John Swinburn

Writing occasional notes to people who would be quite surprised to receive them from me has long been among my intentions…my failed intentions. But I plan to give it an honest try. Some mornings, instead of writing my blog, I may start writing notes to a long list of people who I hope will be not only surprised to get them, but will appreciate receiving an unexpected message from someone from whom they would least expect to hear. I mentioned, in my December 24 blog, a lovely note I received from a friend at church. That note boosted my spirits and inspired me to think about writing such notes. It’s a little late to do a Christmas card this year, but not too late to start regularly writing “just because” notes. Now, I just need follow through on my intentions.

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Now, here’s something a little at odds with my good intentions to write “just because” notes to people. When I chastise myself for thoughts and actions that run contrary to the old Unitarian Universalist principle, “To affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person,” I have to remind myself that it is an aspirational principle. So, yesterday, when I implied to my favorite nurse at the cancer center that one of the center’s receptionists was intensely stupid and slower than black-strap molasses on ice, I told myself I shouldn’t have uttered (nor should I share) such thoughts, but I should continue to try to adhere to that principle in the future. But, really. This receptionist has been on the job for months, yet she had not improved her speed or accuracy (or level of friendliness) one iota since she started work. Granted, she may have some inherent limitation about which I am unaware. But… No buts! She merits my appreciation of her worth and dignity. I just have to continue to try to train myself to think positive thoughts about all people. There are some, though, about who that is simply impossible…I’ve started to consider those creatures may not actually be people. That’s just an excuse. And not a good one, at that.

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Half a banana. 5 walnut cookies. 2 demi tasse cups of espresso. Not enough water, but working on it. After I finish breakfast, which may consist only of what I’ve eaten thus far, I will drink a carton of artificial sustenance juice. Then, shortly thereafter, another radiation session. Later still, an injection meant to stem infections that could emerge after chemo has weakened my immunity. The chemo and the post-chemo injection is not a daily aspect of my weekdays, but the rest is. BUT, if my latest calculations are correct (confirmed by the radiation technicians), my final radiation session will take place tomorrow. I’ll have to figure out what to do on weekday mornings after that. Perhaps I’ll write some more. Or sleep. Or try a new recipe for a Bloody Mary every day; mi novia probably won’t permit that. Except I could start early, while she’s still sleeping. I haven’t had a Bloody Mary in years. It’s about bloody time! When my sister comes to visit (soon, I hope), I will make her a Bloody Mary, as I promised her I would. And I will, by God, drink one (or more) as well!

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Here we are, Tuesday morning, January 7, 2025. I had hoped Kamala Harris would have said, during yesterday’s certification ceremonies, “Wait, I cannot certify this election. I was a candidate, so this would be a conflict of interest! You’ll have to find another way.” After a series of explosive pulmonary embolisms had erupted in the House chambers, she could have repaired ruptured Republican vein and lung tissue by adding, “Just kidding!”

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An unfinished fictional scene outside a Baptist church, where a funeral service had just concluded.

Ellen watched as the Baptist minister shook Tim’s hand and squeezed his shoulder. The minister nodded solemnly to Ellen as he walked past her.

As Tim approached her, a barely visible smirk crossed Ellen’s lips, as she spoke to him.

“I think I could smell the bromide on his breath,” Ellen whispered.

Tim, sneering, responded. “Yeah, ‘It’s all part of God’s plan.’ Funerals bring out the most irritating platitudes from the most annoying preachers. Especially this one. Hackneyed preachers and trite words of comfort, when properly mixed, can ruin even tolerable funerals.”

“If Charlene could have heard him, she would have leapt out of the coffin and choked the man,” Ellen laughed. “I can just hear her say ‘What the hell?! Whose God planned for me to drive off a freeway overpass? And what am I doing in a coffin? I expressly asked to be burned!'”

Tim, Ellen, and Charlene had been close since their common birth; triplets whose social, political, religious, and economic philosophies aligned with one another, but were opposite of their parents’ attitudes. Tim and Ellen had not objected, though, when their parents insisted on a church funeral for their atheist sister. The fight would not have justified the ashes. Or, as Charlene would have said, ‘The game would not be worth the candle.’ Charlene had been opinionated but practical.

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Still tired. Too tired. I got up before 4 this morning. It’s almost 7 now. I’ll drink my artificial sustenance, then take a nap and awake by 8.

For some reason, beef and pork lately have almost no appeal to me. Chicken is okay, but not something I crave. The only thing that sounds particularly appealing to me is ceviche. Halibut ceviche, in particular. Any firm, mild-flavored white fish would satisfy my desire for ceviche, I think, provided it was prepared properly. That is, cut into small bite-sized pieces and soaked for a few hours in a marinade of lime juice, diced tomatoes, diced jalapeños, and diced cucumbers. What sounds good, though, might not actually be good for me. In fact, nothing that settles in my brain after a few minutes of mulling over it actually sounds especially good. Food, in general, does not really interest me. That notwithstanding, I have been eating more than I’d like. The result has been that I’ve gained a few pounds and have had several instances during the past several days in which my stomach has rebelled against forced consumption. Watermelon sounds quite appealing, but we are literally MONTHS away from watermelon season. I’ve tried watermelon-flavored electrolyte water; I believe people should be paid to drink the stuff and not required to pay to drink it. Cookies sound good, but recent experiences with cookies have proven that sounds can be deceiving.

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(has been continued, though should be forgotten)

The terrorism and drug-trafficking charges against Skazer Tartman were said to have been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt during the trial, which was conducted entirely in secret, out of the public eye. The judge’s identity was not divulged, nor were the identities of the witnesses who testified against Tartman. But it was common knowledge that the only persons seen going into and out of the courtroom during testimony were Ginger Pinkwell, Hope Chusovitina, and Kimmy Ri. In a highly unusual turn of events, the trial judge—whose identity was concealed by a black hood and whose voice was altered electronically—announced the verdict and sentence during a news conference.  The sentence imposed on Tartman: death by starvation. Inasmuch as the Federal statutes did not provide that a sentence by starvation could be imposed, appeals were filed immediately by both the prisoner’s attorneys and by the Federal prosecutor who brought the charges against Tartman. Due to “death threats against the condemned man,” the unnamed judge ordered that Tartman be transferred to an unknown, high-security Federal holding facility. Freedom of Information requests filed by numerous media outlets about the trial, the jury (if there was one), the judge, and Tartman’s location and condition were denied. It was as if he had simply disappeared…an perhaps had never existed.

Ginger Pinkwell’s home was burglarized and vandalized shortly after Tartman’s trial. Nothing of significant value was destroyed, but several life-size nude photographs of the mayor were removed from her bedroom closet. She did not disclose that the photos were stolen, but one particularly revealing and shocking photo was copied and distributed to both local and national news media. Though Pinkwell claimed the photo was fake, several experts said otherwise. It was, they said, an authentic, un-doctored photo of Pinkwell and Tartman engaged in activities not suitable for viewing by young children.

(to be continued or forgotten)

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According to The Weather Network, the temperature outside when I woke was 20°F but, thanks to the wind and humidity and other factors, the wind chill made it feel like it was 10°F. The actual temperature has risen to 23°F, but the wind chill remains stubbornly stuck at 10°F. The idea of traipsing out into the frigid morning has no appeal to me, whatsoever. But appealing or not, I must go to the cancer center to get irradiation and have chemicals dripped, therapeutically, into my body. Oh, joy! At least I get to leave the house. It’s odd; I do not find “going out” the least bit appealing anymore. I prefer to crawl under the covers, where my mind tells me I am sitting on a stone wall, gazing at the ocean and sipping on an espresso. The espresso seems to go with me everywhere I imagine going. I may have developed an addiction to the stuff. I am fortunate in that my addiction is to drinking a foamy, deep brown liquid and not to consuming a powdery white substance through my nose. Which I have never done, by the way. That must make me pure, like the driven snow…an unusual simile in the context of a not-so-oblique reference to cocaine.

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The introductory piece to an opinion series on “How to Live with Regret,” published August 8, 2004 in the New York Times, includes  reference to Daniel Pink’s book, The Power of Regret. Cornelia Channing, the writer of that 2004 opinion piece,  says this about Pink’s book:

…Pink argues that regret is an unavoidable fact of life and that it should be embraced as a useful and instructive emotion. What we regret, he says, can teach us about who we are. It helps to reveal what we want, what we fear, what truly matters to us and what doesn’t.

Perhaps the reason I find Pink’s assertion appealing is that I seek absolution from who I was—who I am. Maybe, as Pink’s argument suggests, the fact that I feel such regrets reveals who I am, at my core…that I am not such a worthless bastard, after all. But that would be too convenient; too easy to be pardoned for behaviors that cannot be washed away, leaving a clean slate. If regret were so easily discharged as evidence of “growth” or “improvement,” regrettable behaviors would not be so…regrettable. Ach. I should read Pink’s book. It is unwise to make assumptions about complex arguments and assertions on the basis of third-party analyses.

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Time for a shower. I must arrive at the cancer center in an advanced state of cleanliness. The only way to accomplish that, in my opinion, is by showering. So, off I go.

I made the mistake of skimming the news this morning. That is not a particularly happy way to start the day. I want to retreat to my isolated lighthouse—the retreat that will keep me safe from a world that is falling apart.

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The cold weather this week and the prospect of icy or snowy conditions are worrisome. Forecasts like I’ve seen online make me wish I could arrange to have my radiation treatments and my chemotherapy performed at my house, rather than making the trek to the cancer center. If the weather gets bad enough, the center might not open, thereby delaying my treatments that already have been delayed. Such is life, I suppose. I’ll just have to deal with what comes.

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Sometime after sunrise this morning, I will bundle up and go to each of the water faucets around the outside of the house. I will implore each one to prevent the water inside the pipes from freezing when frigid weather arrives. As an incentive to do as I ask, I will cover each of the faucets with a foam faucet cover…assuming, of course, I have enough covers to protect each of the faucets. Before the coldest weather is expected to arrive, I will open cabinet doors under the sinks inside the house and will turn the inside faucets on to let the water drip. The prospect of dealing with these chores is almost enough to make me want to sell the house, buy a condo, and rely on condominium staff or contractors to handle the unpleasant aspects of home ownership.

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Memories magnify past pleasures. They also recapture past mistakes, inserting them into the present as enduring regrets. No amount of contrition is enough to wash away the guilt left by the most severe regrets; nor should there be. The most appropriate, yet utterly inadequate, penalty for certain actions or omissions—especially willful, conscious wrongs—is searing, perpetual regret. Sorrow—even deeply intense, heartfelt sorrow—is not enough. Anguish can barely begin to serve as a reckoning for those wrongs. Magnified memories of past pleasures, when overwhelmed by immeasurably bitter remorse, become tools of asphyxiation. Even the most joyful memories drown in bottomless pools of regret.

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Once again, a generous and thoughtful friend called yesterday to ask if she could stop by to deliver some “goodies” to us. And, of course, we said “of course.” And, when she came by, we sat and chatted for a while. Though I was feeling pretty good during her visit, after she left I decided to take an early nap…at 6:00 PM. I had not been able to sleep, six hours later, but I had stayed in bed all that time. And I stayed in bed until about 4:30 AM, when I finally gave up. I am sure I slept a bit, off and on, but it was a thoroughly unsatisfying “nap” for me. Despite being unable to sleep, I felt more and more tired, fatigued, worn, and otherwise weak. At least I felt good while our friend was here for a visit. Now, I hope I can get at least a short nap…a real one…a little later this morning.

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Yesterday’s visit with a stand-in radiologist (mine has been away for several days) ended with me viewing images (from a CT scan, I presume) taken concurrently with my radiation treatment. The doctor showed me the area, in my mid- and upper-chest, targeted by the radiation treatments. And he explained the cluster of cancerous lymph nodes would shrink, over time, after the treatments end…assuming the radiation achieves its intended objective of killing cancer cells—the malignant bastards! If cancer cells were consciously motivated to do harm, they might be characterized as malicious, pernicious, malevolent, or spiteful…or all of those traits.  Without synonyms, wouldn’t the English language be dull? Those of us who have an intimate—almost erotic—relationship with words would be forced to be content with a more platonic involvement with vowels and consonants…and the words and syllables that emerge from our penetrating engagement with the sounds and thoughts that letters make. Do you see what I did there? I allowed myself to abandon thoughts of a venomous disease in favor of the amorous seduction of verbal communication. The real question, though, is this: was the transition intentional, or was it simply an example of attention-deficit at work?

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Dictionary.com chose the term, nolens volens, as its Word of the Day for January 4, 2025. The adverb means “whether willing or unwilling,” as in: “The prisoners were strapped to the gurneys, nolens volens, on the way to their appointments with a needle.”

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Weekends have become respites again. Respites in the way they once were from work. Today, though, they are respites from treatments. But, like those work pauses were interrupted by worries involving work, these treatment pauses are interrupted by musings about mortality. When comparing the two interruptions, work shrinks in importance. All the times that could have been spent in grateful appreciation of life outside of work become incorrigible regrets. Work was only a means to an end, but it was assumed to have importance far greater than it deserved. Treatment and mortality, though, are inseparably connected. Treatment is not really a pause, not a respite—it is inextricably linked to both survival and mortality. Like weekends away from work, which were far too rare, weekends away from treatment simply provide opportunities to dwell on matters that seem no longer within my control.

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I still haven’t sold or given away my treadmill. I spent a small fortune on it, but have since decided the expense was simply a lesson to me. If you or anyone you know would like to buy it or simply take it away, let me know. Moving it will require a truck and at least two very strong people. I was advised not to use it any longer, for fear I might lose my balance and hurt myself badly. Or die. Something untoward, anyway. It’s a highish-end Horizon. I prefer cash, but will accept sincere appreciation.

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You may have noticed I have nothing of consequence to say. I did, too.

Yesterday was the birthday of a woman I hired about forty years ago while I was employed at my first association job. As I have done for most, if not all. of those forty  years, I sent her a birthday message; yesterday’s by email. Occasionally, she writes back to thank me for remembering. I do not think I know anyone else whose birthday falls on January 2; so, it’s almost impossible NOT to remember. She has never sent a message to me on my birthday, at least not that I recall. And, except for my once-a-year messages to her and her very rare acknowledgements, we do not stay in touch. She and her husband, now a retired lawyer, live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. They have children and grandchildren. Except for their liberal political leanings (assuming that is still the case), I doubt we have anything at all in common. We were never particularly close; just co-workers and, very occasionally, she and I and our respective spouses would get together for a Sunday brunch. Since I moved away, those many years ago, we have not stayed in touch except for my annual birthday greetings to her. So, why am I in the habit of sending her an annual birthday message? Beats the hell out of me.

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If my calculations are correct, I have only six more radiology sessions…including today’s. That assumes, of course, the post-radiology PET-scans, etc. confirm that the 25 days of exposure to their magic rays have been effective. But I wonder how—or whether—the scans can differentiate between the effectiveness of chemotherapy and radiology? Wondering about such matters is a pointless exercise; regardless, though, I do it. Curiosity occupies otherwise meaningless moments—empty periods that in other circumstances might become immensely productive petri dishes for anxiety or depression. Absent something to occupy my mind, I hear and feel in my skull the throbbing “thump…thump…thump” of my heartbeat. That noise and the accompanying sensation of blood pounding as it courses through the vessels in my head often delays me from getting to sleep. As far as I know, nothing can be done to minimize or eliminate those sensations. I am relatively confident they are symptomatic of tinnitus; I should mention the matter to my primary care doctor, in the hope he can offer a magical cure. Everything revolves around health-related issues! I am, pardon the pun, sick to death of this crap.

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Jack Frost roasting over an open fire,
Chestnuts nipping at my nose…

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This morning’s sky is trying to be friendly. Its pink grin, peeking over the horizon, cannot hide the icy-cold teeth behind that smile, though. The sun’s diffuse rays occasionally are collected in a prismatic glance downward, revealing a glint of light—the brilliance of which is like the reflection of a spark bouncing off a polished steel sword. When the artificiality of its smile becomes obvious, it rosy cheeks lose their innocence—replaced by the pasty beige of a starving, omnivorous beast intent on devouring everything in its path. Welcome to the reality of greed, as expressed through hunger.

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Calendar year 2025 began yesterday with spectacular celebrations and unfathomable carnage—expressions of love and hope at one end of the spectrum, hatred and despair at the other. Around the globe, people observed a fresh beginning one moment and mourned the death of humanity an instant later. My response to yesterday’s horror was almost overwhelming; a feeling of utter hopelessness that would not recede—has not receded. Though terrors much larger in scale have taken place in the not-too-distant past, something about yesterday’s despicable attack in New Orleans triggered an emotional reaction like none other. Coupled with worldwide violence that coincided with the New Year, the New Orleans savagery revealed my sense that anguish and despondency are among the only reliable emotions. Virtually everything else is temporary; just waiting to be incinerated by the reality that there are no solutions. Only fuel for an inevitable brutal inferno that cannot be extinguished.

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The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

~ Omar Khayyam ~

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I am giving up on fiction, at least for now. Fiction—even whimsical, joyful fiction—cannot hold a candle to the impact of reality. Fiction cannot douse the flames that seem to be consuming humankind. Perhaps the genre can temporarily hold true existence at bay, but it cannot prevent wave after wave after wave of withering hot sand from encasing us in searing, blistering reality. In years gone by, works of fiction could have enormous impacts on society. Fiction could alter the way people thought about the social order. It could change the way we considered our options with regard to restraining our own worst collective impulses. Today, though, fiction can offer only a brief reprieve from the unstoppable march toward the extermination of the species. Fiction has become a stand-in for hope, now that hope has faded into a transparent, vaporous veil.

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A well-insulated, thoroughly comfortable, and deeply-isolated lighthouse. Almost a mile from land, reachable only when the seas are calm—a rarity. The place has plenty of desirable provisions; enough to last for years. The bed is as comfortable as a bed can be. All the wooden furniture is solid wood; no veneers. Immeasurably comfortable chairs and recliners. All the modern conveniences one might need or want, nicely packaged inside its living quarters far, far above the highest tide. Even higher than the tallest and fiercest wave. This is not fiction, by the way. It is fantasy. Delusion. Dream. Hallucination, but with meat on its bones. This is my imaginary home from now on. This is my sanctuary; my mythological retreat. It is the place I go to escape the unpleasantness of the dissolution of civility and its accomplice, civilization. I am not alone here. My companion is here with me; she and I will adapt to this tower.

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The dark sky outside my window froze last night. I reached up to touch a star, only to smash my fist through a bubble of black ice. The light from the stars above had pooled at the base of the bubble, so when my hand broke through, the light poured down on me, drenching me in a luminous glow. Starlight, after travelling so far from distant galaxies, has cooled so completely that it has transformed into ice-rays. The sharpest ice-rays tend to move exponentially faster than the speed of light, but in reverse. Some people who saw me drenched in that luminous glow this morning might have mistaken me for an angel. Those people do not know me.

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I was up before 4 this morning, which was a perfectly reasonable time to be awake, in that I went to be early and slept reasonably well—though not necessarily soundly—last night. Now, two and one half hours after rising, I am cold. Not just cold; freezing cold. If I move my fingers too rapidly, they will snap off like icicles slammed against a fencepost on a Minnesota farm in mid-January. When I turn the hot water handle on any faucet in the house, I can be virtually assured of getting lukewarm to warmer water within twenty to twenty-five minutes. Showering in the wintertime can be an exercise in icy discomfort. But shower I will. I’ll just wait to get in the shower until the water has been running for half an hour.

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Despite my efforts to the contrary, I have not become awash in cheer this morning. Perhaps a little hydrocodone/tylenol combo will erase my headache and allow me to sleep for 45 minutes before my shower. I may try that.

For some, today is another moment in the eternal (r)evolution of time. For others, this is the first day of an unknowable future. And for others still, this day constitutes fermentation; an acidic brew from which history will at some point emerge, revealing secrets about who and, perhaps, why we were. This sometimes celebratory, sometimes sorrowful, instant in time differs from one person—one perspective—to the next. Our response to circumstances defines its value or its insignificance. Today may be a fresh beginning or the continuation of the final chapter of an aching end. In other words, New Year’s Day has no intrinsic substance; it is another day to which we may or may not attach meaning.

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I stayed awake yesterday from early in the morning until early in the evening. I had no particular interest in watching the ball drop in Times Square—but considerable interest in resting, so I got in bed at the ungodly early hour of 7:30 pm. I slept off and on for much of the night. This morning’s headlines confirm that the calendar changed from 2024 to 2025 while I slept. Good riddance to an ugly, “lost” year. However, of course, we could look back longingly on 2024 when we encounter what 2025 brings. I hope not; the new year would have to be quite horrid for that to happen. During 2024,  mi novia experienced the loss of her mother and her sister-in-law during the year. Two of my sisters-in-law learned they have breast cancer. The protective shell of democracy, worldwide, cracked. In the U.S., the yolk spilled out and broke, to the deafening cheers of domestic religio-fascists and other deeply stupid creatures. And my effing cancer returned, plunging me into a full year of unpleasant and uncertain treatments that have yet to show enough measurable success to give me reason for celebration. Others, too, outside my family but within my social sphere, have been gripped by cancer and other grim stuff. And large-scale disasters, both natural and triggered by human activities, continued throughout the year. It’s not unusual, really; but it’s harrowing, horrible, and hideous. Ach!

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One year ago today, I wrote that I had…a week earlier…considered buying a new car. By New Year’s Day, though, that desire had disappeared in a flash of good sense. Lately, I’ve been having the same pre-new-year thoughts, but I have (for now) come to realize that desire arose from stark-raving madness. I haven’t driven my car more than a few times in the past several months. The appeal of a new car is largely due to the promise of a smooth, quiet ride. After my treatments are complete…if, indeed, they ever are…I might start driving considerably more often. Until then, though, a smoother-riding car that’s rarely driven would be an obscenely overpriced deviation from my routine. My 9-¹⁄₂ year old car has only about 120,000 miles on it; replacing it now would be an utterly unjustifiable luxury. Tomorrow could be a different story, of course.

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I am living proof that one need not believe in religious dogma to find religious texts thought-provoking and insightful. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that the Bible is a rich source of parables that have found their way into modern literature. Not only have those parables found a way into our culture, they have carried with them valuable lessons about humanity. I will always be disappointed in the fact that those lessons are so easily challenged, simply because they emerged from texts based on such bizarre supernatural concepts. But separating the lessons from the magic can be—and should be—done, in my opinion. Maybe the world would be a better place. Maybe not.

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My strength seems a touch better than yesterday; but the day has a long way to go. My mood has an even longer trek to make. Herewith, I begin the journey.

Jimmy Carter made it to 100. I wonder how the world would be different today if he had been elected to a second term as President, instead of losing to a Hollywood actor? We’ll never know. But a superb creative author might one day write a book, set in 2025, that proposes fictional answers to the question. I wish I had the creativity, skill, stamina, editorial support, and sufficient inclination to write that book. I don’t. I’d read it, though. Or listen to it being read. But the story might not be the one I’d like to permit to settle in my head. Right-wing fanatics might have begun their furious efforts to control the world years earlier. We might have had a President by now whose slogan was “Peace Requires a Pause in Democracy” or “Kill Soon or Die Sooner” or “Absolute Power is Absolutely Necessary.” Hmm. We’ll see whether one of those slogans is adopted in the year ahead.

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Plans for yesterday’s chemotherapy went awry, thanks to a 0.8 g/dL drop in my hemoglobin level. Any further drop (which chemo tends to cause) would necessitate another blood transfusion, which the oncology specialty nurse wanted to avoid; so did I. By the way, my oncologist was away on vacation; another oncologist from the practice was present in a supervisory capacity—it wasn’t like I was left with an trainee. So, instead, I was given more IV fluids (along with various other fluids to improve miscellaneous measures of my health) and told to return next week for chemo (assuming a hemoglobin improvement). No chemo yesterday means no post-chemo injection today; so, today, it’s just another radiation treatment. I had hoped the steroids (which I think were included in yesterday’s IV drip) would improve my energy. Alas, my early afternoon nap lasted from around 1 or 2 PM until about 4:30 this morning, with a couple of 2-minute breaks overnight.

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Ginger Pinkwell’s election as Guerneville’s mayor was a shock to Skazer Tartman, even more of a shock than Ginger’s recovery from her near-death experience five years earlier. The officer who shot her did not recover so well; he had been confined to a rehabilitation center, where doctors suggested he would remain until the rest of his organs failed. They said the taser had essentially fried the cop’s brain, cooked his heart to medium-rare, and seared holes in his stomach and intestines. The incident in front of King’s Sport & Tackle held the attention of the townspeople for more than a year. Initially, few people believed Ginger’s claim that she had absolutely no memory of the experience. But, when she finally testified in court, her testimony convinced the majority she was telling the truth. And the overwhelming majority of the people thought the cop had stopped Ginger Pinkwell at the unjustifiable direction of Skazer Tartman.

Pinkwell’s platform, while running for mayor, included the replacement of the Pinto Force, despite the fact that Tartman had kept them in perfect running condition during his term as chief of police. Pinkwell’s political manifesto not only called for retiring the Pintos from the police department, she wanted to replace them with brand-new Hondissan police cruisers. Tartman had publicly denounced the very idea.

“Hondissans are conservative-built trash! My Pintos were built to last—in union plants by union workers [no one ever bothered to check his claims, of course]. The only reason you see so few of them on the road is because of Ronald Reagan and his henchmen! These pieces of crap built by Hondissan are slow and unreliable. They were designed by Russian and North Korea motorcycle “experts” who were commanded to make them comfortable so cops would fall asleep driving them! My cars are rugged!”

Tartman’s scathing attack on Hondissans was modest, compared to his condemnation of Pinkwell. To him, Pinkwell was not only a danger to the fleet, but a serious menace to every single member of the police force…including Tartman.

“If that…woman…is elected, the citizens of Guerneville can kiss safety and security goodbye! She will purposefully dismantle the best fleet of police cars in the state—maybe the country—and replace it with foreign-built trash created to support criminal escape! And the real-world trained police officers you rely on now—and have relied on for years—will be replaced by wet-behind-the-ears college grads with bachelor’s degrees in sympathy and forgiveness! If she gets her way, Guernevillians had better be frightened of walking the streets, day or night! She doesn’t give a damn about you! She just wants power OVER you!”

Despite Tartman’s attacks on Pinkwell, she was elected. The moment the results were announced, Tartman began packing his office in preparation for his move to…somewhere else. He obviously would be ready to walk out the door the moment her inauguration was complete. But he was not quick enough. Before the ink was dry on the inaugural papers, the paperwork for hiring a new police chief and new officers was in place. And before Tartman could move on to…somewhere…he was escorted to the town jail by Oksana Esperanza Chusovitina, the new police chief and Ri Sol-ju, the new assistant police chief. Both the chief, whose friends called her Hope, and the assistant chief had been officers in Arcata, California. The assistant chief, known by her peers as Kimmy, was rumored to be Hope’s wife.

The local charges against Tartman were dropped within a matter of hours, replaced by Federal charges: sedition, terrorism, drug-trafficking, counterfeiting, and child pornography. Tartman immediately was transferred to the Sonoma County jail. Most of the charges were dropped within a day or two. Terrorism and drug-trafficking remained, though, for the duration of his fight against what he called “the most obscene case of injustice ever brought against an innocent man, goddamn it!”

(to be continued or forgotten)

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I see evidence, outside my window, that pink skies can morph into light blue. I have no proof, but I have belief.

My moral opposition to the death penalty may not necessarily apply to all people who are…or deserve to be…given the sentence. But the phrase “death penalty” probably should not apply in such circumstances, either. Perhaps “vengeful freshening” would be a more appropriate description, albeit one that might require some explanation. The term would describe the process of purifying—by way of unmitigated revenge—the social context which the condemned person has sullied through his or her actions. In reality, I doubt I could ever willingly condone carrying out actual “vengeful freshening,” but I might do all I could to make eligible criminals believe with all their hearts that a terrible, excruciating vengeance was about to be exacted. Make him or her experience horrible fear like no other. The problem, of course, is certainty—or the lack thereof. Subjecting someone, later exonerated of all charges, to such terror would be inexcusable. Unforgivable. Contemptible in the extreme. So, the question of exceptions to my moral opposition to the death penalty becomes truly problematic. Maybe I should stick to my original, steadfast opposition.

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The only complaint I have about my espresso machine is that it does not sufficiently heat the water. I have gotten used to—more or less—lukewarm espresso, but I’d prefer it to be several degrees warmer. As it is, though, even brewing it into an insulated glass espresso cup does not keep the espresso warm enough; it cools so rapidly that I often find myself drinking unpleasantly chilly liquid. At least it’s espresso, though. I shouldn’t complain too loudly. I could invest in a better machine. Or I could follow online advice, which includes warming my cup before making the espresso. Or I could revert to plain coffee.

+++

After my radiation treatment and my chemotherapy session today, I may learn the tentative schedule for my next PET-scan. I am anxious to get it scheduled…to get it behind me…to learn what it tells the doctors about the degree of success my treatments have had since the last scan. In the past, my expectations about the results were generally fairly positive and hopeful. Lately, though, I am not quite as optimistic…though I do not know why. I have no concrete reason to have anxiety about the results; but it’s there, regardless. I have been receiving chemotherapy treatments for a year now—or just a week or two shy of a year—about four times as long as I originally expected the treatments to last. The fact that the chemo drugs have been switched at least twice or three times may have something to do with my concerns. I keep telling myself, though, there’s no reason to worry, because I can’t change the progress (or slowing) of the disease.  A full year of “life on hold” is more than enough. Buck up, whiner!

+++

Stained glass. Ceramic sculpture. Painting. Wood carving. Hundreds…maybe thousands…more. Things I either have not done or have not done well. If I had dedicated my energy and time to honing my skills and sharpening my creativity, I might have developed enough ability to enjoy such pastimes. It’s always the same, though. I run out of interest long before I achieve even a shred of competence. The interest always returns. The competence always is at least an arm’s length away; the arm immobilized in a wire and plaster cast, surrounded by padlocks.

+++

The difference between fog and smoke is obvious, except when it’s not. I hope I see thick fog outside my windows, shielding the trees from view. But the density of the grey masses flowing past my house is more like smoke. Fog does not smell of burning wood, though, so I think we’re safe for the time being. Unless, of course, the fog gets much thicker. If that happens, we could drown. The drive to Hot Springs this morning will be like feeling our way through clouds, unless the air clears quite a lot. This dreary morning is doing its best to smother, or drown, good cheer. Some mornings, when the fog is like this, are appealing; not this one. The fog is an annoyance. But, already, it is thinning. All will be well.

The primary results of a Google search for “how to overcome regret and guilt” include questionable “answers” sponsored by religious-based entities, along with sales pitches by companies and organizations that profit from “treating” emotional pain.  Once those results have been rightfully dismissed, digging relentlessly through the remaining results could offer ideas that might provide possible, partial solutions. But it would be extremely risky to bet on it. At some point, though, I suppose the risks of making the bet are no more dangerous than living with the excruciating certainty that absolutely nothing can be done—even begin—to forgive the unforgiveable. Yet forgiveness may not necessarily be the objective. Instead, the aim may be to only temporarily alleviate the well-deserved pain of regret—an aim that, in itself, simply adds to an already-overwhelming sense of guilt. In other words, seeking to lessen the pain of regret and guilt only makes it worse. But permitting the pain to worsen, without doing anything to alleviate it, may be a hidden attempt at atonement that never works. The perfect examples of Catch-22. So, what do the true “experts” say?

They  recommend: Acceptance—taking responsibility for one’s own healing; Learn from past mistakes—apply lessons to one’s life, moving forward; Take risks—Explore ways to find oneself again; Visualize the future—picture your life free from the guilt that plagues you.

The “experts,” it seems, have never experienced personal regret and guilt so deep that simple “how-to” tactics can never hope to work. Their hearts may be in the right place, but reality cannot be placated with trite advice. Only by becoming a different person—one who would never behave in ways that trigger guilt or regret—can those emotions be overcome. But who, then, is left to blame for those behaviors? Someone must take the blame for causing harm. Perhaps regret and guilt should NOT be overcome, then, lest the actions that brought them about—and caused pain—be erased. This entire issue is far more complex than we might wish…hope…accept.

+++

Aside from the mental morass that is invading my head this morning, I remain physically fatigued. Too many—or too few—hours of sleep yesterday afternoon and last night have left me weak to the point of surrender. I want to be warm and comfortable; back in my bed or in a human cocoon. I want my brain to be at ease; too much neural activity is causing short-circuits. Two hours in the mourning darkness has left me depleted. Of course I started that way. It is hard to say, with a straight face, I need more rest; but that’s how I feel at the moment. Rest and a doughnut. I can live without the doughnut, I suppose, but rest is a necessity.

Guerneville, California had a population in 2040 of roughly 4,500; about the same as it was twenty years earlier. Its population peaked at 6,300 in 2032, but rapidly declined after Skazer Tartman became the community’s chief of police. Until that time, the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department provided law enforcement for the community. When Skazer, an avid collector of cars with a bad reputation, took over, he hired six officers and provided each of them with a meticulously refurbished 1971 Ford Pinto, outfitted as a police cruiser. He had the cars painted black and white. He equipped each one with an emergency siren and LED light bar. And he demanded his officers to be relentlessly tough on what he called “conservative crime;” any breach of the law—or attitude—by “gangsters who do not abide by the rules of our liberal lifestyle.”

During his first eight years as chief, Skazer made an indelible mark on Guerneville. Thanks to his inflexible treatment of “classless conservatives,” the community lost close to twenty percent of it population of “undesirables.”

Skazer declared in his annual report to the town council:

“Good effing riddance. When I came here, you asked me to clean up this town and that’s exactly what I’ve done! The bastards we’ve run out of town call my officers the Liberal Gestapo…let them laugh at the Pinto Force all they want, as long as they leave and don’t come back!”

Ginger Pinkwell was the only member of the town council who openly criticized Skazer’s tactics. She expressed her frustration with his approach on the Wednesday before the  explosive showdown:

“The people you’ve run out of town aren’t the only ones who call you the Liberal Gestapo. Many of our town’s most fervent supporters talk about the way your officers intimidate everyone they encounter. Cops in their little Pintos with big V-8 engines and growling mufflers run around scaring the hell out of people. I don’t call that liberal. I do call it Gestapo, though!”

Skazer seemed to take some delight in facing off with Ginger. The townspeople who attended council meetings were delighted with the rivalry, too. Nonpartisan observers claimed townspeople were evenly divided over which of the two they supported.

“Ginger, I apologize if my approach to law enforcement offends your MAGA sensibilities…”

Ginger’s face flushed red, her eyes widened, and her nostrils flared.

“Chief, don’t you dare call me MAGA! I’m as far from it as a person can get! You, on the other hand, seem to have inherited an ugly hybrid form of that hideous attitude from a time we’d all like to forget.”

A few days later, the piercing scream of a siren interrupted the serenity of the quiet sunrise. Blue and red flashing lights reflected in her car’s mirror as Ginger pulled to the curb, a black and white Ford Pinto behind her. Ginger gritted her teeth and muttered aloud, “That goddamned sonofabitch….,” as she reached for her purse. Instead of grabbing her driver’s license, though, Ginger pulled a taser, a gift from her friend, Megan, from her bag. One can only guess what was going through her mind at that moment. Whatever it was hurled her into an ugly confrontation that left the cop incapacitated, Ginger gravely wounded, and a herd of black and white Pintos blocking Main Street in front of King’s Sport & Tackle. Among the police officers on the street that morning was Skazer Tartman. The clerk from King’s, who witnessed the engagement while she was unlocking the front doors, said later she wondered whether Skazer’s pained expression was for the cop or for his nemesis.

(to be continued or forgotten)

+++

I will be irradiated again this morning…this SATURDAY morning. Two weekends in a row will have been ripped in two, thanks to holiday interference with normal weekday activities. I refuse to complain. Because my former sister-in-law, my niece, and her husband (and a dog named Lady) will visit for a while this afternoon. If I can convince my body to delay the desire/need for sleep, perhaps my sister-in-law (who is providing my transportation to the radiation appointment) we will go out to lunch with us (us, including mi novia). At the moment, I feel tired, but not utterly worn out. I should not feel tired; I slept from 6:30 (mas o menos) last night until 4:30 this morning, with a few short breaks during the night. Time will tell, again, how the day goes.

+++

For the umpteenth time in recent days, I had another disturbing dream which involved my first workplace in association management. I had been appointed executive director after the death of my boss (in reality, he died years after I left). I spent my first day on the job asking staff members to write their job descriptions (if they did not already have one) or give me the one they had. Later, after almost everyone had left for the day, I encountered a contractor who said another large piece of expensive equipment had been stolen and he had not yet received the insurance payment for the earlier theft. In a convoluted series of experiences, I received a telephone call from the hospital, telling me my mother had died. Then, I went looking for the missing insurance check. I wandered around outside the building (which I remember well), to find that the once attractive commercial area had deteriorated into a slum. And what had been a print shop for my employer had become a shabby resale shop. And, then, I was in my office, interviewing an applicant for a job. Ugly dream…irrational…disturbing…semi-repetitive…unwelcome.

+++

Now, for no apparent reason, I feel washed out. Perhaps it’s because I got word from an associate from church that she got some very bad news; a diagnosis of a rare cancer. My cancer, though unpleasant, is not nearly as frightening or as difficult to treat. Life is too challenging to have to face even more aggressive challenges. My challenges are minor in comparison to hers. Ach.

If memory serves me correctly—which often it fails to do—I have not read Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Before I get into more about that book, though, it occurs to me that a non-memory, such as I claim about Frankl’s book, is contrary to logic…or otherwise wrong-headed. With that detour out of the way, I’ll return to Frankl’s book. I want to read it…or listen to an audio-book version. References to the book and quotations extracted from it fascinate me. The search for purpose or meaning in which Frankl observed Nazi concentration camp prisoners were engaged is, I think, the same one that has controlled so much of my thinking for most of my life. Years ago, I wrote that the intensity of my own search has diminished over the years, but has never disappeared. I think I was wrong; it did not diminish, it simply changed. To this day, the search for purpose and meaning—something to make my life complete—continues. Perhaps reading Frankl’s book will help me uncover what has eluded me all these years. But thoughts I recorded the year before I left Dallas say otherwise, as indicated by these words I wrote, suggesting, hoping:

“…we can minimize the void.  But we can never completely erase it.  Yet we keep looking.  We keep hoping.  And maybe that’s what keeps us moving along, shuffling and clucking and struggling against knowing what we don’t wish to know.“

Maybe we really do not wish to find an answer to the question of meaning. Maybe meaning and purpose are just artificial ideas to which we cling in our efforts to stave off despair.

+++

Another grey mourning. Nearly-invisible oak and pine branches tinged with a sorrowful, dull silver—an attempt by Mother Nature to hide the bleak skies beyond the tree tops. Why would she hide what enshrouds us…? Ah, is she trying to protect us from knowing that which we do not wish to know?

+++

Most of my thoughts are re-treads.  Maybe all of them are over-used and worn slick to the point of being dangerous. Dredged up from massive piles of used ideas left long ago to decompose into useless chunks of incoherent understanding and abandoned theories. Only by looking back in time, when my creativity still had a breath left, can I find any originality. Even then, though, I have to question whether they were authentically mine. Too many lives have begun and ended in the millennia leading up to today for anyone to believe, earnestly, in innovation. I am not alone in plagiaristic thinking. That is my only defense; I belong to a species of unintentional plagiarists. If I were charged with homicide, absent intent, I might be convicted of negligent homicide. How would my conviction read if the charge had been unintentional plagiarist? Negligent plagiarism?

+++

I have been up since well before six. I would return to bed to sleep for a while, except I have to leave for another radiation treatment in about an hour. And another one tomorrow; that one’s a make-up Saturday. Ach. I feel like I’m living through Ground Hog Day every day.

My memory of the 2010 Chilean mine disaster, during which the world was transfixed by efforts to rescue 33 trapped miners, remains relatively clear in my head. But I have virtually no recollection of the horror of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, in which roughly 230,000 people died. Could the passage of time between those events have erased my memories of the earlier—and far more massive—trauma? Or did I experience some sort of trauma of my own in the intervening years; something that might caused my brain to fail to record my reaction to the tsunami? The sheer enormity of the death toll from the tsunami may be to blame. The memory deficit might have arisen from a thousand reasons. I wish I knew. Or, perhaps, I should be thankful I don’t.

+++

Once again, a long and deep sleep held me in its grip yesterday afternoon. Around noon, I took a “nap.” I awoke seven hours later. After forcing myself to eat a small meal (with assistance from mi novia) and drink some water, I went back to bed. Though I slipped in and out of sleep during the night, I was in bed—mostly asleep—for another ten hours, more or less. Sleep seems to have become my refuge from…everything. Though I complain about it, sleeping insulates me from a world that increasingly appears intent on destroying serenity, calmness, gentleness, human decency, and goodness in general. I think I would rather sleep than eat, drink water, sit upright, walk, engage in conversation, and otherwise do what people do. I tell myself all of this will eventually be behind me. I just want to sleep through it.

+++

Pea soup fog allows me to see only the nearest trees in the forest this morning. Even they are grey and blurry. Beyond them, some of their companions are just slightly darker smudges against an indistinct background. More distant, the fog hides the rest of the world in a translucent grey shroud. Mi novia and I will venture out into the fog in a while. She will go first, taking the cat for day-boarding so the newly-enlisted housecleaner can do her work without feline interference. Then, mi novia and I will wade into the vaporous gloom for a while to be out of the way.  I suspect I might drift off to sleep, while reclining in her car’s heated seats. I would prefer that to being conscious of my gurgling gut and its accompanying unpleasant aches. We shall see.

+++

Before I began my marathon nap yesterday, my sister-in-law came by with some champagne. We ate apple pie she had made for me (with ice cream) and I sipped on just a tad of bubbly. It tasted delightful, but I did not want more than a little. That was our Christmas celebration, jazzed up by mi novia, who lit some festive, twinkling lights. No tree (courtesy of the cat’s tendency to explore and the fact that decorations that are put up must come down later and be wrapped and stored).

+++

This morning’s blog post arose from a sense of obligation to myself. I intend to train myself to get over that. I did not feel much like writing today; henceforth, I hope to listen to myself and simply decide not to write when I feel that way.

Today is Christmas Day. And it is my friend Patty’s birthday. Both are reasons to celebrate. The reasons to celebrate the birthday of a good friend are easy to understand and appreciate. The case for celebrating Christmas sometimes hides beneath the day’s religious gravity. During my lifetime thus far, my understanding of the significance of Christmas has undergone considerable changes. Initially (as I recall…memories nearly seven decades old are faint), it was an occasion—whose foundation was vaguely religious—to exchange gifts. The evolution of my insights into the purposes for celebrating Christmas has been far too involved to cover with just one post, so I will leave that for another time…if ever. But this morning’s online news and information triggered some thoughts I will share here.

One of the headlines that jarred me this morning, when I skimmed the Associated Press website, addressed Trump’s vow, in response to Biden’s commutation of most federal death sentences, to pursue executions. Today, on a day ostensibly meant to celebrate the birth of a prophet who spread messages of love and salvation, the news was about a man who spreads messages of hatred and vengeance.

I found a different message in today’s story from NPR‘s My Unsung Hero. It relayed the experience of a young woman—who had just been attacked by her boyfriend—who was given help and hope from a Jewish family who invited her to their home and to their Hanukkah dinner. That message—a celebration of compassion, love, and salvation—helps explain the reason to celebrate not only Christmas but every day in which human decency triumphs over hatred and unchecked animosity. Perhaps that is the foundational core of most religions, too often hidden by superfluous ceremony and tales of magic. Religious fables that have real, practical value, then, may have been crafted to celebrate behaviors and attitudes that support human dignity. The rest of those fables? Hmm.

+++

Merry Christmas to all, whether you celebrate the occasion or not. I hope a positive message accompanies your thoughts today and every day. I thought I could more fully express my thoughts than I have this morning. I’m already too tired to keep trying.

The address written on the envelope was penned in perfect, beautiful handwriting. The handwriting of the note on the Christmas card inside was just as spellbindingly perfect. And the message conveyed by that note was among the sweetest and most moving I have read. A friend from church sent the card, which encouraged me and delivered an admonishment to do what was necessary to take care of myself. For years, I have opted not to send Christmas cards—receiving this one, though, which was so sweet and uplifting, reminded me of how meaningful a thoughtful note can be at just the right time. Thank you, Marilyn.

Thinking of that sweet card brought my mind around to the Christmas gifts a good friend dropped by our house early this week. We haven’t opened them (it’s not time!), but we know already how much they mean to us. Close connections matter more than I once knew.

+++

There was a time not long ago that I thought traditions were, by and large, silly—bordering on superstitions. But time and, I suppose, sentimentality have eroded that judgment to a degree. Wisdom, too, may shoulder some of the responsibility for that change in attitude. Traditions can validate connections to personal histories and to certain people in one’s past. I do not delude myself into thinking traditions have any meaning to people who are no longer here to celebrate them. But I think traditions sometimes give us the freedom to express nostalgia in ways that are not mawkish. Wisdom comes into the equation, I think, in that it permits us to reject the notion that sentiment is a sign of emotional weakness. For men, especially, avoidance of being seen as weak is far too important; women, I think, have evolved into more emotionally intelligent creatures. I readily acknowledge that I find some…many…traditions irrelevant and wasteful; some, though, wash away the hardheartedness of day-to-day battles.

+++

Today marks the third consecutive year I will have missed the soup supper at church. My absence last year was due to my feeling under the weather; it’s more or less the same this year. Today also marks one year—give or take a few days—since I got the unnerving (but not unexpected) results of a CT scan that revealed the likely recurrence of lung cancer.

Several days prior to the CT scan, a blood test had suggested the possible return of the disease. It wasn’t until the following week that I got confirmation, by way of a PET-scan, of a recurrence of lung cancer. After five years. To cap off that deeply unpleasant news, my “under the weather” condition turned out to be pneumonia, which led to my hospitalization. Was it just once? I think I might have been hospitalized more than once for pneumonia early in the year; I am just not motivated to verify or invalidate that memory. The bulk of 2024 has been a grey quagmire, courtesy of my body’s reactions to the chemicals used in attempts to control my cancer. It’s not “my cancer.” It’s just cancer. But the fact that it is inhabiting my life, without permission, makes it “mine.” My enemy. My hated, loathsome companion.

I wish I knew the outcome of my treatments; and the treatments of my sisters-in-law and anyone else in my personal sphere who face the battles. But maybe I don’t really want to know any of the outcomes. Maybe I wish, instead, I could simply make cancer disappear. No maybes about it.

+++

I am hungry to understand. I yearn to know the unknowable. I want to comprehend the incomprehensible. I seek insight into secrets hidden by immeasurable time. I crave knowledge, but without the enormous pain knowledge unleashes. Existence, itself, is hypocrisy; because to exist, one must know its opposite—yet none of us do.

+++

Let my skin and sinews and bones dry up, together with all the flesh and blood of my body! I welcome it! But I will not move from this spot until I have attained the supreme and final wisdom.

~ Buddha ~

+++

Thanks in large part to the fact that I have been sleeping nearly around the clock for the last few days, I woke this morning sometime around 3. After drifting in and out of fully-awake dreams, I finally got out of bed at 5. Shortly thereafter, the hermetic seal on my nasal passages ruptured, resulting in the release of massive globs of congealed blood that overwhelmed the contents of a box of kleenex I have recently begun to keep close by. Stopped up sinuses and a bloody nose are, the medical folks tell me, side-effects of one of the chemo drugs being delivered to my blood stream. That particular drug has been withheld for some time, though, making me question whether it is the culprit that’s causing the nasal discomfort, etc. I return for another chemotherapy treatment on the 30th; I shall inquire about this matter with some urgency. Stilted language becomes me, yes?

+++

I am an instigator. A provocateur. An agitator. An inciter. A rabble-rouser. An insurgent. A revolutionary—all to a relatively tepid level. The idea of being imprisoned, beaten, or otherwise deprived of the comforts of freedom and a relatively painless existence do not appeal to me, so I keep my insurrectionist tendencies low-key. But rattling cages is a form of entertainment I find attractive—provided I am the rattler and not the one being provoked….no, let me retract that. I once enjoyed being prodded to defend positions, even when those positions were not mine. Taking adversarial positions causes a person to think. I used to enjoy thinking, but I’m not very good at it anymore. Put me in a courtroom and opposing counsel will figuratively rip me to shreds—even in situations in which I am defending a position in which I fervently believe. People who are quick on their feet tend to intimidate me. I have never been quick on my feet. I need time to ruminate before I think fast. I’ve long since lost any hint of speed in repartee, yet I’ve maintained my appreciation for devil’s advocacy. I’m careful where I step, though, in that I cannot always successfully determine where risk ends and the certainty of danger begins. Why, I wonder, do I find the practice of polemics intriguing? And I wonder whether I truly appreciate the practice, or I just think its practice might lend an air of sophistication to an otherwise crude personality? Hmm.

+++

My automatic reaction to almost every proposal that emerges from the mouths or fingers of Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. or Elon Musk is negative. I stumbled upon one concept, though, that might have my support: banning consumer-directed pharmaceutical industry ads from television. My support would be based mostly on the fact that I find ads for cute-named medications intended to treat unpronounceable ailments offensive. But I am offended, as well, by the pharmaceutical industry’s openly greedy approach to selling “treatments” for maladies that consumers (and probably most physicians) knew little or nothing about before television was flooded with ads. I sometimes watch, and have moderately high regard for, NBC evening news programs; but it is awash in pharma commercials, which taints my appreciation for the network’s legitimate information delivery. Kennedy and Musk promote far more important issues (I call them threats) that merit fierce opposition; but I found a tiny piece of common ground between us. Is that a hopeful sign, or does it reveal their stealth strategy to garner support from their adversaries?

+++

Mirrors reveal the other side of someone who is not there.

The winter solstice is a time for celebration and reflection…or just another moment in time. Or, perhaps, it is a period of acknowledgement and wonder about the occasional  predictability of the universe. I’ve always been mildly intrigued by the winter solstice, but not sufficiently entranced by it to devote serious attention to it. Many of us here on Earth ascribe all sorts of meaning to the event. If I weren’t so lackadaisical, I might allow myself to explore it more thoroughly, too. But I tend not to ascribe meaning to any natural events. Natural events are just…natural events. They may be coincident with other events, but coincidence does not translate into cause and effect. Yet rationality can get in the way of whimsical enjoyment; so I might try to buy into ideas about meaningful relationships between the solstice and certain spiritual connections. Or maybe not. Now is not a particularly good time for irrational escapism for me.

+++

I woke at 3:30 to pee. As I stood in front of the toilet to do my thing, a drop of bright red blood dripped onto my white t-shirt. Another nose bleed. Thirty minutes later, the crimson flood had finally stopped. While I waited for the flow of blood to cease, I wandered into my office to explore what my computer might share with me. David Brooks (an opinion columnist for the New York Times), whose conservative-leaning political perspectives often are at odds with mine, is an extraordinarily talented writer. And he is a deep thinker whose words often spur me to think deeply about issues that I otherwise might give only a passing thought. One such set of words may be found in his December 19 column, entitled The Shock of Faith: It’s Nothing Like I Thought It Would Be. I will not try to describe how it influenced my perspectives on faith, spirituality, and religion; but I encourage readers of this blog to set aside some time (it’s fairly long) to read it.

+++

My hands and feet are cold…deeply and uncomfortably cold. I would feel much warmer and more comfortable if I were back in bed, but the potential of another nosebleed is too great to risk a blood-letting on the sheets. So, I sit at my desk, giving my fingers the freedom to grouse about my discomfort. Later, when mi novia awakens, I will take a shower. The warm water will be a welcome solution to my frigid phalanges. Humidity in the shower might release another torrent from my runny nose, but at least the running water will wash it away as quickly as the stream flows. Soon after I shower, my sister-in-law will come for her regular Sunday morning coffee visit. Then, she will give me a ride to the cancer clinic for my radiation treatment; a Sunday rarity that’s scheduled to accommodate Christmas holiday closures later in the week. On my return home, I suspect I will get back in bed. I’ve spent most of the last several days sleeping, probably in response to the fatigue caused by radiation treatments. One day, perhaps, I again will stay awake for an entire day.

+++

Mi novia was not feeling well on Friday, so I asked a friend at literally the last minute to give me a ride to my radiation and IV fluid appointments. She readily agreed, despite the fact it was so late and would require her to carve three hours or more from her schedule to do it. Good friends are the epitome of kindness, generosity, and caring. Good friends willingly drop everything to help when needed. Being close to good friends does not begin to describe the relationship; the relationship is, in fact, one of love. There was a time, not so very long ago, I would have avoided using the word, love, to describe such relationships. I have learned, finally, that is the only word that fits.

+++

It’s nearing 5:30. My nose is no longer bleeding. I may give the warm bed another shot, after all. As long as I’m up and in the shower by 7:30, all should be well.

A song I played on Amazon Music recently has been on my mind for days. I’ve been enthralled by House at Pooh Corner, a tune by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, since I first heard it more than thirty years ago. Though I’m sure I read A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh book as a child, I remember little (if anything) of it. But certain phrases from the song lyrics have stuck with me, including three-acre wood (I now know the book refers to a 100-acre wood, but that’s beside the point). While drifting off to sleep last night, I fantasized about creating my own three-acre wood. I would carve three kidney-shaped acres out of a heavily-wooded forest. Thirty yards around that shape would be turned to pasture; beyond that, the heavy woods would remain. Within that three-acre plot, I would remove about half the trees and all the underbrush, leaving a calming, protected area. In the center of that area, I would remove trees in a thirty-foot circle. I would have electricity delivered to the center. There, I would plant thick grass. In the center, I would place a comfortable bench and a small table, where I could have my espresso maker, a ceramic incense holder, and a notebook computer. That little spot would become my sanctuary. When I woke up a couple of times last night, I envisioned myself sitting in my little retreat—completely cut off from the rest of the world…except for my fingertips. Pure fantasy.

+++

I can dream of exciting, youthful adventures; even though my body may no longer be suited to experiencing them. This morning, while whimskimming (my new neologism to describe fantasizing) the internet, I came upon a description of a Island Windjammer cruise of the Greek isles. The home port of the six-night cruise is Athens, with visits to Kea, Aegina, Kythnos, Ydra, Spetses, and Poros. The sailing yacht for the cruise, the Lyra, accommodates eight guests in: two staterooms with queen beds and two suites with king beds. When I was young (and I was), adventurous (and I was…to an extent), and rich (but I wasn’t), I might have splurged on such a decadent adventure. Only $9300 per couple ($1550 per night), plus necessary airfare, pre/post meals and lodging, etc., and incidental expenses. If I were to splurge in the extreme, I might book both suites and staterooms, leaving three of them empty to ensure privacy (I’d be willing to speak to the crew on occasion).

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For the majority of the last forty-five-plus Christmases, I have eschewed the traditional turkey or ham or prime rib Christmas Day meal in favor of something different. Chinese, Thai, Tex-Mex, or whatever other restaurants were open were the places of choice. We’ve begun talking about where to go this year. I found an Indian option (India Cafe in Bryant will be open). Mi novia learned that Cafe Kahlo (real Mexican) will be available. Part of the excitement of opting to avoid tradition is the experience of seeing who else is doing the same. In years past, I have seen large Chinese families gathered around huge round tables. And, once, I watched an Ethiopian family—seated on floor cushions—enjoy what I recall as a vegetarian meal. One year, in the middle of a road trip, no restaurant options could be found in Marble Falls, Texas. So, the Christmas meal consisted of frozen gas station burritos, heated in a motel microwave.  I harbor not a speck of regret for those non-traditional Christmas experiences. In fact, I treasure them, just as I treasure sticking with my life-long Christmas eve tradition (when I can) of having tamales and chile con queso (and beer, usually). That tradition was born, I think, during my family’s years living in Brownsville, Texas, where we imitated the custom of the area’s large Mexican population. I think I saw some frozen tamales in the freezer; I just need to get the ingredients for the chile con queso to enable me to continue my family’s tradition this year.

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I am not planning for it to come to pass, but the difficulty of controlling the recurrence of my lung cancer makes me acknowledge that this year could be my last Christmas. Christmas has never been of particular importance to me, but the realization that this might be it causes me to take note. Every day, of course, could be the final day for any one of us. But something “special” that comes along just once a year gives me pause. And it encourages me to recognize and appreciate the good fortune of making it through each and every day. Despite the inconveniences, interruptions, irritations, annoyances, and other disturbances that give me opportunities to complain, I generally am quite happy to be alive; and I’d like to stay that way for as long as the pros outweigh the cons. I am glad for the reminder, though I’d prefer the admonition to come in the form of something less somber and far less final.

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Hot cocoa has never been high on my list of most satisfying hot drinks, but for some reason it has some appeal this morning. Unfortunately, as far as I know, we have no cocoa in the house. If I were to go buy some, I feel sure my hankering for it would have disappeared by the time I got home. I dare not go out, anyway, for fear of encouraging the wrath of mi novia. She is still sleeping, trying to overcome feeling approximately rotten during the past 24 hours. I would do something to improve her condition, if I could, but I do not know just what that is. Me not driving, though, is probably on the list. My gut continues to gurgle; that, alone, is reason not to drive.

Perfection. The state or quality of matching in every detail the definition of an ideal; the pursuit of which is a fool’s errand.

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I have said it before: prisons refract life in much the same way that prisms refract light. The direction of life changes behind prison bars—whether real or imaginary. Freedom, such as it is, shrivels in scope and depth; replaced by rigidity, regimentation, and oppressive limits. Shackles around prisoners’ necks, no longer common, symbolized loss of control and emphasized the reality of that loss. After thousands of years of society’s practices of incarcerating people labeled “deviant,” we still do not know with any degree of certainty whether prisons are effective—as means to either correct behavior or inflict punishment. Or exact revenge. We know enough, though, to understand the refractive nature of imprisonment. We cannot reliably predict, though, the direction of change in prisoners’ lives following confinement. We tend to avoid calling imprisonment a form of retribution for breaking society’s rules, but that is what it is. Or, of course, deviating from custom or political directives. I do not pity the people imprisoned for knowingly breaking social rules designed to protect the “rest of us.” But killing those rule breakers is barbaric. Permanently covering the prism with opaque black cloth suggests absolute knowledge of a person’s guilt; there is no such thing as absolute knowledge.

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Suddenly, wind rushes through the trees outside my windows, causing just enough commotion to break the silence of stillness. That quick breeze coincided with my tap on the “period” key that ended the paragraph above, as if the forest acknowledged my assertion…or disputed it. Coincidence has a way of placing the supernatural within arm’s reach. And it argues in favor of the existence of unseen forces that we “know” do not exist. My certainty that psychokinesis is entirely phony struggles against my knowledge that I can listen to radio or watch television, thanks to invisible “waves” in the air. My 100% certainty has declined to 95% or less; I now am slightly open to the highly unlikely possibility that a force of nature that we have not yet adequately measured may exist. There it is again: this time, the wind howled in agreement or discord. But the trees did not move. Odd. The sky’s color this morning changes from very light beige to an almost transparent robin’s egg blue, depending on where I look. Are these unusual sensory experiences some form of communication? I seriously doubt it. But I refuse to express certainty when certainty is simply an unproven belief.

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I was confused yesterday when my IV fluid treatment concluded. I told the nurse to leave the needle and tubes attached to my chest so today’s session would not require another stab. But, last night, when I took off my shirt, I noticed the tubing taped to me. And it occurred to me that today’s radiation treatment will take place before the IV treatment. So, I need to return to the oncologist’s office early to ask them to remove the paraphernalia attached to my access port; I cannot have it attached during the radiation treatment. When that treatment is finished, I’ll go back to the oncologist’s clinic and have them stab me again before beginning the IV drip. Ach. After today, my next radiation treatment will be Sunday morning. They will be working Sunday because they’re closed Tuesday through Thursday. Then, I’ll get treatments Friday and Saturday (Saturday also to make up for being closed for Christmas).

+++

I ate steak yesterday. A nice filet, cooked rare. That’s uncommon for me; not just eating a filet, but any beef at all. It was glorious. And I had a fabulous, cold garden salad (lettuce, tomatoes, lizard tails, palm tree seedlings), with bleu cheese dressing. And steamed broccoli. All of which led to me feeling horribly bloated later in the day and evening. I would do it again. But not yet.

Today is the fourth anniversary of my wife’s death. I had spent part of the day with her as she lay unresponsive in the hospital hospice unit bed, but left a little after mid-afternoon, maybe 4:00 p.m. Sometime after 7:30 p.m., I got a call from a hospice nurse, informing me she had died a short while earlier. I should have stayed until the end.

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More IV fluid around noon today, following this morning’s radiation treatment. I am firmly ensconced in a deep rut of my own making. Unwilling to resist peer pressure—and thinking it would boost my attractiveness—I started smoking around age 15. Attempts to stop failed over the next 35 years until I needed a double heart bypass. That did it. Finally, I quit smoking. But not soon enough to avoid the toll; COPD and lung cancer fifteen years later. It is not hard to admit one’s stupidity when the evidence is obvious and overwhelming. I hope to outlast the cancer, but only if my quality of life improves considerably. I do not need to be able to run marathons; staying awake for 16 hours at a stretch and taking long walks without being out of breath would be a good start, though. Lung cancer is not limited to smokers, of course, but smokers tend to be far more likely to pay the price of dismissing reality until it’s too late.

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Two more ideas for short stories or books began to fester in my mind within the last couple of days. Unlike most of my ideas of late, I took the time to write some notes, so that I might have some of the core concepts readily available if I actually do something other than think about them. One would become a suspense novel/story with heavy psychological and emotional overtones. The other would have the same overtones, but in a context that might seem supernatural; but that might be part of the psychological nature of the story. Both would rely heavily on story lines, but the characters’ thoughts and experiences would influence the story lines considerably. I’m not holding my breath until I complete them; I’ve had hundreds of ideas in the past that prompted me to start writing, but a scant few have ever made it to within striking distance of a short story ending.

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Thinking about my history of writing incomplete fiction makes me realize I live largely inside my head. My physical experiences exist largely to fuel my internal dream world. That being the case, the “quality of life” of which I wrote a few minutes ago should be just fine as-is; all I should need is enough comfort to permit me to daydream. But that’s never enough, is it?

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Mi novia has long told me she thinks I suffer from depression. I waver between agreeing with her…to a limited extent…and denial. Lately, though, I think she is unquestionably right. Her presence in my life is among the few experiences keeping me fully afloat. Absent her loving support, I might crawl into a distant cabin—far, far from people—and wait for the wolves to make their way through the door. I take prescription drugs for anxiety/ depression. I’ve realized recently that they do have an effect on me; when I fail to take them for two or three days running, I become more easily angry and agitated. They do not change the fundamental darkness that resides within, though. I am not perpetually “down” or “sad.” In fact, I’m often cheerful and happy. Yet there’s a dark thread weaving its way through me. I wonder whether the thread can be removed? Or is it just a strand that holds everything together? Or is this entire strand of thought just an expression of self-pity… poor me, I’m depressed? These thoughts—all of them—have a permanent place in my head. Ideally, I could erase them with the flick of a switch. As it stands, it seems I do not need a powerful reason to be depressed—hearing a suggestion that the Doomsday Clock is edging to within seconds to midnight is enough.

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Instead of posting here yesterday, I woke in the hospital after an overnight stay. Day before yesterday, when I visited my oncologist’s clinic, they readily agreed to deliver a bag of IV fluid through my chest port. But, even though my condition improved considerably as a result, it was not enough; my oncologist had me admitted to the hospital. There, I had bag after bag (three or four, I think) of saline solution delivered to my dehydrated body. I was released sometime after noon yesterday so I could get my radiation treatment at the clinic across the parking lot. I return to the oncology clinic this afternoon, after another radiation treatment this morning, for more saline solution. No matter how hard it is for me to drink lots of water and eat adequate amounts of protein, I must do it to the extent I can. Hospital stays are unpleasant, regardless of how good the care that’s delivered.

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A few minutes ago, when I sat down at my desk and looked outside, the view was eerily beautiful. A thin fog enveloped the forest in a silver and grey mist, reducing the sun’s light to a glow. Very dark—almost black—tree trunks and branches against the muted background lent a surreal sense to the scene. I wish I could have captured the view; it could have been manipulated into a spectacular semi-abstract image. Now, though, the fog is gone. Light blue skies, punctuated with vague grey and white clouds, have changed the scene completely. Last night’s storms, with their blinding flashes of lightning and sinister growls of earth-shaking thunder, have moved on. Watching the changes in the sky and hearing chaotic noise drift into silence is akin to experiencing the progress of time. It wipes away the past and teases me with blurred glimpses into the future.

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One of the nurses who tended to me during my very brief hospital stay has been a nurse only a few years. Before that, he was a roughneck on oil rigs, earning $120,000 per year, far more than he does now. Even though he worked exceptionally long shifts (far longer than the 12-hour shifts he works now), he found long hours of offshore work as a crane operator easier to handle, sometimes, than his nursing shifts. The reason: as a nurse, he has to regularly deal with patients who are difficult, whereas as a crane operator he did not have to cope with such interactions. At 45 now, though, he is glad to be rid of those extremely long shifts and to be able to spend time with his family. When he started as a nurse, the camaraderie within his unit (the same one he is on now) was a delight that made him happy to have made the change. It’s interesting to me to listen to people express themselves the way he did. Random strangers can be engaging.

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I feel myself becoming more emotionally…psychologically…flexible. Whether the transformation is more like the corrosive decay of weakening metal or the loss of self-limiting rigidity of a protective shield, I do not know. I do not know, either, whether the change is positive or negative—or, for that matter, simply a neutral adjustment. Ultimately, it does not matter. It is what it is; subject to judgment or not.

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Mi novia is dealing with a lot of stress, one of which has to do with my illness and all its real or perceived demands. One way or another, I need to remove, or help remove, the weight of the strains from her shoulders. If I could enter a month-long sedation, that might help. But that’s probably not realistic. Perhaps I should take an incommunicado vacation. Sequester myself in a remote place for a while, giving her (and everyone else in my sphere) room to breathe. Everyone needs some form of pressure-relief-valve to remove the tensions imposed by living in this world. By now, we should have identified the one such valve that will work for everyone. But we haven’t.

My food and fluid intake since Friday afternoon has been minimal. No matter how I try, I cannot bring myself to drink enough water to remain hydrated nor to eat enough food to maintain sufficient strength. To combat dehydration, I’ll ask my oncologist’s staff whether, after my radiation treatment next door, they have time and resources to hook me to a bag of IV saline fluid. It’s not that I simply refuse to eat and drink; it’s that I just cannot seem to force myself to take in more than a small taste at a time—not nearly enough to keep me adequately fueled and hydrated. But I must be doing a little better than before; at least I can sit at my desk and bitch about my current state of weakness, discomfort, and general malaise.

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Today is Monday, December 16, my oldest brother’s wedding anniversary. He is flying to Oregon to see his wife today, who has been away from their home for several weeks for medical tests and planning for breast cancer major surgery, which is scheduled for tomorrow. What an unpleasant way to spend a celebratory anniversary! Cancer seems to have surrounded me in recent years. Three brothers have had to deal with various types of cancers. My father died of lung cancer. My late wife’s sister and my brother’s wife are in the midst of fighting breast cancer. I am being treated for lung cancer that, after five years of clean reports, came back. It seems every time I turn around, someone new in my familial or social sphere is fighting cancer. And, given the advancing age of everyone I know, the number of people diagnosed with cancer will only continue to climb. I hope none of us will be given a terminal diagnosis…but it’s already too late for that. This recurrence of mine is incurable…yet too early to estimate a timeframe for mine to complete its work. It could be years. It could be much sooner. I’m rooting for years; as if cheering myself on is apt to have an impact.

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Personal interest in world affairs seems to have withered; for me. Realistic thoughts that take place in dreamland, too, have apparently been abandoned by my brain. Instead, my sleeping mind seems to focus on breaking random rules and running from the consequences. Last night (sometime between Friday night and this morning), a detailed dream involved intentionally side-swiping a perfectly-restored late-fifties Cadillac, then fleeing its driver. The pursuit soon turned into a chase involving three or four strange people who wanted to recruit me to join their semi-religious cult. I ran from them, thinking I had escaped into a Moroccan-themed apartment in a huge complex, only to discover some of the people after me lived there. I managed to escape from near-capture, but only barely. They were right behind me, crawling between buildings, climbing on and between balconies, and—periodically—confronting them. I managed to convince them that: 1) they had been assigned personal identification numbers and 2) their food intake had to be limited to string and thin twigs from trees. For some reason, my success in leading them on was responsible for my success in eluding capture. Late in the dream, before it dissolved into nothingness, I ran inside a mammoth garbage-truck-wash where fire hoses were aimed at dirty trucks. And then? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But there was more, earlier. I do not recall exactly what, though.

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I am so damned tired. I need to take a shower, but I’m a little concerned I will have trouble standing for the duration. Wiping the shower down afterward is out of the question. Drying myself is not a guaranteed slam-dunk. Getting dressed is iffy. But I’ll manage.

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Ibogaine causes time, space, light, and sound all to splinter. So does lack of—or too much—sleep.

I continued sleeping—for most of the time—between Friday afternoon and 5 this morning. Though still weak and tired, I may be coming out of the worst of it; whatever “it” was. But I’ll make no wagers just yet. I still feel like I fell overboard from a ship far at sea; each attempt at swimming toward land is an invitation to drowning. My gut does not appreciate the risk; nor does my brain.

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My energy may be at an all-time low. If not, it’s close. I may crawl back in bed for another 36 hours (give or take). If only I could rid myself of this beast.

I haven’t taken my mass of morning pills yet today. Some days, the idea of swallowing a handful of pills and tablets is beyond offensive. It is an affront to my humanity. Evidence that I am unable to survive on my own, without the crucial assistance of drugs to keep my heart beating, my lungs pumping, and my guts gurgling. I want to simply refuse the pharmaceuticals and see where that takes me. I doubt I would wither and die in the near-term. In fact, I might start feeling better from the outset. Do I have the grit to give it a try? Not yet. Argh!

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Mendocino, California. I want to go back for a lengthy visit…a week or two, maybe more. But getting the full enjoyment out of the experience of Mendocino and environs requires one to feel energetic. And it requires overcoming any and all aches, pains, attitudes, concerns, and other intrusive annoyances. At the moment, I do not feel capable of overcoming any of it. I want to, nonetheless. I want the ugly invasions of bad attitudes and worse cancer cells to stop, immediately. I would be satisfied, I suppose, to be anesthetized for a few weeks of luxurious nothingness.

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My cell phone, hidden deep in the pockets and folds of a goose-down vest, rang until it gave up. A few minutes later, upon arrival at the radiation clinic yesterday morning, I learned the call was to tell me the radiation machinery had stopped working. So, no radiation yesterday. C’est la vie. With a touch of good fortune, the equipment (and I) will be in working order on Monday, when I return for the next radiation treatment. I slept…mostly…for the better part of the fourteen hours that ended around 6:30 this morning. During that long sleep, I seem to have lost the majority of my remaining strength. It’s probably the day-before-yesterday’s radiation; sucking up my energy. Frustration is only a fraction of what I feel at the moment. Anger, annoyance, disappointment, and a flurry of synonyms and their surly cousins contribute to my unpleasant attitude.  I daydream about: regaining my strength; overcoming the cancer cells; becoming at least semi-productive again. Until the most recent chemo treatment, the steroid infusions that accompany the chemotherapy drugs gave me a boost of energy. But the boost did not seem to materialize this time; at least not so that it was particularly noticeable. Anyone reading this post (and most recent blog entries here) probably is tired of me ranting and complaining. I am, as well. I tire of writing the same damn thing, over and over and over again. I am capable of infecting readers, and my own brain, with intense boredom and pointless reminders that I have nothing of measurable interest to share.

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Though I’ve slept close to fourteen of the last fifteen hours, I am confident I could—without much effort—drift off into a satisfying sleep. But weakness can interfere with comfort. And satisfying sleep involves adequate comfort. So one’s own weakness can struggle with one’s body, making the state of sleep difficult to enter. The cycle of unconquerable fatigue.

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Okay, John. Buck it up. All’s well with the world, right?

By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return.

~ Genesis 3:19 ~

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, often uttered in funeral services, originated with the Bible, Genesis 3:19. The cyclical nature of human experience, originating from and returning to God/ Nature, is a concept widely embraced today. The Bible is among the most prolific sources of ideas and phrases in modern literature. For that reason, alone, it would have behooved me to study English translations of the Bible in years past; not as a religious text, but as a way to understand the origin of some of the most common phrases in the English language. Unfortunately, I did not study it; neither as a religious resource nor as a literary reference. But I absorbed bits and pieces of its significance to literature by learning of its connection through various book titles: East of Eden; The Grapes of Wrath; The Sun Also Rises; The Skin of Our Teeth; Like a Lamb to Slaughter; In the Beginning; Let Us Now Praise Famous Men; and on and on and on. Though I look upon biblical stories (with which I am only vaguely familiar…and with only a few) as simply allegories or fables, many of them document the foundations of generally-accepted principles of modern morality. The language of religion, whether one likes it or not, forms part of the bedrock of civilization today. That makes the subject worth knowing…and least more completely than I know it.

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Mornings are my times for writing; I make that claim regularly. In reality, though, mornings are my time for thinking; cogitating; wondering; questioning; day-dreaming; reflecting; giving my introspective self time to explore who’s inside; other mental self-examinations…and a little writing on the side. The writing probably is just a justification for the thinking—otherwise, observers of my thinking might see me sitting at my desk, motionless, and assume me to be in a catatonic state. And perhaps that’s exactly the state I am in: Catatonia. It’s a place near the intersection of the border between Algeria and Honduras; just south of the shared border between the Suez Canal and the Sun. It’s hard to find the place, unless you take the bridge between Christchurch, New Zealand and Ascunción, Paraguay.

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I interrupted my blogging to shower and shave in preparation for this morning’s radiation treatment. There’s little need to shave these days, as my always-thin beard is more sparse and thinner than ever, but I shave every few days, anyway. And then, of course, I forgot I was in the midst of writing a blog post. I’m back, albeit only briefly, to put this to bed. I feel weaker than I’d like, but that sensation will disappear after I rehydrate myself. It is not easy to remain hydrated, especially when one’s intake versus outgo of liquid is out of kilter in the wrong direction. As much as I am not especially enamored of chemically-modified water in the form of Propel high-cost water, it does seem to restore stolen or otherwise missing electrolytes.