John Swinburn

Time rushes to replace moments that should have been preserved. When fond experiences exist only in memories, we cling to lies we’ve been told: that now is better than then; that new is better than old. But familiarity fits like bespoke clothes, sewn from custom fabrics woven for us; every seam stitched with soft threads that conform to who we were and who we have become. The difference between being stuck in the past and living comfortably in the here and now involves the transition between them. Those among us who struggle to accept change treat it like replacing a wardrobe of old sweats with stiff, starched denim overalls. The rest of us treat change as if we were upgrading from sweats to soft, weather-worn jeans. Ach! A simile that attempts to equate one’s choice of clothing with one’s ability to adapt to fundamental change is profoundly superficial. That is especially true when trying to address an even more crucial matter: preservation of what matters in an environment in which adaptation to change honors the importance of the foundations upon which today’s environment was built.

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Mistakes that cannot be corrected can be treated as lessons or as wounds that will not heal. Or, as is often witnessed, they can dismissed as meaningless stumbles that should have no bearing on a person’s ability to fully enjoy life. Mistakes made without subsequently feeling regret for having made them tend to compound the damage caused by the original misstep.

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Another follow-up with my oncologist today. Lab work and IV fluids. A reminder of the fact that cancer remains a defining part of life. I would rather write a psycho-fictional essay-short-story that explores my thoughts about the experience of being human in an inhumane world—or about experiencing life as a sentient sub-sea member of the plant kingdom.  Or, absent pursuing those opportunities, I might prefer to sleep.

Pessimism, when countered by optimistic fantasy, can decay into hopeless avoidance. Realism, on the other hand, has the potential of sending ocean-going passenger vessels to the bottom of the sea. Optimism paints lifelike portraits that are a little too perfect; AI images that lack moles and chipped teeth and about 45 pounds of unnecessary and undesirable weight.

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I have proven the impossible. I have seen the invisible. I have remembered a future that has yet to take place. I have foreseen a history, watching it take form from the immeasurably distant future. I have arisen, alive, from the impenetrable dungeon of death. I have disobeyed the laws of Nature, while casting the ashes of certainty into a sea of doubt.  I have determined that all things are impossible, though accomplishments cannot be unmade. I have exposed an obvious secret—that time is forever hidden behind the face of a clock, where its fingers scratch at evidence that time is a fantasy. I have uncovered felonies hatched from unfertilized eggs. I have measured the strength of absolute weakness and the weakness at the peak of strength. I have imagined the unimaginable and claimed to have done the undoable. I have listened to sounds that cannot be heard and parroted noises that cannot be mimicked. I have escaped from inescapable conclusions and have been bound forever in a prison cell too large to hold me.

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Late last night, not long after mi novia got in bed, my phone’s “Hello?” alert (notifying me that I have received a text message) interrupted my effort to sleep. Because such late night alerts could be important, I looked at my phone. It was just a notification that a Freezing Fog Advisory had been issued. The advisory expired just a few minutes ago. As I glimpse outside, I see fog filling the woods. it is especially dense near the top of the trees, where I think I see a thin film of an icy coating on the pine needles. The garage roof, too, is white with frost. This paragraph would have been far more interesting if the advisory had alerted me to an impending invasion by a gang of weapons-toting water fowl that were suspected of carrying rabies in knapsacks on their backs.

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Water in a plastic cup on my desk is the only item in my study responding to vibrations I cannot feel. Nothing else in my study displays any movement; not even an echo of a sound that might have been made hours ago. Light reflecting from the water reveals miniscule waves on its surface; tiny ripples that would be invisible if the ceiling light above was moved by a hair’s width. My imagination offers dozens of explanations: vibrations from an earthquake thousands of miles distant, transmitting microscopic movements of the Earth’s crust directly to the surface of my cup of water; nearly undetectable sounds caused by a jet airplane’s engines, thousands of feet in the air above me; a heavy truck traveling over a nearby road, sending tremors through the asphalt and underlayment to and through the foundation of my house; the sliver quivering or bouncing of my leg on the floor below my desk, broadcast through the furniture; my breathing, sending air molecules slamming into one another, causing the commotion to reach the water’s surface; a tiny, almost invisible, insect moving its legs just enough to disturb the water, and many, many more. The core cause for the vibrations probably does not matter. But it could. Unless the vibrations grow in intensity, though, my attention will no doubt be drawn elsewhere, to yet another diversion…another distraction that makes little difference in the way I experience the world around me. That, of course, raises a question: how intrusive must a distraction be to capture enough of one’s attention to cause that attention to deviate from the thoughts or things that drew one’s attention previously? That question, if applied to every instance in which one’s attention left its earlier path, could rob a person of actionable focus. It could cause madness; a sort of mental explosion that might leave him incapable of other, more rational, though. Is this something we should carefully watch for? Should we ask friends and family to be on the lookout for evidence of psychological eruptions? If so, what might we advise them to do if they found such evidence?

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Just short of two weeks from now, the Northern Hemisphere will experience the Winter Solstice. The shortest day, the longest night, the beginning of winter. Drinking mulled wine, making gingerbread, lighting a Yule log, feasting, and several other rituals coincide with celebrations of the Winter Solstice. Several ancient traditions, as well as many significant modern cultural practices, are rooted in observances of the Winter Solstice. The alignment of stones in Stonehenge mark both Winter Solstice and Summer Solstice.  Many celebratory Winter Solstice traditions involve fire and light, welcoming the sun’s return to its realm and celebrating renewal and rebirth. From a particular heathen’s perspective, celebrations of the Winter Solstice are far more more natural—as well as more authentically human—than traditions involving Santa Clause and gift-laden reindeer and once-a-year moments of charity and compassion. Granted, the two styles of celebratory philanthropy, kindness, and human decency share many commonalities; but our modern versions are not very good at shielding their capitalistic foundations from public view. Regardless of one’s philosophies about the Winter Solstice “season,”  though, it seems to strike a chord across social and political and economic divides. As is the case with so many other aspects of human behavior, our emotional attachments to the Winter Solstice may be radically different, but give us the capacity to safely bridge the shark-infested waters between us. With that in mind, I hope I can follow my own advice and seek that protected pathway on December 21 and every day thereafter.

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Nothing can be so utterly destructive to trust in others as betraying it in oneself. That admonition seems so obviously correct that one would be foolish to question it. Yet it happens every day to incalculable numbers of people. A “little deception” may appear innocuous and easily tolerable, but it brings into question every assertion one makes. Every assurance one hears is compared to one’s own dependability. If I can dishonor commitments I make to myself, why should place my trust in others? A history of breaking commitments to myself—whether explicit or implied—is a warning to myself and to others. And, when one determines he cannot be trusted, one’s self-esteem must evaporate completely, leaving a bag of empty skin devoid of merit. I hope I can trust myself. To know otherwise would be absolutely intolerable. I wonder what people who cannot trust themselves feel about themselves? Such a dark, dark place; a point from which return must be next to impossible.

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Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

~ Khalil Gibran ~

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I think I may have exhausted my reservoir of tiredness. Though I felt completely spent when I went to bed early last night, I could not get to sleep. At most, I slept for fifteen minutes or thereabouts every hour for most of the night. I started trying to track my clock-watching just after 1:00 a.m. The amount of time I slept between 1 and 2 was negligible. At 2:00 a.m., I turned over to have another look at the clock. I did the same at 2:30, at 3, at 3:30, at 4, and at 4:15. I stayed in bed until almost 5, but finally decided I had used up my capacity to sleep. I am tired again, but I think lack of sleep (and not ongoing fatigue) may be the cause. That would be good. It would mean I may have gotten over the post-chemo stretch of my committed attachment to exhaustion. I hope that’s the case. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate excessive sleep, I’ve also grown tired of it. My energy may be making a post-chemo comeback. My timing is more than a little off-balance.

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If my hands get any thinner, I think I might be able to see light through them by holding them up to a bright light. That’s an exaggeration, by the way, but not by much. The bones and tendons, already easily visible beneath a web of blue veins and ribbons of connective tissue, seem to have less volume than I would have expected. My fingers, once short and stubby like miniature light tan cudgels, now look more like beefy beige pretzel sticks. But “stubby” and “beefy” suggest thickness that has long-since devolved into something without as much body as those words might imply. Though they are far from toothpick-thin, my fingers belong on the hands of a tall, lanky teenager—proportional to his angular gauntness. On the other hand, they might be fitting for an old man whose body is shrinking, revealing what happens when food no longer is as attractive as it was when the body belonged to a ravenously hungry boy-person. Though I once was a ravenously hungry boy-person, I never had the sleek, svelte body I assume such persons have. Instead, my body was clad with thick layers of protective coverings that simultaneously hid both evidence of skeletal structure beneath body-warming temperature regulating tissues and any suggestion that powerful muscles might reside there.

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It has happened again. My fingers are rebelling against forced employment as alphabetic laborers. For now, anyway. I may explore whether the bed is still as comfortable as I remember it once was.

The closest we come to truly experiencing the entire human life cycle requires conscious observation of—or participation in—several crucial moments. The very first involves the moment of conception. A little later, watching the fetus become a visible lump in a mother’s belly, is another critical event in the human life cycle. Later, still, viewing the emergence of the child from the mother’s womb is a vital piece of the cycle of life. From that point forward, witnessing the baby’s growth and development through each stage of the child’s life, through maturity and old age, contributes to our eternally incomplete experience of human life. People who cannot, or choose not to, rear children miss long periods of observation that must be experienced to even begin to understand our life cycle. Though we can witness others’ transition from life to death, simply watching it unfold does not equate to experiencing that transition—we can only watch and weep and wonder about that final departure; that irreversible transformation from life to death. In fact, the human life cycle is so complex and convoluted that we “experience” vast stretches of time we simply cannot remember. When periods of one’s life take place in the absence of conscious awareness or memory, we cannot claim to have truly experienced those moments of life. We miss relatively close to one-third of our lives, simply by sleeping. And we lose long segments due to fractured recollections or memories buried in a locked vault of time. We think we know so much about our own life cycles, but reality tells another story. And we cannot realistically hope to understand the ending. We pore over thousands of pages during our lifetimes, only to discover final chapter—the one that brings the entire story together in a riveting conclusion—is missing.

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Artificial Intelligence (AI) makes our senses irrelevant. Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. Smell. Once upon a time, they were real. Today, though, they are available only from sensory historians. And, like authors of history texts, AI manipulators deliver their biased interpretations of the sensations experienced through the sensory organs.

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Bubbles form in response to instructions provided by physicists. Or, at least, physics. I am not sure whether physicists provide instructions for the production of bubbles. If they did, though, I might not be the first to say they do.

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Where do internationally active political spies get their hands on suicide pills that are fast-acting and have no detectible side-effects (except death)? Such pills are sufficiently common in spy literature that I think they must be based on the real thing. And how does one deliver said pills, unnoticed, to psychopaths? Especially psychopaths surrounded by protective thugs? Just curious. Could be the basis of a short story.

Today—December 6, 2025—is the 108th anniversary of Finland’s independence. The celebration will include a review of troops and a ceremonial march. Many of the day’s events will be broadcast live on TV1, Radio Suomi, Yle.fi and Yle Areena. The president, Alexander Stubb, and his spouse, Suzanne Innes-Stubb, chose Missä muruseni on, a song written by Jenni Vartiainen and performed by her and the Guards Band as their first dance, which will take place this evening at the Presidential Palace, followed by an afterparty at Hotel Kämp. My only real connection to Finland is embedded in memories of our one-day visit to Helsinki. We arrived in Helsinki early in the morning, after an overnight cruise from Stockholm, across the Baltic Sea on a Silja Line cruiseferry. Following a day walking through Helsinki under an overcast sky, we boarded a cruiseferry for the overnight trip back to Stockholm. I took no photographs. I bought no trinkets to serve as memorabilia. My memories of Helsinki are cloudy, but I recall having a lunch of reindeer stew and beetroot soup at a small restaurant. That single day’s exposure to Finland sparked a deep appreciation in me of the country. I have already written about that one-day introduction to Finland (I believe my visit in 2004), so there’s no point in another post about it. Yet I was almost as enamored of my few days in Sweden during the same trip; another trip which I have mentioned before. Perhaps I am running out of happy memories, forcing me to recycle some of the best ones. Had my early life taken a few sharp turns in different directions, I might be living in Scandinavia now, or somewhere else in Europe; fluent in Swedish and Finnish and proud of my decision to escape the religious and racial and myriad other bigotries that have found a comfortable nest in the USA.

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Courage. Bravery. Fearless determination. Those characteristics—necessary to escape the uncomfortable bondage of claiming to have no choice but to submit to the invasive slavery of patriotism gone off the rails—never took root in me. I wanted to be strong, but I think the requisite attributes were smothered under a blanket of so-called socialization. Artificial bravado, a crucial part of the educational curriculum designed to inculcate obedience in moldable children, blocked the real thing from becoming part of me. Not just me, of course. Millions of others, herded into conformity with easily manipulatable norms, experienced the same pressure…not to question social conventions that buried the spirit of adventure beneath layer upon layer of conformity.

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I hope I emerge from this lethargy very soon. Within minutes, not hours. I felt tired and spent last night, so did not join my gathered family for dinner. Again, I slept. And slept. And slept. At the moment, I feel like I could easily drift back to sleep again. Whether this sense of listlessness is based on mental or physical reactions to chemotherapy on Wednesday, I do not know. Whatever it is, I want it gone. I want a fresh infusion of boundless energy. I want to break out of the doldrums.

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Fog makes the trees outside my window look…vague. As if they are trying to decide whether to reveal themselves fully. The only movements I detect outside are the chipmunks (or whatever) darting across the driveway. Everything else…the leaves on the trees, the fog, everything…is as still as a painting, long-since dried.  Perhaps I am vague, too. But not for long, right? Right?

Among the reasons scientists say water is necessary for life (as we know it) is that water is a solvent. But an article (entitled, Is Water Necessary for Life?) published in the July 2019 issue of Astronomy says this: “There are also plenty of opportunities for life to flourish based on solvents other than water.” The author, David J. Eicher, is reported to be “one of the most widely recognized astronomy enthusiasts in the world.” Whether that recognition, or his extensive history of authoring scientific books and papers, qualifies him as a reliable source of believable information about the connection between non-water solvents and life is a subject for debate—debate for which I am not qualified to moderate nor in which I am qualified to participate. But for as long as I can remember, I have questioned the assertion that water is absolutely necessary for life. A press release (entitled, Water is not an essential ingredient for Life, scientists now claim) published online on SpaceNews.com on November 26, 2004, approaches the matter differently. Subsequent scientific explorations may have found data that would argue against both positions. But I’ll leave it there, anyway. I am curious about the matter; I would like a definitive, inarguable answer. But I am resigned to the likelihood that I won’t get it; at least not one in which I have absolute faith. As in so many other circumstances, my curiosity is strong, but not strong enough to lead me on a “mission” to find an answer that probably exists (if it exists) far outside of humans’ ability to reach.

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Last night’s World Tour of Wines went on without me. Mi novia, though, came home with some plastic bento-boxes full of my food; already paid-for. She took with her to the dinner the bento boxes in which my oncologist sent home with me some Thanksgiving meals last week—so kind and thoughtful! I did not really feel bad; just drained of energy. I feel that way this morning, as well, though not quite as fatigued as I was yesterday, when I cancelled my haircut and my appointment with the podiatrist. I’m still not quite up to speed, so those appointments will have to wait until another time. Bah!

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We’ll have family with us this afternoon through Sunday, a welcome visit that will no doubt boost my energy and otherwise improve what looks like a grey, dreary day outside. The high temperature today is forecast to reach 45°F, only 9°F higher than right now. Fortunately, we will not spend time wandering around shivering and naked outdoors. We won’t spend time indoors in that state of discomfort, either. Instead, we will immerse ourselves in a temperate environment; inside, where we will be sheltered and warm and comfortable. Good people, good food, good conversation. Ideally, all family members would be here with us; that will take place another time. Patience and commitment are what that will take.

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I do not understand why I can get a reasonably good and consistent connection on Zoom with my family in Mexico, but not with telephone connections. Those connections typically are unreliable—static, dropped calls, and wide variations in the volumes of the voices on the other end of the line. The only downsides with Zoom are that they take a small (but still irritating) amount of planning. In addition to the aforementioned problems with phone calls, phone connections involving more than two locations amplify the difficulties. I can cope with troubling interference with communications, but I allow my impatience to dissuade me from making the effort. Perhaps I contribute more to the problem than do the technological connections. Ach.

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Early to bed last night and late to rise this morning; I should be fully rested. Yet my body insists I have not slept long enough. Apparently fourteen to sixteen hours (or more) is inadequate. I am not in intolerable pain, though, so I can handle a bit more sleep in lieu of unwelcome weariness.

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Somehow, our society seems to have determined that we must choose between white color careers and blue collar careers. If we choose the former, we are asked to accept that our education should be delivered in college; preferably through a four-year program or through a more intense path that leads to an advanced degree. If we choose the latter, we are expected to attend trade school or learn on-the-job. In making the choice, we are asked to accept that white collar careers should correlate with higher incomes, more prestige, and opportunities for greater social mobility. Blue collar work, on the other hand, should correspond to lower income, less prestige, and limitations in one’s ability to climb the social ladder. It’s either-or. One or the other. A blue collar worker is not expected to appreciate or understand sophisticated literature, complex scientific or engineering concepts, art, or mathematical theories. And white collar workers who also have an interest in working with their hands are viewed with suspicion, as if “manual labor” is embarrassingly “beneath their station.” Bullshit. I think lives which combine engagement with both worlds are far more likely to be fulfilling than are lives limited to one or the other. Who are the people whose lives are apt to be most enriched? Plumbers who enjoy philosophical discussions or reading the great works of literature. Doctors who spend their spare time doing landscaping. Carpenters who express themselves emotionally by writing poetry. Lawyers who immerse themselves turning wood or building furniture. Electricians who delve into the physics of astronomy. I believe people who venture outside the assigned “color” of their chosen career paths probably develop greater respect for and appreciation of those who have chosen different shirt collars; routes to job satisfaction and career  success.

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Yesterday’s chemotherapy session delivered two anti-cancer drugs, an escalation from recent treatments. I was infused with two medications (gemcitabine and navelbine), but “appropriately” reduced dosages (compared to…?), and given an injection of bone-strengthening medication. I have lost track of the chemo meds I have been given since my original diagnosis and even since the diagnosis of recurrence, two years ago. My oncologist explained that the “abstruse report on genomic & epigenetic biomarkers measured in a blood sample,” which I mentioned in a recent post, revealed “no actionable (genetic) mutations.” She will continue to periodically schedule the measurement (which she called a “liquid biopsy”) periodically, in the hope that any such mutations might offer additional options to stall or otherwise slow the development of my cancer. The latest information yields “good news,” but “good” might suggest a tad more optimism than the news deserves. When I hear her review the meaning of recent developments, I interpret her words as saying something like, “the good news is that your inevitable death due to cancer is unlikely to occur within the hour.” Just a touch of black humor.

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Shortly after I left the clinic after yesterday’s chemo treatment, I began to feel tired.  Or maybe it was a little more like empty or like I had suddenly been robbed of even a shred of energy. I took a nap when I got home. No long after I awoke from the nap, I was ready for bed. So, about 8:00 p.m. I called it a day. Usually, my energy seems to spike upward for a while after treatment; no so, yesterday. My calendar for today includes a follow-up visit with the podiatrist to complete the treatment of my onychocryptosis (ingrown toenail) by applying a chemical to thwart the nail from regrowing along the edge. And, later, I have an appointment for a haircut. And, this evening, we have reservations for a wines of the world dinner. Because my energy level remains quite low, I’ve decided to postpone the first two obligations. I hope to meet the third one, but that remains to be seen, depending on how I feel as the scheduled time approaches. Normally, I can count on at least a little boost right after chemo; I guess I should not count on that expectation.

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My treatment yesterday concluded with the administration of the bone-strengthening injection. I sat in a chair against a wall to get the injection (in my stomach). Just as the nurse plunged the needle into me, I heard an odd noise above the back of my head. And, then, I felt a strange sensation on top of my head. The nurse started laughing, which caused her to jiggle the needle, significantly amplifying the pain of the normally quite painful injection. Her laughter was triggered by the fact that the odd noise and physical sensation were caused by a wall-mounted hand-sanitizer, which began releasing its foam onto me because of the proximity of my head. No permanent damage; the stuff evaporates quickly. More humor; not sure of its hue.

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Back to work and life satisfaction: I sometimes wonder which career path I would have found more appealing: college professor or stone mason? I suspect I could have been comfortable in either role; but happier dabbling in both. I admire people who work with their hands; people who have gotten good at that work. Many kinds of blue collar work are far more artistic than most of their white collar counterparts. Which is likely to be more creative, an office administrator or a wood turner? A plumber or a wedding planner? A paid assassin or a volunteer doing the same work?

Frost on the roof and evergreen trees, visible from the windows of my study, suggests I would be more comfortable staying indoors today—my typical day—than venturing out. But chemotherapy is on the agenda, so I will just have to deal with the underabundance of warm temperatures. Even when we claim to have no choices, we are drowned in them. I could simply opt to cancel my chemo appointment, for example, or I could ask to be placed in a brief, medically-induced, coma while enroute to and from the cancer treatment center. I could postpone the treatment until we experience a period of reliably warm weather, but that might interfere with or counteract the progress made thus far in keeping the cancer from advancing as rapidly as it otherwise would. Choices, then, are not necessarily appealing, or even realistic, choices. Sometimes, they are unattractive or unpleasant options. Maybe options is not the right word; perhaps alternatives is a more descriptive fit. Options suggests, to me, alternatives that are at least modestly interesting. How is it that something so mundane as this can command so much of my time? I often wonder why I can burrow so deeply into such rabbit warrens.

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I am not the only person who has expressed curiosity about whether there is a maximum temperature—an opposite of absolute zero. Fourteen years ago, more or less, a query on reddit asked that very question. The few answers almost immediately assumed a knowledge of such esoterica as how logarithms work, Planck temperature, and other such excursions into quantum theories and physics that are beyond my comprehension. But what I got out of the responses is that absolute zero, the lowest possible temperature, is a theoretical limit that cannot be reached in practice. However, that unreachable limit is assigned specific theoretical temperatures: 0 Kelvin (K), -273.15 degrees Celsius (°C),  -459.67 degrees Fahrenheit (°F). But, at the log scale (according to one respondent), the lowest temperature would be equal to negative infinity. At the other end of the spectrum, there is no specific maximum…except positive infinity; except one respondent says quantum theory may predict a maximum temperature.  At this late stage in my life, there is no compelling reason for me to attempt to absorb a lifetime of understanding of and knowledge about physics. But, if that understanding and knowledge were obtainable by getting a simple injection, I would go for it. I loathe that I did not devote enough time and energy to learn this stuff…or that I am not sufficiently intelligent to achieve that knowledge and understanding.

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A high school classmate with whom I have been in occasional online contact in recent years sent me a message this morning, letting me know she and her son are in Hot Springs Village for a few days. She wondered whether we might be able to visit briefly. Thanks to my schedule and her limited time here, that is, unfortunately, not possible. I have not seen her in 53 years and, to the best of my recollection, we were at most casual acquaintances during our school years. It’s interesting how some faint and tentative connections can endure after such a long time. From what I know of her now, her philosophies are liberal and progressive, which might explain why we remember one another. Another matter to occupy my mind; how are people who otherwise have little in common drawn to maintain informal connections over the course of time?

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The howling cat is complaining bitterly that I will not permit her to leap onto my desktop and shed enough fur to weave into a heavy coat. She seems to crave attention, yet when I try to reach for her to pet her, she rejects my overtures and clearly expresses disdain for me. Yet she looks at me, from just beyond arm’s reach, and looks pleadingly at me. She cries pitifully, as if distraught that I am not paying enough attention to her emotional needs. Dogs are far more friendly. Dogs are kind. Cats are self-indulgent, emotionally empty creatures; feline versions of the Kardashians or the Trumps. Potatoes are friendlier than Phaedra.

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Desolate places are like magnets to me. That is one of many compelling arguments.

I spent most of the last hour poring over an abstruse report on genomic & epigenetic biomarkers measured in a blood sample taken during a visit with my oncologist a few weeks ago. Understanding the significance of the report requires far more knowledge of genetics and oncology than I possess, but with the help of Google’s AI Overview, I have become even more confused by the report’s contents. However, if the Google AI Overview did nothing else, it left me with an uneasy optimism about the potential negative effects on the progression of my cancer, as suggested by my genetics. My visit tomorrow at the cancer center, when the staff will administer more chemotherapy drugs, will, I hope, confirm my optimism about the meaning of the report. My optimism received a pre-abstruse-report boost yesterday afternoon when I received a summary of the morning’s PET-scan results and the doctor’s office called me to tell me she was quite pleased with them. Despite the good news, I need medications (though not as much) to manage pain. I can live with needing a little (rather than a great deal) pain control.

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Tiny icicles dangle from some leaves on the bush outside my window. The dense clusters of bright red berries seem to be encased in thin coatings of ice, as well. If the outdoor temperature is truly 34°F, as my computer monitor tells me, the ice should melt before long. The Weather Network, though, asserts that the temperature, at the moment, is two degrees colder than my computer claims, so I will not count my frozen chickens just yet. Inside the house, some rooms remain unpleasantly cold, even though the digital thermometer (part of the HVAC thermostat) says it’s a balmy 73°F in the house. My body insists the digital thermometer is wrong, at least here in my study—where I am confident temperatures are approaching absolute zero.

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Mi novia‘s grandson will play in the Arizona 5A State Championship (football) game later this week; Friday night. Thanks to her (and her daughter’s) infectious enthusiasm, it is impossible to maintain any semblance of disinterest. Mom’s and grandma’s levels of excitement are, literally, audible; the two of them during their phone conversations and grandma’s when she describes his latest accomplishment to anyone within earshot. Though I doubt I will ever develop sufficient interest in football to prompt me to watch the Superbowl, I am cheering him on, regardless of which team finishes the game with the highest score. The fact that he is maintaining a very high grade point average and is actively involved in other extracurricular activities adds to my appreciation for his accomplishments.

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The icicles are getting longer on the leaves outside my window. And the branches of pine trees, their needles coated with a white sheen, reveal the weight of accumulating ice. Temperature readings still insist the air is barely above—or at exactly the point of—freezing. I doubt the evidence of winter weather will remain visible for long today, which demonstrates my confidence in meteorologists’ ability to predict Mother Nature’s capriciousness.

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Yesterday afternoon, mi novia put up our Christmas tree and otherwise set about decorating the house for the season. Whether the tree will survive the presence of a surly, assertive, occasionally obnoxious, fur-shedding beast of a cat has yet to be determined. I enjoy seeing Christmas decorations—briefly in the month of December—but I have never been especially enamored of being involved in the doing the work of elves. Perhaps, if I had enough eggnog and/or medically-necessary gummies, I might be more inclined to contribute to the efforts. But, more likely, partaking of those seasonal nutritional supplements would simply amplify my enjoyment of the signs of the season.

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Somehow, I slipped into December almost without noticing the end of summer. My birthday in October should be a reminder that Thanksgiving will soon follow, and that Christmas (paired with another’s birthday 🙂 ) cannot be far behind. The speed with which time passes catches me increasingly off-guard, though. Before I know it, leprechauns will be spilling green dye into the Chicago River for St. Patrick’s Day and Buddha Purnima will follow on May 12 to celebrate Buddha’s birth, the latter just a week after Cinco de Mayo.

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Does anyone wonder whether Mona Lisa’s facial expression might have been a response to an episode of flatulence…or diarrhea? And, was it hers or Leonardo’s?

I have written a few paragraphs this morning, but their attempted flippancy has fallen flat. I am in no mood to be flip. Only after my PET-scan, scheduled to begin in 90 minutes, might the tensions I feel fall away. Only then might I try writing again. But maybe I’ll put it off until I get the results of the scan. With good fortune, the results will leave me in a more relaxed, comfortable mood. Time will tell. I have no interest in petting a cobra, by the way.

A few moments ago, I heard a disturbing noise, a loud banging on the wall outside my study. Or, perhaps, in the attic above me. At first, I assumed the sound was the work of a woodpecker attempting to burrow into the siding of the house. Maybe, I thought, the bird was instead trying to poke holes in the rain gutters, hoping to find food in the form of edible worms beneath the surface of the metal channels. But the volume of the racket was so high I wonder whether a raccoon might have been attempting to claw its way into the warmth and security of the vacant space above the ceiling. Even a large raccoon, though, might not be capable of causing such a commotion—a black bear might be seeking food and shelter on this very cool morning in the middle of the forest. Whatever it was, its noisy incursion into my tranquil headspace has ceased; replaced by the screams of crows, angry that no one has left peanuts for them. The usual place where they come looking for peanuts is a big stone, lacking evidence that breakfast has been left for them. This morning, the temperature sits at 32°F, too chilly for the peanut delivery service to function.

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Late yesterday afternoon, mi novia transformed our house into a wonderland of delicate, dancing lights. And she exposed evidence that we are approaching the winter season. A brightly colored metallic Nutcracker soldier, a colorful handmade wreath from her time as a young mother, and a scattering of candles of various shapes and sizes, among other signs that December is just hours away—clear indicators that Christmas is just around the corner…temporally. The early disappearance of sunlight was made even darker by turning off most of the lights illuminating the room. A string of white lights on the mantle above the fireplace—which provided both warmth and darting flames that mesmerized me—joined flickering candles to create an ambiance reminiscent of a cabin nestled deep in the snowy woods on Christmas eve.  When the living room got too warm, we extinguished the fire and moved into the entertainment room, where we watched a few episodes of Broadchurch. I had watched the series several years ago; but I had enjoyed it so much that I was quite happy to see it again.

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Reading comments on Facebook, written by right-wing bigots whose once-hidden despicable attitudes have become acceptable (thanks to the decay of decency ushered in by adherents of MAGA), is a miserable mistake. Seeing such disgusting drivel presents me with a challenge I often fail to meet; the challenge presented by the Unitarian Universalist church: to embrace a principle that calls on us to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Though I accept the principle, intellectually, my emotions refuse to allow me to recognize that it applies to enormous swaths of the population. Especially to people who spout such offensive ideas. These mammals are savage creatures who, in my mind, do not qualify as human beings…as “persons.” I do not know whether I would be upset to learn that all of them perished after jumping into the molten lava of a volcanic caldera. I might be willing to witness such mass madness, though; just to know whether it would be upsetting to me. Just considering such a possibility causes me to feel overwhelming guilt, tempered just a little by the accompanying glee.

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Years ago, I read a book written by my sister’s deceased friend, Dorothy Stroup. The novel, In the Autumn Wind, was a riveting fictional anti-nuclear treatment of the aftermath of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima. Ever since reading it so long ago, I have had in the back of my mind an idea for a book about events surrounding an assertive Japanese demand for an apology for Hiroshima and Nagasaki; a demand that still has not been met. The book would be an action/thriller with heavy overtones of conflicting concepts of morality. When Stroup died in 2013, she left behind an unpublished sequel dealing with Japanese POWs held by the Soviet Union. Her published novel was largely informed by her personal experience living in Japan for a time and her relationships with Hiroshima survivors. She researched background for the sequel by traveling to Siberia in 1993. Stroup’s background, summarized in an obituary published online at legacy.com, fascinates me. The comments accompanying the obituary, from students and friends, reveal an interesting personality. I wonder whether her unpublished sequel will ever be available for curious people to read?

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Today is crisp and clear, the kind of day worth watching from inside a warm house. When I lived in Chicago many years ago (36 years since I left!), I found the snow and frigid temperatures invigorating. Today, I think I would find the city delightful only during the warmth of summer and the warmer edges of spring and fall. While appropriate clothing can make a cold climate livable, winter has lost some of its appeal over the years.

Days and nights merge; the only difference between them is the amount of light I see at the windows—or the hours of darkness that hide the sun. Sleep, once the kingdom of the night, increasingly stakes its claim to daylight hours, its visits growing longer and more congenial. Nighttime dreams and daydreams collide as they invade one another’s domains, making it impossible to distinguish realities in another dimension from fantasies in this one.  I become an observer of both, but a participant in neither. I simply watch experiences, over which I have no control, unfold. Reality inserts itself into delusion and fantasy infringes the territories over which I expect facts to have domain. Dreams gone bad become nightmares, but the term for blighted fantasies escapes me. No matter; they switch places and roles at will…their own, not mine. As a watcher, though, I am sometimes drawn in to the confusion. Left wondering what is real and what is not, I cannot risk a response, only to discover I have intruded on an illusion.

All right. I will admit my descriptions may be somewhat enhanced. Exaggerated. Overblown. But more mundane expressions would be boring, revealing me as the originator of boredom; the perfector of tedium. But I will not leave the subject without saying this: think deeply enough about the differences between reality and fantasy—and between daytime and darkness—and you will question the legitimacy of your own perceptions. I will now attempt to close the hyperbolic chamber.

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An unexpected surprise yesterday afternoon supplied a burst of energy to offset my lethargy for a time. The surprise came in the form of pie; Dutch apple pie. Nectar of the gods. The kind of surprise that might reverse my weight loss. People who deliver pies— whether apple (especially) or pumpkin or pecan or cherry or…anything else—are nothing short of angelic. They know who they are. As do I; I can tell by their wings.

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Today is Saturday, I think. But it could be Monday or one of several other weekdays. And it could be the other weekend day, Sunday, but nothing about the day so far feels Sunday-ish. Days and nights, as I have already suggested, seem to switch places at will. Or they join together to form unfamiliar day-parts. The same is true of the 24-hour packets of time we identify by specific names, but they have the capacity to combine with others, creating new time-based experiences we have yet to name. We cannot legitimately claim the right to assign names to these new time-based experiences…any more than we can claim authority to rename existing packets of time. Yet we do (e.g., Humpday in lieu of Wednesday). We are judged by other sentient beings to be arrogant bastards for asserting what only WE perceive as our superiority. Just ask them. I have. They are universal in viewing us as contemptible creatures with a god complex. They see us as we see him; he, whose claims are so utterly absurd and who actions are so thoroughly despicable that we weep with every breath he takes. Hmm. That brief deviation from the direction of a carefully-planned narrative has now been corrected. Pardon the fact that the train went so abruptly off the rails.

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Speaking of trains. I do not recall a time when I was not fascinated by trains. Passenger trains, especially. I have ridden the rails on several occasions, promising myself each time I would do it again soon. But soon is an imprecise term; December is coming soon, but tomorrow is coming sooner. Long, leisurely, luxurious train travel remains on my bucket list. Though I am firmly committed to equality for all persons, I would make an exception for train travel. I want a private train; one with a private dining car, a private sleeping car, and a private car for conversation and entertainment. It goes without saying, of course, I want the locomotive to be dedicated exclusively to my train. And I want to own the rails, as well. Because there are places I’d like to go where train tracks have not yet been installed, I would expect to have a crew available to lay tracks at my direction. I would invite my family and friends to travel with me and to participate in sightseeing as well as in an ongoing orgy driven by fine food, fine wine, and a commitment to the pleasures of debauchery in all (or  most) of its forms.  I could probably live if I had to scale back my train-related fantasy; I would be willing to make do with an empty boxcar at the end of a freight train.

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Each time I am scheduled for a PET-scan, I feel my anxiety begin to spike. The closer I get to the time for the procedure, the more on edge I feel. Though I try to be confident that the results of the procedure will be good news, that is more difficult than I like. But, on the other hand, I try to anticipate how I would feel if the results show the cancer’s growth has accelerated dramatically. And I try to be  ready to simply accept the results, whatever they are. Last Wednesday, my oncologist told me she would call me next Monday afternoon to review the results with me, if possible. I told her I could wait until my regular chemotherapy appointment next Wednesday; I think she knew, though, I would prefer to know sooner than later. I don’t know why I tried to brush off the anxiety; though I know stoic is not a good look on me, I seem to keep trying to make it seem like a good fit. Very few people know I failed the college course in bravery due to excessive absences. I made up for the damage to my grade point average, though, with the A+ I got in the course on flippancy.

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Next week is packed with appointments. In addition to the PET-scan and the chemo session, I return to the podiatrist for a follow-up to prevent the return of an ingrown toenail…the day after chemo. And I have a haircut scheduled after the toe thing…and a wines of the world dinner that night. Whether I drink any wine that night will depend entirely on whether I expect the chemo to treat me well. I have grown so accustomed to nesting at home that these adventures will seem really edgy.

 

He’s a walkin’ contraceptive, partly broke and part defective
shoutin’ every wrong invective to the cloudy skies back home.

~ A twisted inspirational ~

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Anxiety; a sensation akin to fear, but without the accompanying dread—although dread may be more closely related to anxiety than to fear. Anxiety feels like walking on thin ice. Panic takes hold when the ice shatters beneath your feet and you plunge into the frigid water below. Panic triggers an instinct to fight for life. Anxiety is a motivator, too, but it sparks a desire to flee; to escape the uneasy feeling the world is about to come apart. Depression is an advanced version of anxiety from which escape seems impossible; the aftermath of realizing that one’s world is in the throes of its death rattle. Negative emotions all are connected. They swirl about in the mind that sees itself as separate and apart from almost everything and everyone—alone in a chaotic, unforgiving environment. That very detachment, though, may be the sole coupling that prevents a person from stumbling into an abyss from which an escape is virtually impossible.

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The death toll so far from the horrific fires in Hong Kong high-rise apartment blocks is, at 128, staggering, but officials of the local government say the number of deaths is likely to climb. Some 200 residents of the apartment blocks are still missing and media reports say 79 people were injured in the blazes. This catastrophe, along with the hundreds of thousands of other, smaller ones that take place worldwide every day, makes people acknowledge the inescapable reality that horror is an inevitable aspect of life.

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Except when you look in the mirror, you do not see a human face. All of the other faces you see are imaginary. The news anchors on television…the neighbors…the postal clerk…the crowds of people protesting the deportation of immigrants…the immigrants subject to deportation…your parents…your children…the restaurant waiter…the police officer…the priest…the president…everyone you think you see is a product of your imagination. And that goes for everything else you see, as well. The pens and pencils, the flatware of your dining table, the dining table, automobiles, airplanes, birds, trees, the coffee cup on the counter, the counter, everything. Nothing is real. It’s all a part of a cleverly-designed artificial reality, created by Danzu Petaluma, a celestial equestrian the size of the sharp point of a needle. Danzu created all of us and everything we perceive, using a discarded, badly-outdated version of a SimCity video game (also imaginary, by the way). Incidentally, the face you see in the mirror is an invisibly small  reflection; in reality, your face is less than 1/2 the size of a proton. Everything else within your line of sight is fake. So are the sounds you think you hear; yes, even the music. The canoe trip you took through the Suez Canal…nothing but an illusion. The entire universe—which you think is immeasurably enormous—is considerably smaller than a pea. Yet everything in that universe—all the people and places and things—is the product of Danzu Petaluma’s experimentation with SimCity while high on cannabis. Danzu created it all; even the banana you saw rotting on the sidewalk in front of Macy’s. Yes, even the sidewalk. Even Macy‘s. Danzu did it all. The next time you eat a grape, consider the fact that the same mind that created it also created all the contents of the nearest sewage treatment plant. Danzu has an extraordinarily active imagination, which he shared with you so you, too, can imagine all the thing you think you see or feel or hear or smell or taste. He created bamboo, as well. And cupcakes. And he painstakingly printed every letter of every word of every book ever written (or imagined). Even the Bible. And War and Peace. And Animal Farm. Elvis Presley and Johann Sebastian Bach were his creations, too. He coined the term “opposable thumbs,” as well.

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Once again, I woke near my “old” wake time; around 5:00 a.m. this morning. The chilly outdoor temperatures enhance the appeal of a warm bed, but I question the value of adding to my collection of sleep hours at this point in the morning. That is not to say that I will not return to bed; only that I will question the value of translating the thought into action.

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Gratitude is a duty which ought to be paid, but which none have a right to expect.

~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau ~

Thanksgiving celebrations are not exclusive to the USA. Several countries around the globe celebrate a holiday dedicated to gratitude, though dates devoted to the celebrations differ from country to country. The American Thanksgiving was not the first date given to gratitude. Canada’s Thanksgiving predates the US holiday by 40+ years, for example. Japan, Norfolk Island, Puerto Rico, and Germany are among others. Thanksgiving celebrations, based on my experience, seem to be on the decline, though my experience is colored by age differentials in my family and what I perceive as the small and shrinking size of both nuclear and extended families. People with more “normal” families (2-3 children born to relatively young parents whose own parents bore children at a young age…and the members of the extended family living within relatively close proximity to one another) may be apt to celebrate with more regularity and greater intensity. Even those whose appreciation of Thanksgiving is fairly limited, though, tend to follow at least some of the culinary customs that surround the holiday. Thanks to the generosity of friends and the great people of the cancer treatment center, within the last several days we have been given some foods that are traditionally consumed during this holiday: turkey, ham, stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, etc., etc. Today, we are kicking back at home; chilling and treating the day as an opportunity to rest and relax. I still need that “do nothing” time to preserve or restore my energy.

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At least twice last night, I realized that, although I had been in bed for quite some time, I had not slept. Strange questions that had been on my mind before I went to bed sprang to the surface of my consciousness those two times. My questions related to humans’ evolution and the points at which we might have made the transition from herbivore to omnivore or carnivore. Another question ran through my head: at what point (and how and why) did humans start cooking their food, either flora or fauna? During those periods of thought, I pictured in my head a series of colorful illustrated drawings on a poster; the drawings included timelines that showed when humans’ diets were mostly plants and when we got our sustenance primarily from animals. I could not read the timeframe descriptions  for each of the time periods; the type was too small and too far away and so blurry I could barely make it out as text. Perhaps I could read the text if I think it in closer proximity to my eyes.

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Eager astronomers hope to soon see the results of a celestial event of stunning proportion. The red supergiant star, Betelgeuse, in the constellation Orion, is the focus of attention, with expectations that its transition into a supernova will be visible from Earth. The real-time event, took place between 400 and 700 years (Earth years) ago as Betelgeuse exploded into a supernova. The light energy from the explosion is expected to reach our planet some time “relatively soon,” a euphemism for “maybe soon, maybe never.” Betelgeuse is more than 700 million miles in diameter and has a mass of ten to twenty times the size of the Sun. The supernova-in-the-making is one of the largest stars known. But, because of the distance in space and time, astronomers do not know precisely when the supernova will appear, if ever. We might be surprised to see that, in the intervening Earth years, the once-massive star has become a dense rock the size of a bowling ball, with a weight eclipsing that of the Sun (see what I did there? 😉 )

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Procrastination should not be given a regular place on the calendar. It should be required to force its way into one’s schedule; at gunpoint, if necessary.

Several years ago, shortly after moving to the Village, advice from a veteran bird-watcher added to my knowledge about the human physiology of aging. According to the advisor, changes in the retina and optic nerve diminishes the clarity of vision in low light. In addition, he said, one’s pupils may shrink and become slower to adjust to changes in the intensity of light. This education about reduced quality of vision associated with aging took place in connection with a session on selecting binoculars, part of a bird-watching workshop. The workshop was part of a days-long course on bird identification. I have forgotten most of what I learned about identifying birds; but the relationship between aging and the reduction in the quality and clarity of eyesight remains etched in my brain. Perhaps that revelation accompanied my real-world experience at the time—a noticeable reduction in the sharpness of my vision in low light. Recently, I have experienced another noticeable change in my vision; when reading text on my smart phone—in low light—the reduction in the quality of my vision remains, even after I introduce more light to my environment. Only after resting my eyes for a while does my vision return to “normal,” which is considerably “abnormal” compared to a few years ago. Reliable eyesight is one of many aspects of youth that may fall victim to battles with advancing age. Time brings with it the inevitable surrender to forces of decline and decay.

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Before it is exposed to the heat of flame, a cone of incense is dark and hard and solid. While it smolders, the smoke that rises from it forms pleasing shapes. The smoke quickly dissipates into shapeless vapor, filling the air with a pleasing scent. Once the source of the smoke from the ember is exhausted, the cone is no longer dark and hard and solid. Though its shape remains exactly the same as it was, its color is lighter. The cone has become nothing but fine, powdery ash, its strength and solidity transformed into a vaporous replica. The bulk of its substance has been dispersed into smoke that can never be reclaimed to re-create its previous form.

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Suspects
He had driven into the park, ignoring the “Park Closed for the Season” signs at the entrance. The chain across the road, blocking entry, did not dissuade him. Carlisle Carmichael’s bolt cutters dispensed with the obstacle in a matter of seconds. He continued to the highest observation point and parked at the edge of a cliff. Beyond the edge was space; four hundred feet empty air down to the base, where piles of huge boulders hid the sandy surface beneath. After an hour of searching, he found the entrance to a cave, hidden by a scattering of boulders and brush. He made his way back to the vehicle, reached in and slid its gear shift into neutral, and went to the back of the car. He pushed it forward, past the cliff’s edge. The sound of the car smashing into the rocks below was loud, but no one but Carmichael heard it. After returning to the cave he had found earlier, he crawled inside and made himself as comfortable as he could on a bare rock surface. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a plastic bag full of white tablets. In a bid to reclaim what little was left of his independence, Carlisle Carmichael swallowed a fistful of barbiturates, one tablet at a time.

Six months afterward, park rangers discovered the battered car. Two months later, a couple of spelunkers came across a decomposing body in the cave where Carmichael went to rest. Having already identified the car’s registered owner, rangers assumed the body was Carmichael’s. The county coroner quickly corrected their assumption. “This woman was in her early thirties,” she announced. “The garrote around her neck suggests her death was not accidental.” Suspicion immediately fell on the rangers who discovered the body. Within weeks, both of them vanished, only to resurface in Istanbul months later, carrying counterfeit passports; one of them belonging to Carlisle Carmichael.

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Soon, I will wander into the oncologist’s office, seeking treatment for whatever ails me.

History once told stories about tomorrows that have long since been swallowed by belligerent yesterdays.  Moments in time are woven into instances that evolved into epochs and eras. By closely following the filaments that connect tomorrow with the past, I am led inevitably through non-sequential pockets of time soaked in memories of a future that has yet to become the unauthorized autobiography of  the very first yesterday. I refuse to rely on second-hand information to inform my opinions. My beliefs emerge from seeds planted in the fertile fields of an active imaginary volcano.

+++

She has a Ph.D. in hatred
and a certificate of shame.
She belongs on a hangman’s scaffold
where she can’t escape the blame.

How can this prison hold her?
She’ll set this place aflame.
She killed a local soldier,
a foreigner, just the same.

+++
The functions of news media sometime seem unclear. Or contradictory. Perhaps, though, it’s not the functions that are so unclear or contradictory. Maybe, instead, it’s the intentions driving them that are so confounding. Yet those intentions frequently are so glaringly straightforward that misunderstanding them must be deliberate. And those obvious intentions are…? Clearly, the aim of news media is to deliver indisputable evidence of the innate savagery of our species. Only by televising State banquets featuring human vivisection and subsequent cannibalistic feasts could our monstrosity be any more apparent. But our savagery is called into question by certain print and broadcast offerings, such as today’s edition of NPR’s My Unsung Hero, described as “stories of people whose kindness left a lasting impression.” Which end of the spectrum more accurately describes humankind? 

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A drinking glass full of water left undisturbed on a kitchen counter will become an empty glass over time. The speed with which that transition occurs will be dictated in part by heat and humidity. No matter how closely watched, though, the conversion of visible liquid water in the glass to invisible vapor in the surrounding environment cannot be witnessed in real time. Inexplicable magic.

+++

There are times when nonsensical rambling is far more meaningful than carefully-scripted and well-conceived intellectual precision. Maybe.

Just over a month has passed since my 72nd birthday. I still find it difficult to believe I have lived that long. And, for the immediately foreseeable future, I will continue to live. Unless, of course, I don’t. That’s the kind of unexpected turn of events that can completely wreck one’s plans. To avoid that level of disruption, it is best not to make plans that could be ruined by one’s death. So, no gala parties that would have to be cancelled on short notice. No appointments for haircuts, pedicures, visits with doctors, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, breakfast meetings, speeches given to Congress or the Pismo Beach Garden Club, and so on. And, of course, no birthday parties; a birthday party for a dead celebrant is apt to be something of a downer. I have not had a birthday party thrown on my behalf (except one) for as long as I can remember. Nor have I held one for myself. Most of my birthdays have been acknowledged by small numbers of family and/or friends. The only party I recall was on my 50th birthday, when a couple of employees decided to surprise me. I was surprised by that surprise party. And I was genuinely grateful for it. Nothing like it happened on my two subsequent “milestone” birthdays. I doubt my next “milestone” birthday will be appropriate for celebration, though if I’m around to celebrate my 80th birthday, I won’t try to dissuade anyone from making plans.

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Music binds the wounds we sustain in our chaotic battles to achieve tranquility. Music is more effective than the salve of artificial sympathies, whose sources have little depth. In the right circumstances, even loud, percussive music can intervene on behalf of serenity, as if the turbulence of its sound is capable of smoothing and softening the frenzied nature of emotional disruption. But not everyone is able to slide, invisibly, into a musical cocoon. For them, certain music can simply aggravate an already stressful experience. Listening to a funeral dirge, for example, can trigger emotional waterworks. So-called “sad songs,” though, sometimes help lessen the intensity of the moment by bringing closure to an upsetting episode in one’s life.

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What happens to a close friendship that falls into disrepair and distance when, in spite of  time’s healing powers, efforts to resurrect the relationship fail to recapture lost informality? Can the comfortable, casual connection, once so powerful and so natural, be restored? Is the closeness that once existed gone forever, a victim of the irreversible and unnecessary mistakes that caused the rift to form?

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Owls in the trees near the house made their presence known last night by calling out to one another, “Who Who Who.” Though similar, I could tell the two “voices” of the owls I heard came from two different birds; perhaps having an avian conversation.  I have seen only one owl relatively close-up since moving to the Village, I think, almost twelve years ago. But I hear them frequently.

+++

I believe Amazon and Facebook listen to me. They pay close attention; if I mention anything available for purchase either or or through either platform, they take action, presenting me with offers to buy that product. Amazon, obviously, is listening at all times; it is obvious because the Amazon devices respond immediately when I say “Alexa.” And sometimes when I say something else, the devices think I am interested in having a conversation. Not infrequently, the devices—mistakenly think I am fluent in Spanish—launch into tirades that I find unintelligible except for occasional words or phrases, like “suero de la leche,” “mermelada de fresa,” “mujer con un corazón negro,” or “falsa bravuconería.

+++

I think it’s time for another espresso. Ideally, the espresso would accompany some fresh papaya, half a grapefruit, and a piece of fresh, hot sourdough bread. I would be satisfied with salt potatoes, though; a friend posted a simple recipe for the dish, identifying it as one of the most satisfying foods she has ever eaten.

“Too much” suggests there is a lesser measure; “enough.” And still another; a measure of inadequacy: “Not enough.” The same can be said for “too many.” But the other end of the spectrum for “too many” has another variable suggesting insufficiency: “Too few.” Although “not enough” can suffice in that situation, as well.  When I read or hear the words “too few,” my mind tries to comprehend the meaning, but my brain locks up. That combination of words tries to force me to understand a concept that is foreign to me or, at least, a little awkward: “an overabundance of scarcity.”

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The leaves on one of the visible branches of the bush just outside my window attracted my attention a few moments ago. The rest of the bush—all the other leaves on the remaining branches—were still, but that branch and its leaves shivered, as if shivering from the cold or trembling in fear. I could imagine my body shaking, had I been standing outside and reacting to temperatures in the lower 50 degree range. But that bush (and, especially, that branch) has experienced much colder temperatures without complaints. Fear could be responsible, I thought, but only if that little branch had the ability to experience that emotion. I ruled that out, despite the fact that none of truly know whether plants have the capacity to feel fear. I decided to investigate. When I looked down at the base of the vibrating branch, I saw it: a chipmunk or ground squirrel, busily gnawing on something near the base of the plant. Perhaps the shrub was reacting in fear, after all. Or pain.

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I cannot understand how some people can so readily pick sides between Israelis and Palestinians; voicing fierce support for one and loathing for the other. From my perspective, both are instigators and victims of violence. I feel compassion for each when the other side inflicts on them incomprehensible violence and pain. Yet I condemn each when it is the aggressor. Perhaps I simply have never fully understood either side’s claims of victimhood or their justification for wanting to expunge the other from the face of the earth. But, then, I would rather not join with those who classify either side as demons, or as heroic victims.

+++

Last Wednesday’s chemotherapy started imposing its side-effects on me yesterday; mostly in the form of causing me to need to sleep quite a lot. After several days of feeling energetic and ready to break out of living for months in a cocoon, I seem to have returned to my more subdued self. Damn. I was SO enjoying those several days of normalcy. But I hope that period of engagement with the world will return again soon.

+++

The United States never ratified the Treaty of Versailles, which ended World War I; perhaps we’re technically still at war?  The US withdrew from the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty with Russia in 2019. Our country ratified the SALT II Treaty in 1979, but withdrew from it in 1980. Among the treaties made with Native American tribes, but broken or repudiated or never ratified were the Treaty of Fort Laramie (1868); the Treaty of Medicine Lodge (1867); eighteen treaties (1851-1852 California Treaties); Treaty of Washington (1855); The Treaty of New Echota (1835), considered fraudulent by many Cherokee people. The Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (JCPOA) [officially, as I understand it, not really a treaty], was entered into in 2015 to place limits on Iran’s nuclear program, but the US withdrew in 2018. The Paris Agreement, an international treaty adopted in 2015 to combat climate change by limiting global warming, was entered into in 2015 and abandoned by the US in 2019. “Our word is our bond.” Uh huh.

For a short while, we expected we would go to Bentonville to hear Barrack Obama speak on December 1 at Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Tickets for members (which we are) were to be available, free, to members as of 10:00 a.m. yesterday. Mi novia attempted to get two tickets for  us. Unfortunately, on her first try—literally seconds after the tickets were to be available—she was disconnected from the system. Already, though, she was number 3000+ in line to receive tickets. When she immediately reconnected, she was number 7000+ in line. In either case, it was apparent we would not get the tickets. We were quite serious in our attempt. I was willing to postpone my PET-scan and the subsequent follow-up appointment with the oncologist. I reasoned that I could avoid spending much time in close proximity to people with potentially infectious diseases (though I had not decided quite how to accomplish that feat). We had decided to drive up the day before the event and remains for two overnights in a hotel. Barack Obama’s popularity was the undoing of our plans. I envy the people who will get to attend President Obama’s talk. Despite my occasional misgivings about some of his actions, I admire the man. I will always be at least marginally suspicious, though, of anyone who runs for and ultimately achieves election as the President of the United States. I forgot, in my formative years, to develop presidential ambitions; they still elude me.

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Power is both real and imagined. Strength resides not in the muscles, but in the mind. Responsibilities always accompany real power; the artificial stuff is accountable to no one. Similarly, fiction owes no debt to truth, and reality is not obliged to support the manipulative lies of dishonesty and falsehood.

The word “disease” sometimes seems accusatory, as if the person whose condition warrants the word’s use is knowingly responsible for allowing the affliction to emerge.

+++

I am cold and tired, that latter due to too few hours of sleep last night. I cannot pin responsibility for my insomnia on anything. I slept when I slept; I was wide awake when sleep eluded me. There was no balance between the two, just a random experience, like thin copper strands twisted around one another in a struggle to build strength from inherent weakness.

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I wonder how I would cope, if I were put in prison? Not well, I suspect. My reaction to incarceration might be to reject all fear and replace it with enough rage to cleanse the the place; all the way down to bare steel and studs. I would rather not be in a position to verify my response.

My body was built for a temperate climate; a place where daytime temperatures would range between 73°F and 83°F and nighttime lows would drop into the low to mid 60s, giving me reason to wear light sweaters or jackets. My personality, on the other hand, was built for the desert; where inhospitably hot weather, scorpions, poisonous snakes, and thorny cactus tend to cause people to keep their distance. In spite of my construction, physically and mentally, I am reasonably adaptable. With the right clothes, an efficient air conditioner and heater, and a nice fireplace, I can adjust to both hot and cold weather. Similarly, I can reconcile with low humidity, stinging winds blowing sand in my eyes, and the threat of injury inflicted by unfriendly flora and fauna…provided I have a swimming pool that is maintained by a professional pool person. Like most people, though, my adaptability is not as limited as the previous sentences might suggest. I have the ability to cope with a much wider range of conditions. My ability is not the obstacle. The issue lies in how willing—or unwilling—I am to accept circumstances beyond the limits of my comfort zone. We’re all like that, I think. Though we might think living in a hot, steamy jungle full of venomous creatures would be intolerable, for instance, plenty of people do. They do because, for the most part, they have no choice. They adapt. I could, too. I could live in a one-room house with a dirt floor and a leaky roof and cracks in the walls that allow wind to blow hot or cold air and sand inside. I would not want to live there, but I could. If my choices were to live there or to plunge off a high cliff to the rocks below, though, I might have to weigh the pros and cons of each before deciding which to choose.

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A Bedtime Story for the Little Ones
Little Bobby Jones did not know how his adventure would end. He knew only that the allure of the cave entrance was too powerful to leave, without first exploring what he might find in the darkness inside the mountain. The entrance to the cave looked innocent enough; just another crack wide enough to allow him to slide in and—if he were lucky—get to see beautiful stalactites and stalagmites. Bobby did not give a thought to the possibility that, beyond the entrance, he would encounter something so terrifying that his blood would run cold. He did not expect to be trapped, with no way to escape. When he realized he had been lured into the Gates of Hell, though, it was too late. For the next 500 years, Bobby would experience the immeasurably hot flames of Satan’s den and the agony of demonic creatures ripping at his melting flesh with sharp and slimy teeth. It was just that kind of danger that his mother, Susan Jones, had warned him to avoid. But Bobby did not heed his  mother’s advice. And the penalty for ignoring his mother was 500 excruciating years of the most horrific experience he would ever have. Until the 2nd stretch of 500 years, which would be tens of thousands of times worse. The moral of this story: if your mother warns you to stay out of caves, the choice you make in response to her admonition may have unfathomably monstrous consequences. But it is your choice to make.

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It’s back to the oncology clinic this morning for another infusion of IV fluids. Then, on December 1, I return for a PET-scan, after which I go back to review the results of the scan on December 3 with the doctor. The seemingly never-ending saga of treatments for terminal cancer. Terminal, though, has an indeterminate end-point. I am hoping for seventy-two more active and comfortable years, but that may be unrealistic. I would happily take 10. Or 5. Or whatever…within reason.

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Can the sky be meretricious?

Several years ago, I ordered what I expected would be a VHS tape of a television show I had enjoyed a few years earlier. When I got the tape, I discovered that it was formatted for what I learned was the European PAL standard, not for the NTSC standard in use in the USA. The show, Overdrawn at the Memory Bank, was a futuristic science fiction television film shown on PBS. I do not recall what happened to the tape, except that I never received an NTSC version. Apparently, I was never able to watch the program—which tarred two now-deceased actors, Raul Julia and Linda Griffiths—again. Am I the only person in my familial or social circle who remembers it? I have no doubt that I’ve written about it before; probably years ago. It pops up in memory occasionally; I have no idea if that’s just random, or whether something specific triggers the recollection.

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Dr. Anna Yusim, an executive coach and psychiatrist, is Clinical Assistant Professor at Yale Medical School (as a volunteer) and author of a book entitled “Fulfilled: How the Science of Spirituality Can Help You Live a Happier, More Meaningful Life.” She is quoted in an NPR Life Kit online text adaptation of a podcast, written by Ruth Tam (the title of which is Curious about exploring your spirituality? Ask yourself these 4 questions). When discussing the pursuit of “something greater” than oneself, Yusim said, “For some people, that’s God; for others, it’s collective consciousness or values like faith, love, trust and perseverance.” Tam explains the meaning of Yusim’s comment by saying, “This means that spirituality can be felt by both religious and non-religious people. You might believe in a religion, but not necessarily feel spiritual. Likewise, you could be very spiritual, but not religious.” Hmm. Finally, a reasonable, non-woo-woo way of expressing the legitimacy of the concept of spirituality outside of religious beliefs. The text of the NPR Life Kit was published online in late February 2025. Though I would not call the piece a “must read,” I found it sufficiently interesting to warrant a mention. I may decide to personally explore the 4 questions in more depth, later.

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Peering only at the ground outside, I would have expected to see only denuded branches when I look up into the surrounding trees. But the thick coating on the forest floor represents only the first serious round of Mother Nature’s efforts to strip every twig of its dead and dying leaves. Last night’s howling winds and heavy rain stripped a significant portion—maybe half—of the remaining leaves from the trees, but the storm’s power was not enough to leave the trees bare. I expected the loud cracks of thunder, alone, would have been sufficiently powerful to jar the limbs of the trees; to loosen the grips of the remaining hangers-on from their holds on the. But, no, the trees were not willing to let all the leaves fall; not just yet. Time and additional fierce weather will force the twigs to release most of the rest of the more persistent ones to give up.

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I dreamed I was in Dallas, at my old house, with my two older brothers. The younger of the two had parked his car on the street next to my house. He wanted to drive someplace, but he was worried that the car was nearly out of gas, so the three of us took a gas can from the garage and went in search of a gas station. The neighborhood where I lived had changed; some houses had been torn down and replaced by new, more architecturally pleasing ones and others had been remodeled to look more modern. After we walked through the neighborhood and made our way to retail and commercial areas, it became apparent those areas, too, had changed. I did not recognize them anymore. Once empty fields were now jammed with upscale retail stores. Gas stations I recall from the time I lived there had been transformed; pumps that required us to follow complex instructions to access gasoline had replaced the old ones. A man on a motorcycle helped me insert my credit card properly to start the flow of gas. When we left the station with a full canister of gas in hand, we discovered crossing what had years earlier been a busy street was now almost impossible. The traffic moved much faster than I remembered—at excessive highway-like speeds—and the signals that had helped pedestrians cross were gone. Whether we crossed the street remains an unanswered question; the dream apparently ended before it was answered.

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Well-made AI videos can seem almost (or, to me, entirely) real. That is more than a little concerning, especially in light of the fact that high-quality AI videos are capable of altering our perception of reality. I wonder how many videos I have watched, initially thinking they were real, only to discover they were created with AI? And how many might I have watched, generated by AI, that I still think were real? I wonder how many politicians I might think are human (but act inhuman) were created by devious, behind-the-scenes manipulators of enormous segments of the population? As I travel down this deeply disturbing road, I cannot help but wonder whether humankind long-since became extinct, replaced by AI replicas, including me. Is my confusion about life in general an outgrowth of the fact that I have never known actual life…was my experience as a living, breathing human being artificially created for the entertainment of electro-magnetic sadists with nothing but time, and real people, to kill? Of course I realize the likelihood is small, but…

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The merger of reality with fantasy may yield one of two things: realasy or fantality. Or it may not. The title of this post is neither, nor both; not either, as well.

American crows live 7 to 8 years, on average. I wonder how many of the crows around our house have lived that long? How does one tell the age of a crow? According to Google’s AI, a crow’s age is revealed in its eye and mouth color, feather quality, and behavior. But those attributes give only a range of age; a limited estimate, at that. My curiosity is not strong enough to merit any more vigorous research, so I will leave it at that. Is there anything that interests me enough to utterly and completely capture my interest, pushing me to seek answers to my questions in favor of food or sleep?

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Is California really “safe and warm?” Were the Mamas & the Pappas truth-tellers, or did they sing their hopes and dreams, abandoning reality in favor of comfortable fantasy? Fortunately, my life does not depend on getting a reliable answer to those questions. But what, then, DOES it depend on? A miraculously capable oncologist, perhaps?

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The population of Hot Springs Village, when I moved here in 2014, was said to be around 13,000. This week’s Voice newspaper reported the population is roughly 17,000. That population increase of 4,000 (almost 31%) is readily reflected in the volume of cars on Village streets and roads. New home construction seems to have been following the same pattern since the COVID-19 pandemic ceased being an immediate existential threat. Anecdotally, based entirely on my unscientific observations, younger non-retirees appear to constitute a greater portion of the population today than in 2014. The future is impossible to accurately predict, but I suspect growth will continue; probably at a higher pace. The cost of living—especially the relatively low cost of housing and the low property tax burden—enhances that likelihood. Housing prices in the Village have climbed steeply since the pandemic, but not as much as in Dallas, where I lived before moving here. We sold our house in Dallas in 2014 for $331,000; today, various estimates put its sales price at $640,000 to $676,000, around double. When my first house in the Village sold around four years ago, it had risen in actual value (per sales price) by almost 56% from the time I bought it, seven years earlier. That increase was propelled in large part by lower interest rates and high demand, brought about in part as a consequence of the pandemic. What, if anything, does all this mean? Hell if I know. But I know this: I am glad Dallas is not in my future.

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Late yesterday afternoon and into the evening as darkness fell, we sat outside on the deck, sipping wine. It was the first time in many, many, many months that we took full advantage of our location overlooking the forest; well over a year, I think. Sitting outside in a quiet, peaceful, beautiful setting as the sun dropped beneath the horizon was incredibly calming; relaxing in the extreme. The unseasonably warm temperatures, coupled with the fact that I felt an unusual and long-lasting burst of energy, made the experience feel absolutely delightful. But much cooler weather will arrive around Thanksgiving, according to forecasters, so I might not feel inclined to try replicate those moments; at least not in the immediate future. I am glad we let yesterday’s circumstances inflict such pleasantries on us. Today’s chemotherapy treatment is apt to rob me of much of my energy. The probability is high that I will again soon feel uncomfortably cold in an environment in which temperatures drop below 80°F. There I go again; allowing anticipation sully the appeal of the present. I must train myself to fully engage with the moment, when the moment is so refreshingly pleasurable!

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Card games have never held much appeal for me. In fact, I actively avoid playing them. Games far more to my liking include Wordle (very similar to the 5-Letter Word Game my mother taught me to play and enjoy when I was a child, but juiced-up by technology), Words with Friends (WWF), Sequence (which I haven’t played in quite some time), and (on occasion) crossword puzzles. Lately, I have been spending far too much time with WWF, sometimes playing six or eight “hands” simultaneously with a single opponent, then moving on to several other opponents with each of whom I am playing a similar number of “hands.” The games keep me occupied, though I tend to get annoyed with WWF when its creators refuse to accept perfectly legitimate words. My annoyance grows when those same game stewards willingly accept completely bogus combinations of letters as “real” words, for which their in-game dictionary conveniently has “not yet” included a definition.  And that exhausts the subject.

I had a rare burst of energy yesterday afternoon, enough to send me outside with my battery-powered leaf blower, where I cleared the driveway and the street in front of the house, as well as the circle at the end of our little cul-de-sac. Though I loathe the noise leaf blowers make, they make it possible to do the work of ten people with rakes—in a fraction of the time. Thick layers of leaves on the forest floor are appealing, but leaves on hard surfaces quickly become dangerously slick in wet weather; my rationale for tolerating and contributing to the noise. By the time I finished clearing the leaves, my store of energy was depleted. But it began to return after a brief break, so I continued to take advantage of it. I blew leaves off the deck, washed some clothes, shredded a pile of paper that contained personal information, vacuumed the areas of the living room that needed it most, emptied Phaedra’s litter box, and otherwise took advantage of an unusual store of energy. By the time mi novia returned home from her weekly Monday card game, I was ready to relax with a little wine—and to overindulge in far too many Oreo cookies. I haven’t had so much energy in months…literally months. If any of it remains, tomorrow’s chemotherapy session will likely sap it. Not pessimism; realism. The photo—unrelated in any way to the energy of yesterday afternoon—popped up as a “memory” on my computer monitor unexpectedly. I remember taking the picture of morning glories I had planted years ago in Dallas.

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We finished watching The Beast in Me last night. I was impressed.

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My nephew and his wife sent us an unexpected package full of edible goodies a few weeks ago. Included among numerous other wonderful surprises was a package of Dutch caramel-filled waffle cookies called stroopwafels. I had never heard of them before we received the package, but I now consider myself an aficionado. After wolfing down the stroopwafels they sent, I went online and bought some more. The treats have given me sufficient reason to travel to Denmark in the event they become unavailable in the USA.

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MacKenzie Scott’s enormous wealth is not her only distinction. Her approach to philanthropy is equally remarkable. It is my understanding that she tends to make large philanthropic gifts with the expectation that recipient organizations are best equipped to know how best to leverage the gifts to accomplish their aims. While I know very little else about her (other than she is a novelist and was married to Jeff Besos), what I know is enough to make me think she is the kind of person I admire.

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Under the right leadership, the United States, Russia, and China (and probably others) could join forces to accomplish enormous good throughout the world. Simply by retreating from unnecessary competition with one another (and away from enormously wasteful defense spending and military posturing), their resources could be redirected toward solving countless problems and threats. Encouraging other countries to join an active coalition of nations dedicated to peace and uniform prosperity, they could lead the world toward a far brighter and more satisfying future. I realize, of course, such ideas are considered by many (and probably most) as impossibly optimistic and utterly unachievable. But only by ignoring the staggering opposition to collective solutions to world problems can the long shot become a likelihood. The “right leadership” would involve people who are diplomatic, compassionate, charismatic, intelligent, optimistic, and willing to take big risks in support of creating a true global force for good. Though I usually am more than a little pessimistic about the future of humanity and humankind, when I think of the possibilities such collective efforts could accomplish, I am cautiously optimistic.

Overnight, the kaleidoscope of early Fall colors in the forest surrounding the house seemed to change. Trees that had been full of yellow and red and bright orange leaves changed into a nearly-uniform palate of brown and muted orange. More light now filters through the canopy, thanks to fallen dead leaves forming a thick coating on the ground. I am reminded of a place I have never been, except in my mind; a forest refuge hidden deep in a distant, almost inaccessible, part of the rural upper mid-west or New England. But I am here, in a spot I do not have to let my mind create. My mind need not conjure an imaginary place in a previous time. Yet I allow myself to use this real experience to invoke artificial memories of others that have never taken place. I wonder why that is? Does it suggest a longing to be somewhere else—somewhere like this but in another place or another time? Or is it simply a natural reaction; a response not unlike anyone else in my position, in my circumstances, might have?

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Soon the bright red berries on the bushes outside my windows’ study will attract birds, especially cedar waxwings. The birds seem to get drunk after they start eating the berries. Their speed when they fly increases and their flight patterns become irregular. My assessment—that their behavior suggests that they are inebriated—may well be an illegitimate anthropomorphic attribution, though. God, I love those big words!  🙂

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My visit to the podiatrist this morning was far less unpleasant than I expected. I barely felt the numbing injections in my big toe. After the toe became numb, I did not feel anything when the doctor cut the offending ingrown nail. Whether I will feel pain later, when the local anesthetic wears off is yet to be known. I suspect, though, the pain I have long-endured as a result of that nail soon will be just a memory. I will return to see the doctor in about two weeks, when he will apply some sort of chemical to the edge of my toe with the intent to prevent the nail from growing back in that area. I should have had this procedure done years ago. Unjustified fear can interfere with positive progress. That is true of physical as well as political and social matters.

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I just lit another cone of incense, the scent of this one called “forest.” Some of the cones with other scents—patchouli, cinnamon, sandalwood, aloe vera, dragon blood, full moon—have been mostly or completely used up, signaling the need for another purchase. My favorite, still, is patchouli, I think. Variety, though, keeps us from stagnating; getting stuck in a ritualistic rut. The potential for allowing one’s existence to become too routine and too predictable is one of the reasons I try to vary my activities, both physical and mental, at least slightly. I do not burn incense every day, partly for that reason. While following rituals can help anchor us to reality, overreliance on rituals can blind us to changing circumstances, leaving us struggling to adapt to the realities of a changing world.

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Last night, a character in a Netflix series we are watching (The Beast In Me) expressed concern about an urge to jump when she is in a high place. I identified with that fear; it has arisen in me many times over the years when I have stood at the railing of a tall bridge or near the edge of a high building. This morning, I searched for information on that phenomenon. An article in the February 2012 issue of the Journal of Affective Disorders calls it The High Place Phenomenon. The authors say it is a common phenomenon among people who are suicidal and those who are not. In fact, it “may reflect their sensitivity to internal cues and actually affirm their will to live.”

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Confronted with—and acknowledging—the inevitability of death changes one’s perspective on life. Gut acceptance of the reality that one’s own life will end can make taking existential risks less appealing; less thrilling. Many of the more mundane aspects of life that once may have bordered on boring can become intensely appealing. The attraction of broad social engagement can decline considerably, leaving one more interested in spending time with a smaller cluster of people with whom one is, or want to be, extremely close. But people being who and what they are, some people have the opposite experiences. They become more gregarious, more outgoing, more open to risk, and more interested in seeking new adventures. Then there are those who vacillate between personalities;

• The gregarious misanthropic hermits who refuse to stay inside shark cages while seeking opportunities to swim with great white sharks.
• The unsocial extroverted socialites who shy away from the dangers of gambling more than $2 in a poker game.

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Where do you go to avoid being crushed when the building blocks of civilization crumble around you? How do you escape the outcome when empires fall? Who do you turn to for comfort when the whole world abandons you? When do you acknowledge defeat when clocks and calendars no longer have meaning?  Why did the sinking ship invite passengers to board?  Is the atrophy of hope a communicable disease?

Data encoded onto reel-to-reel magnetic tape and expressed in the form of sound were expected to replace black vinyl discs that performed the same function. Similarly, machinery dependent on more modern magnetic tape recorded video images, then displayed on electronic monitors, were thought to spell the death of plastic film that captured “motion pictures.” Reel-to-reel magnetic tape recordings were made almost obsolete with the introduction of eight-track tapes and cassette tapes. Equipment that allowed video to be physically projected onto a screen (along with accompanying sound delivered through speakers) was all but replaced by even more modern video equipment that decoded magnetically-recorded images directly onto monitors. These newer, more modern, technologies reached their peak in a matter of just a few years, giving way to audio and video recordings on compact discs (CDs) which, a little later, were also were made obsolete by technology that permitted all kinds of data to be recorded on miniature magnetic media that could be stored on “thumb drives” and later made available through online streaming. “Old” technologies, once hailed as the wave of the future, limped into oblivion, superseded by ever-more-astonishing developments.

The same kinds of advancements that led to streaming video, cellphones, “smart” appliances, and other developments that seem closer to science fiction than to reality are likely to continue into the future, but at a much faster pace. Social media, one of today’s ubiquitous modern miracles, is apt to fall victim to the same creativity and technological advancements that gave it birth. Facebook, America Online (AOL), MySpace, TikTok, Instagram, Threads, and others seem embedded in our culture today, but a host of factors are likely to drive  their replacement or demise. The dark underbelly of social media, which is in part driving the erosion of civility and the consequent erasure of reliable streams of information, ultimately will create sufficient backlash to provide an engine for revolutionary change in the social media landscape. Most, if not all, of our modern marvels will fall victim to their own inadequacies; their own failure to properly prepare their eager consumers to use them intelligently, responsibly, and in a relatively sophisticated manner. Whether their replacements will follow the same path remains to be seen.

These matters have been on my mind for quite some time now. In fact, I expected the likes of Facebook and X and so forth to have faded into oblivion by now. It appears that Mark Zuckerberg and Elon Musk and their cronies are more intimately knowledgeable about the longevity timelines of their creations than I. That notwithstanding, I stand by my assertion that their products either will evolve into something far more sophisticated or decay into embarrassing memories of humans’ unsophisticated gullibility. So, too, will technologies evolve. If I had money and a reasonable expectation that I will live long enough to see the results, I would bet quite a lot on being right.

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The future of Time is impossible to predict. Time cannot exist without a future, but neither can the future exist without Time. The past, on the other hand, is immutable; with or without Time, the past has already taken place, so it is not subject to adjustment in the same way that the future can be modified. But the past once was the future, so Time must have shaped the past as surely as it shapes the future. How can the past, though, be independent of Time, yet be irrevocably tethered to it? Just as yesterday is the past tense of today and the preamble to the future, the past and the present are the preambles to tomorrow. Tomorrow cannot exist in the absence of Time. Is Time dependent on activity? Or in the absence of activity, does Time cease to exist? Why do we need Time? Is Time a necessary concept? Could humans get by without acknowledging the existence of Time? Time cannot be tasted, seen, touched, smelled, or heard, so it is generally not considered one of our “five senses.” But if Time can be experienced, how can that be in the absence of a sense to detect it? Perhaps our five senses can exist only in the presence of Time? How, then, does Time relate to smell or taste? Maybe Time is a required in order to experience any of the five senses?

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I missed my connecting flight last night because I lost my boarding pass. Janine and Carol must have made the connection, but I was delayed because it took so long to get the customer service agent to produce a replacement and because the gate agent would not hold the flight for me. I might have made it, had the departure gate not been so far away and had the gate agent not ignored me for so long and had I not been so naive as to show a man my new boarding pass. My flight was to leave from gate 5; I was at gate 51, which was next to gate 5, but gate 5 could be entered only from the other side of the people mover. The people mover was very slow and had to circle the entire airport to get to gate 5. The man, dressed in a jacket that looked different from other airline employees, asked to see my boarding pass, then put it in his breast pocket and said he would go check it out. He did not return. I was embarrassed that I kept not evidence that I have been given a replacement pass and that I must have given my boarding pass to a stranger who was not connected to the airline. I was resigned to the fact that I would be fired because I missed the flight; but also because I had not turned in expense reimbursement requests for dozens of other flights. I awoke this morning in a state of intense stress.