Imaginary World

Posted on January 21, 2016 by John Swinburn

I sat with my friend at the kitchen table, sturdy as steel but worn to bare wood from a hundred years of use by families in their own kitchens during wars and recessions, presidential crises and moon landings. I found the table at a thrift shop, the last stop before becoming kindling.

My friend and I sat and drank coffee, his sweetened with sugar and muted with milk, mine black and unadulterated. We spoke of the frailty of lives touched by defeat, the pain of losing love, and the rubble of broken marriages filling suburban streets. Our conversations were routine; we had only questions, no answers.

We had been talking for almost two hours when I spied something move in the periphery of my view. I turned to see what had captured my attention. Outside the window, stuck to a broken and dangling twig attached to a branch swinging in the soft current of air was a feather, twisting in the steady breeze. The tree bent gently in the soft wind, hunkering down with each slight gust. My eyes could not withhold their gaze from the feather; my friend looked outside to see what commanded my rapt attention. He asked me what held my gaze. “The feather, the twig, the swinging branch,” I said, nodding to the world outside the window.He cocked his head and looked at me with questions in his eyes.  “The feather? What feather?”

“That one, the one hanging from that twig,” I said, pointing out the twig and the feather.

“Right. A twig. You been drinking all the sudden?”

“Jesus! Are you deaf in the eyes? It’s right there,” I said, turning to point my finger toward the tree.

But when I turned, I saw no tree. Outside, there was just the scrub of the desert, the same scrub that’s kept the cabin company for forty years. There were no trees, no twigs, no branches. Muted shades of straw and brown and grey danced among the cold, parched ground; no tree in a hundred miles. A flat, desolate desert filled with low-growing plants desperate for just a sip of water.

I stood and walked to the window, almost afraid to say a word to my friend. What have I been thinking to allow myself to venture so far from reality? I heard myself think. I stared out into the barrenness, wondering what I had seen, if not a tree and a branch?

“Shit, I must have been in a daydream, but I’ll be damned if I know what it was about!”

I turned back to face him, but saw only my chair and my cup of coffee at the table. The table’s leaf hid beneath the tabletop. My friend’s chair was back in the corner of the cabin, its usual resting place when I had no company. I was confused. Had he gotten up and folded the leaf down to fool me? Did he have time to move the chair back to the corner? I turned around quickly, hoping to catch him in the act of trying to play a trick on me.

There, outside the window, was my tree, along with a hundred others, all covered in thick, green leaves. Cardinals and blue jays chattered among the branches; I could see and hear them. The path from the front of the house was steep, dipping along the edge of a precipice, below which were more hills and, in the distance, terraces of cultivated fields.

I spun around again, my head reeling and my senses trying to comprehend the changing scenery. But confusion reigned; I could not understand what I was seeing; could not gather which scene was real and which was imagined.

Another turn to the window revealed yet another vision; rolling hills, covered with desert scrub as far as the eye could see, but there, close to the house, a tall, crooked, almost barren tree. A rope hung from the highest branch, culminating in a noose, tied tight around my friend’s neck. His slumped body twisted, slowly, as if his corpse was unwinding the spindly rope.  I could barely see his face because the sun was setting behind him.

As his body made the next revolution, I saw the face come clearly into view, illuminated by the rays of the sun. It was my face, the face I see when I look in a mirror. I grabbed the mirror off the dresser, just two steps from the dining table. I looked into the glass and saw nothing but the reflection of the wall behind me; that, and the kitchen window. The reflection wasn’t clear, though; I could not tell what I was seeing through that reflected window.

“Goddamn! What is wrong with me?!” I screamed at the empty mirror. That voice was not mine, although it escaped from my mouth. That scream was my friend’s voice, his unmistakable voice, like hissing gravel bouncing and reverberating inside a bass drum, questioning my sanity.

I spun around, facing the window again. The flat scrub desert was back, but this time the road leading away from the cabin was awash in dust spraying from the back wheels of my friend’s truck as it sped away. I stood, silent, watching as it disappeared. The dust began to dissipate; eventually, the road was clear and the dust had settled.

My coffee cup sat on the kitchen table, alongside the half-full mug of milky coffee in his mug. The weekly paper, spread out across the fold, lay across the table in front of the chair where he had been sitting. A black ballpoint pen sat at an angle on top of the page. As I moved closer, I could see a heavy line of ink drawn around a half-page article. My picture, an old black and white portrait, featured prominently at the top of the article. The headline read: “Suicide or Murder: Resident’s Death Remains a Mystery.”

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 2 Comments

759

Posted on January 21, 2016 by John Swinburn

A couple of days ago, I decided not to publish anything I’d written that morning. Yesterday, was the same. It felt strange not to upload anything to share with the tiny piece of the world that sometimes reads what I write. I felt like I was abrogating a responsibility, albeit a self-imposed obligation. I was shirking my duty to post.

I wrote, but I chose not to publish. In fact, I wrote quite a bit during the past few days; I wrote five new posts, including a couple of rather long ones, bringing the total number of drafts I may or may not ever publish to sixty-six.

I wondered just how long it had been since I missed a day posting at least one item to this blog, so I went back to find out. Before January 19, 2016, the last day I failed to publish even a single post was December 20, 2013.

So, I published at least one post for seven hundred fifty-nine consecutive days. For most of those days, I posted at least two, though there were a few days when I wrote three or more and some when I only published one piece.  That’s a lot of “stuff.” It’s enough that I believe I can extract a sufficient amount to turn into a book of sorts. And that’s on my list of priorities; it’s rather high on the list, in fact. I know; I’ve already published it here, so what’s the point. It’s hard to explain; suffice it to say I want to do it for myself and for a small group of people who have encouraged me along the way.

Other items among my list of priorities include submitting some of my unpublished work (all of it unpublished, save for what I post here) to another publisher for consideration. And taking a lengthy road trip is on the list, as well.

As for future posts, the ones I’ve written these past few days may (or may not) find their way here:

  • A Korea of His Own Making;
  • Sandpaper and Fire;
  • Cynic;
  • Matter; and
  • Imaginary World

I guess I’m starting over at post number one. But I make no commitment that I’ll publish something here every day. I think I may have been doing myself a disservice by doing that. Time to turn my discipline toward something meaty and meaningful.

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Even a Gift of Bacon Wasn’t Enough

Posted on January 18, 2016 by John Swinburn

Ernest Hemingway broke into my house on my birthday in October 1960 when I was seven years old. The media reported at the time that he was in hiding with Mary, in New York; clearly he was not. No, he was in Corpus Christi, Texas, living temporarily on a sailboat moored in one of the downtown marinas, one called the “L Head.” Mary was, indeed, in New York at that time, but Papa was not.

He left Cuba just three months earlier for Spain, the purpose of which was a photo session for a Time magazine cover story. He departed Spain in early October, ostensibly bound for New York. That’s where the media got it wrong. He was bound for Corpus Christi, where he busied himself making plans for a return to Cuba. He reasoned that he would be too readily recognized if he headed to Miami or the Keys or, in fact, anywhere in Florida. But in Corpus Christi he could be just another quirky old man in love with life on the water. In Corpus, his plans for a return to Cuba would go unnoticed.

Why he picked our house I guess I’ll never know for certain. My guess, though, is that the smell of bacon cooking drew him in. You see, each morning my father got up very early, as I do now, and he cooked massive amounts of bacon. The scent of cured bacon lured Hemingway to us, though a few miles separated us from his boat near downtown. I can understand why. Heat transforms bacon from a flat, slippery pink and white ribbon—an odd salamander no one would want to find in the kitchen—into a rich, sensual piece of culinary joy awaiting its destiny: teasing the human tongue, pleasuring the palate. I know, without question, the fragrance of bacon being transformed in my father’s skillet was impossible to resist. And Hemingway, in his sailboat in the marina, simply followed his nose to our house.

On the morning of my birthday, Hemingway followed the scent of bacon grease to our house. I suspect he had smelled the bacon for several days. It must have occurred to him that the reliability of that morning ritual meant that, if he followed his nose to the source of the aroma, he would find a significant stash of salted pork, the ideal companion for a voyage across the Gulf of Mexico and into the Caribbean. And so he did.

My father thought he heard something at the front door, so he turned the gas burner down to the lowest level and left the bacon sizzling in the giant cast iron skillet. He went to the front door and turned on the porch light, but he could see nothing. He waited quietly and listened for the sound; nothing. But just as he turned off the front porch light, he heard scratching at the back door, the door leading from the kitchen to the car port at the back of the house. He rushed back toward the kitchen. As he walked through the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, he heard the screen door pop open, then saw Hemingway slide in.

Their gazes met; my father and Ernest Hemingway stood like statues, staring into one another’s eyes, poised to respond should the other move in a threatening manner. I watched from the hallway, not quite sure what to make of the situation. But I could tell my father was calm, so I remained quiet, though seeing a stranger in my house was an unusual surprise.

Hemingway spoke first. “I’m not here to do harm. I simply need provisions for my voyage. Meat that will last the trip. Can you spare some? I was lured by the bouquet of bacon; surely a man who can turn lard and muscle into ambrosia will help?”

My father’s blue eyes illuminated Hemingway’s face with an otherworldly glow. “Of course, my friend, but first you must put your knife down on the counter and slide it toward me. I’m generous, but not stupid.”

Hemingway had used a large, heavy-bladed knife to pry open the back door. At my father’s words, Papa looked down at his hand, his eyes awash in surprise at seeing the knife he was holding.

“Of course, I’m sorry. It’s not my intent…”

“I know,” my father’s words cut him off. “Here, take this,” handing Papa a freshly-wrapped package of bacon. It must have been three pounds. “This will get you part way there, if you’re frugal.”

Hemingway, the gruff old man, looked at my father with moistened eyes. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar. When I get to Cuba, I will remember you as the man who saved me.”

As Hemingway turned toward the screen door to leave, my father called after him. “Vaya con Diós.” Papa looked back and smiled, then walked off toward the “L Head.”

I don’t know where he went after he left us. The next we heard about him was that he died at his own hand in Idaho. I do so wish he had found his way back to his beloved Cuba. But even a gift of bacon wasn’t enough to take him to place he called home.

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The Law of Pressure-Pots

Posted on January 18, 2016 by John Swinburn

A friend uses a different term for the apparatus I call a pressure-cooker. He calls it a pressure-pot. I’ve come to prefer his term, though I can’t seem to get out of the habit of calling the device by the name I’ve used ever since I knew such a contraption existed. It’s a linguistic habit. Like other habits, it’s hard to break; successfully overcoming the propensity to fall back on the familiar requires conscious effort and a commitment to follow through.

Whether I call it a pressure-cooker or a pressure-pot, there exists a place in my brain where private thoughts reside—and where they one day will die. It is locked tight by a hermetic seal created by joining two pieces of molten memory into a single impervious ridge of penetralia. And, though my thoughts are locked there for an eternity, I am in the habit of requiring my mind to experience them, over and over again. To what end I endure them I don’t know; unless I am simply testing myself, or evaluating the integrity of the lock that keeps confidential my ruminations.

I wonder what would happen if a bullet pierced that pressure-pot, allowing its contents to spray forth in a noxious cloud of acrid, scalding steam? Would venting that poisonous arcanum aracanorum split the earth in two? Would what’s left of the world I inhabited explode in a hissing fireball, spreading sparks and flinging acid upon survivors?

We don’t know what would become of us, or our secrets, were the thoughts we share with no one but ourselves to escape from our pressure-pots.  The consequences might be far less explosive than we might think, but they could be far worse. We don’t know the consequences, regardless of what we might intend. The laws of unintended consequences are beyond our capacity to grasp, except in bitter hindsight. Therefore, we strive to keep the pot safe and secure, out of the path of stray bullets. But even that protective act may have unintended consequences.

So, the lesson may be this: we have no control over the consequences of our actions or inactions; our best choice is to do what we do—or refrain from doing what we shouldn’t. Either way, the pressure-pot will hold; or it won’t.

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Masks and Prisms and Shadows

Posted on January 17, 2016 by John Swinburn

Shadow_Mask

As I walked out of my study to make another cup of coffee this morning, I was greeted by what I considered a beautiful sight; the sun and shadows and prismatic reflections conspiring to extract even deeper art from the art on and along the wall near the front door. I love this shot, though it’s only from my smart-phone camera.

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Ach. Pain.

Posted on January 17, 2016 by John Swinburn

My visit to the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow ended badly. I don’t know what it was—hoisting a suitcase into the car for the return trip home or reaching across the day-bed to strip the sheets from that odd piece of furniture that doubled as my sleeping nest—but some unwise movement did damage to my body.

I felt the pain first when I was stripping the sheets; as I leaned across the too-small-for-a-man-my-size bed, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, just above the point at which my lumbar vertebrae connects to my sacrum. Well, that’s where I think I felt the pain, anyway. I had already taken my suitcase to the car, opened the hatchback, and lifted it inside. That may  have been the point at which I did bad things to myself. But it was at the point of the simple act of stripping the bed at which I felt the pain.

It  hurt from the outset, but got progressively worse. I told my car-mates I would be unable to help them get their bags into the car. The accommodated me. I crawled into the car and began driving home. They offered to drive; I refused, believing the pain would be best controlled if I had the steering wheel to use as leverage to lift myself in and out of the car. I think I was right, but the pain got worse with each passing mile.

By the time I got home, my lower back was in full rebellion. I extricated myself from the car with great difficulty and made my way inside the house one slow step after another until I was able to find a place to sit at the dining table. My wife emptied the car of suitcase, coats, my hat, and computer. She fed me a light lunch of spiced cottage cheese.

Afterward, I tried to sit in a straight-back chair in the living room, a painful mistake that exacerbated the pain. The only position in which the pain was tolerable was while standing, bent slightly forward at the waist. It was obvious to me I could not long endure that odd position, so I decided to try getting horizontal in bed. I was stunned to learn how bloody hard it is to go from vertical to horizontal with a painful lower back. But I finally did it. Two hours later, I was surprised to learn I had drifted off, in spite of the pain. Yet the pain seemed to have gotten a tiny bit better.

I got up and sat at my computer. Wrong decision; wrong chair. More pain.

Then, a little later, a wonderful dinner of baked cod and steamed broccoli and a nice salad. The pain was a touch better, but still agonizing.  I tried and succeeded to sit on the sofa. The pain was relieved a bit if I moved “just so.” And so I did. After watching the final episode of House of Cards for the third time, I watched an episode of Orange is the New Black. When I first started watching the series, I found it highly appealing; what the hell happened? A good drama turned into a slapstick soap opera; is that what bad writing does? Or it is the direction?

I held out until just after 10:00 p.m.  Then, I crept into bed and tried to find a comfortable, or at least a less painful, position. Up twice to pee in the night, I realized getting out of bed can be just as painful as getting in. I was awake far too much, but the pain was tolerable. Suddenly, it was after 6:00 a.m.  How the hell did that happen?

As I swung my legs off the side of the bed, I learned my pain had not disappeared in the night. But it’s marginally better, almost tolerable now. And so it is. If I could get up from this chair, I’d go in search of a large quantity of aspirin to see how well that works. Better yet, perhaps the morphine fairy left me a present while I was away at Dairy Hollow. No, I suspect not.

I do loathe pain and I am not at all good at dealing with it. I think I have an allergy to it; pain causes me to whine, though not necessarily aloud. But I can hear it and I don’t like it. But I prefer the silent imaginary whining to the real nasty pain. I sure as hell hope this pain dissipates quickly. I cannot imagine even going to the store like I am now. Hell, I cannot even imagine standing up.

With good fortune, by this time tomorrow my agony will be a distant memory. Exceedingly good fortune, I suppose. Call it what it would be: magic.

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In Short, Excellent

Posted on January 16, 2016 by John Swinburn

Last night was excellent! My writing colleagues and I had a nice dinner, as all of our dinners here have been, and then we spent several hours chatting among ourselves and reading our work aloud. An addition at and after dinner was a writer who arrived night before last. Her presence added considerably to the experience. The writer, Nadine Pinede (Google her for details) shared some of her work with us and gave us welcome feedback on ours. Her personal history, a significant element of which corresponds with the book she is working on while here, is both fascinating and illuminating.

It was not just her work that enlivened the evening; it was the sharing of our own work, too, and the conversations surrounding our readings that was invaluable.

I can say without reservation that last night’s conversations, alone, would have made the trip to Dairy Hollow worthwhile. When coupled with my experiences of the last several days, I cannot imagine that the short residency here could have been better.

The only down side to the last full day of our residency retreat was that two of our group left early and unexpectedly this morning because one of them became ill. I hope she is better.

What a tremendous way to end a week of writing and reflecting on writing. I’m energized by this experience.

 

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Memories of the Road

Posted on January 15, 2016 by John Swinburn

I guess I’m in the mood for reminiscence. Again this morning, I slipped into an old blog and started reading about some of the road trips my wife and I used to take. One such trip involved a stop in Bartlett, Texas one afternoon about 2:30. We had driven through Taylor with the objective of trying Louie Mueller’s barbeque restaurant, thinking we’d never eaten there, but when we got to the place, we realized upon looking that we had, indeed, partaken of his food. That realization, coupled withe the fact that a line snaked out the door, persuaded us to keep going. That dismissal of Taylor as a stopping place is what got us to Bartlett and the tiny roadside BBQ stand called Perez’ Barbeque. It was there that we ate part of the little remaining brisket and chatted with J.J., a 72-year-old black man who retired from General Motors in Arlington. He and a young black guy who was there with his very young son welcomed us, even though the little covered area where they were sitting was, quite obviously, intended as a place for the operators and their friends to rest. Perez’ Barbeque was as a place to buy your meal and take it home. J.J. and friends, along with an Hispanic guy were sitting there chatting. They were so hospitable to my wife and me, late lunchers who needed a place to sit and eat. The Hispanic guy was just visiting from Arizona, back home to spend time with his father and brother who operated the little BBQ stand. About the time we were ready to leave, the older Hispanic guy came out and asked J.J. if he had brought the dominoes, as he was ready for a game.

I miss those road trips. It was so nice to just drive and stop whenever and wherever we wanted. We saw people as the people they really are, at least I think we did.

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Flowing Through My Veins

Posted on January 15, 2016 by John Swinburn

Last night, I was unwilling to go to bed at a reasonable hour, so I stayed up and read some of my older blog posts (from a now archived blog), including several posts about language and poetry. It’s interesting to get perspectives on how I viewed my poetry ten years ago; I thought most of it was overwrought back then. I wonder how I’ll view today’s stuff ten years hence?

As I sat reading some of what I’ve written in years past and more recently, it occurred to me that I might be more comfortable with the intimacy of poetry than I am with the lack thereof in so many of my short stories. Regardless of thinking my older poems may have been overwrought, though, I am becoming more convinced that poetry does, indeed, flow though my veins. Now, if I could just channel some of the emotion I seem so ready to display and, instead, feed it to my poetry generator, that might give me some results.

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Thinking It Through

Posted on January 14, 2016 by John Swinburn

Tonight, several of us gathered at the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow read some of our work. Heretofore, I’ve enjoyed reading my poetry and my stories, but last night it felt different; strained and uncomfortable, as if I were reading bad first drafts to a group of strangers. Nothing they did made me feel that odd sensation; it was me.

In fact, I was reading bad and incomplete drafts that attempted humor but in general failed; these were pieces of work about which I was neither proud of  the underlying message nor happy with the quality of the writing. As I read the two pieces, it occurred to me how far they had to go before being finished, suitable even for informal readings to a group of fellow writers. Despite my unease at the two pieces I’d just read, I considered reading another one, a piece so early in the stages of drafting that it still includes notes to myself about missing scenes and areas that require rewrites and/or abandonment.

Most of my colleagues read powerful, heart-felt pieces. Somehow, the juxtaposition between my ill-conceived humor and their earnest emotional outpouring created an ugliness that reflected badly on my selections for reading. I was looking for something I didn’t get, too; criticism. I don’t think any of us went in with the idea that we were looking for that, but I realized early on that’s what I wanted. But the environment wasn’t suited to it.

The third piece, the one I almost decided to read, was a story I started many months ago but abandoned early. Its opening scene was of a man in a Paris motel room leaving money for a sleeping call-girl, along with a note thanking her for sharing herself with him and wishing her a better future than her past had been. Then, he takes a train to the airport to catch a flight home to New York, with a stop in Iceland; he texts his girlfriend back home to let her know of his plans. On the plane, he begins writing in his journal when he is introduced to a seat-mate, a female writer, who is heading home to Rekjavik. I’d made notes of quite a bit of back story about this guy; he had been in Paris to arrange for the secret sale of nuclear components to a group of Japanese zealots who would later be discovered to be terrorists. My protagonist is doing it for the money, but he doesn’t expect things to go so horribly wrong as they soon will.

It’s one of those stories, like most I write, based on a scene with no coherent path to a plot; but I have since developed at least part of the plot. The most important aspect, though, is the guy’s struggle with what he has done, not only with the nuclear components, but with his life, including cheating on his girlfriend with a Paris hooker.

I guess I wanted to read a number of disconnected paragraphs to my colleagues in the hope that I would get ideas and advice. But I didn’t feel the connection coming to fruition last night. So, the best thing for me to do was to do what I did; I went back to my room and I thought it through.

Several times during the last few days, various members of our entourage have mentioned coming back here solo. I think that would be best for me; the read-arounds are fun, but not productive for me.  I hoped for feedback; instead, I think the overwhelming need among my peers, and I include myself, is to offer accolades. Some days, I love accolades. Today, I’m in the mood for brutal honesty and assistance.

After sitting in my room for a while, I realized I was getting more out of my own self-critique than I might have reasonably expected from feedback from my colleagues. And that makes a solo trip back here for a solid week or two an appealing idea.

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Timid Celebrant

Posted on January 14, 2016 by John Swinburn

If I could raise a toast, I would. I would celebrate a victory of gritty substance over fantasy. I would cheer profundity in a vapid sphere that offers accolades to ephemeral vapor.

I would add my voice to a raucous crowd, one of a throng of celebrants unsure what to do with an unexpected and unfamiliar triumph. But it’s early, and one does not salute ungainly gains at such a tender hour, lest sleeping giants awaken with rage in their hearts and axes in their hands.

My question, always my question, is whether I am the giant whose slumber I protect or, instead, the target of his rage upon waking. And, so, I tiptoe on eggshells, afraid to allow the dream to play out, yet fervently wishing to peek at the conclusion of a tumultuous story.

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Hanging at the Hollow

Posted on January 14, 2016 by John Swinburn

Stove_RevisedIt is unreasonable, of course, that I am staying in a suite at the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow designed for writers of culinary materials. Yes, I did choose this suite. And yes, I intended to cook fabulous meals during my week of writing here. But that was before I decided to go full-in on the South Beach diet. What in the name of all that’s holy was I thinking?

This one photo does not do the suite justice. Aside from this magnificent six-burner gas range, there are warming drawers nearby. And a double oven. There is a huge refrigerator, easily twice the size of the one we have at home. An appliance garage that would fit all our appliances, plus all the ones already here: top-of-the-line food processors, juicers, pasta making attachments for mixers, professional mixers, etc., etc., etc. And the giant sink is deep, deep, deep as a well. But I’m not using this kitchen much; no, I’ve put my “breakfast around the world” project on hold while I endeavor to lose considerable pounds and return to a lifestyle of the happy and healthy. So, I look longingly at the dream kitchen and weep openly at my bad timing.  But there is good news to report.

I have finished the bulk of work required to consolidate two years’ worth of daily ruminations and thoughts of the day. I have begun t compile all of my poetry that I think is worth compiling into a collections. And I have finished one short story, begun another, and outlined a broad approach to my “Garcia” novel-in-progress. And there’s more. I’ve been spending time thinking about my writing and what I want it to be for me. So, while my creativity has not spun off the charts thus far, I’ve been productive as hell. And that’s a good thing.

Beyond that, I have watched my colleagues be productive, as well. I have witnessed creativity and energy. That is a good thing; it’s good for my energy to see others develop theirs.   And so, my five days of intense, self-imposed writerly-focused activities continues. I miss my family, but I know I’ll be home soon. Life is, at the moment, good. I intend for that to be a not-temporary state of affairs.

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Perspectives

Posted on January 13, 2016 by John Swinburn

I thought, last night, of ways to explore stories from a thousand perspectives, each reflecting off another so that the images created by the light refracted through multiple prisms would be far clearer and more precise than even an three-dimensional image.

The challenge of such an exhaustive exploration would be to maintain some sense of excitement and interest as each image fits into the next. The concept begs the question, too: are readers (or any of us, really) sufficiently interested in depth to tolerate the breadth of such a presentation? Do the unique attributes of each perspective hold enough fascination to keep the reader’s eyes locked on the page?  Probably not.

The richest stories are simple, straightforward, and memorable. That is probably the best lesson to learn; complexity satisfies the appetites of a small band of people. The larger swaths of the reading public is more interested in tales that resonate without reverberation.

 

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Lurking

Posted on January 12, 2016 by John Swinburn

As I sit here at my unfamiliar writing desk, in unfamiliar surroundings, thinking unfamiliar thoughts, I wonder about the point of this exercise. I wonder whether a few days of self-imposed focus will do any more than focus on knowledge I don’t want to possess, supporting a purpose I no longer hold dear.

A few months ago, I was hell-bent on writing for publication; moving words from my brain to the eyes of the masses. But this morning I am not sure I want to write, even for myself. But I will, because I told myself that’s what I came to do. Butt in chair. Words escaping my brain and flooding onto the keyboard, awaiting my own deft hand, later, to sculpt them into things of beauty. At this very moment, that seems so precious and silly; the very idea that I have the inclination, much less the capacity, to create a thing of beauty is ludicrous. Good writers take years and years to perfect their craft; I have been bungling around with writing for decades, writing the same stuff, just using different words.

Even if this sense of wasted time is temporary, I want to capture it, if for no other reason than to know it’s lurking here in my brain.

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Circling

Posted on January 12, 2016 by John Swinburn

A lot rides on the validity and reliability of introspection. For starters, one’s self-image and self-respect depend on the view from inside-in, not to mention the view from inside out. And it goes on from there. Knowing who’s speaking when it’s your mouth doing the talking is key to holding onto one’s grip on reality. It’s confusing from the outset and it just gets more complex and convoluted from there.

It’s only after being trapped in the current circling the drain that the gravity of the situation becomes clear. The options are limited: grab the slippery rope and climb out of the sink or hope for a break in the p-trap. I’d opt for the rope; worst case, if it doesn’t work, it can become a noose.

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The Leaving

Posted on January 11, 2016 by John Swinburn

You leave, hoping the leaving will provide answers you haven’t found where you are. You search, expecting to find clues on the open road or maybe down a side street in a forlorn town whose future, from the looks of it, is uncertain. But there are no clues outside yourself. And there are no answers beyond the tip of your nose. Your search is fruitless, a waste of waning emotional capital. You could have traveled a thousand miles or a hundred-thousand miles. It wouldn’t matter; the truth you seek isn’t there to be found. In fact, it’s not even buried deep in the recesses of your brain. The kind of truth you’re looking for doesn’t exist.

Don’t take it so hard. You’re not the only lonely hunter stalking an imaginary prey. There are millions of us, beating our heads against walls of our own making, trying to break out of the cages we’ve so carefully constructed. We built those cages to protect ourselves… from something…while we sought answers. Yet we stand here wondering how we could have made the mistake of locking ourselves inside, leaving the answers to roam free.

How is it,then, we can leave? How can we leave when we’ve locked ourselves in cages? Ah, the answer is simple. We take the cages with us. Or, perhaps, the cages take us where they want us to go.

 

Posted in Writing | 2 Comments

This I Believe

Posted on January 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

The weather is clear and cold, cold enough to dissuade me from my planned early-morning walk. I won’t allow it to keep me away from my task all day, though. Later, after church, I’ll find a suitable trail and commune with the universe around me, engaging in silent conversation with the remains of the stars just now entering our solar system.

Wait, did I just say “after church?” I surely did. Not to worry; it’s not what you might think. It’s just a visit to a UU service, at which a friend will be among several others reciting her poetry.

Last night, over dinner with friends, the conversation turned to religious beliefs and the lack thereof. In spite of my steadfast assumptions that we live in the absence of any sort of supreme being, I can’t dismiss others’ senses that there’s “something out there” that connects us. While I think the “something out there” is not a conscious force, others seem to believe there’s a physical and spiritual manifestation of such a force in us and around us. One of the arguments in favor of such a force, made last evening, is that “people are connected.” My perspective is that the same argument for the existence of such a force could be made by pointing out the connection between a car’s bumper and its engine, i.e., there’s an inherent logical fallacy in making the connection. But I could be wrong.

This morning’s homage to the South Beach Diet will be a breakfast of Poached Eggs Arrabiata. I rather doubt the dish will be sufficiently Italian, nor sufficiently reminiscent of the Penne Arrabiata I love so much that I will be fooled into thinking that’s what it is. But today’s dish will be an interesting one to make and, I hope, an enjoyable one to eat. Buen provecho, amigos!

And so, the depth of my beliefs is revealed in my attraction to food. I don’t know; is that shallow, or is that deeper than the deepest ocean? For, as we all know, we cannot live without food. So, perhaps, it is right and proper to worship and express adoration toward food, our creator and sustainer in a very real sense.

Posted in Just Thinking | 3 Comments

Millstone

Posted on January 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

But whoever shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

That—from Matthew 18:6 of the King James version of the bible, as I understand it—provided the genesis for the “millstone around my neck” idiom. Ah, what a pleasant thought, offering hope and succor for the less fortunate among us. Right. Oh, well.

But it’s that millstone, that unknown or unremembered offense against someone who apparently knows and remembers the offense that I don’t, that bedevils me.

At what point do we stop holding grudges against people for mistakes they do not even realize they made? When do we decide either to confront and discuss the offense head-on or simply let it fade, impotent to bother us, into the past? When, indeed?

Perhaps there is no when; perhaps, instead, the offense remains indelibly etched into the offended person’s psyche so that no amount of acknowledgement and no amount of regret can erase it. The offense, or the memory of what one believes to be an offense, becomes a millstone that sinks the relationship between individuals just as surely as drowning in the sea would do.

Worrying about a perceived degradation of a relationship—and assuming there is, in fact, such a deterioration—without taking proactive steps to inquire, explore, discover the reasons for the dissolution of a relationship is pointless, isn’t it? Indeed it is. But I think we all shy away from pulling at the scab of old wounds or, worse, pursuing what turns out to be an imaginary crack in the foundation of a marriage of the minds.

We’re all too thin-skinned, but at the same time we’re equally reckless with others’ feelings as we are protective of our own.

Posted in Emotion, Friendship, Philosophy | 4 Comments

On the Record

Posted on January 9, 2016 by John Swinburn

As of this morning, I’m down nine pounds since January 1. I wish I could go out walking so I can keep the momentum going (and I suppose I could, if I were willing to slog around in the rain, but I am a little too attuned to comfort to let that happen). No complaints, though. I am happy to finally be insisting that I do what I should have been doing all along; eating well and exercising. I’ve been doing guided meditation, as well, for a few days; I have plenty of room for progress in that realm.

When I created my hybrid South Beach menu program for the first week (beginning this past Monday), I was a little concerned that I might be attempting to keep my daily calorie count too low. I aimed for one thousand calories per day, with an upper limit of thirteen hundred. I’ve been pleasantly surprised, though, that the menus I developed have fallen considerably short of one thousand calories on most days, yet I have not had undue hunger. The daily calorie total was less than eight hundred a couple of days; three others amounted to a thousand or less. Only one day did the count approach thirteen hundred.  The way I’ve been able to be comfortable with that is to incorporate low-cal/low-carb munchies in the morning and afternoon and, after dinner, early evening.

I plan on two more weeks of very low-calorie intake, though next week while I am away at a writing retreat I may find it a challenge, since someone else is cooking evening meals. But I am confident of may ability to exercise restraint and be conscious of portion size. The week after I return, I’ll keep up the very low cal/low carb routine. Depending on how things go, I may extend it yet another week. At some point in the near-term, though, I’ll move on to Phase II of the South Beach diet. And, after that, I’ll simply adapt to a new lifestyle. I am unwilling to abandon my passion for experimenting with foods and my love for exploring ethnic cuisines, but I am confident I can do so within the parameters of good health and good sense.

I’m going to make a record, here, of some of my favorite low-carb/low-calorie snacks before I forget (these are one-off snacks; not the sort of thing you sit and eat one after another):

Radishes with goat cheese and toasted cumin seeds:
Cut radishes in half; smear a tiny bit of soft goat cheese on each half and sprinkle fresh-roasted cumin seeds on top. Excellent!

Cucumber spears sprinkled with Tajin:
No directions needed, eh?

Half-cup of low-fat cottage cheese, spiced to suit, with tomato wedges:
I like to put a few drops of habanero hot sauce on top of the cheese.

Ham & cheese roll-up:
I slice of packaged ham luncheon meat, smeared with 1/2 teaspoon of fat-free cream cheese. Put a dill pickle spear on top, sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, roll it up, and enjoy.

I’ve discovered quite a number of other “snack” types of foods that I’d like to try in the weeks ahead. Ideally, I’ll wean myself off of snacks entirely and be satisfied with regular meals. It’s  just a matter of training and discipline, both of which I’m planning to use to my full advantage.

Posted in Food, Health | 2 Comments

Broken Spell

Posted on January 9, 2016 by John Swinburn

Stegner sat in the only chair in the room, a swivel rocker covered in fabric. He stared intently at the armrest, the pale blue background of the threadbare cloth decorated with hideous brown and green dancing bears. It was something his grandmother might have liked, he thought, though he had never known his grandmother. But he knew enough about her to think she might have found the foul colors and fouler designs appealing.

The room was tiny, just large enough for the chair, a side table big enough to hold a drinking glass, a double bed, a small chest of drawers with a mirror, and barely enough space to move between the pieces of furniture. A sign on the door knob emphasized check-out time was 11:00 a.m. “No exceptions; late check-out will result in one additional night’s room rental.”

There was no telephone, no television, no radio; just a bed, a chair, and a dress. The bathroom consisted of a vanity, with a sink, across from the bed and, through a narrow door to the side, a toilet and bathtub.

“So, this is it, huh?” Stegner asked the question aloud, then waited, as if expecting an answer.

“Yes,” he continued, “this is it. You’ve pissed away every goddamned opportunity. You’ve ruined every life you’ve touched. Your wives either died or went missing or left you for something else, anything else. Your daughters hate you for good reason. You have no friends.  The frickin’ motel clerk won’t even smile at you!”

As he glanced in the dresser’s mirror, he cringed at his reflection. His pasty white face behind two-days’ growth of meager beard made him look ill and weak. Stegmer’s unkempt grey and light brown hair, coupled with his frail complexion and wet, bloodshot eyes contributed to what, the thought, looked like a scene from a hospice.

“Well, that’s sort of what this is, isn’t it?” Stegner uttered the words before he realized he was speaking. “Shit! I guess this is what happens when you’ve finally decided to pull the plug, as it were. Verbal hallucinations. Ah, well I have to settle down. This is not going to be the result of madness. It’s going to be the result of considered choice.”

Stegner stood and walked to the vanity, where he found a stack of four individually wrapped plastic drinking cups, hidden behind a beige plastic tray with a beige plastic ice bucket. He tore the wrapping from one of the cups, and walked back to the chair, where his bottle of Seagram’s Seven Crown whiskey awaited him. He poured an inch into the cup, sat in the chair, and held the whiskey to his lips for a moment.

“Yes, goddamn it, le jeu n’en vaut pas la chandelle. The game really isn’t worth the candle anymore, not for me, not for anyone. Maybe it never was.” Half the whiskey disappeared with the first swig, then the cup emptied with the second. Stegner filled the cup again, two inches this time.

“How is it that a man can reach his sixties without knowing why he’s such a bastard? How is it that a man who should have died in his thirties can live this long? Is it because he deserves the time to reflect on all the shit he’s caused? Is it retribution?”

“I’m not going to talk myself out of it again. I don’t deserve any more chances to make amends. This time, it’s time. This time, I have to do it. It’s the only gift I can give them, now. It’s the only apology that can have any meaning.”

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror again. This time, he saw his eyes awash in tears, just as they began to run down his cheek. But his face was the same. Hard, expressionless, and void of emotion, except for those eyes.

Stegner kicked off his boots and then took off his socks. He leaned back in the chair for a moment and sighed.

With his left arm, he reached over to the side-by-side double barrel shotgun in the center of the bed. He cracked open the barrels to check that both chambers were loaded, and then put the stock on the floor, with the barrels pointing toward his face. He lifted his right foot and reached for the trigger with his great toe.

TAP, TAP, TAP. “Housekeeping!”

Stegner shouted, “Not now! Come back in an hour!”

“Okay, so sorry,” came the reply from the other side of the door.

“Shit.” Stegner listened for the housekeeper’s cart, but heard nothing.

“I don’t believe in destiny…so…” Stegner hesitated. He looked down at the shotgun and tried to move his great toe toward the trigger. But the spell was broken, at least for the moment.

 

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Stream of Walkishness

Posted on January 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

2016-01-08_1030I have a difficult time containing my urge to go from zero to eighty with no intervening speeds. I’m talking here of my recent revival of walking. I don’t like the idea of slowly getting back into it; instead, I’d prefer to return to the level of stamina and capacity I had reached when I became an indolent sloth. But if I tried to do that, I would almost certainly hit a brick wall, crashing headlong into disappointment. So, I am taking it slow, attempting to increase my stamina a little bit at a time.

At the same time, I am attempting to gain some of the flexibility in my joints that I lost (if I ever had it) in my late teens. Yesterday, thanks to the rain and fog, I opted not to do my walk. Instead, I used my new exercise mat and followed an online tutorial for stretching exercises. It was excruciating, but I did as much as I could. The flexibility in my knees and shoulders is remarkable for its absence. Today, I awoke to find that something (and I blame yesterday’s attempt to replicate stretching exercises meant for agile teens) put a horrific kink in my right neck and shoulder; I wish I had a masseuse on call. Another argument to take things slow.

Today, after meeting someone who wanted to discuss ideas for a couple of books over coffee, I decided to go for a walk on a trail. Originally, I intended to make the full 3.4 mile loop. But though I felt good, even after a couple of jaunts up some steep trail offshoots, I decided to follow my own advice; take it slow. So, I turned around and walked back to the trail head instead of following the loop, making my walk 2.23 miles at a relatively good clip. Still, it’s a slight increase over days past. I’ve decided not to challenge myself too much; I do not want to get discouraged and find myself loathing the idea of going for a walk.

For some odd reason, I find myself wishing I would encounter no one on my walks. It’s not that I feel compelling to engage in conversation with people I meet on the trail or on the street (though I do acknowledge them and exchange pleasantries); I suppose it’s that I simply value my solitude. I feel obliged to exchange polite pleasantries when I encounter other people, but when I do, my train of thought gets momentarily derailed. It’s silly even to write about this utterly unimportant thing, except that I want to make note that I feel slight disturbances in my sense of serenity when I come across other people on my walks. As I reflect back on it, I’ve always felt that slight dislocation. I think my attempts to achieve some form of serenity began in earnest when I started walking, in earnest.

Ach. I really don’t seem to be able to write, even about walking, without rambling off in an unintended direction; it’s like I’m chasing my psyche through a crowded rabbit warren.

 

Posted in Walking | 1 Comment

A Personal Conundrum of the Full-Empty Glass

Posted on January 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

Some people believe I write from the perspective of a person whose glass is half empty, a negative viewpoint that paints the world with a dark brush. They would rather I write as if I view the world as a half-full glass. Neither perspective fits my view of the glass in my hand.

I write of the glass just fractions of a second before the shattering strike of a baseball bat; its volume in relation to its capacity is irrelevant. The impact of the bat will spray shards of sharp glass in all directions. Some people in the path of the glass will be sliced deeply by fragments of fused silica as sharp as a razor. Others—either through their good fortune or the bad fortune of others who act as shields—will walk away unscathed. Still others will survive modest damage to their skin and their souls.

Someone I once thought close to me listened to me read a poem I had written and, after I had finished, offered, “what the hell is wrong with you?” The poem dealt with cynicism, frustration with life, and the inability to achieve wishes and dreams. But its setting and its first-person presentation apparently convinced her the “speaker” was me and that the setting revealed an ugly rage deep inside me. Hell, maybe it did. But that wasn’t the perspective from which I was writing.

I suppose the doubt about the “meaning” of my writing could be construed to mean I am successful in presenting hard-to-grasp conflicting emotions. But maybe I’m just unable to articulate meaning or perhaps I’m unwilling to clearly say what I want to say because it’s so painful. Those are the motives often ascribed to writers whose work is a bit difficult to fathom. Of course, those are good, published, recognized writers. Maybe I’m trying to put myself in  rare company.

Ultimately, I think much of what I write, especially the hard-edged, darker stuff, may be symbolic of deeply private thoughts I wish I could share with someone, a friend closer than any I’ve ever had. There is no confidante, of course, with whom I’d be willing to share them; these may be be thoughts I am willing to share only with myself, and then with some trepidation.

Posted in Philosophy, Writing | 3 Comments

Headspace and Breather

Posted on January 7, 2016 by John Swinburn

I just completed my first “Headspace” session, one of ten introductory freebies offered to expose prospective clients to online guided meditation and related ‘stuff.’ A friend’s daughter-in-law recommended Headspace to me.

Though I’ve done a bit of meditation in the past (including a session yesterday), the introductory session this morning was surprising in how good I felt after just ten minutes. In most of the other introductory programs I’ve experienced, I saw evidence of the value of meditation, but it seemed to me that considerable time would be required to actually get lasting value from it. This morning’s session was unlike the others; two minutes in, I was still acutely aware of the external environment around me, but after five or six minutes, I was more relaxed than I expected to be and more focused on my body and my breathing and how I felt in my space. It was intriguing.

Pleased with that ten-minute experience, I returned to yesterday’s program, moving on to another ten-minute program, “Breather II,” which was far better than yesterday’s and on par with today’s ten-minute introductory program.  After twenty minutes of guided meditation, I feel relaxed and at ease. The fog and rain, which prompted me to decide not to walk this morning, don’t bother me.

My writing for public consumption, aside from this blog, is on holiday at present. I am writing, but for now it’s for my eyes only. I guess my writing, for the moment, is a different form of meditation.

 

 

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When Loss is Gain

Posted on January 7, 2016 by John Swinburn

The early stages of an exercise routine, coupled with a healthy change in eating habits, give quick results. The results I experienced during the first six days of 2016 are almost too good; if I were to expect the same pace to continue, I would reach my baseline target of losing 52 pounds by February 21.

But that is absolutely unreasonable (and probably unsafe), so I must keep my expectations in check; it would be absurd to abandon a goal because progress slows, as it naturally will.

Still, I’m pleased with losing six pounds so far. It’s impossible to see the difference, except by looking at the display on the scale, but it’s heartening, nonetheless.

I’m looking forward to seeing visible changes in my body, especially in my face. Why my face? Because I believe one’s face emerges from shadows when the body sheds excess pounds. The wrinkles of a smile become more pronounced, the eyes come out of hiding, and the jaw gains definition, if only slightly. And, of course, the extra chins begin to recede into memory.

The most important hope I harbor about seeing changes in my face is that the changes in my body will coincide with changes in my mind, changes in the way I see the world, just as that transformation causes the world to see changes in me. It may be unfortunate, but in fact one’s self-image relies in part on what one sees in the mirror. And as I see changes in me, I expect to change my perception of myself. And as that perception of myself changes, I hope my view of the world will change; and that will become a positive feedback loop.

Ultimately, the loss of body mass and weight and physical body “baggage” can help one establish a better context for gaining an improved self-image and all the benefits that arise from that transformation. It’s not just the individual who gains, it’s the environment in which he lives, the people surrounding him. At least that’s how I see it this morning as I prepare to decide whether to venture out for a walk in the fog and rain.

Posted in Emotion, Happiness, Health | 3 Comments

Images and Meditations

Posted on January 6, 2016 by John Swinburn

If my creative juices refuse to flow this morning, at the very least I can put this blog to some practical use. So, I decided to make a permanent place for the records of my three minor morning strolls so far this week.

Today, after my little jaunt, I began doing some “starter” stretching exercises prompted by an app recommended by a friend. I got half way through and decided the exercises were designed for incredibly fit 18-year-olds.  After abandoning my stretching mid-way, I took up the app’s meditation exercise, “Breather 1,” a 5-minute introduction to meditation. It surprised me a little; I was actually able to relax. But when the voice—a pleasing, sensual woman’s voice—told me to find a way to appreciate myself, it had the opposite effect; it was an emotional response I didn’t expect, nor did I welcome. Maybe “Breather 2” will be better.

 

1/6/2014 Route

1/6/2014 Route

2016-01-05_0742

1/5/2014 Route

1/4/2016 Route

1/4/2016 Route

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