Two Hundred Sixty-Nine

M.C. Escher introduced me to optical illusion in art. I must have been in my mid to late teens when I first encountered Escher’s work, an odd assortment of impossibilities made possible with pen and ink and woodcuts and such. Escher’s graphics, inspired by mathematical relationships.  I remember, quite vividly, looking at his piece entitled ‘Drawing Hands’ and deciding I wanted to replicate the piece. I tried, repeatedly, but never achieved anything like his level of artistic capability. I think I drew some very realistic hands (my own), but they were not life-like. Escher’s hands arose from the page as if they were really emerging, fully formed, from a blank sheet of paper. A later piece, ‘Relativity,’ depicted an impossible architectural scene in which stairs, on completely different planes, played a prominent part. My oldest brother, knowing of my fascination with Escher, bought me a coffee table book of Escher’s works; I suspect my copy of that book is more than forty years old. I still have that book today and occasionally thumb through it, allowing myself to enter the realm of impossibility Escher created. I wonder whether some kid today—the same age now as I was then—is just as fascinated with Escher as was I? Probably. But our perspectives on the world would be quite different.

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Guys Like Me are Mad for Mermaid Meat*

Buried deep in my subconscious are recollections of what must have been a torrid love affair with a mermaid.

My gustatory passion for creatures who spend their lives in the sea betrays that obscure secret, hidden beneath waves of recall that pound my psyche with fresh shards of aquatic memories; reminiscences scattered among seaweed and algae on a wish-laden beach.

This deep, almost mystical, affection for seafood can be explained only as overt evidence of a covert dalliance with a luscious mermaid who introduced me to the edible opulence of the ocean. What other realistic explanation can there possibly be?

I can only imagine the sensual experiences etched into my subconscious mind as a result of that ferocious fling with that mermaid, that goddess of the sea, that creature so beguiling and alluring as to conquer my hedonistic desires and turn them into her own.  All I have left, now, is my steamy sentiment for scallops, my feelings for fish, the seductiveness of shrimp, and the magnetism of mussels. That long-forgotten emotional conflagration of coastal combustibles brought to the surface by that magnificent mermaid explains my gustatory passion for creatures who spend their lives in the sea.

The title gives homage to a line from Leonard Cohen’s Jazz Police: “Guys like me are mad for turtle meat.”
Posted in Absurdist Fantasy, Fiction, Food, Writing | 1 Comment

Two Hundred Sixty-Eight

There’s a “what if” just waiting to be asked when something unplanned, unexpected, or unwanted happens. That “what if” can jar one into greater appreciation of what is, a more acute gratitude for the life benefits one enjoys without giving them thought or acknowledgement. For example, I have taken my eyesight, flawed though it always has been, for granted. I rarely focus my attention on my ability to see; it’s a given. Yet, when I experienced what amounted to blindness after my recent cataract surgery, the idea of permanent blindness bubbled to the surface like a reckless diver desperate for air. Even though I knew (and continue to hope) the loss of my vision was temporary, I felt a sense of panic. I imagined what my life would be like were I to lose my eyesight.

After recovering from that momentary panic, I considered other aspects of life that I take for granted; the ability to breathe easily, the ability to be self-sufficiently mobile, the ability to speak and type and record my thoughts. Any one of these could disappear in an instant. I suppose my thoughts don’t necessarily turn to “what if” they were to be gone, but instead to a greater appreciation of the abilities I have.

I don’t offer my thanks to anyone or anything for these attributes of my life; rather, I simply take some time to appreciate and recognize them for what they are and to hope I am never forced to leave them behind.

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Philosophical Rant Redux

I posted the following essay exactly three years ago today. I remain perplexed that the ideas I offer here have not found their way into genuine conversation and debate. It seems so obvious, to me, that the concept of employment arose out of servitude. How can we not have serious conversations about the philosophical underpinnings of employment?

Must We be Subservient?

I am writing this post to try to sort out, in my own mind, an issue involving people and work.  Perhaps putting down in black and white my evolving thoughts will help me come to grips with the issue.

Specifically, I am writing this post in an attempt to understand why so many of us…the vast majority of us… in this country and, quite possibly, worldwide seem to believe we have to be hired by someone else if we are going to work.  Our culture assumes people who want or need the ability to buy goods and services will go out and find a job.   We don’t assume they will go out and create products or services that people want to buy.

Of course, we educate our young people so they can exchange their capabilities and knowledge for regular infusions of money and the label “employee.”  But that’s by no means preparing them to go out and create their own futures.  It appears we’re preparing them to go in search of the best, most lucrative caregiver. It’s as if society’s role is to prepare people to go in search of someone else upon whom to depend for their livelihoods.  Why is that?

Why isn’t it the other way around?  Why  doesn’t our culture assume the people we educate and prepare for the world of work will work for themselves, creating products or services of value that others want to buy?  Could the reason be, quite simply, that our culture inculcates in us a belief that we couldn’t possibly be successful in earning our way without depending on being “on the dole” from an employer of one kind or another?

Wait, I think I know what you’re thinking.  Your first reaction to these questions and inferences is to label my thought process right-wing and bathed in regressive, deeply conservative values.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  In fact,  my questions emerge from my left-of-center political perspectives and my growing distrust of the foundations of capitalism.  You see, I think society DOES push us toward being “worker bees” who do the bidding of our employers, the majority of whom benefit financially from their employees’ efforts far more than do the employees themselves.  I think society has reached that point over a long period of time because a relatively small and, in today’s world, increasingly powerful “production elite” has deliberately (over a very long period of time) manipulated it in that direction.

The success of this scheme depends heavily on the vast majority of people unwittingly reinforcing it.  Parents tell their children to finish school so they can get a good job.  Teachers discuss career choices with their students from the perspective of finding employment. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting parents and teachers or, for that matter, employers are part of a vast conspiracy to intentionally “serve the capitalist monster.”  What I am suggesting is that the capitalist monster does nothing to dispel the idea that the right thing to do for most people is to go find a “job” so that golden ring of the work life, stability, can be achieved.  “Normal” has been manipulated to mean “find someone to pay you, for you are not equipped to figure it out on your own.”  We continue to accept that “normal,” even as the imaginary economic wonder-world disintegrates around us.

As stability in employment has become increasingly ephemeral, it is harder to understand how the average working person can continue to fully and unquestioningly accept the idea that his or her future is completely tied to one or two or, more likely, a string of employers, rather than his or her own willingness and ability to take risks, accept defeat, and pick oneself up and move on toward self-reliance.

Over time humanity has either succumbed to subtle economic blackmail that led to what amounts to de facto servitude or simply stumbled into today’s normalcy.  Whatever the route to get here, most of us, in fact, rely on others to give us money that allows us to find shelter and put food on the table.  How many among us would be able to continue to eat if we were suddenly faced with joblessness and no prospects for employment?  How many of us have been “educated” into the position of being utterly, completely, irrevocably dependent on being allowed to keep the highly limited, almost robotic role of “employee” simply to be able to live.

We, most of us,  can’t grow our own food and we can’t create the tools and implements we would need to build our own shelter.  Most of us either are employees or just one step away from it.  We need the economic structure we created.  Unfortunately, it really doesn’t need us, at least not all of us.

Do we all need employers?  Until we decide we don’t, we do.

None of this is meant to downplay the importance of employees.  Even the most aggressive entrepreneurial spirit cannot overcome the simple fact that entrepreneurs cannot do it all alone.  Employees are necessary, they are important, and they matter.  But I think there are many people who, absent the socialization that minimizes the expectation of productive risk, would be far less dependent on capitalist machinery.

Your thoughts?

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Two Hundred Sixty-Seven

Several years ago, during a business trip to San Diego, I took time out to seek out an Indian restaurant in La Jolla. An epicurean friend who lived on the east coast had encouraged me to give the place a try. I don’t recall the name of the place, but I recall thinking the lamb vindaloo was among the best I’d ever had to that point in my life. An even more vivid memory from that visit, though, was a walk along the waterfront after dinner. A group of children and their parents were creating enormous bubbles, using soapy water infused with corn starch made into huge bubbles with huge, specially made wands made from drinking straws and yarn. I know about the bubble-water mix and the bubble-making devices because I asked; I had never seen such enormous bubbles before. I’ve never made gigantic bubbles like that. Perhaps it’s time; I think I’m old enough now to be trusted with soapy water, straws, and string.

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Vampires in Your Kitchen

When I awoke this morning, for reasons beyond my comprehension, garlic was on my mind. I vaguely remembered writing something about garlic many months ago, something that got to the stark reality of garlic. I found it. Here are excerpts from my pronouncements of truth on the matter of garlic:

Any recipe that calls for a single clove of garlic must be considered suspect…Always use a minimum of three cloves of garlic, regardless of the recipe’s measure, or you’ll have vampires running rampant in your kitchen.

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Gourmet, Anyone?

Last night, we joined two other couples at Pulaski Technical College for a dinner prepared and served by students of the Culinary Arts and Hospitality Management Institute. The facility serves dinners (and lunch) two or three times per week to give students real world experience preparing fine meals.  One of the couples had been to the College for dinner and lunch more than once before; they are the ones who suggested the evening.

In addition to good conversation and an opportunity to see what I consider a first-class culinary teaching facility, we had a very fine meal. Oh, yes, the meal we had was very fine, indeed.

To start, they served an amuse bouche, which was a fig stuffed with a very nice duck paté/mousse.  Next up, we enjoyed mushroom red pepper crostini, followed by scallops provençal on a bed of couscous.  The main course was a beautifully rare New York steak au poivre with green peppercorn demi-glace. For dessert, they served a mascarpone dome drizzled with chocolate and raspberry sauce.  The cost: only twenty dollars per person!  It was a spectacular dinner.

Virtually none of the meal was on our South Beach diet, but we gladly broke the diet.  If it hadn’t been for the fact that my eye (the one operated on for cataracts the day before) was giving me fits, it would have been a perfect evening. With good fortune, we’ll go back in the not-too-distant future when we can enjoy the experience without being interrupted by my weeping.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Six

I might be alone in this, but I’d very much like the opportunity to view a video of my internal organs as they function. Watching the esophagus and stomach do their thing may sound revolting to some, but it strikes me as fascinating. And wouldn’t watching one’s own heart expand and contract with each beat be riveting “television?”  I suppose this fantasy is out of the question for practical reasons, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing, does it? No, it does not.

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Would That I Could See, But Not Feel

I was expecting the same experience with my left eye after cataract surgery as I had with my right eye. I had no reason to expect anything else. But this is not like last time around. My eye feels like a I have a sharp pebble embedded in it so that, every time I blink, the pebble scratches the surface of my eye. My blurred vision, what little there is, almost to the point that I see only light, no shapes.

I will return to the ophthalmologist this morning for my follow-up visit. He told me yesterday there’s a scratch on the surface that will take thirty-six hours or more to heal and, therefore, my vision will be blurry until then. I only hope he’s right. Maybe I’m overly sensitive to pain and blindness, but I have to say I do not like this situation, I do not like this at all.

Before the second surgery, I could see “close up” through my one “normal” eye (the one that went under the knife yesterday) by holding items close. Not so any longer. I bought a pair of drug-store eyeglasses yesterday, so I can see reasonably well “close up” with the eye that underwent surgery earlier, but it’s not quite as clear as it was before.

There’s nothing else wrong with me, but the injury to my eye has the effect of making me feel cranky and out of sorts and, because of the sensation of a pebble in my eye, prone to want to sleep just so I can avoid the pain/irritation in my eye. I would make a horrible patient in need of constant care; I would drive myself, and anyone near me, crazy. I’m counting down the hours, hoping the doctor is right.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Five

“Spinning a yarn” is an idiomatic expression meaning “to make up a story” or “to tell a lie.” I gather the genesis of the expression was from a time when groups of women gathered to craft yarn on spinning wheels. While they were working, they told stories to one another. Over time, the telling of stories came to be called “spinning a yarn,” though I can’t seem to find the root of the stories’ validity being questioned, nor why over time “spinning a yarn” came to be assumed to be fabrications or lies.

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Curiosity

Curiosity, I think, is simply a thirst for knowledge. And it’s a thirst absent any requisite redeeming practicality. It’s the same thirst a sot has for liquor; it just satisfies a need buried so deeply in the brain that it’s next to impossible to expose it to reason and to the light of day; it’s just there. Like an alcoholic’s lust for booze, the inquisitor’s longing for understanding is incurable. Yet, like alcoholism, the passion can be curbed. Fed a steady diet of ugliness and painful explanations in response to expressions of curiosity, the person who probes for understanding can be trained to recoil from new information.

I wonder whether the natural curiosity of children is effectively beat out of them with emotional cudgels? And, if that’s the case, how can that ‘treatment’ be reversed? How can people who don’t want to know any more than they already do be made inquisitive again? I’ve wondered this before; I now wonder why this issue of children having their innate curiosity yanked out of their heads keeps coming up in my thinking?

Somewhere, there are answers to those questions. Even in the questions, themselves, there are answers. How can we make the questions just as appealing as the answers?

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Two Hundred Sixty-Four

Breathe and be happy. Smile. Look at other people as friends, even people you don’t know. A genuine smile feels good, whether giving or receiving it. I think people can read decency and generosity in others’ faces. They have a calming effect. In the right circumstances, letting one’s guard down is an incredibly freeing feeling.

Later this morning, I will let my guard down as ophthalmic surgery takes place on my left eye. The ophthalmologist will insert a device in my eye to break up my cataract and the front capsule of the clouded lens through a process called phacoemulsification.  Then, he will remove the pulverized remnants and replace the lense with an intraocular lens implant. Presto! I will be able to see! (Well, that’s the plan; I should be able to see a bit better immediately, and much better after a short while.)

Once the process is complete, I will continue to breathe and be happy. I will try to smile.

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Manisha

He swallowed the mouthful of god-knows-what, the food intended to cover the razor blade and dull the pain as it sliced its way through my throat and into his esophagus. It did its job.

He paid more attention to the flavors of lamb vindaloo and raita and lime pickle than to the strange sensations of pain in a place that had, heretofore, never experienced that sort of pain. Never before had he felt slits in the lining of his throat and esophagus. The pain welled up in places that had never felt pain before, though it was not as unpleasant as he expected.

He had promised himself he would not react with panic, but that promise meant nothing in the midst of a pain-fueled response to unrelenting despair. Using his elbow, he broke the glass cover of the emergency brake housing, grabbed the red lever, and pulled it down as hard as he could. The screeching howl of metal against metal accompanied the sharp jolt of the train car as the brakes took hold. He was thrown against the front of the compartment, his head striking the wall just below the emergency brake lever.

Until the moment he pulled that red lever, his demons were his own; beasts whose only object was to torment him. But with the act of triggering the emergency brake, he unleashed them on a train full of unsuspecting and undeserving people who were about to pay the price for being on board with him. In those awful moments following his selfish act, his demons found their way to one little girl, Manisha,  What they did to her was the reason he lived, his payment for her pain.

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Two Hundred Sixty-Three

The degree of success I enjoyed, relative to other people my age, once mattered to me. I used an external measure, a standard against which I might compare favorably or unfavorably; the variance, positive or negative, was my yardstick. In hindsight, that was such a dangerous thing to have done. I risked my happiness by looking outward at people who, very probably, were doing the very same thing I was doing. None of us even knew what success was, either. It might have been money, prestige, security; but it was none of those things. Success, for me, means being content in the moment, able to keep worries and insecurities about the future at bay.  That’s what it means at this very moment. And, at this instant, I feel absolutely successful.

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An Artistic Community

Last night, my favorite wife and her favorite sister and I drove into Hot Springs to hear a presentation about the structure, style, and components of jazz. The event was held at the Fine Arts Center of Hot Springs (626 Central Avenue). Jay Payette gave a truly interesting and informative presentation. I wish he would teach a class on jazz so I could attend and learn more about the genre. He is extremely knowledgeable, but not pedantic; he knows whereof he speaks and makes a complex subject interesting and easy to digest—what a gift!

Though we were offered a nice selection of hors d’oeuvres and wine and beer, I grousingly did not partake of the latter, thanks to my wife’s insistence that I adhere to the South Beach Diet until I become the tall, svelte man she had hoped to marry. I did make note of the generosity of the hosts, though, so when the diet is history, I can take modest advantage of the offerings.

Following his presentation, the Jay Payette trio (Jay on drums, Chris Parker on keyboards, and David Higginbotham on bass) played some wonderful jazz pieces, including: Kind of Blue, Miles Davis; I Could Write a Book, Miles Davis; Midnight Sun, Lionel Hampton (words later written by Johnny Mercer), and a boatload of others. It was really an enjoyable evening.

I learned of the event (called 3rd Fridays at FAC) at Wednesday Night Poetry earlier in the week, when the Executive Director of the Center, Donna Dunnahoe, made an announcement about it. Last night, I learned that Bud Kenney will be on stage at next month’s event; Bud, the founder of Wednesday Night Poetry, will read from his new book, Footloose in America…

The following month, Peter Lawrence, a singer-songwriter I saw at Wednesday Night Poetry a few weeks ago, will be on stage.

These types of events reinforce my feeling that moving to the Hot Springs area was the right thing for us. At the moment, I’m feeling pretty damn fortunate to live where I do.

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Old Newspaper Clippings

Old newspaper clippings, even those clipped by someone else for reasons unrelated to one’s own experiences, can trigger memories. Well, memories may be the wrong word. Longings may better describe it, though even that’s not quite right. It’s more like a desire to know something that’s missing, something unknowable, something that could have been known had circumstances been different.

A few weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to see what the internet had to say about my mother. She died before the internet came into its own as the source of all knowledge, so I didn’t expect to find anything; I had looked before and came up empty. But this time, I had a few hits, newspaper articles from before I was born. Even the brief, incomplete sketches drawn from those articles gave me a glimpse into the woman who, just a few short years later, would become the center of my life for months and years to come.

She was a woman of the church. I never knew whether that was because it was expected, or because she was a true adherent; perhaps an older sibling or two has a better understanding than I. She was a politically aware person who took education, including community education, seriously. She grieved when friends died.

I knew her as a devoted English teacher who, over the years, tired of the politics of the schoolroom and the principal’s office.  I recall her as a woman who watched in disappointment and anger as the classroom became more and more chaotic and teachers became less and less trusted to educate and, instead, were expected to babysit without ruffling feathers.

I shared very few of my adult years with my mother. She died when I was thirty-three years old, at a time when I spent so much of my time devoted to “making my mark” that I had very little time left to kindle an adult relationship with her.  I had moved from Houston to Chicago less than a year before she died and had not yet returned for the visit I kept promising her.

How might my life have been different if my mother had not died when I was still so young? I won’t know the answer to that question; it’s a pointless question, really, as so many we ask are. But, still, it bobs to the top of mind when I think back on the few things I knew about her and the many things I never did.

These are those short, innocuous clippings that set my mind on a path with no known destination and no known route back to where it started:

March 1, 1949, from the Brownsville Herald

The Wesleyan Service Guild of the First Methodist Church meets at the home of Mrs. J. C. Swinburn, 1307 W. St. Charles. The lesson, ”Hawaii and Its People,” will be under the direction of Mrs. L. G. Mathews.

November 26, 1950, from the Brownsville Herald

Mrs. J. C. Swinburn will be guest speaker at the First Methodist Church at 6:45 p.m. Sunday in the fifth of a series of six family night programs. The local teacher will speak on “Education in Our Community From the Standpoint of the Church Woman.” She will use as source material the information included in the League of Women Voter’s “Know Your Town” pamphlet. Mrs. Swinburn served as resource chairman in the preparation of this publication.

January 15, 1950, from the Brownsville Herald

Among those from Brownsville attending the O. E. Stuart funeral in Harlingen Thursday were Mr. and Mrs. J. C. Swinburn, Mrs. J. G. Philen, Jr., E. M. Bremer, and R. G. Ransome.

Posted in Family, Just Thinking, Memories | 2 Comments

Two Hundred Sixty-Two

I’ve filled the hummingbird feeders four times in the last two days. Each time, I dissolve a cup of sugar in a quart of water and fill the feeders. In no time, those thirsty birds suck up the nectar, the frenzy of their appetite evident in their frenetic flurries and territorial fights that, ultimately, cede space based on passion and aggression. They are tiny, angry people on uppers, people with wings.

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Fulcrum

Fulcrum gazed at the bathroom mirror, marked with water spots and bits of toothpaste flung from his mouth during yesterday’s energetic attempts to brush away the taste of the previous night’s experiment with bourbon and sloe gin.  He stood staring at his reflection, illuminated by an ancient fluorescent tube, whose ballast was crackling and humming. Fulcrum hoped it would last a while longer, just long enough to finish his morning routine. Studying the thin, patchy salt and pepper stubble on his face and searching his brown blood-shot eyes intently for signs of light, he coughed and snarled at his countenance in the glass.

Words that eluded him last night, when he was trying to write the opening paragraph—before the drinking began—finally began filling his head:

There are days you wake up and wish you hadn’t, days that reveal the ugliness that resides where you wish it didn’t.  The bright days fight valiantly against those ugly ones, but  they rarely win.  Some days, the loser wins big.  Some days, the one who should be a winner is beaten senseless, torn apart and left critically wounded on a busy downtown street. 

Though pessimistic and self-prosecutorial to the point of insanity, Fulcrum believed himself to be a writer. Or, at least, he believed he was as capable of writing as he was of doing anything else he had ever done. That seed of belief in himself, a malnourished as it was, had always tipped the scale in favor of living. But this time, the idea of suicide felt different. It felt inescapable, as if taking his own life was as natural as breathing and just as hard to stop without a brutal battle he was destined, ultimately, to lose.

[This keeps popping up on my ‘to be massaged and used someplace’ list, though I don’t know where I’ll use it. Maybe my upcoming writers’ retreat, wherein I will be expected to write,  incessantly, for three days will kick-start this and other stuff I’ve been allowing to languish. I have all these unfinished and unplaced scenes that need homes. That’s the issue; I’ve been doing interior decorating for far too long, failing to recognize that I must first build the damn house.]

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Two Hundred Sixty-One

It’s so damn easy for me to get distracted and, in so doing, to absent-mindedly behave in a way that causes other people to feel I am ignoring them or their feelings. Or, perhaps, the perception is simply that I lack empathy. I understand that. I was on the receiving end of that distraction recently and I felt ignored, as if my emotional discomfort was of no concern to someone who, in hindsight, I feel sure intended nothing of the sort. But my “receiving end” experience was a lesson to me: pay attention to your surroundings, especially the people who might be depending on you for acknowledgement or comfort.

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Illegal Smile

Bottom line, I probably would not turn down an offer of marijuana in the proper circumstances. Yeah, I know. It’s illegal.

That notwithstanding, I wonder where I might get my hands on some? It’s been a long, long time since I’ve partaken of the evil weed. The two or three occasions are in the distant past, mostly in the throes of neglectful and negligent youth, failing to deeply absorb and appreciate the experience. Now, I wonder what it would be like to experience it in the present, with a conscious mind going into it. Polishing the pot in the throes of geezerhood, as it were.

In my view, treating marijuana as an illegal drug is absurd. Nuts. Crazy. Ill-informed. I’ve heard rumors that a guy who used to live in my neighborhood grew his own for pain control purposes.  But he died. (Ach! Was it cannabis poisoning?!) So, NOW where does one go for a sample?

I have absolutely no interest in going to jail, of course. I don’t want to deal in the stuff, you understand, I just want a tiny sample. Hmm, I suspect geezerhood is not the best time of life to start looking to score, you know?

My wife would be deeply unhappy to read that I’m coming dangerously close to soliciting, online. So, be a lamb (as a good friend is apt to say) and don’t tell her.

Ah, I see. Road trip to Colorado. Uh huh. Oregon? Yep. I see. I do enjoy a road trip. I think I might really enjoy a road trip. I remember John Prine’s tune, Illegal Smile. I think I might enjoy an illegal smile.

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NOTICE TO ANY DEA OR POLICE OFFICER READING THIS: I WRITE FICTION. FICTION, I SAY. ASK ANYONE WHO READS WHAT I WRITE. THEY WILL VERIFY MY ASSERTION.

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Two Hundred Sixty

Fight if you feel you must, but understand that battles have consequences, some of which are unintended. Before you enter the fray, weigh the potential for success and failure and consider what those outcomes really mean.

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Two Hundred Fifty-Nine

Lethargy and comfort are to blame, I think. They’re the reasons more of us don’t immerse ourselves in other cultures, if only for a little while, to experience the world from a different angle, a perspective impossible to embrace without effort and risk. We are too comfortable with the tapioca of our lives to allow ourselves to discover the joy of salsa and sushi and smoked salmon on the beach after an early morning run. Some days, we want to shatter the synthetic plastic mask surrounding us. But we lack the energy and the willingness to expose ourselves to the chills or the flashes of heat that might await.

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Misfiring September Synapses

If I were a psychologist, trained in the causes and effects of socio-neural stimulus-response, I might know why so many things happen. I might understand why people’s eyes brim with tears as they remember both horror and beauty. I could possess an intellectual understanding of the attachment between mothers and their babies, fathers and mothers, children and their parents. The rage that manifests itself as murder might be readily explained, had I a well-grounded understanding of psychology.

But, then, I often wonder, is an understanding of cause and effect truly something to seek out? Is mystery—the absence of understanding—a bad thing? Does knowledge always equate to truth? Is there always light awaiting us at that magical moment of enlightenment?

I may not need to go looking, anyway. Bad things are the result of fear and randomness. Fear underlies even the most ghastly behaviors, from murder to bullying to white-collar crime of epic proportions. And good things? I’m musing on it.

 

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Two Hundred Fifty-Eight

I sometimes wonder, when I wake up, what other people are wondering when they wake up. And then I wonder whether they wonder what others are wondering. If they do, we should get together for some sort of reunion.

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Taking Notice

Some days as I amble through my life, I notice people quietly and anonymously doing nice things that deserve appreciation. Things like flipping a mailbox closed to prevent rain from wetting the contents; picking up a home-delivery newspaper from a driveway and flinging it to a front porch; moving a grocery cart in a parking lot to open up a parking space; or picking up a piece of litter off the post office floor.

Those things merit appreciation not because they are significant or impressive in their scope; they are not.  The people and their inconsequential acts warrant gratitude precisely because the deeds are small and almost meaningless and, perhaps most of all, because they are unexpected and the people performing them do not even know they are noticed. It would be absurd to suggest that people who behave in such a way are good people merely for those simple deeds, but I am inclined to think favorably about them until given a reason to do otherwise.

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