John Swinburn

Invisible walls behave like cages with no space between their invisible steel bars. Are people contained inside those walls eager to break out and punish people presumed to have built them? Or were the walls erected by apprehensive inmates to safeguard against outsiders who may wish residents harm? Once constructed, invisible walls take on an aura of permanence. The only way to eliminate the border between fear and freedom is to deconstruct the wall, brick by invisible brick. Bar by invisible bar. Threat by perceived threat. Building invisible walls may take just minutes. The complex process of removing them piece-by-piece can take the remainder of a lifetime.

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Contrary to the way it is often described, good espresso is not black. It is extremely dark brown; a nearly opaque liquid beneath a thin surface layer of creamy deep beige foam. Its appearance, though, is no guarantee of its flavor or its quality. Even its aroma can be deceiving; a strong, appealing odor can hide a sharp, metallic bitterness. Good espresso’s bitterness is both rich and subtle—it has a hint of sweetness underlying its pleasant, acrimonious bite. This is just my opinion, of course. I am no expert. I am no connoisseur. Nor do I try to be. I pay attention to the flavor and smell; the way it feels in my mouth. An espresso I find extremely pleasing could be deemed undrinkable swill by afficionados. Let the afficionado or expert judge me. Let them mock me, if they consider me to have an untrained, uneducated, hillbilly palette. One day I might look back at my judgments today of espresso and think unkindly of my taste buds; that’s okay. For at least 50 years—maybe closer to 60 years—I loathed the flavor of licorice. Suddenly, though, one day I tasted a salty Dutch licorice and was instantly transformed; I wanted to go back in time and taste licorice during all those years I detested it. Before I fell in love with the taste of what I consider good espresso, I did not enjoy espresso in the least—I found it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. In years past, I liked having an occasional Compari—no longer; I find it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. And that may change one day.

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My strength has diminished considerably during the last ten months. During the same period, I have lost quite a lot of weight (I am down an astonishing 75 pounds from my peak weight of a few years ago). The recent weight loss has come, in large part, from loss of muscle; not so much from the loss of fat. The reduction in muscle coincides with my declining strength. My oncologist referred me to a physical therapist. The purpose is to help me regain my strength and muscle. Today will be my first session with the therapist. Tomorrow will be my umpteenth chemotherapy session at the oncology clinic. I doubt I will feel inclined toward physical therapy next week, inasmuch as the chemo sessions tend to sap my energy. But time will tell, as it always does. I certainly would like to regain all the strength I have lost (and then some), but none of the weight. I’d like to lose the flab and fat. I’d like to have the toned and sculpted muscles of a 25-year-old Olympic swimmer/ sprinter/weightlifter. I’d settle for a less, if necessary.

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Today is my niece’s birthday. As long as I can remember my own birthday, I will remember hers; it’s two days and many, many years after mine.

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Thanks to being entertained by watching police procedurals and other films and videos  involving murder, I am familiar with the linkage between murder by strangulation and the hyoid bone. Coroners on these shows often deduce that a person was murdered by strangulation if the hyoid bone is broken. For your information, the hyoid bone is (according to Wikipedia) a “horseshoe-shaped bone situated in the anterior midline of the neck between the chin and the thyroid cartilage.”

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Celebrate today; it is the only October 23, 2024 you will live to see.

The oncologist who has been treating me seemed generally pleased with the results of my most recent PET-scan, which revealed a reduction in the standard uptake value (SUV) of some of the “regions of interest.” The SUVs of a cluster of sub-centimeter left periaortic lymph nodes, though, had increased. SUVs greater than 2.5 (all of mine are greater than that) are highly suggestive of malignancy, so the war is still on. But the decrease in values suggests the chemo is working, so the same combination of chemo drugs will continue. True to her promise yesterday morning, the doctor consulted with a radiologist about the prospect of using radiation to deal with the sub-centimeter left periaortic lymph nodes; she called last night to tell me the radiologist confirmed the wisdom of using radiation on them—she will schedule it. Ideally, of course, the cancer would be eliminated by the chemo; but the positive response to the treatments is good news. Still, I want to know whether these findings have any effect on “staging.” That’s a question for the next conversation.

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My late wife’s sister, who remains a very close member of my family, baked an exceptionally tasty apple pie for my birthday yesterday. She brought it over, along with vanilla ice cream, yesterday afternoon. She, mi novia, and I celebrated my continuing aging (and the good oncological news) with one slice each of pie à la mode; I was proud that each one of us had sufficient discipline to stop at one slice, though I could have eaten the entire pie and all the ice cream without their help.

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Science is responsible for humans’ assumption that bees’ (for example) behavior is controlled genetically, not intellectually. But what if science is wrong? What if, due to humans’ inadequate or incorrect understanding of the fundamentals of insects’ brains, we have it all wrong? What if bees, mosquitos, ants, beetles, and all their close and distant relatives are at least as intelligent as humans and are waiting for just the right time to launch an all-out assault on humanity’s control of the planet? It would surprise us, no doubt, to discover that cicadas long ago solved the challenges related to nuclear fission. We would be equally stunned to learn that, during the 30-to-60-day life cycles of honey bees, they document and publish practical instructions for applying the physics of winged flight to 2000-pound steers. And that might be only the beginning. The superior brainpower of lizards and snakes, long considered by humans as the Neanderthals of the reptilian world, could be unleashed to implement unspeakable developments in molecular biology. Earthworms and slugs might be enlisted to undermine the foundations of all the world’s high-rise buildings, leading to unprecedented disasters…imagine a cluster of 225-story buildings collapsing on top of hundreds of older, smaller buildings around them. And it might only get worse. It is too late to offer parity to our close cousin apes and monkeys and to all non-primates. They do not want equality; they insist on dominion…absolute domination.

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Cellophane was invented by Swiss chemist Jacques E. Brandenberger in 1900, while attempting to create a cloth material that would repel, instead of absorb, liquids. During the course of his efforts, he discovered that viscose would repel liquids, but the fabric to which it was applied became stiff. Over time, he abandoned the idea of a liquid-proof fabric, opting instead to focus on softening viscose film by adding glycerin. Cellophane, so named by combining the words cellulose and diaphane, was patented in 1912. I stumbled upon this information quite by accident when searching Wikipedia for something entirely unrelated. And I learned that cellophane is biodegradable. It seems to me that subsequent discoveries, leading to what we now call plastic wrap, have largely replaced a biodegradable product with one that persists in the environment for approximately ten bazillion years.

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Truth exists on a different axis from falsehood. Both, though, share the concept of a circular continuum…but on perpendicular planes.

Overnight, a few people from my high school graduating class—people I only vaguely remember and who probably do not actually remember me—wished me happy birthday, thanks to a Facebook group administrator who kindly and dutifully posted a reminder. He posts birthday reminders for members of the class, as well as old obituaries on the anniversaries of those who have died. Lately, a few members of the group have posted questions and comments about whether a 52-year reunion of our graduating class should be held—reunions were held to celebrate the 10, 20, 30, and 40 year anniversaries, but not for 50. For various reasons, I have attended none of the reunions. And I have had almost no contact with my high school classmates since graduation. My so-called high school friendships were shallow and disappointing. Why I am even remotely curious to know the turns taken in the lives of fellow students since then is beyond my understanding.

When I started writing the first paragraph, darkness had begun slipping away, revealing spots and streaks of daylight where the sun had already begun to melt the night sky. In the time it has taken me to write this much, the horizon has brightened to a milky-beige. Higher in the sky, the color is closer to a very light, dull grey-blue, with grey decidedly predominant. I just returned to this paragraph to update my observations about the sky; it is now pale blue, the color of a robin’s egg.

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The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.

~ Pablo Picasso ~

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A few weeks ago, I saw photographs of several elaborate sand sculptures created as entries into a competition on the beach in Port Aransas, Texas. The images were stunning—intricately crafted figures created by exceptional artists. All of the sand sculptures are no doubt long gone now, washed away by high tides and waves. I would think the artists would be sad to see their creations dissolved into the water, but a comment by one of the artists that I recall reading suggested otherwise. To that artist—and probably others—the act of creating the sculpture was satisfaction enough. There was no need for the art to be preserved; having made it was sufficient for the creator. I admire that attitude.

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There is no kidding myself; I am a little nervous about today’s visit with the oncologist. Though I expect interpretations of the results to be mixed between slightly positive and slightly negative, my reading of the PET-scan report could be completely wrong. I should push those thoughts out of my head; I should know in less than two hours. There’s no point in worrying at this stage. That argument is as valid as the one insisting the condemned man should look on the bright side, as the guillotine blade slices through the air on its way to his throat.

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An orange-cranberry scone, accented by another cup of espresso, would please my taste buds at this moment. Unfortunately, it’s my understanding that the only place I know of that used to sell such delights, Starbucks, no longer offers them. My espresso is better than theirs, but I doubt I could replicate the texture and flavor of their orange-cranberry scones. I think the last time I had one of those delightful, joy-inspiring products was at a Starbucks in Dallas, where I stopped for a break when I took my long morning walks.

This morning’s news of Philip G. Zimbardo’s death one week ago at age 91 reminded me of the controversy surrounding the Stanford Prison Experiment. In the experiment, Zimbardo and a team of his graduate students recruited college-aged males to participate in what was planned to be a two-week experiment. The young men were to spend that time in a mock prison in the basement of a building on the Stanford campus. After just six days, the experiment was terminated because the men playing the role of guards became psychologically abusive and the “prisoners” suffered a variety of unexpected emotional reactions. Zimbardo was roundly criticized for the fact that he participated in the study, serving as the “superintendent,” an active participant in the experiment and not simply a neutral observer.  Psychology and sociology classes I took during that period spent significant amounts of time reviewing the study and critiques of the way it was carried out. Despite its flaws, the abandoned study offered fascinating insights into the powerful effects that assigned roles can have on participants. It gave clues, as well, to the ways in which prison environments can transform individuals’ behaviors in very short periods of time. The experiment spurred other research, as well, that led to all manner of questions and answers concerning psychology and sociology, in general. I think the questions and discussions surrounding the ethics of Zimbardo’s experiment may have been among the topics that ignited my interest the social sciences and prompted my decision to get a degree with a major in sociology. That and the fact that one of my brothers had already followed that path, with a master’s degree in sociology, focusing on criminology. Another brother’s involvement in linguistics sparked my interest in that discipline, as well. I wonder whether I had any interests of my own during my college years or whether, wanting to latch onto something, I gravitated toward their interests? Hmm. Food for thought and fuel for musings.

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Physical energy and psychological energy probably are closely linked to one another, but each may exist on its own, to some extent. Physical energy may not rely heavily on psychological energy, but I doubt the reverse is true; psychological energy almost certainly depends on adequate supplies of physical energy. If I were asked to define those two forms of energy, I probably would stumble and admit my understanding of them is incomplete. Pushed further, I might admit I do not know that they are different from one another. In fact, I might reveal that I know absolutely nothing about them…even whether they exist, except in my own mind. The difference between knowledge and belief is stark; one is based on a person’s understanding/perception of measurable observations—the other requires no evidence whatsoever. When I write, I  tend to allow my words to wander in the same way my thoughts wander. Hence, the sometimes difficult-to-follow (for the reader) connections between the ideas I record. Because my fingers cannot keep up with my thoughts, my writing may seem to be embedded with gaps between apparently unrelated ideas. On the other hand, when my thoughts slow to the speed of cold molasses, my fingers may try to fill in the empty spaces with incoherent splashes of language. That is why, on the road to understanding, the shoulders often seem caked with mud.

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A few years ago, I began writing a story that involved mermaids swishing their tails to propel them through the leaf litter on the forest floor. These mermaids were forest mermaids, not the kind we read about that use their tails to swish through water. Like so many other dozens…more likely, hundreds…of stories I have begun, this story about forest mermaids has never been completed. So many unfinished stories remain in my head, waiting to be released into the wild when the time is right. Will the time ever be right?

Looking out my windows, I see a canvas of multiple shades of green, all protected from direct sunlight by shadows of the house and the trees behind it. But my eyes are drawn to a patch of brilliant yellow and brown and chartreuse leaves, accentuated by rays of bright sunlight that makes its way through the shadows. Strips of blue sky show through the dense woods in front of me. All of this is a replay; I have seen it all before. No matter how common, though, the scene always is equally calming and breathtaking. Every time I rest my eyes on the repetitive beauty in front of me, I sigh in appreciation, I suppose, or wonder, or both. Just now, I watched a large, withered yellow leaf drop from one of the highest branches, twisting in the breeze. Rays of direct sun briefly caught it on its trip down, making it appear to sparkle magically as it made its way to the ground. Another leaf just danced down to the forest floor, mimicking that first remarkable display. I feel fortunate to have seen that mundane spectacle…a reward of sitting and staring out the window.

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A summary of the results of yesterday’s PET-scan were posted, within a few hours of its completion, on the oncology clinic’s portal. I carefully read every word, hoping to understand, before my appointment on Monday, what my doctor would learn from the results. I might as well have been reading War and Peace in the original Russian, along with an occasional paragraph in Tagalog. My guess, after wading through a full page of abstruse messaging, is that there is some good news and some not-so-good news. That guess may be utterly off-base; my prognosis may give me a dependable ten years or more…or the potential of only months. I will have to wait until Monday morning to know…and, even then, I suspect the scan’s mixed messages (if, indeed, that’s what they are) may make it impossible to predict the course of the disease. Certainty is not assured.

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Preservation of one’s own culture does not require contempt or disrespect for other cultures.

~ Cesar Chavez ~

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Before she left on her brief trip, and at my request, mi novia bought a couple of bags of frozen cooked shrimp. I thawed some last night and ate them with a very mild dipping sauce. It occurred to me while enjoying them that they represented my second seafood meal of the day, having stopped for a late lunch of lobster bisque after the PET-scan. And seafood was a topic of conversation during part of the drive home…or was that the day before…or both? Whenever the discussion(s) took place, the conversation included praise for flounder and scallops and shrimp. And my thoughts turned to a recent appetizer meal that included calamari steaks. I have always enjoyed seafood, but lately I seem to have developed an even greater appreciation for it, while simultaneously finding beef and chicken not quite as appealing as they once were. Mussels and clams and oysters and all sorts of fish are special treats for me. The problem with eating all such creatures and beasts is that they are sentient. Whether farmed or wild, they are killed to satisfy human appetites. The morality of such behavior is debatable; but do people question the “morality” of lions “brutally” killing water buffalos for food? Do we question the morality of feeding animal-based diets to pets? I have trouble arguing either for or against the human morality of consuming “meat” of whatever kind. As difficult as it is to imagine the agonizing slaughter of antelope by hungry leopards, though, I do not think of those felines as immoral. The manner of raising livestock and slaughtering them for food, though, is a moral issue, in my mind. Is it sufficiently difficult to think about, though, to spur me to make the effort to ensure that I eat only “ethically-produced” meat? On one hand, I do not consider myself a hypocrite; on the other, I do.

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It is nearing 10 a.m. My dawdling is becoming a refined habit.

Yesterday, the ophthalmologist diagnosed my vision problems as anterior basement membrane dystrophy. His proposed “fix,” beginning with my left eye, is to perform a superficial keratectomy. Superficial keratectomy involves surgically removing and smoothing the corneal surface of the eye.  According to the doctor, the solution is almost always successful. The right eye, suffering from the same condition but not as severe, would follow the successful healing of the left. After I returned home yesterday, when I did some research about the condition, I learned the condition is also called map-dot fingerprint dystrophy, a diagnosis I received when experiencing similar symptoms several years ago, quite a while before I moved to Hot Springs Village. At the time, eye drops alleviated the symptoms. Recently, when I visited a local optometrist, I mentioned to her that years-ago-experience and told her of the earlier diagnosis. Until yesterday, I did not realize the badly degraded vision in my left eye and the accompanying itch were simply a new iteration of an old problem. The initial recovery from the procedure general takes 3 to 7 days and complete healing can take 6 to 8 weeks. I scheduled the procedure for next month; the problem has been wrecking my vision for a long time and I am more than ready for a solution. Assuming the results of today’s PET-scan are good, I will keep next month’s appointment for the procedure.

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Freeway traffic, especially during the commute rush, tends to be an anxiety-inducing experience for me—even in and around Little Rock. The tension arising from bumper-to-bumper, high-speed, automotive near-entanglements causes my neck, shoulders, chest, and arms to tighten. The tightness remains for a while, even after leaving the unsettling experience behind me. I was delighted, therefore, when my wonderful friend offered to drive the “back road” to Little Rock yesterday for my appointment with an ophthalmologist. Instead of the nerve-wracking, high-speed drive on I-30, she took the almost-traffic-free route on Highway 9 to an equally peaceful, tree-lined country into west Little Rock. The difference in my state-of-mind between traveling the high-stress course versus the low-stress itinerary had an enormous impact on how I felt upon arrival. The fact that I did not have to drive yesterday, even on a country back-road, also helped my frame of mind considerably.  Sometimes, wisdom and serenity are almost indistinguishable.

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Another friend will give me a ride to today’s PET-scan appointment today. Though I am confident I would be more than capable of driving myself, there is no question my ongoing fatigue could have a negative impact on my response time and my mental sharpness, if I did. So I am more than a little grateful that I am able to depend on her generosity and willingness to give up her own time to make my day quite a bit easier. I think I am finally reaching the point of understanding the truth in what I am told: “Do not look at it as an imposition…your friends want to help you.” I know I feel strongly about wanting to help friends; I am not quite sure why I have always been hesitant to accept help, thinking it an imposition on others.

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Until announcements of his death spread like wild fire through news and entertainment media, I do not think I had ever heard of Liam Payne, nor his former band, One Direction. I have no doubt his fall from a Buenos Aires hotel balcony was a catastrophic blow to his family, friends, and fans, but I wonder why the media pounced on the tragedy with such force and volume. The reason probably rests in the fact that consumers of media seem to have a ravenous appetite for morbidity. Consequently, the media happily obliges the public with all the gruesome details of airliner crashes, celebrity deaths, wars, mass shootings, murders, ad nauseum. And the public’s hunger for such distasteful news gives the media reason to dig up as much of it as possible. But why do people seem to have so much deep fascination with such emotionally distressing stuff? If I knew the answer, could I do anything to change human nature so people would recoil at such news, rather than revel in it? I am afraid not. I sometimes wish I were not part of the same species that finds the revolting so compelling.

The final, anxiety-ridden weeks before the upcoming presidential election feel like the terrifying moments between a high-speed skid on a dark, wet, slippery highway and the subsequent, inevitable crash. By the time the sounds of grinding metal and shattering glass can be heard, an eternity has passed. After silence embraces the carnage, survivors—if there are any—need a few seconds to process what has happened. And then the long, uncertain future begins. Anxiety takes a different form; time slows to an agonizing crawl. Prospects for tomorrow become cloudy. The path forward becomes precarious, unpredictable, insecure. No matter the ultimate outcome, the immediate future promises pervasive bleakness. The election, like the calamity on the road, does not immediately end. Vote counts and recounts and challenges may go on for days…weeks…or longer. Hospitalizations, rehabilitations, and funerals play out in slow motion after the crash. And we do it all to ourselves.

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I will be a passenger on the road to Little Rock this morning, thanks to the gracious generosity of a friend. She has agreed to do the driving so I do not have to determine whether I am capable of making the trip by myself. Though I probably could do it, I do not feel like trying and discovering I am wrong. I hope the ophthalmologist, who specializes in corneal issues, can quickly identify and solve my problem. The vision in my left eye is extremely blurred. Not ideal for driving, nor reading, nor watching television, nor other vision-dependent activities. We shall see.

On Monday, I will get the results of tomorrow’s PET-scan. With good fortune, the results will reveal that my chemo treatment is working as hoped and planned. So many things go right so often; but knowing the potential for “things” to go badly wrong is enough to amplify gratitude when there’s good news and magnify the disappointment when the news is bad.

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The appeal of desolate places is difficult to understand and much harder to articulate. But for people who are drawn to distance—the privacy of insulating space—the allure is strong and incredibly obvious. Part of the attraction involves numbers; the fewer people in close proximity, the better. Up to a point, but not to the point of absolute isolation. Except that absolute isolation is the point from time to time. Yet, for most people who deeply value solitude, camaraderie is as important—camaraderie in the sense of very small numbers of other people who are extremely close. A small group—perhaps as small as one—of others with whom one is comfortable in sharing intimate details of one’s thoughts and emotions. Crowded cities are not conducive to the kind of desolation these people seek. Prairies and private, hidden refuges separate from the frenetic activities of throngs of people are better suited to such people. The world in which we live is geared toward social engagement, though. The privacy of insulating space is increasingly difficult to find; those places are harder to reach. So adjustments are forced on those not-so-social beings. Weekend getaways. Vacations to decidedly unpopular destinations. Retreating into one’s own private domain. Anything that permits escape from the mental and emotional pressure of engagement for a little while. That need for escape does not indicate that a person is anti-social or desires permanent solitude…he or she may thoroughly enjoy limited social interactions. Escape simply provides relief from the constant bombardment of life in an overly-social world. Temporary relief is better than no relief at all. The price of relief can be loneliness, but loneliness often accompanies the swirl of engagement, as well. Solutions can solve one problem and exacerbate another, thanks to the complexity of human emotional needs. Balance, the supposedly ideal solution, is a theory seldom proven.

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Enough of this morning musing. For now.

Inside the house, 71°F feels cold. I can only imagine that, outside, the temperature of 48°F must feel positively frigid. The HVAC unit remains on the “cooling” setting, but the air temperature indoors needs no downward adjustment. I am tempted to switch the system to “heating,” but in this in-between-season, I might frequently have to change it back and forth to match the circumstances. Perhaps switching the system off, instead, would make more sense. Maybe a pair of gloves and a sweatshirt on top of the sweatshirt I am wearing would be even better. And it’s past time that I abandon the flip-flops in favor of foot-warming slippers. I am old. I am not in the best of health. It is, therefore, natural for me to feel cold, even when the temperature is a balmy 71°F. I was comfortable in bed a while ago. Why did I desert it? Competing interests, with the desire to begin my day winning out over luxurious warmth: that’s what prompted me to get up. I may be in the process of changing my mind.

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Turkeys appeared in the forest near our house for the first time in a number of months. We saw six large, plump turkeys yesterday morning. ‘Tis the season, I suppose. Why do I see the creatures only “in season?” That question prompted me to explore, ever-so-briefly, for an answer. My guess was that the answer lies in their food foraging habits. The answer I found, on the wildturkeylab.com website, satisfied me:

…when the leaves start turning colors, wild turkeys typically shift their home ranges. This shift comes as turkeys enter winter flocks and focus their attention solely on food and safety. Fall foods are dominated by acorns in forested landscapes and waste grain in agricultural landscapes.

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“My church doesn’t approve of assisted suicide and yours probably doesn’t, either.” So said my attorney, after I told her I do not want to be placed in a nursing home as I near the end of my life and that I want to be able to take pills or otherwise end my life on my own terms. I did not tell her I do not care what her church, or mine, might think of such a decision. Nor did I say such a decision is entirely personal and the church has no business “approving” of it or not. I could have challenged her…but what would have been the point? She is free to accept, or to reject, whatever position to which she feels inclined. Clearly, though, she and I have different positions on the matter. Does it matter? No. Not as long as she does not attempt to impose her view on me. And vice versa…except it’s hard for me to say there is any legitimate moral justification for preventing someone from ending their life, if that life would be physically or emotionally excruciating. Best for me to stay out of the fray, methinks. I should go on record (if I haven’t done so already) that I want to be cremated after I die (but not before!). Or kicked to the curb as food for vultures. Or used for medical research. Or otherwise disposed of as cheaply as possible. I do not expect to care, after I die. So do with me what you will; it matters not.

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Due to a change in the oncology center’s schedule, I have no appointments today and tomorrow. Hallelujah! And thanks to good friends who have graciously interrupted their days to drive me to and from medical appointments on Thursday and Friday, I need not worry about whether I am fit to drive myself (mi novia has important obligations on those days, else she would drive, as usual). I consider myself extremely fortunate to have such truly generous, giving, helpful, caring friends.

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Darkness prevails outside my windows. In spite of the fact that I chose to venture out into the cold house when I woke this morning, I am now thinking about returning to bed, to that warm, comfortable cocoon. Thinking hard about doing that.

Sitting in the front row of a monstrous hotel ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of youthful FBI agents of every color and gender, I felt out of place. Sensing my discomfort, two agents—who looked to me to be no more than eighteen or nineteen years old—took me under their wings. But only briefly. During a short break in a presentation, both of them left their seats to flirt with female counterparts. Among the female agents was my late wife, who was sitting somewhere in the multitude of law enforcement children. She had just been hired; this event represented her first exposure to FBI culture. I scanned the audience for her amid the ocean of faces, but the sheer numbers made it impossible to differentiate one face from another. I decided to call her, instead. But she called me first and left a voice mail: “I’m going for a walk. Back in an hour or so.” For some reason, I had to leave and could not wait that long, so I tried to call her back. But my phone was exceptionally complex and I could not figure out how to make the call. To avoid disrupting the people around me, I left the ballroom and tried again in an empty corridor outside.

Just as I began fiddling with the phone, an FBI agent approached me, pleading to use my phone. I told him I had an urgent call to make, so he could not. He continued badgering me and I relented. But instead of making a call, he chatted with a woman who had joined him. I shouted for him to give me my phone. He drew it close and said it would take just a moment. “I lost my phone,” he said, “and I have to call headquarters.” I did not care. I demanded he release it. He jumped inside an elevator, whose doors had just opened. I followed. I seized my phone and scrambled away to another empty corridor in a distant part of the hotel.

There was more, of course. But the rest of the dream is shrouded in an odd fog, gritty like sand and awash in the stench of a stagnant backwater filled with the rotting corpses of sea creatures. “Sea death,” I remember thinking, “oceanic fatalities.”

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The weather has turned, with promised temperatures not reaching 80°F until October 23, and then barely touching that level for only four days. I feel like I am missing autumn; the entire season will be gone before I know it. Temperatures that once felt luxuriously cool are now uncomfortably cold. I attribute that to my chemo, but my weight loss could be responsible. Or, of course, it could be both…or something else entirely. My three pairs of blue jeans—purchased not long ago to replace the ones that slipped to my knees if I did not wear suspenders—have followed their predecessors’ behavior. I attribute that to the weight loss; it certainly is not the chemo…though the chemo probably is playing a role in the weight loss. This morning, as I dressed in preparation for a visit with the estate attorney, I found I could not cinch my new belt tight enough to keep the jeans from falling down after a few steps. Back to suspenders. Dammit. I am not slim, though. Just un-muscled with layers of fat protecting those shriveling threads of power.

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Mi novia just reminded me to hurry up…eat something quickly. The meeting is at 8:00 a.m. and it’s approaching 7:25 a.m. Okay. I will stop now.

There is nothing of consequence I want to share at the moment. Three days of intermittent round-the-clock sleep has done nothing to restore my energy. So, I’ll try to sleep some more, in the hope a continuation of the same will have different results.

I sat at the table, just off the kitchen, gazing absent-mindedly at the trees outside the windows. The forest view, which had seized my attention from the first time I saw it, was no longer as captivating as in the past. Trees that once mesmerized me had become common; uninspiring stalks of wood dressed in dull green and earth tone foliage. Leaves, turning brown and muted yellow as the season started to change, were devoid of the brilliant reds and oranges that, not so very long ago, I anticipated with gleeful enthusiasm. Everywhere I looked—inside, outside, walls, ceilings, the sky, the floor—the scene was similarly drab and flat and dreary. That is, until I looked down, where the back of my hands rested on the table.

The palms of my hands sparked a memory from my childhood. Some of the kids I played with had declared themselves palm-readers. One of them—I do not recall who—announced that two normally distinct lines on my palms merged into a rare single line, which had deep meaning. Though I do not recall what he said about the meaning, I recall claiming to reject such juvenile superstition while, secretly, being fascinated by what this rare physical defect might actually predict about me. That youthful embrace of the possibility that palm line superstitions could actually forecast my future have long since dissolved. But that memory at the kitchen table and the vaguely murky scenery around me at that moment combined to briefly resurrect in me the gullibility or, perhaps, desire to rely on “signs” to forecast the direction of my life. That short return to childish naïveté lasted long enough for me to think about a few episodes of my life and wonder whether I should have known to expect them to unfold as they did…if only I had listened more carefully and remembered the predictions or declarations or whatever was given to me.

My senses returned to me soon thereafter. I realize the dull emptiness in which I was submersed as I sat at the table probably played a role in dredging up that odd memory. Now, I wonder whether my mind will replay all these thoughts whenever I allow the world around me to feel flat or stale or colorless.

Recovery from physical tiredness is quicker and easier than revitalizing the energy depleted by mental fatigue. Generally a refreshing shower and a bit of rest, after back-breaking physical exertion, will restore sapped energy. Mental exhaustion, though, seems to take up residence in one’s body and brain, requiring considerable time—and a psychic crowbar—to unseat it from its seemingly immoveable anchor. Yet sleep sometimes helps loosen the grip of mental malaise. But sometimes sleep deepens the sense that one’s brain is in full-on, though utterly ineffective, rebellion against unbeatable forces. In those instances, sleep demands more sleep…and more sleep demands even more. Yesterday afternoon, I wanted sleep—just a little—to clear the cobwebs cluttering my mind. Two hours, I thought, would be more-than-adequate. So, at 5:45 p.m., after a trip to the oncologist followed by a late lunch, I decided to take that nap. This morning, at around 3:45 a.m., I woke for my second or third pee-break of the wee hours; I did not return to bed. The two hour nap had morphed into ten hours of sleep, filled with upsetting dreams about which I remember nothing. After I woke, I hoped my lengthy sleep had broken the malaise. No, I found I still felt mentally spent and wanting more sleep. Christ! From experience, I know that would simply exacerbate the situation. I do not know what might drag me away from that cycle. Well, at least sleep might provide a barrier to dwelling on the matter. I’ll think about it. First, perhaps, I should try to understand what has made me feel mentally drained.

+++

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just empty air.

The idea of sleeping for weeks at a time appeals to me. Turning off the world so I could hibernate, peacefully and dreamlessly and utterly unaware, seems so incredibly inviting. There must be some kind of prescription drugs that could satisfy that desire; the key obstacle, aside from not knowing what drug it is, would be doctors’ reticence to prescribe it. I suspect many doctors might be willing to make the drug available if they were guaranteed protection from lunatics who claim the right to control the actions of other people. I am of the opinion that I should have absolute sovereignty over my body and mind—no one else’s, just mine.

+++

Yesterday morning’s power interruption served as a reminder that “always” reliable electric service can disappear in an instant. I was on a Zoom birthday call with family, in celebration of my brother’s birthday, when my computer monitor went blank. A second later, it recovered for another second—only to go dark again. In a matter of just a few seconds, the cycle repeated itself two or three times, before the screen stayed dark. A short while later, I received texts and email messages from Entergy, the electricity service provider, informing me that the outage impacted 5,103 customers; the company estimated power would be restored by 1:30 p.m.. By then, I would be at my oncologist’s office, a bag of IV fluids attached to a needle in a port in my chest. When I returned home, the power would have been restored. All would be well in my insular little world. Bah.

Any disruption in the power supply to my house is cause for at least mild concern…my thoughts instantly turn to the possibility of spoiled food in the refrigerator and freezer, room temperatures fluctuating out of my control, and—if the outage might last into the night—inconvenient darkness. Yesterday, though, the chaos brought about by Hurricanes Helene and Milton, tempered my worries. I thought of the people in the six states battered by Helene, whose loss of power was far worse than simple worries. And the soon-t0-be victims of Milton, whose lives would be disrupted within hours. In those cases, the lack of electricity would pale in comparison to lethal winds, rushing flood waters, loss of potable water, dwindling food supplies, and countless other life-threatening (or life-ending) circumstances. My brief experience with a loss of power was not worth even a fleeting thought.

+++

We went out with friends yesterday afternoon for an early dinner on the deck of a nearby lakeside restaurant. My dinner of two appetizers—fried green tomatoes and sliced calamari steak with Thai chili sauce—was almost too much. By the time we returned home, I was more than tired; I just wanted to drift into unconsciousness. I had planned to try the Zoom call again last night, but opted to postpone it until this morning. The IV fluid drip, which I had expected to restore my energy, did not come through as I hoped. I was in bed by 8:30, sleeping off and on between pee breaks and the unpleasantness of waking to the discomfort of mouth sores. One (or both) of the chemicals from the recent chemotherapies causes the sores. The Miracle Mouthwash, prescribed by the oncologist to alleviate the pain, works but only for a couple of hours at a time. Damn, all I do is bitch and moan about my discomfort. If I had been through the devastation of Helene or Milton, I would have a real, legitimate reason to complain.

+++

My keychain has keys that mean nothing to me. What are those extra, meaningless keys for? They probably are useful, working keys; but I do not recall what some of them are or why I carry them. That experience has been with me my entire life. I seem to collect keys until, after an inordinately long time has passed, I finally give up on knowing anything more about them…and I discard them. Keys are permanent reminders of one’s distrust of unknown—or known—criminals. We would not need keys if strangers could be trusted. And what about friends? We willingly give keys to our homes to people in whom we feel confident in placing our trust. But we do not give keys, willy-nilly, to every one of our friends. That reality is offensive to me; both as a non-recipient of friends’ keys and a non-giver of keys to all my trusted friends. Locksmiths’ businesses are built on fear and distrust. So are alarm system businesses; keys are not adequate…we have to try to call attention to people who outsmart locks…we seek to call out the criminals among us who know how to bypass deadbolts. When our fears get out of hand, we hide weapons or hire security guards or mercenary soldiers to protect us from the growing crowds of friends and neighbors who would seek to steal from us or take our lives. This world we have created is a dark, dangerous place. No wonder I have so damn many keys.

Today is my eldest brother’s birthday—a notable one that bisects a decade. If not for medical mandates I have been strongly advised to follow, I probably would be visiting him at his home, rather than settling for a celebratory Zoom call. Twenty years ago, more or less, he and his wife opted to retire to a place where Spanish is the primary language and the weather is, usually, close to meteorological nirvana. Were I considerably more adventurous and more demanding, I might have retired someplace else. I might have accepted the risks of leaving the country of my birth, thereby broadening my horizons and expanding my knowledge of the world outside my limiting, insular environment. But I did not, so I must try to be satisfied to live vicariously by learning about my brother’s experiences. He and his wife have adapted and adjusted exceptionally well. They love where they live. I am glad they do. And I am glad they welcome mi novia and me to visit. I hope to have opportunities to visit them again before too long. We shall see.

+++

The first thirty years of my life seemed interminable. The second thirty years passed far more quickly. I do not expect to complete the third set, though if I do I think that final thirty years will seem to have taken place in the blink of an eye. I feel that the first third of that span has raced by at the speed of light. I think life experiences give us the ability to better understand subsequent life events. That understanding enables us to absorb more in the same amount of time, so that our experiences seem to double from one span of time to the next. And that translates into the sensation that periods of time accelerate as we move through them. Just a theory, of course, but it makes sense to me.

+++

When a person hears the phrase, “grey walls,” most people probably visualize drab, dirty, depressing grey. Not everyone, though. The mind’s eye of some people sees a placid, clean, bright grey…a cool, serene color that represents serenity—calm and peaceful. People who conjure that grey in their mind often consider the color among their favorites. “Grey is your favorite color?” others may ask, incredulously, as if in the company of someone who has just admitted to joining vultures in eating carrion on the roadside. The very idea of grey having any redeeming characteristics is beyond their comprehension. Negative judgments about the entire spectrum of grey colors is unnatural, I think. People are taught to dislike grey; they do not embrace such bigotry as normal reaction to seeing the colors. Colors; plural. Grey spans the range from light grey to dark grey. The color can be sullied through mixture with other colors—blue or green or brown, for example—but pure greys, whether light or intense, are decidedly appealing. Attractive. Comfortable.

+++

Again this morning, I woke early…around 3:45. Finally, at 4:20, I abandoned my wasted efforts to sleep, thanks to a headache and my tongue’s disturbing unnatural affinity for fondling the back of certain of my lower front teeth. I woke hungry, though not starving by any means. I wanted an avocado, drizzled with fresh lime juice and sprinkled with chunky salt. I still do. Perhaps I will eat one of two remaining ripe avocados, a step toward joyous appreciation for the little things in life.

+++

Once again, I seem to be drifting toward sleep. Eating an avocado while asleep is dangerous; one could forget to peel it. Or, worse still, one could absent-mindedly ingest the pit. Or, even worse, inhale the pit. The only safe way to eat an avocado is to be thoroughly awake during the entire process. Maybe I’ll wait. Maybe not.

+++

As long as I am awake and on my way to the oncologist’s office by 12:45 to get my IV fluids, all will be well.

Energized by a cane-assisted lunchtime stroll up and down the cul-de-sac on which we live, and a three-hour nap a bit later, I feel better now than I did this morning. With a little luck, the boost in my energy will stay with me for at least a few days. Last Thursday’s lab work revealed my blood potassium level is out of whack, according to a phone call from my oncologist’s office late this morning…so, I return to her office just after midday tomorrow and again Thursday to get IV fluids. Apparently, dehydration does something to one’s potassium level. Then, I go in for a PET-scan on October 16, return for more lab work on the 18th, and additional labs and a meeting with my oncologist on my birthday, October 21. My assumption, of course, is that the doctor plans to celebrate my birthday by giving me good news from the PET-scan. We’ll see.

+++

Tomorrow night, a monstrous hurricane, Milton, is forecast to slam into Florida’s west coast, bringing with it huge tidal surges and fierce winds. This new, very powerful, storm comes on the heels of Hurricane Helene, which caused severe damage in Florida and catastrophic flooding in Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. Among other towns and cities, Asheville, North Carolina was ravaged by floods that washed out roads and bridges, swept houses away, and left victims scrambling to recover from unimaginable wreckage. More than 200 people have been confirmed dead from Helene. Meteorologists and governmental authorities warn that Milton will bring devastation on an incredible scale; an exodus from Florida is clogging the state’s highways as residents attempt to flee for their lives. Is this the hoax right-wing Republicans talk about when dismissing climate change? The refusal by the Republicans in Congress to consider additional funding to enable FEMA to better respond to two back-to-back crises is yet more evidence: Members of that Party are more interested in political gamesmanship than in the well-being of their constituents.

+++

The world around us could be a happy place, if people allowed it. But it seems, today, to be designed for pain, depression, and destruction. Why would anyone want to carry on under those conditions? Those with hope, I suppose.

I welcomed the spurt of energy that followed last Thursday’s chemo treatment. By yesterday, though, that electric jolt had plunged into an amalgamation of headache, nausea, fatigue, weakness, exhaustion, and general discomfort. That notwithstanding, I finally felt moderately better and, late in the day, went outside for a brief walk…more like a cane-assisted slow-motion stroll. Between yesterday’s naps and last night’s early bedtime, I may have recovered some of my enthusiasm for life—at the moment, the signs look slightly positive. We shall see.

+++

Once I finished the previous paragraph, my eyes closed involuntarily. Had I felt a tad more comfortable, I might have drifted into a deep sleep—making up for waking occasionally during the night. When the muscles in my neck relaxed, though, my head dropped forward, stirring me from an unexpected nap. That is a strong sign I should go back to bed for a while longer, but for some reason I hesitate to give in to the temptation. Perhaps I need to feel more fully in charge, rather than sensing I am being controlled by weariness.

+++

No more. Not for now. I am unable to keep my eyes open any longer. Maybe I will come back and add to this post in a while…or write another one. But, for now, I am just too bloody tired. I must recover by tomorrow, though, when a planned gathering on a lakeside  deck certainly will reinvigorate me.

Most of the world’s population does not read the New York Times (NYT). So, in a sense, this blog is similar to the well-known, much-heralded, and often-denounced newspaper. Among the chief differences: the NYT has a larger readership and more staff.

Only a tiny fraction of the world’s population knows Bill Gates personally. I find myself in the same situation. But Bill Gates and I are different to the extent that his financial resources eclipse mine; there could be other dissimilarities.

When considering the distinctions and parallels between my life and the lives of others, I find that I am much more like myself than I am like anyone else. That is true of others, too. We are individuals, each with unique characteristics and traits that make us who we are, yet we are beings who collectively seem to have more similarities than differences. So, is it true that I am more like me than I am like them?

+++

A published photograph of the Milky Way and its environs, taken at a recent “dark skies night” event, captured my attention and inspired my awe. At the center of the photo, the bulk of the Milky Way was clearly visible as a dense and spectacularly beautiful mass of stars. Surrounding that large cluster of stellar objects was a blanket of faint, closely-spaced pinpoints of starlight that stretched across the rest of the entire sky. The number of tiny dots of light was, I feel certain, far more than I could have seen with my naked eye. The image was breathtaking. It was so emotionally powerful, in fact, that for a few moments of staring by proxy into space, I felt a deep sense that answers to the most profound questions ever posed by humankind could be found there. There was something about the vastness of the sky and its reminder of the incalculable distances around us that made me feel at peace with the idea that the answers to everything are “there,” but I will never know most of them. I imagine my sense of reverent astonishment might be mistaken by some as a religious experience. Though it was not, I think it may have helped me better understand the power and depth that religious beliefs have for so much of humankind. Anything that enhances understanding has some value.

+++

Within just a few days of Kamala Harris’ announcement of her candidacy for President, I first saw a YouTube video of Keb’ Mo’ performing his song, Put a Woman in charge. Though I had heard the tune many times in the past few years, I had not seen the video until then. I loved it from the moment I saw it. Yesterday, at church, the minister delivered a sermon about the absolute need for the “war on women” to stop. And the Keb’ Mo’ video was shown as part of the minister’s “Dramatic Moment,” series, when we watch a relevant video. Yesterday’s message was extremely powerful. So is this video.

Once you start asking questions, innocence is gone.
~ Mary Astor ~

+++

The complexity of existence is beyond my comprehension. A grain of sand on a Gulf of Mexico beach may be completely different from one on a beach on Oahu, Hawaii or Limbe, Cameroon. The “whiskers” on some mammals and the antennae on some insects perform similar functions. Riding on those grains of sand or those whiskers or antennae are tiny life forms that may transport other life forms. The image of a honeybee’s head through a scanning electron microscope reveals two large, hairy, compound eyes, each made up of thousands of hexagonal lenses. Looking into the iris of a human eye, the patterns and colors are (to me) incomprehensible. Soap bubbles are simple, but the intricacy of their structures is mind-boggling. One person’s red hair. Another’s blonde hair. Male. Female. Light-skinned. Dark-skinned. Salamanders. Buffalo. Telecommunications. Wireless phones. Rhodesian Ridgeback dogs. Siamese cats. Volcanic eruptions. When I think of the trillions and trillions and trillions and trillions of unique expressions of inanimate objects and life forms and light and planets and liquid water…and on and on and on…I am overcome with awe.  How is it possible that…? Or…? Ultimately, why should it matter to me? Humans seem to think the universe formed to give us reasons and answers. I sincerely doubt it. Perhaps we simply are objects to be examined by or experienced by all the other components of existence…a number so incredibly vast that it is unknowable.

+++

Culture makes people understand each other better. And if they understand each other better in their soul, it is easier to overcome the economic and political barriers. But first they have to understand that their neighbour is, in the end, just like them, with the same problems, the same questions.
~ Paulo Coelho ~

An online article in today’s New York Times about Melinda French Gates’ emergence as a major donor to progressive causes and politics, after years of structured impartiality, captured my attention. In her case, her divorce from Bill Gates and her new-found, unshared wealth, seemed to trigger her transformation. The article prompted me to think about how my “public” positions and my behavior might change if all the real or imagined constraints on me were to disappear. For example, my vocal support of a number of socially liberal financial positions probably would diminish somewhat. I wholeheartedly support governmental financial support for people in need, but I think the system probably needs a complete overhaul to get more money to people who need it most, and less to those whose needs are not as urgent or critical. My support of progressive governmental policies probably would be tempered by an insistence on access to research that reveals the pros and cons of those policies. Neither the Democratic nor the Republican Parties are, in my view, even close to philosophically pure; instead, they tend to claim to support attractive philosophies that, when examined closely, are laced with blind or self-serving flaws. For that reason, I can envision my admittedly limited financial support going not to either party, but to (or against) specific philosophical positions (not people). Had I been trained as and successful become a slick debater, I would be more likely to espouse my thoughts orally—but I mumble and stumble and think too slowly on my feet. If that limitation were lifted from me, I might argue more fervently in support of my positions—but I would not shut down arguments against them without solid, legitimate, supporting facts. Even the most divisive subjects, I think, can be brought to the point of mutual agreement by those with opposing viewpoints…but only when compromise is seen as victory, not as vanquishment. Both left and right seem to be increasingly inflexible on almost aspect of social and governmental life. Whether we like it or not, only by conceding some of our adversaries’ offensive positions will ever reach workable consensus that lasts.  That, I suppose, would be among the most obvious change in me; if I could aggressively promote compromise (rather than obstinately cling to unrelenting opposition), I might feel better about my ability to stimulate real change. I would remain pretty damn liberal/progressive, but I would insist on infusing left-leaning concepts with reality.

+++

An information box on the Weather Network forecast page for Hot Springs Village claims the outside temperature is 64°F at the moment and predicts a high of 79°F today. Adjacent to that box, another box forecasts a high of 88°F by 3 p.m. Which is more likely to be accurate? Is it the left-box forecast or the right-box forecast? And, if I cannot rely on one or the other, why should I assume the reported current temperature properly represents reality? I suspect the forecasts reported in the two boxes come from different sources. But, if so, why? If I do not get an answer to these questions, I will just have to deal with the inconsistencies, won’t I?

+++

I have made it through two (or is it three?) days without a nap. Steroids administered during my chemo treatment probably are responsible. We’ll see if they last through today…and even longer.

Writing poetry, except poems that erupt unexpectedly and inexplicably from one’s mind, often requires much deeper thought than simple narrative language.  When poems are being written, especially poems that use words sparingly, they ask us to try to strip away all but the essence of meaning. Fewer words amplify the poem’s core focus; each word then strives to be emotionally intense or thought-provoking or both. I know (or think I do) these things. But I rarely seem able to use that knowledge to the benefit of the poems I write or attempt to write. One of my favorite lines from Leonard Cohen’s music is this piece of poetry from the song, Sisters of Mercy:

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

+++

I woke late this morning, after a few false starts at 3 AM, 4 AM, and 5 AM. My store of energy from yesterday has not disappeared, but it has diminished so far today. Still, we took another short walk this morning, perhaps a touch more distance than yesterday but the same time…in minutes. If I could kick myself, I would; I should have forced myself to move around more during all the months mi novia has encouraged me to get some exercise. It is no longer optional; I have finally consented to using a cane—one I will try to carry habitually until I have restored my frittered-away strength.

+++

From the night, his solitude, the poet finds day and starts a diary that is lethal to the inert. The dark landscape yields a dialogue.

~ Salvatore Quasimodo ~

+++

Yesterday afternoon began with an injection at the Friday-only Village office of my oncologist. Later, a friend came over and the three of us sat and talked over drinks for a couple of hours or so. We don’t have friends over often enough; it would be more frequent if I weren’t concerned about being fatigued. After watching 2 or 3 episodes of The Fall (a series from 2013 available from Britbox, with Gillian Anderson and Jamie Dornan), I went to bed later than usual but woke up as noted.

+++

Why am I recording so much day-to-day minutia? I realized a few years ago, after writing a daily “journal” of sorts for two straight years, that reading what I had written—about what I had been thinking and doing—was personally interesting to me. Skimming past posts often draws from the recesses of my brain memories that I might never have encountered, had my own words not reminded me. I feel compelled to write such a reminder as this from time to time, just in case another visitor drops by and skims a few posts…possibly encountering these words and learning why many of my posts are so godawful boring. The likelihood is that posting here, instead of on my own computer, will be more likely preserve what I’ve written; I’m apt to lose thumb drives and fail to properly copy full hard drives. I hope GoDaddy and WordPress are more reliable than I.

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Memory…is the diary that we all carry about with us.

~ Oscar Wilde ~

As far as I know, I do not have a history of grinding my teeth. But that habit—or tendency or whatever—seems to have taken hold in recent weeks. It may not be full-on grinding; maybe just clenching my jaws. Whatever it is, I notice it more and more frequently. I sometimes wake to realize my jaws are tight and their muscles are oddly sore, as if they have been overworked. When awake, I sometimes notice that I am involuntarily grinding my teeth. Treatments for bruxism, the medical term for the condition, include physical approaches (splints, guards, and tooth repairs) and behavioral management; medications, apparently, are rarely successful. I do not think I could tolerate physical approaches. Biofeedback and behavioral therapy reportedly can be successful; affirmative self-control, though, may be my first step. Why is it that, as one ages, the number of ailments—real or imagined—seem to multiple like concupiscent rabbits?

The aging process is not gradual or gentle. It rushes up, pushes you over, and runs off laughing. No one should grow old who isn’t ready to appear ridiculous.

~ John Mortimer ~

Some older men who wear driving caps and walk with canes look distinguished. My oldest brother is one of them. I am one of those who do not look distinguished, so I suppose I better be ready to appear ridiculous. My look has been obvious for a long while; but I have been blind, until recently, to the ridiculousness. I think I am ready to take off the blinders.

+++

My oncologist expressed compassionate disappointment yesterday—not in my current prognosis, which will not be known until a PET-scan before my next chemo treatment—but in my behavior. She expressed concern that, once again, my weight had declined by several pounds. And she gently but firmly reminded me that I need to get more exercise. The weight loss, she said, is likely due to loss of muscle, not fat, as demonstrated by evidence of declining strength; and I need muscle’s energy to fight the cancer. So, with my agreement, she will arrange for me to get physical therapy…several times per week, if possible. She encouraged me, again, to try to eat more. The calories are needed, she explained, to enable me to replenish the energy I have lost. Mi novia had mentioned to her that I had needed to sit down for several minutes on the way into the church sanctuary last Sunday as we prepared for the fifth Sunday’s musical event. It was a matter of feeling extraordinarily weak; I could not argue with that. Until my last couple of PET-scans, I looked forward to learning the results because, until then, they revealed no evidence that cancer had returned. Since then, though, my anxiety sometimes grows as the time for the next one nears. That anxiety occasionally declines when I successfully remind myself that I have no control over the results…but it increases again when I remind myself that I actually do have some control. My diet, for example, and forcing myself to get some exercise. So, I will make a point to do what my doctor strongly recommends. I told her I would return for the chemo session in three weeks—fat and strong.

After yesterday’s chemo session, we stopped at Rocky’s Corner for a late lunch, where I had The Rocky’s Sub, an 8-inch monster filled with turkey, salami, mozzarella, tomatoes, and dressing, with a side of hot Italian peppers.  I ate half the sandwich and the fillings (but not the bread) from other half, but could not finish the French fries. We brought them home, along with the significant remnants of mi novia’s small pizza. Cold pizza can be a delicious way to start the day; if I’m lucky, I might be able to persuade her to let me have a bit.  As I think back over the last several months, I confirm for myself that my cancer is always on my mind, even when feeling strong and energetic. That is probably natural, but it does not do much for my state of mind. My moods tend to rise and fall with my thoughts about the condition. When I can muster the “it is what it is” attitude, I feel better; lately, though, that is more difficult to do.

+++

The cat is an attention-seeker, but only on her terms. It’s almost as if, when she senses a person’s need to focus on something else besides her, she feels a need to cling. But when the person wants to engage with her, she is aloof and unwilling to tolerate the person’s presence. I wonder whether she is imitating my behavior…or whether I am imitating hers?

+++

The cup of espresso is empty. I think I’ll satisfy my thirst with a berry-flavored Propel Fitness Water. I have my doubts about its effects on fitness, but I like the flavor. And it’s easier for me to drink than plain water. Why?

Although my chemotherapy sessions and blood-letting (known euphemistically as “labs”) and conversation with the oncology staff) generally last in the neighborhood of only four hours, Poison-Pump-Thursdays consume essentially my entire day. And, of course, mi novia‘s days are similarly committed. Today is a Poison-Pump-Thursday.  After the ordeal (not really an ordeal, but truly an interruption to normalcy), we might stop someplace for lunch. And then the countdown begins…first a couple of days feeling reasonably decent, but tired, followed by whatever side-effect-of-the-week happens to occur. Then, a week or two (or three) feeling absolutely exhausted, fatigued, and otherwise devoted to multiple lengthy naps. I’m sure I’ve written all this before; what else can a frazzled brain do but repeat replay the same script? It can try to be entertaining, but it can be annoying, instead. I would not be surprised to learn that people who know that my mother insisted I take a course in typing while I attended junior high school wish she hadn’t. Though she died long before the internet became universally accessible, she was my internet-enabler. Other people may begrudge her for that, but I remain eternally grateful. Adequate typing abilities literally have improved many areas of my life.

+++

I have no children, no grandchildren, no grand-nieces, no grand-nephews, and—at my age—no prospects to have any. My remaining small extended family (which never did extend far) represents what probably (almost certainly) is the last of our limbs on the family tree. Less than half a century from now, when my nieces and nephews become cosmic dust with the rest of us, family memories will be no more. Even if some of us, between now and then, have note-worthy achievements, the legacies will not last long. In the time equivalent to another generation or two, everything we were and everything we accomplished will have faded from human memory. Though these thoughts may seem to have emerged from a depressed state of mind, the fact of the matter is that it is quite the contrary. It relieves me of any irrational worries that future generations involved in reprehensible behaviors could be traced back to us. And it relieves me of worries about my family members’ future. We’ll all become endless and blameless cosmic dust. I’d like to be conscious of that existence when it occurs; but of course, that’s quite likely impossible. I cannot know that, with certainty, but it’s a disappointment I fully expect. Except that I cannot experience disappointment in the absence of existence wrapped up in a human brain…as far as I know.

+++

Tomorrow, I will return to the oncology team to get my follow-up injection. But, now, I must scramble to eat breakfast and hit the road. An engagement with the Poison-Pump awaits.

Polished fools who project confidence can fool fools and—we only hope—only fools.

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So much can happen in fourteen years. Lives can change. Lives can end. A once-powerful body can deteriorate into a shadow of its former self. Middle age can transform into grizzled, grey efforts to cling to youth. Hope can slump into resignation. So many expectations can shatter as they confront reality.

But time is not entirely unpleasant. Experience can grow into wisdom. Fears can soften into concerns. There must be more.

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I once appreciated the bitterness of Campari. No longer. Adding more bitterness to an already ample supply is overkill. There must be a reason for the ability to detect bitterness,  if for no other reason than to know when enough is too much.

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Three consecutive nights of odd, deeply worrying dreams in which my parents played a part—as if they were still alive—have left me wondering: why? The dreams involved radical changes to the street on which we lived. In one dream, the street led to a completely transformed bayfront. In another, the street led to acres and acres of miniature shops on the bayfront…sales stalls, actually…where Pakistani immigrants sold their colorful wares. I mistook the shopkeepers as Indian; when I apologized for my mistake, they were very gracious and forgiving. I behaved badly, criticizing housekeeping in a very unkind way, in the other dream. The dreams were long and complex; not suitable for a full telling of their stories here. My dreams do not interest other people but, despite the disinterest, I continue offering them as if the recipients of my tales will find them fascinating. Another flaw in need of correction.

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Whether a habit, a self-imposed obligation, or a response to the real or imagined expectations created by my own routines, I feel compelled to write for this blog every morning. When—for whatever reason—I do not, I feel a sense of guilt. And disappointment. And failure. And general unease or anxiety or…something…that casts a minor pall over the day. So, I write. Even if the collection of words is no better than meaningless drivel, writing anything is better than leaving the screen blank. Many days, even though I am dissatisfied with what I write, I make the post viewable to fulfill my imaginary obligation. That behavior represents a kind of twisted logic—a response to a gnarled thought process that warrants intervention. But I would miss the process and the behavior if I were to correct it. I would long for even the absent discomfort of disappointment and failure. Therein lies evidence of a form of neurosis or psychosis that might cause even professional mental health counselors to recoil in disgust. So, I write.

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Yesterday, when I began writing my blog post, I intended to record my thoughts on the intensity of the darkness between, and without, stars. As is so often the case, though, I allowed myself to get sidetracked. This morning, of course, I cannot recall precisely what I was thinking when I began writing. I do remember, though, that the subject of my planned post came to me in the middle of the previous night. I remember thinking “I should document this before it dissolves into the mist of sleep.” But I did not write it down. I do not keep a notepad and pen on the nightstand next to my bed. Because if I did, I would need the light of a lamp to illuminate the paper; and that might disrupt my sleeping partner. The topic did not dissolve before I started writing yesterday’s post; but some of its most appealing aspects have since disappeared. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I believe profound thoughts about darkness linger. One day, or one night, those thoughts will emerge again and I will plan to record them, in writing. I must remember to buy a pen with a light embedded in its tip so I can comfortably document my thoughts in the near-complete darkness of night.

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For reasons too convoluted to try to explain here, I want to view a 1974 film by Sam Peckinpah entitled, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. I would like to host a small (5-10 person) viewing party, fueled by shots of premium tequila and a spread of elaborate, over-the-top nachos. The film was included in a 1978 book entitled The Fifty Worst Films of All Time. The book was largely panned by knowledgeable film critics, including Hal Erikson who suggested the book qualified as The Worst Movie Book Of All Time.  I have, as usual, drifted away from the intent of this paragraph. My judgments of films are unreliable and usually based on irrelevant criteria spun from my emotional reactions, not from critical inquiry and assessment. Having read a bit about what others have said, pro and con, about Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, I will watch the film from a biased point of view, but my opinions are easily swayed by others and by high-end liquor…a good reason to view the film as part of a collection of other people.

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Time for avocado toast and a cold mocha-flavored Ensure. I look forward to a time when I can return to normalcy and discard forced consumption of drinks meant to keep me from falling into a bottomless hole of nutritional emptiness.

Far from the intrusive nighttime lights from clusters of human populations, it is possible to look back in time. On moonless, cloudless nights, the sky appears black and empty except for thousands of tiny white specks. Some of the light from those miniscule dots is so old that the concept of time seems almost inapplicable. Their distance from our eyes is so great, though, that we can understand it only by invoking calculations based on the speed of light over a period of time—light years. Betelgeuse, at 642.5 light years from Earth, is among the brightest of the roughly 6,000 stars visible under optimal conditions. V762 Cas, 16,000 light years from us, is the most distant star visible in the night sky. When we peer at Betelgeuse, the light we see left the star sometime in the year 1381. The light reaching our eyes from C762 Cas began its travel about 11,000 years before the earliest evidence of recorded human history. It is entirely possible that, one Earth year after the light we see tonight, C762 Cas exploded or imploded or otherwise transformed into some sort of incomprehensible cosmic dust. Indeed, that could be the case for every star in the night sky; essentially every light we see in tonight’s sky could represent just a remnant of the way the universe once was. We cannot be certain that the sky above us tonight is the same sky we will see tomorrow. Tomorrow’s sky could be washed in dim, dying light, signaling the transformation of the universe into shreds of shriveling energy. Or, tomorrow’s night sky could be black and empty—without the white points of light that give us reason to wonder what or who else is out there.

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I thought of the universe last night—how incredibly vast it is and how tiny we are, both individually and collectively. Collectively, I think we are smaller than an immeasurably small fraction of a quark; individually, we are infinitesimally smaller. And the universe, from my perspective, is hundreds of billions of times larger than one million times the mass of the largest galaxy. But mass and volume and other such measures are meaningless in an environment within which size is both irrelevant and unfathomable. Time and distance, too, are irrelevant except on a smaller scale—a much smaller scale. Distance, measured by calculations involving the movement of light over a period of time, is valid only when time is measured in a way relevant only to Earth. That validity evaporates in the absence of Earth-based measurements. The same is true of time; one year within the gravitational realm of Alpha Centauri is radically different from one year in our solar system. We can understand time and distance only in the context of Earthly experience. I admire astronomers and astrophysicists who attempt to understand the universe, but I suspect their understanding is tainted by a provincial perspective from which they cannot escape.

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Knowledge is not, by itself, power. Knowledge is a step toward enlightenment. The knowledge that true understanding is impossible is as close to enlightenment as humans can get. Wisdom is a precursor to enlightenment, but enlightenment is simply a theory of what might be possible if we could every achieve understanding. We cannot. We can only strive to remove as many obstacles as possible to insight or awareness. Many brilliant people, I suspect, achieve amazing insights; but those amazing insights leave them aching and empty and unimaginably disappointed with the impossibility of achieving enlightenment and understanding. The most brilliant, though, somehow overcome disappointment with appreciative acceptance; a level of proto-understanding that enables them to reject suicide as the only acceptable alternative to dejection.

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We attended Music on Barcelona at our church yesterday, at which the primary performer gave a stunningly good performance. Her voice and her way of expressing emotion—happy and sad—were amazing. Just before her performance was to begin, though, I suddenly felt weaker than I have felt in a very long time. I wanted to go sit in the car and try to sleep; mi novia, though, would not hear of it. She insisted that she would take me home, instead. I refused. I opted to sit in the back pew so I could leave without being noticed, if necessary. I am glad I did. Before the performance ended, I had recovered from whatever made me feel so weak. I was able to enjoy a spectacular performance. I will never cease to be amazed by the incredible talent that exists among the people of Hot Springs Village. Perhaps it was her performance that revived my energy; it was that good.

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I was planning to spend yesterday afternoon reading and critiquing a book a friend has written and asked me to review; he is preparing to publish it soon. But, I thought I would take a short nap before getting back to it. Four hours later, I woke, no longer in the proper mood to devote time to critiquing it. Today, especially this afternoon, I will dedicate my time to the task at hand. So far, I am quite impressed by his writing and the heart-wrenching autobiographical story he tells.