Girding My Loins for the Onslaught

Posted on September 20, 2016 by John Swinburn

It was two fifty-five in the afternoon on Sunday, December 29, 2013.  I was sipping my second shot of Maker’s Mark.  That was not my usual practice.  Typically, I would not have had any Maker’s Mark, much less be on my second shot, at that hour.  But the skies were dreary grey and the temperature was uncomfortably low.  So, a Maker’s Mark before 3:00 p.m.was not inexcusable.  However, I must admit, considering how good it tasted and  how good it made me feel, it could have become a hard habit to break.  But I needed to avoid the absolute bliss that could follow four to six shots of Maker’s Mark each day between 3:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m. So I stopped at two. Here it is, closing in on three years later, and I recall my Maker’s Mark of that day. How? Because I chronicled the experience in a small, spiral-bound notebook.

But drinking Maker’s Mark, alone, that early in the day is not the subject of this post, is it? Well, I should say not!  No, the subject of this post is gratitude.  Yes! Gratitude!  It’s a fitting subject, given my appreciation for the Maker’s Mark that was in my glass and in my gullet on that day. What more could a man ask for? I must admit it; I had lust in my heart for Maker’s Mark. Maker’s Mark girded my loins, preparing me for the onslaught of whatever slaught was about to occur.

That having been said, I think it only right that I should plan to buy a very large bottle of Maker’s Mark before November 8 this year. Then, I should open said bottle on said day at, say, 9:00 p.m. I should then drink a shot of the juice and gird my loins for the election results. If they go the way that will save this country and this planet from ruin, I will drink just a few shots, enough to put me in a celebratory mood. If, on the other hand, the election puts a maniacal narcissist, a fuming xenophobic racist bastard with obscene wealth and a god complex, in charge of this country, I will drink the remainder of the bottle, putting me out of the misery that will surely befall the land.  In either case, I will be grateful for the bottle of Maker’s Mark and its gift of loin-girding.

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Three Perspectives

Posted on September 19, 2016 by John Swinburn

Have you ever been stood up for a date that wasn’t yet scheduled? A suggestion of “let’s plan to get together,” followed by protracted silence? Yeah, if you look carefully at the precursor conversations and conduct an honest assessment of the situation, you’ll find that you’ve been had. Played like a cheap violin. Your emotions, molded as easily as clay, conformed to someone else’s desired shapes, where they began to harden. And, now, they are brittle, as breakable as fragile thin glass.

Have you ever said to someone, “let’s plan to get together,” without really meaning it? It was easier than telling the truth, that the person to whom you’re speaking either bores or annoys you or…simply doesn’t interest you. Well, your mistake was in setting unrealistic expectations; giving the impression that a relationship might be in the offing. You inadvertently took the person’s emotions into your hands and, through your silence, appear ready to dash them against the rocks.

Have you ever witnessed a misunderstanding between two people evolve before your eyes? One of the two has an obvious interest in the other; the interest isn’t reciprocal, but the object of interest is kind in a noncommittal sort of way. You watched expectations of the one blossom as the other concluded the casual brush-off succeeded. As a witness, you didn’t expect to be called upon as arbiter of truth and emotional validation, but that’s what will happen. You were drawn in to an emotional battle which both sides lost; and the war correspondent was taken prisoner.

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My Sovereign Sky

Posted on September 18, 2016 by John Swinburn

When I am alone with the sky, when I look up toward the stars  or the clouds and abandon awareness of earth and its inhabitants, the firmament is mine. Or perhaps I am its sole subject, beholden only to its sovereignty. We have a symbiotic relationship, the sky and I. We feed each other’s sense of wonder at the fragility and supremacy of the other, marveling at how such magnificence can exist so close to the edge of irrelevance and obscurity.

For each thought, there is an opposite—an absence of that thought. Together, the thought and its absence are invisible, unthinkable, empty. Without the absence of thought, there can be no opposite, so no thought to counter its absence. You cannot see that emptiness, nor can you even think of it, because it is not there. Surely you can understand that, can’t you? Or is that understanding a private one, a logic shared only between my sovereign sky and me?

For every inflation, there is an equal and opposite deflation, for every truth, there is an equal and opposite lie, for every tree taking space in the air, there is space in the air searching for the absence of a tree. My logic is irrefutable, though possibly inscrutable, except in my eyes and in the absence of eyes of my sovereign sky. Because the sky has no eyes. Yet the sky and I play with one another the way puppies run in their sleep, chasing dreams invisible to you and me but vivid to the puppies.

You and I may share the same sky, but I cannot share my sovereign sky with anyone because it’s not mine to share. My sovereign sky is as real as my imagination, but as imaginary as your sky is to me. I cannot see through your eyes and you cannot see through mine, except to the extent that I permit, through my words, and you permit through yours. But what if our words meant different things to one another? What if the word “goat” conjures in your eyes an image of an animal that, to me, corresponds to an image of  the word “dog,” that in my mind’s eye conjures an image of what the word “kangaroo” means to you? That’s why I cannot share my sovereign sky with you. And it’s not mine to share.

There’s a memory in your head, a memory of looking at clouds in the sky and imagining what those clouds were. You saw dogs, cats, an old man’s face, a car transforming into a bicycle. I saw the same sky, but I didn’t see your dogs, cats, old men, cars, and bicycles. My sovereign sky held its own menagerie. It still does.

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Affront

Posted on September 18, 2016 by John Swinburn

“It was as if I saw it happen in slow m-m-m-motion.” Recuerda Villa, her eyes wide, recalled what she had witnessed.

What she had seen, though Recuerda wasn’t close enough to see it quite so clearly, was this. Jolene’s right arm, hanging motionless at her side, rose up and forward, then left across her chest and slightly back toward her body. Her right hand stopped just short of her left ear, then her arm sprung like a coiled snake, the back of her fist smashing into Lavender’s left cheek with an audible “crack!” Lavender’s eyes snapped shut and her head jerked back with the force of impact. She stumbled backward four steps until the back of her knees hit the low table next to the deck railing. Her knees buckled, and the force of movement thrust her downward until her back was parallel with the deck. Momentum thrust her across  and over the railing. She tumbled upside down toward the ground below.

Recuerda Villa, sunbathing on her dock a few houses away, saw the event, she told police. “It looked like the women were fighting, but I’m not sure. Women don’t fight here, not in Hot Springs Village.”

Maybe not. But, as the police would uncover during the investigation, the brief interchange between Jolene Shaw and Lavender Boudreaux certainly had all the trappings of a fight. A fight to the death. Lavender’s death.

Several people were much closer to the scene. Among them were ten women just inside inside Jolene’s house. A couple of them reported they thought they heard a scream, but didn’t think much of it. After all, one of them said, “It’s not unusual to hear someone in a gaggle of tipsy knitters shriek with laughter at a tawdry joke.”

 

[No idea where this is going. I’m not much of a mystery writer, but this vignette seems to “have all the trappings” of a mystery. At least some of the trappings.]

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Discretion

Posted on September 17, 2016 by John Swinburn

Knob Creek Rye Whiskey. That’s the choice I made when deciding which of the six whiskies I should buy from those I’d tasted  yesterday afternoon at Colonial Liquors in Little Rock. I could have chosen any of the other four I liked, but selected Knob Creek Rye almost at random. The only tasted whiskey with which I was unimpressed was Knob Creek Smoked Maple Whiskey; while some whiskey afficionados might be impressed by its overwhelming maple aroma and sweet maple flavor, I wasn’t. Then, I’m no whiskey afficionado; I just like certain whiskies. If truth be told, I probably like most whiskies.

I would have been perfectly happy to go home with a bottle of the Basil Hayden’s I tasted, or a bottle of Maker’s 46, or a bottle of Maker’s Mark Cask Strength, or a bottle of Booker’s. But the more appealing price of the Knob Creek Rye and the slightly peppery finish won me over; at $30 (with a $10 discount), it wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t a $50 bottle, either. I learned something about whiskey yesterday that I did not know before. It actually tastes better (to me, anyway) with a bit of ice in it. I had always thought melting ice would dilute the flavor and, in fact, I guess it does. But, as one of the young women offering the samples explained, a little ice “opens up” the flavor of the whiskey and makes it “brighter.” I tried one of the whiskies without ice and another sample with it; the one with ice did, indeed, “open up” and tasted “brighter.”

What does one do after tasting six whiskies and two beers (the names of neither of which stuck with me)? Well, one goes outside, crosses a few feet of asphalt, and buys some tacos from the Taqueria Jalisco San Juan taco truck stationed permanently in the parking lot, of course. Two tacos de lengua and one taco al pastor later (which we ate at a little table under a canopy next to the truck), I was ready to head home with my friend, who had only two tacos. I will admit that I probably like the food just a little more than I otherwise would simply because it’s made in and served from a taco truck; something about taco trucks appeals to me. But, bias aside, I really enjoy their tacos. They are not the best I’ve ever had, by any means, but they satisfy my taco cravings and that’s what counts. The downside to some taco trucks, and that includes this one, is that some taco trucks do not make available multiple squeeze bottles of various types of salsa. I prefer the fiery (as in quite spicy) fire-roasted tomato and tomatillo based salsas like those I used to get at the original Taqueria Paloma in Plano, Texas. While ordering there was sometimes a bit of a challenge because my Spanish is old and rusty and their counter help wasn’t entirely fluent in English, the food was out of this world good. When I ate there, I felt as if I’d been transported to a little stand in Mexico, where the cooks had the right ingredients, the right knowledge, and the right skills to produce taco perfection. Taqueria Jalisco San Juan doesn’t transport me that way, but you do what you gotta do when taco cravings strike, don’t you?

I checked my calendar for today and tomorrow and discovered, quite happily, that there’s nothing there that requires me to adhere to a schedule of any kind. That may change, but at this hour it appears I’m free as a bird. I recognize I should use these free hours and days to do prep work for painting the living room and, then, do the actual painting. And I might. But I also recognize that I have until October 11 to get the job done before new furniture delivery (the date delayed from September 27 at our request). So, maybe I’ll be lazy today and/or tomorrow. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m retired and have nothing tugging at my time.

I am so incredibly fortunate to be able to write what I’ve just written. The whole thing, not just the preceding paragraph. To have discretion is an incredible gift that one should not take lightly.

Posted in Booze, Food | Leave a comment

Physical and Mental

Posted on September 16, 2016 by John Swinburn

Today, I’m using this blog as a journal. On my agenda this morning is a visit to my doctor for my annual physical, then a visit to Little Rock this afternoon with a friend. The first activity is routine. The physical began with yesterday morning’s trek to the doctor’s office for a blood draw for lab work. The technician stabbed my left arm and withdrew three vials of blood which I assume has, by now, been subjected to testing, measurement, evaluation, and reporting. I will learn the results of those assessments when I visit today, assuming the work has, in fact, been done.

The afternoon visit was prompted by an item my wife noticed in a liquor store brochure, announcing the store’s planned tasting of three very high-end and expensive bourbons. Inasmuch as I tend not to buy very high-end and expensive bourbons, attending this tasting may be one of the only opportunities I’ll have to sample them. So, I asked a friend if he’d like to join me (my wife opted out, in favor of an unrelated wine tasting this evening.). I was not invited to the wine tasting, so I’ll stay home and pout.

It’s just three hours until my annual physical begins. Last year, I asserted to my doctor that I’d be slimmer, lighter, and more muscular when I see him for this year’s physical. I lied. It was an unintentional lie. I had planned on accomplishing the aim of being slimmer, lighter, and more muscular. But results follow action. Different results follow inaction. The inaction, then, can be blamed for my failure to achieve the desired results. See what I just did? I blamed inaction, not myself, for the deficiency. That is a convenient, but deplorable, way to avoid taking responsibility for ones own decisions, lack of discipline, and outright laziness. The first step is solving  problem is admitting to the problem. I’ve taken that step multiple times, so I should have traveled quite the distance by now.

Actually, I am a little slimmer, a little lighter, and arguably a shade more muscular than last year. So the lie isn’t as brazen as I made it out to be in the first paragraph. My modest improvement, though, does not meet the standard I set for myself. I’m working on meeting that standard.

Earlier this week, during my sculpture class, I inquired as to whether anyone knew of a good ceramics kiln for sale. No one did. But I’m exploring, again. I’d like to be able to do both bisque firing and glaze firing right here at my house, instead of driving all the way to the National Park College campus. I’m still not absolutely certain I want to spend the money necessary to have a kiln, because I’m not sure my hobby and my low-level skill warrants such an investment. Wait, I referred to it as an investment. Let me be clear, it’s not an investment; it’s an expense. But it’s worth exploring, nonetheless. Or, at least, I think it is.

Now, let’s see if I can turn this little journal on its head and write a bit more creatively.

When I awoke this morning a few minutes before four, I crept out of the bedroom in silence, doing my best not to disturb my sleeping wife.  Bright light from the full moon through the wall of windows on one side and the artificial light of a street lamp entering the half-moon window above the front entryway on the other bathed the living room. Outside the wall of windows, the deck and chairs and table looked as if a spotlight shone on them. Beyond them, the empty air was black, except for trees in the distance, visible as dim echoes of night. Dozens of bright stars dotted the patch of clear sky I could see when I walked outside. But the moon’s light washed away the light of millions more, stars I sometimes can  see when the moon in is hiding.  The air outside was slightly cool but heavy, as if struggling to shed moisture without the benefit of rain. The noises of cicadas and crickets and frogs were not as pronounced as they are some nights and early mornings, but their sounds most assuredly announced the presence of the creatures in the forest of trees surrounding the house.

Some mornings, and this is one of them, my creative juices want to be let out of their pouches but they’re not strong enough to break through the impermeable fabric that’s holding them. I’ve learned that I must accept their weakness at such times and satisfy myself to drink coffee and expose myself to the world around me through the internet, which is what I will now do.

Posted in Health, Just Thinking, Nature, Noise, Ruminations, Sound | Leave a comment

More Than I Ever Knew

Posted on September 15, 2016 by John Swinburn

This evening, I watched a news broadcast. Something was said in the broadcast, I don’t remember quite what, that triggered vague memories of a number of news items in days and months and years past. These news items involved people who had “given everything they had” to accomplish specific goals in life. Though the majority of news items involved scientific and medical breakthroughs, some involved sports figures achieving their dreams by accomplishing things no other human had ever done.

When these things cross my mind, I naturally (is it natural?) try to recall instances in which I “gave everything I had” to achieve something vitally important to me. That attempt at memory comes up empty; I don’t recall ever having given “everything I had,” that is, everything I was capable of giving, to accomplish something. Maybe that something I wanted simply fell in my lap before I was challenged to give all; or maybe I came to the conclusion that mine was an impossible objective, beyond my grasp. Whatever the reason, I don’t seem to know of a single circumstance in which I feel that I was willing to give my all to accomplish something.

Should I feel alone in the world for that? Am I, alone, the only one whose mediocrity is fueled by an unwillingness or inability to “give it all” toward a goal? Or am I normal? Are the abnormal ones the people who are so utterly committed to an objective that they will literally go beyond their own capacities in order to reach it?

I wish I had been willing to “give my all” to something. I don’t know what; just something. Something meaningful, impactful, important; something beyond myself, my family, my human race, my planet; something that transcends everything we humans realize is important. Geez, that’s some grandiose thinking. Perhaps I ought to be satisfied to give everything I have for the benefit of something or someone dear to me, rather than to accomplish something. Yes, that’s more like it.

Yet my mind rushes to the words of Shakespeare, words that echo in my brain a lot of late, from Julius Caesar: The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.

Superficial. That’s the word that is far too close to descriptive of me. I explore a thousand avenues, but never walk even one in its entirety. I know very little about very much. That may be explainable, but not forgiven. One mustn’t spend 62 years scratching the surface of everything within reach, never delving below for fear of drowning in the ineptitude to “get” what’s a few micrometers below. Lest the reader think I am singling myself out as a unique outcast, seeking a soothing, “there, there,” that’s not the case. I’m not seeking pity and I don’t feel particularly alone in my mediocrity and my unwillingness to struggle to accomplish objectives that perhaps seem impossible. I am unhappy with the state of things, to be sure, but I don’t pity myself for having made an unintentional contribution to the world today by failing to give more of myself to make the world a better place. That’s a long sentence. Yes, I know; it deserves its length, because the subject is of sufficient import to warrant more words and less worry.

Some evenings, and some mornings, I get the impression I am writing frenetically simply because I know I don’t have much time to unload all the thoughts in my brain. A successful unloading process, including some form of sorting and elimination of redundancies, would take a supercomputer a thousand years. I’m raging against the machine (if you get that, good, if not, don’t worry).

This post started in a very different place than the one in which it will finish. So did the writer. My mind scurries through nooks and crannies and rat-holes looking for crumbs of thought that I might snatch and call my own, though I know they belong to someone else, though I know not who. Darkness is beginning to have its way with the earth, so the dim light contributing to my happy mood is disappearing fast.

I know one thing with certainty. One person I wish would read my blog from time to time will not, cannot. That person doesn’t even know it exists. And I can’t call attention to it. Such are the mistakes we make when we think we know whether this dimension starts and ends and another ends and commences. It’s all magic, in one form or another. And the magic is more than I ever knew. Far, far, far more.

Posted in Just Thinking | 1 Comment

That Little Piece of Serenity

Posted on September 15, 2016 by John Swinburn

That little piece of serenity you think you hide
from view in the privacy of your own brain,
that little kingdom over which you believe
only you hold everlasting dominion,
broadcasts through your eyes, its secret
spilling into the air, like milk from a
bottle overturned on the counter
floods the floor below, revealing the
mess behind those windows to your soul
as sure as the curds on the slippery tile
reveal the mayhem you’ve made in the kitchen.

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Devian

Posted on September 14, 2016 by John Swinburn

Four in the morning is the time of day when one is free to think unthinkable thoughts. It is a time of day at which sadness and loathing intersect with fear and rage. Depression and a multitude of other forms of mental anguish spring from the unsavory freedoms of four in the morning. Hatred. Crippling self-doubts. Fear of rejection. So it is not surprising that the seeds of Devian Qualls’ reprehensible plan sprouted just after four in the morning that November day in Devian’s musty house. Devian Qualls—a man cursed with a round, rubbery, paste-white face, thick neck to match thick glasses, and two hundred pounds more than his skeleton was meant to carry—intersected with four in the morning in a most unpleasant way.

Fog turned to icy drizzle and then to sleet shortly after Devian awoke. He traipsed back and forth in front of the French doors from the living room to the kitchen, stopping occasionally to stare out into the blackness of the morning. His thick nostrils flared as the pace of his pounding march from one side of the room to the other quickened with each circuit.

“Damn sleet! I’ve either got to go soon or I’ll be iced in here for god knows how long!”

He was the only one who heard his voice. His wife of nineteen years, Charmaine Qualls, had moved out three weeks earlier and, by the time Devian was cursing the ice gods, she probably was busily planning to change her last name to that of her wealthy suitor.

Devian slowed his pacing, then shuffled to his desk and sat, drinking strong coffee and staring at the empty computer screen. The chair moaned at every movement of his three hundred and thirty pound frame. He placed his sausage fingers on the keyboard and typed a few words:

‘I have done some things that were wrong, but not because I am a bad man’

He deleted the incomplete thought and began anew:

‘My multiple attempts to engage in extramarital affairs must have been prompted by’

He flipped that paragraph away, too, switching the object of his typery to his wife:

‘After trying so many times to have relationships with other women, Charmaine’s infidelity really caught me off guard’

Again, the words disappeared with a click of the mouse button. After several attempts to begin the story of his failed infidelity, and his surprise at learning of his wife’s success at the adulterous endeavor,  he withdrew his plump hands from the keyboard.

What if, he wondered to himself, the objects of his inappropriate carnal desires, each of whom had rejected his overtures, had instead been receptive? What if he had successfully engaged a dozen women in extramarital affairs? And what if he could rub his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s nose in those trysts? The seeds of his appalling plan began to take root.

“All right, then, I can pursue a lot of justice with this,” he said aloud, smiling at the empty empty grey computer screen bathing him in ghostly light.

“I’ll get those bitches. I know they had affairs. I just know they did. I wasn’t born yesterday. Sure they had them. They just didn’t have ’em with me. But I’ll make it look to their husbands like they did. And I’ll make it look to Charmaine like she bailed on somebody every other woman who set eyes on him wanted. That’ll kill her!”

Discomfort and solitude , coupled with simmering rage and a sociopathic lack of morals and empathy morphed into ugly desiderata that day.

[Yeah, yeah, yeah. My foreshadowing here told the entire story. The unfortunate thing is this: it’s implausible, uninteresting, and predictable. Or maybe not. But to my ADHD mind, it’s old news and unworthy of more fingerwork. But I’m posting it anyway, just because I might one day want to come back and borrow from it. I really need to get to know all these people I write about, though. Once we become close, I’m sure their stories will ooze out of me like blood leaking from a loosely wrapped bandage.] 😉

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 2 Comments

A Lock I Must Crack on My Own

Posted on September 13, 2016 by John Swinburn

I spent two or three hours last night, glued to the television set, watching programs about cooking, eating, and smoking food. It’s rare that I spend that much time in front of the television, but last night I was in the mood to be entertained or, perhaps more precisely, lulled away from the world around me into a sense of detachment and comfort. The latter seems more likely.  Whatever the reason, the fifty-five inch babysitter did an admirable job of substituting for Xanax; I forgot the fact that our world teeters on the edge of a precipice over which, sooner rather than later, the earth is apt to plummet into a conflagration that ultimately will rid the planet of the scourge of humankind.

That impending annihilation of humankind notwithstanding, I found myself mesmerized by: 1) a program in which Sara Moulton taught me that I have always wanted to make and eat pasta with pesto, string beans, and potatoes; 2) another program in which Steven Raichlen successfully triggered my desire to own and use a “personal smoker,” which is a device I do not need and would be embarrassed to own because it is so utterly unnecessary to humanity and so decadent that it’s shocking to even know it exists (but incredibly alluring and sexy in the extreme–making me think I  could be a sought-after smoking stud if I owned one); and 3) a program that made me want to discard my life and history as it has existed heretofore and move to a remote Mexican village, where I would be taught how to grow all my food—including goats, sheep, chickens, fish, leafy and fruit-bearing vegetables of all kinds, herbs, root vegetables, and cactus—that would satisfy my every nutritional and sustenance need, not to mention my need for meaningful work.

It may be as obvious to you as it is to me that those two or three hours of watching television, regardless of the instructional or educational value, were unhealthy and, potentially, dangerous. I easily skipped over reality shows and crime drama swill, but then it occurred to me I had actually been watching reality shows. I bought into the “you can make this, too” message of cooks and chefs. The same message is delivered by Dance with the Stars and American Idol (does it still exist?) and other such swill that I believe, with all my heart, is soul-deadening stuff that erases the knowledge education imparts.

I’m writing this tongue in cheek, but it’s a serious subject. We’re allowing ourselves to be dumbed-down and severely limited in our aspirations by television and Trump and the Republican Party. And the Democratic Party. And politicians in general. Did you see the interview fiasco with Libertarian candidate Gary Johnson? I attribute his gaffe to a simple brain freeze or misconnection that we all have from time to time; but one wishes presidential candidates would not exhibit such fallibility so publicly. Honestly, I wish a hybrid party would form, in which the best fiscal conservative ideas, the most humane progressive ideas, and the most diverse and practical ideas from the various other factions, to bring some sanity and unity back to this country.

Blacks view every action of every police department and every justice agency as racist, with or without evidence or cause. Do you blame them? The whole bloody system has been rigged against them from the beginning and White America seems unwilling to acknowledge and correct the systemic problems that allow racism to continue, hidden (except to its victims) behind a veil of “we fixed the problem in the sixties.” Yeah, and Whites view Blacks’ rage against the system as some form of psychosis or simply sour grapes. What the hell? Can we not put ourselves in their shoes and try to understand that bigotry builds defensive walls inside a person? Can we not forgive what may (or may not) be an “over-reaction” to century after century of oppression that, today, seems destined to continue to be ingrained in society until the end of time? Cripes!

All right. I admit it. I got a little off track. Okay, I drove off the Pacific Coast Highway and made my way into a borough of Manhattan.  So shoot me. No. I didn’t mean that. Erase that thought.

Back to my television viewing habits. I’ve grown unhappy with broadcast television (and I include cable and satellite television in that). And I’m finding less and less I want to view on Netflix, etc. Maybe it’s that I lack the patience to wade through the crap I see, hoping to find some nugget of value and interest. That’s probably it. There’s value there, but it’s hidden under vast piles of ugly, unpleasant, post-digested swill. And I have no patience for sorting through the swill. Hence, my lower-than-average television watching. I spend too damn much time on the computer, though. And not enough time reading books. I would like to read more, but my damn eyes continue to be uncooperative. I’ve thought about books on tape, but I guess I don’t want to admit ocular defeat. I am open to eye transplants from young, eagle-eyed donors; send them my way.

Ach. I write and write and write and never say a damn thing. There are ideas hiding inside me that I ought to expose. But I just can’t seem to release them from their self-imposed prison. That’s not something anyone else can help with; that’s a lock I must crack on my own.

All right, then. I guess it’s time for coffee to calm these frazzled, sleep-deprived nerves. I should go outside and see if the hummingbirds are swarming, demanding to know why their nectar bottles are not yet hanging. Or, perhaps, the raccoons are assembling in angry mobs, ready to pounce on the bastard who absconded with the hummingbird nectar, AKA raccoon joy juice. Maybe I can write children’s books. I’d just need the right children and the right parents who are willing to expose their kids to a very adult version of cynicism. Yeah, that’s it.

It’s early in the morning and I need hugs and kisses to start my day off right. Coffee, alone, is an inadequate substitute for love.

Posted in Television, Writing | Leave a comment

HSV Open Mic Night

Posted on September 12, 2016 by John Swinburn

For some reason, I haven’t written before about organizing an open mic night. Perhaps I’ve been afraid the idea would fall through. And it could. But I’ve set the wheels in motion and I’ve made the plan public, so there’s no turning back now.

The plans for what I hope will be at least a quarterly Hot Springs Village Open Mic Night have morphed from idea to execution. I sent invitations to a small group of potential participants via email last night. Thus far, two have asked to be put on the line-up for the inaugural event, which will be held at the Coronado Community Center the evening of October 10.

Here’s how it happened. A couple who belong to the HSV Unitarian Universalist church have orchestrated an open mic night at the church for some time. For a while, it was monthly, then it changed to monthly. A few months ago, they announced they were tired of expending the effort and asked if anyone else would step up to do it. Some friends of mine suggested I consider doing it. I explored the idea with the woman who launched the event. And, at the behest of one of my friends who suggested I take on the task of keeping the event alive, I met with the manager of Coronado Center about holding the event in that location, as opposed to the church. He was receptive.  But, because the originators of the event deserved to be involved in the decision to transform the event from a church-based to a community-based activity, I asked them for input and got their “blessing” to move ahead. So, the initiative to move on with a community-wide event has been launched.

But, in fact, there’s some more back story, so I’ll lay it out here, for posterity. More than a year ago, I suggested to the then-president of the writers’ club that an open mic event dedicated to writers might be worth exploring; the concept of such an event appealed to me, at least. She liked the idea and, at the time, we explored it, albeit to a limited extent. We looked at potential locations, we mulled over the idea, and we let it bounce around in our heads. Ultimately, I think we both came to the conclusion that an event dedicated exclusively to individuals reading poetry and short stories and plays and the like might not hold sufficient interest to warrant the efforts required to make it happen. Although, we marveled at the success of Wednesday Night Poetry in Hot Springs—which has chugged along successfully, without missing a single week, for twenty-six years and then some—we realized the character of the Village differs in significant ways from the vibrant artistic community just a few miles away. So we put the idea aside for a more receptive time.

I hope October 2016 is a more receptive time, though this successor to the Unitarian Universalist open mic night will not be a “reading only” event. Instead, it will be a mixed bag of music, poetry, short stories, memoirs, magicians (if any step up to the plate), short plays, and, I hope, a cornucopia of other entertaining performances. We shall see. In the interim, if the few people who stumble across this blog have an interest in know what’s up, here are some links for your perusal:

HSV Open Mic Night Announcement Message

HSV Open Mic Night Facebook Page

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Losing Morfar

Posted on September 11, 2016 by John Swinburn

Once upon a time, an old Norwegian fisherman took his granddaughter out in his fishing boat. His boat was not the pleasure craft one sees so often today among men who call themselves fisherman. Rather, it was an old workhorse of a boat, a no-nonsense assemblage of nets crusted with salt amid ropes carefully coiled in their proper places on the deck.

Only an hour into the trip, the girl had become impatient with the cruise and began to complain.

“Morfar, let’s go back home. I’m bored. There’s nothing to do here but look at the water.”

The old man, his gentle eyes resting on the girl’s beautiful blonde hair, replied in soft words meant to sooth and calm her growing discontent.

“Datterdatter, the water gives you the life you live. The sea’s bounty is lifeblood for your mother and me and, now, you. There are far worse things to do than look at the water. But, don’t worry, soon there will be more to do than look at the water. Soon, we’ll begin casting nets and, if fortune is our friend, pull them in, laden with fish.”

“Well, I am not interested in fishing, Morfar, so let’s go back home. I have more interesting things to do than catch fish.”

“Ah, we will go back home in good time. First, I will show you how I catch fish. Next, I will show you how I sell some of the fish I catch to put pickles and vegetables on our table. Finally, when we are back on shore, I will show you how I smoke fish to make the meals we eat.”

[This began as a children’s story. What? John writing a children’s story? Yeah, but you see he gave up midstream. I’m not so good at allegory. I may finish this some day, well before I become a Norwegian grandfather.]

 

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Incense with Flaws

Posted on September 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

I allow myself to live in confusion, where air becomes water and water becomes soil and soil refuses to permit one to breathe without struggling to understand and embrace chaos. I posted, earlier this evening, a rather rambling piece on Facebook that I wrote explicitly for this blog. How I managed to post it on Facebook, instead, is beyond me. I was operating in automaton mode, functioning as a robot without the luxury of thought.

The Facebook audience is far greater (though not particularly large), and to some extent, less engaged than the small cadre of people who follow my posts here. Regardless of my intent, I posted on Facebook.  Because of the immediate responses to FB, I could not in good conscience simply delete it and start over. But it troubles me. It bothers me that I made such a mistake; is it a sign of declining mental capacity; is it an indication of the inevitable decay of my intellect? I don’t know; I have no answers. Only questions and fears. Regardless, I intended to post my comments here, and so I shall. Here is my post, verbatim, from Facebook:

cone_of_incenseAnd so here it is, a cone of incense burning atop the light table, with the reflection of the sky in the window pane expressing ennui in the clearest way possible. If you were by my side, you would see a bottle of Shiner Bock beer awaiting its demise, which will occur as it slides down my throat. I look out the window at signs that summer is in its death throes. I have wished I were a poet since I was in high school. What I did not realize at the time was that I am and always have been a poet, just an inferior one whose works will be relegated to the dustbins of literature. None of us make the differences we could make if only we treated our time on earth as our only chance to make a difference. If humanity had taken full advantage of its capacity from the start, we would live on peaceful planets in peaceful galaxies in places of plentiful love. Instead, we remain fixed on a deathstar of our own making, screaming at the demons we created, with pleas for salvation that could have come if only we had acted a thousand generations ago.

I was genuinely surprised to get a comment or two that spoke in glowing (or, at least, positive) terms of my poetry. Generally, though, it didn’t prompt any responses of note. But I wasn’t after comments. I was after revealing myself as the impostor I am, a characteristic I share with most others, I’m afraid. Yet here we are, sitting and wondering whether compliments matter, whether they are simply antiseptic bandages  sent our way to minimize the likelihood that wounds will fester and become infected.

My view of life is jaundiced. I realize that. I just wonder why. What happened to me that I don’t remember what turned me into the man I am? How did a flaw of such exceptional proportions get introduced into me, a defect that turned me into who I have become?

Don’t get me wrong. I do not identify myself entirely as a flawed human being. I have positive attributes. Certain elements of my personality contain admirable qualities. It’s just that flaws catch my attention and distract me away from the essential work one ought to undertake to feed and nourish those better qualities so that they grown and flourish.

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Alacrán

Posted on September 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

alacran-2I know just a little about scorpions (alacránes in Spanish) thanks in part to my chance encounter with a mother scorpion and her brood of about a dozen babies upon arriving at a bed & breakfast in a village in Mexico a number of years ago. The B&B, operated by a former nun who I gather had seen the error of her ways, was home for just a night or two in advance of my brother’s return home, where he and his wife would thereafter serve as hosts. The scorpion and her clinging children had been captured by the B&B owner’s housekeeper, who had placed them in a glass jar to delight arriving guests. News that one’s lodging might be awash in scorpions does not guarantee a good night’s sleep. It does, however, offer an incentive to seek information about scorpions.

Baby scorpions are born alive, not hatched from eggs, the way insects make their way into the world. When they are born, the brood of scorpions (which can number one hundred) crawl upon their mothers’ backs and ride for up to three weeks until their soft exoskeleton stiffens and hardens. At that point, if they’ve survived that long, they are ready to grow into the fearsome beasts worthy of symbolic tattoos drawn and inked in their honor.

Speaking of tattoos, if I were to get one, I think I might want one of a scorpion, if for no other reason that the scorpion’s extensive symbolism (according to websites upon which I stumbled this morning while reacquainting myself with scorpion lore):

  • Power
  • Energy
  • Stealth
  • Warning
  • Mystery
  • Healing
  • Strategy
  • Survival
  • Protection
  • Rebellion
  • Attachment
  • Aggression
  • Retaliation
  • Transition
  • Calculated
  • Mysticism
  • Resilience
  • Guardianship
  • Self-defense
  • Altered perception
  • Sex
  • Control
  • Transition
  • Death/Dying
  • Passion
  • Treachery
  • Protection
  • Defensiveness
  • Solitary/Being Alone

The one symbolic element that drew my attention more than the others, aside from sex, is treachery, as in “old age and treachery always triumph over youth and skill” or “old age and treachery will always overcome youth and exuberance.” Those themes, or variations thereof, have appealed to me for many years. What does that tell you?

But back to scorpions and the reason they are on my mind this Saturday morning. I’ve been capturing them in record numbers on the glue boards I leave inside both sides of my garage door. This morning, I went into the garage where I found two very large scorpions, one attached to each of the two glue boards.  Seeing the two sentries guarding, albeit involuntarily, the entry to the grand hall that is my garage triggered my interest in recollecting and learning more about the beasts.  Aside from learning of the arachnid’s symbolism as imagined by some humans, I learned that between 1750 and 2000 species of scorpions have been identified, only twenty-five to forty of which are known to have venom capable of killing humans. For species in the U.S., treatment for scorpion stings is usually not necessary except for children, the old, and the infirm. But stings can be godawful painful, from what I’ve read.

As I read about scorpions this morning, what fascinated me as much as anything was the sheer number of species. One thousand seven hundred and fifty to two thousand. What?! That’s incredible! But that’s nothing, really. I did a bit more research about the breadth of and depth of distinctive species of various creatures.  What I learned was that an estimated 35,000 to 40,000 species of  spiders (labeled air-breathing arthropods by some clever science writer) exist, about 3,000 species of which are found in North America.

All right. I’ve done my science research for the day. Now, it’s time to focus on where I’ll place the tattoo I might one day get. And which image of alacrán I’ll want inked into my flesh.

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Struggle Against the Wind

Posted on September 9, 2016 by John Swinburn

I struggle against the wind on the
desolate beach, wet sand caressing
my feet, as slivers of broken silica,
progeny of crystalline boulders
a million years old, compete with
water and seashells for their
place on the planet, offering
my bare toes a place to endure
the waves’ battle with the shore.

Away from the water, bone dry sand
from shifting dunes takes angry flight,
driven by a monstrous gale, bathing
the sky in suffocating beige sheets that
flood my raw cheeks with waves of stinging
rebukes for my choice to walk alone,
to face a hurricane of my own making,
an emotional storm spawned by my reaction
to words that wounded my misplaced pride.

As I make my way in self-imposed solitude,
the water in the turbulent grey clouds above,
too heavy with sorrow for the air to hold,
flushes sand from the roiling sky in sheets of
rain that wash the anger from my face,
replacing it with torrential waves of regret
well-suited to the squalls that spawned
this solitary struggle against the wind.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Unity is an Appealing Objective

Posted on September 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

People who attend the church (I really wish there was another name for it; I have issues with calling it a church) that I’ve been visiting periodically tell me they, and the church, are viewed in deeply unfavorable ways by some of the more “mainstream” churches in the area. They are disappointed in others’ perception of them and the church, but they don’t seem to return the contempt. Rather, they seem to hope that, over time, others who misunderstand and mislabel Unitarian Universalism (UU) will grow to understand that its approach is not one that deserves to be reviled. Were I more invested in the church, I would be livid at being branded in such ways. But I’m not, and members of the church certainly are more patient and understanding than I, anyway.

Despite the fact that Unitarian Universalists tend to be progressive, open, and willing to accept the rights of individuals to hold whatever belief they wish, some religious sects (forgive me while I label them fringe cults) view them as the devil’s spawn. Excuse me? What the devil did I just say? But it’s true, apparently. I read online a Baptist minister’s attack on Unitarians; he wrote a scathing letter to the editor of some tiny backwoods town in Kentucky, labeling Unitarians as something akin to Satan in shorts. It was an appalling diatribe and especially ironic coming from a man steeped in the “gentle faith.”

I find it especially annoying to read vitriolic attacks on UU, its adherents, and friends from people who do not have the faintest idea of the way in which the organization operates, nor what its members believe or do not believe. I see similar attacks on Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists; you name it. At any rate, the church I occasionally attend welcomes people of all, or no, faiths; Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics, Pagans—you name it—every is welcome.

The way in which that can occur in a church is that UU does not promote nor enforce a creed. Rather, it says, quite plainly (from its website): “Unitarian Universalism is a non-creedal faith. Accordingly, individual members of our UUVC congregation are free to search for truth on many paths. While our congregation upholds shared principles individual Unitarian Universalists may discern their own beliefs about spiritual, ethical, and theological issues.”

That structural dimension of UU is what allows Baptists and Methodists and Catholics and Atheists and Pagans to fit in comfortably, provided they can understand the way in which the members of the congregation view one another and the world around them. Before each weekly program, the people assembled in this little church are asked to affirm a covenant between one another, as follows:

Love is the doctrine of this church,
And the quest of truth its sacrament,
And service its prayer.
To dwell together in peace,
To seek knowledge in freedom,
To serve humankind in fellowship;
To the end that all souls shall grow
Into harmony with the good.
Thus do we covenant with one another.

That does not infringe on anyone’s rights to believe whatever they wish about a divine being, or the lack thereof. I suppose the church’s insistence that everyone has the freedom to think and not be bound by religious dogma is the thing that sticks in some craws. I view it as a highly evolved attitude; others view it, apparently, as sacrilege or worse. Each month, as I attend (or don’t), and find that the congregation has adopted another charity to which members are encouraged to consider supporting (and which the church does), I am impressed with the humanity of the people who support and lead the church. In the past few months, some of the “causes” the church has supported include:

  • Green Leadership
  • Oaklawn Migant Workers
  • Fair Trade
  • Bridges Out of Poverty
  • The Caring Place
  • Garland County Imagination Library
  • Arkansas Red Cross
  • Arkansas Hospice
  • Jackson House
  • Computers 4 Kids
  • Ouachita Childrens Center

I don’t know; how can an organization that supports, and encourages its members to support, humanitarian causes like these be subject to labeling as an anti-Christian or anti-religion group?

The UU church does all the things more “traditional” churches have long done (and for which I applaud those more traditional churches), but without demanding a theology that conflicts with my view of the world and that does not demand my acceptance of a history (across many religions and sects) of violence and societal discord.

Am I writing this to encourage you (or anyone) to join the Unitarian Universalist church? No. I am not even a member; I attend as a guest or a friend and have no plans to (and seriously doubt I ever will) join. I’m writing this to get an irritant off my chest. And to introduce a “religion” (again, I don’t much like the word in this context) that I find appealing and very compassionate and human. I’m not a religious joiner. If I were, maybe I’d join UU. It’s probably the only one I’d ever consider joining.

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Man of Leisure

Posted on September 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

Last night, as I watched a bit of Jimmy Fallon’s The Tonight Show, an image from a show guest’s childhood—an image in which the guest was wearing a leisure suit—resurrected in me a long-lost memory. I once owned a leisure suit; maybe more than one. I remember one quite clearly, though. It was sky blue. I wore it to work, more than once, when I got my first professional job after finishing my undergraduate degree. I think I had a light green one, as well; it would have been an odd hue somewhere between pale avocado and smoky sage. Though I was just an intern, not a long-term employee, I had to dress professionally. And a sky blue leisure suit fit the bill. Back then, in 1975 and 1976, leisure suits were fashionable. By the early 1980s, they were passé in the extreme.

Though I loathed, then and now, the garish muted wash colors, along with the odd, crepe-like fabric of the leisure suit(s) I wore, I rather liked the concept; I did not like the execution. I still like the concept. If an updated leisure suit were introduced today, I might wear one. I like the idea of comfortable, sophisticated semi-casual business (and social) wear. I did not like the weird fabrics and offensively strange colors of the suits I recall from my post-graduate youth. But I could readily give my support to a reimagined, modern, nicely tailored leisure suit. I can’t quite adequately express this next thought, but the style of leisure suit I envision would fit nicely—in material, color, and style—with the Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian style of architecture. Though I can’t describe it, I would know such a suit if I saw it. I suspect it would be a medium charcoal grey, perhaps a muted pattern seersucker or other breathable, cooling fabric. Something refined, understated, and comfortably casual. In my regime as unquestioned ruler of this world and all others, I would decree neckties an abomination unto humanity and its relatives. No one would wear ties, upon pain of being force-fed fast-food fish sticks for the rest of their natural lives (which, of course, would be dramatically shortened by the consumption of fast-food fish sticks).

Odd, isn’t it, how old memories buried under the detritus of time and experience can suddenly pop fully-formed in one’s head? And it’s equally strange that such recollections can prompt a creative re-imagining of something so mundane as leisure wear. I doubt I am in danger of becoming a fashion designer.

 

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Fruitless Pursuit

Posted on September 7, 2016 by John Swinburn

I awoke at just after 3 this morning with the expectation that I would conquer the world before daylight. This did not occur.

I attempted my conquest only to be repelled by rational thought and struck by the reality that the world cannot be conquered by a mere man. Consequently, I vowed to overcome my ‘mereness’ before my next vain attempt. In the interim, I will live in relative peace and obscurity as a watcher. A watcher is one who, as you might have guessed, watches, which in turn tells time. The time is now 7:00 a.m. and the day is Wednesday, which translates into this: I must prepare for school. School, for me, involves playing with mud, with the objective of making masks. I will depart before too much more time passes for the sculpture studio where I practice my playtime. Until then, I will continue to drink my black coffee and ponder the imponderables. Have you ever spent time pondering the imponderables? You know, those things that cannot be fully understood or measured? Such an endeavor requires significant expenditures of mental energy that could otherwise be spent on productive thought. Productive thought; that’s an interesting word pair. Productive thought, it seems to me, would be thought that creates some tangible outcome. If that’s correct, and it is, the first word is redundant; all thought creates some tangible outcome. Although, the tangibility of that outcome might be open to debate. And, by the way, how can the first word in a phrase be redundant? You’d think the second word would carry the redundancy, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. But you, like me, understand the imponderability of primary versus secondary redundancy. Now that has been said and settled, I shall leave this jumble of letters and words to engage in some other fruitless pursuit.

Oh, by the way, I just realized this is post number 2,010 since I started this blog. I missed a major milestone by ten posts. I have 990 more to go before the next major milestone. And 490 to go before the next minor milestone. I wonder what adjective might describe milestones that are even less important than minor ones?

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy, Art, Sculpture | Leave a comment

Divergent Interests

Posted on September 6, 2016 by John Swinburn

A short while ago, I began watching season two of Narcos, the Netflix miniseries based on the brutal but financially wildly successful Columbian drug lord, Pablo Escobar. There’s something hideously fascinating about watching a well-acted action drama about a monstrous bastard like Escobar. Though I loathe everything he did, I hold a grudging admiration for a man so ruthless and so vile as to turn the Columbian military, by way of bravado and arrogance surpassed only by Donald Trump, into a withering, bed-wetting, and utterly useless band of rag-tag cowards. Like Trump, he was larger than life and fed his image through shameless self-promotion, bullying, and lies. These are simply my opinions, of course. But I have a high degree of confidence in their validity.

Back to the show. I’m only 12 minutes into season two and I feel compelled to finish it and to encourage you to do the same. Warning, though: it’s rough in language and violence and there’s enough sex to satisfy the discerning throbster.

And now, back to Trump. If we elect him, we will regret that we did not elect Escobar’s clone, instead. And don’t include me in "we." I will most certainly not vote for that slimy piece of shot. Damn autocorrect! (Thanks, Myra.)

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Insight

Posted on September 6, 2016 by John Swinburn

 

I remind myself frequently, if not always intentionally, that I do not know the struggles others face. I am not privy to the personal challenges, the emotional tribulations, or the overwhelming depressions that might explain the behavior of other people. I know the private churning within me that I allow to bring out the worst in me; but I don’t see inside other people the way I see inside myself.

I realize my outward expression of internal angst can be unpleasant; not just for me, but for those who interact with me. And so, too, I suspect it is with the behavior of other people who, from time to time, I encounter. Behavior in others that seems irrational or unnecessarily confrontational can annoy me. But when I fight the inclination to condemn the person for the behavior, I get a glimpse at the person I would rather be than the person I usually am.

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Shades of Gray

Posted on September 5, 2016 by John Swinburn

I woke up to face a reality I did not expect to endure. It’s a reality that never occurred to me, really. A reality that suggests I may be out of touch with reality in some fundamental ways; ways that suggest I live a life detached from the cruel foundation of the lives of so many others. Let me explain.

A young woman I know announced to the world this morning, via Facebook, that her relationship with a college at which she had been teaching for five years is ending. I know nothing more than that; but as I try to read between the lines, I think I read that it’s not her choice. It’s not something she decided to do. With my limited knowledge of her circumstances, I think her departure is apt to be a painful dislocation. I suspect she has very limited resources, very limited income; the termination of her employment with the college could be catastrophic for her. Again, I don’t know the details; it’s possible she is leaving to accept another opportunity that will put her on solid financial footing. But I suspect not. If my suspicions are correct, she is a step closer to financial ruin.

I am just an acquaintance. I am not a close friend. What can I do? What should I do? What is the appropriate role of an acquaintance who may be witnessing the financial collapse of another person’s life? If I were a man of means, I might offer financial aid. But I’m not a man of means. Yet I am in far better shape, financially, than she is. At what point does one opt to suffer a little to alleviate the suffering of someone else?

Would I think I have an obligation if I thought she were a friend and not simply an acquaintance? At what point does an acquaintance become a friend? Where is the dividing line between compassion and obligation? Where does one draw the line between wishing one could help and feeling compelled to do so?

I suppose the first step to answering all of my questions would be to get more facts. But it’s hard to ask someone—a mere acquaintance—if she needs help. And it’s inadvisable, I think, to ask the question about whether help is needed unless the follow-up is, unquestionably, an offer to provide it.

Shades of gray. Too damn many shades of gray.

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Mood Swingles

Posted on September 4, 2016 by John Swinburn

I have more to say. More memories to document so as to more easily bring them to the surface later when I need them. Or want them.

Yesterday, the couple who introduced to me the idea of moving to Hot Springs Village moved away. They packed what they wanted to take, left what they didn’t (to be sold in an as-yet-unscheduled estate sale), and left for Texas. As they were preparing to leave town, the female half of the pair stopped by to drop off her Mexican table cloth and napkin set and a salsa bowl; they had been her contributions to our now-annual Cinco de Mayo party and she offered them to us as her way of keeping the party going.

After she left, headed toward the west gate for the last time, I pondered the momentous nature of her visit. It was almost certainly the last time she will ever set foot in our house. It was the last time, at least in Hot Springs Village, I will pet her little dog, Cooper, who was with her on her way out-of-town. While I hope we’ll visit them in Texas in the not-too-distant future, there’s no guarantee of that. Guarantees are subject to circumstances over which we may not have control. It occurs to me that we’d all be a little better off if we treated each moment we spend with someone who matters as if it might be the last moment we’ll have with them. It sounds a little morbid, perhaps, and in practice it could get embarrassingly messy and awkward, but it might change our perspectives about the world in which we live and the troubles that sometimes seem far more significant than they are.

Not long thereafter, my sense of valuing every moment went out the window as I drove to Hot Springs to buy paint and groceries. Idiotic drivers deviating wildly out of their lanes while talking on their phones, among other examples of humanity’s ugly underbelly, helped return me to my antisocial self. I imagined having the capability to force cars to the side of the road by causing their engines to seize. And then, at the paint store, two woefully uninformed clerks could not successfully explain how two identical gallons of paint could show up on the bill with two radically different prices: $54 and $38. The variances were, finally, revealed to have reasonable explanations, but not until I repeatedly questioned whether the information had been entered correctly. The paint will, when the mood strikes, lead to a transformation of the living room and the master bedroom; the former in the hope of brightening the room and the latter with the intent of freshening an outdated look.

Then when we went to the Asian market, we found things we had not found (or had not looked for) at Asian markets in Little Rock, so the world brightened a bit. I left with dried anchovies, miso paste, and mirin. And, after the next shopping stop, Kroger’s, I left with the last few ingredients I’ll need to make bulgogi this week: a very expensive cut off beef and a pear. With those positive jolts of good karma, my mood returned to a moderate level of contentment.

After a nice dinner of grilled Hatch chile burgers and corn on the cob, I allowed the world and its random, senseless assaults on my senses to take its toll. Instead of focusing on the contentment of the day, I allowed myself to swerve toward the disappointments and injustices and meanness that seems to pervade the news. What a rotten thing to do; allow oneself to bathe in a cold bath of rancor. I wonder whether the truth to some of the lyrics to Somebody that I Used to Know (“you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness”) might have a lesser known corollary: you can get addicted to a certain kind of madness.

cof-o-cuppeeBut now, this morning, after my second large cof o’ cuppee, things are looking bright, even before daylight begins to creep into the room. After last night’s plunge into the abyss, I brought in the hummingbird feeders and cleaned them thoroughly, readying them for fresh refills this morning. That, I hope, will delight the hummingbirds, causing them to flock to the feeders in a brilliant dance of joyful reconciliation with one another (heretofore, they have been highly territorial; I suspect they will remain so).

As the sky begins to lighten, methinks it’s time to venture outdoors with said bird feeders, luring the winged beasts to the windows with nectar and bright red faux flowers. Off I go.

 

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Interlude

Posted on September 4, 2016 by John Swinburn

The hours before dawn—the predawn darkness when the remainder of the world sleeps while I enjoy my solitude—offers a time to reflect in the absence of urgency. Nothing requires my attention at just after four in the morning. Nothing is in desperate need of my time and energy at this hour. So, as I sit here this morning, I have the uncommon luxury of reflection. And so I reflect. I reflect on what went through my mind yesterday that so soured the start of a Labor Day weekend. There’s nothing there; no triggering event, no unhappy memory, no intentional build-up of pressure that could find no release. I conclude, therefore, that the sourness arose by mistake; as if I spilled yeast on a wet sack of flour that would have been perfectly content to bathe in sunlight but, instead, awakens in an angry carbon-dioxide-induced snit.

But that was yesterday. Today began as, and will remain, a different beast. I know more today than I knew yesterday. And I will channel that knowledge into something interesting, if not particularly useful. Just now, before four-thirty, I saw the lights of a car as it crept past my house. Yesterday, I did not know about that car’s early morning behavior. But now I do. And I have the capacity to hatch explanations to explain why, in a quiet village in central Arkansas, someone might be driving down my street at this hour.

The reason for the early morning automotive romp, I have decided, is this. A woman, who I’ll call Martha Lee, slipped out of her house in the wee hours to meet her paramour—a guy I’ll call Jason Segovia—for a tryst. Martha’s husband, Damian Lee, is sound asleep. He fell asleep in front of the television last night, watching a rerun of an agonizingly slow fishing tournament. This morning, he remains asleep, the television now dispensing late-night advice on how to overcome the horrors of thinning hair, oblivious to Martha’s departure. Martha left him a note, though. It read as follows: “Have gone out for a drive to clear my head. Back before noon.”

As Martha’s car slides by my house in the early hours of this chilly Sunday morning, her excitement builds in anticipation of meeting Jason. She knows her affair with Jason will not lead to anything other than short-term excitement, but it’s the short-term excitement that thrills her. It’s the newness, the danger of doing something so edgy as to kiss a married man, that makes her pulse race. But it’s not just that. She is genuinely attracted to Jason. And she knows he is genuinely attracted to her. Yet both of them know, or think they know, that their little love affair will lead to no more than a temporary flush in their cheeks. But I have an inkling it will become a treasured secret they will continue to share and cherish for the rest of their lives.

What makes me think this? Nothing in particular, aside from the fact that I’m making this story up as I go and I just think there could be something to their relationship. Perhaps Martha is satisfied with her life and loves her husband. And Jason is content to live the life he’s always lived. But both of them miss the fire in their marriages that they know can’t be rekindled. The embers have gone cold; the source of oxygen that kept the flames alit has long faded and dissipated into the mist. A new source of oxygen in a new and exciting environment, though, might breathe new fire and new life into what once were their combustible romantic spirits.

Actually, this story makes me think of rumors I’ve heard, courtesy of a group of local gossips, about a couple who live down the street. The stories say the man was having an affair with a widow who lived next door (or a few doors down) and his wife discovered it. Confronted with the evidence, the man agreed to end it. But when his wife went into the hospital, the flames erupted again. On her return home, she learned that the relationship hadn’t ended. The story says the husband moved out and his paramour was then hospitalized. I haven’t heard more about the story since then (and it’s been several months). On the one hand, it’s unfortunate that a marriage might have ended but it’s intriguing that the potential exists, even in old age, for passion.

Back to my story. As Martha’s car crept past my house, she looked forward with high anticipation to meeting Jason at the Village Inn, where he had reserved a room the night before. Jason’s wife, Carolina, left late yesterday afternoon for a week-long church retreat; the two of them could have met at Jason’s house, but both of them thought that unwise. So, instead, Jason took a room at the motel.  The decision to take a room will prove unwise, though, when Carolina comes back next week and discovers the room charge on their MasterCard bill. But that’s a story for another time; I mean, it hasn’t even happened yet. In the meantime, Jason and Martha are, by now, enjoying a passionate interlude on an otherwise unremarkable Sunday morning.

 

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Inching Away from the Edge

Posted on September 3, 2016 by John Swinburn

Some days—and today is one of them—I wish I could start over. From the beginning. Well, from the time I was in high school. My decisions, my choices, my interests; they would be so very different. I would listen more and talk less. I would listen not only to other people, but to that voice I so often ignored, that voice that told me I could overcome whatever obstacles I faced. That voice that said: “You can make a difference in this world. You can have an impact well beyond your ability to comprehend it today. Just follow your dreams.”

That voice was problematic in that I didn’t know what my dreams were. I was confused more then than today; and I remain pretty bloody confused today. I don’t know what I want now. How could I have known what I wanted then? Well, if I’d allowed myself to mature in high school, I think I would have known. But I didn’t give myself that luxury. I was pursuing something, something important. I just didn’t know what or why.

This story isn’t worth telling. It’s weighted down by an anchor that can’t be unchained from the center of the earth. Tonight is, for reasons beyond my ability to comprehend, an unhappy opportunity to regress and regret. I really don’t know why tonight’s air feels like wet cement and my eyes feel like they’ve been assaulted with salt and alcohol. I don’t know if it’s depression or anger that I’ve missed opportunities that were almost impossible to overlook. Or, maybe, the occasional periods of pride in myself and what I’ve done and can do have become obvious delusions.

Whoever reads this, please don’t comment. Your comments won’t change things, they won’t help. I just needed to get these thoughts off my chest.

Tonight, I would pay for a hug. But I have nothing of value to exchange for it. Tomorrow will be different. It always is. Every day. Tomorrow I will wonder what the hell was wrong with me last night? And I won’t have an answer; just a perennial question that goes unanswered.

 

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Misapprehensions

Posted on September 3, 2016 by John Swinburn

I sometimes think it is next to impossible to read people. Not infrequently, when I think I have a clear sense of how a person thinks or feels about an issue, his or her behavior—suggesting my reading was utterly off the mark—surprises me. Such is the danger of attempting to read the motivations and thoughts of others through their words and actions. That erroneous reading of another person is not the only danger of misinterpretation. That misapprehension can, if one is not careful, lead one to make embarrassing gaffes of language or behavior. Best to put on a poker face and choose language to match its impenetrable mystery. Or be prepared to endure the consequences of committing a faux pas of one kind or another.

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