Two Hundred Nine

Posted on July 28, 2015 by John Swinburn

Something triggers happiness, the same way something triggers sadness or depression. At some point in the future, the electrochemical triggers will have been throughly researched and understood. Humans will have the capacity to use a remote control, much like the TV remote, in the place of those triggers.  Our brains will be, literally, hard-wired for happiness, but that emotion will be launched by the next generations of bluetooth or wifi technology. Would you want to be there?  Yes, of course you would.

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Schlu

Posted on July 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

The schlu are far more advanced than humans, which is not surprising since they have had far longer for evolution to work its magic. The first schlu traversed the river valleys of their planet ten million years before the first human walked on Earth. Their evolution occurred more rapidly than did humans’ adaptations to Earth, t00, so it might well be argued that they are far beyond ten million years ahead of humans on the evolutionary scale. But, then, comparing human to schlu evolution is akin to comparing apples to orangutans; their paths are so wildly divergent as to be utterly alien to one another.

When we first encountered the schlu, or rather when they first encountered us, we were both entranced and terrified. A deep space mission launched in late 2124 had traveled more than two billion miles by early 2135 when the flight crew observed what they described as “a thick membrane, appearing to be some type of waxy substance, forming around the craft.”

We know now the “membrane” was some sort of packaging material, preparing the spacecraft for interdimensional travel.  Without it, the craft and all aboard would have been vaporized instantly as the schlu transferred the mission module twenty-eight billion miles deeper into the galaxy to their planet. Light would take forty-one hours to travel that distance, but interdimensional travel allowed the ship and its occupants to arrive at the destination, for all intents and purposes, at the same time they left.

Major Evester Holmantrout was the author of the “thick membrane” message to the earth base and the commander of the mission. He was the one who first attempted to communicate with the schlu, once the ship had been deposited on the surface of the planet. Though by schlu measures, his communications were crude and undeveloped, the schlu were able to understand him.  Making him understand them was a more difficult task. Their communications consist not only of making sounds, but altering their body temperature in ways that are sensed by other schlu.  A third component, with emitting light from translucent globes above their eyes, added to the complexity.

To give you some sense of the difficulty Homantrout had in understanding the schlu, consider this. A specific sound that we might hear as “bubble,” coupled with a lowering of body temperature and emitting dim blue light from the globes, might be a schlu concept for “friend.”  But that same sound and same dim blue light, when combined with a slight elevation in temperature, might be a schlu communication meaning “nearest star.”

[THIS COULD GET COMPLEX, FAST. AND IT COULD GIVE ME A COMPLEX, FAST. WHICH IS A SUGGESTION THAT I MIGHT BE ABLE TO LOSE WEIGHT, IF I JUST FAST.]

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Two Hundred Eight

Posted on July 27, 2015 by John Swinburn

The discovery of Kepler-452b is just one in a string of discoveries that support my contention that there is life on other planets. It’s not so much a belief as it is an assumption grounded in statistical probabilities. The sheer number of stars and planets, coupled with the fact that we know, with certainty, there is life of Earth, suggests we are not alone in the universe. I wonder how religions would respond if irrefutable evidence for life on other planets were to emerge?

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Out to Sea

Posted on July 26, 2015 by John Swinburn

Two men walked side by side, along a cold, windswept path, never saying a word to one another. Occasionally, when a dried Russian thistle tumbleweed rolled across the deserted highway in front of them, they exchanged glances, but no words were spoken. After ten miles, they came to sign on the path, a mile marker that read: “Pretoria: 160 KM.”

“What the hell! This is not good!”

The other man looked at his vocal friend, but said nothing for a long time. They continued walking. Finally, he spoke.

“Well, we’re surely in remote territory, but that’s what we were after, isn’t is? We have ample provisions. Our feet will hurt by the time we get there, but it could be worse. Just imagine how far we’d have to go if we were on our way to Edinburgh of the Seven Seas.”

“All right, I’ll bite. What and where is Edinburgh of the Seven Seas?”

“It’s the main settlement on the island of Tristan da Cunha, which is in Saint Helena, Ascension and Tristan da Cunha. It’s a British Overseas Territory and it’s the most remote human settlement in the world. It’s a bitch to get there. I went as a passenger on a cargo ship; took us six-days to get there from Capetown.

“Only 275 people live there and no new settlers are permitted. An interesting bit of trivia about the place is that there are only seven surnames on the island: Glass, Green, Hagan, Lavarello, Repetto, Rogers and Swain. I picked that up while I was having a pint at the Albatross Bar. And they have a newspaper, the Tristan Times.”

The other man’s eyes betrayed annoyance with the conversation.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Edinburgh of the Ocean and its newspaper, Charlie. How do you figure we have ample provisions to get to Pretoria? I’ve only two and a half bottles of water and maybe three packets crackers in my knapsack. Are you carrying a fifty-gallon drum of water I don’t know about?”

“Well, I have more water than you do! I told you to bring plenty of water and togo easy on drinking it, that we’d need it. But don’t sweat it. We can collect more when we camp this evening. If we make twenty miles a day, we’ll get there in five days.”

“Shit, Charlie, we should have taken the R511 from Thabazimbi! We could have hitched a ride and been there by now.”

“I thought you were an adventurer, Nick. C’mon, it’ll be fine!  This trek is part of what makes it fun!”

[TRYING TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT WHICH I KNOW VIRTUALLY NOTHING. I THINK IT SHOWS; THE “FACTS” SHARED NEED TO BE DROPPED IN, BIT BY BIT, INSTEAD OF FLOODING IN AS I’VE DONE. THERE’S MORE, BUT I NEED TO REWORK WHERE THEY ARE, HOW LONG THEY’VE BEEN WALKING, ETC. CHARLIE WILL CONVINCE NICK TO GO WITH HIM TO EDINBURGH OF THE SEVEN SEAS, WHERE, WHILE THEY ARE THERE, THE FIRST RAPE AND THE FIRST MURDER IN THE HISTORY OF THE ISLAND WILL TAKE PLACE.]

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Two Hundred Seven

Posted on July 26, 2015 by John Swinburn

Be alone with yourself and take an honest assessment of who you are. You need not share the assessment with anyone, but be prepared to use it to help you become the person you want to be tomorrow.

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Breaking Point

Posted on July 25, 2015 by John Swinburn

Last night, I reached a breaking point. I decided to redirect the energies I have heretofore devoted to my local writing club to something that might better satisfy my needs. I have wanted to talk about writing, to explore writing, to orchestrate writing retreats, and to do other things designed to improve my writing skills and the skills of those around me who share my interests.  Instead, I have shuffled my feet while trying to push an all volunteer body to do things it wasn’t prepared to do. So, pardon my French, screw it. I will do on my own the things I could not get the “organization” to do.

I have appreciated the critique group, immensely; but beyond that, my efforts have felt like I’m wading through brown sugar awash in molasses. The interest is there, but the commitment is not. I don’t want to wait until next year or even next month; if we decide to act, let’s effing ACT!

There are few people I’d call serious writers among the group. That’s a problem. A bigger problem is that some of the serious writers act as if they have a thousand years to get things done. We’re a geezerhood; we have limited time! So, I’m on my own.  I will announce my decision to sever most, if not all, ties very soon. I won’t be held back by people who are slogging through molasses, by god!

My mood, as I write this, is not as charitable as I’d like it to be.  But that’s the real world, isn’t is? That’s what we write about, isn’t it? We acknowledge the bullshit in the paths we follow and we unceremoniously kick it out of the way.

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Two Hundred Six

Posted on July 25, 2015 by John Swinburn

Where does one draw the line between right and wrong? While it may be wrong to covet they neighbor’s wife (if one happens to be a devotee of the Ten Commandments), is that sin applicable when said “sin” occurs only in one’s dreams? And, then, can a dream (over which I assume one has little or no control) be wrong?  Can one’s consciousness and the reality buried beneath layer upon layer of unconscious experience be considered to be one and the same? The concept of sin is outdated. But something must take its place or we will drown in our own freedoms.

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Driving in Lieu of Writing

Posted on July 24, 2015 by John Swinburn

In lieu of writing another post this morning, I am driving to Memphis with my wife. There, we will go to Costco and engage in other forms of entertainment. If I’m so possessed later in the day, after we return home, I will write more here. Otherwise, I will write more here tomorrow.  But, in the interest of snarcofulating (a neologism that just seems to fit this fine Friday morning) the creative juices, let me just write this:

He looked at the picture, taken forty-three years earlier. The face of the man in the photo was earnest and angry, the furrows in his brows testament to youthful passion, his raised fist punctuated the devotion to his cause, whatever it was so very long ago.

Raising his eyes to the mirror, Camber saw a different man, a defeated man who had grown comfortable with his shame. He mulled it over in his mind. What was it that snuffed that flame? How did that rage die? How did the bravado and that steadfast commitment to justice turn to spilled soup, so easily wiped away with dirty rags?

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Two Hundred Five

Posted on July 24, 2015 by John Swinburn

Some occasions in my youth were moments I’d rather forget, but cannot. I was a miserable bastard at times, a guy whose empathy and sympathy were buried beneath a veneer of idiotic bravado. I don’t know that you can ever truly overcome the person you allowed yourself to be.

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Breakfast

Posted on July 23, 2015 by John Swinburn

Why is it that we have a limited palette when it comes to breakfast? I mentioned something I’d find interesting for breakfast in today’s Ruminations, but I think I’m in the minority in finding “routine” breakfasts boring.  Despite my distaste for routine breakfasts, I find myself partaking of them regularly because my wife is like most other people I know; she is satisfied with a limited menu for breakfast. Granted, she tolerates my interest in breakfast around the world, but only on a limited basis. While I could have something utterly different every day, she is satisfied with scrambled egg substitute, turkey bacon, and a glass of tomato juice, sometimes accompanied by a bit of fruit. That’s fine, but it has the makings of boredom in the extreme. Aside from my concern that turkey bacon may well be far worse for my health than the real deal, eggs that have been chemically and mechanically modified to remove the “cholesterol component” are deadly dull.

Yesterday, we had leftover frikadellers, a Danish dish that I find immensely appealing. But today, it’s back to the old standby. And that’s what most people seem to consume for breakfast. Whether it’s toast and bacon, a breakfast bar, bacon and eggs, or something else, most people (at least most with whom I’ve had the breakfast conversation) seem to have a very limited breakfast menu. Why do we do that to ourselves when we would not long tolerate, unless forced, having the same damn thing every day for lunch or dinner?

Is it that we don’t have, or won’t take, the time to prepare a more varied breakfast in the morning? Or are we, collectively, so deadly dull that eating the same thing for breakfast, day in and day out, actually satisfies our ‘hunger’ for variety?

If I could, I’d have something different for breakfast every day of the month. I guess I could, but that would mean I’d have to fix two breakfasts; I would be willing to do that for awhile, but I suspect my tolerance for doubling the work would not last. So, I will just put up with the boring crap that is, most days, on the regular menu.

 

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Two Hundred Four

Posted on July 23, 2015 by John Swinburn

Goat cheese, fresh figs cut in half, and a couple of slices of ripe pear. That would make a  good breakfast, but it would be great as an hors d’ouevre later in the day, accompanied by a bit of dry sherry, perhaps  Tio Pepe brand. So, there you have it.

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Intellectual Indignation

Posted on July 22, 2015 by John Swinburn

Last night, I watched a program on PBS that made me rethink some of my progressive ideologies. Not change, mind you , but rethink.  Change may be in the offing, but not yet; not until I assess what I saw and, perhaps, watch it again. The program, Humanity from Space, gave me reason to think about my demands that we “fix” what we’ve been ruining for all these hundreds, no, thousands of years.

Humanity has made remarkable advances. Stunning stuff. Things that have changed the lives on this planet in spectacular ways. Especially human lives. What amazing changes have taken place just in the last 125 years. Cars. Air travel. Widespread electricity. Oil. Internal combustion engines. Wind turbines. Unbelievable.

It occurred to me, while watching the program, that every “solution” we have created to the problems facing humankind has come with its own set of problems. It has arrived with promise, but with exceptional challenges. And that made me think: when we cry for new solutions to energy, we don’t long express support and appreciation for wind energy before we start complaining (perhaps legitimately) that wind turbines kill migratory birds. We want to eliminate coal power plants, but the nuclear solution is worse. We want progress and we want to give every living human access to water, power, education, etc., but the demand those benefits create cause more pollution, waste, etc.  Humanity is too much. But it’s not enough.

We don’t give ourselves enough credit for our own solutions. Granted, some of them are horrible, but they are solutions. Rather than attack them, every one of them, I suggest we should express appreciation and then look for alternatives, not condemn the solutions and the people who created them.

I have grown to hate politics for the same reason.  Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.

I feel a swarm of intellectual indignation welling up in my throat. I may have to write it all out in the next day or two. Or maybe not.

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Two Hundred Three

Posted on July 22, 2015 by John Swinburn

We humans have accomplished things I find almost impossible to comprehend. The degree of intelligence, creativity, and drive required to get us where we are is beyond anything I could ever have imagined. I wonder, though, whether our creative intellectual drive will be capable of solving the problems our successes have hatched. I am a pessimist in that regard.But I do hope I’m wrong.

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That’s Some Spicy Chicken

Posted on July 21, 2015 by John Swinburn

A few years ago, I asked the doctor who was then my cardiologist to comment on peri-peri sauce.  The cardiologist, you see, was from South Africa. I had just had my first taste of peri-peri sauce, purchased from a British specialty shop in Grapevine, Texas, and wondered whether it was “the real thing.” He suggested I visit a Nando’s Peri-Peri outlet in the Washington, DC area at the next opportunity to taste what he considered the real deal. He had no idea whether what I bought was the real deal or not. Later, I bought Nando’s brand peri-peri sauce; my original purchase was the real deal, as well.

I have yet to visit Nando’s, but I learned today the chain, which has a significant presence in Wsahington, DC, Maryland, Virginia, has launched in Illinois, with two restaurants in the Chicago area.  I have, though, tasted Nando’s peri-peri sauce and have compared it to the stuff I bought at the British market. The differences are inconsequential.  The real differences are within the two brands; one can buy mild, hot, or extra hot. Neither brand’s extra hot is particularly hot, not painfully so.  Thus, I would recommend the extra hot.

Somewhere along the line I stumbled across peri-peri powder, a ground version of the pepper used to make the sauce.  It’s hot, but not nuclear.  Yet I don’t know quite how to use it.  Peri-peri chicken is the South African favorite (or, depending on where you look, it might be a Portuguese favorite that’s made with South African peppers); I haven’t tried the ground peri-peri with chicken, but I shall. I’m just waiting for the perfect opportunity.

As I was exploring Nando’s, I discovered the chain has locations in Australia, Canada, Malaysia, Singapore, South Africa, the UK, and the aforementioned USA sites. Actually, I discovered that quite some time ago. The correct term is, I suppose, is rediscovered. I wonder when Nando’s will find its way to Hot Springs or Little Rock or Dallas or Memphis?

By the way, I want to buy an electric smoker. And when I do, I will use some of my ground peri-peri on the chicken I smoke. And you will be jealous. Do not feel bad, though. You are invited to come try my first batch. When can I expect you?  I need to get the guest room ready.

 

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Two Hundred Two

Posted on July 21, 2015 by John Swinburn

If you allow yourself to break free of the bonds that hold you back from accomplishing things you can only dream of, you can be and do more than you hoped. You can propel yourself well beyond your dreams; you can enter the rare atmosphere within which you can perform actual magic.

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Mint and Lamb

Posted on July 20, 2015 by John Swinburn

The aroma of crushed mint leaves clings to the bowl,
bringing with it a flood of memories of childhood.

I remember when I was introduced to lamb, gradually, with
little lamb patties surround by ample dollops of mint jelly.
As I grew older, the jelly was replaced by mint leaves, shredded
and mixed with water and sugar and vinegar.

It wasn’t long before the volume of mint with my lamb began
to decline until, finally, I didn’t need nor even want mint.
Lamb was fine all by itself. I was an adult.

Why, I wonder, does the smell of mint still seem so close,
so recent, so personal? Ah, it’s the mojitos.

When I no longer needed mint for my lamb, I needed it for my rum.
But, still, I want my lamb, my grown-up food that carries with it
the full experience of childhood. Lamb with mojitos, the perfect
collaboration between youth and old age, the merger of then and now.

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All Over the Map

Posted on July 20, 2015 by John Swinburn

This morning, finally, I will see a primary care physician for a physical.  My last physical was in December 2013, if memory serves me correctly. I intend, always, to get annual physicals, but intentions cannot buy rainbows. Or something along those lines.

Actually, I’ve had more visits with doctors of late than I’d like. I’ve been to see an ophthalmologist twice since the beginning of the year. The first time was for what I believed to be a flare-up of map-dot fingerprint dystrophy that turned out, instead, to be an early-onset cataract in my right eye.  The second time was for a follow-up and to schedule the removal of said cataract, which will take place next month, followed by removal of the one in the other eye shortly thereafter.

On the good news side, my sister is coming to visit for a week at the end of August.  And I began reading a new book last night, Everything I Never Told You, by Celeste Ng. Oh, and I suppose I should acknowledge the prospect of much better vision in short order.

This morning, I’ve spent time reading about murder at sea, courtesy of an article in the New York Times, and about a paper written by a Canadian professor of psychology who created a writing assignment that changes lives.

Earlier this morning, just after I got up, I read an answer to a question on Quora, describing the “T box,” an area of the face which, according to the author, if struck by a bullet of any calibre, will result in instant death.  Morbid stuff, that, as was the piece on murder at sea, captured on video.

My creative juices are languishing this morning, but I hope they’ll be in full bloom by the time I get to the “What’s Next” Personal Interest Group (PIG) meeting this afternoon to talk about processes and plans to get one’s books published.

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Two Hundred One

Posted on July 20, 2015 by John Swinburn

The world folds in on itself and swallows everything you were, all you hoped to be. In place of the person you planned, a new one will grow. Your old experiences and the places they led you will become nourishment for the clean slate from which you will soon spring. Don’t lose this second chance; don’t let it slip by the way you squandered that first spectacular opportunity.

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Exercise in Hopelessness

Posted on July 19, 2015 by John Swinburn

What would you call it?  A daydream? A fantasy?  I don’t know. Whatever you call it, though, I think all of us, every one of us, should have one.  I suspect it won’t be comfortable. In fact, it might be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of our lives. God, that’s probably an understatement. It might be far worse than uncomfortable.  It could be—probably will be—one of the most terrifying ‘experiences’ of our lives.

Here’s what I want you to do. Imagine yourself living through this experience; every second of it.

A sound awakens you at 3:00 a.m.  It might be loud knocks on the front door or maybe it’s the doorbell. The noise is loud, sharp, jarring.  You hear it for fifteen seconds before it finally registers with you, before it finally wakes you up. Your heart races. A thousand thoughts rush through your brain. Is someone trying to break in? Who would be banging on my door at this hour? Is it the police, coming to give me bad news about an accident?  What in the hell is it?!

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, slide your feet into a pair of slippers, stand up, and grab a robe hanging behind the bedroom door.  You turn on the hall light and shuffle to the front door, calling out “Who’s there?” as you flip the light switch for the front porch light.

“Police! Open up!”

“What? What is it?  What do you want at this hour?”

“Open the door! It’s the police. We need to talk to you.”

Looking through the peep hole on the door, you seen four uniformed officers.

“Can I see some ID, please?”

“We’ll show you our ID when you open the door! Now open up, please!”

When you open the door, the officers do not show you ID. Instead, they take you by your arms, twirl you around, pull your arms behind your back and place you in handcuffs.

“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”

“What’s going on? What do you think I’ve done?” You can feel the fear rising in you. Something very ugly is happening. You’re unsure why these officers are at your door, why they have placed you in handcuffs, why they have read you the Miranda warning.

The officers remain unmoved by your pleas. “You’ll find out more when the detectives talk to you.”

Finally, at the station, where you’ve been placed in a small interrogation room, a detective comes in.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No! I’ve been asking and they won’t tell me anything! I didn’t do anything! I think I need a lawyer!”

“That’s your right. But if you insist on talking to a lawyer, it’s going to drag this thing out longer than it needs to go on. I won’t be able to ask you any questions I need to ask you and we’ll just have to put you in a cell until you can be arraigned.”

“Arraigned for what! What the hell did I do?”

“Do you want to talk to talk to me or do you want a lawyer?  You can’t have it both ways. I’ll explain why you’re here, but only if we can have a conversation. If  you insist on a lawyer, I’m prohibited from explaining everything to you.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to you long enough to know what it is you think I did. But then I’m going to want to have a lawyer in here.”

“Fair enough. Here’s the deal. Your next door neighbor was killed a few hours ago. His wife says you did it, says you came in the front door with a baseball bat and beat him to death. That’s why you’re here.  So, why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do it! I don’t know anything about that! I didn’t know he was dead! This is just surreal. Why would she say I did it? If she’s claiming I did it, she must have done it to protect herself!”

“If she did it, why did we find a bloody bat in your garage? Why were your bloody fingerprints on the front door of their house?”

“I have no idea! She must have put it there. And it’s impossible that my bloody fingerprints were on the front door of their house. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.”

No, it wasn’t you. But that doesn’t matter. The evidence, every manufactured bit of evidence, says it was you. You, absolutely innocent of the crime, are in the early stages of a frame-up that will place you behind bars for the rest of your natural life. You feel this. You know this to be true. This is a dream that doesn’t stop.

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 2 Comments

Two Hundred

Posted on July 19, 2015 by John Swinburn

Poetry can utter thoughts one dare not say aloud, nor commit to prose, because poetry is a language of suggestion, interpretation, influence. “It means what it means to you” or “It means what you want it to mean.” That vague avoidance of assigning meaning to words is generally applied to lyrics of songs, but it applies to poetry as well. Poetry can address what may be a cowardly need to say something without accepting responsibility for it. That is, poets, and songwriters, can distance themselves from the genesis of words and lyrics until sufficiently able to observe and interpret external responses to them. One might hope that’s a rarity and that most poets and songwriters are not cowards. I don’t know; I have no way to measure it.

I’m not suggesting what I have written is true, only that it’s plausible. And I can deny believing what I’ve written, because I have plausible deniability.

Posted in Language, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

My Father’s Birthday

Posted on July 18, 2015 by John Swinburn

Dad was fifty years old when I was born; he was born on July 18, 1903. Were he alive today, he would be one hundred twelve years old. But he died in February 1985 at the age of eighty-one, when I was just thirty-one years old. It’s a bit hard to comprehend that I’ve lived half my life without my father. I’ve gotten used to it. I celebrate his birthday every year, anyway, by trying to dredge up a few memories from half a lifetime ago.

Posted in Aging, Family | 4 Comments

Mistakes Were Made

Posted on July 18, 2015 by John Swinburn

I don’t know whether to be angry at WordPress for losing what I wrote before I was able to save it or at my computer for contributing to the loss. Or, perhaps, at myself for being lazy and relying on the reliability of WordPress to look out for me, rather than creating the post in Word to start. Some people would say I should be angry at nothing and no one, that anger is an ugly and hurtful emotion. I am among “some” people, but in competitions between knowledge and emotion, emotion generally has the upper hand and a sharper tongue.

The problem with losing something I’ve written is that what I write tends to flow from my brain to the page without leaving a copy for later reference.  If I write something I think it particularly insightful or if I find the structure of a particular sentence or paragraph especially appealing, I’d better save it quickly on the page because it won’t be available in my head for long.

Two days running, after I finished writing the day’s post, I tried to post it only to discover there was “a problem.” The draft did not automatically save as it should and, when I hit the “submit” button, it went somewhere never to return. No amount of “undo” or “go back” or anything else I tried recovered the lost words. They are gone forever.

Fortunately, I think anyone reading this post will survive the trauma, as will I. But, having experienced it twice, I believe I have learned a lesson. Either write in Word from the outset or, at the very least, copy and paste into Word before hitting “submit.”

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One Hundred Ninety-Nine

Posted on July 18, 2015 by John Swinburn

I just read a piece from the New York Magazine entitled The Hard Truths of Ta-Nehisi Coates. It is the sort of thing one should not read early in the morning if one expects the rest of the day, and perhaps the rest of one’s life, to be cheery and full of optimism. Coates’ arguments that structural racism is and always has been and probably always will be firmly entrenched in America are like punches to the gut. But they are, I am afraid, legitimate punches. They are punches launched from years of experience and years of analyzing that experience. I wonder whether, collectively, whites and blacks can ever overcome that intractable reality that Coates suggests continues to permeate our social and political structures. After having read just the New York Magazine piece and not having read Coates’ book, Between the World and Me, I reluctantly tend to think he’s right.

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One Hundred Ninety-Eight

Posted on July 17, 2015 by John Swinburn

Some days, I cannot stop myself. I shake and shudder, wondering what the hell I did to deserve to live in this time, to receive all the bounty that I—none of us—ever deserved. It’s stunning, really. This charmed life in which I am mostly happy, mostly content, usually able to complain about things utterly without merit, is by itself a suggestion that my devout atheism is based on improbability.  But, then, I wake up and realize it’s all circumstance. It is. But what  absolutely joyous mistakes! I love realizing I live in a bubble of astonishing improbabilities.

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Life Through Poetry

Posted on July 16, 2015 by John Swinburn

Last night, we went to Kollective Coffee in downtown Hot Springs. The primary purpose was for me to meet with a woman to discuss the possibility of her speaking to our local writers’ group. But, since I was going to be there and yesterday was Wednesday, I thought I’d like to stay for Wednesday Night Poetry, a Hot Springs institution since 1989. Last night was the one thousand, three hundred seventy second (1372nd) consecutive Wednesday Night Poetry event, I learned  while listening to the emcee, Bud Kenny.  I also learned that Bud Kenny has written and just published a book entitled “Footloose In America: Dixie to Maine.” Being the curious sort, I checked in out online.  It’s available through Amazon.

The book details the journey he and his wife, Patricia, and their mule, Della, undertook between 2001 and 2008.  They walked from Hot Springs, Arkansas to the coast of Maine, stopping along the way to winter in Indiana, and New York. Subsequently, they walked to, and wintered in, Massachusetts and a different spot in New York.

Bud was a founder of Wednesday Night Poetry and owned the Poet’s Loft, where WNP was held for a number of years.

Since I would be there, I decided to take some poems I’d written for the “open mic” segment of the program.  I read two poems.  After the Feature Poet’s set ended, we got up to leave and Bud approached me and asked if I’d be interested in being a Feature Poet sometime soon. I said I had already been Feature Poet once, last year; he said that doesn’t matter: would you be interested in doing it again? He wanted me there three weeks from last night, which won’t work for me, but I said I could be available later. He asked me to email him dates I’d be able to read. And so I will.

Over a late dinner of pizza at Angel’s, just up the street, my wife suggested I might want to invite Bud to speak to our writers’ group.  Brilliant!  Why didn’t I think of that? Well, she did, and that’s what’s important.  And so, when I send him my available dates, I’ll inquire as to his availability, as well.

Life, brought to you through the serendipity of poetry.

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