John Swinburn

Recovery from physical tiredness is quicker and easier than revitalizing the energy depleted by mental fatigue. Generally a refreshing shower and a bit of rest, after back-breaking physical exertion, will restore sapped energy. Mental exhaustion, though, seems to take up residence in one’s body and brain, requiring considerable time—and a psychic crowbar—to unseat it from its seemingly immoveable anchor. Yet sleep sometimes helps loosen the grip of mental malaise. But sometimes sleep deepens the sense that one’s brain is in full-on, though utterly ineffective, rebellion against unbeatable forces. In those instances, sleep demands more sleep…and more sleep demands even more. Yesterday afternoon, I wanted sleep—just a little—to clear the cobwebs cluttering my mind. Two hours, I thought, would be more-than-adequate. So, at 5:45 p.m., after a trip to the oncologist followed by a late lunch, I decided to take that nap. This morning, at around 3:45 a.m., I woke for my second or third pee-break of the wee hours; I did not return to bed. The two hour nap had morphed into ten hours of sleep, filled with upsetting dreams about which I remember nothing. After I woke, I hoped my lengthy sleep had broken the malaise. No, I found I still felt mentally spent and wanting more sleep. Christ! From experience, I know that would simply exacerbate the situation. I do not know what might drag me away from that cycle. Well, at least sleep might provide a barrier to dwelling on the matter. I’ll think about it. First, perhaps, I should try to understand what has made me feel mentally drained.

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Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just empty air.

The idea of sleeping for weeks at a time appeals to me. Turning off the world so I could hibernate, peacefully and dreamlessly and utterly unaware, seems so incredibly inviting. There must be some kind of prescription drugs that could satisfy that desire; the key obstacle, aside from not knowing what drug it is, would be doctors’ reticence to prescribe it. I suspect many doctors might be willing to make the drug available if they were guaranteed protection from lunatics who claim the right to control the actions of other people. I am of the opinion that I should have absolute sovereignty over my body and mind—no one else’s, just mine.

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Yesterday morning’s power interruption served as a reminder that “always” reliable electric service can disappear in an instant. I was on a Zoom birthday call with family, in celebration of my brother’s birthday, when my computer monitor went blank. A second later, it recovered for another second—only to go dark again. In a matter of just a few seconds, the cycle repeated itself two or three times, before the screen stayed dark. A short while later, I received texts and email messages from Entergy, the electricity service provider, informing me that the outage impacted 5,103 customers; the company estimated power would be restored by 1:30 p.m.. By then, I would be at my oncologist’s office, a bag of IV fluids attached to a needle in a port in my chest. When I returned home, the power would have been restored. All would be well in my insular little world. Bah.

Any disruption in the power supply to my house is cause for at least mild concern…my thoughts instantly turn to the possibility of spoiled food in the refrigerator and freezer, room temperatures fluctuating out of my control, and—if the outage might last into the night—inconvenient darkness. Yesterday, though, the chaos brought about by Hurricanes Helene and Milton, tempered my worries. I thought of the people in the six states battered by Helene, whose loss of power was far worse than simple worries. And the soon-t0-be victims of Milton, whose lives would be disrupted within hours. In those cases, the lack of electricity would pale in comparison to lethal winds, rushing flood waters, loss of potable water, dwindling food supplies, and countless other life-threatening (or life-ending) circumstances. My brief experience with a loss of power was not worth even a fleeting thought.

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We went out with friends yesterday afternoon for an early dinner on the deck of a nearby lakeside restaurant. My dinner of two appetizers—fried green tomatoes and sliced calamari steak with Thai chili sauce—was almost too much. By the time we returned home, I was more than tired; I just wanted to drift into unconsciousness. I had planned to try the Zoom call again last night, but opted to postpone it until this morning. The IV fluid drip, which I had expected to restore my energy, did not come through as I hoped. I was in bed by 8:30, sleeping off and on between pee breaks and the unpleasantness of waking to the discomfort of mouth sores. One (or both) of the chemicals from the recent chemotherapies causes the sores. The Miracle Mouthwash, prescribed by the oncologist to alleviate the pain, works but only for a couple of hours at a time. Damn, all I do is bitch and moan about my discomfort. If I had been through the devastation of Helene or Milton, I would have a real, legitimate reason to complain.

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My keychain has keys that mean nothing to me. What are those extra, meaningless keys for? They probably are useful, working keys; but I do not recall what some of them are or why I carry them. That experience has been with me my entire life. I seem to collect keys until, after an inordinately long time has passed, I finally give up on knowing anything more about them…and I discard them. Keys are permanent reminders of one’s distrust of unknown—or known—criminals. We would not need keys if strangers could be trusted. And what about friends? We willingly give keys to our homes to people in whom we feel confident in placing our trust. But we do not give keys, willy-nilly, to every one of our friends. That reality is offensive to me; both as a non-recipient of friends’ keys and a non-giver of keys to all my trusted friends. Locksmiths’ businesses are built on fear and distrust. So are alarm system businesses; keys are not adequate…we have to try to call attention to people who outsmart locks…we seek to call out the criminals among us who know how to bypass deadbolts. When our fears get out of hand, we hide weapons or hire security guards or mercenary soldiers to protect us from the growing crowds of friends and neighbors who would seek to steal from us or take our lives. This world we have created is a dark, dangerous place. No wonder I have so damn many keys.

Today is my eldest brother’s birthday—a notable one that bisects a decade. If not for medical mandates I have been strongly advised to follow, I probably would be visiting him at his home, rather than settling for a celebratory Zoom call. Twenty years ago, more or less, he and his wife opted to retire to a place where Spanish is the primary language and the weather is, usually, close to meteorological nirvana. Were I considerably more adventurous and more demanding, I might have retired someplace else. I might have accepted the risks of leaving the country of my birth, thereby broadening my horizons and expanding my knowledge of the world outside my limiting, insular environment. But I did not, so I must try to be satisfied to live vicariously by learning about my brother’s experiences. He and his wife have adapted and adjusted exceptionally well. They love where they live. I am glad they do. And I am glad they welcome mi novia and me to visit. I hope to have opportunities to visit them again before too long. We shall see.

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The first thirty years of my life seemed interminable. The second thirty years passed far more quickly. I do not expect to complete the third set, though if I do I think that final thirty years will seem to have taken place in the blink of an eye. I feel that the first third of that span has raced by at the speed of light. I think life experiences give us the ability to better understand subsequent life events. That understanding enables us to absorb more in the same amount of time, so that our experiences seem to double from one span of time to the next. And that translates into the sensation that periods of time accelerate as we move through them. Just a theory, of course, but it makes sense to me.

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When a person hears the phrase, “grey walls,” most people probably visualize drab, dirty, depressing grey. Not everyone, though. The mind’s eye of some people sees a placid, clean, bright grey…a cool, serene color that represents serenity—calm and peaceful. People who conjure that grey in their mind often consider the color among their favorites. “Grey is your favorite color?” others may ask, incredulously, as if in the company of someone who has just admitted to joining vultures in eating carrion on the roadside. The very idea of grey having any redeeming characteristics is beyond their comprehension. Negative judgments about the entire spectrum of grey colors is unnatural, I think. People are taught to dislike grey; they do not embrace such bigotry as normal reaction to seeing the colors. Colors; plural. Grey spans the range from light grey to dark grey. The color can be sullied through mixture with other colors—blue or green or brown, for example—but pure greys, whether light or intense, are decidedly appealing. Attractive. Comfortable.

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Again this morning, I woke early…around 3:45. Finally, at 4:20, I abandoned my wasted efforts to sleep, thanks to a headache and my tongue’s disturbing unnatural affinity for fondling the back of certain of my lower front teeth. I woke hungry, though not starving by any means. I wanted an avocado, drizzled with fresh lime juice and sprinkled with chunky salt. I still do. Perhaps I will eat one of two remaining ripe avocados, a step toward joyous appreciation for the little things in life.

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Once again, I seem to be drifting toward sleep. Eating an avocado while asleep is dangerous; one could forget to peel it. Or, worse still, one could absent-mindedly ingest the pit. Or, even worse, inhale the pit. The only safe way to eat an avocado is to be thoroughly awake during the entire process. Maybe I’ll wait. Maybe not.

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As long as I am awake and on my way to the oncologist’s office by 12:45 to get my IV fluids, all will be well.

Energized by a cane-assisted lunchtime stroll up and down the cul-de-sac on which we live, and a three-hour nap a bit later, I feel better now than I did this morning. With a little luck, the boost in my energy will stay with me for at least a few days. Last Thursday’s lab work revealed my blood potassium level is out of whack, according to a phone call from my oncologist’s office late this morning…so, I return to her office just after midday tomorrow and again Thursday to get IV fluids. Apparently, dehydration does something to one’s potassium level. Then, I go in for a PET-scan on October 16, return for more lab work on the 18th, and additional labs and a meeting with my oncologist on my birthday, October 21. My assumption, of course, is that the doctor plans to celebrate my birthday by giving me good news from the PET-scan. We’ll see.

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Tomorrow night, a monstrous hurricane, Milton, is forecast to slam into Florida’s west coast, bringing with it huge tidal surges and fierce winds. This new, very powerful, storm comes on the heels of Hurricane Helene, which caused severe damage in Florida and catastrophic flooding in Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. Among other towns and cities, Asheville, North Carolina was ravaged by floods that washed out roads and bridges, swept houses away, and left victims scrambling to recover from unimaginable wreckage. More than 200 people have been confirmed dead from Helene. Meteorologists and governmental authorities warn that Milton will bring devastation on an incredible scale; an exodus from Florida is clogging the state’s highways as residents attempt to flee for their lives. Is this the hoax right-wing Republicans talk about when dismissing climate change? The refusal by the Republicans in Congress to consider additional funding to enable FEMA to better respond to two back-to-back crises is yet more evidence: Members of that Party are more interested in political gamesmanship than in the well-being of their constituents.

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The world around us could be a happy place, if people allowed it. But it seems, today, to be designed for pain, depression, and destruction. Why would anyone want to carry on under those conditions? Those with hope, I suppose.

I welcomed the spurt of energy that followed last Thursday’s chemo treatment. By yesterday, though, that electric jolt had plunged into an amalgamation of headache, nausea, fatigue, weakness, exhaustion, and general discomfort. That notwithstanding, I finally felt moderately better and, late in the day, went outside for a brief walk…more like a cane-assisted slow-motion stroll. Between yesterday’s naps and last night’s early bedtime, I may have recovered some of my enthusiasm for life—at the moment, the signs look slightly positive. We shall see.

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Once I finished the previous paragraph, my eyes closed involuntarily. Had I felt a tad more comfortable, I might have drifted into a deep sleep—making up for waking occasionally during the night. When the muscles in my neck relaxed, though, my head dropped forward, stirring me from an unexpected nap. That is a strong sign I should go back to bed for a while longer, but for some reason I hesitate to give in to the temptation. Perhaps I need to feel more fully in charge, rather than sensing I am being controlled by weariness.

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No more. Not for now. I am unable to keep my eyes open any longer. Maybe I will come back and add to this post in a while…or write another one. But, for now, I am just too bloody tired. I must recover by tomorrow, though, when a planned gathering on a lakeside  deck certainly will reinvigorate me.

Most of the world’s population does not read the New York Times (NYT). So, in a sense, this blog is similar to the well-known, much-heralded, and often-denounced newspaper. Among the chief differences: the NYT has a larger readership and more staff.

Only a tiny fraction of the world’s population knows Bill Gates personally. I find myself in the same situation. But Bill Gates and I are different to the extent that his financial resources eclipse mine; there could be other dissimilarities.

When considering the distinctions and parallels between my life and the lives of others, I find that I am much more like myself than I am like anyone else. That is true of others, too. We are individuals, each with unique characteristics and traits that make us who we are, yet we are beings who collectively seem to have more similarities than differences. So, is it true that I am more like me than I am like them?

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A published photograph of the Milky Way and its environs, taken at a recent “dark skies night” event, captured my attention and inspired my awe. At the center of the photo, the bulk of the Milky Way was clearly visible as a dense and spectacularly beautiful mass of stars. Surrounding that large cluster of stellar objects was a blanket of faint, closely-spaced pinpoints of starlight that stretched across the rest of the entire sky. The number of tiny dots of light was, I feel certain, far more than I could have seen with my naked eye. The image was breathtaking. It was so emotionally powerful, in fact, that for a few moments of staring by proxy into space, I felt a deep sense that answers to the most profound questions ever posed by humankind could be found there. There was something about the vastness of the sky and its reminder of the incalculable distances around us that made me feel at peace with the idea that the answers to everything are “there,” but I will never know most of them. I imagine my sense of reverent astonishment might be mistaken by some as a religious experience. Though it was not, I think it may have helped me better understand the power and depth that religious beliefs have for so much of humankind. Anything that enhances understanding has some value.

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Within just a few days of Kamala Harris’ announcement of her candidacy for President, I first saw a YouTube video of Keb’ Mo’ performing his song, Put a Woman in charge. Though I had heard the tune many times in the past few years, I had not seen the video until then. I loved it from the moment I saw it. Yesterday, at church, the minister delivered a sermon about the absolute need for the “war on women” to stop. And the Keb’ Mo’ video was shown as part of the minister’s “Dramatic Moment,” series, when we watch a relevant video. Yesterday’s message was extremely powerful. So is this video.

Once you start asking questions, innocence is gone.
~ Mary Astor ~

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The complexity of existence is beyond my comprehension. A grain of sand on a Gulf of Mexico beach may be completely different from one on a beach on Oahu, Hawaii or Limbe, Cameroon. The “whiskers” on some mammals and the antennae on some insects perform similar functions. Riding on those grains of sand or those whiskers or antennae are tiny life forms that may transport other life forms. The image of a honeybee’s head through a scanning electron microscope reveals two large, hairy, compound eyes, each made up of thousands of hexagonal lenses. Looking into the iris of a human eye, the patterns and colors are (to me) incomprehensible. Soap bubbles are simple, but the intricacy of their structures is mind-boggling. One person’s red hair. Another’s blonde hair. Male. Female. Light-skinned. Dark-skinned. Salamanders. Buffalo. Telecommunications. Wireless phones. Rhodesian Ridgeback dogs. Siamese cats. Volcanic eruptions. When I think of the trillions and trillions and trillions and trillions of unique expressions of inanimate objects and life forms and light and planets and liquid water…and on and on and on…I am overcome with awe.  How is it possible that…? Or…? Ultimately, why should it matter to me? Humans seem to think the universe formed to give us reasons and answers. I sincerely doubt it. Perhaps we simply are objects to be examined by or experienced by all the other components of existence…a number so incredibly vast that it is unknowable.

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Culture makes people understand each other better. And if they understand each other better in their soul, it is easier to overcome the economic and political barriers. But first they have to understand that their neighbour is, in the end, just like them, with the same problems, the same questions.
~ Paulo Coelho ~

An online article in today’s New York Times about Melinda French Gates’ emergence as a major donor to progressive causes and politics, after years of structured impartiality, captured my attention. In her case, her divorce from Bill Gates and her new-found, unshared wealth, seemed to trigger her transformation. The article prompted me to think about how my “public” positions and my behavior might change if all the real or imagined constraints on me were to disappear. For example, my vocal support of a number of socially liberal financial positions probably would diminish somewhat. I wholeheartedly support governmental financial support for people in need, but I think the system probably needs a complete overhaul to get more money to people who need it most, and less to those whose needs are not as urgent or critical. My support of progressive governmental policies probably would be tempered by an insistence on access to research that reveals the pros and cons of those policies. Neither the Democratic nor the Republican Parties are, in my view, even close to philosophically pure; instead, they tend to claim to support attractive philosophies that, when examined closely, are laced with blind or self-serving flaws. For that reason, I can envision my admittedly limited financial support going not to either party, but to (or against) specific philosophical positions (not people). Had I been trained as and successful become a slick debater, I would be more likely to espouse my thoughts orally—but I mumble and stumble and think too slowly on my feet. If that limitation were lifted from me, I might argue more fervently in support of my positions—but I would not shut down arguments against them without solid, legitimate, supporting facts. Even the most divisive subjects, I think, can be brought to the point of mutual agreement by those with opposing viewpoints…but only when compromise is seen as victory, not as vanquishment. Both left and right seem to be increasingly inflexible on almost aspect of social and governmental life. Whether we like it or not, only by conceding some of our adversaries’ offensive positions will ever reach workable consensus that lasts.  That, I suppose, would be among the most obvious change in me; if I could aggressively promote compromise (rather than obstinately cling to unrelenting opposition), I might feel better about my ability to stimulate real change. I would remain pretty damn liberal/progressive, but I would insist on infusing left-leaning concepts with reality.

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An information box on the Weather Network forecast page for Hot Springs Village claims the outside temperature is 64°F at the moment and predicts a high of 79°F today. Adjacent to that box, another box forecasts a high of 88°F by 3 p.m. Which is more likely to be accurate? Is it the left-box forecast or the right-box forecast? And, if I cannot rely on one or the other, why should I assume the reported current temperature properly represents reality? I suspect the forecasts reported in the two boxes come from different sources. But, if so, why? If I do not get an answer to these questions, I will just have to deal with the inconsistencies, won’t I?

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I have made it through two (or is it three?) days without a nap. Steroids administered during my chemo treatment probably are responsible. We’ll see if they last through today…and even longer.

Writing poetry, except poems that erupt unexpectedly and inexplicably from one’s mind, often requires much deeper thought than simple narrative language.  When poems are being written, especially poems that use words sparingly, they ask us to try to strip away all but the essence of meaning. Fewer words amplify the poem’s core focus; each word then strives to be emotionally intense or thought-provoking or both. I know (or think I do) these things. But I rarely seem able to use that knowledge to the benefit of the poems I write or attempt to write. One of my favorite lines from Leonard Cohen’s music is this piece of poetry from the song, Sisters of Mercy:

If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn,
Let them bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.

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I woke late this morning, after a few false starts at 3 AM, 4 AM, and 5 AM. My store of energy from yesterday has not disappeared, but it has diminished so far today. Still, we took another short walk this morning, perhaps a touch more distance than yesterday but the same time…in minutes. If I could kick myself, I would; I should have forced myself to move around more during all the months mi novia has encouraged me to get some exercise. It is no longer optional; I have finally consented to using a cane—one I will try to carry habitually until I have restored my frittered-away strength.

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From the night, his solitude, the poet finds day and starts a diary that is lethal to the inert. The dark landscape yields a dialogue.

~ Salvatore Quasimodo ~

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Yesterday afternoon began with an injection at the Friday-only Village office of my oncologist. Later, a friend came over and the three of us sat and talked over drinks for a couple of hours or so. We don’t have friends over often enough; it would be more frequent if I weren’t concerned about being fatigued. After watching 2 or 3 episodes of The Fall (a series from 2013 available from Britbox, with Gillian Anderson and Jamie Dornan), I went to bed later than usual but woke up as noted.

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Why am I recording so much day-to-day minutia? I realized a few years ago, after writing a daily “journal” of sorts for two straight years, that reading what I had written—about what I had been thinking and doing—was personally interesting to me. Skimming past posts often draws from the recesses of my brain memories that I might never have encountered, had my own words not reminded me. I feel compelled to write such a reminder as this from time to time, just in case another visitor drops by and skims a few posts…possibly encountering these words and learning why many of my posts are so godawful boring. The likelihood is that posting here, instead of on my own computer, will be more likely preserve what I’ve written; I’m apt to lose thumb drives and fail to properly copy full hard drives. I hope GoDaddy and WordPress are more reliable than I.

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Memory…is the diary that we all carry about with us.

~ Oscar Wilde ~

As far as I know, I do not have a history of grinding my teeth. But that habit—or tendency or whatever—seems to have taken hold in recent weeks. It may not be full-on grinding; maybe just clenching my jaws. Whatever it is, I notice it more and more frequently. I sometimes wake to realize my jaws are tight and their muscles are oddly sore, as if they have been overworked. When awake, I sometimes notice that I am involuntarily grinding my teeth. Treatments for bruxism, the medical term for the condition, include physical approaches (splints, guards, and tooth repairs) and behavioral management; medications, apparently, are rarely successful. I do not think I could tolerate physical approaches. Biofeedback and behavioral therapy reportedly can be successful; affirmative self-control, though, may be my first step. Why is it that, as one ages, the number of ailments—real or imagined—seem to multiple like concupiscent rabbits?

The aging process is not gradual or gentle. It rushes up, pushes you over, and runs off laughing. No one should grow old who isn’t ready to appear ridiculous.

~ John Mortimer ~

Some older men who wear driving caps and walk with canes look distinguished. My oldest brother is one of them. I am one of those who do not look distinguished, so I suppose I better be ready to appear ridiculous. My look has been obvious for a long while; but I have been blind, until recently, to the ridiculousness. I think I am ready to take off the blinders.

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My oncologist expressed compassionate disappointment yesterday—not in my current prognosis, which will not be known until a PET-scan before my next chemo treatment—but in my behavior. She expressed concern that, once again, my weight had declined by several pounds. And she gently but firmly reminded me that I need to get more exercise. The weight loss, she said, is likely due to loss of muscle, not fat, as demonstrated by evidence of declining strength; and I need muscle’s energy to fight the cancer. So, with my agreement, she will arrange for me to get physical therapy…several times per week, if possible. She encouraged me, again, to try to eat more. The calories are needed, she explained, to enable me to replenish the energy I have lost. Mi novia had mentioned to her that I had needed to sit down for several minutes on the way into the church sanctuary last Sunday as we prepared for the fifth Sunday’s musical event. It was a matter of feeling extraordinarily weak; I could not argue with that. Until my last couple of PET-scans, I looked forward to learning the results because, until then, they revealed no evidence that cancer had returned. Since then, though, my anxiety sometimes grows as the time for the next one nears. That anxiety occasionally declines when I successfully remind myself that I have no control over the results…but it increases again when I remind myself that I actually do have some control. My diet, for example, and forcing myself to get some exercise. So, I will make a point to do what my doctor strongly recommends. I told her I would return for the chemo session in three weeks—fat and strong.

After yesterday’s chemo session, we stopped at Rocky’s Corner for a late lunch, where I had The Rocky’s Sub, an 8-inch monster filled with turkey, salami, mozzarella, tomatoes, and dressing, with a side of hot Italian peppers.  I ate half the sandwich and the fillings (but not the bread) from other half, but could not finish the French fries. We brought them home, along with the significant remnants of mi novia’s small pizza. Cold pizza can be a delicious way to start the day; if I’m lucky, I might be able to persuade her to let me have a bit.  As I think back over the last several months, I confirm for myself that my cancer is always on my mind, even when feeling strong and energetic. That is probably natural, but it does not do much for my state of mind. My moods tend to rise and fall with my thoughts about the condition. When I can muster the “it is what it is” attitude, I feel better; lately, though, that is more difficult to do.

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The cat is an attention-seeker, but only on her terms. It’s almost as if, when she senses a person’s need to focus on something else besides her, she feels a need to cling. But when the person wants to engage with her, she is aloof and unwilling to tolerate the person’s presence. I wonder whether she is imitating my behavior…or whether I am imitating hers?

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The cup of espresso is empty. I think I’ll satisfy my thirst with a berry-flavored Propel Fitness Water. I have my doubts about its effects on fitness, but I like the flavor. And it’s easier for me to drink than plain water. Why?

Although my chemotherapy sessions and blood-letting (known euphemistically as “labs”) and conversation with the oncology staff) generally last in the neighborhood of only four hours, Poison-Pump-Thursdays consume essentially my entire day. And, of course, mi novia‘s days are similarly committed. Today is a Poison-Pump-Thursday.  After the ordeal (not really an ordeal, but truly an interruption to normalcy), we might stop someplace for lunch. And then the countdown begins…first a couple of days feeling reasonably decent, but tired, followed by whatever side-effect-of-the-week happens to occur. Then, a week or two (or three) feeling absolutely exhausted, fatigued, and otherwise devoted to multiple lengthy naps. I’m sure I’ve written all this before; what else can a frazzled brain do but repeat replay the same script? It can try to be entertaining, but it can be annoying, instead. I would not be surprised to learn that people who know that my mother insisted I take a course in typing while I attended junior high school wish she hadn’t. Though she died long before the internet became universally accessible, she was my internet-enabler. Other people may begrudge her for that, but I remain eternally grateful. Adequate typing abilities literally have improved many areas of my life.

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I have no children, no grandchildren, no grand-nieces, no grand-nephews, and—at my age—no prospects to have any. My remaining small extended family (which never did extend far) represents what probably (almost certainly) is the last of our limbs on the family tree. Less than half a century from now, when my nieces and nephews become cosmic dust with the rest of us, family memories will be no more. Even if some of us, between now and then, have note-worthy achievements, the legacies will not last long. In the time equivalent to another generation or two, everything we were and everything we accomplished will have faded from human memory. Though these thoughts may seem to have emerged from a depressed state of mind, the fact of the matter is that it is quite the contrary. It relieves me of any irrational worries that future generations involved in reprehensible behaviors could be traced back to us. And it relieves me of worries about my family members’ future. We’ll all become endless and blameless cosmic dust. I’d like to be conscious of that existence when it occurs; but of course, that’s quite likely impossible. I cannot know that, with certainty, but it’s a disappointment I fully expect. Except that I cannot experience disappointment in the absence of existence wrapped up in a human brain…as far as I know.

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Tomorrow, I will return to the oncology team to get my follow-up injection. But, now, I must scramble to eat breakfast and hit the road. An engagement with the Poison-Pump awaits.

Polished fools who project confidence can fool fools and—we only hope—only fools.

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So much can happen in fourteen years. Lives can change. Lives can end. A once-powerful body can deteriorate into a shadow of its former self. Middle age can transform into grizzled, grey efforts to cling to youth. Hope can slump into resignation. So many expectations can shatter as they confront reality.

But time is not entirely unpleasant. Experience can grow into wisdom. Fears can soften into concerns. There must be more.

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I once appreciated the bitterness of Campari. No longer. Adding more bitterness to an already ample supply is overkill. There must be a reason for the ability to detect bitterness,  if for no other reason than to know when enough is too much.

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Three consecutive nights of odd, deeply worrying dreams in which my parents played a part—as if they were still alive—have left me wondering: why? The dreams involved radical changes to the street on which we lived. In one dream, the street led to a completely transformed bayfront. In another, the street led to acres and acres of miniature shops on the bayfront…sales stalls, actually…where Pakistani immigrants sold their colorful wares. I mistook the shopkeepers as Indian; when I apologized for my mistake, they were very gracious and forgiving. I behaved badly, criticizing housekeeping in a very unkind way, in the other dream. The dreams were long and complex; not suitable for a full telling of their stories here. My dreams do not interest other people but, despite the disinterest, I continue offering them as if the recipients of my tales will find them fascinating. Another flaw in need of correction.

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Whether a habit, a self-imposed obligation, or a response to the real or imagined expectations created by my own routines, I feel compelled to write for this blog every morning. When—for whatever reason—I do not, I feel a sense of guilt. And disappointment. And failure. And general unease or anxiety or…something…that casts a minor pall over the day. So, I write. Even if the collection of words is no better than meaningless drivel, writing anything is better than leaving the screen blank. Many days, even though I am dissatisfied with what I write, I make the post viewable to fulfill my imaginary obligation. That behavior represents a kind of twisted logic—a response to a gnarled thought process that warrants intervention. But I would miss the process and the behavior if I were to correct it. I would long for even the absent discomfort of disappointment and failure. Therein lies evidence of a form of neurosis or psychosis that might cause even professional mental health counselors to recoil in disgust. So, I write.

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Yesterday, when I began writing my blog post, I intended to record my thoughts on the intensity of the darkness between, and without, stars. As is so often the case, though, I allowed myself to get sidetracked. This morning, of course, I cannot recall precisely what I was thinking when I began writing. I do remember, though, that the subject of my planned post came to me in the middle of the previous night. I remember thinking “I should document this before it dissolves into the mist of sleep.” But I did not write it down. I do not keep a notepad and pen on the nightstand next to my bed. Because if I did, I would need the light of a lamp to illuminate the paper; and that might disrupt my sleeping partner. The topic did not dissolve before I started writing yesterday’s post; but some of its most appealing aspects have since disappeared. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I believe profound thoughts about darkness linger. One day, or one night, those thoughts will emerge again and I will plan to record them, in writing. I must remember to buy a pen with a light embedded in its tip so I can comfortably document my thoughts in the near-complete darkness of night.

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For reasons too convoluted to try to explain here, I want to view a 1974 film by Sam Peckinpah entitled, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. I would like to host a small (5-10 person) viewing party, fueled by shots of premium tequila and a spread of elaborate, over-the-top nachos. The film was included in a 1978 book entitled The Fifty Worst Films of All Time. The book was largely panned by knowledgeable film critics, including Hal Erikson who suggested the book qualified as The Worst Movie Book Of All Time.  I have, as usual, drifted away from the intent of this paragraph. My judgments of films are unreliable and usually based on irrelevant criteria spun from my emotional reactions, not from critical inquiry and assessment. Having read a bit about what others have said, pro and con, about Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, I will watch the film from a biased point of view, but my opinions are easily swayed by others and by high-end liquor…a good reason to view the film as part of a collection of other people.

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Time for avocado toast and a cold mocha-flavored Ensure. I look forward to a time when I can return to normalcy and discard forced consumption of drinks meant to keep me from falling into a bottomless hole of nutritional emptiness.

Far from the intrusive nighttime lights from clusters of human populations, it is possible to look back in time. On moonless, cloudless nights, the sky appears black and empty except for thousands of tiny white specks. Some of the light from those miniscule dots is so old that the concept of time seems almost inapplicable. Their distance from our eyes is so great, though, that we can understand it only by invoking calculations based on the speed of light over a period of time—light years. Betelgeuse, at 642.5 light years from Earth, is among the brightest of the roughly 6,000 stars visible under optimal conditions. V762 Cas, 16,000 light years from us, is the most distant star visible in the night sky. When we peer at Betelgeuse, the light we see left the star sometime in the year 1381. The light reaching our eyes from C762 Cas began its travel about 11,000 years before the earliest evidence of recorded human history. It is entirely possible that, one Earth year after the light we see tonight, C762 Cas exploded or imploded or otherwise transformed into some sort of incomprehensible cosmic dust. Indeed, that could be the case for every star in the night sky; essentially every light we see in tonight’s sky could represent just a remnant of the way the universe once was. We cannot be certain that the sky above us tonight is the same sky we will see tomorrow. Tomorrow’s sky could be washed in dim, dying light, signaling the transformation of the universe into shreds of shriveling energy. Or, tomorrow’s night sky could be black and empty—without the white points of light that give us reason to wonder what or who else is out there.

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I thought of the universe last night—how incredibly vast it is and how tiny we are, both individually and collectively. Collectively, I think we are smaller than an immeasurably small fraction of a quark; individually, we are infinitesimally smaller. And the universe, from my perspective, is hundreds of billions of times larger than one million times the mass of the largest galaxy. But mass and volume and other such measures are meaningless in an environment within which size is both irrelevant and unfathomable. Time and distance, too, are irrelevant except on a smaller scale—a much smaller scale. Distance, measured by calculations involving the movement of light over a period of time, is valid only when time is measured in a way relevant only to Earth. That validity evaporates in the absence of Earth-based measurements. The same is true of time; one year within the gravitational realm of Alpha Centauri is radically different from one year in our solar system. We can understand time and distance only in the context of Earthly experience. I admire astronomers and astrophysicists who attempt to understand the universe, but I suspect their understanding is tainted by a provincial perspective from which they cannot escape.

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Knowledge is not, by itself, power. Knowledge is a step toward enlightenment. The knowledge that true understanding is impossible is as close to enlightenment as humans can get. Wisdom is a precursor to enlightenment, but enlightenment is simply a theory of what might be possible if we could every achieve understanding. We cannot. We can only strive to remove as many obstacles as possible to insight or awareness. Many brilliant people, I suspect, achieve amazing insights; but those amazing insights leave them aching and empty and unimaginably disappointed with the impossibility of achieving enlightenment and understanding. The most brilliant, though, somehow overcome disappointment with appreciative acceptance; a level of proto-understanding that enables them to reject suicide as the only acceptable alternative to dejection.

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We attended Music on Barcelona at our church yesterday, at which the primary performer gave a stunningly good performance. Her voice and her way of expressing emotion—happy and sad—were amazing. Just before her performance was to begin, though, I suddenly felt weaker than I have felt in a very long time. I wanted to go sit in the car and try to sleep; mi novia, though, would not hear of it. She insisted that she would take me home, instead. I refused. I opted to sit in the back pew so I could leave without being noticed, if necessary. I am glad I did. Before the performance ended, I had recovered from whatever made me feel so weak. I was able to enjoy a spectacular performance. I will never cease to be amazed by the incredible talent that exists among the people of Hot Springs Village. Perhaps it was her performance that revived my energy; it was that good.

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I was planning to spend yesterday afternoon reading and critiquing a book a friend has written and asked me to review; he is preparing to publish it soon. But, I thought I would take a short nap before getting back to it. Four hours later, I woke, no longer in the proper mood to devote time to critiquing it. Today, especially this afternoon, I will dedicate my time to the task at hand. So far, I am quite impressed by his writing and the heart-wrenching autobiographical story he tells.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

~ Psalm 23:4 ~

The Bible and its companions permeate much of human culture. Literature is laced with passages borrowed from religious texts; evidence that, in a world rife with despair and overwhelming terror, humans seeks comfort. But, often, comforting religious words are tempered with undercurrents; assertions that can fill true believers with dread. Yet even in the face of inexplicable contradictions and statements that seem designed to instill fear, true believers embrace religious texts with unshakeable commitment, as if words written by men were, in fact, statements directly from a deity. As surprising as that may be, it is understandable…anxiety about the unknown can cause a relentless, irrational search for relief. Yet amidst the unsupported promises and the frightful cautions, kernels of truth—based on reality and reason and not on fantasy and tragic hope—offer consolation to those seeking solace. People should be free to believe what they wish, even in magic, if that is what it takes to overcome what is, to them, the intolerable. And the rest of us should withhold judgment.

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No taste is more bitter than—nor as long-lasting as—fear. Fear is a constrictive, manipulative emotion; a harness that restricts one’s ability to move freely through life without burden. Dread that fear will interrupt an otherwise carefree experience ruins that experience—and it can do the same to self-respect and self-confidence. Fear of injury or illness or death…fear of living…fear of loss of control…fear of the unexpected. One can find hundreds of ideas on the internet about how to reduce or eliminate fear. None of them, nor any other pieces of advice, work. Constant or repetitive fear is, in the living, an unconquerable flaw. Contrary to popular belief, bravery is not the opposite of fear; it is the temporary absence of fear. The conquest of fear is achieved only with its permanent absence in death. But, of course, all emotions and all experiences disappear then.

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Too much thought can cause one’s brain either to explode or to solidify into a piece of  impermeable stone. Too little can cause one to become a certified hillbilly with a tendency toward violence. That is an intolerably bigoted comment. Mistakes will be made. Corrections will be attempted. Failures will be mourned. And there you go. Danger abounds.

There was a time when differentiating between truth and lies was possible. One could readily tell news and propaganda apart, too. But when entertainment entered the mix, the willing suspension of disbelief began to creep into judgments between fact and fiction. The blending of reality with fantasy crippled the ease of telling right from wrong, good from bad, and love from hate. Authenticity, once simple and clear, became clouded with questions of motive. How knowledge was spread took on as much—or more—importance as what was shared; once-reliable sources of information could no longer inspire confidence. Even trusted resources of impartial news strayed, filtering reporting through a biased lens. Sources that once delivered unimpeachable information transformed into the machinery of indoctrination. Conspiracy theories, delivered as undeniable truth, replaced verifiable facts. These new realities changed impartiality, which once had been highly valued, into something suspicious, dubious, and probably manipulative. Right-leaning political philosophies infiltrated news media; in response, left-leaning political philosophers shed their badges of honor and did the same. Healthy suspicion about the legitimacy of information morphed into healthy paranoia. Centrist philosophies, deprived of sustenance and weakened from malnutrition, slipped into a coma of unawareness. Rational thought reportedly died peacefully, surrounded by irrational enemies who were ready to use their weapons to complete the task if starvation failed.

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The remnants of Hurricane Helene continue to wreak havoc from Florida to Appalachia and beyond. One of the relatively few clear memories I have of growing up involves Hurricane Celia, which destroyed my parents’ house when I was in high school. I recall that we sought shelter the evening after the hurricane winds had subsided. After being turned away from an elementary school, we found shelter in a Methodist church that night. My memories of the aftermath in the days following the storm are vague. I remember only that members of the family split up for several days and stayed with various friends and neighbors until my parents could find a rental house. We stayed in the rental until the wreckage of our former home had been cleared away and a new house built in its place. Many, many people in Corpus Christi experienced similar hardships. But our experience was not even remotely as severe as that wrought by Hurricane Helene’s devastation. Though there was some flooding, it was nothing like the inundation caused by Helene. Most of the damage, if my fading memory is reliable, was caused by wind; apparently, tornadoes spawned by the hurricane were responsible for the destruction of our house. We were in the house when the wind ripped off the roof and flooded the house with rainwater. I was terrified.  I can only imagine the terror experienced by people who went through the damage wrought by Helene. And the aftermath of storm clean-up and rebuilding lives will extend the terror and its after-effects for a long time. People affected by the hurricane will need help immediately and for many months to come. I hope people who can afford it will donate to help the victims. I will contribute what I can.

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My next chemotherapy treatment is scheduled for next Thursday morning. I hope to spend no more than 4 or 5 hours in the oncologist clinic. I expect to have a PET scan scheduled after this treatment or the next one, three weeks later. The scan will, I hope, give my oncologist enough information so she can give me a reasonably reliable prognosis. Of course, I hope the scan will show that the treatments are effective in killing the cancer. If not, I expect another combination of chemotherapy drugs will be in order. Time will tell.

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I miss shoe repair shops. Years have passed since I last took a pair of shoes in for repair, but I can still remember the wonderful smell of those shops. I do not know exactly what I smelled—leather, obviously, but there must have been other contributors, like leather treatment chemicals, to the odor. Cobblers are few and far between nowadays. Like so many other consumables, shoes today tend to be discarded, rather than repaired. Different materials are used in their manufacture than in times gone by, I suppose. But I suspect the root cause of the disappearance of cobbler shops has to do with the cost of repairs versus the cost of replacements. Mass manufacturing and cheap overseas labor combine to make repairs uneconomical, compared to replacement. I do not bemoan paying overseas workers to make shoes, but I think they should be paid reasonable wages…which would no doubt increase the cost of shoes and make the cost of repairs more competitive. Watching a cobble repair or rebuild a shoe fascinates me; the skill and the care given to making a pair of shoes look and feel and smell and behave like new is amazing. But athletic shoes, which I wear almost to the complete exclusion of others, are not designed to be repaired…not like leather dress shoes, anyway. Once a pair of athletic shoes have been worn to the point of inadequate performance, I think repair is impossible. Maybe that is the primary cause of the decline in cobblers’ shops.

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I need want another espresso. A few years ago, I put myself to the test by “doing without” various things I enjoy for a month at a time. If nothing else, those experiences of “doing without” clarified for me how withholding something unnecessary (but desired) made me acutely conscious of my privilege in being able to have easy and immediate access to things. Things like coffee, meat, alcohol, social media, and various other luxuries. Some people thought my little experiment was pointless…”why torture yourself…what does it prove?” I could never explain it to their satisfaction. But, to me, the experience left me feeling more gratitude for those luxuries and more empathy for people who are not as fortunate as I in having such easy, ready access. I may try it again. But not today. Not until I have another espresso. Ach!

Regulations, which usually attempt to establish formal societal expectations/demands relating to conduct, sometimes overreach their intentions. By trying to address all possible deviations from acceptable behaviors, regulations can be so prescriptive and/or so restrictive that they unintentionally stifle progress. The American Bar Association says effective regulation aims to “align private behavior with the public interest.” In my opinion, governments are capable of imposing regulatory burdens so onerous that they effectively suffocate the very societies they intend to serve, resulting in suicide by strangulation. Ideally, regulations would be sufficiently broad in their prescriptive or restrictive language to establish broad parameters of acceptable/unacceptable conduct; but not so precise as to impose unnecessary constraints. Unfortunately, broad parameters too often can allow for interpretations that are counter to regulatory purposes. Hence increasingly narrow, complex, and detailed regulations. If regulations were accompanied by precise—but separate—descriptions of their purposes, perhaps the need for “over-regulation” would be unnecessary. But the reasons behind over-regulation sometimes seem to be based more on the convenience of regulators than the interests of the public. The causes of over-regulation would be easily solved if just one element of its causes could be repaired: human nature.

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About halfway through yesterday afternoon’s church board meeting, my gut began to bother me a bit. Two hours after the meeting ended, as I watched news coverage of Hurricane Helene’s approach to the Florida coast, I decided I might feel better if I tried to sleep for awhile. “Awhile” turned into eleven and one-half hours. Though I woke several times during the night, most of those hours were spent in slumber. This morning, I feel considerably better, though not yet quite at one hundred percent. When I was awake during the night, I considered what could be causing my discomfort; I decided it must be related to my gall bladder, my pancreas, inflammatory bowel disease, gastroenteritis, or something else. It might be something minor, as well. I am not much of diagnostician. Incidentally, blog reader, I record this sort of information here simply so I have a record of such events—it’s not because I think my medical symptoms and such are of interest to the world at large.

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Only through earnest desire to help one another achieve contentment will humankind recover from its self-made challenges and survive. Survival alone, though, is not enough. Universal physical and emotional comfort is necessary.

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Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Journalists are observers. Politicians are participants. Their functions in those roles shift back and forth, though. That is true of everyone. But most people tend toward one or the other. Even—especially—in social settings, people gravitate toward the role in which they are most comfortable. Or least uncomfortable. That tendency colors their perspectives on people who switch back and forth effortlessly between watcher and actor. People who seem simultaneously to be observers and participants often are seen by others as insincere or artificial.

These incompletely-formed thoughts have nowhere to go at the moment. They are simply scraps of nascent theories that attempt to offer answers to questions that may not have been properly asked.

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I cannot think lucidly this morning. That problem has become increasingly evident to me in recent months. Whether it arises from age or illness does not matter. What matters is that it makes me think I may be deteriorating mentally. And that’s where I get stuck. I do not know how to approach the situation; and whether “approaching the situation” is an appropriate response. I see the clues most clearly when I attempt to write this blog. I sit at the keyboard and am unable to corral my jumbled thoughts. My brain is a box that holds a knotted mass of tangled ideas, all of which are unrelated. I intentionally have steered clear of making my writing adhere to themes, because I want the freedom to think, without constraints, with my fingers. Maybe that’s it. Have I deliberately created a way of thinking that is utterly random and completely inescapable?

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This morning, I will rejoin the church men’s breakfast group after a long absence. Whether I continue to attend depends on my chemotherapy schedule and whether I feel well enough. We shall see. Later, I will attend a church board meeting. I suspect I will be primarily an observer—my normal style, amplified by my interest in keeping a low profile. My head is pounding again. Perhaps the recent dramatic reduction in the number and length of naps is the culprit. Time to take some pain-killing pharmaceuticals.

Real emotions arise from experiences—whether real or misremembered or contrived by the mind in its natural state. Artificial emotions arise while processing the effects of artificial stimuli. Whether those two statements are true is open to question. But assuming they, especially the second, contain a kernel of truth, one’s perspective on the world may change. The emotions that emerge from the consumption of alcohol or marijuana or cocaine or oxycodone or hundreds of other mind-altering substances, then, are artificial emotions. Is it possible, though, for an emotion to be “artificial?” The spark for the emotion…yes. But the emotion itself? What might an artificial emotion be like? Perhaps a combination of tenderness and rage. Or a simultaneous mixture of depression and pride. Maybe disgust and joy? What are hallucinations but imagined experiences…and their attendant emotions? Is an emotion artificial if brought about by misinterpreted reality? The mind is an amalgamation of interpretations of reality and fantasy—not the reality or fantasy itself, but its interpretation. Without the ability to interpret experiences (actual or imagined), the brain is simply a protomind; an embryonic potential, nothing more. Note that the definition (utterly unofficial) lacks the qualifier, correctly, for interpret. This entire paragraph may consist of incorrect interpretations and outright manufactured assertions. So, too, may be humans’ understanding of everything we thought we knew.

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Spilt milk gathers no moss. The early bird gets the flu. All is fair in love and burglary. Better safe than parental. What does not kill you makes you angry. The only thing we have to fear is measles. The unexamined life is not worth taking. Actions speak louder than fish smell. Don’t judge a book by its reader. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man sleepy, weepy, and corpulent.

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Historically, more people have died of religion than cancer.

~ Dick Francis ~

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I attempt to be grateful for everything positive in my life. And I succeed with some frequency. But, too often, things get in my way: hurricanes, lies claiming people are eating pets, ballistic missiles, deranged politicians, climate change, monkey pox, abortion bans, a murderous sheriff, pharmaceutical price-fixing, and a thousand other actions and events like them can dim the prospects of global peace and happiness. Humanity, it seems, is a killing culture. We could change, of course, if we were adequately (and collectively) motivated. What keeps us from attaining what is possible? Maybe it’s that we all have different dreams and are insufficiently compassionate.

According to my computer screen, the sky is overcast and the temperature is 70°F.  The bright blue sky beyond the sun-drenched oak trees and pine trees tells me nothing about the temperature, but argues forcefully that the sky is not the dreary shroud the online weather report claims. If I were a skeptical curmudgeon, I might use that obviously erroneous report of current sky conditions to dismiss the value of online weather information. If, on top of being a skeptical curmudgeon, I was conspiracy theorist, I might claim the authorities (whoever they are) have hatched an evil plan to use weather misinformation as a sinister tool to: a) prompt a violent rebellion against the National Weather Service; b) divert attention from the U.S. government’s plans to forcibly annex Venezuela; or c) test the degree to which the public can be manipulated into believing the color grey is actually blue. Another possibility, of course, is that I might claim weather misinformation is being used in an elaborate plot to change the name of the State of Alabama to the State of Grace. Admittedly, that elaborate plot would be a far-fetched idea; almost impossibly intricate and dazzlingly convoluted. Who knows, though, really? Conspiracy theorists are notorious for having been improperly hard-wired in the extreme. Remember Pizzagate? A pizza parlor (Comet Ping Pong pizzeria) ostensibly involved, with heavy involvement by senior Democratic Party officials, in a human trafficking and child sex ring. That idea apparently got immediate traction with conspiracy theorists. Word on the street is that the brains of many of the most fervent Pizzagate theorists inexplicably had been switched with their rectums. That explains the origin of the crude expression, “shit for brains.”

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Speaking of improper hard-wiring…I wonder how a simple glitch in a weather report generated such bizarre ideas? I cannot answer that, but I can trace a dream’s origin to a common experience, infected with underlying anxiety. For several days, I’ve been quite congested and my nasal passages have alternated between extremely dry and constantly dripping. During these past few days, the tissues I used when blowing my nose have been red with blood and phlegm (I know, it’s not pleasant morning reading). Anyway…I dreamed that my oncologist told me the nose bleeds were signs that my lung cancer had gotten much worse and that I should immediately start planning for my inevitable demise. Obviously, barely beneath my subconscious when I saw blood on the tissues, I was concerned. I worried that it wasn’t just dry, cracked nasal passages bleeding in response to blowing my nose. Hence the dream. A touch disturbing, but when conscious I can readily explain it away.

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There will come a point at which we can buy and sell Time. It will be sold in packages ranging from 30 seconds to 1 year. The effect of buying time is to extend one’s life by the amount of time purchased. Sellers’s lives decrease by the amount sold. The price per 30-second unit will be higher with each incremental increase. So, for example, if 30 seconds sells for 10¢, 60 seconds might sell for 22¢, 90 second for 36¢, and so on. Obviously, the price for a full year  would be astronomical. The buyer of a one-year extension will have to be extremely rich and quite desperate. The seller of the one-year extension will become instantly and enormously wealthy; but he could get the full value out of the sale only if he were to live at least one year after the transaction. If, on the other hand, he were to live only a week or a month afterward, he would have been robbed by time. Before we reach the point at which Time can be bought and sold, the troubling details will have to be worked out.  I would do it, but I’m just not sufficiently good with math to work it out.

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Mi novia returned from her trip last night. Even with a little less solitude than I had the last few days, the world is now a better place.

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I slept late today and I am plodding through the morning at a snail’s pace. It’s almost 11 a.m. and I still haven’t had breakfast (except for a jolt of espresso). Having heard mi novia‘s story of her grandson’s attempt to order a breakfast of enough pancakes to feed 7 (or more), I wish I had some pancakes for breakfast. But only a few.

I have been told I should have a hobby. It’s not the first time I’ve received such advice. I have taken it, too. For a few years, I enjoyed working with clay, making bowls and plates and masks. If someone were to provide me with a fully-equipped private studio, I might return to it, but ventilation would have to be exceptional, considering the fragility of my lungs. Not long ago, I tried stringing beads. I enjoyed it and will do it again, but not often enough to make it a hobby. I would like to learn how to create stained glass art. As with clay, if someone were to provide me with a fully-equipped private studio and a personal tutor, I might give that a whirl. Same thing goes for wood-turning. I’ve tried my hand at painting (both acrylics and oils); enjoyable while I’m creating, disappointing when I see the hideous product that results…nothing like I envision. Finally, I recognize this: I enjoy viewing and otherwise experiencing art, but I do not possess artistic skills and talents. Card games, chess, and other board games do not interest me. Writing might be my hobby, I suppose, but I seem to have lost any substantive creativity I might once have had; that loss has taken much of the enjoyment out of it. A recent suggestion: learn a new language—I have neither sufficient interest nor adequate capabilities to succeed, I am afraid. Hunting: no. Fishing: once, but probably not again. Cooking was once a very attractive pastime, but I have lost most of my interest in that. Literally thousands of options are available to me, but I simply have not found the right one at the right time. I will keep looking.

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Every breath we take, every step we make, can be filled with peace, joy and serenity.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

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In my younger years, someone in my personal sphere—I cannot recall with certainty who—referred to badly-behaving children as noxious weeds. Obviously, the phrase was not a term of endearment. Neither was it, in the context of my youth, as negative as it might initially seem. I remember it as a matter-of-fact expression of annoyance applied to a child going through a period of acting out. The term was not meant to identify the child as “pre-criminal,” maturing as fast as a weed grows; usually, just a temporary irritant. At least that is my perspective today. All children go through a noxious weed stage. And some stay there.

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At the intersection of one’s religiosity, political beliefs, and moral compass is something that may once have been innocuous, but is no more: one’s diet. Diet is no longer simply a personal choice. It is a social tool used to express certain elements of one’s personality and personal beliefs. And it is a bludgeon, a weapon to attack others whose perspectives differ from one’s own. Increasingly, diet is associated with one’s foundational political viewpoints. Vegetarians and vegans lean left; omnivores are more likely than the V-People to lean right, for example. Dietary choices are linked to one’s (and others’) morality, depending on point of view. Meat-eaters sometimes are chastised as morally bankrupt for their complicity in the immoral treatment of animals. It is impossible to be sure that grass-fed beef and free-range chickens emerged as a reaction to that charge; but it might be so. Religious beliefs variously prohibit eating cows, any meat (period), fish on certain days…there must be dozens and dozens of other religiously-dictated dietary rules and guidelines.

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My theory, which I call Swinburn’s Solid Flower Rule, is this:

When gases reach an exceptionally high temperature (142 nonillion kelvins, 10^32K), known a the Planck Temperature, gases transform into an entirely different substance, which, for lack of a better term, we call ExKaZEEdro. ExKaZEEdro is no longer a gas but, instead, a hard, dense, solid membrane that flows like liquid water.

If not for some troublesome human traits—unfortunately widespread—Communism and Socialism might well attain versions of the goal of a classless society. Two of the more common difficult traits, greed and unbridled ambition, prevent achievement of the utopian dream. Genuine idealists may yet believe the desire for a classless society can be met; but they are delusional. Once exposed to the fruits of money and power, the less committed idealist unknowingly becomes an apologist for greed and ambition. People whose passion for the ideal is laced with hairline cracks begin to justify social strata and uneven distribution of wealth. They reason that achieving equality must necessarily occur gradually over long periods of time…enough to merit their own “temporary” superiority and economic dominance. Coming to these conclusions does not require complex logic nor deep study—only a willingness to be painfully honest with oneself about one’s own morality. And that is an exceptionally difficult reckoning.

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During the year-plus Phaedra has lived here with us, she has shed well over five thousand pounds of snow-white fur. If we had allowed it to accumulate, floor joists and beams would have buckled under the weight, splintering massive timbers into useless shreds of pine. But we try to keep up with her deposits of cat hair, vacuuming four hundred pounds of fur per month—around one hundred pounds per month. Losing one hundred pounds of fur every month is not a problem for her, though; she grows back that much and more. I do not understand why she does not lose much dark hair. Maybe it’s just a matter of background and visibility.

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My weakness is irritating in the extreme. When I get out of bed, I feel like getting right back in; sleeping another few hours (even after 9 hours in bed) is extremely inviting. I can get nothing of consequence done, except for emptying my brain of empty thoughts onto this blog. The idea of picking up a five-pound bag of sand, aside from being pointless, is frightening; it might crush me under the weight. Give me ten minutes, though, and I easily will be able to lift up to nine pounds. When I compare myself now to the man I was before, I see few similarities. But when I ask myself who I was then and who I am now, I can only mumble about serving in Napoleon’s army and how it changed me from a soldier to a monk who carries a mace and a grudge. Despite what these words might suggest, I am a peaceful soul who has a low threshold for combustion—a gentle man who, when disappointed, tears galaxies into chaotic clouds of exploding stars. Just look into the night sky at the edges of the Andromeda Galaxy; my work.

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With a return to semi-sanity, I bid you a good day and a lifetime of happiness and love.

An article in Business Insider about the prominence of South Asian American children in spelling bees reminded me of my long-held interest in spelling bees. Though I participated in the occasional spelling bee as a elementary school student, I did not outshine my competition. Despite my modest—but by no means stellar—performance, I was intrigued by how exceptionally well some students did. I was impressed with their fierce commitment to the competitions and what motivated them. Although I watched only a few televised Scripps Spelling Bee competitions over the years, when I did I, I enjoyed them and found myself rooting for several participants. Over time, the superior performance of South Asian American children caught my attention. I learned from the Business Insider article that “Many Bee winners are the children of highly-skilled immigrant parents who put a high value on education and foster a love of words and language, which underlie the significance of academic activities like spelling bees among immigrant communities.”  It occurs to me that the cultural value bee participants’ parents place on academic activities could serve as a model for “the rest of us.” Instead, it seems most American parents tend to view sports as more important than academia. My gut suggests to me that students who perform well in spelling bees are apt to be especially successful in subsequent careers that require intellectual discipline. I would be interested to measure my gut sense; compare spelling bee high-performers’ career achievements with those who did not participate in spelling bees. Designing such a study might be challenging, but a well-conceived research study could yield powerful results…and might encourage parents to focus on intellectual achievement versus performance in sports. Just curious…but hopeful. By the way, the E.W. Scripps company is one of the largest local TV broadcasters in the United States.

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News that the eight largest theatre chains in the US and Canada have announced a $2.2 billion renovation plan for their theatres suggests a major change in big-screen viewing is in the offing. The question, of course, is whether the cost of big-screen experiences (huge screens, better sound systems, upgraded amenities, etc.) will compare favorably to the benefits afforded through streaming at home—control (privacy, pausing, rewinding, viewer-specific food and beverage options, etc.). I like big screens and superb sound, but I think I like control even more…especially when that control is less expensive.

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Despite feeling less than 100% (more like 40%) last night, I stayed awake and watched three episodes of the limited series, IC 814: The Kandahar Hijack. The characters speak mostly Hindi (with English subtitles), with a liberal sprinkling of English. Based on the events of a December 24, 1999 hijacking, the mini-series is tense, action-packed, and sufficiently mindless to let the viewer sit in a shade of a trance for awhile. I would compare it favorably to grinding coffee, but without the required effort and attention. I will decide tonight whether to continue watching the remaining episodes.

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Mi novia is off visiting her daughter (and daughter’s son and husband) for a few days. I am glad she is able to take a little time off from being caretaker (I keep telling her I can be my own). I am glad to have a few days to myself, as well. It’s not that I am getting anything done in her absence; it’s just that a few days of mostly solitude gives me a sense of relaxation that’s unavailable when others are present. I suppose that goes to the heart of my personality; I need time alone. I do not need to feel productive during that time (which is good, inasmuch as I decidedly am not productive lately), I just need solitude. That having been said, her return will be cause for celebration. In the interim, I will be a childless cat man.

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I wrote this piece this morning, Saturday. I thought I had posted it. But a phone call from one of my brothers made me realize I had finished it, except for one thing: hitting the publish button.

I fell asleep at the keyboard. Dozens of lines of type, with nothing on the screen but repetitive f. This is becoming commonplace. Enough. I will try more sleep.

Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

I know only a bit about him, but I have enormous admiration for people like Eric Hoffer. He embraced the only employment opportunities available to him (as a manual laborer, stevedore, farm worker, etc.) in his youth and middle age, while educating himself all the while, thinking deeply and writing about social order, power, and mass movements. Hoffer’s insights into the development and execution of social movements were highly regarded by both laymen and academics. The first of his ten books was published when he was about 53 years old. Subsequent books others wrote about him extolled the clarity of his understanding of social change; he was a brilliant social psychologist/sociologist whose intellect was especially surprising, given his lack of a formal education. If I had the mental energy, I might read his works. But I am not Eric Hoffer. I can only admire his exceptional intelligence; not replicate it.

People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

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Another 12 hours of regularly shattered sleep; every hour or two, my restlessness jarred me awake from troubling thoughts and dreams. Each time, I assumed I was awakened by the need to pee; sometimes, that’s what it was, but just as often it could have been a sense of terror borrowed from the dream from which I awoke.

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Borrowing terror reminds me of a related phrase I read within the past day or so: borrowing trouble. I think the phrase was presented something like, Never borrow trouble from the future; that is an admonition to avoid letting possible difficulties that have not yet occurred interfere with real circumstances in the present.

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My brain is scrambled, due in part to the damned mouth sores that began appearing around a week ago. They are not really painful, but they make themselves known. I have yet to receive the medication that should (I hope) relieve them. So I wait. And I wonder whether there’s any food I should avoid for fear of exacerbating them. My thought processes suggest I should avoid all food, just in case, but I have been told—in no uncertain terms—that I must eat, lest I get dangerously weak. That is better advice than the recommendation I give myself. Chemotherapy drugs have all manner of side effects, none of which I find appealing. Mouth sores are among the unappealing accompaniments to those damned intravenous poisons.

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I’ve eaten two tiny containers of tasty yoghurt this morning. I remain hungry, though leery of food. Perhaps I should thaw some cooked rice, flavor it with soy sauce and sambal oleek, and hope the sambal oleek does not cause the inside of my mouth to erupt in flames. Lately, even very slightly picante food burns my tongue, as if I were eating marbles of molten steel. Jalapeños, one of my favorite foods, have become my enemies—behaving as if they were treble fishhooks make of white-hot titanium. Fairness plays no part in my diet. Food is given to me to inflict pain, not to provide nutritional sustenance. The yoghurt was rather pleasant, though, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn in short order that it had been laced with tiny razor blades and alcohol.

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Though I slept for 12 hours (more or less) last night, I feel like I could sleep for another six, at least. But I shall not. Not right now, anyway.

Every so often, fluorescent lime green spots of color appear on the t-shirts and shorts and tennis shoes people wear. Nobody I know, of course, but quite a few strangers who pass me on the street or in stores or honk at me from their lime green cars. I am not certain that I am viewing reality. The spots of color may be hallucinations brought on by an intense yearning to understand experiences outside the dull-normal circumstances surrounding all of us. Anyone reading this knows those spots of color are evidence of free sanity; sanity unbound by our interpretations of drabness.

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For thousands and thousands and thousands of years, humans have engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the natural environment. Without constant efforts to protect ourselves against the ravages of Nature, we would have been, by now, long extinct. If Nature had not fought against us in so many ways, humans might have succeeded in weakening Nature enough to reduce all but the utterly unbeatable natural dangers. And those unbeatable dangers probably would have erased human blight from the planet. One way or another, Nature was assured of conquest—it was and is just a matter of time. What Earthly creature actually needs humans in order to survive and prosper? Few, if any. Yet, in order to survive, we need Nature to submit to our demands or, at least, to refrain from attacking us. If Nature were proven to have intent, I would say Nature simply wants to enjoy roughhousing with human toys.

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Roughly fifty years and seven months ago, Patty Hearst was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA). About nineteen months later, she was captured by the FBI; not as the kidnap victim, but as a bank robber and common criminal. Today, September 18 (as reported on the NPR website), is the anniversary of her capture in 1975. The final member of the SLA was caught in 2002. Though many people believed—and still do—she joined her captors due to being a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, she was tried for her actions in the SLA and was sentenced to seven years in prison. Her sentence was commuted after two years and, later, she was pardoned. I wrote an even shorter blurb about Patty Hearst ten years ago. My interest in her story is not based on fascination. It is a matter of simple curiosity; just not enough to justify the effort necessary to learn every facet of her SLA experience.

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Yesterday was another day of extended sleep; so much that I could not sleep well last night. But just after 4 this morning when I decided to get out of bed, I drifted off for half an hour. And the same thing happed a half an hour later. And then the half hour after that. And on and on until, finally, I got up around 6:30. Here I am, half an hour later, feeling moderately comatose, but I do not want to emerge from the coma. I would prefer to get back to sleep and stay in that state for another five or six hours. I only wish.

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I’ve been dealing with the recurrence of my lung cancer since the end of December 2023. Had my treatments gone the way I had hoped, I would have finished the formal chemotherapy in three months; treatment would have continued for two more years, but that follow-up treatment would have been immunotherapy designed to keep the cancer in check. Instead, different poisons are being tried; evaluations of their impacts will determine whether any of them should be continued for its effectiveness. Ach! Nine months and then some, with no certainty. I haven’t asked the oncologist how my body might react if I simply stopped the treatments; she probably would say I would die within a fairly short timeframe…months, perhaps. That’s what she said when I asked the question when I was first diagnosed with cancer almost 6 years ago. Cancer has the potential to end life and, in the process, wreck what’s left of it. Far too many people successfully deal with cancer, though, for me to give up on it. But it can be tempting.