John Swinburn

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.

A few days ago, as my wife and I were out doing a long list of errands, a thought entered my mind from nowhere. And I spoke about it to my wife. “Nobody seems to talk about hydrophobia anymore. I remember when discussions of hydrophobia were as common and predictable as the sunrise.”

I went on to explain recollections of conversations about hydrophobia, memories from my very early childhood in the city of my birth, where I lived only until I was five years old. Those conversations are ancient history, but I recall them. There was quite a lot of talk about hydrophobia back then.

My wife looked at me as if I were hallucinating. “Hydrophobia? Fear of water?”

Yep, that’s what I recollected it means. But my memories of the conversations suggest that hydrophobia was related to rabies. I asked her if she had never heard the term used in reference to rabies. “Never.”

So I inquired of Father Google, who offered some clues as to my recollections of hydrophobia and rabies. Father Google explained that hydrophobia is an extreme or irrational fear of water and that fear is symptomatic of rabies in humans. Further investigation revealed that hydrophobia used to be (and perhaps in some contexts remains) synonymous with rabies, perhaps because people who contract rabies have painful throat spasms when trying to swallow.

Now, I cannot recall the circumstances surrounding these very common discussions of hydrophobia. What might have given rise to those conversations and why, nearly sixty years later, did their memories pop into my head? I tried to find out by inquiring further of Father Google about hydrophobia and the city of my birth, thinking an outbreak of rabies in humans might have taken place in the city in my early years. My search yielded nothing. But further efforts revealed that, many years earlier, three Texans (two of whom lived in the city of my birth) had traveled to France so that one of them could be treated for hydrophobia by Pasteur. The patient, bitten by a wolf on March 9, 1888, was admitted to Pasteur’s institute on March 30. When the three men returned to New York City on May 6, 1888 they were, according to an article published in the New York Times the following day, firm believers in Pasteur’s treatment.  One of the men was Dr. A.E. Spohn of Corpus Christi, Texas. Spohn Hospital, now CHRISTUS Spohn Hospital, was named after the man.

None of this explains my recollections of common discussions of hydrophobia, nor why those memories popped up of late. But, in line with mining memories (which was among the topics of today’s Village Writers’ Club presentation by Janis Kearney), I thought I’d better write a little to help jog my memory. I had planned to write this post, anyway, but Janis’ comments made more emphatic my commitment to do it. And so I have. But, as you might have surmised by reading this far, I tend to get sidetracked when doing my “research.” But I do so enjoy wandering down those odd little rabbit holes.

Sultry spring shrinks in horror as the glacial scream of dying winter rings in our frigid ears. The cerulean heavens rage with cold stillness in the brittle morning air. Even the certainty of summer becomes dubious in light of this brutal reminder that we are not in control of the weather, nor of our lives.

It is, of course, too early for Spring to have arrived. But temperatures reminiscent of late Spring and even early Summer suggest a change of the season and trees have begun to blossom, yielding to the onslaught of unseasonal weather. Yet the chill in the morning air, though not a winter chill, acknowledges Mother Nature’s efforts to retain her frosty attitude about climate change. She doesn’t like it. Nor do I. A late winter, flush with heat and temperatures approaching 80F, foreshadows the potential for a volcanic summer. I wrote a weather forecast, in jest, a year or five ago predicting tornadic straight-line wind thunderstorms with hail stones the size of cars raining down on North America, followed by daytime high temperatures climbing above one thousand degrees and nighttime lows dipping to near absolute zero. Perhaps that tongue-in-cheek forecast, while absurd, wasn’t so far-fetched after all. I read something yesterday that noted in matter-of-fact language that earth’s sun will, predictably and with a great degree of certainty, die in the far distant future, eliminating all life on Earth in the process. I think humankind is doing what it can to expunge Earth of life long before that eventuality comes to pass.

When I write, whether fiction or essay or poetry or memoir, my intent is to write honestly. The challenge to writing honestly is two-fold. First, writing honestly requires the writer to both know truth and how to tell it and, second, the process exposes the writer to attacks for precisely the reason that he is who he is. If a writer wants to protect himself from withering attacks for his beliefs, he best not share them. If a writer wants to avoid giving readers the opportunity to use shame, guilt, and blame as tools against the writer (or as as excuses for the reader’s misfortunes), the writer either must not write or must not share what he has written. I choose to write, share what I’ve written (but not force anyone to read it), and express my opinions honestly. When I recognize them, I acknowledge my biases; even when I’m not sure bias helps shape my opinions, I try to examine my thoughts, with an eye toward finding hidden biases.

Bias, though, is not intrinsically evil. Bias offers a protective shield against a world gone awry. Bias alerts us to dangers that we may not even understand. We ought to listen to our biased reactions to the world in which we live, because those reactions can express truth we’d rather not know. So, what does that mean? Bias is good? No. Only that bias is a filter that offers us a warning. The warning may, indeed, be one directed outward to ugliness in our environment. Or, it may be directed inward, warning us against ourselves, against the imperfections within us that threaten our humanity.

The real threat of bias is that it tends to push us toward the fringes of belief. Bias pressures us to take an “all or nothing” stance on matters that, in the final analysis, don’t matter. Bias pushes us to take positions when we’re perfectly satisfied with ambiguity or undecided. Or when we’re too afraid to speak out on matters that, in our judgement, don’t warrant the risk that speaking out entails.

I think I may have crossed the threshold of being unwilling to put up with any of this anymore. If so, I will slink away without bravery or cowardice; I will just slip away. I’m tired of hatred and fury and suspicion and distrust. My principles won’t allow me to cave in to the times; they require me to slide away with a rage that no one hears. There’s no good reason that we’ve become what we’ve become; the only reasonable explanation is that humans are unworthy of their place on the planet. That is a position I can embrace with what little passion is left.

I’ve reflected on a number of things during these last few days, not the least of which is my legacy, or lack thereof. People with children might consider their children their legacy, but I have no children. People who build big, successful businesses structured to live on after them might consider the business their legacy, but I shut my business down and sold its assets so I could retire. People whose work has long-lasting positive effects on society or institutions might consider that work their legacy. But I think the vast majority of the rest of us who cannot point to children or businesses or impactful contributions to society have to come to grips with the fact that we may leave no legacy. That thought conjures up a recollection of something I wrote several years ago that included reference to what was described to me as a Jewish saying; it went something like this: “You die twice, once when you take your last breath and again when your name is spoken for the last time.”

The idea of a legacy is one that bothers me just a bit because it suggests (to me) leaving behind a timeless presence. How many people (or legends of people) in the history of humanity have, truly, left behind a timeless presence? Shakespeare? Yeah, probably. Plato? Yep. Aristotle? All right, yes. Jesus? Yeah. Einstein? Yep. Edison. Yes. Buddha? Yes. Okay, there are a bunch. But “a bunch” constitutes an infinitesimally small fraction of all of the people who have lived on earth. Most of our forebears are gone and utterly forgotten. Many of them, among them great philosophers and inventors, are just a whisper away from oblivion. How long will Cotton Mather’s legacy last? Speaking of cotton, will recollections of Eli Whitney’s name and his contributions to cotton’s place in the United States’ eighteenth and nineteenth century economies be eternal? What I’m suggesting here, of course, is that a legacy is a rarity and is, more often, a short-lived fable. But, still…

And that leaves me with my legacy. What do I want it to be? What CAN it be? The only thing left for me to leave as a legacy is my writing. My writing is the only “thing” of mine, truly mine, that has the potential of living beyond my last breath. And, so, I am thinking these days of how I might increase the odds of that happening. Still, though, it seems arrogant and egotistical to even think about such a topic. And maybe that’s exactly it. A legacy of arrogance and ego. This is not improving my attitude, not in the least. Maybe later, when I get home from a willing obligation, I will have a glass of wine and wonder whether I want to pursue this avenue of exploration, after all.

Emptiness is palpable. Its evidence inhabits every crack and crevice, every nick in an otherwise smooth surface. Negative space is the phrase artists use to describe the way space around or between objects define them and render them in multiple perspectives. But negative space is emptiness. It is matter turned on its head; it is the absence of substance. Lifetimes comprise the absence of emptiness. All the intricate pieces—the interwoven substance and experience and the web of interpersonal interactions—form cloth we drape around the cage within which we reside. But between those pieces are shreds of emptiness we didn’t even know were there. Hidden in that woven collage are conspicuous gaps, gaps we don’t want to see. We hope to remain blind to them; to keep them at bay. But emptiness is palpable. At some point, light penetrates that comfortable darkness with such brilliant clarity that every negative space casts a shadow a lifetime long.

I wrote of negative space a few months ago. It meaning has not changed since them; it presence in the form of emptiness has only become more precise, more clearly defined.

Last night, I indulged my newly-acquired affinity for Dutch crime dramas by watching the second component of the Department Q trilogy. Last evening’s treasure was entitled Department Q: The Absent Ones. Like the first in the series, the troubled and troublesome detective rips into cold cases with abandon. I enjoyed the film quite a lot; if one hasn’t seen the first one, though (Department Q: Keeper of Lost Causes), though, I would recommend watching that one first.  The next, and final (as far as I know) film in the series is entitled Department Q: A Conspiracy of Faith. I suspect I will be equally enamored of that one as I have been with the first two.

I was unaware of Jussi Adler-Olsen, the author upon whose international bestselling books the series is based. Having found the two films based on his Department Q series so engrossing, though, I think I’ll have to explore his books. Others in his Department Q series include: The Purity of Vengeance; The Hanging Girl; The Marco Effect; Guilt; Mercy; and Buried: Book 5. I’m concerned that I might be engrossed in the films due to the characters’ acting abilities and the allure of reading subtitles while watching Danish language films; the stories, on reflection, are not particularly riveting. I suppose the flaws in the main character (whose name is Carl Mørck, played by Nikolaj Lie Kaas) appeal to me because they describe or are quite similar in many ways to a few characters I’ve written and others who reside fully developed in my head. And the appeal may rest, in part, in the fact that Mørck is assisted in his efforts by Asaad (Fares Fares), who is (either I assume or learned in The Keeper of Lost Causes, I’m not sure which) a Middle Eastern immigrant. For whatever reason, I’ve become enamored with the Danish film series. I know I’ll watch Department Q: A Conspiracy of Faith; I have it on my ‘saved’ list on Netflix.

Aside from last night’s film fest, I experienced a full twenty-four hours. Yesterday started when my alarm ripped into my dreams at 5:15 a.m. (I had to set an alarm, just in case), alerting me to the fact that I needed to arise so I could take my neighbors to the airport in Little Rock. Following the drop off, my wife and I had breakfast at a place I believe is called Dan’s 1-30 Cafe.

Then, on our return, I left my wife at home while I went to the church I sometimes attend to listen to discussions about the possibility of engaging a new part-time minister. I succeeded in keeping my opinions largely to myself (I am not a member, therefore do not feel it is within my ‘rights’ to object to anything the organization does). But I did ask a question: how different have the ‘worship’ services been under a minister (the developmental guy they hired last summer) compared to the services organized by the church leadership? It did not surprise me to learn that several members support the idea of a minister because it reduces the work load on volunteers; but there were other reasons, as well, all legitimate, I think…just not convincing to the biased guy living inside my head. Were I a member of the group, I might have expressed my opinion that neither worship services nor a minister have any appeal. But probably not; that discussion took place before I started attending with any frequency. I suppose I’ll just sit back and continue to enjoy the ‘insight’ services and appreciate that the organization allows atheists to participate.

Upon my return from the congregational conversation as they called it, I again attacked the encroaching forest behind my house. With hand trimmer in hand, I snipped vines and branches, hoping to smooth over an unruly landscape. My efforts, though valiant, were insufficient to make a dent in the appearance of the tiny strip of land upon which I invested my efforts. Clearly, I will need to devote an entire day, perhaps an entire summer, the the chore. After I successfully fight back the hideous plant life, I’ll need to hire someone to help me by bringing in Visqueen and gravel and rock and pine bark mulch, along with youthful energy, to beautify the landscape and limit the forest’s invasion. None of this will continue this morning, though, as I will return to said building to church building engage in fellowship with others who may or may not share my nonreligious perspectives on life.

I spent a good three hours blowing leaves again today. Well, much of the time was not spent blowing leaves but, instead, extracting the leaf blower’s extension cord from beneath boulders. I would not be surprised to discover my time dedicated to leaf blowing cut in half if I were to invest in a gasoline powered blower. But, no. I bought a new extension cord, instead; it was cheaper. Some days, I believe my miserly ways are genetically driven; I have no power to overcome them. But the equipment is not the issue here, is it? No, of course not.

The issue is the frequency, or lack thereof, of my engagement in what, until I moved to the Natural State, was known as yard work but, in light of where I live, is now known as forest control. Today’s paltry three hours constituted the proverbial drop in the bucket compared to the amount of time I really should have spent “spiffing up” the yard. In fact, if I were to spent three hours a day for the next thirty days, I would make only a moderate dent in what needs to be done. I actually rather enjoy working outdoors (and indoors, as in remodeling, etc.), but I recognize my limitations of skill, physical capacity, financial wherewithal, and (in the final analysis) drive. But what I could do if I had an eager and physically fit helper! Ach, that is not to be. So I will continue to chip away at the needed yard work, with the objective of finishing the required tasks in the second quarter of the twenty-eighth century.

Regardless of my inadequacies today in forest control, I feel like I got quite a lot done. The front forest floor looks decent, except for the visible black Visqueen that looks like the front forest floor has open wounds in need of tending. Actually, what those open wounds need is pine bark mulch to cover them. If I had convinced myself last week to buy the gold-colored Ford Ranger truck I desperately wanted, I could have gone out today and filled the bed with much-needed mulch. But I allowed myself to be swayed by my wife’s pleading eyes; I abandoned the truck, even though I’m convinced I could have bought it for less than $8,000. Ach! I suppose I can pay for a lot of mulch delivery (and forest control work) with that kind of money. But paying someone else will not give me six-pack abs. I need to remember that, in case I need it next time I get a wild hair to buy a truck (which could happen at any moment).