Adrift in Wishes and Dreams

I want to spend hours alone, applying brilliant colors and muted greys and browns to a large, stretched, artist’s canvas. The reason I need solitude while I paint is not absolutely clear; I know only that I feel a need for absolute privacy while attempting to produce art. Perhaps my unsuccessful experiences with paints and brushes and palate knives and canvas have taught me that the output of my unskilled hands always is an assured embarrassment. Maybe I do not wish to share my artistic incompetence during my attempts at express a flawed creative process. In my mind, I know exactly what I want to create, but my hands cannot translate my abstract visions into reality. Despite my desire to paint, I know the results of my efforts will fall far short of what I hope to produce. Still, though, I sometimes want to keep trying—wishing beyond possibility that one day I will magically train my hands and my eyes to cooperate with my brain. But I am impatient in the extreme. I do not want to learn…I do not want to be trained…I want only to be magically transformed into a talented artist imbued with stunning creativity.

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My expected short visit with my oncologist yesterday was extended by an hour so IV fluids could be dripped into my bloodstream. My doctor judged that dehydration contributed to my much lower-than-normal blood pressure (85/53) and, thus, to my exhaustion/fatigue. I felt much better after receiving a bag of saline solution, so her judgment apparently was on the money. I do not understand why I find drinking sufficient fluids (to guard against the condition) so difficult. There are times I am incredibly thirsty, but more often I have to try to force myself to drink water. Sports drinks, with their electrolyte content and slight sweetness, are more tolerable at such times, but even they have little appeal. I think I read that excessive sleep can contribute to dehydration, as well; considering my marathon napping sessions after chemotherapy sessions, my time in bed could contribute, as well. Ach.

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A couple of naps during the day yesterday did not successfully revive my energy, even after rehydration therapy. I was better, but still quite tired. I was able to watch another episode of Shetland (this time, while resting in bed) before surrendering to sleep around 8 pm. By 3 am, I was awake, but hoping to be able to sleep again; very little luck there. After drifting off for a few minutes at a time, I finally got up around 4:30. Fed the cat, made a cup of espresso, and stumbled into my study to think and write and curse myself for failing to give sleep another try. I may give it another shot. It’s almost 6:40 now and the sky is leaking dim sunlight through the trees. I am hungry, but I cannot think of anything I want to eat. Vanilla ice cream sounds a little interesting, but the freezer keeps it so cold that it’s hard to scoop without letting it thaw just a bit. And I am impatient, so waiting won’t do. I’ll just try to abandon my thoughts of food and, instead, convince myself to slip into unconsciousness for another half hour or so.

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Decisions

After three consecutive nights of insufficient sleep, I woke this morning feeling utterly exhausted—despite the fact that I slept for at least five hours during the day yesterday. I have to stay awake this morning because I have an appointment with my oncologist. Shortly thereafter, I meet with an attorney to update/replace my will, living will, power of attorney, and various other legal materials. Though it’s just prudent to update those legal documents, the process seems just a shade morbid, as if I am focusing on end-of-life matters—which, of course, is exactly what I am doing. Better to clarify my intentions than to leave a mass of tangled questions for others to work through.

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I cannot stay awake. I will rely on mi novia to wake me before it is time to drive to the cancer clinic. She insisted on cancelling her hair appointment this morning so she could drive me. Given the way I feel right now, that was a wise decision.

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Engaging with Life as It Is

Yesterday morning, I relaxed on the deck as delicate streams of smoke rose from a burning cone of incense, forming elaborate swirls in the nearly-still air. I caught a glimpse of movement on the road, through the trees below and behind the house; first, an adult doe ambled by, then a fawn, and finally another adult doe. The pair of serene sights were just coincidental, of course, but I sensed they were profoundly and purposely peaceful, as if they were intended to envelope me in an embrace of tranquility. That placid atmosphere lasted only a short time, but long enough to shape my thinking for a while—smoothing the rough edges and softening what later would become a somewhat angular day.

Too much of the rest of the day focused on trying to sort out healthcare appointments. My normal oncology appointment schedule was disrupted by the oncology nurse’s two-week vacation, which will almost double the oncologist’s already tight schedule. Other obligations are being added in the near-term: a meeting with an attorney and, sometime before long, a visit with an ophthalmologist who specializes in damage to/diseases of the cornea. Two more MRIs will be added to my normal medical appointments next month. Ach! I would rather relax on an inflatable float in a large, private swimming pool. The sound of water lapping the edges of the pool would quiet the burdens bouncing around in my head.

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If the weather forecasts are reliable, we can expect cooler temperatures—both day and night—on September 3 and 4. Eventually, the on-again, off-again stifling heat will reach a longer pause; I will then sit on the deck and soak in the cooler weather with espresso in the morning and, to a limited extent, wine or a mixed drink (gin & tonic) in the evening. Listening to the sounds of birds and watching the creatures flit from twig to twig is entertainment for the geriatric set. Though I sometimes make gentle fun of myself for appreciating such raucous merriment, I always—even as an arrogant young man—have enjoyed the simplicity of such pastimes. Hearing people mock others for their preferences—especially deriding people whose choices tend to be rather sedate—tends to make my blood boil. My affinity for tranquility can be overwhelmed by my desire to inflict excruciating retribution against such inconsiderate bastards.  Have I deviated from the path of serenity, again?

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While mi novia was out playing mahjong yesterday, I summoned a little energy and a touch of creativity. I thawed and chopped a bag of frozen smoked brisket, added canned kernel corn, pinto beans, and fire-roasted tomatoes, and then jazzed it up with cumin, chile powder, garlic salt, and pepper. We had an early dinner not long after mi novia returned from her weekly foray into the world of high-stakes gambling. A one-pot dinner like that is incredibly simple to make and quite enjoyable to eat, even when my appetite is not especially strong. A big Greek salad is another wonderful meal that I should (but rarely do) make regularly.  I need nothing but the salad and the dressing to make me happy; the recipe I use is always some variation of this:

Greek Salad
Ingredients

Greek Salad Dressing

  • 2 cloves garlic, minced
  • 1 teaspoon dried oregano
  • 1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
  • 1/4 cup good red wine vinegar
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
  • 1/2 cup high-quality olive oil
  • 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

For the salad

  • 1 English cucumber, cut lengthwise and sliced ¼-inch thick
  • 4 cups chopped Romine lettuce
  • 1 green bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
  • 1 red bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
  • 1 yellow bell pepper, chopped into 1-inch pieces
  • 1 pint grape or cherry tomatoes, cut in halves
  • 6 ounces feta cheese, cut into ½ inch cubes*
  • ½ red onion, sliced in half rounds
  • ½ cup pitted Kalamata olives
  • 16 black or green olives
  • ⅓ cup fresh mint leaves

The dressing is good on almost anything, by the way.

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Phaedra becomes more appealing almost every day. Still, though, she should not tear up rugs (or furniture or anything else) with her claws. She should understand and speak English, as well. And she should respond to my commands. Or requests.

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Incense as Salve

Too much time has passed since I enjoyed the aroma of a burning cone of patchouli incense. There’s something about that smell that helps improve my outlook on life. But the odor of incense—whether patchouli or something else entirely—is off-putting to many people, so I have stopped burning any incense cones in my study. And it’s too damn hot most of the time lately to sit outside on the deck and luxuriate in what seems to me to be the fragrance of serenity. This morning, though, the outside temperature is only 70°F at the moment, so I might break the cycle of abstinence for a short while; soon, the morning air will make sitting outdoors more than a little unpleasant.  Maybe the smell of incense will help ease the throbbing in my head. And, perhaps, it will brighten an attitude that calls out for brightening.

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My pounding headache this morning may be attributable to last Thursday’s chemotherapy infusions. But maybe not. It could be entirely unrelated to chemo. The same is true of site-specific joint pain. I do not know what difference it would make if I knew, with certainty, the reasons for the discomfort. I sense, though, that I might feel less perplexed by the aches and pains if I understood their source and how best to deal with them. None of the pains are awful; just irritating and annoying. They sour my mood and set an unwelcome stage for the day. Another night of on-and-off insomnia did not help. The good news, though, is that for the most part my post-chemo experience since Thursday has been better than previous rounds. I should not complain, then. But I do.

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The vision in my left eye has been degrading for several months. Even with drops and ointments prescribed by an optometrist, the itchy dryness and badly blurred vision have gotten worse. The optometrist said she would refer me to a cornea specialist if the treatments were ineffective; it is past time to ask for the referral. I doubt the problem is related to chemo or to cancer. Whatever it is, though, it is maddening. I cannot read comfortably. Watching television is unpleasantly “choppy” and imprecise. And it’s not just my vision; dry skin, too, is not responding to ointments and the like prescribed by the dermatologist’s APRN. I wonder whether my body simply is decaying from overuse? Aging has become something of an enemy to me. Mentally, I feel as young as ever. Physically, I am unable to ignore the growing number and severity of signs of deterioration. I could use some strong infusions of youth right now. The assertion that youth is wasted on the  young has more than a kernel of truth to it.

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I want conversation. But not conversation about cancer or politics or the decline of humanity or the horrors that face so many millions of people on Earth. What, then? Talk about how colors can alter one’s perspectives…discussions about the beauty of oceanside cliffs…how wild animals’ instincts enable them to teach their young how to hunt and protect themselves…the aurora borealis…why ripe peaches can be so fabulously tasty…the way poetry can draw out an incredible array of emotions…a thousand other topics that reinforce one’s sense of awe at the universe around us…even the simplest things like eyesight and hearing and taste and touch.

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If I’m going to smell incense, I should do it now.

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All Here

Once again, I chose not to go to church this morning. Though I feel reasonably good this morning, the fact that my chemotherapy side-effects could blossom at any moment (coupled with advice to minimize social situations that could expose me to infections) suggests I should not attend. I had hoped to be able to watch the service online, but the last word I heard about streaming was that it is temporarily unavailable. Such is life. I might opt to sleep, instead. Last night, for the first time in a great while, I did not sleep well at all. I was awake for at least half the night; maybe more. My napping time has declined quite a lot in the last several days, as well. I will bring this (lack of sleep) up during my next visit with my oncologist.

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Is it healthier, mentally, for a person to worry about a large array of issues or to limit concern to just a few (assuming, for the moment, that worry is not a bad thing)? My thinking on the matter is that a large array of issues might lessen the strength of individual concerns, thereby reducing the stress caused by worry. But the reverse may be just as likely to be true: the more matters one worries about, the the greater the anxiety one must combat. My worries seem to sweep into my mind in waves; some with numerous concerns, some with just a few overwhelming issues. Lately, my few issues are: the upcoming presidential election (and its potential to spark massive problems, no matter the result); my own cancer; and my sense that the decay of compassion in the human species may be irreversible. When the number of matters grows, it grows exponentially: the food supply; poverty; Christian nationalism; homelessness; culture wars; the existence of Fox News; military actions and military wars; forest fires; highway safety; inflation; collapsing infrastructure; climate change; dozens of concerns about specific other people…the list could go on for days and days. I realize, of course, the near-universal advice is don’t worry because, unless one can do something about the matter, worry is pointless. But that is far easier said than done. And maybe my question is nonsensical. No matter, it’s still something I think (or worry) about.

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Increasingly, reading through online English-language newspapers and other news sources based in other countries disappoints me. Though not an everyday habit, I like to at least skim a few headlines from England, Germany, Iceland, China, the Middle East, Canada, Mexico, etc. If the headlines suggest I might learn something interesting or valuable that I would be unlikely to learn from domestic sources, I read the article. There was a time no so long ago that I learned quite a bit about those countries’ domestic issues and their published perspectives on world events. During  the past few years, though, many international news sources focus very heavily on US news, with domestic matters receiving considerably less attention. I wonder whether a global collapse of traditional journalism is contributing to this change or whether other factors are bringing about the transformation? Perhaps the sources I follow are adjusting to a English-speaking centric readership whose interests focus on the U.S.? If only I could read and understand other languages, I might find completely different information and opinions; the sort of stuff I have always enjoyed reading. Lately, though, I feel I am being fed limited, oddly parochial information—no matter the source—that has a very narrow, US slant. Our thinking about globally relevant matters is far more valuable, I believe, if we analytically and critically process information delivered from multiple sources—with different perspectives. Judgments still must be made as to the likely veracity of the information stream, but at least reading several viewpoints gives us opportunities to choose on the basis of various inputs.

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I should shower this morning. And I will…well, sometime today. Maybe I will skin  an alligator, as well.

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Seasonal Thinking

Women and people of color and minorities have had to deal with socially-imposed constraints for millennia, I suspect. Men, to a much lesser extent, are expected to accept limits on their experiences and behaviors, as well. Most such restrictions placed on men undoubtably are less rigid and probably far less emotionally damaging, yet they represent obstacles that can be difficult to circumvent. Whereas career options available to women, people of color, and minorities historically have been severely limited, some socially-imposed career restrictions have prevented from pursuing non-traditional career choices. Nursing, for example, was among the few socially-acceptable career choices for women for a long time; at the same time, male nurses were anomalies; looked upon as odd or out-of-touch. Some of the most common career choices for women (if they were permitted to have careers outside the family) included secretarial, seamstress work, telephone operator, personal services (like hair stylist), and domestic work in others’ homes. People of color and other minorities were even more limited. Those careers were largely unavailable to men; men who pursued them were looked upon with disdain, often. I think men and women who eschewed traditional work have tended to be actively discouraged from non-traditional careers. For example: tattoo artist; horse-racing jockey; painter; sculptor; mortician; fiction writer; and practitioner of Eastern healing practices. There are hundreds, if not thousands, more…but my brain is not cooperating with me any longer; at least not on this topic. So I will abandon it for now. I may return later to find that I never should have started writing this.

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Speaking of careers, though, I think I might have enjoyed work as a police detective; but not as a uniformed police officer. Mi novia‘s enjoyment of her career as a welfare fraud investigator suggests she would have appreciated detective work, as well. I had many ideas about what I “wanted to be when I grow up,” but I explored only a few of them. And those I explored never received enough of my attention to know what they might have really entailed. I got bored with my own interests too easily. Or the discouragement I encountered when I spoke of my interests was enough to dissuade me from further exploration. I still am not sure what I want to be when I grow up. I’ve written all this before, haven’t I? Despite just stumbling into a career, I got lucky to the extent that it provided me with the means to retire in reasonable comfort. Association management; one of those careers few people realize exists. And, unfortunately, one of thousands of careers that, ultimately, infrequently make any appreciable difference in the world in which we live. Or maybe it was just mine that did not matter much; but I do not think so. If we all had become passionately philanthropic self-employed farmers, we might have been fulfilled as human beings, in spite of our poverty and back-breaking work.

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Swirls of pine needless rained on my car as I drove home through the forest a couple of days ago. In some places, the roadways were covered in them, making it seem like I was driving down a forest trail, rather than a street. Before too long, the broadleaf trees will begin changing colors and dropping leaves. The withering temperatures of summer will (I hope) give way to cooler and much more comfortable weather. Sitting on the deck will become more than just tolerable; it will be enjoyable. Birds will be more visible when the leaves do not provide as much camouflage, though those here for the summer will be gone until next year. Some days, I feel like I could spend all my time peering into the forest, just watching the seasons change. And some days that’s exactly what I seem to do.

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And Again

Hope is a wish unassisted by action. Hope sometimes is the only crutch, though, that will allow a person to stand or even to sit upright. Wishes supported by action are more effective than hope, but only if the actions inspire confidence. When they do not, hope may be the only reasonable alternative. Hopelessness is not a chosen state of mind; it follows on naturally when hope is dashed by the onslaught of reality. It also is known by other names: acceptance or resignation.

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Once again, the chemotherapy process ran to five hours yesterday, two hours longer than scheduled; nothing having to do with my treatment, just the result of a very crowded clinic, some of whose patients require more time than others. I am comfortable with that reality. I’ve come to expect longer visits than the schedule indicates; I do not have anywhere else I have to go or anything else I have to do. Today, I return to the closer, temporary, clinic for my regular post-treatment injection, which is intended to minimize the risk of infections associated with the chemotherapy.

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We watched some of last night’s finale of the Democratic National Convention (mi novia watched more than I). Kamala Harris is a good speaker, in my opinion, and her message was powerful. I wish the other Democrat speakers would not resort to tit-for-tat attacks on their opponents.  Mentions of Trump’s and Vance’s attacks on them (and others) are ripe for being called out, but resorting to the T&V tactics is beneath them—and such reactions will have no positive impact on even “iffy” supporters of the orange blight. [It’s okay for me to bad-mouth the bastards (though I know I should not)…I’m not running for president.]

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Perhaps it’s the anticipation of the chemo after-effects that’s robbing me of even a shred of creativity this morning. It’s not the effects themselves; they haven’t begun yet. I want to write some fiction, but I know I quickly will reach a point at which I do not feel like continuing; just another unfinished story. So, lately I avoid adding to the hundreds of incomplete tales I’ve begun over the years. Maybe, though, I will before long take some time to revisit some of the more promising unfinished pieces. Time will tell.

 

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Entranced

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.

 

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Soap Bubbles

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.

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Description

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.

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Healing Passion

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?

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Listening to Myself Think

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 ~

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Anchors

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.

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Hidden Contentment

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.

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There’s That

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.

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Life is Wondrous

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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All the Ordeals

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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The Story

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.

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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.

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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.

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Unfold

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.

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Vanity and Reflection

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.

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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.

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Better Babbling Through Chemistry

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.

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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.

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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.

 

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Poison

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.

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Fright

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.

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Obligations of Engagement

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…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Favorites

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.

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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 ~

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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.

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