous saws outfitted to serve the interests of the timber industry had razed thick stands of pine and hardwood. On their heels had come machinery that smoothed the rough landscape left behind, creating smooth, rolling hills. I was at once thrilled to see open spaces and horrified to see evidence of clear-cutting. Human intervention had transformed some of the scenery along our route  from dark, forbidding forests to bucolic pastures. I hated to see the loss of forest land, on the one hand, but I was delighted to see the sky and gently rolling hills, on the other.

After trying, for quite a while, to process my mixed emotions at the metamorphosis of the landscape, I came to the conclusion that my disdain of human intervention relies not on its existence, but its scale. There was just too much deforestation. I don’t know whether the people responsible for it plan to plant more trees to replace the ones they took or destroyed. Perhaps they cut the forests to create farmland. Who knows? I shouldn’t condemn the transfiguration of the land without knowing why it was done. Perhaps pine beetle infestations were so bad that felling entire sections of the woodlands was the only solution to saving the bordering forests. I shouldn’t judge without knowing answers to many questions, some of which I might not even had considered yet.

But I’ve veered off course, as usual. Before I noticed big swaths of forests being cleared, I was struck by the pasture lands we saw as we skirted the Arkansas River. Those lands probably were never forests, at least not the thick mixed-wood forests. The silt deposited by the river during periodic floods, mixed with organic matter from plant and animal decomposition, made for nutrient-rich soils well-suited to farming in the flood plains. That is why the land is so open along the river now. It’s suited to crops. I’m sure some of the land was cleared along the river, but probably not as much as I saw in the forests. But, again, I’ve gone off course!

I miss the wide open spaces of parts of Texas. I miss the endless vistas in New Mexico and Arizona. My friends, Jim and Vicki, are spending a month in New Mexico at the moment. Photos from their journey probably sparked my recollections of how much I appreciate open land, but the drive yesterday reinforced my memories. And I felt a longing for those open spaces; a strong, almost overwhelming longing. I love the forests, but sometimes they seem confining, restrictive, overpowering in their darkness. I need the occasional shot of exhilaration provided by endless skies and 360-degree views of the horizon.

More writers than I care to try to recall have written either that travel opens one’s eyes or, conversely, that travel simply offers an unsatisfactory refuge from failing to make the most of one’s surroundings or home. In my view, neither view is entirely correct. Travel does open one’s eyes to the wonders of the world around us, but it doesn’t take the place of putting down roots (at least temporarily) to provide a physical and emotional anchor to a place. I suppose travel can be an escape, a refuge from reality, but if that’s all one allows it to be, it becomes of a prison of sorts; it throws the anchor overboard and allows it to drag us to the depths without experiencing what’s around us.

I have a history of growing restless of places after a period of time. I’ve never measured that time-frame precisely, but I think it averages about four to seven years. We’ve lived in Hot Springs Village for about five years. I’ve felt restless for a year or so. We lived in Dallas for many more than five years—17 years, I think. I was restless much of that time. We lived in Arlington for five or six years. We lived in Chicago for four years (Janine was there five). I don’t know how much of my restlessness was responsible for our moves, but I suspect it contributed to them.

Where is this going? I don’t know. I’ve often wished we weren’t tied down to a house, at least not by ownership. But I’ve always been unwilling to rent, thinking the idea of giving other people money to borrow their houses for a while was like throwing money away. Janine is more logical and rational. But she’s not as restless. I guess there’s a correlation there. When we were contemplating buying an RV and traveling around, I was as excited as I remember ever being. But the practicalities of RV life persuaded me it wasn’t for me. Yet I’ve never quite gotten over the idea of being a vagabond. Our friends Lana and Mel are about to embark on a seven-week adventure, traveling west and northwest. Hearing them describe their plans triggered my wanderlust again, I think. And Jim’s and Vicki’s cross-country house-sitting did the same.

I guess I need to get over this wanderlust. Janine doesn’t share it, at least not to the extent that it consumes me from time to time. Road trips, even short day-trip versions, tend to exacerbate my desire to hit the road for longer adventures. Sickness and the attendant doctor visits and tests and the like bring me back to reality, making me feel an intense loathing for the real world.

Perhaps I should simply find documentaries about road trips throughout the U.S. and try to live vicariously through the central characters. I’m sure that would do nothing, though, but make my lust even more intense. Ach!

Posted in Travel | 2 Comments

Badger Food and the Like

Posted on March 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

It’s possible that I am genetically predisposed to be a Badger. A Cheesehead. That is, a Wisconsinite. That thought found its way back into my brain by way of an article on Wisconsin Public Radio‘s web site. In months and years past, I’ve sensed that I had a connection to Wisconsin at the cellular level, thanks to my affection for pickled herring and liverwurst. Today’s resurrection of that impression was sparked by an article about a Milwaukee tradition, Cannibal sandwiches. Cannibal sandwiches, to my way of thinking, must be related to steak tartare, which comprises ground meat, onions, capers, pepper, and various other seasonings. Some recipes call for raw egg yolks to be thrown into the mix. Generally, I think, it is served with rye bread. Cannibal sandwiches are not as elaborate. They consist of very lean ground beef smeared on rye bread and topped with raw onion. I am confident my taste for Cannibal sandwiches will mirror my appreciation for steak tartare. I absolutely love steak tartare.

Now that I’ve read about Cannibal sandwiches, I feel compelled to give them a try. According to the WPR article, the safest way to enjoy Cannibal sandwiches is to purchase a fresh, very lean cut of beef from a good butcher and ask for it to be freshly ground with a clean grinder. It would help, the article suggests, to let the butcher know you plan to eat the beef raw. Then, make your Cannibal sandwiches the same day you buy the freshly-ground beef. I think the appropriate way to explore this taste sensation would be to get plenty of beef to make several Cannibal sandwiches and enough to make a nice helping of steak tartare.

I once began an endeavor (back in November 2013) which would involve making and tasting a number of regional cuisines from all over the U.S. and Canada. Though I didn’t complete the undertaking, I did investigate several regional dishes and actually made some of them (noted by an asterisk below):

  1. Minorcan Clam Chowder (Northeast Florida)
  2. American Chop Suey (Connecticut/New England) [AKA “Goulash” in the U.S. Midwest]
  3. Sseafood Gumbo (Creole/Coastal Louisiana)
  4. Rappie Pie (Acadian/Nova Scotian)
  5. Sausage/Chicken Gumbo (Cajun/Louisiana)
  6. *Philly Cheesesteak (Philadelphia)
  7. Chicken Booyah (Northeastern Wisconsin)
  8. Smoked Salmon Tartare (Pacific Northwest)
  9. *Arroz con Camarones (South Texas Coast, AKA John’s kitchen)
  10. Succotash (New England)
  11. Jiggs Dinner (Newfoundland/Labrador)
  12. Pan-Seared Grouper (Southeast/”Floribbean”)
  13. *Tourtiere du Shack (Quebec)
  14. Cincinnati Chile (Cincinnati)
  15. Spiedie Sandwiches (Binghamton, New York)
  16. Muffuletta Sandwiches (New Orleans)
  17. *Cornish Pasties (Michigan)
  18. Chicken with Tamarind Ginger Sauce (Southeast/”Floribbean”)
  19. *King Ranch Chicken (Southwest)
  20. Fish Tacos (West Coast)
  21. Oyster Pie (Northeast-NY)
  22. Grilled Pacific Halibut w/ Rhubarb Compote & Balsamic Strawberries (Pacific Northwest)
  23. Cannibal Sandwiches (a Milwaukee/Wisconsin add-on as of March 30, 2019)

I’ve actually made a few others, as well, but not as part of the abandoned endeavor. I abandoned it, by the way, because I was unable to spark enough enthusiasm among others (namely, my wife) to warrant going to the trouble. Sure, I could have made the dishes and we could have eaten them, but without the drumbeat of excitement…it just wasn’t worth the effort. But, now, thanks to my introduction to the concept of Cannibal sandwiches, I may revisit the idea. Perhaps I can find some adventurous Wisconsinites in the Village who might also be willing to explore Jiggs Dinner and others. Here’s a link to a Jiggs Dinner recipe, by the way.

The list above was only to have been a start. I created it to serve as a kick in the rear; a means of sparking my enthusiasm. As I suggested above, it worked for me, but not sufficiently well for my entire wife.

Until my esophageal brokenness is repaired, though, many of these dishes are apt to be too troublesome for my gut to tolerate. So, I will wait. I will plan. And I will rejoice when, finally, I can embark again on a culinary adventure (perhaps with a small cheering section alongside, anxious to enjoy the meals with me).

Somewhere along the way, in years past, I became enamored of Hidden Kitchens, a radio program created and produced by Davia Nelson and Nikki Silva. I’d like to find recordings of those programs and select some of the dishes they discussed, adding to my list of regional dishes. It would be great fun, I think, to prepare dishes unique to every state/province/region. And perhaps write about them. Ah, we shall see. If my body would only cooperate. And, of course, the larder would have to cooperate, too. Getting the ingredients for many of the dishes on my list is apt to be difficult. But I can adapt and adjust, using available ingredients. Can’t I?

Posted in Food | Leave a comment

Island Soul

Posted on March 21, 2019 by John Swinburn

I don’t know who it was. It may have been me, it could have been someone else. Whoever it was, the undertaking was extraordinary: transplanting my soul into a small island in the St. John River between Van Buren, Maine and Saint Leonard, New Brunswick. Actually, it wasn’t an island. Not exactly. It was an aggregation of silt that accumulated against a piling beneath Bridge Street at precisely the boundary between the United States and Canada.

Now, you may ask how my soul could possibly have found itself assigned to a mass of mixed silt and clay beneath a bridge at an international boundary. I asked myself the same question. It was odd in more ways than you might imagine. First, until the transplantation, I had never been even remotely close to the location. I’d been only to the lower fringes of Maine and had never ventured into New Brunswick. But all that may be immaterial. The question, of course, is this: what is a soul and how do I know mine was transplanted into an international island claimed by no nation?

I’ve never believed in the concept of a soul. A soul, to me, has always been an imaginary expression of an imaginary connection to an imaginary being. In other words, an artificial understanding of a woo-woo linkage to a hallucinogenic woo-woo thing. But I changed my mind. I’ve come to believe that a soul is the mental manifestation of the synthesis of one’s intellectual and emotional biochemical/bioelectrical responses to both internal and external stimuli. That may clarify matters ever so slightly, but the explanation does not begin to explain how that mental manifestation found its way from my body, or my aura or whatever it is you’d like to call it, to a clump of bi-national dirt. And you’ll note that I said from the very start that I don’t know who did it. Nor do I understand how it was done. I know only that the transplant took place. When I say transplant, I mean my soul was removed from me and my proximity and relocated to the island in the St. John River. That is to say, my soul is no longer at my disposal, as it were. I’m soul-less. In spite of my almost life-long disbelief in the soul, and my subsequent non-religious epiphany about it, the fact that mine is no longer readily accessible causes me some anxiety.

I’ve considered talking to a psychologist or psychiatrist about my anxiety, but the prospect of explaining my rather uncommon belief about the nature of the soul deters me from that course of action. Not to mention the idea about the transplantation. It might be different if the transplantation involved another person. I might find it easier to tell a mental health professional that my soul found its way into another human being. But I’m afraid the concept of psychokinesis (I may be using the wrong term here, but I can’t for the life of me think of a better one) involving transition from an anthropomorphic entity to an island in a river might trigger an involuntary commitment. If that were to happen, I’m afraid how I might reaction, because absent a soul, I might be misjudged. Because, you know, other people seem to grab onto the concept of a soul and they think they can see into the souls of other people by looking into their eyes. What would happen if someone were to look in my eyes and see an infinite void where they think they should see my soul? I shudder to think about it. I might be considered inhuman and subject to carnivorous lust. See, I think cannibalism arises not from any inherent mental deviance but, instead, from the belief that animals that are perceived to be without souls are fair game. Cows, deer, chickens, pigs…all soul-less creatures in the eyes of many and, therefore, suitable for butchery and culinary treatment. And I’m worried that could happen to me.

If you’ve read this far, you will have determined either that: 1) the author is out of his mind or 2) the author’s imagination has gone off on a strange tangent. In fact, you are correct, regardless of which determination you reached.

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Programmed Oblivion

Posted on March 21, 2019 by John Swinburn

No matter how hard we attempt to position humanity as a special gift to the universe, we’re sometimes forced to remember we’re eventually all forgotten. Regardless how noble or ignoble our acts, no matter what damage we do or what monuments we build; leaving aside how generous or selfish we are, we’re eventually forgotten. The sphere in which we matter is small from the start and shrinks over time, eventually becoming invisible even to the most powerful electron microscopes. The power of the most advanced technology cannot peer backward in real-time, witnessing lost time in the present. Nothing we do can still the march of time and the way it erases our marks. We fade into oblivion.

If any of us have a lasting impact in any way, it’s due to accidents of time and nature and civilization. Most of us, though, have no lasting impact. We’re lost to history three our four generations hence; far less if we leave no progeny to further sully the planet. Yet we seem to think our presence on the planet matters. We seem to think the universe is our permanent playground, an unfolding tapestry of our own making. It’s not. Like the dinosaurs, humanity one day will be gone and the only impact will be on the highly-evolved creatures—perhaps mollusks or an as-yet-unknown breed of reindeer or brilliant bacteria—who take our place, studying the impact humans collectively made on the surface of the planet we left in such disarray.

The only thing preventing us all from committing mass suicide is the fact that we have very brief, but extremely deep, impacts on others of our species. Were it not for the temporary pain our self-imposed extinction would cause during its implementation, we would rid the planet and ourselves of the agony our existence causes.  Mass suicides on a scale sufficient to rid the planet of the scourge of humanity are almost unimaginable, though. From what little I’ve read on the subject, the largest mass suicides seem to peak at around 1,000 people. While that’s a respectable number in anyone’s book, it pales in comparison to the seven billion, more or less, necessary to cleanse the earth of the disease that takes the form of humanity. I should say that it’s not the fact that our memories soon will become vaporous mist that urges us to suicide; it’s the fact that our collective impact on the world in which we live is decidedly negative and abusive.

I realize, of course, that this entire post is about as bleak and dismal and utterly gloomy as can be. It’s just the reflection of my mood at the moment. I do not feel much like being an apologist for humanity this morning. Despite our collective efforts to draw upon and, ostensibly, emulate the thoughts and deeds and moral teachings of Jesus and Buddha and Confucius and others, we invariably fail. One might, if one were an optimist, look upon our ongoing inadequate efforts as evidence of the goodness at the core of humanity. Or, if one were not quite as forgiving of humankind, one might judge our failed efforts as confirmation of our innate inadequacy.

Depending on the day of the week and factors over which I seem to have little control, I bounce between those perspectives. Perhaps the problem with my perspectives is that they are never crisp and clear. I understand and argue with myself over which one is more compelling. I never win the argument, but neither do I lose it. It’s always a draw, and a deeply unsatisfying one at that. I always leave it unresolved. Even reading the words of Plato and Socrates and Aristotle and other philosophers leaves me both confused and certain. Not that I’ve read much of any of them lately. Actually, I’ve read very little lately. I’ve felt a little like “what’s the use?” No argument seems sufficient to sway my opinions or beliefs one way or another.

Speaking of being forgotten…or not. What does the fact that we remember the philosophies of Plato and Socrates and Aristotle and Confucius and Jesus and Buddha mean? Are their memories simply accidents of time and nature? Were they just ordinary folks whose thoughts, either through luck or eternal punishment, have been etched into our collective memories?

None of this rambling is especially coherent. I will try to blame chemo-fog for both my depressing mood and my inability to sufficiently articulate my thoughts this morning. Chemo-brain or chemo-fog or whatever one chooses to call it really is a thing. Even though it’s been a week (or has it been two?) since I completed my chemo treatments, I still feel them. My mind is soft and spongy, as it if absorbs information but then allows it to flow throughout my brain in random fashion, never coming back together in cohesive comprehension. I am afraid my mind may never recover from being muddled. I can’t envision accepting that for long.

Speaking of progeny, as I was at some point, the fact that I have none means I will be forgotten far more quickly than will members of my cohort who have helped populate the planet. Ten or twenty years after my death (and that’s a generous extension of reality, I think), my existence will simply not have mattered. It will register only on old census records.

I spent some time not terribly long ago looking for evidence of my impact on previous employers, organizations for which I held CEO and CEO-equivalent positions. Not surprisingly, in some cases there was no evidence at all of my existence. In others, what little evidence there was seemed (and perhaps was) indicative of how little value I had to the organization. Admittedly, this search was online, not in official hard-copy records, but aren’t all meaningful records now kept online, electronically? I’m not complaining about my disappearance, I’m only commenting that my point about our being forgotten is being borne out even as we wither. I suppose it’s unintentional erasure (though perhaps it’s not unintentional). Our impacts, or lack thereof, on the lives of those around us are subject to societal or institutional amnesia. Not only are our accomplishments during various parts of our lives allowed to turn to invisible vapor over time, the very fact that we existed is expunged from the human record as the timeline between then and now gets longer and longer.

I once wrote a piece of fiction (and it may not have been long ago, but time is one of those things my mind seems incapable of measuring, of late) that included something to the effect that a census record revealed the existence of someone years earlier, but nothing else existed to suggest the individual mattered in any way.  As I wrote the piece, tears welled up in my eyes. Here I was, writing about a nonexistent person whose life seemed not to have mattered, and I got emotional about him. There’s something about a person not mattering that bothers me, obviously. Someone forgotten, or never even remembered, even an imaginary someone, is painful.  Where the hell is this going? Nowhere, I suspect. I’ve been writing for too long this morning to have reached the conclusion that none of it mattered, but that’s exactly the conclusion I cannot help but reach. If nothing else, I’ve exercised my fingers. Not that it matters.

Posted in Philosophy | 2 Comments

Wishes

Posted on March 13, 2019 by John Swinburn

To be loved, in spite of legendary flaws
To be loved, even though unlovable
To be loved, regardless of moral defect
To be loved, undeterred by physical blemish

All these wishes cannot stand in the face of love’s substance.
They can’t remain in the harshness of daylight or the dim
glow of soft evenings seeking redemption from the day.
Love is earned by conquering the failings that
tear its seeds into shredded strings of loathing.
Love is granted, in defiance of defect and blemish
and flaw, only to the lovable.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

Cancer Journal 31, 2019 and Indiscriminate Musings

Posted on March 11, 2019 by John Swinburn

Barring unforeseen complications down the road, I completed what I expect was the last of my core cancer treatments today.

The fourth and final chemotherapy treatment ended without fanfare just before noon today. I expected–based on my experience at the conclusion of my radiation treatment and on what I’ve read and others have told me–some pomp and pageantry at the conclusion of my chemotherapy. It was an expectation unmet. The only expression of “joy” was “yay,” expressed with decidedly restrained enthusiasm by the nurse who yanked the needle out of my chemo port, when I mentioned today was my last chemo treatment. Perhaps they reserve celebrations for people who undergo far more challenging chemotherapy than mine. That would make sense. I can imagine how other patients, who might be subjected to weekly or semi-weekly treatments for months and months and months, might feel that a four-course program over twelve weeks doesn’t merit much ballyhoo. And their sentiments would be understandable. But, still. I guess I felt like the end of my therapy didn’t really matter to the staff. Maybe, were I in their shoes, I would feel the same. But I doubt it. Frankly, I can’t fathom how medical professionals dealing with cancer patients can simply ignore what, to the patient, is a pretty damn important milestone. Yet, in the overall scheme of life and healthcare and multiple decades of life on Planet Earth, an ignored milestone doesn’t really matter, does it? No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t, and shouldn’t, matter much to me. Why should I care that a group of people about whom I know virtually nothing and whose lives don’t intersect mine except in fleeting and utterly tangential ways failed to acknowledge “my” milestone? But, still.

Okay, I think I’ve gotten that out of my system. But maybe not. Maybe I should compare the ways in which the people at the other end of the building, in the radiation section, behaved when my treatments ended. The two guys who handled my radiation wishes me well. Their expressions of good will may have developed through guidance and training. Their behaviors may have emerged only after extensive sessions with an acting coach. The nurse who, after I rang the bell (after being told to do so), left the reception area to give me a hug may be required to exhibit such behavior. The smiles on their faces might be due to thoughts of little bonuses in their paychecks if they successfully trick the patients into believing they actually care.  But I think not. None of it seems true. I think the radiation staff is simply more humane. More human. More caring and empathetic and more compassionate.

Okay. NOW it’s out of my system. I really am happy that the treatments are history. I hope and expect that the residual side-effects will dissipate over the next several weeks. Today, after the session, my wife and I ate lunch at a chain steak house across the street from the cancer center. I ordered a burger, cooked rare. The waitress said  rare means a cool, red center. Yes, I said, that’s what I’m after. I got a pink, warm center. I didn’t complain, though by doing so I might have helped another customer receive his burger cooked to order. But I didn’t. I ate the meat and part of the bottom half of the bun. I still have a tough time with swallowing bread for some reason. But, yesterday I was able to swallow pizza dough without any significant problems. I think my esophagitis is improving. Despite my swerve away from health-related happiness into the food lane, I’m happy to be finished with my treatments. My next doctor visits are March 22 (radiologist) and March 28 (oncologist). In both cases, I expect to learn more about follow-up appointments and tests and the like. The March 28 appointment will lead to a CT scan schedule. And, perhaps, a conversation about Programmed Death Ligand -1 and what, if anything, to do about it. My follow-up visit to the surgeon who removed my right lung’s lower lobe will be in June.  Medical medical medical. Ach.

Today’s final chemo treatment came on the heels of a high-speed visit by Anne, Ignacio, and Woods (my niece, her husband, my brother). They arrived Saturday afternoon and left early this morning. We had a very good time visiting with them. But such short visits don’t allow enough time to completely relax and enjoy one another’s’ company. We took advantage of Ignacio’s skills and strength by having him help us hang a mug rack that will hold 50 mugs (plus or minus one or two or so). While Ignacio’s skills and strength were critical, Anne’s intellect contributed mightily by incorporating the use of dangling lenghts of thread to mark studs in the wall. Within the next few days, we’ll dig the mugs out from boxes where they are stored, wrapped in paper, and will hang them. It’s been YEARS since they hung on the wall. The last place they were on display was our house in Arlington, Texas. We moved away from Arlington in 1997. We tend to procrastinate when challenged in certain ways. I think seeing the mugs every morning (they’ll hang in the office/guest room I use as my writing corner) will brighten my mood and help me heal.

On Saturday, before family arrived, I submitted a request for a window company to come give me a bid on replacing some large windows in the room I originally intended to be my office. Today, I got a call from the company to schedule a visit. During one of three calls, the scheduler asked me whether I was married. I asked her why that mattered. She said “we like to know who we’re talking to.” I told her that made no sense and that the question irritated me and had nothing whatsoever to do with giving me a quote on windows. She seemed to drop it. We scheduled a visit for Friday morning this week. Fifteen minutes later, she called back. “I need to know whether you’re married, ” she said. I responded in much the same way I had earlier. Except I told her I knew why they want to know. They want to know whether they need to use pressure sales tactics and on whom. I told her I find that extremely offensive and that I have no use for a company like that. I told her to cancel my appointment. She hung up. No “I’m sorry.” Nothing. She just hung up. I’m glad I got to know enough about the company to know I wouldn’t want to do business with them. Creeps.

Did I mention that, after I got home today, I sat in my recliner and almost immediately went to sleep? I must have slept for three hours. I felt utterly drained and beyond tired. I can’t decide whether it was today’s chemo or something unrelated. Not that it matters.

I guess I can expect extreme fatigue in the coming days and weeks. I hope this upcoming round will be the last chemo-related exhaustion, coupled with protracted lethargy, for many, many, many years to come.

 

Posted in Cancer, Health | 2 Comments

Cancer Journal 30, 2019

Posted on March 7, 2019 by John Swinburn

Another blood draw today, along with a visit with my oncologist. The same nurse who, invariably, cannot find my vein without prodding my arm with a sharp needle to the point that I inform her that I have nerves in that arm, examined my chemo port. I asked to have  a look. I would have preferred to have asked someone in whom I have more trust, but I wasn’t in the mood to berate my attacker today. She felt my port, prodded a bit, and pronounced that it was fine. Sometimes, she said, weight loss can make it seem like it’s more pronounced than normal.

I waited for the usual extended time period before seeing the oncologist. She came in and asked something to the effect that “weren’t you having problems with nausea or something last week?” I wanted to scream, “Look at your chart and you’ll see that it wasn’t nausea, it was the same cough for which you prescribed drugs for acid reflux!” But I didn’t. I just told her it was a cough and it seems better now. Because it does. Not good, but better. Her bizarre prescriptions last week cost $86. I think my prescription plan opts not to pay for obviously erroneous prescriptions. Apparently, my conversation with the nurse navigator either didn’t make its way to the doctor or the doctor forgot. Whatever the reason, the oncologist repeated her suggestion that I consider immunotherapy if the insurance company is willing to pay for it. She said my concerns about the side effects (basically, everything from permanent brain damage to an excruciatingly slow death) were unfounded. None of her patients have had such side effects, she said. “What,” I felt like asking, “did they slip into comas and die quickly?” But, again, I didn’t. I’ll still consider the immunotherapy. Just not under her care.

Next Monday is my last chemotherapy session. I expect I’ll deal with extreme fatigue within a couple of days of the treatment and, if what I’ve read and heard is true, the fatigue associated with this last treatment could last a month or more. Crap. I’m tired of this stuff. But, I have to keep reminding myself, I’ve had it easy thus far. A lot of people suffer much worse side effects, on top of having a much harder time with their cancer in general. I’m lucky. I hope my luck holds out.

My next visit with the doctor will be March 28, when she will let me know when I’ll have my CT scan. And, maybe, she’ll give me an idea of the follow-up treatment schedule.

My swallowing seems to be getting just a tiny bit better. Knock of wood. My chest still hurts like hell when I move in certain ways, suggesting there’s something “in there” on the lining of my esophagus (I presume) that is slow to heal. My next visit with the radiologist is March 22, the same day I get my eyes examined. I’m very tired of doctor visits, but happy I have insurance that pays for them…or, at least, covers most of the costs.

Posted in Cancer, Health | 2 Comments

Broken References

Posted on March 7, 2019 by John Swinburn

Spanso Griffin has forgotten all the easy, commonplace words. In their place, a complex vocabulary—suited only for erudite papers penned by academicians—is taking hold. He speaks a stilted language that paints him as pompous and pretentious and undeservedly boastful. His old vocabulary hides in fear under layers of slabs of crystalline brain cells, sheets of deadened thought petrified into hard, impermeable plates. The turgid new lexicon speaks of apertures and fenestrations, cursing words like doors and windows, which the terminology asserts are suited only to the simple-minded .

His travel on foot from the east coast to the midwest is no longer a long walk but a peregrination. He no longer glorifies the memory of a friend; he apotheosizes the man’s life.

Spanso tries to remember the simple words, but they escape him. And it’s not just the language of conversation. It’s the nomenclature of personal engagement. The names of people he has known since he was a child  have begun to dissolve into cerebral sludge, a sticky ooze he can feel sloshing in slow motion from one side of his skull to the other. He remembers faces, but the names he once associated with them no longer make sense to him. Unlike the high-minded intellectual replacements for simple words, names have become gibberish with irrational connections. The person he once called Mike is now stuck in his head as Penumbra. He see the man’s face and thinks of his shadow. Hi midday meal is not lunch; it is torso. He does not sleep; instead, he conflagrates.

This monstrous mixture of pedantry and rancid illiteracy gnaws at what’s left of his intellect like rats, watching his eyes as he screams in horror, chewing on the gristle of a man’s broken knee. Spanso’s days last for weeks. Sleep doesn’t come for Spanso except to accompany intensely brief nightmares that would lead to a horrible death in any other man. But Spanso simply awakens, more confused and angrier than before.

Almost all his few friends have abandoned him, unwilling to tolerate his threats and hissing tirades. Only Calypso Collier continues to listen to Spanso’s incoherent rants, hearing in Spanso’s words hints of the gentle man buried deep in Spanso Griffin’s broken psyche. Calypso says he hears references to the “old” Spanso on occasion. He tells the people who have abandoned Spanso that their old friend is still there, just hidden. But they laugh and say Calypso is stupid, a sucker, an easy mark for a madman.

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Reason to Believe

Posted on March 5, 2019 by John Swinburn

Still I look to find a reason to believe.

Tim Hardin wrote, composed, and recorded Reason to Believe in 1965. One of the most popular versions of the tune was released by Rod Stewart six years later. No fewer than two dozen other artists have recorded the music over the years. Its lyrics tell a story of betrayal, hurt, and willing self-deception. They portray, in very few words, the effects of painful dishonesty. They imply, but never announce outright, the foundation of the lies about which the lyrics address. The words of the song begin with:

If I listened long enough to you
I’d find a way to believe that it’s all true.

Depending on the version, the tune is only between two and four minutes long. My favorite version is just three minutes long. I remember, when I first bought the vinyl album it’s on, I would play it over and over and over again. That’s probably one of the reasons that LP is scratched. If I had an LP player that worked, I’d listen to the album this morning.

My favorite version never made it to the top of the charts. It was recorded in 1970 by Mason Williams on his album entitled Handmade. Williams’ version is one of the most poignant songs I’ve ever heard, even with its twangy country accents. His version seems honest and unadorned with excuses. I lose myself in it when I hear it.

I’ve long thought there’s a distinct parallel between songs I like and the way I write. The songs are short and focus on a single theme that’s repeated several times. They don’t tell a full story. Rather, they suggest it, leaving the listener to fill in the enormously large empty spaces around the compact bits of information contained in the lyrics and reinforced by the tune.  I like to write short vignettes that attempt to do the same thing. Perhaps I’d be more successful if I followed the form that has worked for so many people for so long: musical lyrics. Lyrics offer evidence that stories need not be padded with so much nonessential “data.” Short stories or even my vignettes tend to be weighed down by unnecessary information. Their kernels can be hidden and even smothered by layers of choking fog. Maybe I should try my hand at song lyrics. But I think I would need someone to compose the tune first, something to which I would attach lyrics. The tune would set the stage for me. I often know from the first moments of listening to a piece the kinds of emotions it will evoke. That knowledge would guide me in writing the lyrics.

Almost everything I write involves emotional pain. I’ve noticed that over the years. Not everything, but damn near it. I’ve never been able to figure out for myself why that is. I suppose there’s something buried in my psyche that a psychiatric surgeon with an impeccably sharp intellectual scalpel could uncover. Still I look to find a reason to believe. Those few words say as much about the denial of pain as any book I’ve read.

I’ll try to embed Mason Williams’s version of the song here. Let’s see it that works.

Posted in Emotion, Music, Writing | 3 Comments