John Swinburn

Mi novia is extending a kindness to someone who needs help this morning, so I will drive myself to visit the oncologist for today’s chemo-treatment. If I felt the need, I could ask any of several friends who have offered to help when needed, but I feel just fine this morning and should for a day or longer. The negative side effects of today’s treatment, if any, will not commence for at least a day or two. Today’s chemo will consist of replacing the two most recent treatment drugs with two different ones. Their side-effects, on paper, seem similar to previous poisons, so I have an inkling of what to expect. Yesterday was the first day in quite a while that I haven’t napped during  the day (but I did go to bed earlier than normal). My attitudes about my cancer bounce around between acceptance, resignation, disappointment, anger, depression, and combinations thereof. If the treatments could promise (or even make possible) a cure, I might add hopefulness to the list. But the aim of prolonging life with sufficient quality to make it worthwhile helps. I have read that many people live with lung cancer for many, many years. Even those with Stage IV lung cancer sometimes live for several years after diagnosis. I expect a “re-staging” sometime before long, after more CT scans and/or PET scans. If meditation could clear cancer from my thoughts, I might dive into it with a vengeance.

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A Google search for guided meditation yield roughly 53.8 million results. By removing the qualifier, guided, expands the search results to an astonishing 691 million. Reintroducing guided and adding another qualifier, hypnotic, reduces the count of results to a still-unmanageable 549,000. Clearly, the information available through these various keyword searches is overwhelming. I’ll have to find another way to expand my knowledge…if, that is, I am sufficiently motivated to pursue that intellectual and/or emotional growth in this corner of my life.

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I was on my second of two trips to Dubrovnik, Croatia—about eleven years after the first—that I first heard about official responses to the chaos of over-tourism. While the first trip was mostly business, I had a few opportunities to stroll through the streets of the old city. Plenty of tourists wandered about. But the limited crowds made the town seem lively, not crowded. Eleven years later, though, I was among the throngs of tourists who clogged the streets. The vast majority of them (but not I) arrived via cruise ship. I remember learning that the city’s mayor recently had informed the cruise ship lines of upcoming changes in tourism policy: that the number of ships arriving and the number of passengers allowed to disembark soon would be restricted. And I learned that the city had begun sounding sirens or horns prior to ship arrivals to alert citizens…to give them an opportunity to vacate tourist areas if they wished to avoid choking crowds.

During the past year or so, I have read a number of news stories about popular tourist destinations—especially in Europe—taking action to control over-tourism. Venice, for example, according to an article on Euronews.com, “…has restricted tour group sizes as part of its mission to regulate huge crowds and improve local life. Venice has banned tour guides from using megaphones and limited their groups to 25 people.” The city also has prohibited cruise ships from entering the Venice lagoon. Rome prohibits sitting on the famed Spanish Steps, among many other prohibitions designed to minimize the crushing impact of over-tourism. A July 23 article on Reuters.com says, “Last month, Barcelona pledged to shut all short-term lets by 2028 to contain soaring rental prices for residents. And earlier this month, images of an anti-tourism protest went viral after a few protesters used water guns to spray tourists amid growing rallies against mass tourism in Spain.” Just this morning, I read an article on BBC.com about a proposed 5% tourist tax for Edinburgh, Scotland. While the proposed tax ostensibly is not designed to discourage tourism (rather, authorities claim, it is intended to fund improvement of public spaces), it responds to concerns exacerbated by tourism.

Tourism is a both a blessing and a curse. The revenue from tourism is vital to the economic vitality of many, many places around the world. But, as more and more people have both the time and the money to travel, tourism can take an enormous toll on those very places. Residents must cope with throngs of people whose presence sometimes is offensive and damaging. Crowds get so large and unwieldy that the inherent appeal of a growing number of tourist attractions is becoming overwhelmed by the crush.  Some of the solutions that immediately come to my mind are, on second thought, unfair and unrealistic. Others would be horrendously expensive and, perhaps, unworkable. One idea, though, while expensive to implement, might be worth exploring: 3-D experiential theaters. Rather than traveling to Norway’s and Sweden’s furthest northern reaches to see the Aurora Borealis and Lapland reindeer, a spherical theater with surround-sound and precise environmental control (e.g., temperatures, odors, wind, etc.) could provide a near-real experience. Admittedly not the same as an actual experience, of course, but far less hassle. And a portion of the fees collected from the experience could be funneled back to subject cities/regions/countries.

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Damn! It’s already 8:30! How could I have been sitting at my desk for so long? I do not understand how time can put me in a trance for so long.

Suddenly, my Facebook feed is awash in commercial posts/advertisements offering (for a fee) advice and support for people with lung cancer. I suspect I recently must have opened a random post about lung cancer. That would have led Facebook‘s sophisticated algorithms to determine I am a candidate sucker, who’s willing to part with my money in return for a misguided hope that whatever the advertiser is selling will wipe away my cancer. I understand how people—even people who are not easily misled—can be manipulated by fear to grasp at straws. I loathe people whose lust for money is so consuming that it overcomes any shred of human decency they might once have had.

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Finally, after months and months of trying to justify my inexcusable delays, I gathered and organized the materials necessary to complete my 2023 Federal and State tax returns. The process took very little time, inasmuch as I maintain files for that purpose throughout the year. Yet it is easy to procrastinate, even when the only identifiable product of my procrastination is anxiety. The ease with which one can get an extension from the April 15 (plus or minus) deadline to mid-October is partly to blame; why NOT put it off, when getting an extension is so easy? My next step is to deliver my tax materials to an accountant for filing—I cheerfully pay someone else to argue with the IRS on my behalf in the event any part of my tax return is challenged. I cannot imagine, though, any legitimate reason for a challenge.

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When I look in the mirror these days, I see a bald man. Despite what some men without hair might tell you, bald-headed men do not automatically look sexy. In order to look sexy, I am pretty sure their facial features, their skin tones, and the rest of their bodies must pair well with their cranial shininess. The rest of us have an exaggerated appreciation for hats and caps, though at some point we just say “screw it” and ignore the fact that our naked heads do not seem to match our bodies. I have a growing appreciation for women who, having lost some or all of their hair, opt to avoid trying to hide the tops of their heads. My late wife, whose scalp never fully recovered from her chemo-induced alopecia, did not completely embrace the fact that her post-cancer hair was extremely thin—but after the initial shock, she did not try to hide it. Her attitude was, I think, “it is what it is.” Whether that is simple resignation or bravery or courage, I have enormous respect for that perspective. I think women have a much tougher time with alopecia than do men, thanks to societal attitudes. Because baldness is so much more common among men than women, the experience is much less traumatic for men. That’s the way I see it, at any rate.

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I remember blowing soap bubbles as a kid. Thinking of that this morning makes me want to do it again.

Most of my life, my hands have looked like the chubby, pudgy hands of a child. Neither bones nor tendons nor veins were visible beneath their plump skin. I cannot recall precisely when the appearance of my hands began to change; I know only that the changes began to take hold sometime in my sixties. Finally, after decades, the back of my palms began to lose their chunky look. Veins became increasingly visible. I could see tendons that, previously, had been hidden beneath fleshy layers of skin and muscle. I remember being pleased when my hands started to lose their unnaturally youthful appearance. But the transformation from a child’s hands to the clutches of an old man took place surprisingly fast. Too fast. Almost overnight, I saw myself change from a maturing teenager to a fossilizing, post-middle-aged, man. Somehow, I missed young adulthood and middle-age; even the encroachment of the golden years crept by unnoticed. Suddenly, my hands reveal that the greater part of my lifetime has surreptitiously inched past. Electricity can be stored and retrieved; no battery yet exists to store time. Time is a precious commodity lost forever if not transformed into accomplishment. The appearance of one’s hands hint at the story of one’s life, but only deep self-reflection can divulge whether the tale is one of achievement or decay.

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A few years ago, I wrote a short story that was included in an anthology of the work of writers with a connection to Corpus Christi, Texas. If not for the fact that the publisher (William Mays) was so accommodating, I would not have bothered to submit my story. Mays occasionally posts links to my story (and others) on his Facebook page.  Here is a link to my story, On Open Water, for anyone who wants to know about the kind of things I used to write—before I turned my attention to empty words.

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Today’s news stories could have been written a week ago. Or a year ago. Or sometime shortly after the Civil War. Even the most exciting news of late is dull; it carves slabs of disinterest into thin slices of detachment. There are no calories in detachment—only massive doses of rancid sugar and enough carbohydrates to fill all the oceans of Earth. Rancid sugar, by the way, is calorie-free. Eating it is like swallowing fish hooks in the hope of having halibut for dinner. Sometimes, irrationality is the only salvation.

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I have never owned a shotgun, nor a 9mm pistol. While I am admitting to a poverty of weapons, I do not and have not owned a nuclear weapon, either. But I have owned automobiles and knives and I have had ready access to stainless steel wire suitable for use as a garrote. All of those instruments can be used to commit murder and for self-defense. The same is true for a shovel. And, when employed carefully, a stick of dynamite. The world is extraordinarily complex. So are we all.

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When shafts of sunlight shine on pine trees, clumps of pine needles sometimes are illuminated so that they appear to be still-shots of lime-green explosions. My perception of that scene would be far easier to share if I could paint what I see, rather than try and fail to describe it.

The sounds of high winds and heavy rains confirmed that we were experiencing the effects of a powerful squall. Darkness, though, prevented us from seeing tree trunks bend and limbs twist in response. Lacking the ability to see what was happening in the forest around us, we retreated into what I have decided to call the Entertainment Sector, AKA the TV room. There, we continued our tradition of watching the Shetland series on BritBox. Later, throughout the night, thunder and lightning and the sound of howling winds reminded me of the storm assailing the forest. I pictured frightened animals cowering beneath any shelter they could find. I felt undeservedly safe and dry, with just a sheet over me to provide just enough warmth to balance the coolness of the air conditioning. When I got up this morning around 5, evidence of last night’s storm—distant thunder and flashes of blue light—suggested the event was not yet finished. And when I began typing a while ago, the electricity flickered just long enough to plunge the house into darkness and to shut down my computer. Despite the on-again, off-again flicker of the lamp in my study, my computer has remained operational ever since I rebooted it. Now, around 6:30, I can see pieces of the dimly-lit sky through the trees outside my window. The tree branches are almost still. The wind is no longer howling. A notice from the property owners’ association a short while ago advised caution in venturing out, saying tree limbs and electric power lines may be blocking roadways. A message posted by an acquaintance several hours ago on Facebook called attention to power outages and hazardous road conditions throughout the area. When the light of day is sufficient, I will try to determine whether there is any significant damage to the forest surrounding the house. What I will do if I find evidence of damage is questionable. What will the animals—those that cowered in fear overnight—do if they encounter damage to their forest homes? They do not have the option of calling Animal Services for assistance. No matter. The forest will heal.

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Sleep may not cure anxiety or depression but it can mask or muffle those maladies for awhile. Consciousness, which amplifies the effects of emotional trauma, provides collection points for stress. And it offers pathways for stress to maneuver its way throughout the body, spilling out of its home in the brain to the extremities and the body’s core. To that extent, consciousness should be considered a facilitator for stress and its brethren. Sleep, on the other hand, should be considered either a passive weapon against stress or an addictive, narcotic-like, analgesic. Addiction to sleep, then, may be a symptom of emotional trauma. If that is true, then what is insomnia—a sign of emotional resilience? There may be something wrong with the logic employed in the classification of sleep as symptomatic of trauma. I ache for more sleep; I may nap before long, if for no other reason than to clear my mind of shattered light bulbs and smoldering evidence that arson is akin to fascination with solar flares.

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There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.

~ Federico Fellini ~

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Muscles are strengthened through use. I wonder—seriously—whether electrical stimulation of the nerves, which in turn can cause muscles to contract and relax, might accomplish the same thing. I do not think for a moment that this thought is unique to me; I suspect it has been proposed, tested, and debunked thousands of times. But what if…? To test the idea, I would be more than willing to allow myself to be attached to a TENS (transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation) device configured to cause muscles in my arms, legs, abdomen, back, chest, etc. to contract and relax repeatedly in my sleep. I can only imagine waking up one day, after a 60-day experiment with a TENS device, to see bulging arm muscles, six-pack abs, and legs as sturdy as the trunk of a massive mesquite tree. Dreams. Fantasies. Visions. No; delusions.

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Does passion ebb with age, or does it simply collect itself into an ever-more-compact sphere, whose gravitational pull is exponentially greater than the sun?

Cats feign affection when it suits them—that is, when affecting affection might lead to satisfying their selfish desires. Feline affection is a strategy, not a genuine emotion. Dogs, on the other hand, tend to fall in love quickly and completely. Demonstrations of canine affection reveal a remarkable emotional scope and breadth. Compared to wading in the shallows of a cat’s tolerance, exploring the vast depths of a dog’s true love is like darkness versus light. The feline attribute that saves cats from being discarded like the miserable, uncaring, self-absorbed beasts they are is this: their uncanny genetic predisposition to using a litter box, with no training. If dogs required no “house-training” nor daily walks, every vagrant cat (they’re all inherently vagrants) now living in undeserved comfort would be replaced by a devoted and loving dog. Cats—aloof and haughty—hold their human subjects in disdain. Dogs—frenzied in their loyalty—adore their human friends and families, holding them in the highest regard. And, with apologies to Shakespeare:

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man (or dog) ever loved

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I have become quite selective in my out-of-house experiences of late. Warnings given to me to avoid over-exposure to crowds of people limit my ventures “out” of late. I have gone out to eat lunch twice (or more times?) in recent days, but the places were not crowded, so I have felt reasonably safe from crowd-borne diseases. But learning about people in my extended social circle who have gotten COVID-19 or other unpleasant afflictions keeps me away from many places I might otherwise go. To church this morning, for example. I hope my absence is not interpreted to be an intentional slight to anyone; it’s okay, though, if people simply consider my behavior evidence that I am sinking into hypochondriacal derangement.

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The few days preceding a full-scale chemo treatment are not reliably “good” days, but they tend to be better than the several days…or week, plus…after. If the interruptions to my routine were limited to chemo, they would be more tolerable. But there’s always a return for a post-treatment injection and at least one return the week (and, sometimes, two) after. And the blood draws. And the other tests, like PET-scans, CT scans, MRIs, etc. I had an MRI of my brain recently; it was all good. I’m to be scheduled for an MRI of my back and spine and more sometime soon. It is to be done to determine whether bone or joint issues might be responsible for some pain I’ve experienced. I do not look forward to a full-on MRI; the last one I had, years ago, was something of  a nightmare. The MRI is not so bad, but my back on a hard steel table for a long period causes pain far worse than the pain the MRI might help identify. I rather hope the schedule is tight and I cannot get another MRI for weeks. Or months. Wishful thinking.

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As long as poverty, injustice and gross inequality persist in our world, none of us can truly rest.

~ Nelson Mandela ~

When long-dormant memories surface unexpectedly, they sometimes reveal a personality that no longer exists in its original form. Regardless of how much time and experience have eroded those memories since they were first recorded—and subsequently erased—kernels of that abandoned personality remain intact. Circumstances in play when those recollections emerge determine whether the seeds of the past flourish or decay—whether they sprout into noxious kudzu-like weeds or disappear, withering into dust.

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Last night’s thunder and lightning left no traces of rain; if, indeed, any rain fell. Had I not been so tired when the flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder woke me, I might have gotten out of bed to see and hear and feel the squalls roll through. I love stormy weather—it feeds something primal in me, something that reassures me I belong in the realm of Nature’s ferocity. I am not simply an observer of Nature’s fury when I watch in awe as blue veins of jagged light spill from the sky. I am a willing participant in the overwhelming  power of an incendiary universe.

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Watching and listening to live music in a crowded venue filled with exuberant celebrants does not excite me. In fact, the crush of throngs of people and the overwhelming cacophony of music transformed into high-volume noise repel me. Unlike so many other people, I think listening to music is most enjoyable as a solitary endeavor; or one shared with only a select few others who treat music as meditation.

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Just two hours have passed since I got up. “Just” two hours. The speed at which time drifts away astonishes me. I can never get those two hours back. Instead of treating those hours as precious gifts to be fully savored and etched into my memory, I have allowed them to slip by almost unnoticed. Had I been more fully present during those two gone-forever hours, I might have extended to them the reverence they deserve. But I have frittered away the experience and my appreciation for it, as if I had access to a limitless supply of time and understanding. If I let myself mourn wasted time, though, I will waste even more in a pointless exercise. Today is an opportunity to shed the anchor of regret, if only for a little while.

Instead of the oncologist’s APRN, I saw the oncologist yesterday. She explained planned changes to my treatment regimen, beginning with next week’s chemo injections. The negative side effects of the drugs used thus far were largely behind the change. Once I go through the cycle with the new chemo drugs (taxotere and cyramza), options may include clinical trials with other treatments. Because my cancer cannot be cured, the path forward probably will involve ongoing treatments as part of an attempt to keep the disease at bay for as long as possible without making life miserable in the process. I am resigned to that reality, though I am not especially thrilled with it. The certainty is that, ultimately, cancer will win the war; the uncertainty is that the process could take years and years of skirmishes…or it could happen much sooner. Or, of course, I could be killed beforehand in a decisive battle of the Second Civil War or in a grocery store parking lot hit-and-run incident. Predicting the future gets increasingly difficult when there is no reliable guarantee there will be a future. Death is not a purely personal thing; it is a tear in the social fabric, a disruption to the peace and comfort of those who must cope with its aftermath. Life is a temporary eternity, an endless cycle of pleasure and pain whose finish is the permanent erasure of experience. It is hard—maybe impossible—to imagine one’s own death because there is nothing to imagine. These thoughts are not morbid; not in the least. They are simply expressions of a curiosity we can never satisfy.

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Acceptance does not equate to hopelessness. Acceptance acknowledges reality; hopelessness attributes sinister motives to reality. There must be better—and more precise and correct—ways of differentiating between the two, but trying to think of what they are is akin to swimming in a pool of cold molasses.

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Will early November this year bring with it a new Morning in America or will we experience Mourning in America, instead?  Or will November ripen into December and rot into January? Will decisions we record at polling places be accepted and respected, or will corruption taint the results? This is the sort of gut-wrenching worry that keeps me awake sometimes or wakes me from fitful sleep. If I were to heed my own advice, I would make plans for responding to circumstances, whatever they are. But when I try to decide what I should do, I get caught up in a battle between fury and fleeing.

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With every episode of Shetland, I am overcome with fernweh. The rugged coastlines, steep cliffs, rolling hills, rock walls along lonely country roads, and relative absence of some of the more hideous examples of greed combine to make me want to be there. I realize, of course, that the series does not accurately depict the islands, but it’s not accuracy I’m after. It’s fantasy. I read that Shetland has had only two murders in the past 50 years, versus at least one per episode on the series. Sometimes I prefer reality to fantasy.

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The morning has grown old; it’s getting close to 8. Hours have slipped by without my notice. Hmm.

Once again, I have nothing of consequence to say. It is a shortage of intellectual propellant; a bone-dry tank missing even the smell of fuel. There have been signs the tank was running dry. Incomplete thoughts turning to whisps of vapor. Getting lost in mindless observation of an absent image. Words passing through ear canals without stopping to be understood. A sense of detachment about issues that once mattered, but now seem superfluous. Clear skies appearing grey and muddy and irrelevant.

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Another visit to the oncology center is on for this morning—labs and a chat with the oncologist’s APRN. Whether I am strong-armed into more intravenous magnesium, IV fluids, and assorted other injections remains to be seen. I might pressure the nurse to give me her idea of my prognosis, given all the patients she has seen come and go over the years. But I might not; mi novia probably would consider such pressure a form of bullying; unfair and uncalled for.

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I emerged from a dream as I was waking this morning. I had just returned from what seemed to me to be a sketchy business trip to New York. My briefcase was overstuffed with papers, including a large-format, green bar computer printout that had been produced by a dot-matrix printer. Also in my briefcase was a handgun, which I had somehow been able to carry on my flight. The remainder of the dream consisted of irrational scenes and conversations and situation. Those scenes and conversations and situations did not matter then and they do not matter now. Just nonessential experiences layered between unnecessary observations.

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Sleep increasingly appeals to me. Around the clock. It replaces unsuccessful attempts at creative thought and makes unnecessary attempts to feign interest. My words here seem to represent a mind that’s negative, glum, disappointed. They do not; they simply lack the metaphoric ignition that can create a bonfire of frenzied energy. At least I’m hungry; there’s that.

No matter the trials and tribulations of living in this chaotic world, the lyrics of some songs can boost one’s mood dramatically. The chorus from a Keb’ Mo’ song, Life is Beautiful, tends to do that for me:

Life is beautiful, life is wondrous
Every star above is shining just for us
Life is beautiful, on a stormy night
Somewhere in the world the sun is shining bright

Holding onto that attitude can make a vast difference in one’s experience in dealing with challenges and obstacles. The trick, of course, is to keep one’s grip tight enough that it does not slip away.

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My father died, at home, of lung cancer. He was in extreme pain the day he died. Morphine, at the time available by prescription from his family doctor, helped. It only lessened his excruciating pain; it did not make it tolerable—though he had no choice but to tolerate it. His lung cancer was not curable nor was the pain effectively treatable by the time it was diagnosed, roughly forty years ago. When I was first diagnosed with lung cancer in late 2018, I think the hope of the medical team treating me was that my cancer could be cured. The hope for treating the recurrence five years later is to extend my life, not necessarily to cure the cancer. Extended for how long, I wonder? No one can answer the question with any degree of confidence;  it could be decades, it could be months. I’m rooting for the former, but acknowledging the possibility of the latter. I am fortunate in that my treatments, so far, have all been covered by insurance. It pains me to hear patients speaking to the oncology clinic staff about making periodic payments of $100 or $35 or whatever each time they come in. I am sure some patients’ payments are dramatically higher. Looking at my explanation of benefits summaries, the costs of my treatments are astronomical. Mi novia often is tempted to step in to cover someone’s payment, especially when a patient “looks” down on his luck. Were I on the receiving end of such charity, I would be unable to maintain my composure, on one hand, and enraged by the inequities of healthcare access, on the other.

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Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.

~ Buddha ~

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Another burst of energy, combined with a hankering for a good hamburger, led us to head out to the recently-reopened Kream Kastle, a burger joint on Highway 70. When we got there, we discovered the place is closed on Tuesdays. Argh! So we headed toward Hot Springs to try Walker’s Wings and Things on Silver Street. On the way, though, I checked Google and discovered Walker’s, too, is closed on Tuesdays. We then decided to try Superior Bathhouse Brewery, but before we got there, Google informed me that Superior is closed on Tuesdays. Despite the frustration, we thought “No worries,” let’s go to the Copper Penney. Nope. Closed on Tuesdays. Just moments before succumbing to starvation, we found that Rocky’s Corner is open seven days a week. And Rocky’s cooks burgers to order: I asked for medium-rare and that’s what I got. Every time I go to Rocky’s, I become more enamored with the place. It’s a true neighborhood sports bar & grille, with the sports emphasis being on horse-racing (logical, considering that Oaklawn racetrack is right across the street). The staff members are friendly and the food is good. I could do without the horse-racing focus, but otherwise the spot exudes Third Place vibes. Yesterday, several tables of old retired men—wearing sandals and shorts and t-shirts adorned with slogans—chatted amiably, ignoring the TV racing channels. A group of four guys sitting near us traded favorable comments about Kamala Harris and Tim Walz. By the time we got back home, my burst of energy had fizzled. I took a long nap, waking just in time to catch the evening news and then to continue watching Shetland. Occasionally getting out of the house for something other than medical appointments keeps me moderately sane. Watching a television program set in the Shetland Islands makes me want to relocate to Lerwick and environs.

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Taking a shower has become an ordeal. The aftermath of the tribulation is well worth it, but only in hindsight. If I could take 30 consecutive showers, storing 29 of them for the days ahead, I would do it. What is it that turned showering into an ordeal? There was a time not so long ago when I showered first thing every morning, immediately after getting out of bed…or soon thereafter. Even on weekends, when I needed not worry about offending clients and staff with the odor of slightly ripe Homo sapiens, I started the day smelling like a bar of Dove soap. Back then, showering was a treat. Now, though, the treat takes shape only after I have washed, towel-dried, and put on clean clothes. These days, the process involved in rinsing away sweat, bodily oils, and smells reminiscent of a week’s worth of used gym clothes interferes with my appreciation for the morning routine. So I skip a day. Sometimes another. I would enjoy showering more if I did not have to do the work. That is, if someone: arranged for the water temperature to be just right; used a soapy washcloth to polish away the residue of the previous 24 hours; used a soft, warm, towel to dry my body; selected my clothes for the day and set them out for me. It’s not just the showering, then, that has become an ordeal. It’s the attendant efforts required to erase evidence of day-to-day life. Ah, but the most arduous aspect of showering? Using a squeegee and a rag, post-shower, to minimize water spots on glass and tile and gleaming metal. All of the elements that contribute to making showering an ordeal, though, are far more appealing than doing without water. Complaining about the effort involved in showering is akin to reacting to winning a Porsche 911 by saying is disgust, “Oh, God, we already have a small car.” (Credit belongs to George Carlin, I believe.) Perspective changes everything.

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A burst of energy  yesterday afternoon allowed me to shower (HOURS after I awoke), wash the sheets and do another load of laundry, fill the bird-feeders, water the ferns on the deck, and otherwise demonstrate that I am more than a waste of resources and a drag on society. Once that stamina had been exhausted, though, I needed an infusion of soft serenity. So, I allowed Amazon Music to give me reason to relax. I listened to music by Susan Tedeschi, Keb’ Mo’, Taj Mahal, Hoyt Axton, Rhiannon Giddens, John Hiatt, and others. At any given moment, musical preferences can divulge one’s state of mind. Last night’s blend of blues, folk, and country revealed an entirely different man, with an entirely different mood, from the man listening to Dire Straits, the Rolling Stones, Pearl Jam, the Killers, the Foo Fighters, Leonard Cohen, or a Bach piano concerto. The relationship between one’s state of mind and the music that pairs well with it always has intrigued me. I wonder whether the relationship is one of cause and effect and, if so, in which direction? In other words, is the music responsible for the mood or vice versa—or is it something else? My guess is that there is some sort of symbiotic relationship between the two, with each feeding the other.

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We blindly trust the astronomers and physicists who tell us our sun has between seven and eight billion years left in its life cycle. The explanations they give us seem reasonable. But can we really rely on their predictions as we plan for the future? What if, instead of seven to eight billion years remaining, the sun begins its death spiral five to seven years from today? When we get the news, how will we react? Will humankind change in fundamental ways—either positive or negative—or will we simply plod along like the selfish bastards we are until our planet either plunges into Absolute Zero territory or is incinerated by million-degree temperatures? Almost everything would become irrelevant in light of the news that we all are going to perish within seven years. Attending college—or any school, for that matter—would be an exercise in futility. Farmers might decide to raise only enough food for their own families to last until “the end,” leaving the rest of us to do whatever we had to do to get by. Lawn care probably would become an utterly absurd undertaking. Pregnancies might either skyrocket or plummet. Competent healthcare might become damn near impossible to find. But there would be a fraction of Earth’s population who would not accept the inevitable; they would pursue every possible option with the ferocity of a cheetah protecting her kittens from a pack of ravenous hyenas. Hastily-assembled spaceships would be launched in the direction of nearby galaxies, their passengers desperately seeking to escape oblivion. Imagine looking skyward, five years after news of the nearest star’s impending demise has reached us, and seeing the sun pulsating—dramatically brighter for a second or two, then dimming to near-darkness for just as long. Would we react with terror…resignation…anger…immense sadness?

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She examines her life, making clinical observations about living so many years barely above the surface of a spoiled pool of congealed reality. Those empty years cannot be repaired. Memories will not permit her to forget all her unfortunate choices—an enormous collection of regrettable decisions that exacerbated one another. She could have predicted the consequences of the actions she took and the judgments she made. She could have made course corrections that would have taken down a different path. But she decided, instead, to ignore the potential outcome of every bad decision. From her warped perspective, considering the consequences of choices would have been equivalent to abandoning the freedoms she cherished. So, after all those years, she looks back at the carnage of her life and wonders how it all might have been different. Four failed marriages, five years in a women’s prison, and a guarantee of living out her life in grinding poverty lead her to make what might be her final choice. Whatever decision she makes, no one will give it more than passing notice, because she has always chosen not to matter.

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Weather forecasts for today call for temperatures to remain in the low to mid seventies for most of the day, topping out a tad above 80°F around 5 pm. Light rain is expected until around midday, when the skies will begin to clear and air will begin to get warmer. I will experience little of this first-hand. Instead, I will gaze out the window and wonder when, and whether, I will feel enthusiastic about exploring the world outside the environment of my self-imposed prison cell. Everything could change, of course. I may feel a rush of energy at any moment. It has been known to happen.

+++

The lyrics for the Simon and Garfunkel song, America, move me. One stanza in particular tugs at my heart-strings: “Kathy, I’m lost”, I said, though I knew she was sleeping, “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.”  Another phrase from the lyrics echoes something I like to do: make up fanciful stories about strangers I come across. I remember having a very nice dinner with my late wife at a pricey restaurant in San Antonio, Texas, where I told her stories about the people sitting at the tables around us. It was a silly experience, but one we both enjoyed. And I still make up such stories, though not as frequently as I once did. It is harder these days to embrace the silliness; but I do it when I can muster the mood.

+++

Lethargic. Sluggish. Slow and deliberate. That’s me this morning. I hope to feel more lively sometime soon…later today or, certainly, later this week. A visit with friends who touched base with mi novia a day or two ago would be nice. A short day-trip would be great. But finally getting around to my long-delayed taxes might be even more of a stress-reliever. Time will tell the story.

When a person’s desire to be creative overwhelms his artistic talents, the end-products of his imagination tend toward the dull and disturbing. Unpleasant greys and browns and awkward beiges take hold in places where bright colors could have and should have dominated the senses. When colors and forms and techniques are applied in unwise combinations, even brilliant visions can quickly decay into rancid pools of unattainable possibilities. Creativity then becomes an irreversible mistake, at best, or an unavoidable expression of intentional bleakness. Still, even in the knowledge that my creative efforts probably are destined to fail, I sometimes give in to my impatience—I avoid learning the techniques, the blending of colors, and the boundaries of creative expression. In other words, bypassing the processes required for success, I come to the inescapable conclusion that I am incapable of achieving anything but failure. For those reasons, I prefer solitude when I attempt to be creative. The embarrassment associated with near-certain failure is easier to accept when one is alone. But the degree to which one’s creative efforts may be slightly better than awful exists on that ever-present  continuum; horrid on one end, magnificent on the other, unreachable, end.

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I am so damn tired of feeling weak and weary and uncertain. Those brief periods when I feel like I am emerging from an almost opaque fog boost my mood for a while, but that mood soon burrows into a dark cave, taking me with it. I can disguise the dark emptiness temporarily, but the mask refuses to stay put for long. And so I sleep. I am not sure whether I sleep because my body needs the rest or because my mind needs the respite from its incessant whining.

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Awake at 4, finally out of bed at 5:30, ready to sleep again at 7:45. But I will not sleep; not just yet.  The day has yet to unfold.

Hope is the province of poker players whose options are to flee from the game at top speed or bluff until pistols take their places on the table.

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Political Will: U.S. voters—whose political perspectives are shaped by either one of the two far-ends of the political spectrum—firmly believe their opponents represent a serious danger to our brand of democracy. While I understand the intensity of the concerns held by those on the far left, and certainly share a number of them, I am not able to completely grasp the frenzied fear of those on the far right. Whether I understand them or not, though, those concerns should be explored and addressed, just as should be those of concern to the political left. Throwing insults back and forth does nothing but inflame an already dangerously chaotic situation. Both ends of the spectrum of the war of words—and worse—should approach the other’s from a nonjudgmental, analytical, solution-focused perspective. Everyone who has a serious concern or fear of the other “side” should articulate the concerns and should be encouraged to adopt a compassionate, rational, process for dealing with their adversaries. Until politically moderate leaders take center stage—people who have sufficient charisma to be believable and command attention—the animosity will only get worse. Rationality is an absolutely necessary component of whatever “solutions” may exist.

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Every Waking Moment’s Topic of the Instant: My online reading of the report from  yesterday’s brain MRI indicates all’s well, physically, inside my head. There is NO EVIDENCE cancer cells have taken up residence inside the hard protective shell. To summarize the radiologist’s impression:

1. No acute intracranial process.
2. No abnormal enhancement. No large intracranial mass or metastasis. 
3. Moderate, age-appropriate, atrophy.

Inasmuch as I did not suspect my cancer had metastasized to my brain, the findings were pretty much as I expected, although the concept of moderate, age-appropriate atrophy is not one I like applied to my brain.  My primary curiosity, at the moment, is the status of the spots of cancer that earlier showed up on PET-scans and CT-scans. Ever since the discovery of cancer’s recurrence, late last year, too many aspects of our lives have revolved around aging, illness, death, mortality, and disease. Understanding and dealing with the eventual realities of mortality are wearying endeavors. Even though the effects of lung cancer and its treatment can be difficult, it has been only an irritant…an annoyance…to me. Compared to the hellish ordeal experienced by so many others, my encounter has been relatively…maybe extremely…mild. So mild that the care and concern heaped upon me can seem embarrassingly undeserved and unnecessary. But, then, when I cannot seem to get through the day without taking multiple naps and without feeling sometimes intense and mysterious pains, I feel like I am going through a targeted ordeal meant to teach me lessons I have not yet begun to understand. And, then, of course, I express frustration at myself for buying into the idea that anything is meant to be. My patience, never admirable nor especially well-developed, is under test. Every obstacle is a random expression of reality that has not yet been molded and shaped to serve as an opportunity.

Two more weeks until my next round of chemo-therapy; but I go back in next Thursday for labs and, possibly, a brief follow-up visit with the oncologist or her nurse. I cannot plan to take a day or two or three to get out of town for a break without being contacted to come get a magnesium infusion or an injection to fight infections or an IV drip to interrupt the process of dehydration. I am glad the treatments are readily available and, thanks to insurance, are not leaving us destitute for the moment. But, really…hours and hours and hours lost to fighting a battle whose success is not assured. Maybe simple surrender would be a more appropriate response. Ach! Bitch. Moan. Repeat.

+++

Forced Cranial Nudity: My newly-bald head does not please me as much as I might have hoped. I may have shaved too soon; while a fair amount of hair fell out during a two-day period, there was still considerable hair remaining when I opted to have it cut (have I mentioned that Jeremy, my barber, would not allow me to pay him when he took the clippers to my head?). Since then, hair keeps on growing all over my head; the follicles are few and far between, but I might have preferred thin to none. The haircut revealed certain aspects of my face and head that look quite a lot like my father, a bit of a shock and a surprise to me. In the past, I’ve occasionally noticed some particular resemblance, but a couple of recent head-shots seem to have collected them in a single photo. I’ve addressed the appeal of nudity in earlier posts. Freedom from the constraints of clothing. An opportunity to adjust one’s thinking, so that naked bodies—regardless of shape, size, color, scars, the smoothness of a marble or the softness of duck down—are normal and natural and off-limits for mockery. Mi novia went into the rabbit warren yesterday, stumbling upon nudist camps’ policies, philosophies, etc. Those of us who have little or no experience with public nudity tend to find intentional nudism somewhat shocking and inexplicable. But, like so many practices with which we have little familiarity, the more we learn the more we know and the more we know the more we understand and the more we understand the greater our opportunities for serenity and acceptance of the world as it is, rather than how we might have hoped it to be.

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Some days last forever. No matter how hard one tries to send them packing, those fiercely persistent days will not move on. They stay, sharpening their teeth and nails until achieving a razor-like edge that can slice through diamonds and butter and bone. A scalpel under the control of a painful memory can leave pools of mayhem.

My interest in television and film is declining; somewhat rapidly. Or, perhaps, it’s just the period of “chemo-fog” that surrounds me these days. I hope I start enjoying them more, because I miss that enjoyment. But I have legitimate complaints, too, even of the shows that do a better job than others at holding my interest. Formulaic mysteries, even (and maybe) especially) tend to make the action and mystery sequences indistinguishable from one another. Who am I, though, to torment someone for figuring out a way to make money from his or her craft. In the case of the books upon which the Versa series is based, she’s a woman: Ann Cleeves. Dim memories of watching the show’s credits role leads me to think the producers and directors are a reasonably close approximation of 50-50. It’s not just Vera,  either. It’s a dozen or more shows from Acorn or BritBox or whatever. Perhaps I am simply hungry for variety. Dark foreign-language (or British-English) expressions of the fundamental bleakness of human existence can be exciting, but enough is enough.

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A rudimentary naming convention is used to establish names for named wildfires in the US. Generally, they a geographic location in nature (e.g., Park fire). According to an article in the New York Times

“…That is, fire names are typically a literal and boring reference to a geographic location.

“The names come from whatever the first fire official on the scene sees nearby, whether a street, mountain or body of water. These decisions are made rapidly, in the rush of an emergency.”

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Yesterday’s visit to the oncology center yielded a MRI brain-scan scheduled for this morning and a return visit to the oncology center—for hydration—this afternoon. These empty weeks have a way of filling up the oncology center’s time. The oncology nurse ordered it because “it’s about time for another one” and she wants to look at an MRI of my brain to determine whether any cancer cells have metastasized to the brain. I’m counting on that as quite unlikely.

+++

I’ve had excellent chicken–tortilla soup three meals in succession: yesterday’s lunch and this morning’s breakfast, plus the afternoon break the day before. It was a delightful delivery made by a delightful friend.

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My decision is final. I will not acquiesce to fits of incoherent babbling. While chemo drugs are ripping at my body, they also are making me a bit goofy—as if only every ^nth signal to verbalize is making the trip to the end of the appropriate synapses. But other drugs can minimize the goofiness and limit evidence of off-the-tracks mental stability.  Those drugs, whatever they are, will make me slightly more docile and considerably less disturbingly ridiculous.

+++

Mi novia introduced me to some R&B musicians I have begun to like quite a lot: Ruthie Foster, Rhiannon Giddens, Jesse Cook, Christone “Kingfish” Ingram. I already knew and listened to Keb’ Mo’, Marcia Ball, and a bunch of others. The more I listen to them, though, the more I can hear the blues in both the lyrics and the tunes. I still love much of the music of my foundation musicians: Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, The Foo Fighters, The Killers, Joan Baez, any orchestra playing Rachmaninoff Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganin, Op. Many other musicians provide the kind of mood setting I require at any given time, from cheerful to serious to morose to deliriously happy. Though country is not my favorite genre, I have grown increasingly fond of it over the years. Hoyt Axton (Boney Fingers, Della and the Dealer, Evangelina) are among my favorites, but there are others.

In conversation with a friend, I learned that we both enjoy banjo music; I am stunned by the proficiency and speed of some fiddlers. I discovered we both like the music of marching bands. When I was a kid, my oldest sister (I think) has a John Philip Sousa album; I loved listening to all those pieces of patriotic music. I believe all music has a place for all ears. Indigenous African tunes, whether original or “Americanized,” please my ears. Lyrics in languages I do not speak no understand are treats to hears. I always assume I can tell the mood of the piece by the band, alone; I’m not impressively right about that. Jazz, Reggae, Appalachian fiddle, accordion music, Mexican rancho and corrido and banda and mariachi…all of them include good music. All, I suspect. contain bad, as well. They’re all worth listening to; and should NEVER be condemned as part of an entire genre of music.

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I regularly skim quite a few Facebook pages, in a futile effort to keep up with the owners’ achievements, excitements, traumas, and tragedies. I rarely comment any more, as a “like” or “love” or “care” button is more concise than a treatise I might write in comments. I prefer comments made directly to me, but I appreciate any comments at all. And I am genuinely delighted to receive comments that might lead to an extended conversation. There’s a “like” button of this page, as well, but it is fitful in its performance. I like receiving email or texts, in which communications are between only two people. Of course, I have many other, sometimes conflicting, preferences. I conflict with my own opinions with some frequency.

Every scrap of paper will tell a story if you let it. The stapler, the partially-used box of incense cones, the untouched demi-tasse cup full of cold espresso, the roll of packing tape, and a half-empty cup of water are rich with histories rarely shared. None of it matters. But it does; only in the abstract, though. Only in the sense that all of it, collectively, provides a glimpse into a meaningless explanation that has no purpose, other than to attempt to legitimize the unjustifiable. The tales of an empty desktop are told in what’s missing, not what remains behind. Emptiness, all neat and tidy, is a conspiracy to conceal clutter and hide debris that defines the meaningless urgency of all that has gone before. Something must be important…right? Something must have meaning that transcends one’s unmatched proficiency in making  irreversible mistakes…right?

The tales of an empty desktop are told in what’s missing, not what remains.

Traces left behind suggest how wrong the decisions were; the ones that led us to erase evidence of unforgivable mistakes. Guilt is a rare but honorable admission. Yet its rarity, alone, calls into question its honor. Admitting guilt can be a roundabout way of seeking pity for one’s deviousness. The stapler, the partially-used box of incense cones, and the rest—are they staged for sympathy or honest revelations of sorrow? What about those items no longer sitting atop the desk? The book of quotations, for example, or the insistent photographs that refuse to discredit all those allegations of insincerity? Poisonous thoughts, every one of them.

The power that once resided in those fingers has disappeared. Strength is no longer available. Weakness is not a replacement but, instead, a robust deficiency whose decay defines an empty, parallel path. Answers without questions leave behind a permanent stench that cannot be overcome by memories. Confusion swallows understanding. Truth drowns in slippery fiction. Eternity is a once-in-a-lifetime experience; madness risen from the depths of hell.

A good friend speaks glowingly of the value of meditation, and I completely believe her assessment. Meditation probably would help me make progress toward achieving some of the serenity I hope to find. At least temporarily. But before I even begin, I can feel a tangle of random, unrelated thoughts ricochet through my brain. When I try to calm them, corral them, keep them from interrupting what little peace I can muster, they assert themselves even more aggressively. Soon, my attempt to empty the thoughts from my mind has, instead, invited into my head a cacophony of noise and frenzied ideas. The idea of learning how better to meditate by joining a group of more experienced meditators has little appeal. Listening to recorded guided meditation has more interest to me; now, if only I can muster the discipline to pursue that guidance…

+++

If I had not already gotten dressed, I would seriously consider going back to bed right now, though I doubt I would be able to sleep. After I woke sometime around 3:30, I tried to get back to sleep, but by 4 it was apparent that would not happen. So I got up and got dressed. But now that I have consumed my first cup of intense caffeine in the form of dark espresso, sleep seems even more appealing—not necessarily attainable, though. So, I will simply chill for a while.

+++

Now is the age of anxiety.

~ W. H. Auden ~

So far, the side-effects of last Thursday’s chemotherapy have been relatively mild. The most significant and most annoying has been, and is, the pain in my left knee—which periodically wanders up and down my leg and then changes to the other leg. That allowed sleep to come only occasionally last night. Fatigue has not yet—and I hope will not—set in. Several other modest irritations, though, combine to remind me that I can expect several days of enough discomfort to remind me that I am in the midst of a scuffle to try to beat back the recurrence of lung cancer.

+++

I have whittled away at the morning for more than two hours, with nothing of consequence to show for it. The official sunrise will take place about five minutes from now. Daylight spreads across the sky, filling the bits of darkness between leaves and under branches. Soon, the silence and solitude of early morning will be replaced by the obligations of engagement.

If news stories and exposés about the influence on developing and third-world countries by developed Western  countries represent reality, some of our influences—maybe many—are shameful. An online article published by the Associated Press (AP), part of a series about aging in the developing world, struck a chord with me. The article to which I refer addresses the impacts the demands of an aging population and other significant demographic changes are having on the culture of India. These two quotation from the article hit me hard:

In its traditions, in its religious tenets and in its laws, India has long cemented the belief that it is a child’s duty to care for his aging parents. But in a land known for revering its elderly, a secret shame has emerged: A burgeoning population of older people abandoned by their own families.

But expanding lifespans have brought ballooning caregiving pressure, a wave of urbanization has driven many young far from their home villages and a creeping Western influence has begun eroding the tradition of multigenerational living.

In my view, the ‘normal’ demographic pressures represent reason enough for the issue to be addressed with some urgency, both with the support of developed countries and through internal policies of the affected parts of the world. The Western influence points inward, though, to us. It seems more and more people in undeveloped and underdeveloped countries emulate some of our most damaging and disgraceful behaviors. That is, forsaking ingrained cultural obligations of caring for aging parents to the point of abandonment. I think that cultural obligation once was ingrained in our society, but the forces of demographic change have not been successfully addressed. Our unsuccessful and deeply cruel response has been to change attitudes and beliefs so that we can comfortably assert that children have no responsibilities for caring for their parents as they grow old.

Thinking about this issue this morning has made me angry and ashamed of our own culture that continues to change around me…and export its twisted and warped philosophies worldwide. How is it that cultural mores and attitudes have changed so much that cruelty can overcome compassion, even within familial relationships? How can we watch as our philosophical exports are embraced around the world, doing so much brutal and callous damage?  I have many ideas about how our society might begin to reverse this moral decline, but every one of those ideas would require some fundamental changes in attitudes and beliefs, triggered by charismatic leadership and adopted by willing supporters. Sociology education, which just occurred to me could become a universal moral compass for cultures globally, might be a place to start. I’ll have to think about that some more; the obstacles to every solution are just as culturally ingrained as the problems.

+++

My most recent chemo treatment—about nine hours sitting in a treatment chair having liquids dripped into me through the chemo port implanted in my chest—took place this past Thursday. I hope the addition of yet another chemical delight to my body, post-treatment, will prevent some of the after-effects I experienced last time, three weeks ago. We’ll see. A little less than three full days after the previous treatment, every joint and bone and tendon in my body delivered strong pain impulses to my brain. It took several days for that to stop.

My relationship with my body has changed. I used to consider it as a servant who should obey, function, give pleasure. In sickness, you realise that you are not the boss. It is the other way around.

~ Federico Fellini ~

+++

I read an obituary/article this morning about NPR correspondent Ina Jaffe’s death (last Thursday) from metastatic breast cancer. I always found value in listening to her reports and reading her articles online. Her focus on care for the aging paralleled an interest of mine; her reputation for accuracy in reporting led me (accurately, I think) to believe what she wrote was true. Her early decision to keep her cancer diagnosis secret (for about two years) made me wonder why a person would withhold that powerful reality from others? When I was diagnosed with lung cancer in the third quarter of 2018, I did not keep it secret; not in the least. It was not that I wanted everyone to know; it was more a matter of avoiding the stress of keeping such a momentous matter a secret. With the recurrence, diagnosed last December, I followed the same path. I did not widely announce my diagnosis to everyone I could think of, but I did mention it here on my blog and on Facebook, I think, and I told friends. Everyone, I suspect, has their own way of coping with something as emotional as a cancer diagnosis. Ina Jaffe’s way was different from mine. But after she announced it, I think she used its effects on her to change the way she interacted with people about health-related subjects. I have not given much thought to how (or whether) my diagnosis caused any difference in how I interact with people. I wonder whether anyone else noticed any changes in my behavior/personality/demeanor?

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Confrontation can be an unpleasant undertaking, but the ultimate outcome can be the elimination of strain, discomfort, and constant stress. The trick, of course, is to be able to successfully predict whether confrontation will yield those positive results or trigger a hellish escalation of distrust, fear, rage, and an insatiable lust for revenge.

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Welcome to Saturday, one of my favorite seven days of the week.

The small portion of sky visible from where I sit is dim, but brightening with yellow-beige light.  Trickling through the still-dark leaves and needles covering most of the branches and twigs, the light makes the forest more visible by the second. Before long, the dark brown, black, and sage green branches will become more distinct. Daylight will have conquered darkness again, at least for a while. If I let it, this routine will become just another boring, repetitive circumstance over which I have no control. But if I insist on being amazed by the enormity of the magic of the transition, I will continue to be grateful simply to watch it unfold. My view on these simple but impressive mornings pales in comparison to watching a brilliant red and orange and purple sunrise over a distant mountain horizon. But it will do. And I look forward to the next opportunity to be awestruck by those incredible vistas. When? Sometime. Soon, perhaps. How can I define soon in the context of the immeasurable immensity of Time? Only Time will tell.

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The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.

~ Bertrand Russell ~

I will get out of the house again this morning, but only for a while. My oncologist has a Friday-only office in the Village. where I’ll go to get a post-treatment injection meant to reduce/minimize the risks of infections associated with yesterday’s chemo session. I’ve tentatively set aside all of next week to do my taxes, the filing for which I got an extension. Though I do not need that much time, if I do not call it to my attention by putting it on my calendar, it will be too easy to ignore; I want to avoid the stress of last-minute pressure, so I’d like to get it done sooner rather than at the last minute. The following week, I have “vacation” on the calendar, though the plans for exactly when and where remain up in the air. On one hand, I would love to go on a long, aimless road trip. On the other, a visit to someplace nearby, with opportunities to behave like a typical tourist might be better. Mi novia seems to think my history in recent months of napping a LOT almost every day would make a long road trip an exercise in futility; she would drive and I would sleep, missing most of the travel along quiet country roads that I find so appealing. She’s probably right.

I am getting irrationally frustrated with month after month of what amounts to a minor irritation. Unlike so many people who are dealing with cancer, the disease is not terribly debilitating for me. My complaints are minor in comparison to theirs. Yet so many of them seem far more tolerant of their conditions than I am with mine. I live in privilege, with: someone who cares about and for me; a stable, if modest, income; a nice place to live; more than ample food and water; plenty of amenities; and so many more luxuries. Compared to people who could barely get by before being diagnosed with cancer and now probably are struggling to pay for basic necessities, never mind astronomical cancer treatment bills, I have absolutely nothing to complain about. Nonetheless, I do. It’s embarrassing to realize I know my complaints are so minor in comparison to theirs, yet still I listen to myself bitch about my affliction and its related inconveniences. At least I generally tell people I’m doing pretty well; and, in comparison, I certainly am. I am sufficiently concerned about not wanting to appear to be a perpetual whiner that I try to stifle the urge. That is vanity at play, I think; nothing even remotely related to coping, courage, or care about others’ state of mind. I have been told not to believe that assessment of myself—that it’s not correct—but it seems entirely believable to me, whereas an opposite attitude would strike me as artificial.

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My first cup of espresso is long gone. So is the banana I grabbed before rushing to my keyboard. I will now replenish the black liquid bitterness and try to find something quick and easy to eat to satisfy my minor hunger and my need for plenty of protein. Last night’s dinner of black bean burger patties and salad was the perfect meal; easy to make (though I did not make it) and easy to clean up afterward (though I did not do that, either). I am growing more and more fond of skipping most traditional breakfast foods in favor of something usually considered better suited for lunch or dinner. Leftover spaghetti, for example, or steamed zucchini from the night before or something starchy like an Asian rice dish or potatoes from another meal…something I can doctor-up with soy sauce or oyster sauce or Sriracha sauce or sambal oelek. But there are times when an apple fritter or a jalapeño-laden pastry fits the bill. Enough talk. Time for action.

Today was a cancer treatment day for me and, like the last one three weeks ago, it was a long one. We arrived at the cancer center at 8:05 this morning and left to drive home a few minutes before 5. The length of the treatment was longer than it should have been (as was that one three weeks ago), due to my body’s displeasure with carboplatin. Last time, the extended timeframe was due in large part to undergoing a process intended to overcome my allergy to the drug, experienced at an earlier session. That process worked…during that treatment. Naturally assuming the allergy had been overcome, then, the normal administration of carboplatin intravenously  commenced today. About halfway through the infusion, though, I developed some moderate symptoms of allergy/rejection (difficulty breathing and a sensation of feeling very warm/hot). The nurses immediately stopped the administration of the IV and informed the oncologist. Even before getting the doctor, one of the nurses brought a tank of oxygen to my therapy station and began giving administering it.  The doctor came in immediately and instructed the nurses to give me an injection (through the IV line) of Benadryl. After having me breathe oxygen and relax for several minutes, the doctor asked me several questions about my earlier experience with Benadryl. She then  told the nurses to continue administering  the carboplatin, but at half the original  rate of infusion. Her strategy worked. She instructed the nurses to make a permanent note in my files, indicating that future infusions of carboplatin should be administered over a period of one full hour, rather than  the half hour she had originally planned. The doctor arranged for me to get a regular follow-up injection tomorrow morning (something to protect me from infections), a regular part of the process. A long, long day; but at 8 to 5, almost like a short day, “in the old days” at the office. I won’t have a PET scan or a CAT scan until one or two more treatments have been done; so, not until after at least 3-6 weeks from now. So, I won’t have any concrete evidence of the effectiveness of adjusted treatment since progress was downgraded after a PET scan revealed the earlier success of the treatment had degraded. Impatience and worry are among a plethora of my most obvious character flaws.

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Those of us who live in my part of Central Arkansas can expect outdoor temperatures to increase by roughly 22°F before the sun sets, topping out at 95°F around 4:00 p.m. Much of my day, though, will be spent in a frigid building, while nurses periodically check and refresh the IV drip delivering various powerful drugs to my circulatory system. Among them, the drug that caused me—two days later and three or four days after that—to feel quite a bit of pain in what felt like every joint and muscle in my body. The same drug, I believe, is responsible for my hair falling out in clumps before I had the barber give me a scalp-close trim. When he finished the job, the barber refused payment; people who know me even casually know how difficult it was for me to keep my composure, as gratitude for his compassionate act swept over me.

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I wrote the paragraphs below early this morning, but left the blog to go to my cancer center appointment (described above).  I am too lazy to restructure this blog entry; I am sure anyone reading it can understand that the sequence is off.

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My sister was scheduled to have the second of two hip replacements this morning. I have not spoken to her since yesterday. I hope it went off without a hitch and will fully heal in short order, making walking much easier and less painful for her. She had been dealing with hip pain for far too long.

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I am unhappy with myself this evening. Though my anger is a bit irrational, it is real and impossible to erase. Because history cannot be altered; not eliminated, not corrected, not disguised as something it is not. I am angry that I did not successfully pursue or even try to take advantage of so many potential opportunities when I was young enough to follow them. Some of them would have been easy to achieve, if only I had tried. Some would have been much more difficult. But those are suppositions; unproveable theories that cannot be tested. I wish I had doggedly pursued more advanced education. I wish I had devoted more serious attention to learning far more about areas of interest than I did; in many cases, I sailed through easy but boring subjects, learning just enough to get acceptable grades. I didn’t dedicate enough energy and attention even to subjects that fascinated me because I feared I might not be as bright as I thought I might be…and maybe I would not be able to learn as much as I wanted, simply because I was not smart enough. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of examples; not all related to school. Some had to do with social skills, some with physical efforts to build strength and stamina, some with coping with difficult emotional matters, some with self-discipline. The list is much, much longer. People are fond of saying “you’re never too old to [pick your activity or achievement]. Oh, yes, you can be too old to do many things. Physically, mentally, and practically in many other ways, you can be too old. Looking back, so many of the missed opportunities to be a more interesting, more intelligent, more likeable, and generally better person have become old, impossible, withered dreams. You’re never too old… Oh, yes. The best approach is to try to wash away those regrets and focus on past accomplishments and present enjoyable, productive activities. At least that’s my position this evening—as precarious as that feels at this moment.

Never again, after today, will we be given the opportunity to experience, live and in-person, July 31, 2024. Photographs, videos, audio recordings, and written records are among the many ways we can try to capture and re-live this moment in time; but to actually undergo the experience of today—as it takes place—is a one-time-only possibility. After today, that opportunity will be gone forever. That is true, as well, for every second, minute, and hour. Every moment is unique and fleeting, yet we tend to treat those sui generis occasions as if they are common commodities. Of course, it’s not just the moment that is unique—it is the context of the moment, the milieu. Is it today that is unique or is it what happens today that is unique?  Today is just a label, but the label applies to both the moment and to its context. But, then again, maybe not. Simple questions rarely have simple answers.

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Creativity, when mixed with anxiety, often morphs into emptiness. All of the intricate patterns and complex designs vacate the vessels intended to hold them, leaving only traces of powder that is one thousand times finer than the finest chalk dust. Those traces later coalesce around shattered pieces of distorted memories; like sugar, dissolved in water, that forms crystals that cling to lengths of string. But, unlike sugar, reconstituted creativity is not sweet and crystalline. It is sour. It curdles, congealing like milk left in an open jar under a lemon tree.

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Everyone will die, eventually. What difference does it make if it happens all at once or slowly, over a long period of time? Well, instant extinction would save a lot of unnecessary tears, so that’s an argument for the fast track.

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Apparently, I have been in better places, emotionally, than I am in at the moment. It could be the fact that the top of my head feels like sandpaper. I should have shaved my scalp, rather than had my hair trimmed extremely close with electric clippers—I imagined my head shiny and as smooth as a bowling ball. Curdled milk, I tell you.

Waiting to plan for the future until that future is assured is an exercise in futility. The future, whatever I might imagine it to be, has never unfolded exactly as I envisioned. I doubt I am alone in that perpetual experience. Yet, even realizing how utterly pointless it is to wait for an unlikely and uncertain future, it’s a common and very risky tactic used to avoid risk. Action and inaction both involve risk. People tend to justify inaction, though, by pretending that doing nothing avoids risk. But opting to stay put on the sidewalk, rather than moving four feet in any direction, while a piano plummets from an upper floor toward the sidewalk where you are standing does nothing to mitigate risk.

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I did not sleep long enough nor well enough last night (and this morning). Long before 4 a.m., I woke and, a short while later, determined that I would not be able to get to sleep anytime soon. So I got up, made an espresso, and tried to find a reason, online, to be cheerful, grateful, tolerant, or otherwise appreciative of the world in which I live. That effort proved fruitless. My mood this morning, so far, is not suited to such pointlessness. If I can convince my body and my brain to jointly agree to let me sleep again soon, I will return to bed. Failing that, I suppose I will wallow in emotional darkness until I emerge from the cave or come to realize it’s not a cave…it’s an abandoned mine shaft with no access to the surface.  I try dark humor, hoping it will buoy me…lift me up and out of the coal dust and methane gas. That’s not working, yet, but I will keep trying.

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Finally, after a very long period of procrastination, I will visit an attorney next week to revise various documents: power of attorney, medical power of attorney, and will. I may decide to abandon the will completely, opting instead to form a revocable trust. Circumstances have changed in the nine years since my current will and related estate planning documents were written. In fact, my life has undergone radical alterations since then. With the exception of a medical power of attorney, the documents involved in estate planning do virtually nothing for the person who creates the plans; they are meant to simplify and ease the transition for those left behind. Making decisions involved in planning for one’s uncertain future can be jarring, but advisable.

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Serial Killer or Curmudgeon?

Comparing head shots of myself—some showing a head of hair and some after my chemo-triggered baldness—I am shocked to realize how much older I look without hair. With no hair on top of my head, no moustache, and no beard, I think I look about 20 years older than I am. Before my hair abandoned me, I think I looked about 10 years younger than I was. So, today I look 30 years older than I looked day before yesterday. It’s not the baldness I mind—not at all. It’s the associated overnight aging I find surprising and unflattering. Many people look great with shiny domes; I do not believe I am one of them. Some friends—no doubt realizing how unflattering my new look is—have tried to soften the blow by saying it suits me. While I appreciate their intentions, the fact that they tell me such a bald-faced lie jolts me and makes me wonder what else they might have told me that was untrue. Perhaps they lied about liking the special gourmet dish I prepared for them…maybe they really weren’t sick when they called to say they felt ill and weren’t coming to my lavish and horrendously expensive party…maybe one of them (or a gang of them) is responsible for taking $50,000 in cash from my nightstand…perhaps they really were guilty of spray-painting vulgar graffiti on my new Lamborghini. Ah, well, let bygones be bygones. It’s my understanding that insurance will cover my losses (even supplying additional guests to fill-out the party crowd). And my hair may begin to grow back in six months or so—though when it returns it may be bright neon blue, thick as molasses, and curly as a pig’s tail.

On December 19, 2010 I bought a used 21-speed bicycle for $160, a new bike helmet, and an air pump. My vague recollection of those acquisitions pairs with only a few memories of riding that bike. How many times in my life, I wonder, have I invested money and quick-to-disappear-commitments in something that illustrated my lack of discipline? I have a few pieces of more recent evidence—right here in my study—of my foolish and quickly-disproven belief that THIS TIME I will stick to it. I know I can. But, despite my ability, I don’t, thanks to the fact that my will fades so quickly. I’ve had some successes, of course, but they have been outnumbered by unmet objectives and commitments.

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I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

~ Edgar Allan Poe ~

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Alternative facts cannot justify claims about alternative realities. Yet truth and facts are contextual; perspective can transform one absolute certainty into its antithesis. Intentional adjustments to manipulate others’ frames of reference, though, behave like sinister prisms—making malevolent acts appear charitable and worthy of admiration.  Eventually, trickery teaches lessons to the victims of fraud—specifically, who can be trusted and who cannot. That clarity, though, becomes muddy when the confusion of unyielding distrust gets in the way of reality. If two people—one with a history of honesty and the other with a history of lies—make the same claim, the dishonest one is apt to be judged a liar. But one’s judgment about the honest one may be clouded, tainted by the other’s past. Context.

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

~ Leonard Cohen ~

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The indoor temperature can be 76°F; still, I feel cold, especially when I compare that temperature to the 88°F outside. I feel moderately comfortable, usually, when I wear long-sleeves and long pants. But when I walk outside to face the blazing climate, I feel positively wonderful…for a time. Soon, though, the long-sleeves, long pants, and stifling humidity become too much; I want nothing more than to run naked through a mist of cool water. But I don’t. Because I am a civilized man being who recognizes nudity for what it is: a vulgar, unwholesome, and unforgiveable abandonment of human modesty, one of the only attributes we can claim entirely as our own. No, of course I do not believe nudity is bad in some way. I do believe, though, that many of the world’s societies have adopted an irrational loathing of nudity. And I believe many people in those same societies find nude bodies (those that do not fit the mold of what is, at any given time, the ideal) disgusting. I have heard people complaining about others on a beach. They say something to the effect that “I don’t want to see the naked body of an old fat man!” When I hear such bigotry, even from friends or acquaintances, the level of respect I feel for the speaker declines precipitously. My experience with uncomfortable temperatures somehow led me to begin writing a treatise on compassion and human decency. Perhaps it’s symptomatic of adult ADHD; might I be afflicted by the condition?

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Dreams serve as punishment. Not for actions, but for thoughts.

Until yesterday, I questioned whether my most recent chemo treatment would cause me to lose all my hair or simply result in minor thinning. While, today, I am not absolutely certain, I would place a bet on losing it all. Hair left my scalp in clumps, giving new meaning to my receding hairline. Relatively long hair as well as closely cropped strands abandoned my head. Considering the volume of hair loss in just one day, I suspect my head will be bald, or close to it, later today—if not of its own accord, then probably by me, wielding electric clippers. Whether the outcome takes place before church this morning or sometime later in the day remains to be seen. I am not thrilled to be losing my hair, but neither am I devastated by it; it’s just an expected side-effect of one of the chemotherapy drugs. A benefit from the situation: I will get to see what I look like without hair.

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Fire in Paradise, a documentary film about the 2018 Camp Fire in California that left 85 dead and $16.65 billion in damage, left me stunned and deeply moved. I watched it last night—along with another far less interesting and informative documentary—while mi novia joined a bevy of friends for laughter, noshing, and conversation. (I can attest that their food was good, inasmuch as mi novia was sent home afterward with a container of savory goodies for me.) Back to the film: I learned more about the experience of residents and firefighters from the documentary than I ever did from newscasts; it’s available on Netflix and worth watching.

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The world seems to me entirely two-dimensional this morning. No significant substance, just thin-film images—façades in front of emptiness. Mirrors reflect that emptiness. They show the reality we desperately try to avoid. Two mirrors, each reflecting images of the other, reveal endless emptiness in a way that gives the absence of reality an odd appeal. We trick ourselves into believing three-dimensional experiences are real; our eyes are complicit in the deceit.

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It is after 8; well past time to prepare for whatever the day will bring.

A grove of citrus trees, surrounded by an avocado orchard. All around the perimeter, a vineyard of mixed grapes awaits the caring hands of caretakers, who will prune the vines, cultivate and fertilize the soil, and pick the ripe grapes. The cool air, shielded from the sun’s rays by morning fog, expertly defines comfort and lavishes tenderness and passionate appreciation on all the fruit. A thousand years ago, the Arctic air would have been too cold for the plants to survive. Now, though, these few thousand acres are the only habitable places on Earth. The rest of the planet is scorched. Lead pipes buried under ten feet of hard-packed rock have long since melted. The corpses of penguins, the last of the few remaining natural inhabitants of this little piece of land, litter the salty coastline ten miles away.

Lilly Thrungle, in her tiny hut, sits at the solar-powered DVD player/transmitter. She broadcasts old episodes of Julia Child’s The French Chef, hoping someone outside Lilly’s tiny enclave might stumble upon the show about preparing Boeuf Bourguignon. But, Lilly wonders, who has beef? Still, she keeps broadcasting old episodes, clinging to withered shreds of hope.

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I learned during all my career to enjoy suffering.

~ Rafael Nadal ~

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One of my long-time dreams/fantasies emerged again this morning, triggered by an article about the vision and efforts of a woman in New York city to convert an ugly nine-acres under the Brooklyn Bridge in Lower Manhattan into a park. I love the idea of using the land in Lower Manhattan to improve the quality of life in that part of New York City. Even more, I love my dream of resurrecting a dying small town, turning it into an oasis of comfort and promise and hope.

My fantasy began to take shape while I was a student at the University of Texas. When I drove home to Corpus Christi from Austin, which was a trip I made fairly frequently, I passed through a number of small towns that looked to me like they suffered from neglect. Boarded up doors and windows, cracked and peeling paint, sidewalks overtaken by dust and weeds, and various other signs of resignation and surrender. “If only,” I thought, “I could muster the resources, I would like to salvage what’s left of this town.” I fantasized about stopping the decline of those little towns, perhaps spurring the investments necessary to return them to their former glory…or to improve on their best days from years gone by. I was an impoverished college student at the time, though, and I did not have any confidence in raising money to embark on my dream. So, I just kept on dreaming. Every time I passed through a withering little town or village, I wished I had the resources to turn my fantasy into a reality.

For years after I left Texas and then returned, I allowed the dream to materialize again whenever I passed through a decaying little town. In some cases, the town’s commercial areas just needed a coat of paint and some TLC. One such town was Whitesboro, Texas, about 80 or 90 miles north of Dallas. The spark that re-kindled my dream during a drive through Whitesboro was a “for sale” sign in front of an old, abandoned Christian Church. I thought the church building was beautiful. Though badly in need of repair, it had enormous potential, I thought. My belief in its potential, though, was not enough to generate sufficient interest to pursue it seriously. I asked a friend, who was in no more of a financial position than I to invest in rehabilitating an old church; he was mildly supportive of the idea, but wondered about the use to which the restored building might be put. My vision was flush with color, but blurry; I was sure that, if we restored it, a perfect use would be found. It has been at least eleven years since I fell in love with the idea of resurrecting that old church in Whitesboro. I’m sure I wrote about my dream at the time. A few months later, driving through another small town (Whitewright, Texas), I let that town’s potential capture me. The same thing has happened many times since in many other places. But, if my resources were insufficient at the time to take action to reach my dreams, today the resources essentially are non-existent. Such is life.

Thinking about my old fantasies reminds me that I had other, related, dreams. For a few years, I considered the possibility of returning to school to pursue an education in “urban” planning. However, my interest would more closely aligned with “semi-rural” planning. But I remember feeling torn abut that concept; I equated life in rural communities with social conservatism and undeveloped intellectual curiosity, which would have made me uncomfortable. Still today, I do not know with any degree of certainty what I might do if I had my life to live over again. Nothing seems to hold enough interest for me to keep me focused for more than a little while. Perhaps I should have steamrolled my way through another idea I once had: in week-long increments, pursue 52 weeks of wildly divergent career paths and then document my judgments about each of them. Maybe I would have scored my interest in them, enabling me to pick the one path about which I was truly passionate. Maybe not. No, not likely. I know myself too well.

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The guns and the bombs, the rockets and the warships, are all symbols of human failure.

~ Lyndon B. Johnson ~

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A chipper-shredder the size of Jupiter is grinding its way through the universe, leaving a trail of metallic dust and perpetual grief in its wake. When the gigantic machine nears Earth, it will pulverize the planet’s fragile atmosphere with its enormous platinum teeth. Later, it will use a volcanic vent like a straw to suck the magma from Earth’s core. Molten rock will splash onto Earth’s moon, causing massive oceans of silver lava to scrub and polish the lunar surface, revealing a shiny reflective orb consumed by an image of raw hatred and blind rage. Those who remain will watch in terrified awe as the calamity turns into an unfamiliar landscape marred with craters—cauldrons filled with bubbling sulfuric acid. Just a snapshot of the transfiguration wrought by time.

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Morbid thoughts do not belong in the kitchen, nor at the shore. Seaside tales of horror tend to ruin picnics, especially when the rising tide has permanently blocked the only escape to dry land.