John Swinburn

Some concepts are subject to generational evaporation. For example, the idea that a person can “cherish” or be cherished. Baby Boomers, as a group, understand it. If for no other reason the 1966 tune written by Terry Kirkman and recorded by the Association, entitled Cherish, the word (and the concept) entered our vocabulary. But I suspect the term and its meaning both skipped subsequent generations. Do Millenials or GenX or GenZ or the latest cohorts know the word? I doubt it. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of word that slip quietly out of regular usage. Language is not static. Knowing that, getting sentimental about words disappearing and new one appearing is rather silly. But people tend to get sentimental about such things. I suppose we tend to associate specific words with treasured—or despised—experiences. Members of subsequent generations may not have such experiences or they may have them but may not make the same linguistic connections to them. This train of thought probably does not matter to anyone but me at the moment; but that’s true of so many of my thoughts.

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The vibrancy of a cosmopolitan city. The charm and pace of a pacific village. The serenity of a hidden, quiet, purely personal retreat. Mountainous forests, long stretches of empty sand beaches, majestic cliffs overlooking endless ocean scenes, the hustle and bustle of city crowds, and the peaceful silence of places known only to the select few. If only it all existed in just one place. But no such place exists. Those people fortunate enough to have the resources to be where they wish, choices must be made. The extremely fortunate among us can move from place to place, but even they cannot bring all those desirable spots together in one place. Decisions are required. People must establish priorities. But some people cannot force themselves to choose. For some people, choices are their demons. A decision to pick one place means others are not selected; those others may then become even more attractive—and the person who made the choice begins to resent his selection. In the absence of Shangri-La, the place that combines every desirable attribute, every place becomes almost hellishly imperfect. Choice of places to be represent only one kind of demon. Choices about who to be—or who not to be—can be equally demonic. In fact, every opportunity for choice can represent a risk…to be dissatisfied or, at minimum, incompletely satisfied. Is it a personality flaw or simply an accident of existence? Everyone has an opinion, but no one—having selected which opinion to hold—can be certain he has chosen the right one.

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Orange and yellow leaves are raining down from the trees outside my window. Every strong gust of wind tears countless leaves from their branches, sending them down to cover the ground. Over time, many of those leaves will compost naturally, providing nutrients to the trees that once held the younger, greener versions of the leaves close. If cannibalism applied to non-animal living things, I would say the process of trees “eating” their own (and other trees’) leaves represents cannibalism. But the dictionary tells me cannibalism applies only to animals. Perhaps, if I tried, I could find a terms that applies to plants. But I have not tried and probably won’t. It’s not that important to me. But I am modestly curious. So if anyone reading this knows the answer, I will be grateful if you tell me.

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If I had the energy, I might write about my long, somewhat annoying trek to the airport yesterday afternoon…and the long, unplanned route I took driving home. But I do not have the energy at the moment. More espresso, please. Okay, I’ll take care of that.

Early this morning, I came across a brief discussion of the Gabriel García Márquez novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, which has been described as among the “supreme achievements in world literature.” Though I have long known of the novel, I have yet to read it. But as I read the discussion and a partial synopsis of the book, a few words that summarize the book’s core story line struck a chord deep inside me. The electrifying summary says the book “chronicles the irreconcilable conflict between the desire for solitude and the need for love.” Ach! I must make time, during a long stretch of isolation, to read the 417-page book.

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I have never taken enough photographs of people I love. Yet perhaps those relatively few photos take on an even deeper sentimental value than had I taken thousands.  Those I have taken should have been better organized and preserved. This line of thinking is silly and pointless. Deeds that never took place are impossible to “fix.” Fretting about past failures is an exercise in futility. If that and similar exercises built muscles, my physical strength would be on full display; bulging biceps and all. The absence of such evidence says such exercise does not build muscles; I know that exercise simply builds additional layers of guilt and regret. A lifetime recognizing mistakes of omission and commission is time wasted. So, knowing that, why is that futile and unhealthy mindset allowed to fester? Bloody good question. The answer or answers probably are just as unsatisfying as the thinking that allowed dwelling on the matter to take place.

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The urologist subjected me to a very uncomfortable, though quite brief, couple of procedures yesterday. But his analysis of his findings—nothing at all of any concern whatsoever—made the unpleasant indignities worth the experience.

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I washed the sheets a while ago. They are drying as I type this. One of my least favorite household chores is making the bed. In this house, one of the divisions of labor we have silently agreed on is that I do not have to do that chore. But in mi novia‘s weeklong absence, it is only fitting that I welcome her back with clean sheets on a made bed. If I had devoted every ounce of my creative energies for my entire life to alternative ways of preparing beds for comfortable sleep, I suspect I could have found more appealing options. But, alas, I have simply tolerated that unpleasant part of household management, instead of trying to find ways to get around it.

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Summer returned yesterday. Late in the day, while the sun was still shining brightly, I traded my jeans for a pair of gym shorts. And I took off my athletic shoes and replaced them with flip-flops. If the weather forecasts are correct, I should be able to avoid jeans and heavy, uncomfortable shoes for at least the next day or two. Happiness can come on the wings of small things.

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The dryer soon will remind me that I have to make the bed. “Pleasure with pain for leaven,” is one of my favorite phrases, taken from a poem I have always appreciated. The phrases is so apropos of the vagaries of life on planet Earth.

The complexity of our planet and everything on it is beyond comprehension. Looking out my window at the bark on tree branches thirty feet in the air, I see grey and light green lichens or fungus or moss—I guess. And I see living green pine needles and dying or dead brown ones. And acorns on oak trees, among leaves that the season somehow triggers to wilt and fall to the ground. Bark on tree trunks reveals holes where woodpeckers have sought insects, the variety of which is almost unimaginably diverse. I could go on for hours, detailing the variety of life forms just outside my window. But diversity is not limited to living things, of course. If I were viewing multi-colored layers of rock and stone in a road-cut, I could spend hours—perhaps months or years—noting the unique appearance and texture of each one. Sea creatures, volcanoes, clouds, earthquakes, tornadoes, desert sand, and on and on and on and on and on and on…ad infinitum.

Planet Earth is astounding. I wonder whether other planets are as remarkably complex as ours? And what about asteroids and the rings around planets and stars and the space between them? And then I think about my own body and its complexity, its growth and decay—and the resurrection of tissues and the degradation of bones and brain cells and hair that grows on my head and face and…on and on and on…ad infinitum. Stunning. My brain cannot hope to comprehend even a miniscule fraction of the realities it encounters. Any effort to absorb and understand all knowledge is a pointless endeavor, but humankind continues to try. But even our collective efforts are essentially wasted, if our objective is to know all there is available to know. On the other hand, the pursuit of knowing more promises to be an ever-expanding opportunity. Hmm.

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Visiting a urologist is not high on my bucket list. That notwithstanding, that is on my calendar for this morning. My oncologist, when she saw that my latest CT scan revealed a “circumferential wall thickening of the urinary bladder,” decided she wanted a urologist to evaluate finding. I realize, of course, that one’s body tends to rebel against aging as time progresses, but I would prefer to delay that revolution until the very end—perhaps twenty years hence. My preferences, of course, are irrelevant; one’s body does what one’s body does—on its own timeline—without being asked or given permission. So, after another espresso to prepare me for the day and a shower to prepare me to be around people, I will visit my urologist.

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If the stakes were not so high, we could leave mindless politicians to engage in pointless warfare with one another until only their bloodied corpses remained to remind us that stupidity kills. And, of course, there is the problem of the politicians’ indoctrinated acolytes, people who permit politicians to think for them. The incredibly high stakes, perhaps as high as they have ever been, require the rest of us to use one of the only tools available to us—the vote. The only other means of exercising control involves taking up arms at the risk of leaving politicians unscathed and insurrectionists dead or imprisoned. So, realistically, the vote is our only hope to retain—or recapture—control over self-governance. And, if we were to succeed, maintaining control would require concessions, compromise, and bargains across philosophical divides. Preserving democracy, even  an imperfect one, requires extremely hard work and a willingness to accept the fact that the Rolling Stones got it right: You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you’ll find you get what you need. We can only hope.

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Love. Does it have weight? Mass? Fear. Same questions. How can we know either truly exist? Do we have reliable measures, or must we rely on our senses…and hope they are dependable? Silly questions, but even silly questions might have intriguing, unexpected answers. Or they may not.

Yesterday afternoon’s weather was close to perfect. Clear skies, the temperature ideally suited to sitting outside on the deck, soaking in early November’s version of the beauty of the forest…it is a shame the experience cannot be captured and lived again on demand. But experience on demand might lessen its power…its ability to instill a sense of awe at Nature’s ability to cause a person to feel joy, simply by being. What is it, I wonder, that enables an experience to shut down all the negative thoughts that accompany living in a harsh world? Thoughts of war, hatred, poverty, and all the rest of humanity’s self-imposed horrors can vanish—albeit only briefly—simply  because of Nature’s presence or existence or…something inexplicable.  Perhaps it is some sort of natural anesthesia, the equivalent of a numbing agent that deadens the pain of living in a world beset by so very many unnecessary problems. Whatever it is—was—yesterday afternoon was delightful. I shared it with my friend, my late wife’s sister, and her dog. The experience was enhanced, perhaps, by a cocktail (gin & tonic), but even without that, simply sitting and feeling the air was close to spectacular. Watching the way sunlight changes the colors of leaves as the sun moves across the sky reminded me of how remarkable the world can be, if only we sit and observe it.

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Later, as I pondered whether to watch television and, if so, what to watch, it occurred to me that the experience of enjoying Nature a few hours earlier stayed with me. I did not need to find a riveting program to grab my attention…I could be satisfied with anything I happened upon. I ended up watching a news/crime documentary (I do not recall the name…it is a regular broadcast television series) that investigated the crimes of a charismatic criminal who created and led a cult, killing cult members periodically so the cult could collect their life insurance money. Needless to say, watching the program had an unpleasant effect on my earlier euphoric mood. I did not need to watch it. But I did. We (I) can ruin our own experiences if we let ourselves do it.

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Light came to the skies early this morning, thanks to turning back the clock. Would it not be wonderful to be able to “turn back the clock” by years, instead of just an hour? I would be extremely grateful to the universe if I could turn the clock back twenty years, giving me the opportunity to live those years again without making the mistakes I made along the way. If I could relive that time period, always conscious of avoiding those mistakes, I could be a happier man. And the people around me could be happier, as well. Some of the actions I took—or did not take—were mistakes, but some were either intentional missteps or the results of thoughtlessness. We cannot turn back time, though. In place of that ability, we experience regret, the price we pay for our many failings.

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It’s late. I need to shower, shave, and dress for the day. I will go to church in a bit. When I return home, perhaps I will accomplish some of the tasks I delayed…again…yesterday and the day before. Time will tell.

Space exploration is viewed by many people as a wasteful endeavor. The money and effort spent going to the moon and Mars and beyond, they believe, should be spent solving problems of poverty, climate change, etc., etc. Though I understand that perspective, I do not share it. Space exploration has the potential of revealing extraordinary secrets of the universe, many of which might prove valuable in solving the terrestrial problems that face humankind—and every other creature that shares the planet with us. I envy the astronauts and cosmonauts and scientists and astronomers who can see beyond the boundaries of our solar system and our galaxy. For brief moments, they can escape the shackles of gravity and see at least a little of what’s “out there.” They can escape, for a while, the mess we have made of and on this planet. They may find answers we have been seeking for centuries and longer. Their efforts are worth the time and expense dedicated to expanding our knowledge of a limitless universe.

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One hundred years from now—and probably much, much sooner—no one will remember anything about me and my life. Thinking about that reality puts in perspective everything I think is important today. The uncomfortable reality is that, on an individual and personal basis, nothing matters. Our brief impact on the world, as miniscule as it is in our lifetimes, becomes far less than microscopic when considered on a timeline that stretches millions and millions of years. Yet that reality does not deter us—me, at least—from thinking and wondering and attempting to understand the inexplicable. Even when we know we do not matter, we pretend we do. If we did not pretend we mattered, our brief time on this planet would be utterly wasted.

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Spending several days almost entirely by myself—venturing out daily only to check the mailbox and to have brief encounters with other people a few times—reminds me how much I need solitude. Extended time alone relieves me of the exhaustion that social engagement brings about. But until I have the experience of being alone for a few days, I do not even realize how draining social interaction can be. I enjoy spending time with certain people—people I find appealing in one way or another—but if I spend too much time in situations in which I am surrounded by people, I get tense, tired, and anxious. What that means is this: I am an introvert, through and through.

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My thoughts are too jumbled and garbled and otherwise too utterly indecipherable to document, so I will give up for now. I will spend another day in solitude. I may do laundry I intended to do yesterday and I may clean the house as I had planned to do yesterday. And I might do a hundred other things on yesterday’s list. Yesterday, the day I had planned to use as a time dedicated to “getting things done,” turned into an exercise in lethargy. I am afraid this day may do the same. If so, I will chalk it up to recovering from the exhaustion of being an introvert in an extrovert’s world. And on I go. Life goes on as this little blue dot spins in an endless sea of darkness. There are secrets so numerous and so vast we cannot hope to ever know them; but we keep pursuing an incredibly attractive, yet pointless, endeavor.

The cat woke me around 4; I finally got up at 5 and fed her. She has since disappeared; no yowling, no ripping through the house and sliding into walls in her frenzy to escape some imaginary predator. On the one hand, the serenity is a welcome departure from what has become an annoying routine; on the other, I worry that she may have slammed into something beneath the bed and knocked herself out. I must go look for her. After I make another espresso. I have become addicted to espresso, thanks to spending a week with my brother and his wife in Mexico. I drank espresso every morning while we were there. And I ate fresh fruit almost every morning. “Fresh” fruit here is unripe fruit imported from Mexico or Guatemala or Honduras or other distant places that is allowed to ripen in transit. There’s a difference in flavor and texture; truly fresh fruit is magical. I recommend it highly.

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A cat is no companion. It refuses to behave like a friend or a dog. A cat is driven entirely by selfish motivation. Unlike a dog or a friend, a cat either cannot sense a person’s emotional fragility or it can but does not care about it. As long as it is fed and its litter box is frequently emptied and refreshed, a cat’s expectations are adequately met. Of course, some dogs seem more like cats than one would hope. And friends cannot be expected to ignore their primary obligations to comfort someone whose favorite sports team has gone down in defeat. AI has the potential of standing in for dogs and friends; and, if one is enamored of soulless, uncaring beasts, AI could stand in for cats, I suppose. I should not be so judgmental.

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Here is a completely revised poem that I began to write some time ago. It was unfinished then. It is a battered mistake today, and it is finished now; in more ways than one.

Lost Chance

When shoulders aren’t there for the crying,
when love is a wall made of stone,
when life seems a prelude to dying,
when you’re tired and weeping alone.

It’s time to create your salvation,
crafted from sweat and from sands.
You emerge from your bitter stagnation
and build a new life with your hands.

The fire in the furnace inside you
is stoked with the pain of the past.
You stare at the face looking at you
from shards of a mirror’s cracked glass.

But your mind is a kiln or an oven,
that melts with a history of hate,
but your friends belong to a coven
that saves you before it’s too late.

Yet you shout at the liars, scream at the thieves,
calling everyone out for a fight.
You tear into the fighters, shredding their sleeves,
and do battle all the mutinous night.

You chase them with hatred and laughter,
you insult them with snarls and love.
You taunt them before and then after
and trap them below and above.

Your chance at creating salvation
was lost when you traded in hatred.
Now the train is leaving the station
taking with it everything sacred.

It is a lesson too late in the learning,
made of sand, he sang in a song,
and it leaves you with an impossible yearning
to forsake all you did wrong.

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Yesterday’s post expressed raw emptiness; the sort of emotion in which sharp pain competes against itself in the form of numbness. Emotions rarely exist in a vacuum in which only one purely physical and/or mental sensation has taken residence. In fact, there exists no pure emotion, entirely untainted by other feelings; one emotion may be dominant, but it is almost always impossibly knotted with others, a tangle of eels. Deep sadness, for example, often is combined with anger or fear or confusion. If a pure emotion existed, what might it be? Love? Hatred? Joy?

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I would welcome long, leisurely conversations today. As much as I enjoy my solitude, I prefer it to be interrupted from time to time. Especially when the interruptions involve pleasant conversations with people whose company I find enjoyable.

Another load of clothes to wash. Domestic chores can be soothing.

Today is my late sister’s birthday. My late brother’s birthday was in the second week of September. Lately, everywhere I turn I learn of the death of acquaintances, some very casual and others I knew better. And, of course, the news is bursting with news of the deaths of celebrities and thousands of innocents and terrorists and people whose warped grasp on reality led them commit mass atrocities. Though mortality is assured to everyone and everything that lives, the end of innocent lives, especially, pains me deeply. The emptiness left behind is raw. It leaves in me a feeling of meaninglessness.

I may be back later today to write of matters less brittle. Perhaps. If such matters exist.

At what cost? That question is posed in so many circumstances it becomes almost meaningless. But in practical terms, it is far from irrelevant. Some examples might highlight the point:

• We might save the planet from irreversible, catastrophic warming, but at what cost? If the cost involves shutting down entire industries, leading to massive unemployment and grinding poverty and starvation that follow, is the cost worth the “investment” of human lives? But if failure to make that horrific investment would lead to even more widespread and catastrophic terrors, how could we justify protecting the “few” to save the “many?”
• Elimination of fanatical, murderous religious zealots could end their reign of terror, but at what cost? If the cost involves collateral damage in the form of the death of millions of innocent victims of the terrorists, is the cost of eliminating the terrorists worth the “investment” of human lives? Yet at what cost would we incur by letting the zealots live to continue their rampages?
• Reducing the depletion of aquifers by redirecting aquifer-sourced agricultural irrigation water to cities could provide vital, life-giving water to large populations, but at what cost? Would the result be human populations having plenty of water, but little or no food to put on the table?

Life on Earth is fragile; it is not a given. Thanks substantially to decisions made by humans, it grows increasingly fragile with every passing moment. Questions about the costs of both complex and simple decisions are rarely rhetorical. They are consequential—often so consequential that actions based on our responses can mean the difference between survival of our (and other) species and extinction. And unlike the rapid extinction resulting from a catastrophic asteroid strike, for example, the process of extinction resulting from human actions or inactions could be long, excruciating, and unbearably horrible. The urgency of answering questions involving the difference between thriving, barely surviving, and extinction is growing more crucial every day. Yet our species, collectively, seems intent on putting off both answers and actions. At what cost?

And what if our species does not survive? What does it matter to those of us living on Earth today? It’s a legitimate, reasonable question. Unsentimental answers may cause some people to shrink away in disbelief and disgust. Sentimental responses may cause some people to roll their eyes and smirk. But when the initial reactions fade, contemplation may cause people to explore the answers in depth. Or, if the thoughts are too taxing, the entire topic may be dismissed as irrelevant. But at what cost?

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The final day of October 2023 is here. One-sixth of the calendar year remains to be experienced. What if our collective experiences here on Earth suddenly ended before the last day of December? Would the New Year become an irrelevant concept? Irrelevant to whom? All human endeavors would suddenly have no meaning, because meaning requires human understanding. Contemplating such dark topics is both intriguing and depressing. Thinking about these things will ultimately lead one to realize that both intrigue and depression would cease to be without us to experience them. We are both everything and nothing. We represent all meaning and all irrelevance. We have absolute control and no control at all.

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Onward toward November and beyond.

Until this morning, I could not understand why some people get so wrapped up in television and film. Wrapped up to such an extent that people probe details about the actors’ and authors’ lives, and other matters so far removed from viewers’ real world experiences. But today, as I reacted in revulsion to another morning’s deeply depressing news about war, mass shootings, and other expressions of hatred, I suddenly “got it.” The stories presented on the screen allow the viewer to only temporarily escape the horrors of the world around them…delving into details about actors and writers and directors and so on extends the temporary escape. This morning, as I struggled to distance myself from a world that seems intent on destroying every shred of joy, I found myself exploring details about the Swedish series we began watching last night, Rebecka Martinsson. The title character is a Stockholm lawyer who returns to her home town in Sweden’s far north (the village of Kuravaara, near the town of Kiruna) after the death of somebody she was close to as a child. What initially looked like an accident is discovered to be a murder. The lawyer, operating in extra-legal ways, pursues the truth. The story was gripping. This morning, it gave me something to which I could direct my attention, rather than to the terrible news the media seems intent on force-feeding to us. At any rate, I explored the genesis of the series, I learned that it was based on the work of author Åsa Larsson, described by one reviewer as “one of the least popular Swedish crime authors…” whose work…”constitutes a noteworthy addition to the Nordic noir genre.” And as I investigated further, I learned that the actress who plays the title character is Ida Engvoll, who apparently is quite well-known to audiences for her work in Arne Dahl: Europa Blues, Beck, A Man Called Ove, and more. My point is this: immersing myself in details about the actress, the author, the village of Kuravaara, and other aspects…sometimes only tangentially relevant to the series itself…delivered me from the ongoing horrors in Gaza and the emerging facts suggesting law enforcement knew about the potentially deadly potential of the Lewiston, Maine shooter. Yet, when I attempt to understand my somewhat irrational interest in the actress and the author and the brutally cold landscape of the far north of Sweden, I slip away from those diversions and back into the painfully bleak disappointments of living in the world today. The solutions: stay glued to Nordic noir presentations on the television screen and/or to the pages of absorbing stories in book form—and prohibit the world’s news media from infecting one’s mind with bacteria and viruses that carry serenity-slayers.

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Another delicious day, a day for which I have intentionally kept the calendar utterly empty. No obligations. Nothing to deter me from letting my mind wander and relax and otherwise be free of stress—to the extent that is possible in the world in which we live. Today is ripe for pleasant surprises, if pleasant surprises wish to visit. Fall weather is here. Last night, we briefly had a fire in the fireplace; more for its mesmerizing effects than for its heat. Today might call for the same. Chill. Chill. Chill.

Demons. We read about or hear about or even talk about people whose troubled lives are attributed to psychological (or, some say, spiritual) demons, but what, exactly, are those so-called demons? The definitions are almost boundless; it seems everyone has a personal definition of those demons that negatively affect the lives of people who do battle with them. Here is my understanding of demons: they are troubling aspects of ourselves that we rarely, if ever, outwardly reveal or acknowledge, but that live inside us. They constantly remind us we have uncorrectable and unforgiveable flaws that almost no one else, aside from ourselves, knows. These parts of ourselves sometimes lead us to behave in ways that cause us to loathe ourselves. And we can never forget how we behaved; our recollections of who we were in those moments are photographic—we relive and regret every action we took and every thought that crossed our minds.  Though demons occasionally may lay dormant for extended periods, thereby enabling us to live relatively normal lives, they are ever-present. And they are prone to be awakened by the slightest trigger. The shame and regret and deep misgivings that arise from such awakenings cannot easily be erased because those emotions are based on reality. And they cannot easily be forgiven because decent human beings do not behave in ways that give rise to such remorse and regret.

This morning, while reading about the death of Matthew Perry, I came across several references to Perry’s “demons” over the years (which, as far as I know, had no bearing on his drowning death). I felt compassion for him and his long-term struggles with those demons. I suspect those close to him knew of and forgave him for whatever led to his ongoing encounters with his demons. But forgiving someone else is far easier than forgiving oneself; I doubt he ever forgave himself for whatever it was that led him to give demons access to his inner life…his “soul,” so to speak.

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As we know, forgiveness of oneself is the hardest of all the forgivenesses.

~ Joan Baez ~

Philosophical advice is both valuable and useless.

Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.

~ Ausonius ~

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I awoke pretty early today, but I changed my normal routine enough that my schedule is completely out of kilter. Showering, shaving, and getting dressed preceded the usual cat-feeding and blood-letting (checking my blood-glucose) and various other activities, putting this blog near the end of my to-do list for early morning. It is now almost 8, hours later than I’d like to be writing. But, looking at what I’ve written, there’s no reason to like writing. I feel a need to think philosophically, but my brain is not accommodating my desire. So I will pause for a while…either until later today or until tomorrow morning…so I might be able to attack this blog with a greater sense of intellectual relevance. Or something akin to it.

This morning I am experiencing the first truly unpleasant case of heartburn/indigestion I have had in quite some time. Two Tums may have toned it down just a touch, but not enough. Pizza (again) last night is to blame; I know this because I can taste and feel its aggressiveness. I may have to recline on a sofa in an attempt to moderate the discomfort. Damn pizza.

I cannot think clearly enough to write anything with even a shred of value. So I will give it up. I haven’t even consumed the espresso; I’m afraid it would make the heartburn even worse. Another sip of water and a morning nap. I hope that resolves the matter.

Heartburn is a reasonable descriptor. Although, I honestly think magma-chest is closer to the experience.

An article on the NPR website, written by Manuela López Restrepo, delivers less than I expected. Titled, How many friends do Americans have? A survey crunched the numbers, I expected the article to offer a serious—if probably incomplete—exploration of friendship. Instead, the author wrote a piece that is rather flippant and that throws around important (in my opinion) terms without defining them. I cannot legitimately law all the blame the author, though; the source of her information is similarly lacking. Among my complaints: while the article (and the research report upon which it is based) says a slim majority of adults surveyed report they have between one and four close friends and less than 40% report having five or more, “close friends” is not defined. Yet respondents seemed readily willing to answer questions into which an understanding of the term was embedded. Eight percent of respondents, by the way, reported having no close friends. I might have been included in that small slice of people simply because I do not know what is meant by close friends. How close must a friend be to be close? And does the degree of closeness differ, in situations in which a male’s close friends are female, from more traditionally recognized male-to-male close friendships? And vice versa, of course.

For as long as I can remember, the concept of friendship has intrigued me; friendship is not a precisely defined point on a measure of relationships. Like so many other aspects of matters involving the human condition, it is a complex matter that exists on a very wide spectrum. The number and degree of influence of the variables impacting friendship is enormous; probably incalculable. The depth and type of friendship relationship between an unmarried woman and a married man is shaped by social expectations and by each person’s assumptions. If one or both parties to a friendship is gay or otherwise “out-of-norm,” a whole basket of other assumptions, concerns, potential jealousies, etc., etc. comes into play. I suppose one of the reasons the concept of friendship intrigues me is that I have always had far more female friends/acquaintances than male. The traditional views of friendship often seem irrelevant in such cases. Topics that might readily be discussed between two male friends might be considered “mine fields” that must be avoided between a male and a female friend. The complexity of the matter grows even more interesting though, for example, when the friendship is between a heterosexual male and a gay female (or vice versa, of course); the “mine fields” might be irrelevant, perhaps making the bond between the parties stronger than one between a male and a female—especially if one or both parties to that latter kind of friendship are married.

Topics that two male friends never discuss might be the subject of regular conversation between a male and female friendship pair or a pair of female friends. Yet topics discussed between two male friends might constitute mine fields between a male and female friendship pair. That raises the question: how close can friends be if they cannot/will not discuss such “difficult” matters? Even matters of simple curiosity could be too “personal” to be included in a conversation between close friends. And the dynamics of friendships, can be shaped, unfortunately, by the extent to which friends’ married/attached partners are suspicious, jealous, or otherwise unwilling to readily grant a partner the freedom to be his or her own person. Of course, I may be imagining all of the possible twists and turns in relationships between friends and partners; I fortunately have not had to deal with them. But, still, I continue to try to understand the complexities that might apply to me, especially with regard to relationships with female friends. I suspect the degree of sharing between female friends is significantly greater than between male and female friendship pairs; society has drilled into us that there are certain things that are simply not to be discussed with friends of the opposite sex. For example, if a marital relationship is under stress, I imagine close women friends might discuss the matter; but that matter might be off limits between a close woman/man friendship pair. I could go on. But I won’t. I’ve dwelled on this far too long.

As society becomes less puritanical (assuming, of course, the current puritanical resurgence does not maintain its death grip) about matters involving relationships between males and females, questions about the intricacies of those relationships will become more common and more complex. But will friends, either male or female, be comfortable discussing those issues? Who knows? I do not.

Suddenly, an individual’s world can become a swirling, chaotic, endless nightmare. One must feel pandemonium wash over one’s entire life experience, the horror so deep and terrifying that it is like drowning in an inescapable ocean of raw fear. How else can the panic be described? How else can the experience be described; of confronting a mass shooter equipped with semi-automatic weapons and access to a never-ending source of ammunition? Whether the circumstances are the massive Hamas attacks on Israelis or the unhinged, murderous attacks on residents of Lewiston, Maine, the experiences must do enormous emotional damage to the people caught in the terrifying fray. I fully understand the appeal of living life as a recluse. Humans are undeniably dangerous. Some are savages. Monsters disguised as something soft and easy and gentle. Ach!

+++

And, now, we will leave for a half-day session in which we hope to learn something about the impact of compassion. And other such stuff. Off we go.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

~ Voltaire ~

My exercise yesterday involved transforming the roadway of the little circle on our cul-de-sac. I changed, by using an electric-powered blower to remove from the roadway an enormous coating of pine needles, oak leaves, dirt, dust, and other forest. If I had considerably more energy, I would remove the remaining layers of dirt. And I would fill the circle of ground in the middle with lush plants. And I would put park benches all around, turning what amounts to an abandoned patch of forgotten soil into an oasis. Dreams. They keep me going.

+++

Next month, around Thanksgiving, will mark five years since my surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from my body—along with the lower lobe of my right lung. I have not been quite the same since. In a number of ways. I may have begun to soften, emotionally, about that time, accelerated or exacerbated during a five-month period late in the year—two years later—when my wife’s heart failure took a dramatic turn for the worse. She died six days before Christmas. My lung cancer was hard on me in some ways, emotionally, but my wife’s illness in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic was much harder. The guilt I felt, and feel, about my lung cancer, for disregarding warnings about smoking, was amplified during the pandemic, when everything was just too hard to deal with. Marking painful anniversaries is not a particularly healthy or easy or comfortable practice; I may make an effort to minimize my tendency to focus so intently on them.

+++

People can disappear if you don’t keep an eye on them. While you’re looking at a shiny distraction, your attention absorbed by the silver reflection from its polished surface, people can quietly slide out of your life. They are the ones who won’t tell you of their plans to go missing in advance. That being the case, you can say you probably weren’t that close to one another, anyway. But you assumed they would have the decency to let you know if they planned to disappear into the vapor. Without a word. Yet you should not be surprised. You did not even enjoy being in one another’s presence. You, a hard-left-leaning dreamer, versus a self-absorbed MAGA-lover. Certain people can disappear and when their absence is noticed, they are missed, but not in a sentimental way.  They are missed in the same way a can of beer is missed from what has become a five-pack. I realize, of course, that the attitude conveyed in the words above not one about which one should be proud to have written. They reflect reality, not aspiration. We all need more aspiration.

+++

What does this day want from me? And what do I hope to get from this day? If we answer those questions early, the day might become more productive. Well, not so much the day…more the we.

Everything happens at once. Choose any moment, at random, and freeze it in time. This frozen moment must be a universal moment; every action of everyone in every place on Earth must be captured. Nothing before that moment, nor after it, is relevant. Just that single, random moment. If one then were able to examine every action and activity that was taking place at the instant the moment froze, the fact that everything happens at once would become crystal clear. At the very moment the mother in Uzbekistan drops mung beans into the moshhurda she is preparing, a terminally ill man in Los Angeles depresses the plunger that will deliver a fatal dose of morphine. The bicyclist turns his head to look for approaching traffic; at that second, a car veers to the right, thus avoiding what could have been an ugly accident. A soldier in Venezuela sprints across the border into Guyana, leaving her friends and family and her entire life until that moment behind her. Everything happens at once. It has always been so. We pretend life is a series of sequential events, but that is not the case. It is a single event that takes place at the precise moment that other life events take place. “Now” is impossible to capture, except in the abstract. The same is true of “time.” “Time” is an idea, not a tangible experience. All those individual frozen moments constitute the way time would look if we could see all those events take place simultaneously. Time would be chaos, indistinguishable from pandemonium. But we like order, so we establish artificial parameters to provide us with some semblance of tidy structure. Parameters like seconds and hours and years and decades and centuries. None of them exist, in fact, except in our imaginations. The instant an event has taken place, the moment of its expression has passed. “Before” becomes the only way to describe “then,” when referring to a moment that was, but is no more. And the future, too, is a hallucinogenic representation of something that may take place, but is not assured. And even if it does, it does not remain the future; it becomes the past. Before. Then. Time is a tangle, like a razor wire fence dropped from a hurricane hunter into the eye of a storm.

+++

People clustered on either end of the ideological spectrum regularly dismiss information that puts their favored political perspectives in an unfavorable light. Demonstrable facts be damned, ideology takes precedence over facts. And, of course, the same people refuse to accept the possibility that positive information about their political opponents might reflect reality. In other words, both ends of the political continuum are populated by fanatics who value ideology over truth. Unfortunately, the numbers of inhabitants of the two extremes are growing. I have no idea how to transform those bitter beasts into a tolerable form of humanity. Fire and ice might be worth considering, I suppose.

+++

Another dental visit; just the routine cleaning that takes place far too frequently for my comfort. But it will be finished before 10 this morning, I think. And the rest of the day will be mine; I can do what I wish, when I want. Except, of course, everything happens at once. That really throws a monkey wrench into tranquility and serenity; but I refuse to allow the wrench to sully the day. Because. Just because.

+++

I had a dream in which I kissed someone on the neck. I was standing, along with dozens of other people, in a military-like formation in front of a castle. Everyone was supposed to stand rigidly upright and not move. But I leaned over and kissed the neck of the woman standing next to me. The moment I did it, I knew I had very publicly broken a rule and I was quite concerned what would happen to me. Fortunately, though, an orchestral flash mob suddenly appeared in front of the formation of which I was a part; everyone turned their attention to the music and the musicians. I slipped away.

+++

Today is Tuesday. Perhaps the local newspaper (such as it is) will have something of interest for me to read. Perhaps not.

Finally, awake and alone at a reasonably early hour. My obligations immediately upon waking (take weight, consume my kaleidoscope of prescription drugs, measure blood glucose, take blood pressure and record it [and the other measurements]) infringe on my day. This morning, I am lucky and have avoided (so far) the howling and yowling of a cat that claims she is on the verge of starvation. Let her sleep, I pray. (After an hour, she expressed a deep and abiding hunger.)

+++

Yesterday afternoon, friends took us to North Little Rock for lunch and hoppy libations at Flyway Brewery, after which we went to see a play, One Ninth, at the Argenta Community Theater, just around the corner. Powerful theater, it was directed and acted well and the story was clear. The play, written by Spirit Trickey Tawfiq, is the story of her mother, Minnijean Brown Trickey, one of the Little Rock Nine—the first Black students to integrate Little Rock Central High School in 1957. It tells the story from the inside out, based on the experiences and emotions of some of the students who integrated Little Rock Central High School. Yesterday’s matinee performance was, I think, the final performance of the play’s run.

+++

Every time we go into Little Rock to deliberately enjoy the amenities of the city, my mind drifts toward the possibility of buying a downtown condo there. In a magical place in my mind, where obstacles do not get in the way of impracticality, I see our friends who like to make frequent visits to Little Rock (and who would love to stay overnight instead of rushing to return to the Village before blackness falls), joining us in buying a place and paying its HOA fees.  Mi novia and I have had this conversation several times before: it would make far more sense (and be dramatically less expensive) to simply reserve a hotel room when a drive back to the Village is especially unappealing. I suppose the freedom afforded by a condo is what appeals to me; no need to look for hotel room. But essentially discarding money by buying a place that may not be used with frequency is fiscally irresponsible. The answer to my financial dilemmas is obvious: I just need instant and unending access to large sums of money. That way, I could be a gluttonous consumer of unnecessary and undeserved service. Such a simple solution.

+++

I had planned on preparing the church board meeting packet yesterday, but the trip to Little Rock interfered with that intended tasked. When I got home, my mind was too focused on unrelated thoughts, so I put off the process until this morning. I have to wade through emails for committee reports, inasmuch as I agreed to compile the committee reports for this meeting, as the VP was not going to attend. That changed, but responsibility for the committee reports did not. Sometime this morning, before noon, I will send what I develop to the board and to the office for distribution to members. Like most volunteer-driven organizations, very few members care about the inner workings of the board. This morning, as I contemplate what I need to do to prepare, it occurs to me that the monthly board meeting is a habit, not a necessity. The same is true of committee reports. We do what we do because “it has always been done that way.” My least favorite phrase, one that implies creativity is an unwelcome intruder in the operation of the organization that bears the burden of habit. I may change some things for the remainder of my term as president. Automatic, unnecessary, and unrewarding bureaucracy tends to cause my blood pressure to rise and my eyes to attempt to behave like flame-throwers.

+++

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

~ Aristotle ~

I have a term to describe Aristotle’s two people whose single soul inhabit their bodies: soulmates. Soulmates need not be lovers, but of course they can be. But they must be deeply connected to one another, sharing philosophies, world-views, attitudes about life, and many more attributes. Yet they need not be completely in-synch, either. Their compatibility with one another is sometimes like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; the pieces are shaped differently from one another, but they fit together precisely to help create a larger image. Even in the midst of such closely-linked, precise fits, soulmates may not realize they are so closely aligned with another. Wait. I have absolutely no credentials that would legitimize these assertions. See how easy it is for a person to sell himself as an expert?

+++

Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.

~ Peter Ustinov ~

+++

Today is my niece’s birthday…Feliz cumpleaños, Sobrina hermosa!

I turned seventy years old yesterday. Wait! That cannot be right! What the hell…?

One day can make an enormous difference. Yesterday transported me from my early-old-age-sixties to my progressively-older-age seventies. Among the few distinct thoughts I recall having in my youth was the idea that I would not make it past age sixty; no reason for it, just a concept that got lodged in my head. Later, the idea of reaching age seventy seemed ludicrous; after my history of potentially deadly flaws and maladies, I thought it extremely unlikely I would become a septuagenarian.

My body offers plenty of evidence of my age, but my mind tells me to remain firmly fixed at a point far in the past. A time, that is, when my mind and my body were in sync—and considerably younger. While that youthful attitude is no doubt healthy, it cannot disguise an obvious decline in intellectual capabilities and capacities. But one day did not cause that decline! The accumulation of days, layered one over the other in a seemingly endless pattern, is what led me to the slope one the right side of the bell curve.  I am not complaining about the dissolution of aspects of my self as I age; I am merely acknowledging the situation. Thinning hair and drying skin and forgetfulness are minor; they start so discreetly and they usually progress slowly, reaching their peak only after the body has reached ultra-old-age, which is different for everyone. Bodies change as they age. It’s a simple fact; only reality.

The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.

~ H. L. Mencken ~

+++

We celebrated my birthday last night with pizza delivered to our door. I was not (and rarely am) in the mood to go out for a special dinner at a pricey restaurant. Maybe sometime in the coming weeks, but yesterday I had no interest.

Mi novia and I had hoped to watch another episode of Annika after dinner, but we learned Season 2 is being released on PBS (and thereafter on our service) episode-by-episode. Instead, then, we started watching Long Shot. It has so far been mildly entertaining and improbably stupid. Sometimes, though, that’s exactly the sort of mindless entertainment one needs; whether that’s true of Long Shot going forward remains to be seen. I want something on the same level (and degree of interest to me) as Bosch or Breaking Bad or Sons of Anarchy or Dicte (or one of dozens of others that have held me riveted until the final scene. Sighhh…

+++

The day before my birthday, I treated myself to both a manicure and a pedicure. On a whim, just before noon, I called one of the few nail places scattered about the Village, to ask whether they could fit me in. They could, they said, if I were to come in immediately. So I did (sort of immediately…it took 15 minutes to drive there. I have had only a few professional pedicures over the years and only one professional manicure before this one. The cost for each of them was, from my miserly perspective, a bit steep. But I threw caution to the wind and gladly paid the cost; even if the only thing the technician had done was to massage my fingers and feet, it would have been worth it.

After I got home, I discovered a few jagged spots on the edges of my fingernails, so I had to do some “clean-up” work (not a real big deal, but I was disappointed that it was necessary). Aside from that minor annoyance, both my feet and my hands felt and looked very good after the treatments. And I was sitting in a massage chair while having all this done; I felt like someone was digging into my back with their elbows and then slowly moving that sharp bone up and down both sides of my back. I was not crazy about that bonus, but the entire experience was rather nice. Here’s a piece of congenial wisdom about good things that don’t go quite right: as long as it’s not bad, it’s good.

+++

Good fortune can mean something as “minor” as having readily available potable water or as “major” as a guaranteed living (comfortably) wage for life. In my case, good fortune means essentially every aspect of my life. I have a comfortable home, am in a loving relationship, have access to all the food and water I need, and am awash in luxuries: big-screen television, espresso every morning, dining “out” without worry about the cost, etc., etc., etc. It would take literally days for me to enumerate all the elements of good fortune that have been visited upon me. I want a pen, I get a pen. I want a stapler, I get a stapler. I want a computer, I get a computer. I want a car, I get a car. Now, every one of these material “things” may not be the most expensive or highest quality, but they each serve their purpose; I’m lucky I am in the shape I’m in…

+++

Wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.

~ Tom Wilson ~

Habitually arising in the neighborhood of 5 a.m. seems to have ceased, at least temporarily (I hope). A habit I have had since long before the beginning of time appears to have slipped away, almost unnoticed. While some people would cheer at having additional time to rest, I mourn the time lost to the blandness of sleep. Today, for example, I got out of bed around 6:15, a hour after I woke and considered doing just that. Instead, though, I gave myself “a few more minutes” under the covers. A hour later, I cursed my lethargy and asked myself just how long has it been since I awoke and actually got out of bed at a reasonable hour? Too damn long! I have missed the emptiness of the house in utter darkness, though this morning I am experiencing it again–and it feels good! Still, I lost at least an additional hour of empty darkness and fortifying solitude. I must work on that.

+++

Last night, I made arroz con pollo for dinner, an extremely easy—and delicious—dish to prepare. After dinner, I had a second helping. And this morning, the remainder is serving as a breakfast treat. A meal consisting primarily of rice is not highly recommended for someone with Type 2 diabetes, but you just have to break the rules from time to time in order to maintain a sense of control over your mind and body.

I had the second helping I mentioned during a break in watching the series, Annika. We do not have regular TV service, so we do not get PBS, which is the source of Annika. So, we’re having to stream it, after paying a hefty fee, by season. I am a fan of Nicola Walker, the title character, though after watching the program for a short while I was not sure I would like the series. But it grew on me; I rather like the odd second-person comments Nicola directs to the viewer.

Most of my time during the past few weeks has been spent inside my house. Illness and sloth contributed to my status as a shut-in, but I cannot blame illness any longer. I think I’ll need to shower and shave this morning, get dressed in uncomfortable street clothes, and explore a bit of the world around me.  This might be a good time to explore, inasmuch as today is a milestone of sorts.

+++

Space flight is not the exclusive domain of the United States. Russia and China also have launched crewed spacecraft. India is said to be working feverishly on launching crewed craft into space, as well. According to the notoriously reliable internet, eighty countries have launched satellites into space. They are not all recent additions to the list of space explorers; the United Kingdom, Canada, Italy, France, West Germany, and a consortium of ten European countries launched satellites by the middle 1960s.

According to the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) records, there were 8,261 satellites orbiting the Earth as on January 2022, out of which only 4,852 satellites were active (as of the end of December 2021). Those figures were confirmed by the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), which maintains the record of the operational satellites.

+++

Certain milestones have the capacity to offer either opportunities or obstacles. Sometimes both. Depressing inevitability flows from some of those landmark occasions while others (and sometime the same ones) present welcome challenges. It is said that a person can take control of his own emotions. Perhaps that is true. But it is not guaranteed.

+++

Time to face the day.

Peering intently at brush strokes that magically created semi-abstract trees and branches and leaves and footpaths into the hazy distance, I can get happily lost. These places that exist only on a piece of stretched canvas and in the artist’s mind draw me in and protect me from the world outside my cocoon. There, in that soft forest, there are no bullets nor guns nor loud voices drenched in rage. Oils or watercolors on receptive canvas or paper can provide serenity when the world around me refuses to allow an opportunity for calm reflection. When tranquility is under siege, art can provide shelter and solace. If I had the skills and vision of a talented artist, I might lock myself away in my studio, where I could create the world as I want it to be. How does one paint tenderness and love and compassion? Visionary artists transfigure colors and shapes into emotions. I am not sure whether their achievements are almost magic or entirely magic. I envy and admire them.

+++

There is no passion to be found playing small—in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.

~ Nelson Mandela ~

Mandela’s words are worth heeding, I tell myself. And I ask myself what is the life I am capable of living? Am I living it? Everyone should ask themselves that question, and then reach for the expansive possibility.

+++

The cardiologist did not surprise me. She said I do not drink enough water and I do not get enough exercise. The ice in my glass of gin and tonic provides insufficient hydration. I should drink sixty (?!) ounces of water every day. By my calculations, if I do that I will spend roughly half of my time drinking and the other half peeing, leaving me no time for exercise. Perhaps she wants me to extend my days from 24 hours to 36 hours, giving me 12 hours to split between exercising, eating, and other necessities. I realize, of course, she is right. I need to take better care of myself if I want to fully enjoy life and, possibly, extend it for several more years.

+++

The competition between hatred and love is on full display in every corner of the planet. No, that is not correct. The unfortunate display is—or, at least, seems to be—the victory of hatred over love and forgiveness and compassion and a dozen other healing emotions. And our appreciation for the planet on which we live is buried under layer upon layer of seething rage. Screw planet Earth; let bullets fly, let missiles explode, let shrapnel claim the lives of everyone embroiled in battles for superiority or survival. Whether each of us as individuals has a personal stake in the fray or not, we are drawn into the fury of bitter animosity. And should we express understanding for either rage or compassion, we are attacked, as if we were a dangerous enemy ready to carve our names in the foreheads of adversaries we did not realize we had. Obviously, I need to spend more time viewing semi-abstract images of beautiful, peaceful forests; while the world seems to be readying itself for self-incineration, I should not let it ruin life’s experiences.

+++

“Bee sting.” That is what the doctor said as he began to numb the skin on my chest around the raised lump, beneath which the chemo port had been implanted almost five years ago. He was the same doctor who had implanted the device, but he looked more than five years older. He understated what I should expect when he began the process. It was not a “bee sting.” It was more like the work of several angry hornets. But the pain subsided quickly, replaced by a tugging sensation as he sliced open my skin and began pulling on the little device.

“Oh, yeah, it’s obviously been five years. It’s taken root.” Or words to that effect. Though the process did not take long, the tugging, jerking, and pulling seemed to last much longer than it really did. And after he removed the device and began suturing beneath the skin to close the wound, I began to feel the needle; each time he stabbed it into the subcutaneous tissue, I felt myself wince.

“Do you feel that?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hmm, your tissue doesn’t seem to soak up the numbing agent the way it should.”

After the very minor surgery, which lasted no more than ten minutes, the doctor asked whether I was curious about what had been buried beneath my skin for five years. I responded in the affirmative and he showed it to me; a little heart-shaped gadget with a long white tube attached. Pointing to the tube, he said, “The end of this was just this far from the top of your heart.” He illustrated the distance by showing me a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger.

This morning, I feel a constant discomfort where the doctor sliced into me (with scalpels and scissors?), but the pain is minor. The glue he used to seal the exterior of the wound (inside are sutures which will dissolve) should disappear within ten days or so. The only evidence that I had the device implanted in my chest will be a jagged little scar. I do not know why the scar is so jagged; I should ask the doctor/surgeon whether he had been drinking before he performed the procedures.

+++

I will leave in a few minutes for my weekly breakfast with men from church. And a little later today I will drive into town to see my cardiologist for my annual checkup. I hope she does not have in mind subjecting me to a stress echo or other such uncomfortable process/procedure. If she does, I will plead to delay it until the gaping wound in my chest has fully healed…perhaps a month or three from now.

+++

The things on my mind at this very moment do not lend themselves to public disclosure, so I will stop typing and, instead, comb my hair.

What makes some images pleasing to the eye and others not? Among the only answers I have found over the years is the tired, old “I may not know art (or beauty or whatever), but I know what I like.” That explanation is empty and useless; it treats the question as if it were unworthy of thought. Usually, when I ponder the question (which I do quite a lot, for some reason), I tire early of seeking answers to a question that has none. But this morning I spent more time than usual exploring the question and reading what others have to say about it. Interestingly, some people consider the question a philosophical one, while others believe it to be a question whose answer may be found in science or facts or measurable reality.

This morning, I found a related question on Quora, which bills itself as “a social question-and-answer website and online knowledge market.” The question: “Why does visual composition always seek to represent images that are aesthetically pleasing to the eye?” An answer posted by Pamela Trow intrigued me. She wrote, “Nature’s formula for visual harmony and beauty is called the Dynamic Mean or Divine Proportion and the mathematical formula is exemplified by the Fibonacci Sequence (also known as the Golden Ratio) in which each successive number is equal to the sum of the two preceding numbers.” Interesting. I have long known of the Golden Ratio/Fibonacci Sequence, exemplified by images of a Nautilus shell, but I have not understood it to be the representative of beauty in all things. But if that is the key, then a person might be able to understand why he finds one person beautiful and another only mildly attractive. Yet a mathematical formula cannot incorporate emotion. For example, the closer I get, emotionally, to another person, the more beautiful I find that person to be. The appeal of art, though, might be explained by the degree to which its images approach the Fibonacci Sequence. But, no, one person may find a piece of art extraordinarily beautiful, while another person may find the same piece of art unappealing in the extreme. So much for a mathematical explanation of what constitutes visually appealing images.

And here I sit, watching the day unfold outside my window. Some of the supple green leaves on the trees are beautiful; others are brown, brittle, and deformed. But they, too, are beautiful in completely different ways. Physical beauty is shaped by the emotions; mood molds what is or is not pleasing to the eye. I do not understand it. I want to, but probably never will. That is both all right and awfully unsatisfying. That’s the way the world works.

Before the leaves turn vibrant colors, they lose their green vibrancy. A dull, greyish pall seems to envelop the forest, creating a depressing early-day atmosphere suited more to mourning than to morning. Or is it just me? Does the forest look the same now as it did a few days ago, but my eyes and my mind have adjusted somehow to make everything look more than a little bleak? Silence, on top of the dullness of the sun’s filtered light, makes the view out my window seem like a still-life enshrouded in a sullen mood.  Odd, that.

+++

I cannot feel the chill in the outside air—the temperature is 43°F—this morning, but I can imagine how it would feel if I were to go outside and let the chill soak into my every pore. This morning is ideal for a fire in the fireplace, but I have not had the gas tanks and valves serviced, so I won’t light a fire. I had all summer to do something about it, but spent my time, energies, and thoughts on other things. Now, I am ready to be mesmerized by flames licking the air; all I can do is light a candle, instead. Laziness does not pay the kind of dividends I wish it did.

+++

As I close in on the end of my sixth decade, the reality of the accelerating diminution of my physical and mental strength becomes more and more apparent. The reduction in strength and stamina began quite early, before I was nineteen, when Crohn’s disease figuratively punched me in the gut. Though the symptoms have long since subsided, the pain of periodic flare-ups plagued me for decades. Emergency surgery when I was in my mid-thirties—meant to respond to a wrongly diagnosed appendicitis—probably minimized symptoms in the years after, but even after surgery my gut occasionally reminded me that the disease is chronic. Then, when I was fifty or fifty-one, my long and stupid history of smoking led to a double coronary bypass; more weakening of a body too young to be decaying so fast. That same history of smoking left me with lung cancer about five years ago, which was treated with a lobectomy and chemo and radiation. More stresses and strains on a body already abused by time and my insolent belief that I must be invincible. There has been more, of course. Every physical assault on my health has been accompanied by the shame of recognizing that much of the damage was self-inflicted. And realizing that the time when I might have been able to repair some of the damage has passed. I have not given up on myself—not by any means—but I know I can never be a healthy forty-year-old again…as if ever I was a healthy forty-year-old.  This self-assessment came about this morning after I read an article that mentioned the world’s southernmost “city,” Puerto Williams, Chile.  Even further south is Caleta Eugenia, a tiny place (population of two), the southernmost place on the planet to which one can drive. For reasons I do not completely understand, I have always been fascinated with Chile…the entire length of the narrow country, from Arica in the far north to the southern tip of the country. For years, I dreamt of going to Chile, wandering the country to determine whether I could adapt to a completely different lifestyle. At one point, probably fifteen or twenty years ago, I came across images of an architecturally stunning, absolutely beautiful house built on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The place was for sale and I wanted to buy it (it was affordable!). Of course I did not, for many good reasons. But the dream of living in a secluded place with views of the Pacific stayed with me. Those dreams, of course, belong to a young man who has not yet reached the prime of life; not to an aging dreamer physically unfit to live in a challenging natural environment.  Ach! Now, I look back at unrealistic, impractical dreams and understand why I never allowed myself to pursue them. Had I tried, I would have failed; my interests would have suddenly shifted, as they always have, from one shiny object or idea to another. These depressing thoughts do not belong here with me. I will abandon them for something more appealing. Perhaps.

+++

As of this morning, I am eleven pounds lighter than I was when we left for Mexico. I am sure at least some of those lost pounds will be found, but perhaps I will, this time, stop looking so hard for them. Maybe I will turn my attention to something unlikely to recover that unwelcome weight. Most of the weight loss, I realize, resulted from the two weeks I was sick; little appetite, a bit of dehydration, and a lot of sleep. Yet I think my unconscious desire to force my body to discard unnecessary mass probably helped. Yahoo.

+++

The day is moving on, and so shall I.

Every breath we take, every step we make, can be filled with peace, joy and serenity.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

I am not sure I am comfortable with the idea that we can have control or power over our emotions, because power and control are at odds with the concepts of peace, joy, and serenity. But what else is it that can enable a person to assertively and deliberately select emotions to experience? Of course, my thinking is based on the premise that Thich Nhat Hanh‘s quotation reflects reality. The ability to select emotions and/or states of mind one wishes to experience is open to debate. Some would say emotions cannot be controlled; they might be masked, but the experience cannot be picked. To a certain extent, I would agree with that, but having occasionally practiced embracing peace and serenity in a very deliberate way, I am certain it is possible for one’s mind to override physical experience in favor of a desired emotion or state of mind. That having been said, my experiences in that realm is admittedly limited and has been—and continues to be—filled with potholes and starving alligators. Practice. It takes practice. And practice takes patience. And there’s the rub for me; I am impatient in so many ways. More than once, I have become annoyed— while reading an especially gripping book—that I will have to wade through the remaining pages to get the full storying that is being told. Impatience and serenity live in difference palaces, one filled with knick-knacks that share nothing in common, the other almost barren in its stark beauty.

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In just moments, I will leave for my early appointment with my family doctor’s APRN. It’s just a follow-up to confirm that the 2-weeks of exhaustion and 2 courses of antibiotics have left me, finally, moderately alert and reasonably healthy. I am in the mood for a Central Texas style sausage kolache; a chunk of coarse-ground, heavily peppered meat and a slice of jalapeño around which a piece of dough has been wrapped and then baked. Alas, I do not know of any reasonably accessible sources for that longed-for breakfast. I would have to drive six or eight hours to find one. Espresso, instead, I guess. Peace, joy, and serenity can be found in certain kolaches and in tiny cups filled with frothy foam atop deeply rich and strong espresso. I think so, anyway.

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Off into the day. I am wearing gym pants that will not stay up if I put even a penny in a pocket, so I’ll have to grab my man-purse and fill it with keys, phone, wallet, pocket knife, writing pad, and pen.

We were able to see yesterday’s eclipse. A few weeks ago, I ordered a couple of pairs of eclipse-viewing glasses, which we used to look at the moon taking a bite out of the sun. While we were not in middle of the path, the scene was quite interesting, anyway. Interesting in passing. Not sufficiently interesting to me to research the phenomenon. My interests are broad, but shallow. I know almost nothing about so very much.

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After six years of liberal government in New Zealand, most of that time under the leadership of Jacinda Ardern, the country has elected a conservative. As I mull over political changes that have taken place over the years, I notice the tendency for voters to vote for change after a while. My gut tells me voters’ reactions to their leaders’ approaches to governance is one of frustration. The majority of voters tire of both liberal leaning governments and conservative leaning governments; because, I suspect, the ones in power lean too fully left or right. I wonder whether moderate governments tend to stay in power longer than either one of the more strident political groups. Moderation requires compromise, which the fringe ends of the political spectrum seem to loathe. Is that disdain for compromise based in the fact that compromise requires the parties to yield some demands in favor of the other? Who knows?

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We had a conversation yesterday afternoon about whether my oft-expressed wish—to live in the middle of my own isolated, large (say, 2,000-acre) plot—is a tangible dream I might actually pursue or, instead, pure fantasy. (It was not so much participating in a conversation as being grilled by two seasoned interrogators.)  It once was a dream I thought I might one day achieve. But over the years it became less and less realistic. Today, it represents the shredded shell of a dream pummeled repeatedly by reality and impracticality. “I wish” is an admission of defeat, an acknowledgement that an attempt to achieve a fantasy is wasted time and energy. In considering that old, tired, impossible dream of mine, I ask myself “why?” has that been desirable to me? What do I find appealing about being insulated from other people? My response, which sometimes goes unheard in the shrillness of the day, is that I want the ability to be insulated and isolated, not that I want isolation and insulation to be a permanent condition. I need/want my solitude more frequently than most people, I suppose; but I do not want to be permanently isolated from others. Nor do I, though, want to be unable to achieve that physical and emotional distance. I want to be able to forget, if only briefly, that I share the planet with more humans than I’d like.

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I would like to spend this morning in leisure. No obligations, nothing I have to do and no place I have to be. But my multiple week respite (combining vacation with family gathering with an extended period of utter exhaustion) seems to be coming to an end. Today, we plan to go to church, after a long pause. And the coming week is lousy with appointments of one kind or another. So my desire for leisure this morning is simply a fantasy; a wish so worn and thin it is nearly transparent. I’m going to take the day, regardless, and milk it for all it’s worth.

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A dim sky. If I were sufficiently interested, I would seek today’s forecast to determine whether the sky will remain dull and forlorn. Apparently I am not sufficiently interested. Off I go to something else.