John Swinburn

Happy memories remind me who I could have been; painful memories confirm who I am. If the guilt embedded in painful memories could be erased, the memories, too, would disappear. So, any lessons learned from that guilt and those unpleasant memories would dissolve, as well, leaving me unaware of my deepest and most damaging defects. As much as I might want to forget them, scars etched into my memories force me to acknowledge who I was—and who I am—and that I remain capable of behaviors that reveal the unforgivable side of me.

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It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories, his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the worst, and so grow gently old down all the unchanging days, and die one day like any other day, only shorter.

~ Samuel Beckett ~

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I read an explanation of drowning that asserted a person can drown by inhaling as little as a quarter of a cup of water. On one hand, that fact—if, indeed, it is a fact—made me want to rely on intravenous injections to avoid dehydration. On the other, it made me think it wise to carry a quart of water with me at all times—in case of an emergency.

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The crows are silent this morning. They may have been silent for several mornings, but only this morning did the absence of their loud cackles register. It’s not just the crows, either. The smaller birds that hide behind thinning clusters of leaves as they flit from branch to branch seem to have disappeared, as well. How is it that I haven’t noticed before? Perhaps today is the first day the trees are empty. But that is only an uncertain observation; a possibility that cannot be verified, thanks to my inattention to the world around me. Except for having just now heard mi novia‘s voice, I could be the only person left on Earth; I know now there are at least two of us. Or just one…and a recording of her voice. Nothing can be confirmed with absolute certainty. We believe, but we cannot know. We think we understand, but we may be confusing truth with illusion. Still, there are no screeching crows. But, if they are here, I have grown deaf to their earsplitting mockery. And blind to their presence. It is entirely possible that they are all around me and I am the hallucination. I exist only in their minds. The birds are deranged and I am the delusion…complete with an imaginary mind of my own.

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I have delayed my shower and shave more than once in recent days. Today it MUST be done. If for no other reason than to save the oncology nurses from the stench of a dirty old man tomorrow morning. I could wait until the morning, of course, but the possibility that I could wake late might cause the poor healthcare team to be overcome with the odor of age and decay. Wait, readers might think I am writing the truth. No, I am prevaricating; no particular reason, other than a desire to mislead and cause confusion and near-chaos.

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There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.

~ Dante Alighieri ~

The early morning sky remains dim and sleepy, waking from a long night. Steamy fog rises from the surface of a pond, blurring the images of egrets and herons standing in the water, just a few feet from shore. The air is slightly cool but damp, a bit sticky with rising humidity. Except for an occasional distant bird call, morning’s deafening silence commands the ears’ full attention. The serenity accompanying this experience will be brief. Soon, sunlight will brighten the soft greys of morning light and chase the chill from the air. Sounds will fill the empty space in the air. Silence will recede, just a recent memory, as birds chatter, insects buzz, and wind rustles through reeds and grasses. As the day ages, prevailing calm shatters and slips away, replaced by intrusive noises and the savage chaos of what we charitably call “normal.” I try to remember the calm I experienced, but it slides irretrievably into the vagueness of history. The hazy morning, the fog, the regal water fowl, the impressive silence…they reside in a place that no longer exists except in a fading recollection.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.

~ Thomas Moore ~

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People frequently equate the term “soulmate” with a spouse or romantic partner, but that equivalence is based on a misunderstanding of the word. While it is possible that one’s spouse or partner fills that role, it is just as possible that someone else may serve as confidante, confidant, companion, advisor, etc. But, because of misunderstanding the word, people who might otherwise be prospective soulmates for one another may recoil at the suggestion; a connection or bridge between them may, instead, become an uncomfortable moat. In my opinion, males are especially likely to be reticent about considering anyone, especially another male, a soulmate. On the other hand, females may be too quick to identify another female in that way, when the two of them are simply friends. In reality, though, I may be just as confused by the concept as anyone else. It is entirely possible that a soulmate is simply a “woo-woo” term for a close friend. Or something else; something I have yet to understand…something I do not grasp.

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Lately, I have been getting caught up in memories of my dreams. I remember long, quite complex dream sequences that differ from day to day, but that share certain similarities that suggest strong connections between them. Last night, I had three different dreams that somehow merged into one. One involved very large, extremely expensive panes of glass that were to be sent by freight train to San Antonio, but were accidentally broken. Another dealt with a woman who was remodeling an office suite with the help of people she knew—part of the remodel was to add plumbing for a coffee maker and part focused on a large spike being driven through the wall of the office suite into a bedroom I shared with one of my brothers. The third piece featured an extraordinarily expensive wine dinner that was to launch a cruise. Each dream segment was extensively detailed, except for the merged elements, which were blurry and confusing. The similarities bothered me and made me wonder whether my subconscious was attempting to send me cryptic messages.

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I breathe fire, therefore I am a dragon. I lay on my back in the snow, waving my arms and legs, therefore I am an angel. I fantasize about fear and loathing in Las Vegas, therefore I am Hunter S. Thompson. I daydream about living alone on a massive, secluded ranch, therefore I am hermit. I inhale water from the Pacific Ocean, therefore I am a pacifist. I tell time like an old clock, therefore I am wound up. I speak in mixed languages, therefore I am a tongue twister. I was born on a pig farm, therefore I am a baconative. I throw thunderbolts, therefore I am  Zeus. I leak blood, therefore I am hemophilia. I harvest grain with a frozen tool, therefore I am an ice sickle. I twist DNA into silent coils, therefore I am a mutation. I demonstrate poverty, therefore I am a poor example. I am a bovine behind the curtains, therefore I am a cow hide. I bend my arm like pasta, therefore I am elbow macaroni. Sometimes, stupid is the only solution.

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue.

~ Francois de La Rochefoucauld ~

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One’s senses can be at odds with one another. For example, the experiences of sitting in front of a roaring fire while looking outside a window at freshly fallen snow can cause competitive sensations: the sight of the cold landscape can overwhelm the sensation of warmth. Even as the heat of the fireplace warms the room, the body’s reaction to viewing the wintery scene can overcome the sense of comfort offered by the fire, with shivering gooseflesh and chattering teeth. The aroma of freshly-cut grass, though, might temper the frigidity of a winter scene. Those conflicting experiences, though, are not assured. Inconsistencies may rely more on state of mind than on the power of one sense over another. Imagine, for example, introducing a strong odor of gasoline to the experience of viewing a snowscape from a room warmed with a fire; if gooseflesh and chattering teeth arise in response, real fear—not imaginary cold—is apt to be the culprit

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Only after I had been awake for several minutes—long enough to take my morning pills and sip on my first cup of espresso—did my memories of the dream begin to become clear. Oddly, though, my mind placed most of those details in temporary reserve, while I analyzed a few of its specifics. Like the fact that the remnants of an ice storm looked like small hollow spheres of ice that had been cut into equal-sized pieces—leaving rounded-bottom cups littering the ground. And, then, it occurred to me that the little cups might have taken the shape of  leaves, as water formed on them, froze, and then slipped off the leaves to the ground. But the ice that had caused the roof of my employer’s office building, located in a large, empty field, to collapse had the same shapes. The reserved memories began to intrude on that conundrum. I remembered that I had returned the night before from a fake business trip to New York City. I recalled that I lost my suitcase—perhaps left in the cab I took to get home or left in my front yard overnight, where it was stolen, or absent-mindedly left in baggage claim at the airport. And I remembered the part of the dream in which I was frustrated that I could not find my razor—and then realized I had no clean shirts to wear—as I prepared to go to work. I remembered I needed to call my supervisor, the CEO of the organization that employed me, but my cell phone was in my lost suitcase and I had forgotten the telephone number. I borrowed a phone to call that forgotten phone number to ask for that same number I called. And then I went to the building and wandered around it in shock at the extensive damage the ice had caused. From there, I made my way to the airport, where many hundreds of people waited in lines as they searched for their lost luggage. Those who had found their luggage were willing to give me their claim checks; I had a reason to collect them, but I do not recall what it was. My telling of the dream leaves out many of the utterly inexplicable parts…which probably were crucial to the tangle of mental confusion that may have spurred the dream. If only I could weave all the details into a story with a coherent fabric, I might understand. But I do not. I can only harbor suspicions about the genesis of the dream and accept its mysteries as a price I must pay for something hidden deep in the recesses of my brain.

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My vacation from cancer treatments is almost over. The routine begins anew next Monday, a tad more than three weeks since the most recent chemo session. A day after, I return for a post-chemo injection. Later that day, I will undergo another physical therapy session.  If the radiologist’s estimate was correct, radiation will begin sometime next week. Assuming the post-chemo responses have not begun in earnest, I will attend the church board meeting on Thursday. The following week, I suspect, will be one for intense rest…that is, sleep in the extreme. Except for Thanksgiving, of course. We’ve been invited to celebrate with friends that day. I keep wondering how long chemo will last; until significant improvements are seen in various scans, the doctor cannot say with any certainty. I hope chemo and radiation, together, will stymie the growth of cancer. I know I’ve said it more than once: this is getting tiring in many, many ways.

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There once was a time. There will be again.

Roughly fourteen years ago, I published a post on another of my personal blogs (one I have long-since ignored and essentially abandoned). Today, when I returned to that blog and that post, I was reminded that life changes quite a lot over time. But the person who lives it tends to remain the same, except for the changes wrought by unwelcome adjustments. People die. Friendships blossom, then lose their petals. Expectations shatter. Promising relationships dissolve in the face of time or distance or disinterest. Dreams collapse. Hopes, confronted by reality, disappear. Those  changes do not transform the person, though. He is the same man, just bent and dented and disfigured by experience and the sting of wisdom. Fourteen years ago, I wrote about wanting to accomplish long-held wishes and objectives. The intervening years have not fundamentally changed those aims, but the desires held all those years ago have encountered obstacles—some of which are insurmountable. Fourteen years can radically change certain aspects of a life. In my case, those years heralded the replacement of late middle age with a period of greying and regret borne of neglect. Reading between the lines of that fourteen-year-old post, I encountered enthusiasm, some of which has since withered. But I discovered that some of the experiences that have occurred since then are alive with possibilities. And, of course, I realize I am not the only one whose life has changed over time. We’re all the same as we were, but very different. And open to new possibilities.

You and I are akin to passenger tires in some ways. If we experience some sort of damage, we can be patched in much the same way tires are repaired. Over time, though, the wear and tear of daily experience takes a toll too great for simple repairs to correct. For tires, full-scale refurbishment sometimes provides a way to avoid sending them to the trash bin. When you and I reach the point at which repairs are too complex, too expensive, or simply impossible, the options are limited and stark.

There was a time, when tire treads had worn uncomfortably thin, that the tire was not simply discarded. Rather than pile old tires in massive heaps that occasionally caught fire and poured black smoke into the air, enterprising folks gave the tires new life by retreading them. Retreading tires of commercial trucks is still fairly common, but not for passenger cars; the increased longevity of modern passenger tires and the fact that their materials are thinner than in years past is said to explain the decline in retreading car tires.  Today, when passenger car tires reach the end of their safe and useful lives, typically they are replaced with new tires, complete with a warrantee of tread life.

That is where you and I differ in some ways from tires. When we reach the end of our useful lives, replacement parts cannot make us new again. Like tires that have reached that point, replacements are brought in. Young people are stronger, quicker, and usually cheaper than the dinosaurs they replace. That notwithstanding, efforts continue in the search for ways to temporarily delay the inevitable acknowledgement that you and I have reached the point at which we no longer have utility. Sentimentality, not efficiency, guides the way you and I are treated after we reach that unfortunate pre-departure destination.

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When virtually every hour of every day is spent either sleeping, wanting to sleep, undergoing one kind of medical treatment or another, or wondering whether the treatments will ever end, one begins to question the value of the process. Even though the process does not involve ceaseless pain, immobility, or other significantly unpleasant physical experiences, the relentlessness of restrictions and the fatigue-based prevention of “getting on with life” can be maddening. I haven’t partaken of mood-altering gummies in quite some time; perhaps that would break this cycle of impatience and boredom and simmering anger directed at the universe.

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We watched a few episodes of a Canadian police procedural drama (19-2) last night. I am waiting to be drawn in to it. It is not bad; just not especially riveting thus far. Maybe the problem is that I am distracted by a very runny nose, red and itchy eyes that feel like they have a coating of rough sand over them, and various other physical annoyances. Morphine might take care of the physical annoyances, but it probably would cause me to sleep through all four seasons of the show. I do not have access to morphine, so my conjecture about its effects is useless. I cannot think of any series or any film that I think would provide me with an absorbing experience; none of my old favorites seem particularly interesting at the moment. During last night’s TV watching session, I ate half a pint of ice cream; it was more an automatic response to its presence than a genuine desire for the taste of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. Food—any kind of food—holds little interest to me. I realize I have to eat, but it is hard to do. I’ve been better at it lately than in the last week or so, but the thought of food does not do anything for me. I forced down a mocha-flavored Ensure this morning, but I do not want anything else. Maybe I should try watching morning television; I haven’t done that in years and years. But the very idea of watching either news or cheery morning chit-chat is enough to make me gag.

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Clearly, my mood this morning is not suitable for any day of the week, especially Wednesday. I should go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day. But I won’t.

Sanity is a matter of perspective; relative to madness, normalcy, and a cluster of other factors. Behavior often signals insanity, but perfectly normal behavior—accompanied by radically deviant thought—sometimes offers clues to insanity. The term, insanity, is out of favor these days, though, because the word is considered judgmental. Psychiatrists tend to prefer to use psychosis, I think, which seems to me equally as judgmental and derogatory, as are the words craziness, lunacy, and madness, among others.  For that matter, calling a person insane or abnormal are judgmental and derogatory pronouncements. Mentally ill, a phrase coined (I think) to remove the stigma associated with many of the other terms, comes with a stigma all its own. Language is not the problem, in my view. The problem is attitude or misunderstanding or ignorance or fear or a combination of those things—and more. And judgments based, in part, on a deficit of compassion contribute to the matter.

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Starved for affection. Hungry for love. Thirsty for companionship. Is it just me, or do others see the connection between humans’ physical needs for fuel and our needs for emotional sustenance? Fortunately, I do not feel lacking for those emotional needs. But I feel for those who do.

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Yesterday was another day like so many others; I was tired all day long, possibly because I was fighting a perpetual runny nose that’s been annoying me for several weeks. When I think about my upcoming radiation treatments—every weekday for 27 days—I wonder whether I will have the energy to cope with them along with the chemo treatments and related medical appointments, etc. Damn. It.

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Enough of this. My thoughts are jumbled, tangled, and otherwise twisted into tightly-woven knots that defy being untied.

We cling to one another in the mistaken belief that expressing our collective disappointment will give us a voice to which “they” will listen…as if our little pods of rage and fear will breed in us strength and power. We seem to think name-calling and condemnation will work for us, the way it worked for them. But, unlike us, they were not trying to change minds. They simply enjoyed belittling us and our world-views. They responded to our derogatory statements about their perspectives as if ours were words of ridicule. And they were right, of course. We thought we could shame them into seeing things our way. But, instead, our condescension provided them with additional motives and ammunition. We mocked them for worrying about the price of food and gas. And we called them racists and monsters for fearing the influx of undocumented immigrants. We laughed at their irrational concerns about the economy—although they might have to work two jobs (or more), our IRAs were doing just fine. Instead of trying to educate them about the critical value of immigration—instead of gently coaxing them to view the issue with understanding and compassion—we did all we could to embarrass them for their stupidity and their heartless animosity. Rather than trying to understand the source of their economic worries, we insulted them for their ignorance. Next time—if there is a next time—we might try a little understanding and compassion for them and their concerns. Not by adopting their positions, but by rationally considering their perspectives and offering appealing and creative ways to address their fears. Not by accepting their political leaders, but by modeling civility.

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Most Americans—and, probably, most others—do not give much thought to economic theory; and even less to the practical aspects of different economic systems. We simply accept (or give no thought to) claims, for example, that capitalism relies primarily on market forces rather than governmental mandate. If we examine economic transactions closely, though, we see that market forces (e.g., supply and demand) are either buttressed or weakened through governmental intervention/dictate. Economic theories and economic practices are far more complex than I once thought; perhaps that is why so few of us invest much mental energy trying to understand them. Viewing economics through my unsophisticated lenses, it seems that the concepts of supply and demand—alone—should offer enough of a foundational core to allow me to understand economic theory. But this morning, as I read a few snippets about economics, I came to realize just how complicated the subject can be. For example, I learned just today that autarky is an economic system of self-sufficiency and limited trade. And I read that mercantilism and capitalism are related, but some of their individual attributes differ significantly. Finally, I concluded that economic theory interests me…to a point. Beyond that point, my mind drifts into thoughts of meteors and butterflies and the ingredients in food-coloring, among other riveting matters of interest. Just one more example of my wide but shallow interests. I do not have the wherewithal to delve deeply into most subjects. My superficial knowledge of many subjects can mislead some people into thinking I may know more than I do. Other people can see right through the veneer of understanding to the core of ignorance below.

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Today is Veterans’ Day. That fact generates an array of thoughts; some involving appreciation, some centered on regret. Nothing is simple, really. Nothing is black and white. Black can be considered very dark white; white can be considered very light black. Grey is the most revealing color of all.

Identical images, seen through the same eyes, evoke radically different emotional responses, depending on the viewer’s frame of mind. In once instance, inconsolable sadness emerges at the sight of a photo of Earth from the International Space Station. Another view of the same photo unleashes an overwhelming sense of appreciative awe. Despair versus hope. Anger versus peace. Dozens of other combinations of and contrasts between attitude command enormous degrees of control over what we think, what we feel—what we see.

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Gratitude at finding a shelter from cold, driving rain differs from gratitude for the protection of living in a modest, weather-resistant house. And gratitude for the luxuries of living in a mansion differs from both of them. Circumstances. Context. The spectrum of experience. Perceptions about our encounters with the world depend largely on how our actual situations compare to what could be—either better or worse. Expectations enter into the experience. If a person expects to go through the door into a luxurious mansion but, instead, walks into a one-room home, shattered expectations may color the extent to which gratitude and disappointment do battle in the mind.

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Sadness and depression are different beasts. Sadness is like a piece of fragile pottery that can be broken into smaller pieces that are relatively easy to discard. Depression, though, is more like a piece of solid granite, but one that grows with time. Depression does not readily respond to efforts to break it apart. It almost seems to feed on efforts to change it or destroy it. Sadness, usually, is temporary. Depression, often, is tenacious and relentless. It may begin as a fleeting grey shadow, but it becomes darker and more dense as time passes. And it establishes a nearly indestructible and impenetrable cocoon. Its eradication relies on killing its energy source without sacrificing its host. The same is true of cancer. Cancer is not the source of depression, though. It simply supplies sustenance. For perspective, consider this: to starve someone, you might kill the farmer who provides food. Depression is a complex, labyrinthine process that gnaws away at hope and self-confidence. Sadness is easier to see and to solve.

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It’s damn near 8 a.m. How could I have been sitting at my desk for well over two hours? Time flies when your mind is at the far edge of the universe, trying to return to a place you’ve never been.

Ach, the wretched souls who react in terrified deference to monsters who make threats in thundering voices! The poor innocents who fear the oppressors’ spit-shined, steel-toed boots and cringe at the tyrants’ relentless intimidation! The time will come for those tortured souls to rebel, en masse, and to bring their tormentors to justice…tinged with revenge, retribution, and reprisal. Those horribly abused victims will throw their assailants into vats of boiling tar as they shout, “Revenge is ours!”  

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The rotting hides of dead bananas leave a powerful smell. They invite fruit flies and ruin the appeal of the flavor of the fruit. After smelling the decomposing brown strips of the peels, the aroma of a banana smoothie degrades; it stinks like a banana’s corpse.  The same thing happens with meat. Whether raw or cooked, meat left on the counter for days decays, leaving a pervasive stench that cannot be eliminated or covered up with stronger odors—there are none stronger. The phrase, “smells like death,” describes the scent of decomposition. Some perfumes seem to have been created in an attempt to replicate the revolting stink of horrid rot; a slightly sweet aroma enveloped within a miserable stench that makes the eyes water and the stomach churn. There is a reason some businesses ask clients not to wear “smell juice.” Some medical offices, for example, request that  prospective patients refrain from wearing perfumes and colognes because patients might find them offensive—that’s understandable, especially if the products’ bouquet smells like death. But some scents are incredibly alluring; certain foods (some cheeses, for example) smell so good they prompt honest people to steal them to get just a taste. So I’ve been told.

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Carefully remove each successive layer of paint from the canvas. Beneath all but the last will be another attempt to obscure the original painting. The first coat, the one covering the canvas, will reveal a message in graphic form. That message, an almost photographic depiction of the murderer’s laughing face, will give you all you need to put the killer behind bars. Or to assure his disappearance for all time. You are a police officer. The victim was your niece, just a toddler. Remember, the definition of justice is malleable. Forgiveness is either a powerful strength or an immeasurable, unforgivable weakness. You decide. No one but you will ever know the choice you made.

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Mi novia made linguine alle vongole (linguine pasta with clams) for dinner the other night. The dish was excellent! Ideally, it would have been made with clams in the shell, but fresh clams are hard impossible to come by in central Arkansas, so she used canned clams. When I lived in Dallas, I made the dish with canned clams, too; “fresh” clams might have been available there, but their cost would have been prohibitive and their claim to “freshness” would have been questionable. Lately, I have wanted to cook, but I tire so quickly standing at the kitchen counter that I have to pause and sit for a while to enable me to complete the process. That’s depressing and upsetting; if I had the energy, I would howl plaintively at the universe in objection to my situation. Actually, if I had the energy I would make briam (Greek-style roasted vegetables) or steamed vegetables (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, asparagus, and green beans, flavored with a bit of balsamic vinegar). I am in the mood for massive amounts of veggies, probably because I haven’t had many vegetables lately. Now that I think about it, the time and work involved in steaming vegetables is minimal; I may do it today or tomorrow.

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Potential, when realized, transforms possibility into achievement. Unrealized potential is a reminder of what might have been—or might yet be—except for insurmountable obstacles or insufficient effort. Potential rests somewhere along a continuum from essentially impossible to easily attainable to readily achievable to reachable only through herculean effort. Each of one’s accomplishments—or lack thereof—can be measured against a scale of difficulty versus effort. For example, achieving a perfect score on a rigorous math test is a more impressive feat by a person who has difficulty with math than by a person who quickly learns the subject. Using an identical standard (i.e., the test) to measure accomplishment or potential is flawed, though. The standard set for the higher-performing test-taker should be adjusted upward to the extent that a valid comparison between the two can be made. Potential is difficult to measure; comparisons between individuals’ potentials is even more complex. At some point, we have to answer the question: what is the point of making comparisons? The answer may reinforce the value of comparisons; or it may invalidate the concept.

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Artists of all kinds—painters and writers and sculptors and more—can choose freedom. Enjoying the privilege does not require that it be given to them—they do not need benefactors to bestow it upon them.  They can simply seize it. Because they are not tethered with chains to hideous realities, they can experience worlds of their own making. That is not to say hideous realities will not pursue them with a vengeance. Yet even in the midst of being torn to pieces in the relentless jaws of captivity, their versions of the world as it should be cannot be imprisoned. The scent of freedom becomes a contagion; once it has been released, the thirst for its source is unyielding.

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Freedom takes many forms. The simplest, perhaps, is solitude; achieving the wish to be left alone. Nearly as simple and strong is true companionship; and the unquenchable desire to know someone cares.

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An asteroid twice the size of Earth’s moon will be discovered in the coming months. Hidden for centuries (or longer), locked in orbit behind Mars, it will come into view (with the naked eye) just after its discovery, which will coincide with breaking free of Mars’ gravitational field. The asteroid will be on a collision course with Earth. Nothing can stop it. Much of Earth’s population will gather on the shores of the planet’s oceans to witness the impact. Of course, no one will tell what the impact was like, because no one will survive the obliteration of our planet. And thus will end the story of planet Earth and, incidentally, humanity.

On May 4, 1970, on the Kent State University campus, four students died and nine others were wounded (one of whom was permanently paralyzed) when 28 National Guard troops fired 67 rounds at a crowd of unarmed protesters and student observers. In the span of roughly 13 seconds, a protest against expansion into Cambodia of the Vietnam war  had turned into a massacre. The Guard’s engagement with the students that fateful day came after several days of student protests, some of which had involved significant vandalism and had become violent. Post-event investigations, though, revealed no precipitating incident; protesters’ behaviors had not changed—the Guardsmen simply turned toward them and fired. The Kent State Massacre, as it became known, triggered examinations and recriminations; killing unarmed student protesters was deemed “unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable” by the President’s Commission on Campus Unrest. Fifty-five years later, on May 4, 2025, would a massacre of undocumented immigrants protesting their deportation be deemed “unnecessary, unwarranted, and inexcusable?” Would an investigation of the slaughter even be permitted?

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Getting five one-stab, one-dot tattoos on my torso yesterday (to serve as reference points for my upcoming series of radiation sessions) may have dissuaded me from giving serious thought to getting a decorative tattoo, unless I could have it done while I am under sedation. My God, those five “pin-pricks” felt like I was being stabbed with a rough-surfaced ice pick drenched in alcohol! If the discomfort of the application of those tiny tattoos was even remotely similar to how application of a decorative tattoo would feel, I think I’ll opt to chew on light-bulbs, instead.

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When I woke this morning with a completely clogged nasal passage, I blew my nose in an attempt to breathe. Though blowing my nose cleared the nasal passage, it triggered an extraordinarily long-lasting gusher of a nosebleed. Finally, nearly three hours later, my nasal passage is completely clogged again—this time with dried blood. The trash cans in the primary bathroom and the kitchen both are filled to overflowing with blood-soaked paper…tissues, napkins, paper towels…I used anything I could to absorb the flow. If I could stem the flow of my nasal drip—eliminating the need to blow my nose—I think the nosebleed might permanently heal on its own. Otherwise, I’ll have to periodically sit upright, lean forward, and pinch my nose just below the bridge for 15 minutes. While trying my best to prevent the area around me from looking like it was visited by a horrible, brutal, blood-thirsty monster.

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I have grown increasingly dissatisfied with the human species. While never completely enamored with my fellow homo sapiens, my appreciation for the vast majority of them has diminished more than I once thought possible. This reduction in gratitude for like creatures applies, as well, to myself. If I had the ability to remake myself into any creature I wanted, I think I might become an octopus. In fact, I may have been an octopus all along, just disguised to look and act like an imperfect replica of a human being. Second choice, perhaps: redwood tree.

I have heard variations on the admonition many times. The version that’s most meaningful to me is this:

“It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.”

If the game is one you’ve never played—and one you hoped you never would—you have to play it by ear. In other words, if the game involves juggling red-hot scalpels, you may have to invest in few pairs of leather welder’s gloves.

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My radiation treatments begin today with what the medical team calls a “simulation.” Here is how the Weill Cornell Medicine Radiation Oncology website describes the process:

During the simulation, the treatment setup will be simulated by positioning the patient on the flat couch immobilized by specially designed devices. The patient will then be aligned to the reference low-energy lasers in the room and be marked on the skin with tattoos. Finally, a CT scan will be performed to acquire the anatomy involved in the treatment. This important CT scan will be used to identify the lesion(s) and surrounding normal critical organs for developing a treatment plan that will guide the treatment machine to target the lesion(s) accurately and spare critical organs as much as possible. The simulated setup will be exactly reproduced before each treatment by matching the reference lasers in the treatment room to the tattoos and comparing the 2D/3D on-board images with the simulation CT scan.

The process of getting approvals, working out schedules, etc., etc. could take two weeks. Once the actual radiation treatments begin, I will have 27 treatment sessions (consecutively, on weekdays, as I understand it). The radiologist with whom I spoke yesterday told me he would use either 5 or 9 beams (depending on some complex analyses I do not fully understand) for the treatments. Aside from wanting the radiation to focus exclusively on the cancerous lymph nodes, his attention will be highly focused on avoiding damage to my duodenum and to the aorta where it crosses the duodenum. Or something like that. Scheduling chemotherapy, radiation therapy, physical therapy, and all the related/supporting medical procedures and tests is going to be quite the feat. I hope the members of the medical teams will coordinate between themselves—if I have to do the coordination, I will be concerned about the coordinator’s competency.

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Here I am, writing the same kind of stuff I always do, even though yesterday’s election signaled massive, ugly, unpredictable changes in this country. I act as if I can rely on the future as if the future will resemble the past. Ach! I just have to keep reminding myself, as do we all:

It’s not about the cards you’re dealt, but how you play the hand.

At long last, the most recent phase of the horror is ending today, Election Day. No one know how long the next phase will last. Will it be only long enough for the most disgusting, corrupt, hateful, amoral, dangerous politician and wanna-be dictator in history to be silenced by the courts in his efforts to overturn a fair election? Or will the next phase usher in an unthinkable terror: the wanna-be dictator achieving his aims? Time will tell.

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Would it not be wonderful if all world leaders—and their willing and reluctant followers—would adopt the following principle?

We commit to work together to maximize, for every single citizen of the world, the benefits of each and every one of our policies and our actions and to eliminate and, at worst, minimize any ill-effects of those policies and actions.

Utopian fantasy. The thing is…it’s possible. Rather than dismiss it as a silly utopian dream, if world leaders would actually lead the effort to change civilization, it could be done. Am I optimistic about the possibility? I wish I could be fervent in my belief humanity has the capacity to collectively change our direction, establishing a universal culture of compassion. I am afraid I am an unwilling realist, though.

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Today’s appointment with a radiologist will establish the next phase of my cancer treatment. I will learn what to expect in the way of radiation; length and frequency. If it is like my radiation almost six years ago, it will be five sessions per week for six weeks; a total of 30 sessions in all. Even though each session is painless and of short duration (around 15-20 minutes, if that), the frequency is what makes the process unappealing. The daily 46-mile round-trip into Hot Springs is not particularly taxing, but it does get old fairly quickly. Perhaps I’ll be surprised today; perhaps both the frequency and length of treatment will be considerably less than my initial experience, six years ago, was.

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Let us put our minds together and see what life we can make for our children.

~ Sitting Bull ~

Ideas that once seemed interesting, clever, or otherwise intellectually stimulating seem to have grown smelly and stale. They once carried the stimulating aroma of new-mown grass in the Spring. Now, though, they remind me more of the stench of mold; like partially composted weeds and leaves. Metaphors and similes are the best I can do to describe the transition between youthful exuberance and the gradual decomposition that accompanies the golden years. Physical changes are more obvious, of course, but the energic thinking of youth begins to fall flat over time, as well. Enthusiasm declines over time as reality overtakes idealism. The fortunate among us are able to adjust, turning the passion of youthful thought into intensity and conviction in later years. Those people learn to blend judgment with wisdom, transforming tired, time-worn ideas into exciting concepts—simply by viewing the world from new perspectives, born of experience. How does one become one of “the fortunate among us?” I suspect there is no single method; no process that works for everyone. First and foremost, though, it takes commitment; marshalling all of one’s mental strength. I write as if I had the answer.

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My late wife’s sister is undergoing a lumpectomy this morning.  Mi novia took her to the hospital this morning, will wait during the procedure, and will take her home when the process is complete. My Mexican brother’s wife underwent a biopsy of lumps in her breast a few days ago, after flying the U.S. for diagnosis and treatment. I may hear something today about the results of the biopsy. My two remaining brothers have had cancer diagnoses and treatment, and so have I. My late brother had cancer of the kidney. My late wife had a mastectomy to treat her breast cancer. The prevalence of cancer stuns me. Until the last several years, I knew cancer diagnoses were widespread, but only after it began to effect my family so much did the scope of the disease really sink in. Even learning of treatable and/or curable cancer is bone-jarring, but the breadth of the disease, past and present, in my own family suddenly seems to almost overwhelming. I look outside at the thick grey clouds, leaving the morning in darkness even at this late hour, and I feel that the sky is echoing the depression I feel at the moment.

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A dream I had two nights ago is etched into my mind. I do not remember all of it, but I recall enough to remain disturbed by it and to wonder why the hell its bizarre experiences took place in my brain. Do we dream more vividly as we age? Are our dreams more closely connected with experiences in the past than they were in our youth? I wonder about dreams, but nothing I’ve read satisfies me with answers about what they are, why they take place, what (if anything) they mean, and so on. Perhaps intensive psychotherapy could shed some light on my dreams; or, instead, maybe it would reveal darkness I do not presently know is there. Probably not. I know that darkness.

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Depending on the ultimate results of the vote counts, I may consider joining the Canadian armed forces to launch an invasion of countries that threaten the Canadian way of life. If that were not to pan out, I think I will offer my services to the joint Icelandic/ Camaroonian Space Exploration Program—I could well become the first person to step onto the surface of Gliese 667/Cc, which is only 22 light years from Earth. With advances in cryogenics, I just might make the trip alive. In distance that’s a little easier for me to understand, the exoplanet is 129.338 Trillion miles from home. Those Icelandic/ Camaroonian space explorationists really shoot for the stars. [John was executed by an inexcusable pun enforcement firing squad.]

We control clocks, but we do not control time. Yet we assume human dominion over clocks is equivalent to temporal sovereignty. It is not. Temporal sovereignty is the exercise of political independence, authority, and control over time, according to Mark Rifkin’s book, Beyond Settler Time: Temporal Sovereignty and Indigenous Self-Determination. I have not read the book; in fact, I learned of its existence only this morning when I explored whether the phrase, temporal sovereignty, had been used to describe the sense of control over time. Time is simply a frame of reference to which we refer when comparing or contrasting the occurrence of events. That frame of reference does not require human involvement…not even the acknowledgement of humans. It does not require, but can involve, us. But we seem to think that, without us, there is no such thing as time. The only way to test that belief, of course, is to extract us (humans) from all universal experience. That is, we go away…completely. A problem then arises, though; how is time (or its non-existence) measured in our absence? Wait! Is this leading to support for the concept of humans having temporal sovereignty? Are the questions sufficiently important to devote time and energy to finding answers? Well, yes and no.

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I am too tired to think. Too weak to move out of my chair. Thirsty, but the prospect of making my way to the kitchen is almost overwhelming. Oh, I’ll make it. Eventually thirst will overpower fatigue. Hunger, though, has left the building. I forced myself to eat yesterday, in spite of my body’s rejection of the idea. I was to go to lunch with a friend yesterday, which I wanted very much to do, but I did not feel well enough. I needed to be home, where I could collapse into bed if necessary. I need to eat; no doubt about it. But the idea of eating anything is utterly unappealing. I’ve been going through Ensure nutrition shakes with abandon, though, so I’m getting necessary calories and vitamins and minerals, etc. There is more than ample food of all kinds readily available; at some point, I’m sure I will eat it. I’ll give myself an objective: east breakfast within the hour. Almost two weeks have passed since my most recent chemo; the damned side-effects seem to last longer with every infusion. Or, maybe, I’m contributing to my own fatigue by not eating enough. I once believed I was not a stupid man.

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Now, more water and more Ensure. And a banana. And maybe some yoghurt.

Today is my late sister’s birthday. She was the eldest of two sisters; the third of six children. Time is a bitter beast that smothers hope; no matter how long or short, in the end time is capricious. Everyone expects the promise of a lifetime; it is never long enough. I’ve said it all before.

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Mi novia and I wondered aloud the other day about the origin of the word Glazypeau, a name given to a local road, a nearby church, a creek, and perhaps other things. We’ve seen it printed as Glazier Peau, as well. I think I searched for the word in the last year or two, with no luck. But this morning I came across this, extracted from Wikipedia:

Glazypeau Creek is a stream in Garland County, in the U.S. state of Arkansas. Glazypeau is derived from the French “glaise à Paul“, referring to a nearby salt lick.

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I distinctly remember the day, when I was about 22 or 23 years old, that a 30+ year old psychologist with whom I worked insisted to me privately that I had entirely missed signs that a young woman was flirting with me. The three of us, along with several other people from work, were having after-work drinks at a bar across the street from our Houston office. I argued with the guy, who held his ground. “Ask her over to your apartment when we leave here; I guarantee she’ll go,” he said. I did as he suggested. He was right. I should have known. As usual, either I missed flirtatious behavior entirely or I awkwardly misread behavior as flirtatious when it was not. A few days ago, I stumbled on a Facebook feed claiming something to the effect that “here are the X-number of signs that a woman over 50 is flirting.” In all the years since the episode in Houston, I have never been able to tell with any degree of certainty whether someone was flirting with me—quite possibly because it was such an extreme rarity. The Facebook feed caught my attention, though I knew it probably was invalid, just click-bait. Just in case it had some validity, I read the piece. Several of the “signs” seemed like they could, indeed, be flirtatious. But they were some of the same signs I embarrassingly misread in the past. Perhaps they might be reliable indicators of flirtatious interest if ALL of them took place at the same time. Even then, though—with my history of being so dead wrong on those few occasions when I thought I was the target of flirtation—I would need that psychologist to assess the situation. But at my age, the importance of flirtation is miniscule. The fact that badly-written click-bait even nudged my attention is an absurdity.

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Upon mi novia’s recommendation, I watched a documentary last night, The Menendez Brothers. I found it interesting, but I was not as thoroughly convinced as she that the brothers’ motives were entirely as they claim…though I believe they experienced horrendous abuse. Justice is an incredibly complex concept; far too involved and intricate to be fully understood by the human mind. Some acts—even horrible, unconscionable acts—justify forgiveness. Simultaneously, though, justice asks whether different people would be forgiven for the same acts. Like situational morality, situational justice asks us to judge the extent to which consistency is “just” or whether consistency can be cruel and unusual.

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Back to the old ways. I got a call from my oncologist’s office yesterday afternoon, asking me to come in Monday for a infusion of magnesium and an IV fluid drip. Because of another doctor appointment on Monday, I could not commit, so I am scheduled for the procedure on Wednesday. The week is full of medical “stuff.” If I have any hope of completing these interminable processes within a reasonable timeframe, they are worth the demands. If they are are perpetual, I have to wonder.

Until the objects of erasure become deeply personal, they were just things. Or places. Or people. Or the combination of people and places and experiences that defined childhood. Or so many other fragments of one’s life history that can be touched or felt only through photographs or memories. Sometimes, the emptiness left by erasure is welcome: the bully who moved away—the father whose permanent departure opened a window of relief—the poverty that one experienced, but did not cause—the poisonous atmosphere that cultivated bigotry. Other emptiness, though, left aching vacuums, impossible to fill: deaths in the family—close friends who suddenly withdrew—the childhood home torn down and replaced by a a convenience store or a quick oil change shop—the abrupt transition from believing one had good friends to realizing they considered the relationship a casual, dispensable acquaintanceship. The palpable emptiness left by erasures leaves wounds. The wounds may heal into scars or they may refuse to form a transitional scab, leaving evidence that some vague, long-ago experiences were injuries that never healed. I could fill a book with explorations of my own erasures and the wounds left behind. But that might suggest the erasures were more consequential than they really were. Yet even the barely visible blemish, left by a shallow and superficial wound, is a mark…a scar…evidence of change wrought by experience. Differentiating between significant and insignificant erasures is difficult. Unless the effects of an erasure are clearly observable and obviously painful, perhaps it is better to leave them alone and let them adjust to a life that does not need them any more.

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Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
People who bite the hand that feeds them usually lick the boot that kicks them.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

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As I sit here, my eyes closed and my head bowed slightly, I could fall asleep quite easily. But I slept almost 12 hours last night, after going to bed early around 7 p.m. and waking at about 6:30 a.m.  I think I may be sleeping just to avoid the dullness of being awake. Television holds no interest. Reading will remain difficult until I have my eye repaired. And I am not sure reading will hold my attention long enough to warrant picking up a book. Aches and pains and other health-related matters, none sufficiently bad enough to merit medical intervention, are still annoying enough to make me think I might ask for something to numb the experiences. A mild ear ache, constantly dripping nose that bleeds in response to blowing it, headache, and various other physical complaints make me want, more and more, to be anesthetized for a few days just to get a respite from those damn annoyances. There, I’ve just verified it; I want to sleep so I do not have to experience the negatives of being awake. If I would just stop the chemo—or go back to different drugs—I suspect all my unpleasant symptoms would be gone within a week or two. But that respite probably would defeat the purpose of the treatments, so I shall persist for the moment. I might try to convince the docs to give me morphine, though…doses just strong enough to alleviate my mild pains and cause me to enjoy uninterrupted sleep. That effort, of course, would be futile. They would never go for it. Ach.

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If I had the energy to blow the leaves and acorns off my driveway, I would. Some people reading that sentence might think I have lost my mind…that I am suggesting I would bend down close to the concrete and huff and puff with a powerful breath to clear the detritus fallen from the trees. No, I may have lost my mind, but not to that extent. I would use a leaf-blower that emits a loud, obnoxious noise to do the work. Carrying the blower, though, and walking around the driveway would require more energy than I have. So, I’ll wait until the yard guys return; they will do it faster and more completely than I would, anyway. I might, though, blow the leaves and acorns off the back deck, though. Or I may not. No need to tidy up for guests.

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I radiate anger. Whether the world is the object of my anger or my rage is aimed at my reaction to the world are questions whose answers eludes me.

Brief, but brilliant, lightning flashes. Explosive crashes of thunder that seize control of the heavens and roll across the sky. Rain. Plain rain. Just a bit of water to moisten the bone-dry ground. There is no way to know whether those bolts of lightning will grow in frequency or energy. No way to predict whether thunder will slink away, losing its powerful, earth-shaking ability to frighten all the living creatures beneath it as its bellicose roars softens to incoherent, impotent silence. Pre-dawn darkness, amplified by a thick cover of clouds, offers no clues to the future of the storm. Predictions lacking evidence are simply bold projections, based on emptiness and the imposition of fear. Volcanoes are not “normal.” Hurricanes and tornadoes are not “normal.” But are they “natural?” Childbirth is a “natural” event, but is it “normal?” Or has childbirth been “abnormal” from the very beginning? Are volcanoes and hurricanes and tornadoes “natural” responses to “abnormal” events? Logic is missing from what we call “natural” and “normal” events. When there is no logic, there is no connection. So we invent one…comprised of witches who slaughter pumpkins. And we create monsters who live in urban tunnels, where they conduct hideous experiences involving innocent children and molten metals. And the witches sharpen scalpel blades before they scamper off into the forest for their castration expeditions…hunting just one target, a billionaire psychopath, a “breeder” whose associates are psychotic in the extreme. Happy Halloween!

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My physical weakness has surpassed its former levels. Or should I say it has plunged to levels not heretofore seen? Or felt? Today a friend is again taking me to an oncology appointment, where the medical staff will stab me in the chest to draw more blood. I hope they will extract the weakness that resides inside me, leaving me more powerful, more energetic, and more alert than I have been of late. I woke about every half hour last night. I feel like I could sleep for hours without interruption. But I felt that way last night, too; something (the need to pee…my guess) rousted me out bed. If I keep sleeping so damn much, my strength will wither. Would I rather sleep or retain my strength? Sleep seems to have an upper hand in this exchange.

Sleep is an escape; a refuge from all those prickly parts of reality that serve as reminders of the thorns that hide barely beneath comfortable, smooth surfaces. Yet even sleep cannot smooth the spikes. Sleep softens them just enough to make their points slightly more tolerable. A little less brutal. But still sharp and punishing. Still coated with defensive dust that burns like hot coals when their tips pierce the skin.

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The Global Peace Index (GPI), produced by the Institute for Economics & Peace (IEP), is a complex measure that takes into account military expenditures, internal security expenditures, private security economic outlays, homicides, suicides, and a long list of additional metrics. The 2020 global impact of violence, evaluated by examining the impact of violence as measured by the Lloyd’s Register Foundation World Risk Poll revealed attitudes toward risk and violence across 145 countries. According to IEP, “The experience of violence is highest in sub-Saharan Africa, where there are five countries where more than half of the population have had a recent experience of violence.” But the fear of violence was greatest among Brazilians, where 83 percent were worried about being a victim of violent crime. However, actual experience of violence is said to be greatest in Namibia; there, 63 per cent of the population experienced either serious harm from violence, or knew someone who had such an experience in the two preceding years. The most peaceful county, based on an amalgamation of measures, was Iceland; the countries that joined Iceland in its high ratings of peacefulness were New Zealand, Denmark, Portugal, and Slovenia. The least peaceful country: Afghanistan. The largest regional decline in peacefulness during the year preceding 2020, according to the IEP, was North America. The IEP reports that “The primary driver of this fall in peacefulness was a deterioration on the Safety and Security domain, especially in the United States, where growing civil unrest led to increasing perceptions of criminality and political instability, and more violent demonstrations.” The United States’ worldwide rank of peacefulness in the 2020 report was 122…just beneath Azerbaijan and just ahead of South Africa. Yet Americans are taught to believe that ours is the greatest country in the world. The evidence against such a bold and obviously erroneous claim is enormous. Instead of doing our damnedest to make it so, though, we insist on promulgating a lie so we can feel better about ourselves. How can we feel better about ourselves when we knowingly lie about who and what we are? It’s not just our rank on the Global Peace Index; it’s our insistence that truth does not matter, just as long as we convince ourselves to believe our own lies. We have enormous potential. Instead of living up to it, though, we satisfy ourselves by claiming our minimal adequacy is the greatest gift ever delivered to the rest of the world.

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There’s something about being awake and alone at 4 in the morning that forces me to acknowledge the truth about who we are…what our culture tells us about ourselves. We live in the land of opportunity, we say to ourselves; but most of us fritter away that opportunity by always  taking the easy way. It’s as if we feel we do not need to invest in ourselves—financially, intellectually, physically, even morally—because we think we have the innate right to demand we be treated like the royalty we choose to believe we are. In the process of insisting we be treated as if we deserve honor and respect and worship, we behave like useless fools without even the sense to laugh at ourselves.

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I received a few cards for my birthday, just over a week ago, including one which featured this printed image on the cover. A couple of others—fancy Jacquie Lawson e-cards featuring kinetic art and music—were a tad more “traditional” in message, but were delivered in a decidedly modern format. And, then, there were one or two traditional paper cards, delivered by the U.S. Postal Service. A number of birthday greetings launched from Facebook found their way to me, as well. No matter the format, nor the method of delivery, it’s nice to be remembered with birthday cards. I, who tend to use plain email or text messages to send birthday wishes (if I send them at all), should remember that more formality than a quickly-dashed-off message conveys greater heartfelt emotion. A message that obviously involves some preparatory thought, whether traditional or not, can deliver more meaning; more apparent affection.  But is that really true? Probably not. Simply remembering…or taking action upon being reminded…is enough. Still, I should make a bigger deal out of sending such celebratory acknowledgements. Will I? Only time will tell.

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Once again, I was awake long before 4 a.m. this morning. That is not surprising, given that I slept a good part of the day yesterday and went to bed before darkness fell last night. But the fact that already I am ready for a nap again—at 5:30 a.m.—is bothersome. My annual physical is scheduled for five and a half hours from now. Perhaps the doctor will be understanding. Maybe he’ll refrain from judging me for drifting off in the examination room. If I return to bed now and nap for four hours, I should have plenty of time to make it to the doctor’s office—after rousing myself from a deep and restful sleep. I showered not long before dark yesterday, so I should not have an offensive smell when I enter his office, as if I died young. This is doable. It is.

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The sky remains dark, much the way it was when I woke over and over and over last night. What animals, I wonder, are scurrying about just outside the doors and windows? Are they friendly, or are they full of rage and ready to tear at the screens? I will not attempt to find out. That effort would take more energy than I have available at the moment.

Whoever you are, I hope you read the paragraphs below. I wrote and published them on this blog on September 14, 2013. They represent the topics and the intensity of some of my writing in years past. They illustrate who I used to be; before my writing and I deteriorated into a memorial to sickness. When I wrote this post, just over eleven years ago, I had the ability to think; to express real ideas, rather than simply to whine about my misfortune. Of course, my thoughts at the time actually were not my own—but, at least, they recognized worthy thinking in someone else. This morning, after sleeping for roughly fifteen hours straight, I still could acknowledge thoughts that had some merit. Perhaps all is not lost.

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Yesterday, I went to a nearby branch of the Dallas Public Library to pick up a book I’d requested, Celebrating the Third  Place: Inspiring Stories about the “Great Good Places” at the Heart of Our Communities. I haven’t finished the book yet, but I’ve read enough to become enamored of several of the places described in the stories I’ve read: Annie’s Gift and Garden Shop in Amherst, Massachusetts; The Third Place Coffee House in Raleigh, North Carolina; Crossroads in Lake Forest Park, Washington; Horizon Books in Traverse City, Michigan; Old Saint George in Cincinnati, Ohio; and Square One Restaurant in San Francisco, California.  The book was published in 2001; some of these may places no longer exist (Square One doesn’t); what is important to me is that they did exist and that they met a need, a longing, for a place where people could find community and camaraderie and acceptance.

The concept of The Third Place has had deep appeal for me ever since I learned of Ray Oldenburg’s book, The Great Good Place.  In fact, I’ve been interested in the concept since long before I learned of Oldenburg’s book, but Oldenburg gave the idea a name, an identity.  Here, in a nutshell, are the characteristics of a Third Place:

It is neutral.  No one is obligated to be there and there is no financial tie to the place.
Conversation is a key activity, though not necessarily the only one.  The Third Place is a place people come to talk and to listen.
It is accessible and accommodating, easy to be there and get there.
There are plenty of regulars who spend time there, people who serve as hosts or guides to those new to the environment.
The Third Place is low key, relaxed, absent pretense. Everyone can feel comfortable.
The atmosphere is relaxed, the mood is playful.
It is warm, comfortable, and homey. It is a home away from home.

In the foreword to Celebrating the Third Place, Oldenburg says something about the need for third places, something I think would resonate with most of us:

We may not need third place association to build a town hall anymore, but we sorely need it to construct the infrastructure of human relationships. Ever since the solidifying efforts of World Ward II passed into history, Americans have been growing further apart from one another. Lifestyles are increasingly privatized and competitive; residential areas are increasingly devoid of gathering places. To the extent of our affluence, we avoid public parks, public playgrounds, public schools, and public transportation. (Emphasis is mine.)

I think Oldenburg nailed a key contributor to the growing isolation we feel in our society: our own success, our own affluence, is silently smothering our sense of community.  Why go to a public park when we can create a park-like setting in our own back yard?  Why take children to a public playground when we can entertain children with big-screen television and video games?  Why take public transportation when we can enjoy the convenience and luxury of our own cars?  Increasingly, we are choosing convenience over experience. Our own financial success is shredding our social fabric.  We associate only with those of like socio-economic status, sacrificing the intellectual and emotional growth and understanding that can and does occur when we truly become part of a community.

Oldenburg says something else in the foreword that gave me pause. He said: “Our society, alas, has become much like Tocqueville’s homeland, in which governmental agencies are expected to do whatever needs doing. Yet what government does is done remotely and impersonally; its focus is on our weaknesses and dependencies and its policies define us accordingly.” Given my very, very strong sense that government should do what needs doing, I initially reacted negatively to that idea.  But it occurs to me that often I want government to step in because the private sector does not, at least not in consistent, dependable ways.  The private sector–our community–is abandoning us and I am asking government to step in to do the job that “we” fail to do for ourselves.  I will not stop asking government to do that…I believe government should step in when “we” can’t or won’t do what should be done to ensure our society is just.  But, ultimately, I would prefer that we Americans work to reshape our society into one that is more democratic, caring, and cohesive.  That’s why I find the third place so appealing.

I’ve written several times about the third place, about wanting to create a third place where I live (wherever that ends up…we still don’t know where and when).  I know I can’t do it by myself and, in fact, I don’t want to; that would be anathema to the idea!  But I know I want to be a part of creating such a “place” whenever and wherever we “land” in  a place we can call home.  The idea is always on my mind. I’m always, always thinking about it.  Whenever I find a place with some of the characteristics of a third place, I find myself getting excited about it and I want to talk to the people involved in making the place what it is.  But I am well aware of the fact that there are plenty of imitators, people who create places that are meant to look like, but in fact are not really, a true third place.  So I always temper my excitement with a dose of skepticism.  Maybe that’s anathema to the concept, too, but I can’t help myself.  I want to find, and talk to, people who drank the koolaid, people whose interest in creating and sustaining a third place is more about community than about money.  And I’m always on the lookout for people who are willing to talk about and, perhaps, ultimately risk their own time and money, to create a third place.

I won’t tire of talking and writing about this.  One day. One day…

The human soul, according to certain anonymous and potentially reliable sources, is tiny—smaller than the smallest piece of glitter. That fact, coupled with the essentially infinite size of the universe, explains how it is that billions upon billions of people who have died since the emergence of humankind have not clogged “heaven.” Heaven is exactly the same size as the universe, you see, and offers plenty of room for all those miniscule pieces of glitter. Each human soul is afforded what we Earthlings would call a one thousand cubic acre plot to serve as our soul’s eternal resting place, after our bodies have evolved into the building blocks of forevermore. Those plots of space-time are more than adequate to provide eternity for the semi-souls of our pets, which explains how we expect to frolic with our long-dead dogs and cats after our own time has come. The interactions between post-mortem human souls is not as easy to explain, though, inasmuch as each of them (according to those anonymous and potentially reliable sources) is restricted to movement within the thousand-acres cubes. This ongoing, unanswered question is the subject of extensive research; to date, though, the answer remains an unsolved mystery.

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Speaking of heaven and such, I saw something yesterday I thought was quite a generous offering to a would-be dictator:
        Let us pray for him: Psalm 108: 8-9

Not being familiar with that particular Psalm (and the others), I looked it up:
        8. Let his days be few; and let another take his office.
        9. Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow.

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The hottest star in the universe is said to be WR 102, with an estimated surface temperature of 377,540°F. The star is located approximately 8,480 light years away in the constellation Sagittarius. Astronomers and astrophysicists say it is nearly 300,000 times brighter than the sun. A distinct relationship must exist between temperature, brightness, and distance; what that association is, though, confounds those of us untrained in such celestial matters.

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Once again, I went to bed early and slept only fitfully for much of the night. My gut noisily accompanied its mild discomfort and urged me to be ready, just in case I might be overcome by nausea. So far, so good. But when I got up, sometime after 6, I looked in the mirror to see a bloody nose. Apparently, sometime during the night, I got into a bar fight. And lost. I have never been much of a fighter. My only involvement in a true fight, that I remember, took place while I was in high school after a night of drunken revelry when my small group of friends stopped at a gas station. I found offensive something my friend, Mark, said to me, so I took a swing at him. He swung back…much harder. I still have a nearly-invisible scar, more than 50 years later, beneath my lower lip. I discarded the shirt I had been wearing because it was awash in blood from my wound. I do not think Mark and I repaired our friendship. I learned just a few years ago that he died several years later, after getting a Ph.D. in oceanography (I think) and forming a moderately successful pharmaceutical company. What my fight with Mark and Mark’s subsequent career and death have to do with my fitful sleep last night is beyond me. But there you go. That’s how the mind scurries down rabbit holes sometimes.

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I will not attend church this morning. The bloody nose and potential nausea argue against it. And I might be able to get the sleep this morning that I failed to get last night. Mi novia, though, will trot off to the sanctuary to listen to an insight service. It’s conceivable I might watch and listen online, but I’m making no promises to myself in that regard.

Tinnitus can be mind-numbingly annoying. Fortunately for me, it is not continual… though, lately, it seems to be increasingly common. Right now, for example, I hear sounds like crickets; thousands of loud crickets —probably drunk and looking for trouble—doing their damnedest to ruin any possibility of experiencing even a smidgeon of serenity. Crickets that should be crushed, poisoned, electrocuted, or otherwise silenced. Ever since I woke two hours ago, the noise has been a consistent buzz or rasp or chirp or whatever noise crickets make when their primary objective is to cause me to feel anger, grief, and a growing desire to stab both my eardrums with an icepick. Because of my distaste for pain and because I would rather hear something than nothing, I will not acquiesce to my absurd thoughts about inflicting on myself excruciating pain and perpetual deafness. The irritating insects, though, are not the only upsetting tinnitus noises. Fairly often, I hear the rhythmic pounding of my heart…thumping and thumping and thumping until I feel like screaming or physically removing the beating beast with a sharp knife and a pair of heavy-duty surgical retractors. Again, though, I always choose to live with the repetitive bass guitar playing in my ears, rather than to die in the throes of intense pain, with a scalpel stuck in my chest and a cold stainless steel instrument grasping at a non-functioning blood pump. In an attempt to deal with the disturbances in more peaceful ways, I am trying self-therapy—as in mentally restructuring my brain. I’ll try writing something mindlessly stupid; something that might cause readers (and myself) to believe I have gone over the edge…lost my mind…successfully performed a self-lobotomy.

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The story is that color photography was not possible until 1861, when the first color photograph was unveiled by Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell. That is the story. Reality says otherwise. The reason color photography was not possible until then was because color was not available until 1860. Until then, the world was almost entirely greyscale. That is the reason we see only black & white—greyscale—images in older photos. For a similar reason, we do not see any Buick 1904 Model B automobiles because, of the 37 built that year, none survived. Fourteen Buick Model Cs from 1905, which had a list price at that time of $1,200, still survive today; like color photographs, none were possible much earlier, because Buick Motor Company was not incorporated until 1903. As everyone knows, it has always been impossible to build Buicks before the company’s formal incorporation.

Facts and fantasies swim in the same oceans. If I were to show you a color photograph of a 1901 pink Buick, you would immediately recognize it—not as a fake, but as a fantasy. Yet you would not be sure whether my color photograph of a pink Buick of more recent vintage was real or artificial.

How do you tell which of two different versions of song lyrics is legitimately original?  Say, for example, two strings of words said to be from the Jimi Hendrix tune, Purple Haze:

Excuse me while I kiss the sky
Excuse me while I kiss this guy

The answer is so obvious I will not even waste your time, nor mine, to explain. Other variations between fact and fantasy are not quite as patently obvious. But some are. So, the message I send is this: do your research. Explore the possibilities. What is the earliest year in which Purple Haze could have been written? It is impossible to say with certainty, but with the knowledge that the world was almost entirely greyscale until 1860, 1860 is a safe bet. However, knowing that Jimi Hendrix wrote the song when he was  about 24 years old and that he was born in November 1942, it is impossible that the song was written before 1966. Logic, it seems, plays a part in differentiating between fact and fantasy, when reality is introduced into the equation.

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Yesterday’s energy dipped and then spiked. Earlier this morning, if a heart monitor had been attached to my chest, the device’s line would have zig-zagged like a seismograph recording a an earth-shattering earthquake. The second cup of espresso probably did nothing to smooth the line, but the caffeine in my system seems to have dwindled a bit over time. I feel the bursts of energy seeping out of me, leaving me ready for a little rest…perhaps even a nap.

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I am so very impatient to end this 10-month-so-far experience with the effects of lung cancer and its treatment. But the chemo will continue and radiation therapy soon will be added to the mix. The options, I suppose, would be to try “natural” therapies (with little or no evidence they work) or to stop therapy all together and let nature take its course. I am not prepared to do either. Other people have undergone treatments—far more difficult and life-altering—for years; prolonging and improving the quality of their lives. I, too, should be able to deal with whatever I must to successfully battle this interruption to my tranquility. I do not want it said about me, “He was a chicken-shit whiner who gave up without really trying.” Instead, I’d prefer it said, “Amazingly, he survived with cancer well over 40 years, winning the Boston Marathon for the last 10 of them. The fact that he lived to age 121 was an inspiration.” Of course, I would have to collect welfare for many of those latter years, so I may have to rethink this.

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Hmm. I seem to have walked away from my computer a few hours ago without posting what I wrote earlier this morning. Since then, I’ve gone to my blood-letting appointment, driven (yes, I DROVE) mi novia to a little bakery for baked goods (what else?), and had a welcome surprise visit from a friend who brought us spectacular goodies and wonderful conversation! A pretty packed morning for a frequently-fatigued geezer, I’d say. My anticipated energy boost has returned, so I’ll be ready for my post-chemo injection in a couple of hours. I feel like I’ve shed about 20 years! I must take advantage of my temporary youth while I can, before the poison cancer-killing chemicals reclaim me as their plaything.

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The patch of brilliant yellow and brown and chartreuse leaves I viewed less that a week ago, all on one tree across from my window, has changed. Essentially all the leaves on that tree have turned orange—accented with light green slivers. The rest of the forest snapshot remains various shades of green, interspersed with browning leaves. Fall is here, at least in part. But even the recent spike in temperatures is expected to decline again in the next few days, just in time to pair the look of Halloween with the feel of the season.

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I expected to feel rather energetic for a few days after yesterday’s chemotherapy treatment, as has been the case after previous ones. But this morning, my energy seems to be trending downward; not low, but heading in that direction. Perhaps it’s because I’ve had nothing to eat or drink since around 8 last night, in preparation for the fasting labs in a while, which in turn precede my annual physical next Tuesday. Aside from reaffirming the cancer diagnosis, I wonder what the doctor will discover? I can imagine him saying,

“You, sir, are suffering age-related degeneration! It’s time for you to give drunken sky-diving a whirl! Or might find considerable appeal in Formula 1 racing. Depending on your risk tolerance, you may want to explore dueling with live-round pistols. Something, anything, to drag you out of this physical funk—or whatever it is.“

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A calculator, which I have not used in a very long time, sits on the edge of my desk, taking up room unnecessarily. Next to it are two pen & pencil holders, filled with pencils and pens (of course), long with scissors, a highlighter, a screwdriver, and some small tools that were used to assemble a treadmill. Most of the contents, like the calculator, have not been used in quite some time. The rest of the desk is littered with paper for recycling, paper for filing, old and useless magazines, and assorted other materials and devices that belong somewhere else or nowhere at all. Clearing off the desk would not be an especially onerous task, but it would require me to make decisions to either discard or properly store the stuff. But that would be pointless, wouldn’t it? It would simply give me ample space to lazily place other unnecessary junk in my way. I need an infusion of permanent motivation. Perhaps I can persuade my oncologist to add some to the bags full of chemicals her staff causes to drip into my body every three weeks. The steroids, alone, seem to have lost their power.

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Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.

~ Carl Jung ~

Some mornings, I write a post for this blog from start to finish, as if the words were waiting impatiently to be released from the prison of my mind. More often, the words hide within my brain’s recesses, revealing themselves only after carefully assessing the potential dangers that might await them in the open. Occasionally, though, the words remain safely hidden in their protective caves, shielded from condemnations or complaints—declining to show themselves for fear of unpredictable recriminations. I wonder whether, then, this blog’s posts materialize (or fail to materialize) from the mind of just one man or, instead, emerge from distinct personalities that share a common residence. Evidence of the latter is scattered throughout this blog—conflicting opinions, incompatible emotions, and ideas that are at odds with one another. That sort of chaotic mix might be found—in more extreme cases—in a murderous pacifist who rejects both violence and peace. A person who, when not feeling utterly apathetic, loves and hates with equal intensity. This morning, I have taken several breaks from writing, pausing just long enough each time to switch personalities. This happens so often I have long since forgotten which one is the real me. If, indeed, any one of them can make a legitimate claim to reality.

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After mostly unsuccessful efforts to sleep last night, I finally rose for the day just before 4 a.m. I have been up for about an hour as I write this. My first, and possibly only, expresso of the day is gone. The cat has been fed, much earlier than usual. I’ve consumed a café mocha flavored Ensure, strongly encouraged for several months by my oncology care team and mi novia to help counter my tendency to skip eating. I am working on drinking artificially-flavored, electrolyte-laden water to counter my history of dehydration. The day, so far, is like most other days—except it has begun far earlier than usually has been the case for several months…but is typical of my life in the days pre-cancer. I miss those days when I was up every day by 4 or 5 when I felt a close kinship with the very early morning hours.

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A whirlwind of healthcare procedures and processes are in store, both for mi novia and for me. She has an appointment for labs this morning, in preparation for her annual physical. My labs, for my physical, are scheduled for tomorrow. Our respective physicals are on next week’s schedule—both on Tuesday. Today is another day of chemo treatment for me, meaning several hours in the oncology clinic’s treatment room. If the day-after schedule follows my history, I return to the oncology clinic for a post-treatment injection tomorrow. I return for another physical therapy session (yesterday was the first) on Monday. Our medical matters are not the only ones. My oldest brother’s wife soon will fly to the U.S. for assessment and treatment of two lumps in her breasts; my late wife’s sister has been diagnosed with a malignant lump and has scheduled a lumpectomy. Human bodies apparently are magnets for disease, especially as they age; hence the checkups and relentless treatments that command so much time and money. Were it not for excellent insurance coverage, both Medicare and supplemental policies, I would have long ago either used up every nickel of my retirement money—or died. Or both.

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Both of us voted early yesterday, casting our votes with the full knowledge that they express principles and positions that run counter to the vast majority of people around us…in this county, this state, and this region of the country. Not too terribly long ago, differing political philosophies rarely were enough to generate blind rage and heartfelt hatred. Times have changed, though. In some places—probably including this one where we live—one is not safe expressing minority political positions. Political philosophies define friends and enemies. Both sides of the left-right divide claim the other is populated by dangerous, un-American traitors who wish to utterly vanquish their opponents…to the point of wanting them imprisoned or dead. And both sides each make invalid claims, unwilling to recognize that their own seething hatred triggers the same in the other. Religion, often said to be an important factor in creating brotherly love, is instead used as a deadly weapon; a justification for conquest and control.  The only reliable solution, I think, is extinction. I would rather believe the animosity that is tearing us to shreds can be eliminated or controlled, but my faith in humanity is insufficient to support that belief. Which of the personalities holds that position, I wonder?

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Manic depressive. I think I understand the description better with every passing day.