Blowin’ in the Wind

Posted on May 12, 2017 by John Swinburn

We had a house guest not long ago. When one has a house guest, one tidies up. One washes the guest towels, put fresh sheets on the bed, sweeps, mops, dusts, and otherwise behaves in ways foreign to one’s daily routine. And we did all the above. But, during the process, as I was putting fresh sheets on the guest bed, I flipped the fitted sheet a little too hard. I popped the beast to straighten it. But it caught the ceiling fan blade. The fan blade arm, the piece that attaches the blade to the body, broke in two pieces. Had the part been fabricated of decent material, I would not be writing this. But it was made of soft metal combined with the breath of a baby. This pairing was insufficient to withstand the snap of a bottom sheet. I erupted in anger at the broken pieces on the unmade bed. I cursed builders who use crappy products. I cursed the original owners who did not replace the fan with something decent. I cursed the subsequent owner, just because. And I cursed myself because flipping the sheets as I did was the act of an imbecile on drugs and sleep deprivation.

That notwithstanding, we completed our trip to Garvan Woodland Gardens. We drank beer, sampled tuna tartare and mahi-mahi tacos, and ate decadent ice cream. That does not explain why I go overboard on cleanliness with house guests. Right. It doesn’t.

And so why am I writing this, when I could have been smoking fish or instigating an insurrections that would cleanse this country and bring it into a new age of decency and possibility? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind. How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man? 

But I have another question that’s been on my mind for a while. A Facebook friend I’ve met only once in person, a guy in Florida, has bounced off and on from Facebook for a long while. In the latest iteration, he unfriended me and has not friended me again. I can deal with that; I’ve dismissed people who annoyed me. But I had no clue; no idea. And now I’m feeling rather down; what did I do, I wonder? Why would I be skimmed off into the trash? That’s one of the negatives of social media. The impersonal—that is, not personal—can be misconstrued as personal. A comment can become an attack. Appreciation can become a relationship or an affair.

 

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A Picture Says a Thousand Words

Posted on May 12, 2017 by John Swinburn

I took this photo in an interesting shop in downtown Hot Springs recently. 

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Revisiting Tired Themes that Just Won’t Go Away

Posted on May 11, 2017 by John Swinburn

I think—somewhere among the two thousand, three hundred and six posts I have made to this blog since I created it—seeds worthy of sprouting clamor for attention. Yes, I know; I go back and forth between thinking I will always be a would-be writer and feeling confidence I have the wherewithal to actually produce something worthy of reading. Today, this evening, my mind tends toward the latter. I do not claim to be an excellent writer, but I think I’m a good writer with the potential, with sufficient energy and effort, to become quite good. At least good enough to merit writing a book worth reading. Perhaps before writing that book, though, I really should follow through on the promises I’ve made to myself to assemble and publish a compilation; that’s still on my list of near-term objectives. But that effort does not preclude getting to work on a novel. I’ve agreed to join another critique group, this one for people who desire to write and publish long-form work, beginning in another couple of weeks. At each meeting, which will be held weekly, members may submit up to ten pages. Members read along in their copies as the writer reads his or her work aloud; it’s worth taking a stab. If nothing else, the energy devoted to creating those weekly ten pages will be energy redirected away from obsessing about the psychopathic criminal narcissist who occupies the White House. That stunningly self-absorbed deviant pig has given me (and probably hundreds of thousands of others) material that will serve me well in my writing. Who knew an orange-haired wanna-be tyrant would trigger the formation of creative-revenge factories in the minds of writers? Speaking of staying sane in the time of 45, a friend forwarded a link to this article today. I recommend it; I need to take its advice and counsel to heart.

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Cravings

Posted on May 11, 2017 by John Swinburn

This evening promises a welcome diversion from reality. We’ll attend a two and a half hour cooking class at Garvan Gardens, where we’ll see and partake of a demonstration for three courses, each paired with a special brew from Bubba Brews Brewing Company… and...enjoy samplings from each course including Tuna Tartare on wonton round, Samoa-encrusted Mahi-Mahi Tacos, with Mango and Jicama slaw, and Ginger-Lemongrass Coconut Cream, and Woven Melons, wrapped around vanilla bean ice cream. Now, doesn’t that sound intriguing? Yes, it most certainly does.

Keeping in the vein of relying on food to wash away the troubles of the world, I will prepare a chicken casserole this weekend for a Mother’s Day lunch on Sunday at HSV Unitarian Universalist Church. I’ve settled on using chicken and potatoes and lemon as the primary ingredients, but I have yet to decide which spices I will use to round out the dish. The UU diners do not know that they will be guinea pigs for a recipe I have never made; it’s probably best to keep them in the dark about that.

I infrequently incorporate food in my fiction. As I contemplate that fact, I realize it’s strange that something so important to who I am so rarely finds its way into my writing; well, I do write about food regularly on my blog, but I don’t incorporate food into my fiction with any regularity. I think I must change that; my characters ought to crave dishes that echo my own cravings.

This afternoon, I will practice reading the fiction I will read aloud at an upcoming event. Perhaps I should edit my piece a bit, adding an affinity for a certain food to enliven the main character.  Blood sausage might be apropos; or maybe a piece of venison backstrap.

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Unable to Attain

Posted on May 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

Until you’ve painted, you cannot legitimately express opinions on the skills of the person holding the brush. I learned that lesson through embarrassing experience. I tried to paint something I thought would be “easy.” I selected an abstract theme, thinking it’s impossible to paint something “wrong” that has no expression in reality. I was wrong. Across the board. And I was chastened to learn that, regardless of how much I wanted to express myself through art, I was not…am not…a natural. I may not be capable of doing what I want to do. And that reality hurts. My inability to transfer what I see in my head to the canvas is actually painful; it causes physical pain, discomfort that seems illegitimate. How could my inability to paint an image translate into physical pain? I don’t have an answer; I just know I have the experience. The reality of being “not remotely good enough” is instructional. It tells me I am not the man I wished I were. It tells me I do not have the innate talents I dreamed I had. It tells me I am more fallible than I wish to be. It’s just disappointing; more disappointing than I could have imagined. I had fantasies of being a late-in-life artistic talent. That isn’t going to happen. I can always return to my writing; I’m not bad at that. But, like the visual arts, I’m not by any means stellar (though maybe more stellar with words than with acrylic). Yet I have to accept that none of my artistic talents is sufficient to warrant calling myself an artist. And I think that is the most painful aspect of coming to this realization. I have always, somewhere deep inside me, wanted to be an artist; that has been my lifelong aspiration. To be a talented artist, regardless of medium, was the dream I never quite allowed myself to articulate. But here it is. That’s what I wanted. And I’ve not reached that goal and have no reasonable expectation of getting there. Knowing this, understanding this, coming to grips with this, is more difficult than I ever imagined. It’s as if the person I hoped I’d be, the person I’d always wanted to uncover after peeling back all the layers, is hopelessly lost. I’m unable to attain the single most important thing. I’m not sure what I feel. What I can say  with certainty is this: it’s not good. Coming to the ugly realization that wishes do not necessarily translate into reality is brutality made real. I guess I’ll get over it, whatever “it” is; but I hate knowing I am incapable of being the man I’ve wished I were. God, what a painful realization. I know I can continue to write, draw, paint, and the like. But I’ve reached the realization that, no matter how I try, I won’t be good at any of them. I might be adequate. But not good. Maybe we’re not all destined to be “good,” if that means anything. But some of us…me, for example…just want to be good at something. It could be anything; fishing lures, sailing, making art, investing in raw land. But none of those things fell into place. And I suppose I’ve not invested the energy and time required to make any of them happen. And, now, I have no energy to invest. I’m just impossibly tired.

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Fury

Posted on May 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

Festering rage. Seething hatred. Scalding fury. Bristling contempt. Loathing amplified by a factor of fifty, ramped up by an exponent equivalent to the temperature of the sun. Hatred with an intensity that would vaporize diamonds and turn a ball of solid steel the size of the Milky Way into steam. Concentrated animus capable of ripping the universe into fibers no thicker than one-thousandth of the thickness of a human hair. If I could focus the effects of those emotions toward one person, I know the man I’d pick.

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Memory Storm

Posted on May 9, 2017 by John Swinburn

I associate ‘squalls’ with sailing on open water. The word prompts me to think of explosive bursts of wind and rain that put sailboats in danger of capsizing. ‘Squalls’ triggers memories of my teenage years, living just a few blocks from a bay connected to the Gulf of Mexico. But my online dictionary does not support that association. The dictionary defines squalls as gusts of wind, often accompanied by rain, snow, or sleet. I doubt I’ll ever accept the broader dictionary definition of a squall. For me, the word will forever call to mind the potential dangers of pursuing adventure in a boat, exposing oneself to the caprice of weather. I am sure other words carry such  associations, meanings beyond formal definitions but chiseled into my psyche through the wisdom of experience. At the moment, though, I cannot think of what those words might be. But I just know they exist, ready to spur memories I thought were long-since buried under the sediment of time. Squalls reside in my head alongside smells and tastes that provoke recollections of long ago experiences. For some reason, the thought that led to the sentence I just wrote brings to mind a flowering plant from my early childhood in south Texas; it had sticky, sky-blue flowers. I wonder whether such memories reside in our heads all the time or whether, in an act of magic, spring into being with just the right mental nourishment. And, there it is again, another word from my childhood: impetigo. I remember the word more than I remember the experience, though I recall mouth sores.

There. That’s enough to get  my brain into gear today. Enough to record for future use. Enough to spark some ideas that might find their way into stories or books or memoirs.

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Cobra

Posted on May 8, 2017 by John Swinburn

Were I to open a restaurant (and if I did not call it French Kangaroo, the name I’ve given my kitchen), I might call it Cobra. As it happens, others came up with the idea first. Someone is operating a Thai restaurant by that name near Brussels, Belgium.  Someone else (I assume) runs Cobra Restaurant in Hanoi, Vietnam. There was a restaurant called Cobra in Konakilty, Ireland, but it has changed hands and is now a Pakistani restaurant called Marhaba. In Jakarta, Indonesia, there are/were at least two Cobra restaurants: King Cobra and Cobra Snake. There’s even a Cobra Restaurant in Prague, Czech Republic. And there’s a place called Cobra Club in Brooklyn, New York. There are others. My idea for Cobra is far from original.

My Cobra, though, would offer an assortment of dishes from around the world, many of them promising a venomous, spicy bite. I’d serve Ethiopian standards awash in awaze, Caribbean dishes flavored with habanero peppers, Moroccan fare laced with harissa, and Mexican food punctuated with jalapeños. In recognition that many people are not fans of spicy foods that bite, I would offer tamer versions of my dishes, as well. But the core reason for Cobra would be to offer meals designed to satisfy the taste buds of people who crave spicy foods. And fine libations. Craft beer. Decent but inexpensive wine.

My restaurant would not allow patrons to carry guns; even if the law required me to allow patrons to carry weapons, I would not allow them to enter my establishment. If someone were to enter my restaurant with a gun, even after being told weapons were not permitted, there would be hell to pay. Upon learning that they had broken the rule, I would have them dispatched with a steel pipe to the head and they would end up as nourishment for stray neighborhood cats and dogs. Now THAT would make my restaurant unique. But I’ve strayed off track, haven’t I?

My Cobra would be aggressively civil, treating every patron like a friend. I would insist on nothing less from my patrons; enter my establishment and be prepared to engage with everyone. Sharing dishes would not just be encouraged, it would be required.  Well, some people might not want to try your jerk chicken; they would not be forced to eat what you’ve offered to share, but you would certainly be expected to make the offer.

I suspect I would find rules imposed by health departments, taxing authorities, and the State in general to be more onerous than I’d be willing to abide. So the likelihood that I’ll actually open Cobra is exceedingly slim. And not just for those reasons. I’ve discovered over the years that I have an allergy to restrictive schedules, even self-imposed restrictive schedules. But wouldn’t it be fun to be the trigger for a place like Cobra as I envision it? I’d enjoy launching it, setting its direction and establishing a framework for its operation, then leaving to let someone else with more patience and discipline than I manage it.

Oh, one more thing. Successful completion of an exam would be required for admission; would-be diners would have to prove their ability to understand and accept the value of human decency and diversity; that is, no members of Congress would be permitted to enter my establishment, nor would 45 and his wished-for French loser, Marie le Pen.

Okay, then. Back to reality and a late breakfast meeting with a fellow Villager.

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy, Food | 2 Comments

52 Ways to Leave Your Country

Posted on May 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

I have an ambitious idea, launched only moments ago. If I consider the amount of effort its execution will require, I will back away from it as an impossible fantasy. But that is not the way one reaches goals. That is not the way one achieves dreams. So I will consider the idea worthy of pursuit; I will consider it a challenging, but achievable, endeavor that will be entertaining, enjoyable, and educational. To make it easier, I’ll need to enlist the support of others who might be interested in participating in the endeavor to bring the idea to fruition. Here’s the idea:

During the course of one year (fifty-two weeks), every week I (and those who attach themselves like glue to the idea) will partake of one meal modeled after the cuisine of a different country. The menu, drawn from “typical” cuisine one might find in that country, will be made to, as closely as possible, taste like it might in the country of origin, using the ingredients used there (to the extent possible).

I don’t know when, or whether, I’ll start this ambitious undertaking. It depends in part on the ferocity of my interest and in part on the availability of willing participants (who would be charged/charge themselves) to contribute by taking on the preparation of the meals of various cuisines. That may be the biggest stumbling block.

I’ve developed a list of cuisines I might use as a guide:

  1. Moroccan
  2. Ethiopian
  3. Japanese
  4. French
  5. German
  6. Italian
  7. Spanish
  8. Dutch
  9. Canadian
  10. Peruvian
  11. Pakistani
  12. Chinese
  13. Portuguese
  14. Chilean
  15. Icelandic
  16. Uzbek
  17. Belgian
  18. Croatian
  19. Russian
  20. Mexican
  21. Israeli
  22. Turkish
  23. Salvadoran
  24. Greek
  25. Australian
  26. Vietnamese
  27. Finnish
  28. Venezuelan
  29. Serbian
  30. Scottish
  31. South African
  32. Argentinian
  33. Korean
  34. Brazilian
  35. Swedish
  36. Filipino
  37. Irish
  38. Polish
  39. Senegalese
  40. Bulgarian
  41. Indian
  42. Algerian
  43. Paraguayan
  44. Afghan
  45. Malaysian
  46. Mongolian
  47. Kenyan
  48. Iraqi
  49. Micronesian
  50. Taiwanese
  51. Egyptian
  52. Romanian

There you have it. Another idea spilling from the mind of a man whose interests always seem to lead back to his stomach and environs.

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Norwegian Sky

Posted on May 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

While his wife, Elise, and son, Kennet, sat at their breakfast table overlooking the North Sea, eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with Jarlsberg cheese and juniper berries, Stefan Ruud pondered his previous night, spent alone aboard a small boat anchored off the Svalbard Islands in the Arctic Ocean. He chewed on a piece of dried, salted cod—Klippfisk—and wrote in his journal.

I stare at the stars. I watch them trudge across the sky, dragging night along with them toward dawn. If you stare at the night sky long enough, it will burn an image in your brain you can never erase. It will paint a picture of your future as a vast wasteland in which meaning is buried beyond impenetrable space. Imprecise white dots against blackness—unlike any blackness on this planet. But the fractional moon in that dark sky is blinding in its brightness, shining down on me with a bleak, condemnatory severity, offering a substitute for panic that fills me with fear and palpable dread. The moon cautions me against taking that irrevocable action, that solution for which there is no cure. Yet, at the same time, she taunts me and urges me to explore a path toward a dimension from which return is impossible.

Stefan had not told Elise he planned to leave her. His departure several days earlier was, he said, for another oceanographic expedition, just part of his job. Stefan hadn’t told Elise he quit his job the day before he left. He hadn’t even told his employer. He just left.

[Eventually, I’ll weave this vignette into something.]

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Regret by Another Name

Posted on May 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

I miss the kiss, the cuddle, the squeeze that
told me the world didn’t matter, but I did.
I miss the way the world slipped by without notice,
the way reality meant nothing and mattered less.

I miss the casual way we dismissed the world, as
if it were an inconvenience we could easily avoid.
I miss the ease with which we could touch one another’s
souls with a glance, the way we melted our hearts.

I miss the way we ignored convention, leaving the
critiques on the cutting room floor where it belonged.
I miss the dismissal, the rejection of judgment of
two lovers whose attachment was “wrong” but so right.

I miss being willing to break the rules, yet so conscious
that rules guided us to places we’d better not play.
I miss the guilt, the painful acceptance that our struggle
cut decency into ribbons, leaving lives broken in the breeze.

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Fight for Justice

Posted on May 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

“I’m motivated more by ensuring his failure than my success,” Bhavin Patel said. The beer in front of him, his fourth, sloshed over the sides of the glass as he slammed it down on the bar for emphasis.

“He deserves nothing but scorn, contempt, and disdain. I’ll give him all I’ve got.”

Quality Abrazo, Bhavin’s friend since high school, sat with a bemused expression suggesting he enjoyed the rant, as Bhavin continued.

“If murder were legal—even if it were illegal but the penalties were something I could live with—I’d kill him. Or I might hire it done. It would be a public service.”

Quality glanced around the room before he responded. “If you want to win the race, you probably shouldn’t talk about having your opponent killed. At least not in public.”

The only other person in the bar who could have heard the conversation was Crutcher, the bartender, who stood at the other end of the bar, fiddling with the glass washer. The few other patrons who were in the bar when Bhavin and Quality entered had long since left.

“Okay, you’re my campaign manager, so I guess I better listen to you. It’s the beer talking, you know? I’m probably not doing myself any favors over-imbibing, either. What’s say we blow this pop-stand?”

Quality nodded his approval. He slid a five dollar bill across the bar where Crutcher would see the tip when he finished washing his glasses.

“See you later, Crutcher. We’re outta here.” Quality turned toward the exit.

Bhavin slid off the bar stool and followed him.

Bhavin entered the race for district attorney at the last minute, just before the filing deadline, the sole challenger to Duncan Speck. Speck had served as district attorney for ten years and had a deserved reputation as a harsh crime fighter. He sought and achieved convictions and long sentences on cases he prosecuted, no matter the crime. He was as hard on a college student convicted of possession of marijuana as he was on a serial child molester.

Speck made a single public comment about Bhavin when a reporter asked what he thought about his challenger. “Mr. Patel has nine years’ experience as an attorney.  I spent twenty years practicing law before becoming district attorney ten years ago. It’s up to the voters to decide which of the two of us they want representing their interests.”

When Bhavin told Quality that he intended to enter the race, Quality offered his support.

“You gotta know from the start that you’re at a serious disadvantage. You’re a thirty-five year old guy with brown skin and a funny name going up against an old white guy with lots more experience. You live in a conservative city. But if you’re committed, I’ll do everything I can to help, Bhavin.”

“I know it won’t be easy. But somebody has to take this guy on. And I think I can get people to look beyond my name and skin color. And there are a lot of conservative people with sons and daughters in jail for weed. I think I can do it if you’ll agree to be my campaign manager.”

“Of course I will. Let’s start by talking about how you’re going to deal with the inevitable question. ‘Are you in this race because Speck prosecuted your sister?’ You know that’s going to come up.”

Though he knew the issue would come up, the fact that Quality mentioned it right away surprised Bhavin. It stung that his friend mentioned it. He knew it would sting even more when reporters would bring it up later.

[Just playing with dialogue and setting. The real story is brewing.]

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Friends

Posted on May 5, 2017 by John Swinburn

Make a friend. Share ideas and dreams with your friend.
Be there for your friend, no matter what.
Be the shelter in rough weather. Be the anchor in angry seas.
Be the celebration when you’re the only candle; be the friend you’ve always needed.

Do what you must to be the friend. Your friend may do the same.

If not, make a friend. Share ideas and dreams with your friend.
Be there for your friend, no matter what.
Be the shelter in rough weather. Be the anchor in angry seas.
Be the celebration when you’re the only candle; be the friend you’ve always needed.

One day, a friend will do the same. And that will make all
the failings of fictional friends worth the wait. You have to believe.
If that friend never comes, the wait was fiction, and so were the friends.

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Diversity

Posted on May 4, 2017 by John Swinburn

I brined the turkey breast. My favorite wife prepared the broccoli and rice casserole (I chopped the jalapeños). Tomorrow morning, I will fire up the smoker and get to work. Five and one half-hours after I put the fractional bird in the smoker, it will be ready, or so I’m told. Once out of the smoker at the proper temperature, we’ll cover it in foil and put it away for the weekend. For tomorrow is not a day for smoked turkey. Do you not realize tomorrow is cinco de mayo? The day is celebrated (more in the U.S. than in Mexico) as the day Mexican troops overcame French troops at the Battle of Puebla. Many people wrongly assume cinco de mayo is Mexican independence day. No. That’s diez y seis de septiembre; September 16. Regardless, we’re going to smoke turkey tomorrow and wait it out while we celebrate the day with two sets of neighbors, both progressives. So, no party; but we’ll drink margaritas in the name of decency and honor and we’ll eat Mexican-inspired hors d’oeuvres and the like. And, then, on Saturday and beyond, we’ll celebrate by eating pavo ahumado and cazuela de broccoli con arroz. The adoption of cultural celebrations (which I do NOT consider cultural appropriation) and honor of cultures through their foods are ways in which I think we can acknowledge our appreciation for other lifestyles and cultures.Diversity in all its healthy forms deserves appreciation and acknowledgement. After all, we’re but evidence of the diversity of biological organisms, aren’t we? Well of course we are.

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Hard Powder and the Like

Posted on May 4, 2017 by John Swinburn

I stumbled across a bit of interesting information this morning, something I want to file away as a reminder in a year or so. A film called Hard Powder, starring Liam Neeson, is being filmed in or around Vancouver, British Columbia and Kananaskis Country, Alberta. It is an English-language remake of a Norwegian film, In Order of Disappearance, I recently watched and enjoyed enormously. The new film is scheduled to be released sometime in 2018. It’s the story of a snow plow driver whose son is murdered by a drug lord. The father decides to take revenge. His efforts result in a turf war between competing drug cartels that attribute the results of the father’s rampage to one another. The Norwegian film was highly entertaining (if not particularly artsy); I hope I will say the same about the remake.

In other entertainment news, I gather a new season of House of Cards will begin in just a few weeks. It’s one of the few bits of television that I insist on viewing, though I must admit lately I’ve been seeing more and more series worth recording and watching, especially Netflix originals. Others from Netflix include Narcos and Longmire. The service has a number of other originals that pique my interest but, so far, not enough to merit sitting in front of the television for several hours.  My wife and I also enjoy The Americans (an FX original) now in its fifth season; next season will be its last.  I watched only two from the Danish Department Q series; I really must make a point of watching the final in the series, Department Q: A Conspiracy of Faith.  Actually, I think a marathon binge watching both I’ve seen, followed by the one I haven’t, might be a reasonable investment of my copious spare time.  Or, I could write. Maybe that’s what ought to command my attention. Yeah, that’s it.

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Booking

Posted on May 3, 2017 by John Swinburn

Tomorrow (that is, Thursday), I’ll participate in a critique circle, part of the Hot Springs Arts in the Park week-long celebration of arts of all forms that flourish in this wonderful enclave. Tomorrow’s critique circle, led by the current host of Wednesday Night Poetry, Bud Kenny, is limited to eight participants, each of whom is asked to bring nine copies of a five-page-maximum piece of writing for critique.

Lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have more than enough writing to produce a book of compilations of my work. I need to sort through it, group it in logical sections that relate to one another, and have someone edit it. I insist on hiring a good editor; though I’m not bad at editing, I’m not particularly good, either, especially of my own work. So an editor is required. Beyond that, I need to polish and, in some cases, finish, my stories. I’ll be interested in the feedback of strangers tomorrow when they review the piece I’ve selected for them to read.

As I envision it today, my compilation will consist of three utterly unrelated sections (which may be a mistake…I’ll look forward to feedback): short fiction, essay, and poetry. Though the styles between the three sections will, obviously, be different, I believe I can weave themes that connect the sections so that the entire compilation will make sense as a stand-alone work, but so that each component section could stand by itself, without the other two. We’ll see.

I have neither the interest nor the patience to ask that traditional publishers look at my work and determine whether it meets their criteria of demand and marketability. But I realize, too, that the market for a book as I envision it is apt to be severely limited. Okay, I won’t get rich, I won’t get recognized, and I won’t get much distribution; that’s fine with me, as my motives don’t mesh with those outcomes. I want to publish something that, someday, someone might happen upon and say, after reading it, “that guy had some interesting, thought-provoking, and even inspirational things to say.” I would like to think that, one day, someone will read what I’ve written and say I had both a way with words and ideas worth considering.

After my little critique circle (which follows a meeting, in the morning, of other writers who seek input and inspiration and instruction), I’ll visit published writers who are hawking their books in the Garland County Library. Then, my wife and her sister will join me as we spend a few hours at the Craft Beer Cellar, a new establishment in Hot Springs that’s participating in Arts in the Park by way of educating visitors on all matters beer. I love that! I will sample a few.

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Time Crystals: A New Form of Matter

Posted on May 3, 2017 by John Swinburn

Four years ago, I read an article in Wired magazine about a concept advanced by a Nobel Prize-winning physicist, Frank Wilczek. According to the article, Wilczek “developed an apparent proof of “time crystals” — physical structures that move in a repeating pattern, like minute hands rounding clocks, without expending energy or ever winding down. Unlike clocks or any other known objects, time crystals derive their movement not from stored energy but from a break in the symmetry of time, enabling a special form of perpetual motion.” The concept fascinated me, but I tended to side with a theoretical physicist detractor, Patrick Bruno, also cited in the article, who argued that Wilczek “mistakenly identified time-dependent behavior of objects in excited energetic states, rather than their ground states.” How I came to the conclusion that I even understood enough about the matter to take sides is beyond me. Today, though, I came across another article about proof that Wilczek was right and Bruno (and I) was wrong.

The more recent article, from late January 2017, says scientists unveiled a new form of matter: “time crystals.” Researchers at the University of Maryland and Harvard University reported successes, following steps outlined by U.C. Berkeley Assistant Professor of Physics, Norman Yao, in making and measuring the properties of time crystals. “This is a new phase of matter, period, but it is also really cool because it is one of the first examples of non-equilibrium matter,” Yao said.

Theoretical physics is far too complex for my mind to comprehend, but absolutely fascinating to me nonetheless. The fact that we truly do not fully understand the full scope of the laws of nature (and/or the manners in which they operate in opposition to one another) intrigues me. The possibility that this “impossible” achievement could lead, at some point, to resolving the incompatibilities between Einstein’s general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics is simply stunning.  I suppose it’s possible that neither theory is “correct” and that a third over-arching theory will emerge from the ashes of the two of them. Regardless, I find it thrilling to learn that enormously important, if inexplicably complex, work is being done. Pure research, with no immediate or even eventual practical application, is among humankind’s most remarkable endeavors. Pure research aims for understanding, rather than application. I admire that.

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The Smoke of Creativity

Posted on May 2, 2017 by John Swinburn

When a man’s mind compels his hands to create art but his hands fail to deliver what the mind demands, his passion may morph into rage. Not an unrestrained external rage that endangers bystanders, but a smoldering animosity that sears his brain as if touched by white-hot steel. Perhaps the hands’ refusal to follow the mind’s commands is an instrument of instruction, a means of teaching patience—or acquiescence to the limits of one’s skills. But, instead of learning, that failure to produce the desired outcome can lead to burning; the incineration of inspiration in a mental kiln of one’s own creation. Soot and smoke and the creosote of oxygen-starved ideas settle on a once-clear image, leaving it buried beneath a layer of unmet expectations.

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Used to be

Posted on May 1, 2017 by John Swinburn

I used to be strange but now I’m just normal
I used to be casual, but now I’m quite formal
I used to be smart, but now I’m dense as a rock
I used to be as timely as an atomic clock.
But something has surely changed.

I used to be silent, I said nary a word
I used to be a whisperer, could barely be heard
I used to be muscular, used to be strong
I used to be sexy, looked good in a thong.
But something has surely changed.

I used to be taller, as tall as a tree
I used to be careless, completely carefree
I used to be thinner, slim, firm, and lean
I used to be nicer, not surly and mean.
But something has surely changed.

It’s the first day of May, four months in
The year’s getting older, older than sin
I’d better start changing, for better not worse
Or at the end of the year, I’ll ride in a hearse.
Something has gotta change.

Poor poetry, lousy lyrics

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Card Flow

Posted on April 30, 2017 by John Swinburn

I have an idea for a card-based game. It would engender interaction between people at events at which personal, one-on-one engagement would, typically, be a little awkward.  I have in mind creating a deck of cards which would ask questions about the person questioned that would bring people out of their shells. Maybe I haven’t said enough, but I’ve said all I’ll say: what is your reaction?

By the way, I love you. At least I think I do. How can I know, for sure? There’s no way of knowing; we just have to let things flow. 😉

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In Disgusted Defense of Ann Coulter’s Right to Speak

Posted on April 28, 2017 by John Swinburn

As I read news of the cancellation, reinstatement, and subsequent cancellation of Anne Coulter’s speech at the University of California at Berkeley, I question the intelligence of the people who violently oppose the her speech. Do those people not understand they are playing right into her game of incitement? Do they not realize their threats of violence against her and her right-wing nut-case supporters do much more harm to progressive agendas than any good her absence could possibly achieve? I loathe Anne Coulter. In my view, she represents the epitome of intolerance, ignorance, bigotry, hatred, and even misogyny. My opinion of the woman is that she is a demented ball of ugly, poisonous goo that, if the world were a more just place, would simply evaporate into harmless vapor on a hot summer day. But the world is not such a place. And the First Amendment applies even to people whose malicious and malignant ideas decent humans find repulsive.

Though in my opinion Coulter’s and her supporter’s baiting tactics revolting and distasteful (let’s be honest here: I think she thrives on and encourages her opponents’ efforts to silence her), I am equally disgusted by people who would silence her by threat of force or violence. Those Coulter opponents who call themselves progressives, liberals, or otherwise claim to be righteous in their indignation at Coulter’s brand of right-wing bigotry—those people who use tactics I would expect to see used by fascist regimes to silence the opposition—are not, in my book, progressive in any sense. They are Coulter’s alter-ego, playing at the other end of Coulter’s ugly playground in which vicious teams of ideological zealots egg one another one in the hope they will draw blood.

People who listen to, applaud, and endorse Coulter’s brand of bigotry will never respond to reasoned argument and persuasion; they are beyond intellectual redemption. Neither will they respond, at least not in a positive way, to threats of being silenced or harmed. The same, I’m afraid, is true of people at the opposite fringes of the ideological spectrum. If they were to read my words, they would make all sorts of intellectually indefensible arguments as to why their efforts to silence Coulter are perfectly legitimate and, indeed, required in a democracy. Those people, too, are beneath contempt; like Coulter and her supporters, they seem not to have evolved intellectually and emotionally beyond tribe mentality.

Let the woman I consider morally bankrupt speak. Let a woman to whom I might label a disreputable scourge have her say. Let any succubus slut utter a string of lies. And be willing to let anyone say equally offensive things about anyone else they please. That’s how democracy actually works. Bigots’ arguments have virtually no basis in reality, nor do they find purchase on any ground that serves as a foundation of human decency. Bigots’ supporters will crumple under their own weight. Their opponents, of which I am among the most fervent, do not have the right to silence them or threaten them or their supporters. As thrilled as I might be to learn that Ann Coulter has turned to compost, it’s not my role, nor that of my philosophical kin, to bring about that happy transformation by sealing her vile lips. Unfortunately, bigots are in no danger of extinction; but like it or not, the Constitution protects them. Though I don’t like bigotry, I favor the free exchange of ideas, even bad ones. We must tolerate the lowest of the low to ensure the good can bubble to the surface.

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Psycholinguistic Musings

Posted on April 27, 2017 by John Swinburn

Sinew. That word can evoke, for me, images of sturdy steel bands, thick in the middle but narrowing almost to points on the ends; ribbons of metallic lies constrained at either end by truth. It’s as if truth confines the streamer of lies with such a thin membrane that mendacity might spray forth with mighty force, at any moment, such that honesty could shatter into a million irretrievable pieces. That’s what sinew sometimes means to me. I understand the dictionary definition of the word, of course; but dictionaries do not, in their search for meaning, plumb the depths of irrational psycholinguistics.

Am I alone in attributing consciousness and motives to certain words? Does my mind function at a more base level than most humans’ brains work? Does my tendency to anthropomorphize concepts and the words that describe them suggest an innate madness, a psychological flaw that puts me in the company of serial killers and cannibals? I hope not.

A flawed theory exists that suggests superior intellect tracks in parallel with madness; I believe that’s not true. Madness and its precursors, in my view, track inversely to intellect; Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer and, were I their pathological kin, I struggle to link ideas to rational actions, yet the fulcrum is badly off-center. The parallel is not with superior intellect but, rather, with broken thought patterns colored by experiences best-suited for people whose minds are far-better-equipped to understand and handle them. I realize my words here constitute a drift, a swirl of unrelated ideas clamoring for attention where attention has no interest in being paid. Flummox! What, exactly, is that word? I think of it as meaning confuse or bewilder, but I am not sure.

One day, I suspect, linguists and psychologists and neurologists will collectively and successfully endeavor to bridge the gaps between theory and measurement and prediction. That will enable them to preemptively identify and prevent deviant acts by people compelled by madness to commit monstrous atrocities. That prospect is at once buoyant and chilling. At what point do we cross the threshold between protection and police state? What degree of certainty would be required to allow us to comfortably imprison or otherwise deprive a person of his or her liberty due to predictions of future behavior? I suppose we’ve already crossed the line to some extent when we execute people convicted of murder but who, we learn later, did not commit the crime. Though there’s a difference between predicting future behavior and punishing past behavior, the need for certainty in either case argues for the exercise of extreme caution and exacting standards. If absolute certainty cannot be achieved, how moral are our decisions to imprison on the basis of potential or kill on the basis of probability?

Posted in Language, Philosophy, Ruminations, Writing | 1 Comment

Coger Veintidós

Posted on April 26, 2017 by John Swinburn

My first colonoscopy in a number of years will be performed this morning. I hope the exploration is uneventful. According to Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Arkansas, the procedure is covered if they find nothing, as the procedure would be considered a “wellness service,” for which I would pay no deductible. But if the doctors were to find something wrong—polyps, for example—the procedure would be reclassified as diagnostic, at which point it would be subject to meeting my $6350 annual deductible. I argued with the BC/BS representative until I was blue in the face, expressing my displeasure with what I consider an unconscionable policy that allows the company to “bait and switch” it coverage. It did not good. So I wrote a letter to the Arkansas Insurance Department, complaining about the situation and asking to know, if indeed the policy is real and legitimate, the regulators and/or legislators who are responsible for this morally reprehensible Catch-22 that feeds the greed of the company’s executives. The AID sent a letter to BC/BS, asking the company to address the matter. I’m waiting on BC/BS to respond. In the meantime, here’s hoping today’s procedure goes without a hitch or an issue.

Afterward, I look forward to having a nice meal; yesterday’s liquid-only diet was not terribly satisfying. Of course, I understand one day of a liquid-only diet pales in comparison to that with which some people must deal, so I’ll try to keep my whining to a minimum.

Posted in Greed, Health | 2 Comments

ANZAC Day Haka for Life

Posted on April 25, 2017 by John Swinburn

Today, April 25, is ANZAC Day (the acronym stands for Australia and New Zealand Army Corps), one of the most meaningful and important national occasions for many Australians and New Zealanders. It marks the one hundredth anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during World War I, the landing of those forces at Gallipoli—the beginning of an eight-month campaign during which 8,000 Australian and almost 3,000 New Zealander soldiers died. Until today, I had heard of ANZAC Day but knew of it only in passing.

A post on an Australian friend’s Facebook page led me to explore it in more detail. My friend’s post wasn’t about ANZAC Day in particular but about an event held in Perth, West Australia in conjunction with ANZAC Day. The event is ANZAC Day Haka for Life. A haka is a Maori tradition, a choreographed posture-dance performed by groups of people who display vigorous body movements, rhythmic stamping of the feet, loud  chanting, and facial contortions. Traditionally, haka were Maori war dances intended to instill confidence in warriors and fear in their enemies. The Haka for Life event, though, was performed as a show of support and readiness to help men engaged in personal emotional struggles that could end, if not addressed, in suicide. Here’s a link to a video of the Haka for Life Event. Fascinating and moving stuff.

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We Know Too Much and Too Little To Understand

Posted on April 25, 2017 by John Swinburn

We cannot begin to imagine the way communities of ants or seagulls or squirrels function. We assume, if they function in communities at all, they operate according to genetic encoding over which they have no control; they are “animals,” after all, so they do not think, feel emotion, or grieve the loss of friends and family in the way of humans. That’s probably true; not “in the way of humans.” But I suspect we simply do not understand ants and seagulls and squirrels; our own tendency to attribute to their behaviors human motivations and human communications cloud our attempts to understand them. I doubt they think and feel and communicate the way humans do; but I think they “think” and “feel” and “communicate” in ways we just do not understand. We assume, because their brains do not seem as complex and sophisticated as ours, they cannot be as complex and sophisticated as we humans are. That arrogant logic makes it unlikely we will ever have the capacity to understand them. The only way we might ever understand other beings is by shedding our notions of what constitutes thought. That, though, is harder than it seems. How can we imagine ways of thinking and feeling utterly foreign to our own experience? I do not know. But just imagine a dream in which you are thinking and speaking in Japanese (assuming you have no knowledge of Japanese); you cannot, because the ability to think and speak in Japanese is beyond your comprehension. It’s possibly to learn Japanese, but to do so requires shedding reliance on the way in which one forms words and strings them together. But what ant or seagull or squirrel is able or willing to teach us concepts and perspectives so distant from our experience that we cannot even imagine them? Yet we might imagine how a seagull or an ant or a squirrel thinks. “The world is food and so am I.” That single “thought” might color experience in a fundamental way. Couple that with a “thought” that in some fashion defines affiliation or affection in a way that makes the object of affiliation or affection “not food” and you have the building blocks of community. Perhaps. Based entirely on my own human way of thinking. Which limits my ability to understand things beyond my comprehension.

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