John Swinburn

I awakened in the same miserable cave as the one that prompted last night’s post. It’s cold and damp and hopeless in here. The sun is long since hidden and I have reason to believe it will not rise in the morning sky; our nearest star sensed the coming doom and left for a galaxy friendlier than the Milky Way. So, too, our nearest planets. They reckon something unpleasant is about to unfold, so they disappeared into the night sky, seeking a new, kinder, and more forgiving gravitational attachment. Everywhere I look, people and places and ideas are scurrying about, trying hard to find a place on the spectrum of visible light devoid of anything orange. The only hopeful spectrum to be found is in utter darkness; illumination, once a treasure to behold, has become the face of horror.

Looking around this once beautiful planet, I see ugliness everywhere. Dictatorships, assassinations, terrorism, and raw greed turn truth upside down, spilling sewage into the air supply and filling milk cartons with gasoline and mercury. Last night, I thought the only hope for humanity was its elimination. This morning, the thought has become certainty. Perhaps Donald Trump, his primitive brain itching to send the nuclear codes to his tiny fingers, is indeed our salvation.

I haven’t ridden a cross-country bus in many years. But for quite some time I’ve wanted to be exposed to people with whom I rarely interact, people who either choose not to travel in the more modern modes of personal automobiles or in airplanes. I doubt I’d strike up conversations; I just want to see what it’s like to be among them. I suppose I could do it any time I feel like it, but I would rather take a trip with a partner, someone who shares my interest in having the experience. The last time I took a long distance bus trip probably took place when I was just a kid; I rode to Dallas from Corpus Christi and back to visit my aunt and go to Six Flags Over Texas. I must have been only twelve or thirteen at the time. I had an odd experience on that trip, in which an older man tried to put his hands on me and my two traveling companions. I told the driver and the man was put off the bus; I don’t remember now whether he was taken off instantly or removed at the next stop. That sort of danger was, as far as I knew, very uncommon; maybe it’s more common today.

I think exposure to dangerous people increases exponentially when the tone of interchange in society at large gets harsh and ugly. The next four years, under a narcissistic madman who has plans to do nothing less than establish a reckless and dangerous plutocracy, will be among the ugliest I have ever seen, I expect. Maybe the idea of getting on a bus and hitting the road is my way of expressing my desire to just run away. But we cannot do that. Because while he’s “draining the swamp,” he’ll be trying to drain Social Security of our retirement funds and our bank accounts of our savings.

Had the universe operated as it should, Home Depot would have delivered, yesterday, a new American Standard Champion 4 High-Efficiency 1.28 GPF Single Flush Elongated Toilet. I was given a window of delivery of 6 a.m. to 8 p.m., meaning I might have been required to be home for a fourteen hour period, just waiting. But, at around 11:15, I picked up the phone, even though the caller ID was for an unfamiliar caller (normally, I ignore such calls): Cardinal Logistics. The caller was a driver for the company, who said he was about to leave Benton with my toilet. I said I’d be waiting.

“I’m driving a 40-foot semi; will I have any difficulties reaching your house?”

“Yes, very probably. Aside from very steep hills and sharp turns, delivery to my house is down a very steep driveway. I don’t think you can deliver it here with your truck.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Um, not really.”

“Well, we just deliver for them, uh…”

“My only suggestion is to return it to Home Depot.”

“Okay, I appreciate that. It’ll save me from wasting an hour.”

And that was that. I called Home Depot’s customer service, who transferred me to the Benton store, which was responsible for filling the order. They cannot do anything to refund my money until the Cardinal Logistics driver returns the toilet. And they offered no option of an alternative mode of delivery. If I had a pickup, I could have simply bought it at the store. But I do not have a pickup. And the box is far too large to fit in the back of our little vehicle. Had I ordered a toilet from Lowe’s in Hot Springs, the toilet would have been delivered on a small truck, easily capable of maneuvering the hills of Hot Springs Village. But Lowe’s doesn’t carry the one we chose; only Home Depot carries it.

I’m growling and it’s not even 6:30 a.m. yet. That’s not the best way to start the day. I will see about rebooting.

I’ve written before about my little notebooks. I still keep the little spiral-bound pads on which I write grocery lists and reminders about programs I hear on the radio that prompt me to want to explore ideas or people some time later. Sometime, I come across an old notebook that contains a shopping list. Usually, I mark through items I’ve placed in my cart or basket, so when I find an old list with items that haven’t been marked off, I wonder whether I ever bought the items. “Red bell pepper. 3 or 4 tomatoes. Freezer paper. Freezer tape. ” Have I gone without red bell peppers and tomatoes and freezer gear since I wrote that list, or did I just fail to mark the items off? Clearly, I just failed to mark them off. But why? Okay, with so few items on the list, the necessity of marking them off is not so crucial; I wouldn’t fill my cart with dozens of tomatoes, not realizing I’d already put the 3 or 4 I needed in the cart.

My note pads aren’t always about shopping lists and reminders. Sometimes, they are planning tools. For example, I found a couple of pages of notes this morning that I distinctly recall writing; those pages would be meaningless to anyone but me. They comprise hand-drawn cells, within which I wrote the names of wine. “Pinot Noir, Carol. Les Garigues Côte du Rhône, La Vieille Ferme Rosé, Jacob’s Creek Shiraz  Cabernet. Clos du Bois Cabernet. Clos du Bois Merlot.” This list goes on. You might recognize the words as descriptors of wine and you’d be right. The lists were made as schematics of which bottles of wine were stored where in two locations. You see, I found it modestly annoying to have to pull the wine bottles out of their places to know which wines were where.

But back to reminders. One note I came across this morning was simply “Today’s Special. 2009 film.” I did not recall that, so I searched Father Google for answers. It’s a comedy film made in 2009 about a young man who rediscovers his heritage and his passion for life by immersing himself in cooking Indian food. Though I don’t remember writing it, the subject is of instant interest now, so it must have been just as interesting when I wrote it.

Finally, though this is not from a hand-written note but, instead, about an article I found fascinating that I want to remember: https://newrepublic.com/article/138068/last-unknown-man. It’s about anonymity and its demise. It’s absolutely riveting reading.

Something I wrote in an email a few years ago found its way to my consciousness yesterday; I liked what I said, so I decided to memorialize it here. Is that the height of arrogance or is the fact I admit I enjoy something I wrote enough to want to share it an admission of humanity? I’ll let someone else be the judge.

I love the idea of someone who knows the law, but is not of it, sitting on the Supreme Court.  In fact, I would support the concept on courts of all types.  Lawyers too often believe their own hype about their own near-divinity.  They would be better at meting out justice if their opinions were subject to a filter of compassion and practical logic, in addition to the standard of rigid adherence to constitutional and case law.  Of course the public policy ramifications of that sort of change would be earth-shattering!

I wrote this as if it were a “truth,” even though I know full-well many lawyers do not fit the stereotype I painted with my words. One of my nephews is an attorney; he is not like the lawyer I described. I have friends who are attorneys. They do not fit the stereotype. But I cling to it, nonetheless, because it is true of enough lawyers to color my perception of the profession. And, I should admit, I once gave serious thought to attending law school. That was well after I graduated from college, but I seriously thought about it because I found the law fascinating. I loved the logic at its core; the logic that can argue against itself in good conscience and applaud success even in defeat.  But that was not to be. Maybe that was for the best; I am afraid I might have turned in to one of the lawyers with whom I take great offense. I may have allowed myself to believe my own stories about my greatness. Some people do. I was never able to concoct such stories. But that is another story in itself.

People who know the law but who are not of it comprise too small a minority in the United States. That is, in part, because laws are far too complex and too prevalent. But it’s also because we do not give lay people who know the law enough appreciation and enough opportunity to share their insights. Laws are simply ‘cookbook’ rules that attempt to shape civil engagement through legal pronouncements of morality. But they arise through the lens of morality in play at the time they are conceived. Over time, the arbiters of the meaning and application and interpretation of laws see through different lenses, yet they are (ostensibly) bound by the intent of the framers of the laws for which they are responsible to interpret.

I do not know exactly where I am going with this. Maybe I should not have started writing on a subject about which I have absolutely no credentials. But that logic plays into the hands of the lawyers who see themselves as the divine tellers of  truth. Achh! For now, I will simply stop writing and allow my thoughts to find their permanent place on the internet where, perhaps a thousand years hence, someone will read what I wrote and decide “the author may have been inept and inarticulate, but he had a point.”

I have something else to say, but it does not fit well into this post, so either I will write another one now or I will make a note to write another one later. Capisci?

For years, I’ve wanted to explore how little money would be required for me to live decently, comfortably. How many dollars would it take, I ask myself, to have not just a tolerable, but a comfortable life without all the unnecessary luxuries that I treat as necessities? When one constitutes one-half of a couple, one does not impose such wishes on the other half. I’m relatively certain the other half of my couple has no interest in exploring the fringes of asceticism, though, so it’s not something I’m going to push. That notwithstanding, I still wonder how little cash would be required for me to live comfortably?

It’s not just curiosity. It’s a genuine interest in knowing whether our modern society in the USA and the world at large has deceived us into thinking we must have money to acquire comfort. I tend to think we’ve done more than a little self-training that’s led us to conclude we cannot get by without loads of money and all it can buy. And we’ve trained ourselves to believe we must depend on strangers to supply us with what we need in return for cash. What if, I ask myself, groups of people formed collectives which shared responsibilities for growing and preparing food, building and maintaining housing, etc.? Communes, I think they’re called. I know, it’s been tried. Some say communal living constitutes a failed experiment. But looking at the history of many peoples, I would argue against that’s not true. We’ve simply deceived ourselves into thinking individual self-sufficiency is preferable to collectivism. In my heart of hearts, I think I’m a socialist.

An unhappy discovery during a house-cleaning of my Gmail account earlier today led to happier moments, but only after a period of deep sadness. I came across an email I sent, on November 8, 2007, to the mayor of the City of Helsinki, Finland. I sent the message in response to my horror of learning of the Jokela school shooting that took place on November 7, 2007 in the municipality of Tuusula, Finland. When I learned of the shooting, in which a deranged eighteen-year-old killed eight people and wounded one (twelve others were injured by flying glass, etc.), I was stunned. I wanted to tell the people of Finland I felt sorrow for and cared for them. The only person for whom I could find contact information was Jussi Pajunen, the mayor of Helsinki. I figured he might take my message and pass along the sentiments to people affected by the shooting.  Here’s the text of my message:

Mr. Mayor:

Many people in the U.S.A. are grieving with you and the people of Finland as you deal with the tragedy that took place in Tuusula. I don’t know who else to contact to express my personal condolences; I hope you will let the people of Helsinki, Tuusula, and all of Finland know that the people of the U.S.A. are deeply saddened by the tragedy.

My wife and I visited Helsinki two years ago and fell in love with the city and the people of Finland. We wish you all well.

Our one-day visit really wasn’t enough for us to “fall in love with the city and the people of Finland,” but we enjoyed what little we could see in a one-day foray in Helsinki. The city and the people with whom we engaged were, indeed, more than pleasant; they were welcoming. Learning of such a horrendous occurrence is always shocking and troubling; that it happened in a country I considered enormously peaceful was awful. Finding that old email sent me into an emotional tailspin. I researched the circumstances of the incident and engaged in all sorts of wild goose chases, learning more about the incident that, frankly, I had forgotten. I did not receive a reply to my email to the mayor, nor did I expect one; but I seem to recall that I allowed that incident to escape from my memory faster than I think it should have. So research was required to bring it back to me; I needed more details.

I’ll leave out all the negativity I plowed through during the research and get right to the softer, happier stuff that arose during the course of learning more about that incident, about Finland and, of course, its food. As I was wandering through English-language Finnish web sites, I came across an article about a hotel in the city of Rovaniemi, Finland (which, by the way, is the official hometown of Santa Claus in the Arctic Circle in Lapland). The hotel (the Arctic Light Hotel) was judged by the users of Trivago as the best in the country. The US-based Travel+Leisure magazine ranked the hotel number eleven worldwide. The article about the hotel, which I found on the Finland Times website, quoted the hotel manager as saying the hotel’s extraordinary foods at breakfast attracts people domestically as well as foreigners. I had to find the hotel’s website. I found it and then I found the hotel restaurant’s website. The restaurant, Arctic Boulevard, has a most-intriguing menu.  Arctic Boulevard‘s main course menu includes such delights as the Arctic Boulevard Reindeer Burger, the ingredients of which include pulled reindeer, cranberry chutney, red onion, and house mayonnaise. I must try this! And how about their Capercaillie Cooked Two Ways? Capercaillie , I learned, is also known as wood grouse, among other names. So, it’s a bird! Then, I came across a website for Tareq Taylor’s Nordic Cookery that convinced me I really must find a way to sample his  capercaillie and chanterelles.

I could go on—as  you might know if you  have been to this blog before—for weeks. I don’t know if my wife and I will ever return to Finland, but we will attempt to find the ingredients for, and cook, Finnish and Nordic foods.

So, do you see how the ugliness of stumbling across a horrible memory can lead one to better things? The tears of 2007 were justified and expected and they should never be forgotten, but the joys associated with the people who had to deal with those horrors are stronger and more long-lasting.

Some days, I wonder if I am just a simpleton whose wishes for decency and goodness and happy interactions are stupid and mindless and, possibly, dangerous. My eyes fill with tears when I realize the world in which I live is so ugly and dangerous and full of far more fear and heartache than reason says it should.

I am right at the edge of thinking none of this is worth the struggle any more. Why should we continue to push for justice when justice has succumbed to hatred? Why should we strive for reason when reason has smothered under a blanket of lies and idiocy?

We must try. It’s as simple as that.

Outside the window, I see two trees marked for death. Through the screen, I see bright orange ribbons circling their trunks, signaling their impending demise. I do not know when, nor whether, their euthanasia has been scheduled, but I know people, my neighbors, plan the taking of their lives. The reasons for their death sentences are scattered on the ground around them; their leaves. “They shed leaves on the roof,” my neighbor told me. And they lean a little too much toward the house, he says, implying they might one day fall and damage the house or kill its inhabitants or both. When men with chain saws take those trees down, the view outside my window will change. The house across the street and a few lots down will be more visible, more intrusive. I wonder if I might stretch two wires between two other trees, the one nearest and the one to the left of one of the victims, and affix a fabric screen to them to block the view? Would I need a permit to do that? Or do I have more control over my own yard than that? What would my neighbors think if I blocked my view of their house? And would it matter what they think? Of course it would. Or not.

Let sleeping dogs lie. Let sleeping dogs prevaricate. Let sleeping dogs distribute their deceptions. Let sleeping dogs dish out dishonesty the way politicians deal in distortion. Let sleeping dogs traffic in tall tales while wagging their tails. But why do sleeping dogs get all the glory? Is it because, when they awake, their canine teeth rip through flesh and fabric? I think sleeping dogs hired a public relations firm to distribute their message. Because they just want to sleep. They’ve told us, over and over, they just want to sleep. And if we awaken them, there will be hell to pay. Those dogs aren’t messing around. They will bite you. They will clinch their jaws and won’t let go. My advice is this one simple truth: let sleeping dogs lie.