John Swinburn

First, my disclaimer: 1) I am worse than an amateur photographer—my skills are an affront to photography; 2) I was inside the house, looking out; and 3) the windows are both dirty and coated in fresh pollen, as is every square inch of the deck, deck chairs, deck furniture, etc. With that as an introduction, I took the photos that follow this afternoon; a roadrunner with his lunch in his beak.

Slowly, quietly, as gradually as spring spins through summer and fall into winter, I have grown moderately tolerant of religious belief. To a point. I have become willing to countenance ideas that I find odd and even absurd; not as truth, but as the context within which I must accept other people whose concept of reality differs radically from mine. This transition has been an odd, uncomfortable adjustment. The difficulty has, primarily, centered on getting over my rejection of notions I find nakedly idiotic. As a corollary, I have come to realize I must not characterize such notions as nakedly idiotic, despite the fact that, deep down, I do. That’s been tough. What has helped, though, is my acceptance of the fact that, looking at my life through the lens of the twelfth century, reality as I perceive it is simply magic and mystery. So, I have to accept that someone else’s reality may well dwell in another time, another place, possibly even another dimension of which I am blissfully unaware.

The reason I am putting these thoughts down is…? I don’t know. I suppose I want to have a yardstick against which to measure the evolution of my ideas. Whether I will continue to subscribe to this odd tolerance and acceptance is subject to time and experience. We shall see. I tend to believe that religion, as we know it, will not survive the inevitable onslaught of facts and truth and reality. Instead, the teachings of the religious leaders will survive as humanitarian ideas. Decency and decorum will be valued not for their religious significance, but for their significance in human interactions.

I am done with philosophizing for tonight. Well, for the moment. I have plenty more to think about, but precious little tolerance for debate, even internal debate. So I will plow forward with a glass of wine and an insatiable thirst to know so very much more than I have reason to believe I am due to know.

We spent the better part of today looking at dining tables, a repeat of yesterday’s endeavors. We’ve found a few table/chair combinations we like, but we’re not quite ready to bite the bullet. Though the pursuit of a new dining table was not a high priority in months past, it has become modestly more urgent because we’ve agreed to participate in a “dinner for eight” group for which we will host one event. Our dining table today comfortably accommodates four and, if pushed, will handle six. But eight requires us to employ card tables and plastic folding chairs. While there’s nothing wrong with that, we’ve decided we really want a larger table that will make hosting larger groups easier and, therefore, more frequent and more likely.

Our search has educated us about dining tables. Tables for six or eight are far less common than smaller tables. And quality comes at a price; a significant price. We saw a custom-made table today, whose trestle base was crafted out of hand-cut, shaped, and welded steel sheet and pipes, priced at $3600. The top consisted of several pieces of salvaged three by six inch pine, pieced together with interlocking wooden “locks.” The eight chairs suggested to go with it were around $380 each. Fortunately, we were not enamored of the top, though we marveled at the workmanship involved in creating it.

The dining sets consisting of a table and eight chairs, priced at $800 or less for the set, seemed ready to disintegrate before our eyes. Though they were pretty, I could see how they could be priced so low. The tabletops were made of wood veneer—the thickness of a layer of human skin—stretched over a base constructed of sawdust, glue, and pointless hope. I am relatively sure the moisture in a single human breath would be the table’s undoing.

This entire process has made me acutely aware of the fact that I enjoy privilege and good fortune of enormous consequence. Most people on this earth do not have even a remote hope (nor, perhaps, the desire) to buy a dining set that costs so much; even the lowest cost ones. And most would probably not be so persnickety about the quality, or lack thereof, in a dining set. Were I a better man, I would donate the entire amount we’re contemplating on spending on a dining table to a charity that helps people in desperate need. My rejection of that notion provides evidence of my hypocrisy. The fact that I am not alone in speaking out of both sides of my mouth is of no comfort. I’ve seriously considered (in years long past) living the life of an ascetic; guilt drives my conscience, but not my actions, I’m afraid.

I wonder; if I were to invite our dinner for eight guests over, serving them on card tables and plastic chairs, would asking them for contributions to organizations engaged in human decency be seen as crass? Or would serving gruel and old lettuce to our dinner for eight, as a means of calling attention to world hunger, be seen as over the top shaming? Probably. And there’s no reason to shame good people for behaving as normal people do.

I’ve gone and done it. I’ve twisted myself into a knot that has no known solutions for untying it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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