John Swinburn

Every day, I sit staring through the windows of the forest before me. And every day, its appearance changes—at least a little. Today, the substantial changes leave the trees looking taller and more gaunt. Their trunks and limbs appear more distant from me this morning. They seem more rigid, too, as if the air around them is perfectly still. And their colors have changed, as well—a little concrete-grey has entered the spectra, maybe to match the concrete-rigidity of their own immovable bodies.

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Both legitimate news media and frequently-untrustworthy social media have suggested, from very early on in the investigation, that: 1) the murder of the CEO of UnitedHealthcare was  motivated by rage against the healthcare insurance industry and; 2) the guy accused the killing is guilty. I am not a PollyAnna; based on what I’ve learned (if it is true), Mangione probably is guilty of the accusations against him. But my thoughts about the incident and my beliefs about guilt or innocence are irrelevant. So are yours. His attorney, in response to a series of efforts by a news anchor or CNN to get him to “admit” that evidence against his client is overwhelming, noted that the implicit Constitution presumption of innocence, as stipulated in the Fifth, Sixth, and Fourteenth Amendments. The judges and trial juries along the way must always remember those protections and, the responsibilities they have for observing them. Complaints that the judicial system’s protections should be waived in “obvious” cases anger me. The speed (or lack thereof) of the system is upsetting to me, but I will gladly sacrifice speed to a greater degree of certainty and actual justice. I get miffed, too, when I hear denunciations of judges and juries for their verdicts, insisting that the Justice System failed. These complainers do not have access to all the facts available at trial etc., yet they feel “justified” in demanding “justice.”

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Last night we began watching (the first of eight episodes of) the Netflix short series, One Hundred Years of Solitude, based on the 1967 novel by Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez. The novel, as described on Wikipedia, “tells the multi-generational story of the Buendía family, whose patriarch, José Arcadio Buendía, founded the fictitious town of Macondo.” The article goes on to report that the novel is often cited “as one of the supreme achievements in world literature.” We shall see how it does on the screen. It’s not fair for me to judge television of late, thanks to my blurry vision, but I do it, anyway. If all goes well and according to plan, I’ll have my surgery for anterior basement membrane dystrophy on January 23 and a follow visit to confirm all went as expected. I probably should wait to rate films and series until then; but I won’t.

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I did not sleep worth a damn last night, due to multiple episodes of various unpleasant side effects of my chemo and/or radiation and/or drugs involved in the processes. While I feel sufficiently well to go to my radiation treatment this morning, the idea that I am not yet even two-thirds of the way through is less than exciting. Thirteen more treatments to go, then more chemo, then scans, bloodwork, etc., etc. to reveal whether any of this stuff is now working. In the meantime, I feel increasingly useless, with motivation to match. Enough whining for the moment, whine-master!

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Nihon Hidankyo, a Japanese organization of survivors of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for 2024. I remain surprised, so many years after those stunning events, that the U.S. still has not issued a formal apology for unleashing nuclear terror on Japan. The arguments, pro and con, regarding whether the actions were “justified” will go on and on, I suspect. But from my viewpoint, the results are immune from justification. Last night, I watched an interview on BBC with the head of Nihon Hidankyo about the award. I wish the world would listen to the survivors.  A deceased author (Dorothy Stroup), who was a friend of one of my sisters, wrote a novel (In the Autumn Wind) which gave a fictional treatment to the Hiroshima bombing. I absolutely loved the novel and the way it offered such a believable presentation of the bombing and its aftermath. A few years ago, I began writing what I thought was going to be a piece of historical fiction combined with a dystopian narrative of where nuclear ambitions will take us one day. One sentence, extracted from that 8-year-old utterly unfinished manuscript, might adequately explain the plot’s core: ” Shoko Matsumoto, the leader of a Japanese group that called itself Bushidō, issued the threat. Bushidō was formed in 2011 to exact revenge for what Matsumoto considered the most egregious acts of terrorism ever committed, the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” The closest I have come to spending time in Japan took place during two layovers at Narita Airport: one a few hours long and one overnight stay (at the Hilton Narita?). Yet I decided to write about something of which I know next to nothing. I may return to it again, though, filling in my vast ignorance with information gleaned from the internet and double-checked for accuracy.

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I have just over an hour before I need to leave for today’s radiation treatment. Off I go to prepare, which involves getting dressed.

Furtive glances. You’ve seen them. The knowing looks exchanged between people who share a secret—in the context of a group of others who don’t. Their shared knowledge may relate to their own (or someone else’s) real or hoped-for clandestine love affair. Or the impending invasion of (or by) a foreign (or their own) country. Or expectations of a jury’s decision following a sensational murder trial. Or dozens of other circumstances in which the glimpses, themselves, can reveal almost as much as (or more than) dialogue to the witnesses  to the covert eye contact between the parties. Generally, furtive glances seem to be more common on the television or film screen than in real life, but they occur virtually all the time, everywhere. Reality, after all, is the source that provides fodder for writers and actors who incorporate those flashes of secret acknowledgement into sources of our entertainment. Furtive glances in the real world carry with them considerably more potential for long-lasting effects, though, than do secrets shared as part of a writer’s arsenal of tactics. Furtive glances can change the course of personal histories. Yes?

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I viewed a side-by-side photo composition of Kevin Spacey (in his role as President Frank Underwood in House of Cards)  and Donald Trump (in his role as candidate or president-elect) this morning. Spacey, his head and neck erect and wearing a dark blue suit, patterned white shirt, and light blue-teal tie, looked distinguished and dignified. Trump, his head and neck slumping slightly forward and wearing a garish—almost electric—blue suit, white shirt, and bright red tie, looked unkempt and smug, wearing the “colors” of an artificial patriot dressed to look like Superman’s great-grandfather. I am sure my perceptions of the men, based partly on their individual postures and how they were dressed, were amplified by my attitudes about their personalities. Spacey has been accused of sexual assault of y0ung men, just as Trump has been accused of sexual assault of women. But other aspects of their personalities either amplify or diminish my understanding of their unique characteristics (I wanted to used “qualities,” but could not bring myself to use the word…characteristics will have to do). I wonder whether, were their histories and public personas reversed, my reactions to the same photo would have been reversed, as well? I’ve always been taught that their appearance should not be used to judge people; but I wonder whether I have learned, instead, to use character and behavior to judge appearance? Just curious…nothing especially important is embedded in this question, except for its relevance to my own character and behavior. Uh-huh.

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No injection yesterday; just the radiation treatment. I get both today. I learned yesterday that one of the main chemotherapy infusion drugs is being left out of the mix until the radiation regimen is finished; I am unsure why that decision was made, but I am sure I will learn at some point. If I see the oncologist or her nurse today, I may have the opportunity to ask. If, indeed, the withheld drug is responsible for my runny nose and nose bleeds, I hope that side-effect stops quickly. Even a short break from those annoyances would make me feel considerably happier. I am not feeling nearly as “chipper” yet as I normally do in the few days after chemo; the radiation is no doubt interfering with the post-chemo “high.” But not too terribly much. Crossing my fingers, knocking on wood, and otherwise appealing to the gods of superstitious drivel for a welcome reprieve from the madness of cancer and its bunch of surly bastard friends.

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The shredded hide of a banana, looking a little like a fat green and yellow and brown snake skin, sits on a paper towel on the desk beside me. An empty shot glass, recently relieved of its contents of espresso, is nearby, as are an empty carton of Ensure and a half-full bottle of Propel. My latest, and lingering, breakfast rut. This morning, though, in a while, I will eat last night’s leftover slices of tomato (topped with bleu cheese and drizzled with balsamic vinegar reduction) as a breakfast supplement. If I go overboard on eating (as suggested by the oncology nurse and others) for long, I may not be able to fit into my brand-new pairs of 34-inch-waist jeans. I tried them on last night and was pleased that they appear to be sized to stay on, even without a useless and over-long belt and suspenders. I think the largest jeans I ever worse were 44-inches in the waist; maybe only 42-inches. These new ones much be the smallest (or among the smallest) since I became an adult, if that ever actually happened. I do not want to lose all my muscle (such as remains, anyway), but I a delighted to have shrunk so much in a relatively short time.

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The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts a great deal longer.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. ~

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When I read an AP new article about the results of his first year in office, Argentina’s libertarian President Javier Milei, I wondered whether the mixed successes of his draconian economic and social measures to prevent the Argentine economy from imploding could possibly justify them. The next question in my mind was this: could any other, far less painful, measures have had the same successes in the same short span of time? After he assumed the presidency a year ago, Milei implemented a flurry of austerity measures: cutting energy and transportation subsidies; laying off tens of thousands of government workers; freezing public infrastructure projects; and imposing wage and pension freezes below levels of inflation; among others. Despite those extremely painful measures, he enjoys support of roughly 50% of the population; he told them during his campaign to expect things to get worse before they got better, and it seems now they believe him. I hate to think that a combination of social, economic, and political philosophies that are so utterly contrary to mine could be justified as the only effective “fix” to the economy, but the reality of what is happening there makes me admit it is possible. Yet, still, I wonder whether the goal of a growing, or even stable, economy can justify steamrolling social principles I find so fundamentally moral. The ultimate outcome of Milei’s policies are yet to be seen; I probably won’t reach a conclusion either way until I see it. But I grudgingly understand that my firmly-held positions should be open to some flexibility. Milei told a cheering crowd at the Conservative Political Action Conference, during its traveling appearance in Buenos Aires last week, “Everyone assumed that we were going to fail politically. Today they admit, through gritted teeth, that they are surprised.” God knows I never want to think for a moment, when Trump utters those words (and he will, I feel confidence), that he was right. But when we slam the doors on ideas that find offensive, we put our claims of being open-minded at risk.

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Already, the “pristine” desk in my study displays evidence my innately over-casual nature. Just a few items have been strewn across the desk since I recently decluttered it—but enough to warn me against letting my genetic laziness retake control. All my working life, I wanted a supremely organized, take-charge assistant to take charge of organizing my desk and my office. Since retiring 13 years ago, I realized it was not just my work-life that needed a makeover; I want a personal assistant who has the same skills and personality I wished for in a secretary when I worked. At this point, though, it is not worth worrying about. A periodic decluttering, accompanied by giving myself a stern lecture against allowing my slothful nature to get out of control, will give me the occasional kick in the butt I need. I hope

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This morning, after I showered, I looked in the mirror and saw that my face had the sanguine complexion that mi novia mentioned to me last evening. My normally pasty-white face was ruddy red, as if I had been drinking heavily during a lengthy, several-days-long, alcohol bender (I doubt I ever did, even as a wild young man). Given that I had both radiation and chemotherapy yesterday, my assumption is that one or the other or both might be the cause; I think yesterday’s chemo concoction may have been somewhat different from those infused into my body recently. Speaking of yesterday’s infusion: the nurse who plunged the needle into my infusion port apologized several times for the obvious pain I felt each time she tried to properly place the needle. It was the first time it had hurt so much; it was tolerable, of course, but the pain was enough for me to wince and express my displeasure with my “allergy” to pain. The nurse said the pain was due to the build-up of scar tissue at the site, which is the place they stab me ever time they draw blood or administer cancer-killing poisons, drugs, and miscellaneous other helpful liquids. Anyway, my red face remains (I assume—though I’m not looking in a mirror). I will try to find out what may be causing it; and if it’s an inappropriate reaction to something the nurses did or did not do, what to do to correct it.

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I’m finishing my second shot of espresso, after having knocked the first one down quickly and gone through a serving of Ensure and a bottle of Propel.  Still, no hunger; not even a willing interest in food. Yesterday, having a discussion with the oncology nurse in advance of the infusion treatments, she chided me for having lost another 5 pounds since my last treatment, 3 weeks ago. She told me to focus on food…especially meat with lots of protein…or else. So, we went to Home Plate for a late (3pm+) lunch, where I ordered liver & onions, a food I have always enjoyed but rarely eat. It was okay. But I prefer mine sliced thicker, without gravy, and cooked medium-rare. The texture of the liver gets grainy when it is cooked too long. I did not need to get into such detail about my late lunch, except that, sometime in the future, I may need to know about yesterday’s menu and I will find it on this post. If you like, you can find it here, too.

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The dryer sounded a minute ago, alerting me that the load of black long-johns should be dry and wearable. I do not feel quite so uncomfortable as I did, initially, wearing only a pair of underpants and a sweatshirt to my radiation treatments. Mi novia claims no one will give second thoughts to an old man wearing what amounts to black leotards wandering through a cancer center (and into restaurants, etc.). I hope she’s right, but what “they” think of me shrinks in importance with each passing venture into public places. Nudity, I tell you, has enormous appeal and flexibility—you can wear it anywhere. Who needs leotards when bare skin is available?

Finally, my desk is uncluttered. I sit here, looking across to the front left side of the desk, and I see a darker square of wood, the spot where my copy of The Essence of Zen: An Anthology of Quotations, used to stay close at hand. In the house where I used to live, that was where the book protected a six-inch by six-inch square of wood from constant sunlight. My late wife and I bought the desk when we lived in Chicago—between 35 and 40 years ago. The desk was hers until we moved to Hot Springs Village in 2014, approaching 11 years ago, when we switched our two desks to better suite the available spaces. The desk is one of the dozens of material “things” I have been unable to bring myself to discard or replace since my wife died. At least the desk has utilitarian value; some of her imprinted t-shirts remain in my closet. And while I was straightening my desk and desk drawers, I came across a file folder she kept; labeled UUVC. Inside it, I found copies of several orders of service she kept with handwritten notes she made about the insight presentation or the sermon that was delivered that day. And clippings from the minister’s newspaper articles that she found thought-provoking. Her notes caused me to reflect on matters she thought important enough to return to and to contemplate. Of course those handwritten notes inundated me in sentimental tidal waves—far more powerful than the one I felt seeing the protected place on the teak desk. For reasons more complex than I understand, I try to stem the flow of particularly strong, teary emotions except when I am alone. Perhaps it’s because I do not want to try to explain them; that only exacerbates them. But it may be the lifelong societal inculcation—that I try my best to fight—of the idea that tears are embarrassing when flowing from masculine eyes. That is, of course, bullshit; intellectually, I know it deep in my brain. But it refuses to be completely dislodged. Ach! This paragraph, like so many I write, went down unplanned paths and through dark tunnels. I am so fortunate, though, that mi novia understands and comforts me when these emotions rear their heads.

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Humans have been marking their skin for thousands of years, according to a popular online article about various historical cultural practices. (Smithsonian Magazine, I think.) In modern North America, though, the widespread disapproval of and distaste for the practice continues today, though tattoos are becoming far more common and accepted than in recent years past. Not so long ago, tattoos often were considered irresponsible (and even disgusting) expressions of youthful rebellion and military pride. Today, it is not at all uncommon to see older and more conservative folks sporting tattoos. Regardless of the age of the inked body, tattoos are considered artistic expressions of individualistic “uniqueness.” The same seems to be true of body piercings. Both are resurrections (or more common and more visible announcements) of age-old illustrations of a tattooed or pierced person’s individuality in modern times. Peculiar youthful rebellions and individual idiosyncrasies have morphed into a common form of indistinct distinction. What, I wonder, will be the next “new” expression of individuality that so many of us will find offensive…until we come to realize how ancient that expression is and how appealing it can be to embrace it? Many people seem to look back at the practices of younger generations in bemusement or aversion, failing to fully comprehend that those generational practices are simply later versions of earlier rebellions. But generational adoption of  “the way it used to be” almost always leads to significant change; mocking the latest iterations of ancient practices fails to acknowledge the power of reintroduction and rebirth of ideas.

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Yesterday’s grey Sunday afternoon, coupled with rain and temperatures in the low-to-mid-forties, helped keep me indoors, though I would have remained inside anyway, had the day been bright, clear, and warm. I spent a couple of hours shredding papers that had piled up in my study (I try to shred anything that contains personal information before discarding it). When I finished that task, I skimmed the Associated Press news website, where an article about a giant statue in New Jersey of the Buddha, caught my attention. The statue sits on the grounds of the New Jersey Buddhist Vihara and Meditation Center, where the statue and the Center‘s practices, according to the article, serve as a “a hub for interfaith efforts and a spiritual home for practicing Buddhists, Hindus and Christians, reflecting New Jersey’s diverse religious landscape.” I find many aspects of Buddhism’s philosophies and moral codes powerfully appealing. I do not consider it a religion in the same way Catholicism or Protestantism or Islam are religions, because it is non-theistic and doesn’t worship a god or deity. But some say otherwise, noting for example that Kuan Yin is said to be the Buddhist goddess of compassion. Regardless of its status in the context of religious thought, many Buddhist principles and practices resonate with me. Anyway, as I scanned the AP website, I focused on the article. Aside from the Center‘s promotion of religious diversity, a comment attributed to one of its regulars—a 76-year-old retired high school teacher—struck a chord with me. She said, of viewing the statue, that it prompts her to think about “the qualities that the Buddha stood for…peace, understanding, compassion, respect for all, and living in the moment.” Obviously, my practice of shredding personal papers to shield against potential future threats is at odds with “living in the moment,” but like my friend pointed out about Unitarian Universalism during our conversations on Saturday, some principles are aspirational. A core theme is that Unitarian Universalists recognize their flaws, but strive to correct them.

At least twelve of the 4872 posts I have made on this blog—thirteen of 4873 including this one—have mentioned Buddhism. One of those posts, written twelve years ago, before I became familiar with Unitarian Universalism and before I relaxed my rigid opposition to religion in general, attempts to unearth specifically what appeals to me about Buddhism. Reading that post last night and this morning, I concluded that “spiritual” evolution (whatever that is) is endless—because otherwise the circle of introspective thought is destined to reach a pointless dead end.

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It’s almost 7. I woke well before 3 and got out of bed shortly before 4. I have both a radiation treatment and a chemotherapy session this morning; together they will devour the entire morning and part of the afternoon. I wish I would have slept. I plan to take a shower, but I may allow my plans to get derailed so I can try to get another hour or so of sleep.

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We spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon yesterday with a good friend, talking about matters both mundane and momentous. Just days ago, in a post here, I bemoaned the disappearance of truly substantive dialogue. Yesterday’s discussions offered solid evidence that my earlier mourning of conversation’s demise was misplaced. At some point in the afternoon, we asked one another to express our hopes for the future. That discussion led our friend to characterize one such announcement as equivalent to John Lennon’s lyrics for his song, Imagine.  She started reciting the words to the song; they beautifully capture the concept of hope for humankind:

Imagine

Imagine there’s no heaven,
It’s easy if you try.
No hell below us
Above us, only sky.
Imagine all the people
Livin’ for today.

Imagine there’s no countries,
It isn’t hard to do.
Nothing to kill or die for,
And no religion, too.
Imagine all the people
Livin’ life in peace…

The lyrics continue, of course, but the first two lyrical stanzas fully capture the idea.
Maybe hope and fantasy are one and the same. Regardless, hope is a fantasy worth pursuing. A substantive conversation can prompt emotions and ideas and points of view that are easily overlooked in the frenzy of daily life. We all need to devote more time and attention to conversations; real, thought-provoking discussions. Several of yesterday’s conversations still resonate with me. When we allow ourselves to open up through conversations, we have the opportunity to better understand the world around us and to more fully comprehend who we are.

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Even though I sometimes find mi novia‘s concerns about my health a bit constricting, I am immensely grateful that she cares. Knowing that someone cares enough to risk being considered a “nag” is enormously fulfilling. And that realization gives rise to feelings of compassion for those who do not have such extraordinarily good fortune. Close, caring relationships keep hope alive. People who have no family, friends, or others who care enough to “interfere” are, whether they know it or not, teetering on the edge of losing confidence in themselves—if they haven’t already lost it. This reality may be so obvious that it goes without saying. But unless we give it sufficient thought, we risk allowing ourselves to overlook it or—even worse—giving others the sense that we do not value their care.

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I slept for close to 12 hours last night. Half a day lost to unconsciousness. Well, not entirely lost. I remember a bizarre dream in which I was traveling with my brother. We had stopped at a ramshackle cluster of buildings that apparently were dedicated to selling “junk” or antiques. Suddenly, massive tornadoes dropped from the sky and one of them picked up the building where we stood. The storm took the building (and us) across a four-lane highway and deep into a huge field on the other side. Neither of us, nor the other people and animals (there were several) in the building were injured. But dozens of other tornadoes spun all around us. Despite the storms, we had to walk outside, through a soggy field that I worried could be full of snakes, to get to an outhouse. Weird dreams occupy my nights.

As soon as mi novia wakes, I will fill the washer with a monstrous load of clothes. I have intended to take care of that for several days, but laziness/fatigue/tiredness/whatever have stood in my way. Because I tend to wear sweatshirts and sweatpants, every day adds quite a bit of volume to the laundry hamper. Washing and drying is not onerous. but putting clothes on hangers, for some reason, tends to sap my energy. Times like this—when I anticipate unlikeable chores—often spur me to think of silly solutions to “problems” that do not really need to be solved. My displeasure with hanging clothes, for example, has led me to consider the appeal of machines that could wash, dry, and fold/ hang clothes and lug them to the closet.  I’ve also considered how nice (and utterly wasteful) it would be to wear disposable clothes that come in nicely pressed and folded bags…once worn, they could be shed and discarded or taken to a recycling center. Even better would be a jarring change in social acceptance of nudity; it would save water, electricity, time, and effort. For some bizarre reason, though, people seem to recoil at the idea of seeing my naked body—draped in folds of expanded skin that once held the shapes of the fat it held in check. I do not say the sight is appealing…only that it’s part of the real world. And, if I can tolerate the sight of others’ naked bodies, others should be willing to tolerate mine. Nudity has been given an undeserved bad rap since André and Evangelina (or whoever…) snagged a mango from a persimmon shrub. Or it may have been a cacahuate from a grape tree.

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I look forward to the first few days after a chemo treatment session. The energy boost provided by something in the chemical mix renews my energy for those few days. Until the most recent two or three chemotherapy sessions, my energy had begun to return a week or so afterward; now, though, the fatigue seems to last almost the full three weeks between sessions. The fatigue brought on by radiation may exacerbate that, though I am not quite sure how. I seem to get my energy back for a while, but shortly after the boost I feel suddenly and completely drained, as if I do not have enough strength to stand up or open my eyes. But that lasts only a short time; I get enough energy back for a bit, at least enough to function, more or less. I judge my level of strength by whether I need a cane to help with balance. If not, I’m on the high end of the energy spectrum. This bouncing up and down, but mostly down, in energy has become truly irritating. I know it’s part of the process, of course, but I had expected the chemo process to last for only four sessions. As of next Monday morning, I will have chemotherapy session number fourteen. At this point, I’m beginning to wonder whether these procedures will ever end; or whether I will before they do.

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Not so long ago, the collapse of modern civilization occupied the fantasies of only a few of us; people like dystopian novelists and die-hard pessimists. But, lately, the morning news not-so-obliquely suggests the merger of fantasy and reality are not so very far off. The new oligarchy is poised to rescind the massive, but inadequate, gains in matters of racial and sexual and gender equality of the last century—willingly aided by growing numbers of a bigoted populace. Open attacks on “woke” culture have become increasingly vicious and powerful, with promises that the strength of the aggression will grow exponentially. Equality is anathema to the new oligarchy. Indications suggest those in power would sooner burn society to cinders than support—or permit—efforts to bring about the principles of freedom and equality that have evolved from this country’s founding doctrines. And, as this country goes, eventually so goes the rest of the world. From what we have seen thus far, it is reasonable to believe the draconian changes will not occur gradually; they will infect the social order with breathtaking speed. Consider this: The Taliban remade Afghanistan into an Islamic state twenty years after its removal from a position of power; after resuming control in 2021, the country changed almost overnight. Without the obstacle of a twenty-year occupation, the transition might have been almost instantaneous. After January 20, 2025, the obstacles facing the new oligarchy in this country will be mere annoyances; not a 20-year guerilla war. Democracy is a contradiction of itself. Our own principles about democracy preclude us from engaging in insurrection. By relying on democracy to save us, we might just as well surrender before the fight begins. Ah, yes…we already waved the white flag at the ballot box. “No! It was not a mandate!” “Sorry, that’s the way democracy works.”

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The bright colors and elaborate designs of clothes worn by certain Black African men are appealing. But when White men wear such shirts and pants, the clothes (and the men wearing them) look silly and unnatural. I think it’s the pasty skin that ruins the look. The ebony skin of Black men seems to enhance the appeal of the colors and abstract designs of those styles of clothing. Though I do not think that White men wearing such clothes are necessarily engaged in appropriating Black culture, I think those guys are engaged in wishful thinking…wishing they looked as good in such colorful gear as their Black counterparts. I do not condemn the color of White men’s skin, nor do I think Black skin is any better than White skin. But skin color does seem to have a potentially positive (or negative) impact on the appearance of people who wear colorful (or even not-so-colorful) clothes. Another argument in favor of nudity, by the way.

The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated.

~ James Baldwin ~

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A couple of night ago, when films and other video entertainment again failed to engage me, I turned to a mixture of music; traditional folk, modern folk, rock, alternative (whatever that means), and others. But my memory, rusted almost shut by chemo and age, forced me to search for tunes that used to reside near the surface of my brain. The names of artists, too, hid beneath dimming scraps of visual images; I recognized their hazy pictures in my mind, but recalling their identities required me to dislodge their names from layers of the sediment of time. Finally, performers began to come into sensory focus. Their individual images and music and identities fused enough for me to make musical selections. The Avett Brothers; Liam Clancy; Gianmaria Testa; The Killers; The Decemberists; The Foo Fighters; etc., etc., etc. Near the time (hours or days before or after)I listened to that stream of music, mi novia played music by Pink Martini, Jesse Cooke, and a selection of tunes by classical artists. Reclining in a comfortable seat, listening to an eclectic collection of music, can be far more relaxing and entertaining than watching action thrillers or police procedurals or, even, films classified as “high art.” A short while ago, as I was skimming the New York Times online “Performances in New York” section, I learned that the Avett Brothers‘ Broadway musical, “Swept Away,” will end its run after only 15 weeks. I had never heard of it until this morning. That’s so often true of so much; I learn something new, only to find it disappearing into history.

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This morning will mark my fifth day of radiation therapy for the recurrence of lung cancer. Six years ago, each session was quick; this time, it seems to go by even faster. Last time, the side-effects left me with difficult and painful swallowing, fatigue, and “burns” on my chest and back. I hope to avoid the swallowing issues this time (assuming the radiation beam will not pass through my esophagus). If I use the skin treatment prescribed by the doctor, I may avoid the burns. The fatigue, though, is essentially assured, especially in light of the fact that chemo guarantees the same side-effect. But I can deal with them. I proved that the last time through.

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We attended the World Tour of Wines (Spain and Portugal) dinner last night. I assumed I would feel sufficiently well to participate, because almost three weeks have passed since my last chemo session. And I did. Up to a point. By the time we left, though—a tad earlier than most people—I felt wiped out. The wine must have been the culprit. My consumption of alcohol has declined to the point it has become quite the rarity during my treatments. Free-flowing wine (five types…I opted for just a tiny sip of the sixth, an unappetizingly sweet Moscato) hit me with the power of a freight train. This morning, though. Last night, during wine-lubricated conversations, my sister-in-law agreed to drive me to this morning’s appointment, allowing mi novia a break so she can pick up around the house in preparation for a house-cleaner next week. I do not consider that a break.

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Truth can be a sword or a scalpel.

Conversation. informal interchange of thoughts, information, etc., by spoken words

The definition of the word, as presented above, has evolved. No longer must the interchange of thoughts, information, etc. be limited to spoken words. A conversation need not be oral; conversations can take place through written words. In fact, though, has the definition really changed? Were not the exchange of hand-written letters between correspondents in the days before email and other such electronic messaging also conversations? The form of the interchange is not the most significant transformation; the most obvious and most depressing change is the not-so-gradual disappearance of conversation. Conversations, if one can legitimately call them by that term, seem to have devolved into banter. Substance appears largely to have been replaced by inconsequential noise, or its silent identical twin. The blather of gossip has stepped in to fill the void left by the departure of intellectual curiosity—mental vacancy. Conversations, whether oral or written or otherwise, cannot take place in the absence of curiosity. But. wait. The implicit suggestion here may be based on a stubbornly self-absorbed assumption that real curiosity always leads to real conversation. Perhaps that assumption is faulty; perhaps the foundation of its premise—that real curiosity is shared by everyone worthy of engagement in real conversation—is built on top of an intellectual sinkhole. The egotist’s hearth may be constructed of wooden splinters held together by flammable glue.

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After my radiation treatment yesterday afternoon, we discussed options for dinner; go out to a restaurant or return home and warm some homemade chicken soup. We opted for the chicken soup. But before we got home, that decision apparently spilled out along the roadway. In light of the fact that we seemed to have forgotten what we had decided, I chose instead to have short stalks of celery, used as scoops for Mediterranean spiced hummus. Even though hummus is moderately high in calories, it is nutrient-dense, so I judge it an ideal food for someone who, like me of late, finds many foods no particularly appealing. The taste of hummus, spiced with red peppers and various other flavor enhancers, is in my opinion quite nice. If I can stick with my food preferences—as they are now—after my cancer treatments end, I might be able to continue reshaping my body into a form that appeals to me far more than the old misshapen lump. After all these months of chemotherapy, I finally have concluded that food consumption is as much a habit as it is a source of fuel for the body. With a little help from a mix of infused-chemical-poisons, the habit of over-eating and/or selectively eating unhealthy and highly-caloric foods can be conquered. Once this regimen of chemo- and radiation-treatments has concluded, I may considering developing a custom mix of docetaxel (Taxotere^®) and ramucirumab (Cyramza^®), which I would sell as a weight-loss medication.  If I follow through on this, I might call the wonder drug Sleek–Bald-Sexy, or SBS. I would, of course, include in my marketing materials a list of potential side-effects, including possible control of non-small-cell lung cancer that has progressed on or after being treated with other initial types of chemotherapy. The likelihood of this development is, of course, approximately nil; but that never stopped me before, has it?

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Paint a smiling face on the cerulean sky before its cheeks fill with tears.
Place your bayonet on your rifle, ready to plunge the dagger into an enemy’s heart.
Whether you die in battle or in a cell built by a dictator’s henchmen,
know that the pain of surrender outlasts by a lifetime the shame of willing defeat.
You are the only witness who matters; except for those whose lives depended on yours.

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People gravitate toward others in the search for emotional comfort. But the sense of well-being that arises from the relationship can take different forms. One person may consider the bond to be a satisfying—but casual and somewhat superficial—connection, while another may view it as a vital, life-affirming relationship. The enormity of the differences in perspective may seem absurd, almost impossible; but the distance between those viewpoints is real. When the emotional comfort of such an unbalanced relationship falters, the individual for whom it has been life-affirming may consider the fracture tantamount to a death; or a wound that will not heal. But the person who considers it less crucial may not even notice its deterioration, nor realize it left an almost invisible scar.

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Fragment of Fiction Again, JSS

When you were younger, you were wild. You broke all the rules worth breaking. You sacrificed your youth to jarring experience. Over time, though, you learned how to suture the most obvious wounds; making them almost disappear. You honed and painted the skin around them so they would blend with the unmarred version of yourself. You polished away the tarnish of youthful bruises. You replaced your personality with one better-suited to your new persona. But the most obvious damage of youth remains—the cracks and fissures and sun-scorched experiences of your intellect—especially in the blazing light of thoughtful introspection. Only to you, though. And, occasionally, to someone like me. Your efforts to hide your early coarseness become translucent. You still want to break the rules, to shatter convention, to become the definition of “trouble.” Yet you want that side of you to remain hidden, except to me. Or someone like me. Or is it just a tease? When you walk a tightrope between skyscrapers in Manhattan, do you really want me to follow behind you? When you talk about judging dog shows in Paris, am I the Bullmastiff or the Jack Russell Terrier? When you threaten me with a night of cross-country lovemaking on the Lake Shore Limited, am I to be a participant or just an observer? You and I rode in the cattle cars from Abilene, Kansas to Chicago…or was that just a story you told to me? How can I be sure of the truth, when I don’t recognize your taunts? Oh, this is just too difficult. I think I want to know you, but I don’t know who you are. So, tell me.

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Almost 7. I’ve been up two hours. No Ensure, no Propel, no breakfast. Except the banana. And espresso. And, next, the remains of an Asian dinner for breakfast. And recalling the dream in which all manner of venomous snakes, massive reptiles, and whimpering German shepherds tied in bags meant for potatoes  (among other creatures) and cheap cars and 1940s-style bathrooms played vital but nonsensical parts.

Several days ago (it may have been a week or more), another image on Facebook caught my attention. The picture was a delicate white Christmas tree, lit with small white lights and adorned with what appeared to be full-sized black crows. My immediate reaction to the image, aside from finding it attractive, was the assumption that it symbolized the synthesis of innocence and wisdom. Whether that “understanding” of its symbolism has any legitimate basis is yet to be known. I found it odd, though, that I immediately attributed symbolism to the picture—usually, I come to think an object may symbolize an idea only after giving it considerable thought. In this case, though, it was instantaneous. Someone else, during a Thanksgiving Day gathering of friends, mentioned the image. If I had been more energetic at the time, I might have engaged with others who had seen the picture; I wonder whether others’ reactions were like mine?

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Mi novia and I occasionally decide, on the spur of the moment, decide to buy the meal for patrons at a restaurant table. Sometimes, it is possible to do it anonymously; sometimes not. We have no criteria for making the selection; we just do it on a whim. Yesterday, for the first time for either of us, someone bought our lunch. We had just finished my radiation therapy session at the cancer center. A soup-salad-sandwich place (Newk’s) across the street was convenient, so we stopped in. A woman who was leaving the restaurant held the door for me (a gesture I appreciated immensely, as I was having some difficulty maneuvering with my cane). Another woman and her daughter came in right behind us. While we we still looking at the menu on the wall, I noticed the two of them waiting behind us. I said, “Go ahead, we’re still deciding.” The objected, but I insisted. By the time we got to the counter, the two of them, who were finished with their order with another order-taker, stood waiting. The woman said to me, “We’d like to buy your lunch.” I think I said, “Oh, no…” but I could tell from her expression she really wanted to do it. So, I expressed gratitude for her kindness. Just then, mi novia (who apparently had not heard the conversation), started to put her credit car in the reader on the counter. The woman explained the situation. Mi novia expressed her appreciation. I thanked the woman again. Perhaps we over-did it; but we really did appreciate her kind gesture. I imagine the woman had watched the door-holder help me as I struggled with the cane and noticed my scalp and extremely fine, sparse hair (such as it is), an obvious sign of chemo treatment. I suspect she felt compassion for the shriveled geezer…or maybe she felt sorry for the plight of the poor woman accompanying me. Whatever prompted her to do it, I was moved by her action. We did not need the financial assistance, but our benefactor had no way of knowing that. She just wanted to express compassion. And in so doing, as mi novia and I discussed later, she taught (or reinforced) a lesson to her daughter.

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Today’s radiation treatment is late this afternoon. I had hoped yesterday to get a schedule for my future treatments, a timeline I could depend on, but that was not to be. My treatments are to be given daily on weekdays; but others’ may have only one or three each week or clusters of days with treatment, followed by none for a while. So, the radiologic technicians must wrestle with a variety of schedules, changes in schedules, etc., etc. They will try to set a schedule I can rely on, but I must understand that it is unlikely they can stick to it for 27 days. It is what it is.

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Fragment of Fiction, JSS

A fraction of a second after he plunged off the cliff—his shoes having barely left the rocky ledge—he regretted his irrevocable decision. The cold sea air roared past his ears, leaving his hoarse scream above him as he plummeted seaward. Through his terrified eyes, distance shrank into nothingness in the few second he was airborne. Tiny waves crashing into the rocks below him expanded in an instant into a massive explosion of unforgiving water and deadly, sharp stones. And, then, it was over. The terror, the paralyzing fear, the regret, and the reason he had decided to leap to his death; all of it suddenly disappeared. The past was gone. The future was gone. The joy. The sorrow. Dread. Hope. Memories. Dreams. All gone. His consciousness forever erased. But all those erasures were resurrected and amplified in others’ consciousness. They—along with guilt, shame, responsibility, remorse, blame, and eternal contrition—would become his legacy, memorialized in the remaining lifetimes of the people he had touched.

It doesn’t seem quite fair, does it, that the ones who choose to leave do not have to share in the eternal agony that their choices bring about? Yet all the anguish and woe that engulfed those who left may have dwarfed the residual torment experienced by their survivors. Death is a vault with no way out. The only way in is through a one-direction door, permanently sealed. We cannot measure the pain that precipitates the choice of death, nor the depth of the suffering left behind.

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We have begun watching a Spanish-language Netflix series entitled Iron Reign. You?

The possibility exists, of course, that the thought has always resided somewhere deep in my brain. But only this morning—for the first time, as far as I know—did the idea solidify. Just moments ago, as I saw down to record what was on my mind, did the concept whirl through my mind and quickly establish roots. As odd as it may seem to someone who lives outside my head, I am certain I have an emotional relationship with inanimate objects and experiences. Anyone who has read this blog with any degree of regularity knows that early mornings—particularly pre-dawn hours—are deeply satisfying to me. The same is true of my powerful appreciation of espresso during the time before the sun rises, when I am free of obligations to interact directly with people. Those two relationships—and that’s what they are—seem to feed me, emotionally. I do not need my morning solitude and I am not addicted to the caffeine in my one or two demi-tasse cups of espresso. But the three of us, together, have a close-knit community that quickly and easily shares complex thoughts and emotions that would require much more time and effort in traditional relationships. Obviously, I do not attribute emotional attachments to caffeine or to the serenity of early-mornings, but they provide emotional energy and sustenance to me in a way that exceeds the “typical” relationship. Sipping my little bit of espresso and embracing the privacy of an empty, early-morning world provide the kind of lonely companionship I would seek in more traditional relationships—if only that sort of fulfillment were there. I can tell I haven’t sufficiently explained myself. Maybe my vantage point cannot be explained or adequately described; it can only be experienced by those lucky enough or lonely enough to feel it.

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Today’s agenda includes my first radiation treatment; after today, only 26 to go. A week from today, I will have my umpteenth chemotherapy treatment and my 6th blast of radiation. The intervening days are marked on the calendar—or should be—for various other medical appointments. That is how I measure time these days. I am not alone in measuring time with medical appointments. My late wife’s sister will begin follow-up treatment for her recent lumpectomy soon. And another family member will undergo a mastectomy (or a double, depending on genetic issues) in a couple of weeks. Casting my eyes on recent calendars, other family members have dealt with (or are dealing with) hip replacements and bladder cancer and God know what else. Going back even further, heart issues and cancer have taken the lives of other family members. Eventually, all of us crumble or crack or decay or otherwise wear out. What a cheery way to celebrate the completion of the cycle of life.

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Last night’s bizarre and deeply disturbing dream took place in a massive, elaborate, architecturally significant high school building. It involved a reunion, but I not know most of the people; those few I knew were not high school classmates. At some point, I walked into the entry foyer of a women’s restroom by mistake. As I turned to leave, I said something (I thought it was innocuous) to a woman standing by a floor-to-ceiling mirror. She reacted with rage. I was surprised by her response and I responded by accusing her of being crazy. I left the restroom, walking against a massive flow of foot traffic. Everyone looked at me with disdain; many made vile comments about me, accusing me of sexual harassment. Soon thereafter, I was left the building and encountered my accuser, with a friend, in the parking lot. She screamed at me, saying she would have me arrested. I screamed back, telling her I had a video of our restroom encounter, proving her a liar, and would sue her and her employer. (How I got the video, I do not know, but it was legit.) Her boss, the chief executive of a big hotel chain, asked me not to turn the matter over to my lawyer. I insisted that I would. And that’s it. I was both livid at the accusation and terrified that the video would not be admitted in court. Next scene, I was walking down a busy downtown street, looking for a car rental agency. I found a Budget counter inside a doughnut shop. I completed the paperwork, but then had to walk several blocks to pick up a car, which was in an underground garage with cars from all sorts of rental agencies. I asked for a map, because I wanted to drive to my parents’ house, which I had never seen. I was told maps were available at the exit gate. The remaining pieces of the dream do not seem to have any relationship (except for the accusation against me and the maniacal woman making them) to the rest of the dream.

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With fools, there is no companionship. Rather than to live with men who are selfish, vain, quarrelsome, and obstinate, let a man walk alone.

~ Buddha ~

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Some food MUST be appealing to me. I just cannot seem to determine what that food is. I try to eat enough to keep me from collapsing into a replica of a slice of white bread, soaked in water, but I am not very successful. I have gained a few pounds, somehow, lately; up to 170 from 167.4. But I suspect it’s the increased consumption of water that’s responsible. I may be stronger today, though. I feel stronger sitting here. Whether I feel stronger standing will be the real test, though.

He watched himself dissolve, from a distance, as he stumbled through the mud and dust.

My hands are cold, as are my feet. I have not had to rely on my cane so far this morning, but if my feet get any colder, I may watch them crack into icy pieces of flesh-colored glass.

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Rāga, a melodic framework for improvisation in Indian classical music, is central to classical Indian music. Each rāga consists of an array of melodic structures with musical motifs; and, from the perspective of the Indian tradition, the resulting music has the ability to “colour the mind” as it engages the emotions of the audience. [extracted and adapted from Wikipedia].

After trying, without success, to identify an appealing and freely available film or series to watch last night, I took temporary charge of the television’s Amazon Music control. In short order, I picked an album on which two (apparent) brothers played rāgas on sitar. My efforts to comprehend the structure and purpose of rāgas were wasted, in the same way my past efforts to understand traditional Western music have left me dazed and confused. That bewilderment notwithstanding, I enjoy listening to both. Later in the evening, I stumbled on an album cover printed entirely in either Japanese Hiragana, Katakana, and/or Kanji; some of it could have been Korean text…I remain embarrassed not to know. That album featured a lone acoustic guitarist. This morning, after trying for a full hour to find the music I heard last night, I gave up. Something is awry. And it could be me. Both albums, as different as they are to my usual musical preferences, were pleasing—relaxing and evocative of some sort of serene confusion. I want to find the albums again, but I do not wish for my search to have any urgency—somehow, that would defeat the purpose.

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Finally, a few days after becoming aware that the controls for the fireplace no longer worked, a guy came out yesterday to service them. The sentence I just wrote could be interpreted to mean the guy who came out to service the fireplace controls had, a few days earlier, become aware they no longer worked. That is not what I meant to write, but I typed it anyway. My mind seems, some days, to be encased in a fog just thick enough to make the expressions of my thoughts incomprehensible. Perhaps even thicker that “just…enough.” I imagine that the empty spaces between brain cells are filled with a gelatinous goo that gets firmer and firmer as it sets. And, as it sets, it encases my thoughts in an indestructible rubbery substance that—like a monstrously strong bio-adhesive— adheres to the inside of my head. That’s the downside of the fog, but the fireplace works.

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The founder of an association management company in Chicago for which I worked must have been in his mid-eighties when I left the job around 1988 or 1989. In my dream last night, he had not aged since then. But the company had grown enormously and had launched a respected public relations agency arm. A splinter group of a construction industry client association were trying to withdraw from my employer’s management by making untrue accusation about the company. The founder of the company learned of their bad deeds; he and I paid them a visit, along with several of my colleagues, during which he put on boxing gloves and beat the liars senseless. After giving them a physical pounding, the founder summoned his PR staff and instructed them to ruin each member of the splinter group, individually. The last I remember of the dream, I was wading through chest-high grass while trying to find my way back to downtown Chicago.

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Comfort is far more important than money.

Despite the fact that I felt a little like microwaved end-of-life, yesterday’s gathering of friends for a traditional Thanksgiving meal lifted my spirits. The group was small—eight of us. Had it been significantly larger or smaller, the closeness of the atmosphere might not have gelled the way it did. From the perspective of a mostly-quiet observer, yesterday’s easy intimacy between people who truly enjoy one another’s company was more than just a successful holiday. It revealed the emotional structure of the concept of Thanksgiving. Neither mi novia nor I are particularly enamored of tradition, in general, but when the meal, the décor, and the people combine in just the right way—like they did yesterday—tradition takes on an almost magical aura. After spending several enjoyable hours with friends, I took a two-hour nap, followed by an hour, more or less, of semi-consciousness. During that hour, I decided to return to bed for the night. Eight o’clock. When I was younger and healthier, I would have been irrationally embarrassed by going to bed so early; youth is so damn frivolous and so lacking in wisdom!

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Sometimes, I feel like I am walking on air. Turbulent air. As if I am making my way to the front of an jet airplane’s cabin while the craft makes its way through a vicious storm.  At least I can steady myself by grasping seat-backs in the airplane cabin. And I can have similar success at home by trying to stay upright in a hallway; leaning against the walls works. But when the turbulence strikes midway across an open and airy room, I have to rely on my sense of balance to avoid giving the rough air the upper hand. Thus far, my sense of balance has not failed me; and I do not expect it will. But I recognize, too, that regularly replenishing my fuel and spending it wisely…that is, eating enough and putting my muscles to regular use…are the best ways to avoid confronting turbulent air.

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Santa Claus stood in the doorway,  staring at me, his trembling right hand clutching the still-holstered grip of a Glock 19. Sneezy and Grumpy crouched behind the old man’s massive legs, hiding their misplaced rage behind those two thick oak stumps clothed in red felt. Bashful, pale, breathless, and face-down on the floor behind them, did not seem to be responding to Doc’s efforts to revive him. Saliva and vomit dribbled from Dopey’s mouth, his right hand around a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey between his legs where he sat on the floor. Centrifica, Santa’s then-illicit-lover, was slowly edging out of the scene when Brad Pitt arrived, wearing his Sinbad outfit.

“Whoa! What’s the deal here? Is Bashful…dead?” Pitt’s face, usually the image of pure macho, was suddenly bleached white; his forehead oozed sweat and his whole body shivered as if he had been immersed for hours in an ice bath.

“He’s hanging on,” Santa mumbled, his eyes still fixed on me. “But if he dies, I’m gonna aerate this guy’s chest,” he continued, pointing to me. “And little miss Centrifica’s gonna get it, too!”

Obviously, Santa thought Centrifica and I had been engaged in a more than casual relationship. And he mistakenly believed two things about Bashful: that Bashful had been involved in a threesome with Centrifica  and me and that Bashful was male. No matter how things worked out, this was going to be a potentially deadly situation.

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Several years ago—after I retired but before I moved from Dallas to Hot Springs Village—I tried to interest several people, one by one, to join me on a road trip by Greyhound bus. One by one, my suggestion was dismissed as ridiculous, silly, pointless, or otherwise without any merit. Whatsoever. Every one of my would-be traveling companions expressed disdain for the idea. Not only did they have no interest, they were completely unwilling to even consider the possibility.  I could have opted to travel alone, but I wanted to travel with a companion; someone who could serve as an emotional anchor as we wandered long stretches of late-night roads, among strangers. But, after exploring the idea with everyone I thought might be willing to see the trip as an adventure, I slowly came to realize my desire was just a dream, the kind that does not invade reality as I hoped it might. The destination(s) were unimportant; I just wanted to have the experience. It might have mirrored the one I had when I was a kid (no idea how old…or young), when two friends and I traveled by bus from Corpus Christi, Texas to Dallas, Texas. My aunt hosted us for a couple of nights and gave us rides to and from Six Flags Over Texas, then sent us back to Corpus—again by bus—despite a disturbing experience on the trip north. A passenger sitting behind two of us kept reaching between the seats, trying to fondle us; when, finally, we told the bus driver, he stopped the bus and ejected the man. The details are a tad fuzzy, but I remember both relief when he was put off the bus and concern that he was left on the highway in the middle of nowhere.

Greyhound Stations

Something—I do not know what—sparked my curiosity again this morning in intercity bus travel. That curiosity led me to the Greyhound website. On a whim, I decided to check into the cost and timing of a round-trip ticket from Little Rock, Arkansas to Tucumcari, New Mexico. I was surprised to discover (remember?) that Greyhound does not serve Little Rock. So, I tried Memphis, instead. Bingo. The available bus on December 1 from Memphis leaves from the Memphis Bus Station at 2:30 a.m. and arrives at a McDonald’s in Tucumcari 17 hours later, after a transfer in Oklahoma City. Another scheduled departure leaves Memphis at 2:55 a.m. and arrives in Tucumcari almost 23 hours later, but that schedule is sold out. Return trips to Memphis depart Tucumcari just after 2:00 a.m. and get to the Memphis Bus Station 24-½ hours later, at 3:40 a.m.

Intercity coach used to be the travel choice of the poor. It probably still is, but it is not dirt cheap any longer. But the cheapest fare from Memphis to Tucumcari is only $117.97; I guess in today’s economy, that IS dirt cheap. One of the reasons I’m interested in travel by bus is to observe who the passengers are. I doubt I would see any well-to-do people riding the bus with me and the rest of the riff-raff (including poor students). But that may be a biased perspective. Whether bus riders tend to be from lower income brackets or not (I still firmly believe they are), I suspect their world-views differ from people who would not be caught dead on a motor coach whose passengers embody the stereotypes of the poverty-ridden.

My superficial scan of online information about assaults, other crimes, and injuries/ fatalities revealed that quite a lot of information has been published about intercity bus line safety. Transportation Research Board, Federal Transit Administration, Bureau of Labor Statistics, and a host of other organizations and agencies track such stuff. Police agencies, though, tend to keep records of types of crimes committed, rather than by locations. It makes sense, but…wouldn’t it be nice to have the data sliced and diced in ways that might reveal valuable insights about where crimes are committed, by type?

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The topic of this post is tangentially relevant to today’s holiday. I wonder whether a significant spike in bus travel occurs on and around Thanksgiving Day?  I wonder whether anyone else is even remotely curious?

When clouds gather unexpectedly, I quietly ask myself whether something is going on above or behind them. Are Greek or Roman gods deliberating about something important? Matters of celestial significance? Or have greedy politicians corruptly snatched the power away from mythology and now are using that control to eliminate the thorns that interfere with the comfort of their coup d’é·tat?

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I still feel a sense of sanctuary, but I hear sounds like the walls—made of egg shells—are cracking, then imploding into a thousand misshaped pieces. Once broken, it is said egg shells cannot be repaired. But, when the walls of a sanctuary begin to fracture, does some mysterious force cobble the fragments back together and seal them with a protective emotional shield? Does the sanctuary outlive its physical expression—or, once demolished, are its protections forever gone?

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Crepe myrtle leaves, before being shed by their most branches and twigs, turn bright orange-red, the color of fresh rust on new steel. If I had been asked, two months ago, to describe the transition of crepe myrtle leaves from their shiny green summer look to the point they have reached today, I would have been inaccurate with my reply. Memories can take up so much space that they run out of room. Or it could be shrinking space, not expanding content, that crowds out memories.

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Proceed with caution. A warning. A plea to exercise care. A suggestion that trouble lurks ahead. A piece of ominous advice. An admonition to be wary of the unknown.  People who are enamored with the fog of language and have an almost perverse affection for thesauruses (thesauri, for the snob set), are called word nerds; they refer to their enemies, with derision, as illiterati. Ah, but if only the animus between nerds and illiterati could be confined to limited to words. Both sides of the battle, though, carry weapons “for protection.” Nerds insist their weaponry is for defense; illiterati justify carrying arms by asserting they are for preemptory offensive engagements. Inf fact, though, both factions lie; weapons are carried as security blankets to combat fear. Both groups’ fears differ in their expression…one more likely to be forthright and the other wearing a mask that hides motive.

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I think I am emerging from the fatigue and related side-effects of my most recent chemotherapy. Ever since the middle of last December I have been fighting illness—two hospitalizations for pneumonia at first, followed by a recurrence of my lung cancer after five years. Various other physical frailties attempted to derail me during the course of this year, but I have so far successfully plowed through them. Yet when I realize it has been almost a year since these intrusive health issues began again, it occurs to me that 2024 has largely been a lost year. And, if recent oncological experiences and plans are any indication, the process will continue for an indeterminate period. It could amount to perpetual maintenance of an unsatisfactorily low level of existence. Ach.

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My eyelids are red and puffy. My eyes are rough as a cat’s tongue. The skin on my arms and legs torments me with its angry and dry attitude. My hair is thinner and shorter than the fur on a newborn kitten, struggling to survive. Unused skin and flab hangs loosely from my chest and gut, crying out for a back-alley cosmetic surgeon to return me to a version of myself that never existed.

Except for the occasional foray into the chaotic world beyond these walls—chiefly through the portals of madness…television and internet access—this house has become a sanctuary. Here, an insular cocoon provides protections against the decay of civilization. Those protections take many forms: an undeveloped forest, an absence of neighbors, a refusal to tolerate the inevitability of unwanted intrusions, and a fierce insistence that this safe haven is an impregnable fortress. In other words, dreams and fantasies—combined with unrealistic interpretations of reality—serve as imaginary shields against the unknown and unwanted. This refuge—this asylum—has taken on the mystical attributes of a personal monastery. Something about a private monastic life has always held enormous appeal, fascination, interest…an irresistible draw. But, at the same time, it has been utterly inaccessible. An impossible dream. This morning, though, the distinctions between impossible and achievable seem to blur. Perhaps the obstacles have been placed, historically, by the mind’s inflexibility; its tendency to classify reality as an either/or proposition. Maybe, instead, reality is circumstantial. Maybe reality is defined by the context within which it is measured. And that leads to questioning whether monasticism can exist on a sliding scale; can one lead a monastic life only when one needs that experience, switching back and forth to maintain equilibrium? Recognizing this sanctuary may be the first step in acknowledging the several forms of protection. Emotional safety and outright rebellion can exist in the same person and in the same place. It simply must be recognized and cultivated and protected from encroachment when encroachment has the potential to do the most damage.

Illness can do collateral damage to healthy people. I mean the healthy people who suddenly find themselves feeling obligations to care for the sick. While they may willingly take on those obligations, the sense of responsibility and the demands of care must eventually evolve into unwelcome burdens. Lives that had been punctuated by freedom and enjoyment begin to be defined by the burdensome tethers of  unplanned commitment. Caretakers, who gladly took on the responsibility, are surprised to witness soft tethers transform into cast-iron chains affixed to shackles. The softness of caring stiffens into the rigidity of obligation. Caretakers are not at fault; it’s the real or seemingly endless nature of responsibility. A blemish that grows in size and scope and need.

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After two consecutive days of extreme fatigue, today began in a way that looked remarkably like a third was about to unfold. I woke early, stumbled through the process of putting on comfortable clothes, and wobbled out into the kitchen. After feeding the feline beast, making espresso, and doing the other mundane things I do most mornings, I went to my study to explore news of the world; to attempt to escape the private reality to which I have grown unhappily accustomed. The news did nothing positive for my mood. But a promotion for My Unsung Hero, a National Public Radio program, caught my attention. The program tells real-world stories about brief but impactful interactions between strangers that changed lives for the better. I read about a reunion, after 15 years, between two such strangers. It was a simple story, but one that stripped away the grey shroud that had covered me from the moment I woke. I remain tired and weak, but my perspective on the day and on the value of compassion have improved considerably. Each of us needs a daily shot of positivity like I experienced this morning. It may not solve all our ills, but it can open our eyes to buried possibilities.

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I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown. I was last seen crawling into an overused bed, where I sank beneath the blankets like an iron anchor in a murky ocean. Even after the authorities tore off the sheets and covers and emptied the ocean, I was not found. I was hidden between cotton fibers; they looked in the wrong places. While they were scratching their heads at my inexplicable disappearance, I slid through a wounded window-screen and into a USPS truck that took me to an Amazon warehouse. From there, I skipped from shelf to shelf, always a step or two in front of Jeff Bezos, until the occasion of the fullest moon, when I rose to the occasion and planted my face there. A face, though, is not the same as a person; it is only a symbol of the secrets buried deep inside the brain. My symbol, then, resides on the lunar desert-scape, but my secrets remain in orbit around one of the sun’s planetary children. The astronomically-trained eye might see me as an asteroid, while the astrologically-trained eye might see me as a symbol of the confluence of time and anti-matter. But the fact remains: I am missing. My whereabouts are unknown.

U.S. culture generates an inherent nervousness in us. Fears of judgment, ranging from mild disapproval to rabid condemnation, shape our behaviors. We are an uptight culture, bred to color between the lines and closely observe cultural mores and behave accordingly. Men are indoctrinated to limit evidence of their emotions. Their penalty for expressing emotions is ridicule, at the least. From there, it rises to mockery, taunting, becoming a social outcast, and even physical intimidation. Women, on the other hand, are rewarded for revealing their emotions, though it would not be a surprise to learn that base male behaviors cross gender lines. People who do not identify as binary probably are subject to much more intense psychological (and physical) attacks. Transforming cultures into supportive networks is a pipe-dream, I am afraid. At least within a lifetime. Ach.

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Forty-three minutes elapsed between the time I woke this morning and the moment I sat at my desk to think and write and wonder. During that time, I peed, clothed myself in sweats, fed the cat, took my morning pills, brewed a tiny cup of espresso, and trudged into my office—carrying an Ensure nutrition shake, a bottle of Propel electrolyte water, my espresso, and my phone, while steadying myself with a cane. All that time…for such simple tasks that should have taken less than twenty minutes in total. How is it, I wonder, that my movements feel constrained, as if I had been slogging through a kiddie pool filled with cold blackstrap molasses? Is this the way old age feels? Or are the sensations I feel the results of some temporary effects of poisons circulating—deliberately—in my bloodstream? I like to think the latter, as I am not sure I can tolerate them from now on. Time. Time will tell. Or time will tease.

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We’ve had the same ideas, the same thoughts. But we’ve been afraid to express them. That’s true of so many people. We subscribe to the limits placed on us for no legitimate reason, just because it’s easier than contesting them.

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There is so much more on my mind this morning, but I do not have the energy to express many of my ideas and opinions. One day, perhaps I will open up and say exactly what I think. That might offend a lot of people, but it might be welcomed by a lot of others. Time. May. Tell.

This morning, when I stand up, I feel slightly dizzy. When I walk, the sensation sometimes gets stronger. The dizziness/weakness may owe its existence to a very tame health-fest yesterday; eating healthy foods, etc. and getting comfortable with a gummy. The healthy aspect got a bit derailed with a tad of alcohol. Even though I should not have consumed mind-altering substances, that fact that I did gave me a glimpse of the younger, more energetic guy who occupied my body before I had a second take on cancer. Sometimes, you have to refresh your soul by breaking the rules and taking risks. Now, if I could just steady this wobbliness… It is entirely possible that the solution is an early morning nap.

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Once again, it’s almost 6 am and I wonder where the last two hours went. Almost every morning lately, I struggle with two competing sensations. The first one has the effect of making me feel that every second drags on eternally. Simultaneously, though, those two hours come and go in less than an instant; it’s as if my mind was frozen for two hours. I know what happened during that time, but I was not there.

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Here it is: Saturday. In days of yore, the day would have warranted a relaxing celebration. Today, it merits either: 1) attempting and failing to catch up on missed sleep; or 2) doing errands. But not both. And no celebrations. We’ve been led through chutes into narrower and narrower passageways; early training for the coming 24/7 workday. Saturdays tend the crack under the pressure of cramming 8- to 10- days of experience into a single 24-hour period. That’s a problem for the emerging workforce to address. The redundant and retired have little to no stake in the game, so we can simply site back and watch. I heard rumors about a revolution, but they may not have been rumors. Time will tell. It always does.

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What led to the drought? Is it meant to chastise me for my empty-headedness? Or to punish me for allowing my brain to frazzle? Or something else; something more serious? Something that could fundamentally change me? The problem could be caused, or exacerbated, by the reduction in my intake of meaningful information. When my morning posts changed from contemplations and curiosity to whiney reporting on my health; that’s when it began! The focus on my mind has narrowed; I am no longer as curious or probing about the edges and corners of life. It’s as if I have blinders on, blocking my peripheral thoughts and visions.

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Intellectual rebirth. That’s what’s necessary. Something to revive the spirit of rabid curiosity and tolerance of ideas that compete with mine.

You must be bored to tears. You are here, on this blog, for inexplicable and indefensible reasons. You learn nothing of consequence here. Yet here you are, at least at this moment and for long enough to read these words. Perhaps it is morbid curiosity; wondering what it’s like to observe the thoughts of someone who obviously is inching ever-closer to the precipice of a 10,000-foot sheer cliff in his quest for flight. Or maybe it’s the irrational appeal of experiencing madness by proxy. I share those thoughts. All of them. And more. I cannot quite grasp the point of returning here almost every morning, spilling the often indecipherable contents of my mind to anyone who happens to stumble by. My inability to comprehend the purpose notwithstanding, I continue to do it. It is possible that my rationale is hope; hope that someone will see evidence of a kindred spirit in the randomness of thoughts and words and emotions that I throw at the screen. Or it could be a selfish quest for recognition; narcissism expressed on the public stage of semi-literacy. A good psychotherapist could have a field-day in determining “why” with me. Yet maybe not; he or she might quickly determine that it’s all a mask; an artificial face crafted with my keyboard and fingers to hide the real one—the blank one. The fact that I do not actively market my piece of internet real estate suggests, to me, that my reasons for writing and publishing here are internal. Not driven by an interest in boring you. But I could be wrong; it’s not uncommon.

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Forest scenes transform abruptly on the morning following the first assertive chill of Winter. The season’s introduction of cooler weather—a month or more earlier—changed the trees and shrubs from a kaleidoscope of thick, leafy shades of green to a thinning tapestry of brown, yellow, gold, and orange. The scope of that introductory change, although immediately noticeable, did not compare to the radical metamorphosis brought about when Winter unapologetically announces her arrival. Suddenly, a three-dimensional oil painting becomes a two-dimensional water-color. The volume of leaves that concealed the sky behind and above the trees shrinks to a trace. Leaves that blocked the sky now litter the ground. Trees that had seemed chunky and stout instantly appear thin and graceful. They appear to have shed the bulk of sumo wrestlers, instead becoming acrobats that dance in the slightest breeze.

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I woke this morning, for the umpteenth time, just as daylight began to slither through the trees behind the house. I wish I had stayed up when I got out of bed around 4; had I done it, I could have had more time to think, ponder, contemplate, and mull. But, instead, I went back to bed, hoping to sleep, and I did. But I dreamed another utterly confusing and troublesome dream during the subsequent two hours. Another reflection involving clients and past employers I loathed, disturbing and regrettable interactions with my late brother, and other artificial experiences I would rather not allow in my head. My head must be clogged with misgivings.

The murkiness of knowledge bedevils humankind; not because of what it is, but because of the way we define it. One of the principle definitions—which misleads us into misunderstanding—is this: “the fact or state of knowing; the perception of fact or truth; clear and certain mental apprehension.” Implicit in that definition is the assumption knowledge is fact- or truth-based; that knowledge is “clear and certain.” Knowledge is not an absolute we find. Rather, knowledge is a broad understanding we perpetually seek. In our attempts to uncover truths, we tend to celebrate when we believe we have found unalterable facts. But the universe, and everything in it, constantly plunges deeper and deeper into change. We cling to steadfast certainty until long after evidence thoroughly negates it. Our propensity to delay exploring—and finally accepting—challenges to our knowledge impedes progress we might otherwise have begun to make toward eventual understanding.

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I skimmed an archival piece from The Marginalian this morning that spurred me to think about the differences and similarities between romantic and platonic love. Those subjects, alone, could absorb one’s thoughts for days…weeks…years. And, in fact, I am sure I will give considerable thought to the following passage from the article:

Under the Romantic ideal of love, we’ve come to expect that every great romance should also contain within itself, in addition to erotic passion, a robust friendship. But we hold with deep suspicion the opposite—a platonic friendship colored with the emotional hues of romantic love, never given physical form but always aglow with an intensity artificially dimmed by the label of plain friendship.

~ Maria Popova ~

Popova’s article deals with the author, Rachel Carson (The Sea Around Us, Silent Spring, etc.), her writing, and her strong relationship with a friend.

Specific elements of the piece (which dealt with Rachel Carson’s intense, loving, platonic relationship with another woman) made me think. I wonder whether a longstanding habit (among many writers and their correspondents, at least) is disappearing. Or has already dissolved? Carson’s letters to her friend, Dorothy Freeman, a local housewife on Maine’s Southport Island, have been saved and some of them (at least) published. Written biographies/histories involving writers and other public figures often include quotations from letters they exchanged with people who were important to the subject of them. How often do any of us write letters to friends or acquaintances these days…and how many of us save them? So many such exchanges in published literature have revealed so much about the correspondents; their thoughts, opinions, and emotions. Without the written evidence of their thoughts, left in the form of letters, we would not have the level of appreciation about those people that we do now. What of the future? If not letters, will we somehow have access to email, text messages, recordings of telephone calls? I doubt it, but of course my supposition may be completely off the mark. Some day, someone will look back to our time and our future and will reveal what happened when the exchange of letters ceased. Intimate reflections that personal letters reveal surely cannot be lost to progress, or laziness, can they?

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Whether last night’s experiences (and this morning’s, so far) signal the beginning of my expected unpleasant post-chemo side-effects remains to be seen. It seems to me that it’s a bit early; the treatment was on Monday. But if it is not early-onset chemo response, what is causing a whole raft of unwelcome symptoms? Headache, churning gut, tiredness that does not does not permit sleep, etc. Whatever. They could be worse. Just deal with it, John. As if there were any other choices.

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I have a church board meeting this afternoon. My involvement in the church lately has been so infrequent and superficial that I question the value of the few contributions I might make to board discussions. That notwithstanding, I will do my duty. If I feel as I do now, I will then come home and try to sleep. But if I have rebounded from whatever ailments these are, I may try to replicate some of yesterday’s physical therapy exercises. I need, desperately, to recover and rejuvenate the bodily strength I have lost during these past many (and ongoing) months of chemo; especially in light of the soon-to-be-added 27-session radiation regimen. Ach! What does physical therapy have to do with church? I am not entirely sure, but either there’s a connection or my wandering mind is bouncing around with a vengeance in my skull.

I never have shot a deer. I never have tried. But I have known people who have known people… And I do again. When I spent a year in grad school, one of my brother’s friends (all of us lived in Huntsville, Texas at the time) was an avid hunter and a generous guy. He introduced me to venison backstrap, prepared like chicken-fried steak. After I proclaimed my love of the meat and the way it was prepared, he occasionally gave me some of the bounty of backstrap from his hunting trips. Now, all these years later, I have a friend whose son is an avid hunter and a very generous person, as is my friend. Soon, I again will be the beneficiary of some venison, thanks to these wonderful people. Assuming I remember exactly how I prepared it before, which i expect I will, I will rejoice at the fabulous flavor!

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Soon-to-be in our “entertainment room.”

After my post-chemotherapy injection yesterday, mi novia and I went out to lunch (I was feeling pretty energetic), then to a furniture store. Intending only to look, we not only looked, we found and we bought. We soon will have a replacement for our old power loveseat—it still looks nice and is comfortable for a short while, but not long enough. The one we bought is a La-Z-Boy brand power recliner-loveseat; slightly larger than the one we have, plush, enormously comfortable, and studded with simple little unnecessary (but appreciated) luxuries (e.g., hidden storage areas,  drink-holders, built-in wireless remotes, etc.). Because the one we bought is a floor model, we got a nice discount from the retail price. We’re expecting delivery next Tuesday. I’m easily excited by the little things.

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I took advantage of a free trial of a service that shows me, graphically, the view and length of visits of recent visitors to this blog. I can see that most of the few visitors spent almost no time on any given page…even the entire site. I assume those on-and-off-in-a-flash visitors simply stumble accidentally onto my blog, see it holds no interest to them, and move on. Why else would someone spend as little as 4 seconds? When those “drive-by” visitors are excluded, for example, I discovered that on average only 3 to 10 people spent enough time on the blog to actually read a full post on any given day. That fact confirms the part of yesterday’s post that asserted “I pay for the privilege of talking to myself.” But I keep going back to my claim that I write this blog for me; and, then, I question that claim.

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An article published yesterday morning on the Minnesota Public Radio (MPR) website reported on an effort by defendants and others involved in a $47 million fraud trial to bribe a juror to deliver a “not guilty” verdict. The fascinating description of the way the attempted bribery took place captured my interest. Unfortunately, the article did not directly address specifics about the original crime of fraud, but links took me to other  articles  and, hence, the effort to bribe a juror. The webs of deceit of and the attempts to conceal them and the millions of dollars from the Minnesota USDA-funded school nutrition programs made for riveting reading. The juror, by the way, reported the attempted bribe, which led to an FBI investigation that uncovered “deleted texts showing chaos of bribe attempt in Feeding our Future (a school nutrition program) trial.” After watching a number of films and television series involving complex criminal activities and investigations, I can imagine how a person can get absolutely enthralled with conducting criminal investigation. If I weren’t so damn old and unemployable, I might pursue such opportunities. Not the crimes—just solving them.

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I have not been to church much in recent months, thanks to the after-effects of chemotherapy. But I may go this weekend, if my post-treatment fatigue, etc. does not catch up with me by then. The speaker will be Patty Hector, the former Saline County librarian who was fired by a Saline County Judge (someone I consider a narrow-minded, anti-knowledge clown) for refusing to relocate books the Saline County Quorum Court members found offensive. The Quorum Court recommended in April that the library “relocate materials that are not subject-matter or age appropriate for children, due to their sexual content or imagery, to an area that is not accessible to children.” Ms. Hector refused to bend to censorship and suffered the consequences; I admire her bravery and her insistence on sticking to her principles. I hope to hear her discuss what happened and how it took place and what open-minded citizens can do to overcome such ultra-conservative nonsense. I do not live in Saline County, but the threat is statewide…nationwide…global.

Bureaucracy has its limited place—monitoring organizational efforts on accomplishing declared aims; maximizing efficiency of action; preventing misuse of resources; and performing several related functions intended to ensure protecting against harmful deviations from the scope of organizations and projects. That mouthful, though, can grow exponentially. Through either unconstrained growth, malfeasance, or overzealous extension, vital functions can expand into activities that were not contemplated in a bureaucracy’s original intent. And restraints and “corrections” initiated when bureaucracies are claimed to have gone awry may worsen the problems. Or they may lead to carving away the meat, along with the fat, and ripping into the bone that keeps the bureaucracy standing. Somewhere between corpulent and emaciated, bureaucracy tends to serve its limited purposes. Its limited purposes are at risk when it becomes bloated; it can replace the efforts it was intended to monitor. When it is starved of resources and unable to function effectively, the protections it was meant to provide disappear. When those protections interfere with malevolent intents of powerful people, those people promote the notion that an extremely valuable bureaucracy is unnecessary; or dangerous. The real danger takes shape when the targets of the propaganda believe the lies.

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Six hours and one-half hours between the time I left home yesterday and I returned; only a a little longer than I had expected. The infusion room at the oncology clinic was jammed to overflowing with patients; some where sent back, only to be told they would need to wait until a chair was vacated. My favorite nurse told me the scheduling process had gone haywire; she and the doctor were scrambling to see all their patients and monitor progress of those who were there for infusion treatments. Fortunately for me, I was seated in the last available chair when I was ready; people who arrived later had to wait. I overheard a conversation between a husband (whose wife was in treatment) and another patient, explaining (I think) that his wife had seven hours of treatment three times per week. My complaints about time, in that context, are trivial.

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The forecast for Friday and Saturday nights this week calls for nighttime temperatures to fall into the mid-to-upper-30s. Somehow, I missed the transition between uncomfortably warm to uncomfortably cool. And I do not remember experiencing the movements from hot to warm and from cool to cold. Shoot. Perhaps next year I will be lucky and will experience and remember the distinct adjustments between Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, and and to Winter again.

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My blog has been the target, for two or three days running, of bots that flood it with dozens and dozens of “hits” that seem to make my posts periodically unreachable. I used the features of a plug-in that supposedly should have corrected the problem, refusing access to visits from a specific IP address. The restriction worked only for a while. This morning, I tried another way of blocking the bot. I have no interest in learning how to protect my blog against automated idiots, nor against the bastards who automate the idiotrons. But my other option, which I have gone to before, is to spend several hundred dollars for an internet security expert (from my blog host company) to solve the problem. Is this blog worth spending that much for protection? I vacillate between “yes” and “no;” this morning, I am leaning toward “no.” This blog, which I promoted as intended for observations and conversations rarely includes any conversations. I had great expectations, all those many years ago when I created it, but only my satisfaction with my observations have come to pass. Another decision about where to spend my time, my thoughts, my writing, and my money. 4850 published posts and 650 drafts that say very little to very few people. I pay for the privilege of talking to myself.

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Lately, semi-spicy hummus with pita chips or wheat crackers has become a fallback snack in lieu of lunch. I truly enjoy hummus, especially the stuff livened with a semi-spicy red-pepper and olive oil mix. I think I will add some items to the menu: kalamata olives, pimiento-stuffed green olives, sliced cucumbers, tomato wedges, pickle spears, and some little cubes of mixed cheeses. My preference for wine to go with the meal, which I will have later in the day, will be a good cabernet sauvignon or, perhaps, chianti. Fortunately, mi novia is a fan of most of these things, as well. A good friend of ours has, on more than one occasion lately, brought us baskets of goodies. I plan to reciprocate soon. Knowing her affinity for charcuterie boards, I should add a variety of meats. Another friend, who regularly brings snacks when she comes to visit, also warrants such treatment in gratitude for her gifts…both of her time and her goodies. And other friends, a couple we see less frequently than we’d like but whose company we enjoy immensely, are on my list of people who matter enormously and for whom my gratitude will be expressed again soon. I am in that mood; wanting to let people know I think of them often, even though I may not express my gratitude as frequently as I should.

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It’s almost 9. I’ve been typing and editing and retyping and pausing for quite a while. My espresso cup is empty. My Ensure container contains nothing but droplets of Ensure. All that remains of the breakfast banana is the peel. I may eat something else; I should, before yesterday’s chemo treatment robs me of my hunger—no idea when that might happen; could be a day, could be a week. Its timing is not consistent.

Art by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

Shadows result from interrupting light between its source and the target of its illumination, creating dark, two-dimensional silhouettes on a surface. A name given to the process of intentionally creating images—by controlling the distance between the light source and the interruption and the distance between the interruption and the surface—might be two-dimensional sculpting with shadows. But the images might simply be called shadow art. However, the interruption of the light source might be made from three-dimensional objects. Incorporating two-dimensional objects, three-dimensional objects, and a light source necessary to observe both may add complexity to and deep appreciation of the understanding of dimensions.  The image here, frequently viewable on the internet as a stunning example of shadow art, was created by Tim Noble and Sue Webster, whose art “involves arranging various objects and debris into seemingly chaotic compositions that serve as a bridge between contrasting realities.” Obviously, the arrangements of the objects that interrupt the light source must be incredibly intricate; absent the light source and the “canvas,” the intricacies would appear to be meaningless trash. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Understanding is in the brain. Appreciation is in the mind.

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Suddenly, it’s almost 8:00 a.m.; time to rush into town for my chemo-therapy session. Somehow, I’ve spent close to two hours sitting at my desk—reading, thinking, and writing. Time is not a reliable measure of experience, nor can I depend on time to keep me informed of my obligations. Even the calendar often abandons its responsibilities in that regard. And, so, off I go. Home again by 1 or 2 this afternoon, I think.