A Sad Day

Posted on January 20, 2017 by John Swinburn

Today is a sad day for the United States of America. After eight years of a President who is arguably the most poised, dignified, decent, and respectful person to have ever held the office, the position will be assumed by an arrogant narcissist whose behavior is best described as irrational, bullying, sociopathic, and bordering on (or crossing the border beyond) psychopathy.

It is entirely possible, though improbable, that some of Trump’s policies will have positive effects on the economy or on some other aspects of American life. But I am deeply concerned that the damage he does to America’s standing in the world and the damage his personality does to the sense of who we are as Americans will irrevocably harm this country for generations to come; perhaps forever. Trump is a carnival barker, a con man whose need to feed his fragile self-esteem far exceeds any modest interest he may have in furthering the interests of the American people.

If there is any justice in the world, Trump’s time in office will be cut very, very short. Whether through impeachment, resignation, or some other means of removal, I hope justice prevails.

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Lambs and Slaughter

Posted on January 18, 2017 by John Swinburn

Where did we go wrong? How did a nation dedicated to justice and freedom, a nation ostensibly predicated on the assertion that all men are created equal, come to this? How can it be that, on January 20, 2017, Donald J. Trump will be inaugurated as President of the United States? I think the vast majority of Americans, both those who voted for Trump and those who voted for another candidate, failed to fully comprehend a key message he espoused: there’s too much political correctness. His supporters interpreted that message as a condemnation of the “left leaning” Democrats’ tendency to preach tolerance and brotherhood and equal opportunity in the midst of undefined economic pain and a “trumped up” fear of the “other” in the world. His opponents read his message as code for intolerance, racism, xenophobia, and virulent nationalism. Both failed to understand.

His message was this: while we view our Constitution and Bill of Rights as if they were sacrosanct, in his view, they are not. In his view, our governing documents are playthings for the rich, playthings subject to revision or repeal without the slightest hint of patriotic reserve. Political correctness prevents the rich from grabbing and holding onto perverse political power that serves only their own deviant, egotistical, narcissistic self-interests. So, yes, for him and his cronies, there’s too much political correctness. Political correctness, to that bloated piece of putrid orange excrement—seething in the stench of self-serving entitlement—means restraint of plutocratic lust. Not all of us missed it; but enough did to enable a lunatic with a fanatic desire for self-gratification to take office.

The words “lamb” and “slaughter” flood my mind this morning.

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A Community

Posted on January 17, 2017 by John Swinburn

Last night was the second HSV Open Mic Night I’ve organized. I thought the first one, on October 10 last year, was successful. But, then, I didn’t quite know how to define success; it was, after all, the first such event I’ve undertaken to organize and I hadn’t quite settled on what success might look like. When I went into last night’s event, I still hadn’t decided what success might look like; at the end of the evening, I knew. It looked exactly like last night’s event.

Yesterday morning, the event was shaping up as an evening in which five performances would take place. By the time the program was over last night, just a bit after nine o’clock, eleven individuals or groups had performed, the final performance having received a standing ovation. That’s what an open mic event is supposed to look like; people show up and, if there’s time, they perform.

I thought all the performers did a magnificent job. And the Coronado Center, especially Craig Annen, the manager, performed above and beyond, ensuring the musicians and performers had what they needed to look and sound and be their best. I was impressed with Craig and his team. The only poor performer last night was the photographer; he ought to be replaced.

For my own record, here’s what last night’s HSV Open Mic Night looked like:

Chloe Stainbrook, guitar and vocals (a middle school student!)

Courtney Stanage, formally-trained pianist, played an Elton John medley.

David Legan

Ed Bayer, told a George Carlin tale

John Chapman, Emcee extraordinaire!

Linda Black, read Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, which received a standing ovation!

Mike Catlett, Steve Skubish, and Dan Chandler, three-fifths of Common Ground Band.

Myra Rustin read “The Sound,” a poem, in a jazz conversation with John Leisenring on Trombone

Philip Doyle played and sang a song he wrote.

Toby Hamilton told the story of how she got her name.

Two Guys, the feature performers: Jameson Burton and Tai Nishiuchi

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Feasting with Friends

Posted on January 16, 2017 by John Swinburn

My failure to photographically record yesterday’s food frenzy is unfathomable. How could I, after spending the better part of two days preparing an extraordinary feast, forget to take pictures of the final product? I cannot explain. I cannot justify my oversight. I will never forgive myself for the lapse in mental acuity that permitted those visually gorgeous experiences to pass unrecorded. Oh, well, it’s done. Nothing to do but accept it and decide to either let it go or recreate the entire thing so I can take pictures. I am not mad; I will let it go. But before I do, I must record for posterity and my own future recollective joy the components of the unphotographed feast. Our hors d’ouevres/tapas feast consisted of the following:

  • Albondigas de Cordero a la Hierbabuena (Lamb Meatballs with Mint)
  • Cauliflower Fritters Topped with Yoghurt & Caviar
  • Cucumber Tapas
  • Marinated Shrimp
  • Spanish Chorizo Poached in Red Wine
  • Cubes of Smoked Pork Loin
  • Mushrooms Stuffed with Italian Sausage
  • Radishes Dressed with Goat Cheese and Toasted Cumin Seeds
  • Gochujang Mixed Nuts
  • Gochujang Deviled Eggs
  • Traditional Deviled Eggs
  • Chocolate-Olive Bread
  • Cherry Tomatoes*
  • Pickled Asparagus*
  • Green Olives Stuffed with Jalapeños and Garlic Cloves*

Only the last three items (*) required no effort by us, save opening a jar. The rest came together over the course of two days in the kitchen. The occasion? We had long promised some neighbors a feast in reply to one they prepared for our enjoyment. And we had promised we would introduce them to some friends we thought they might enjoy (rare people where we live, people who share our mutual political and social perspectives). So, we finally found a date that would work for all of us. Seven of us came together, beginning with a blind taste test of four wines (all from the same vintner) and that monstrous spread of hors d’oeuvres/tapas. None of us correctly identified all four wines (we tasted Merlot, Zinfandel, Pinot Noir, and Cabernet Sauvignon; I got just one out of four), suggesting that it’s probably pointless, when buying wine in restaurants, to say anything beyond, “I’d like a red wine, please.”

By the time we had waded our way through all four bottles of wine (and finished another half bottle) and had eaten as much of the banquet as we could without exploding, we were seven sated souls. I rated only one of the dishes (the chorizo) unworthy of the rest; it tasted fine, but cutting and chewing it reminded me a little of the shoe leather my mother used to feed me when all the rest of the victuals in the house had disappeared on gone bad (the bit about eating shoe leather is fantasy, but the texture of the chorizo was pretty damn unappetizing). In spite of our efforts to finish it all, we have a refrigerator full of leftovers. The trick is to eat them in sufficiently low volume over a sufficient length of time to allow me to successfully return to my diet, which I destroyed in nuclear fashion yesterday.

Posted in Food, Friendship | Leave a comment

Control

Posted on January 16, 2017 by John Swinburn

I find it helpful, on occasion, to gently remind myself of the many things over which I have control. The results of that tender reminder are two-fold: 1) I expose my negativity as an obstacle to happiness; and 2) my outlook on the day ahead and life in general brightens. Reading back over the words I’ve just written, I realize I’ve attempted to record something quite simple in abstract terms. Maybe simple examples are better-suited to the discussion.

This morning, as I lost myself in online news and reading of the experiences of friends through their Facebook posts, my hot coffee cooled. I no longer had a warm, enticing mug of dark French roast coffee before me. In its place was a luke-warm, utterly unappealing beverage. When I realized I’d let the coffee cool, I felt annoyance rise in me. But, instead of allowing it to grow and influence the way I experience the rest of the day, I decided—I realized—I had the wherewithal to change it. So, I heated my coffee in the microwave. I had other choices; I could have poured it down the sink and made a fresh cup or I could have decided to switch gears completely and iced it down in a glass for an entirely different treat. I had control over that simple cup of coffee and I exercised control. Over the course of my life, my natural inclination in such a situation has evolved to this: I would have finished drinking the luke-warm mug and silently complained to myself with every sip. That attitude is lazy and crazy.

As I sat reflecting on the control over my emotional reaction to my cooling coffee, it occurred to me that I have similar control over myriad other experiences. Rather than let an automatic reaction take hold and blossom into a full-throated negative experience, I have the capacity to stop that response cold and turn it into something more appealing, more enjoyable. I tested my theory of self-control by reading some online attacks made against the “Hollywood elite” who have called for a general strike against Trump. The type of rants made against the “Hollywood elite” tend to make my blood boil because I find the attitudes of the ranters so thoroughly obnoxious. But, today, I read the rants and imagined myself sitting in front of the ranters, smiling at every new insult. I imagined myself looking into the minds of those hateful people and finding shards of their shattered dreams, dreams broken in the throes of their own tantrums. I looked deeper and found their stunted efforts to understand the world around them; I could see that their efforts to understand the world were thwarted by their undeveloped intellects. As I watched the pieces of scar tissue float through their brains, my anger at their idiocy morphed into pity, the sort of pity one experiences when one realizes an animal, too badly injured to be saved and rehabilitated, must be euthanized.

Following that bizarre trek off the track of normalcy, I returned to my quest for suitable examples of things over which I have control. I control the thermostat in my house; if I want it warmer, I simply turn it up. I control my schedule; sometimes I allow myself to think I am being controlled by it, but in fact I control it. So, too, do each of us. We have the capacity to control how we spend our days. I decide what to eat and when. I decide whether I want the room dark or light. I decide whether to stay indoors or wander out to face whatever experience the weather offers today. I decide how to react to the inauguration of Donald Trump and how to respond to his capacity to destroy what has taken seven generations to build.

Sometimes, when one exercises control over oneself, a gentle reining-in of unexpected anger and angst is appropriate. Other times, when one recognizes his ability to control how his rage and fear are channeled, one realizes his potential power as a component of the tools of radical change.

As you might have guessed, my carefully curated effort to see beyond my reactive self and to enable me to exercise greater control, thereby priming the pump to self-actualization, has gone slightly off the rails. I will return to the track after sufficient adrenaline has found its way back to the safety of the glands from whence it sprayed in high-offense mode.

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On Racism: I Will Miss the Obamas

Posted on January 14, 2017 by John Swinburn

A white person—especially a white man—in the United States today, try as he may, is unlikely to be capable of eliminating racism from his thought processes. Our history and the institutional racism upon which this country was built and on which, unfortunately, it still relies are too deeply ingrained in our experience for racism to be washed from our consciousness. It’s simply part of our cultural DNA, an ugly mutant gene that resists extraction. Its demise, I’m afraid, will require generations of careful genetic engineering.

That is not to say racism is excusable; it is not. However, those who try hard to excise it from their psychological makeup ought to give themselves some credit; credit for recognizing its malignancy and credit for making an effort to cut it away. I count myself among those who struggle to eliminate that genetic defect from our psyches. Only through those efforts will our minds be cleansed of an ugly stain. But the effort will not be successful in our lifetimes. So, while we can congratulate ourselves on the efforts, we can never stop making them; claiming ‘success’ would undo all the good we’ve tried to achieve.

More than eight and a half years ago, as the country was preparing to select the party nominees for President of the United States, I put my support behind Hillary Clinton. I liked Barack Obama, but I thought he was too young, too inexperienced, to lead this country. When he won the nomination, I willingly—though not without some concern—stood behind him and supported his candidacy.  I celebrated his election to the Presidency and  hoped the election of a Black man would change the direction of the country. It did, but not in the way I had hoped. Instead of bringing the country together, Barack Obama’s election served to emancipate the racism that had been muffled by years of public education that taught overt racism was intolerable. His election seemed to trigger a signal to overt and covert racists alike that it was now acceptable to stop hiding their racism and, instead, to unleash it on President Obama and his wife in wave after wave of vicious attacks, thinly disguised as partisanship.

I discovered my lingering racism in how I reacted to the attacks on the President and his wife. I feared that they would justly respond in kind, labeling their attackers ignorant racists (which they were and are) and revealing righteous anger. I feared the President and the First Lady would expose rage at the racist barrages flung in their direction; I feared they would play right into the hands of their attackers, giving racists excuses to fling even more racial slurs and epithets their way. That fear of mine revealed my own latent racism; I thought they would respond the way most of us expected them to respond when attacked. What I did not understand is that they have endured a lifetime of racially motivated slurs and accusations. They have perfected grace under the onslaught of racist diatribes and provocations that would shatter most people.  I did not realize, early on, how strong and dignified the President and First Lady were.

During the eight years of his presidency, Barrack and Michelle Obama demonstrated decency and decorum and poise unlike I have seen in my lifetime. Barrack Obama’s presidency was the model of leadership and civility and strength of conviction. Unlike his soon-to-be-successor, President Obama does not take himself too seriously, but he takes the gravity of his responsibilities as Commander-in-Chief with somber resolve. Michelle Obama’s time in the White House brought focus to issues relevant to all Americans; bullying, opportunities for young girls, and healthy lifestyles, among others. And above all, she demonstrated and served as the role model for kindness.

My racism, the racism I once thought I had overcome, revealed itself most visibly in my surprise at how much better a leader President Obama proved himself to be than I expected. In spite of my early reservations about his experience, I thought he would be a good president. But I was surprised at just how good he has been. And I think my surprise came as a result, in part, of the fact that I did not expect a Black man to be so much better than so many of his predecessors. I did not consciously feel that way, but I think my subconscious allowed me to think it.

There were times during his time in office I vehemently disagreed with President Obama. There were times when I felt betrayed by his actions. I recognize his and my philosophies and opinions about a number of important issues conflict; in some cases, dramatically. But during the course of his presidency, I came to understand he stood firmly for what he believed was best for the American people. I came to appreciate and realize that he brought to the office a commitment to justice for all that almost no one else could have done. Because of his racial identity, he brought a unique perspective that no white person could have brought to bear.

Unfortunately, through no fault of President Obama’s, millions of Americans remain trapped in the cesspool that is racism. It would have been impossible for him to reach into every one of their lives to show them the lunacy of their racist attitudes. But I feel certain that his performance in office and his behavior as President of the United States changed a lot of minds.

It’s odd, I think, that my admiration for a Black man in the White House helped reveal to me my latent racism. For that and for so many other things, I am grateful to President Obama. I am grateful for a First Lady who exhibited so much decency and style and class. I will miss them. I will miss them deeply. I hope they remain highly visible role models in the years to come.

Posted in Civility, Philosophy, Racism | Leave a comment

Fog and Mist: People and Countries Get Sick and Die

Posted on January 13, 2017 by John Swinburn

I learned recently that two friends had heart attacks a few nights ago.  They inhabit opposite ends of the political spectrum, so I can’t blame fear of the nightmare that is about to befall the United States (and the world) for their personal catastrophes. I suppose I can blame age and its accompanying ailments. Our bodies wear out or fall victim to our abuses. I told another friend a few nights ago aging is a treacherous process, not one with which I am prepared to deal. But we have limited choices; we can accept our bodies’ decline, decay, and death or we can accelerate the end game. In either case, the result is the same. The arguments for one process over the other are steeped in emotion. Though I might not feel the same way in a week or a month, at the moment I think the arguments favor the natural process; until, that is, the quality of life is so sorely lacking and one’s days are so painful, so unfulfilling, and so utterly monstrous that an unnatural end is the most merciful one. I think even in decline, insights and wisdom can grow like crystals and, quite possibly, if shared with others, can change lives. So, there’s my maudlin thought for the moment.

Everything else in life, except death, seems so temporary and artificial. Even friendships seem to be interactions of convenience. And what of marriage? Marriages do not survive the absence of one partner, do they? So even that monumental institution, the one we witness falling like elaborate domino shows, is as ephemeral as a veil woven of fog and mist. Individual lives and friendships and marriages are the personal equivalents of social structures and political institutions. Yet we see those personal tragedies unfold around us and we recognize them as real, irrevocable events. But when we watch the collapse of complex political institutions, we stare in stunned silence, not believing (depending on one’s perspective), the carnage (or triumph of good over evil) taking place before us.

During the period of its existence, the Soviet Union was, by area, the world’s largest country and one of the most diverse; more than one hundred distinct nationalities lived within its borders. But, between 1989 and 1991, the country that Americans had grown to see as a permanent adversary came undone. The impossible—the disintegration of the Soviet Union—become not only possible, it became a reality.  The United States is not the Soviet Union. But, like the radical change in policy and position that caused the Soviet Union to come undone, a new administration in the U.S.—predicated on trampling civil liberties, eliminating economic justice for the average citizen, and assuming the stance of domestic and international bully with an affliction of pathological prevarication—has the potential and, I believe, the very real likelihood, of taking our country beyond the brink of self-destruction.

At what point, I wonder, does one choose to cease making personal protests at the undoing of his society? What does it take to direct anger and rage not at a keyboard, but at real people doing real damage? When does it become principled to lay down the pen and pick up the sword? These questions will need answers, I’m afraid, and soon. Our choices may well be between soldier, surgeon, and undertaker. Will we fight, will we help to heal, or will we prepare the body for its place in the ground?

I realize this stream-of-consciousness rant is a series of incomplete thoughts. That’s what my mind is about these days. Fear. Loathing. Pain. Weeping for what’s lost, or about to be.

Posted in Depression, Politics | Leave a comment

Standish

Posted on January 12, 2017 by John Swinburn

Standish Cole, watching the morning sky as pale light blotted the horizon, hoped for signs of warmth and a day dry enough to take his tractor into the fields. If he couldn’t get into the fields today, the crops would be lost. Along with them, his hopes of making the payments on the land and the tractor would be crushed. Never before had he felt so utterly at the mercy of the weather. Even after the floods two years earlier, when the water took his crops and his wife, he was confident he would prevail and rebuild his farm and his life. This was different. His little remaining confidence felt fragile, like a paper-thin layer of ice on a frozen pond; a beetle could walk across it, but if a mouse were to make the mistake of testing its strength, the creature would drown.

Until recently, Standish refused to allow his mind to wander down paths leading to “what if” the farm failed. But the last two months had proven the power of positive thinking was myth. Too many things had gone wrong to allow himself the luxury of believing in his own capacity for overcoming adversity or his deeply religious neighbors’ admonitions.

“Everything will work out, Standish, the Lord is testing us and He will show us the way.” That was Chloe Webster, whose house burned to the ground when the candles she used for light caught the place on fire after the power was cut to her house for nonpayment.

Steven Pepperman, too, insisted the Lord worked in mysterious ways: “Standish, one day you’ll understand the Lord’s power. He will show you the way out of your darkest hours if you will only believe in Him. I believe we are being tested so that He will show Himself to you as the Almighty God.” Pepperman, too, had perished. He died in the horrific collapse of the Evangelical Redeemer of Faith Bible Church building.

As Standish stood on his porch, waiting for light, he saw a distant cloud bank illuminated by flashes of lightning, then heard the far-away rumble of thunder. He did not move a muscle; his eyes remained fixed on the section of sky where he saw the lightning. Another flash punctuated the morning, this one brighter, followed by a peal of thunder louder and deeper than the first. A third burst of light followed, yet closer, filling the dim morning sky, followed almost instantly by a crack of thunder so loud it shook the foundation of his house. Even before the sound of thunder dissipated, the jarring noise of rain hitting the tin roof sent convulsive shivers through his body.

Standish, the man who had weathered floods and the loss of his wife and who had withstood disdain for his lack of Christian belief, felt a sense of hopelessness envelop him like a choking cloud of noxious gas. He turned toward the door and then stopped and turned around again to look at the gloom.

Maybe this will blow over; just a passing shower.

But he knew this was no passing shower. This was the end. This was the ugly conclusion of a punishment he did not deserve, delivered by something he could not understand, for reasons that he did not care to know. Standish turned around again and stepped inside. He opened a drawer in the table just inside the entry, fishing around under papers and rags until he found it. The pistol he bought twenty years earlier but had never fired, not even once, was there. He opened the cylinder; the six bullets he had loaded when he bought the gun remained in place.  He drew the gun from the drawer, let out an involuntary sigh, and made his decision.

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Writing Out of Fear

Posted on January 11, 2017 by John Swinburn

My limited writing of late skirts the edges of frivolity from time to time, then rushes headlong into its muck. Poor writing, they say, is better than none at all. My writing in recent weeks fits the bill of better than none. But now I wonder whether “they” are right? When all I can muster are half-hearted attempts that fall on their faces, might I better serve myself by resting my fingers and allowing my frazzled brain to relax and unwind from what feels like an unending period of angst and anger and fear?

I do not recall whether I read it, or made it up; regardless, this thought resides in my brain: Frantic irrational reactions to fear claim energy best stored for that moment when one must pounce to survive.

That idea seems rational and right at this moment. I read the stories in the news about Trump’s Russian connections and claims about his dalliances with prostitutes and a host of other potentially damning information. Along with those stories, I read frantic reactions, assertions that THIS is the smoking gun we need, THIS is enough to cause us to stop this travesty going forward, THIS better command our attention. I wish the media would simply collude in silence with reliable members of the justice community, passing on information and encouraging behind-the-scenes explorations of best courses forward. The dribbles and drabbles finding their way to the newspapers and fake news sites, which blow up simple things (thereby making everything in the news subject to accusations of “fake news”), enable Trump and his minions to use their well-polished gas-lighting techniques to confuse and obfuscate. Trump does not know how to respond to silence; he cannot understand being ignored. When he baits the media, the media should redirect its attention elsewhere. When he tweets, the media should say, “Trump tweeted…what’s news about that?” and go its way, leaving his tweets to languish in the sewer occupied by his followers.

When enough incontrovertible evidence is amassed, then the pouncing should begin in earnest. Only then. In the interim, a steady stream of citizen resistance should be used to make his way forward hard and unpleasant. The news should report on that resistance and, when the time is right, fill the airwaves and newspapers and social media with FACTS that cannot be disputed. And when Trump and friends gas-light to dispute them, the media must expose, over and over and over, the bastard’s fraudulence.

This experiment in social media governance will not end well. Whether it ends in armed insurrection or martial law or nuclear holocaust, I predict it will not end well.

Posted in Anger, Fear, Government, Politics | Leave a comment

Adrift in an Ocean of Hard Air

Posted on January 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

I think I’m turning Japanese…

“I think I’m turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese, I really think so…” Those words are from the lyrics of a 1980 tune called Turning Japanese, by the Vapors. From the moment I heard that tune, as nonsensical as it was in many respects, I loved it. I do not, to this day, know why I found it so appealing, but I do. The remainder of the lyrics are not so strange. For example:

I’ve got your picture
Of me and you
You wrote “I love you”
I love you too
I sit there staring and there’s nothing else to do

Oh it’s in color
Your hair is brown
Your eyes are hazel
And soft as clouds
I often kiss you when there’s no one else around

But the lyrics seem to be from two different songs. Yet they fit together. They make an odd sort of sense of madness.

And so I wonder if my fascination with Japanese breakfasts these last twenty years or so has anything to do with my own madness? A madness born of missing opportunities like the song-writer missed his girl? This little philosophical side-trip down a rabbit warren has nothing in particular to do with this post. Or, on the contrary, it may have everything to do with it. Regardless, I will write about this morning’s breakfast with a sense of awe because, for the first time, I made it at my wife’s request! Yes, she actually asked for miso soup! That’s never happened. Heretofore, she has acquiesced to my desire for miso soup because she is a good person and tolerates a lot of strangeness in her husband. “If he wants miso soup,” I can imagine her thinking to herself, “I’ll indulge him. After all, it’s not so very bad, is it? I mean, I can tolerate it from time to time, can’t I, if only to keep him moderately and tolerably sane.”

But this morning, she actually requested it. Perhaps she’s turning Japanese, too. Or, perhaps, if you eat foods you do not enjoy for long enough, they become not only palatable, but appealing. I will say this: she did not partake of the cucumbers, saying she would eat them as snacks later on (as in, ” at a time of day more appropriate for the consumption of cucumbers.” She once was that way about radishes and, to a large extent, still is; but she will eat a radish or two at breakfast these days. It’s what you’re used to.

After breakfast, as I was cleaning up the kitchen and putting food back in the refrigerator, I noticed that we have some fresh snow peas. Damn! They would have been the perfect accompaniment to my radishes and cucumbers! Curses! Maledictions! Big damns and little damns!

Were I to turn Japanese, I would have to make some significant changes in myself. First and foremost, I would have to become fluent in Japanese; essentially, it would be necessary for me to become a native speaker. Second, I would have to change my body shape (which is a work in progress) if I were to want to blend in with the population (assuming I were to go to Japan; one need not be in Japan to be Japanese, right?). And radical changes to my world-view would be required, wouldn’t they?

It’s not just Japanese that I think I’m turning. I think I’m turning Icelandic. And Nordic. And Arabic. And French. And Canadian. Wouldn’t the world be a wonderful place if each culture could retain its unique characteristics, yet embrace and value the differences in all other cultures? I’m afraid that’s a bit like wishing for eternal life or an end to world hunger. It’s not going to happen in my lifetime. (Get it?)

I am adrift this morning. I’ve written about this same tune before. Something about it has its clutches around me, keeping me floating through the air, yet inextricably tied to its claws. I am adrift in something like a sea. But this sea is invisible. The waves are dark, foreboding emotions that dash me against what looks like a shore but is, instead, a block of air as hard as a stone wall. The solution to this is, of course, music. I will visit Spotify, where I will create a playlist of tunes I wrote about last October 30; I called my post Eclectica, but I’ll call this new playlist Mourning Becomes a Mirage. And if the playlist does what I hope it will do for me, I will use its title to spur me to write something with the same title. That’s it. That’s what I’ll do this morning while I wait for HVAC repair people and the exchange, later today, of furniture. Onward in pursuit of happiness.

Posted in Just Thinking | Leave a comment

Sleeping with a Caffeine Buzz and Awakening to Brilliance

Posted on January 10, 2017 by John Swinburn

I’ve taken to drinking coffee in the evenings in recent days, something I’ve scrupulously avoided in the past for fear of caffeine-induced insomnia. I cannot honestly say whether the coffee is having any effect on my sleep patterns. Even before throwing caution to the wind by drinking a cup or two of strong black French roast in the evenings, sleeping through the night was unpredictable.  Some nights, I might lay awake for hours, without the benefit of coffee; lately, I do not know whether to blame the caffeine or my racing mind for the sleepless hours.

Today, if the gods are smiling down upon me from their perches in the mountains where decency hides, an able technician will come to our house to evaluate our HVAC system, give it a seasonal exorcism, and find and correct the problem that has on a few occasions of late caused a breaker under the house to trip, turning the system off. And if the gods continue to smile throughout the day, two men and a truck from Haverty’s will arrive to exchange three glass-top tables for three wood-top tables; the gods have sneered and snarled for weeks, announcing delay after delay in this process. Today, perhaps, the master clock of all the good times will be re-set to ensure happiness and joy henceforth. Only time will tell. I do hope today will reveal brilliance and beauty more so than days past have done. Again, only time will tell. I wish time would speak a language I understand so I can know what she is saying.

I bought lounging pants yesterday. Not the sort of pants one wears when leaving the house to visit a lounge, but pants one wears about the house when comfort is one’s primary objective. I had not intended to buy lounging pants. My objective was to buy a replacement for our recently-demented indoor-outdoor thermometer that decided it would refuse to display outdoor temperatures if they fell below forty-seven degrees. Alas, none of the indoor-outdoor thermometers we saw satisfactorily excited our neurons. But the pants! They made my neurons leap and dance and sing vaguely erotic hymns in honor of joyful comfort. The pants were cheap and will not last; the pants will last long enough, though, to improve this cold and dreary winter, at least. Considering what I’ve written lately about conspicuous consumption and minimalism, I should be ashamed of myself for buying pants. I should, in atonement, swallow a packet of treble fishhooks and dive face-first into a belching volcano. ‘Should’ and ‘will’ compete for space in my brain and my mouth, along with ‘won’t’ and ‘Calliope.’ How easily my deepest convictions can be flushed into an inconsequential sea.

In today’s mail, I received an envelope from a brother. Among other things, the envelope contained two photos of me. One, which I’ve seen recently and actually have a copy of my own, is my school picture from first grade at Menger Elementary School in Corpus Christi, Texas in the 1960-1961 class. The other is a photo in which I am standing next to my father outdoors next to a car parked on a street. Both of us are looking into the camera with expressions that I can only describe as suggesting disdain for the photographer. I have no idea how old I was at the time. It could have been while I was in college, but I think it’s more likely it was post-college. I wish I knew. I’m wishing a lot lately, am I not? Yes, I am.

Day before yesterday, I bought a new pair of earrings. They are the same style and design of the pair I’ve been wearing for the past year. But the pair I’ve been wearing are showing their age; the chrome is peeling, the underlying copper shows signs of tarnish, and the sheen is long gone. The new pair, on the other hand, fairly gleams. Light cannot settle on them, they are so reflective. So, I have one very shiny earring dangling from one ear and another one, equally as shiny, sitting patiently in a drawer, awaiting its call to action. Hmm. I just described an inanimate piece of metal as having patience. That suggests my linguistic abilities are failing. I must get to word-shaman quickly! I’ll write more when I have nothing to say.

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Evidence of the Endeavor

Posted on January 9, 2017 by John Swinburn

Today is Day Eight of my effort to lose massive amounts of weight over the long haul. In my defense, I introduce into evidence two photographs, taken today, illustrating the outcome of my effort…not lost weight, but the WAY to losing it. These are not unusual meals; these are relatively typical breakfast and lunch (though, I admit I have never made these nachos in my life before today). But I do eat relatively healthy meals most of the time. I just eat more of them than I should. And I tend toward modeling gluttony. I should have put those statements in the past tense. For I am a changed man! So say I. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Well, I shall have no pudding, but I will deliver up an order of proof one day. And with that, I say good day to you.

Zucchini nachos with Mexican salsa, mozzerella, and pepperoni.

Poached egg, Canadian bacon, radishes, white cheddar, encacahuatado sauce (oh, you would not believe this stuff), and a few assertive drops of habanero sauce.

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Taking Shortcuts to Mediocrity

Posted on January 9, 2017 by John Swinburn

Last night, I adapted a tried-and-true (if overly simple and insufficiently spicy) recipe for Shrimp Fra Diavolo. I adapted the recipe in several ways, the two most obvious deviations being the substitution of cod for shrimp and cauliflower for rice. Cooking cod in a skillet differs rather substantially from cooking shrimp in a skillet, so that element of recipe revisionism started the path down different-dishdom. Cod takes longer and, if not prepared properly, will fall apart. So, I patted the cod filets dry, dusted them with flour, drenched them in an egg wash, and squeezed the flour and egg coating off until just a hint of it remained. After cooking the cod for a total of around five and half minutes (compared to three for shrimp), the remainder of the recipe was as it would have been had I been cooking Shrimp Fra Diavolo. Except, of course, I did not use broccoli rabe in the dish because it was unavailable; I used frozen chopped broccoli instead. And I did not cook rice. Instead, I cauliflower, steamed with boiling water into which I had introduced a few teaspoons of lemon juice. Along the way, because I am lazy, I omitted various steps that traditional Shrimp Fra Diavolo would have included. Instead of crushed tomatoes, I used a nice squirt of Italian tomato sauce from a tube. Instead of a crushed anchovy filet, I used a squirt of anchovy paste from a tube (whose “best by” date was early 2015, but I don’t buy that nonsense meant to sell more tubes of the stuff to fearful consumers). And I omitted the white wine and basil leaves and diced onion.

In short, I pretended to make Shrimp Fra Diavolo, substituting cod for shrimp, using cauliflower instead of rice, leaving out several ingredients during the course of preparing the meal, and taking a few other shortcuts.

The end result? It wasn’t bad, not bad at all. But it did not result in the kind of meal I would have eaten had I stuck to an original recipe, followed the plan, incorporated all the commonly-used ingredients, and dedicated myself to making it “right.” Even with the substitutions, it could have been a more delightful experience, had I not taken shortcuts. But it turned out fine. We were hungry. We did not want to wait the extra time it might have taken to reach a higher rung on the gustatory ladder.  Last night’s meal was more about satisfying hunger than achieving culinary excellence. I think I married the two reasonably well; the union will not produce offspring, but it did not end in divorce.

Taking shortcuts tends not to produce great art. We rarely herald writers of formulaic mysteries as great writers. Painters who generate mass-market assembly-line copies of masterpieces fail to achieve artistic recognition. Cooks who take shortcuts to fill hungry bellies are not called culinary wizards.  Actors whose characters are wooden and two-dimensional are not awarded Oscars.

There is nothing wrong with mediocrity, if mediocrity satisfies. But we tend to pity the mediocre and, even more so, we pity the lack of dedication and drive that permit mediocrity to suffice. I want to believe such an attitude is elitist, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I think there’s something in us, at least most of us, that forces us to push on beyond mediocrity. Shortcuts are acceptable in the right circumstances, but accepting them as a way of life would be a shame.

I may try creating Cod Fra Diavolo again. Next time, though, the hunger will not reside solely in my stomach; it will sizzle in my brain. Next time, I will create a dish worthy of the energy of someone who could call himself chef.

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Justification

Posted on January 8, 2017 by John Swinburn

We think the world owes us an explanation. It doesn’t. We owe it one. We owe the universe substantive  justification for why we should be allowed to remain here; an argument validating our existence. If there’s purpose, it is not some external “thing.” Purpose is something within us, something of our own making. We must, individually, defend our presence on the planet. Without vindication, we do not merit space in time and place. That could be a frightening thought in the absence of belief in oneself. Even if one possesses high self-esteem and indefatigable self-confidence, the idea that we must prove our worth in order to stake our claim to life introduces the potential for existential anxiety; as well it should.

I do not subscribe to the belief that humankind exists in homage to a purpose set forth by some higher power. We create our own purposes. When the purposes we create run counter to our own interests and the interests of the planet we occupy, bad things happen: conflicts, wars, murder, rape, misogyny, xenophobia, et al. Those result from indefensible purposes, purposes insufficient to defend our presence on the planet.

When the purposes we create parallel and support peace and harmony and, at minimum, survival in reasonable comfort for all who share our common humanity, good things happen. It seems to me that the logic of creating purposes that support such outcomes is flawless. Why, then, is it so hard for us, individually and collectively, to embrace purposes that justify our existence? Are we fighting flaws within ourselves? That, I suppose, is an unnecessary question; of course we are. The better question is this: who wins?

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Minimal

Posted on January 8, 2017 by John Swinburn

For years, I’ve been drawn to the concept of a minimalist lifestyle.  Several years ago, I stumbled across an online video created by a young guy who designed and built tiny houses and who had created an online video series to encourage others to explore the possibilities of doing the same. He was seeking sponsors to enable him to do more videos and I found his ideas absolutely riveting.  At the time, my company was doing especially well, so I offered my company’s sponsorship. As is so often the case, I got busy and lost track of the guy, his videos, and whether my money made a difference. But I’ve always remembered how intrigued I was by his tiny houses; I remain intrigued by the things. It wasn’t just the tiny houses; it was the frame of mind they nurtured: living a minimalist lifestyle.

Though that experience happened years ago, I remain drawn to minimalism, though I certainly do not live the lifestyle. I am just as addicted to ‘stuff’ as the next guy. Perhaps the difference is that I recognize my willingness to purse ‘things’ suggests an implicit acceptance of the concept that more things should equal more happiness; that bothers me. A lot. And it has for a very long time.

From time to time, I find myself in the middle of a daydream in which my circumstances have changed and, in order to survive, I am forced to make my own way in the world without the massive amounts of luggage tying me to one place.  In my daydream, I must grow my own food, create my own shelter, solve my own problems, and think my own thoughts. It’s almost as if I were wishing for the meltdown of society, just to force me to abandon my attachment to objects that do not matter. Because, you see, without being forced, I don’t think I’ll allow myself the luxury of abandoning the useless glitter with which I surround myself. It’s embarrassing and upsetting. Rather than focus my attention on the things that really bring me joy, I willingly allow myself to care about smart phones and new furniture and the latest technology and having a closet full of clothes and all those other symptoms of greed; greed replacing humanity.

If I were a stronger person, I’d be able to just cut the cord with conspicuous consumption. I would not allow myself to be swayed by television advertisements or friends’ enthusiasm about the latest trending ‘gotta have it.’ I suppose part of it is laziness. And part of it is that my wife doesn’t necessarily share my ennui about capitalism run amok.

I have enormous admiration and respect for people who opt to pursue lifestyles that eschew luxury and consumption in favor of a more ascetic and more inner-directed world. I am not sure whether I’ve ever told anyone, except a friend from my early college years, that I really wanted, many years ago, to live the life of an ascetic. My interest was not religious in any sense but, rather, intensely personal; I wanted to know who I was. I felt that the only way I could learn who I was would be to direct my attention to my own thoughts and making my own way in the world, relying only on myself for food and shelter and rejecting overabundance. My friend and I talked for hours about such a lifestyle. He was of the same mind as I, but I think he had greater discipline and focus than I. I am not sure, but I strongly suspect that he pursued that lifestyle, at least for a time. And I suspect, if he did, he came to know who lived inside his head.

I still don’t know who I am and I’m afraid it’s too late to try to find out. If I had acted on my interest at the time, I might be the same person I am now or I might be someone different. But at least I’d know which one. I wish I knew.

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New and Regained, 7 and Done

Posted on January 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

One week ago, I declared that I intended to document on this blog each day one new thing I learned or something that I had once known but recently recalled or re-learned. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But I have decided I have better things to do than fulfill a commitment whose genesis neither had nor has real merit. I’ve come to the conclusion that my commitment was a gimmick to force me to write something that I, or others, might find ‘illuminating.’ What made me think that would hold any appeal to anyone, least of all to me? I’m better off coming to the realization that nothing will magically transform my life or my writing.

I’ve not felt much like writing fiction of late. I don’t know why. I could hazard a hundred guesses, but none of them would hold any more substance than the next. Writing is too lonely to be satisfying right now. That’s the regained knowledge for today and the last attempt to stumble upon some magical truth that will illuminate mankind’s struggle with himself.

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Observations on Animal Instinct

Posted on January 7, 2017 by John Swinburn

Despite its many bungling attempts to protect us (e.g.,  the Transportation Security Administration, or TSA), the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) recommends an absolutely natural response if one confronts an active shooter or other such attack on one’s person (i.e., danger). DHS recommends, in order, the following responses: 1) run, 2) hide, 3) fight.

Now, consider the behavior of ‘wild animals’ when confronted with the dangers posed by the presence of humans. Yes, their reactions mimic those recommended by the DHS. The first reaction animals have to humans (which they clearly recognize as presenting danger, indicating animals often have more on the ball than do people) is to run. If they are unable to escape the human (or, for that matter, other predators), they try to hide. And if their attempts to make themselves invisible to their aggressors fail, they turn on them and fight, hard, with every tool available to them.

In most animals with whom we share this earth, these are instinctual behaviors. Yet it seems we must be taught them. Or, is it that those responses to perceived threats have been educated out of us? Are we, instead, being taught to recover what is natural in us?

It seems to me ‘Stand Your Ground’ laws are based on an unnatural premise; that we should not react naturally to danger by running away from it. Rather, these laws and other forms of socialization teach us we should overcome, dismiss, and ignore the first two natural responses to danger by accelerating our response to the third, and final, way of dealing with danger. These laws, and the people who promulgate and support them, seem to embrace a concept that relegates natural fear responses to behaviors reserved for the weak and impotent.

These thoughts of mine are just observations on animal instinct; my assessments of what I observe, attached to opinions I formed (I am quite sure) through bias. I’m in favor of knowing the realities of what I think. That’s why I am firmly in favor of the scientific method of finding answers or, in the case of my opinions and odd laws, verifying or correcting answers others have given.

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New and Regained, 6

Posted on January 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

Today’s regained knowledge involves the power of cold temperatures. I remember, from several winters ago, the capacity weather possesses to disrupt our ability to travel. Even with a light dusting of snow—and the effect of that snow thawing under car tires and then refreezing—very hilly terrain can become virtually unmanageable in most passenger vehicles. The advice a short while ago from the management of the community in which I live—that residents stay off the roads if possible (and announcing the closure of a particularly treacherous hill)—reminded me that the capacity of humans to cope with climate is a function of past experience. I asked myself whether our community’s reaction to a light dusting of snow was indicative of our inability to function in such weather or simply our inexperience with snow and cold temperatures. It’s both, the former an artifact of the latter. That’s what I’ve learned anew this morning.

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Satisfying Hunger with Paint

Posted on January 6, 2017 by John Swinburn

I am posting here several photos, some of which already found their way online via Facebook, that illustrate how  I satisfy my hungers by painting with food. Let me explain. Later. Look at the images and read the captions, as well as more narrative text that follows below.

Painting a low calorie lunch in early January can inspire warmth, decadence, and satiation.

Koren-Inspired Pasta-Filled Cucumber Cups

Another painted lunch. I’m feeling full just looking at it.

Christmas dinner 2016; half a roasted Cornish game hen, beans, sweet potatoes, and stuffing.

The wanna-be chef preparing Cornish game hens.

The table sign identifying the soup we took (and who made it) to the Unitarian Universalist Christmas Eve soup dinner.

Cajun shrimp and sausage over fettucine.

Brazilian style rice, tomate recheado, and shrimp moqueca

Brazilian style rice, tomate recheado, and shrimp moqueca

Miso soup, as I like it.

You noticed, didn’t you, that I wrote of satisfying my hunger(s)? Plural. I do enjoy food and I love the fact that the way it is prepared and presented can paint moods and emotions. Food can set the stage for thought and ideas; it can serve as a man’s (or woman’s) artistic medium just as surely as acrylic and oil paints and watercolors can do for painters. Unusual treatment of food, like filling cucumbers with spiced pasta, triggers creativity; not just creativity in the kitchen, but in the inner recesses of the mind. Splashes of excitement, spurred by shocked and stunned synapses encountering the unexpected, erupt from the brain, spilling into every aspect of one’s experience. Possibilities never before imagined flood the mind with energy. Hope and belief in the possibility of world peace and harmony would be nice outcomes of unusual treatments, but I’m not counting my chickens.

 

 

Yet how many chicken would I have to catch to convince me that food is the salvation of the world? If I think hard enough about it, the certainty of its holy place in life cannot be subject to question. For, without food, what would happen to the world in which we live? We would never know, because we would starve and die. So, in a very real sense, food is our salvation. On the other hand, is it possible to live without Cornish game hens? Well of course it is. So, a chicken in every pot is not the sine qua non for existence. But food, in a broader sense, is necessary for life and for art. And food ought to, by all rights, be part of art, an active participant in helping the world understand creative peacemaking and delicious joy.

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Morning Morsels: Salmon, Avocado, and Condiments

Posted on January 5, 2017 by John Swinburn

Salmon, avocado, cherry tomatoes, radishes, and a side of tomato juice.

2.24 ounces broiled Sockeye salmon (108 calories)
1/2 avocado (116 calories) [the Tajín sprinkled on top is a gimme]
2 radishes (4 calories)
2 cherry tomatoes (6 calories)
Grand Total: 272 calories (compared to earlier this week, a MONSTROUS increase in calories)

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Controlled Food Lust

Posted on January 5, 2017 by John Swinburn

I wrote not long ago that I might start a food blog. At this moment, I doubt I will. But I may assemble all of my food posts from years past into a resource from which I write a longer blog post or, perhaps, a separate page on my website devoted exclusively to food. That I am thinking of such a thing during the early stages of Phase I of the South Beach Diet is testament to my insanity. No, not really. Actually, though I’m sticking pretty closely to my personally modified version of the South Beach Diet’s first phase for a week or two, I plan to use the diet’s philosophy to guide my eating habits and train myself to exercise self-discipline, rather than use it as a cudgel to beat myself into weight-loss. I’ve done it before and it worked quite well; I simply allowed myself to deviate from perfectly comfortable good habits, drifting into wanton gluttony.

Back to the food blog or food section of this website or whatever it may become: I find the challenge of creating tasty but healthy recipes and meal plans enticing and exciting. The idea of focusing on using readily accessible and cost-competitive alternate ingredients to make gloriously appealing and satisfying—but high-calorie, high-carb, high-fat—dishes into healthier, easy-to-make, affordable meals appeals to me. I have no interest (at least not today) in becoming a food ascetic; I want to continue to eat and enjoy food as much as I do now and have for as long as I can remember. The solution (assuming controlled gluttony is a solution) is to create satisfying dishes that remain healthy, even in “healthy” portions.

The results of my latest effort to lose weight (with the objective of fitting more comfortably into my snug clothes), now only beginning its fourth day, are impressive: I’ve lost 6.6 pounds while eating reasonably well. This first week, I’m not starving myself, though I am limiting caloric intake as well as carb intake rather dramatically. Yesterday was the first day my caloric intake exceeded one thousand calories (and only slightly). I do not plan to do that for long, as I suspect such a practice long-term would do more harm than good.

My wife was impressed (as was I, I must admit) with a dish I created a couple of days ago using frozen cauliflower, frozen spinach, canned fire-roasted tomatoes, pan-fried purple onions, store-bought curry powder, garlic salt, and a very tiny bit (less than four ounces) of lean ground meat. The recipe yielded what I intended to be two servings, with a total of 424 calories (212 per serving). As it happened, we used the leftovers (yes, there were leftovers) the next day to supplement a very low-calorie, low carb lunch. The meal was cheap, easy, filling, and healthy (save for the high levels of salt in the canned tomatoes). That’s the sort of thing I’d like to create on a regular basis. And, in fact, I’ve done that for some time. I just want and need to keep doing it and to document the recipes I create. Tasty, inexpensive, easy-to-make, healthy meals as alternatives to tasty, price-irrelevant, effort-irrelevant, not-so-healthy meals.

While the first few weeks will be alcohol-free (with an exception for an already-planned dinner party), going forward, I’ll limit myself to an occasional glass of wine. Alcohol is highly caloric and tends to accumulate around my waist. Now there’s a challenge: creating (or finding) a substitute for alcohol that’s low-cal, satisfying, and lubricates social interactions as well as booze. If I can come up with that, I’ll not only be healthy, but people will call me wealthy and wise.

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New and Regained, 5

Posted on January 5, 2017 by John Swinburn

Snippets about Iceland. I did not know:

Iceland lays claim to the world’s oldest legislative assembly, the Alþingi (anglicized as Althingi), which was established in the year 930. The Icelandic National Parliament (Alþingi Íslendinga) is a unicameral body currently representing seven distinct legislative groups: the Independence Party, the Left-Green Movement, the Social Democratic Alliance, the Progressive Party, the Reform Party, the Bright Future, and the Pirate Party.

In 1875, fallout from the Askja volcano of devastated the Icelandic economy and caused widespread famine. Over the following twenty-five years, twenty percent of the island’s population emigrated, mostly to Canada and the US. Denmark, which had ruled Iceland for centuries, granted limited home rule in 1874 and complete independence in 1944 (Icelandic independence day is June 17, 1944).

Substantial economic growth driven primarily by the fishing industry took place in the second half of the twentieth century. The economy diversified greatly after the country joined the European Economic Area in 1994, but Iceland was hit especially hard by the global financial crisis in the years following 2008. Literacy, longevity, and social cohesion are first rate by world standards.

For reasons I can’t quite pin down, I’ve had an interest in Iceland for quite some time. This morning, I’ve delved into learning a bit more about the country that holds an inexplicable appeal for me.

 

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Forgetting

Posted on January 4, 2017 by John Swinburn

Long swaths of my life have gone missing, experiences unremembered
in my rush to attend to the next exuberant undertaking that will join
the other forgotten ones in the chase toward the unwanted end.

Do we all fail to give sufficient attention to our own memories that we let
them slip away unrecorded, or am I alone guilty of treating life and
love and the fabric of wisdom with undue disrespect?

If I could go back in time, I’d train myself to keep and analyze a journal
of my life, a running recollection of the magnificent and the mundane that,
taken together, form the perspectives that define me.

But, absent the ability to mine that life script, I rely only on conjecture
as to the accolades and aching wounds, the life-altering experiences,
that molded me into this vessel of love and hate.

I can only wonder about what formed this urn, this hideaway in
which grace and beauty compete for space and relevance with
crudity and self-imposed disfigurement.

The lessons, too late learned, chide me for the naked hubris of
thinking I would remember every precious moment of joy and
each excruciating second of its empty absence.

Forgotten moments are like knives that cut and pierce the threads
that bind us to our humanity; lost memories rob us of the generous
spirit we long to find in ourselves.

Experiences we do not remember shaped us; if we had used
the early lessons to craft and validate the later ones, we might
have become more than egos in bags of skin.

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New and Regained, 4

Posted on January 4, 2017 by John Swinburn

Andrés Segovia, the renowned Spanish classical guitarist, made his first tour of the United States in 1928. When I watched and listened to him play many years later, I did not know anything of his first tour of the U.S. so many years before I saw him. And I cannot say with even a range of years when nor where I saw him perform. I only know it must have been between 1979 and 1985, because those were the years I was employed by what was then called the National Association of Corrosion Engineers, now called NACE International—The Corrosion Society; it was during one of the organization’s annual conferences, called Corrosion/XX (XX being the last two digits of the year in which the conference was held) that I saw and heard him play. A few other staff members and I paid for tickets to see and hear the virtuoso classical guitarist.

Here’s something new I learned as I dug into Segovia’s history: he played with a combination of his fingers and fingernails, which differed from his contemporaries. Other classical guitarists of his era typically used either one or the other, but not both. But Segovia, using a combination of the two, was able to produce a wider range of tone qualities than with one or the other, alone.  Segovia died in June, 1987 at age ninety-four.

Here’s something else of which I was reminded as I tried to determine when and where I saw Segovia play: the internet may hold all of the world’s knowledge, but it hides significant parts of it. Though I have admittedly not exhausted all my internet resources, I have been unable to find a complete list of NACE’s Corrosion/XX conference dates and locations. I would have thought that would be a simple matter. But, no, not for me. Gaining some bits of knowledge requires more effort than others. I knew that. Now, I consider myself reminded.

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New and Regained, 3

Posted on January 3, 2017 by John Swinburn

I know a little about cheese, as in I know what I like, but I’ve learned my knowledge of cheese is superficial in the extreme. I can name several cheeses off the top of my head: cheddar, Swiss, emmental, gruyere, Roquefort, parmesan, gouda, Manchego, stilton, camembert. But I had no idea a database of cheeses available online (at cheese.com) contains 1777 different cheeses. According to the online database, cheese are classified (according to one scheme) by type: fresh soft; fresh firm; soft; semi-soft; semi-hard; hard; semi-firm; and firm. I knew that experts often differentiate cheeses from one another by descriptions of their texture, but I did not know there are so many categories of texture:

  • brittle
  • buttery
  • chalky
  • chewy
  • close
  • compact
  • creamy
  • crumbly
  • crystalline
  • dense
  • dry
  • elastic
  • firm
  • flaky
  • fluffy
  • grainy
  • oily
  • open
  • runny
  • semi firm
  • smooth
  • soft
  • soft-ripened
  • spreadable
  • springy
  • sticky
  • stringy
  • supple

Inasmuch as the complexity of the numbers, types, textures, flavors, ingredients, and processes by which cheeses are made are so great, I do not expect to become a cheese expert. But I now have a sense of how much I would have to learn to earn that title.

Now that I’ve come across this tiny fragment of new knowledge, I believe I can use it either as fodder for stories I might write or, with a bit more exploration as required, as information to make my stories more life-like.

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