John Swinburn

Unbroken restlessness. An urgent sense that, because time is unforgiving, immediate action is the only reasonable choice. Delays set fire to options. Act now, I hear myself say, or regret your failure to take advantage of diminishing opportunities. But I also hear pleas to give myself time to consider the ramifications of acting too quickly or without sufficient thought to the potential consequences.

Consequences. Both action and inaction carry the potential for consequences. No. Not potential; certainty. What is the best route to the least dangerous decision? Impossible to say.

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Make a list of your friends. Your true friends are the people who would visit you in prison, two states away. Now, revise the list accordingly.

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Everyone breaks rules occasionally. Most of the infractions are minor. Speeding. Running a red light. Slight inaccuracies on tax forms. Removing money, that does not belong to you, from a bank. Getting in bar fights. Stabbing a neighbor. Bludgeoning a supervisor at work. Launching nuclear missiles without a permit.

At what point does deviating from the norm become intolerable? Is there a single point, a universal measure, of unacceptable wrongdoing? Every behavior has its own unique tsingleld. Accidentally running into a pedestrian while driving is frowned on but excusable in certain circumstances. Intentionally murdering a city councillor with one’s car is intolerable.

Life would be simpler if a single go-no go point existed. A point at which coveting some else’s wife would be permissible but trimming a neighbor’s hedges without permission would be punishable by public flogging. But that would not work, would it? Of course not.

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The day has begun. Late, though.

Fresh ideas are rare. Brilliant ideas are rarer still. Yet the search for that one spectacular idea never slows; never pauses. Belief in the brain’s ability to perform magic never stalls. That same irrational confidence gives us horoscopes and reliance on diet pills. Will we never come to grips with immutable reality? I think not. But what would life be like if we were unable to place our faith in the impossible? We are not as smart as we think we are. At least I am not. That depressing truth is how days start dull and lose even more of their minuscule sharpness with each passing minute.

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If I had a loaded shotgun. I would dispatch a maddeningly noisy refrigerator with a single well-placed shot. But then something equally annoying…or worse…would tahe its place. Better to meditate into serenity. Or medicate into obliviousness; the point at which noisy refrigerators do not intrude upon one’s quietude.

Chill. That is my admonition to myself. Look in the mirror. See me watching you. I see you across time and distance. Feel my embrace. Reach out and touch my arm. Look upward, toward the invisible planets and stars. You cannot see them, but you know they are there. It’s the same with me. I am here, but unless you look into that magical mirror, you cannot see me. Life is strange. It is stranger, still, when you realize it is not real; just an idea that seems real, thanks to that mirror’s magical image.

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I am hungry. How does a hologram experience hunger? The same way he might experience starvation, if I let the sensation go on for a week or a month. But I refuse to do without water. That would be madness, multiplied by an exponent of itself. And so, now. I will go dancing through the day, my image in your mirror and your image in mine. We are two children, one hundred years shy of adulthood. I have seen too many adults. They look sour and twisted, as if they had eaten lemons and lye. Keep your mind focused on apple fritters and cantaloupe; the lye will transform into Splenda, leaving lemon-flavored melons and apple fritters with a slight edge.

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Completion. I am enamored with Yellow Springs, Ohio. Perhaps I should find a house there…to buy or to lease. A place to which I could retreat from brutal southern summers. But the mosquitoes could ruin the nirvana. Is there no place that is absolutely perfect? I am afraid not. Perpetual joy is an illusion of immense proportions. But getting it in little sips may be enough.

Isolated. Insulated. Protected against the light of day. Hidden from the sun, the sky, clouds, raindrops…whatever is “out there,” waiting to pounce. The world outside my partitioned cell is invisible. Time has been paused…but for how long? How can I measure the passage of Time if Time, itself, is on “hold?” Without Time, I am stuck in infinity…yet infinity implies the immeasurable passage of time, doesn’t it? Indeed.

Civilizations, even great ones, have disappeared. Ours is at risk, just as were those once great ones whose rubble is all that remains. Time will reveal whether ours follows the same path. In the meantime, we can either cower in wait for the Grand Dissolution or we can ignore the rules that govern propriety and “good behavior,” opting instead to engage in an orgy of wild indulgence.

Of course, the inevitable decay may never come. What of our banality, then? Or our fears? The terror we feel as impending doom stalks us? Perhaps we should maintain a modicum of civilized behavior, “just in case.”

Maybe I should lift the blinds and peek out the window. The end times might not be on the horizon, after all.

Ah, the title of the song is “Morning Has Broken,” not “Morning IS Broken.” And off I go, into the morning, exploring what the day offers.

Every place has its downsides: Hurricanes. Crime. Floods. Droughts. Chiggers. Humidity. Ice. Snow. Heat. Expense. Ticks. Tornadoes. Mosquitoes. Earthquakes. Homelessness. Poverty. Sinkholes. Architectural sameness. Design diversity. Neighbors. Neighborhood. Cultural dullness. Etc.

What is the point of looking for the ideal place to live? It depends. There’s always a point. But it differs from person to person and period to period. Period to period? Yes, period to period. A person’s younger years may be a period in which he is seeking novelty…he may give priority during that time to design diversity. Later in life, the “perfect” place may be “weather-safe” or be a spot that is demographically similar. No matter a person’s age or position, the place she lives contributes as much to her happiness as almost any other factor. Whatever her priorities, the choice of home…neighborhood, region, neighborhood, etc…can be critically. important. Even country of residency can be crucial. Some say relationships matter more than anything else. Others say relationships survive distance and absence more successfully than a person’s happiness survives misery in place.

So? It’s on my mind. I am still wrestling with the issue, twenty years on. Trying to decide what matters most. And what follows. In what order.

Maybe I will never know. Or perhaps I have the answer already.

If I were considerably younger and more energetic, I might put my evolving political beliefs to work by challenging the societal and cultural decay taking place in North America and, indeed, worldwide. I might endeavor to create a new form of political insurrection that replaces partisanship with morality. But, first, I would have to uproot the evangelical forms of morality with philosophies based on humanity: compassion, freedom of thought, and reasonable personal choice.

But I am getting older by the minute. So I may attempt to memorialize my beliefs and the work that would naturally follow by documenting them here. That process will take time. So I will wait to publish the ideas until I have given them ample time to evolve and solidify. Then, I will take the risk of posting them publicly. Until then…time will tell.

Human culture in 2023 is drowning in violence and anger and arrogance. I sometimes wallow in a parochial viewpoint of the situation, asserting that the problem is especially keen in the USA—that we are world leaders, but that our leadership is entirely negative. Looking around the globe, though, the problem is mostly local. But, like a spark in a field of dry, unharvested corn, it can erupt in flames, spreading with breathtaking speed. Local issues, though, can become global problems. Mass shootings in the USA, for example, can trigger “copycat” behavior in other places—it probably has and almost certainly will.

If only the resentment and fear that fuel the cycle of violence were replaced by gratitude and hope…  If only we would insist on learning compassion instead of hate…  If only we would act on our feelings of appreciation, rather than on dread and loathing, we might spread a completely different kind of attitude, one that leads to behaviors we want the entire world to model.

This morning, I read a short piece from NPR’s My Unsung Hero series. It related the story of a woman who, when in high school, was given a gift of self-confidence by a teacher who told her he liked her voice. The girl was so terrified of speaking in public, because she stuttered, that she asked her mother to write her teacher a note, asking her to be excused from an assignment to read a poem in front of her class. She was excused from the assignment, but had to read the poem to her teacher, one-on-one. It was then he expressed appreciation for her voice. That moment led her to develop confidence in herself; so much so that she became a trainer.

If only we would, collectively, focus our attention on acts of kindness and understanding, the world in which we live would be a better place. Mi novia makes a point of complimenting people, even strangers, on little things—the clothes they wear, their hair styles…simple stuff. Her motive is this: she believes people who feel appreciated will have a better day than might have occurred had they not experienced healthy esteem. And they might develop the habit of  appreciating others. If only I could develop that habit. If only the rest of the world could—would—replace hostility with kindness and good will.

We can do it. If only we commit ourselves to being the kind of people we want to encounter in our day-to-day lives, we might witness a change in the world. The sharp edges of life might smooth into gentle curves. Disdain might transform into humility; maybe even affection. Sympathy might replace cruelty. Tenderness might replace animosity. If only…

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I feel melancholy at the moment. Thinking about what might be “if only…” has made me feel hopeless. I will snap out of it, though. Just thinking about the teacher whose appreciation helped give his student self-confidence is already having an effect.

I woke late, fed Phaedra, showered, shaved, got dressed, and made coffee. Now, the time is almost 7 and I am just now attempting to sort out what is on my mind. As usual, I am thinking about you. Yes, you. Writing in the first and second person (???) allows me to engage with you directly, without interference from whatever this day will bring. In my present state of mind, I could carry on a private conversation with Aesop or Khalil Gibran or Abraham Lincoln; no one would be the wiser. Magical thinkin—a term I first remember encountering in Joan Didion’s exceptional book, The Year of Magical Thinking—has a long and storied history. Sigmund Freud believed magical thinking arose from cognitive development factors. Bronisław Malinowski wrote about a form of magical thinking in which believers think words and sounds have the ability to directly affect the world (“step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” etc.). The literature is rife with theories about magical thinking (as if I have conducted an extensive review of the literature on the subject…yeah). It is entirely possible for a person to quickly and completely get wrapped up in a subject about which little previous thought had been given. Witness me, as I scamper down the rabbit hole, exploring magical thinking. Okay, though. That’s enough.

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Today, the fifth Sunday of the month, brings Music on Barcelona back to our church. On those rare fifth Sundays, neither worship nor insight services are held, the time being given instead to musical celebration. From jazz to blues to popular tunes, musical guests and others enliven the sanctuary with sounds. I dress casually for church; I feel more casual when “church” is replaced by music untethered to religious messages.

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Moments ago, I glanced up through the windows in front of my desk to see a bird alight on a high branch. The bird, a deep and brilliant red, is not as rotund as a cardinal. Watching it move from branch to branch, I see that its flight does not resemble a cardinal, either. I suspect it may be a summer tanager or a scarlet tanager, but it is not close enough for me to be sure. Even with binoculars, I probably could not be certain; I am not as knowledgeable about birds as I would like to be. But I am as knowledgeable as I can be, given the amount of time I am willing to invest to learn about them. My willingness to learn about nature is cyclical; some days, I devour information with a passion but other days I barely give information time to register with my brain before I scoot off to something else. Discipline could “correct” that inconsistency, but fixing the problem might prevent me from stumbling upon fascinating ideas and information that could, conceivably, change my entire perspective for a day. Or a week. Or the remainder of a lifetime.

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From time to time, I go online to learn what “quotation collectors” have assembled about a specific subject. The diversity of thoughts on a given topic can be illuminating. Thinking about that diversity can lead to exceptional insights. One such “insight” occurred to me this morning while looking for quotes about curiosity. The insight had little to do with curiosity, but it fueled more curiosity about a different topic: why does the vast majority of quotations in a given collection represent male “thinkers?” Though I did not count, I estimate that more than 90 percent of the collection I examined were quotations attributed to men. Given the subject, curiosity, I was especially surprised to see the paucity of quotes attributed to women. I suppose the experience simply is more evidence of the patriarchal nature of our society. I wonder what replacement term would apply to a society in which males and females were equally influential? Pamatriarchal? Shall I attempt to coin and popularize such a term?

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More coffee, please. And this time, do not let it cool so much that it is no longer appealing. I keep looking out the window, my attention being drawn by birds flitting across my field of vision. The sky is awash in birds.

This morning, I watched a short video clip of an interview with Princess Märtha Louise of Norway. She, like some of her British counterparts, has chosen to disengage from the life of a royal, opting instead to be just another citizen, with a twist. She has given up her royal financial stipend and has forsaken the title, “Her Royal Highness,” but apparently she has retained some royal responsibilities. Based on the context of her comments, among other things, I suspect her royal responsibilities are largely ceremonial; purely for “show.” During the video clip, the princess mentions that she is spiritual, something she says is “taboo” in Norway.  In exchange for relinquishing her royal benefits, she has decided to earn a living by being a “spiritual leader.” I wrestled with whether to watch the entire BBC video or, instead, be satisfied with just a few snippets from the clip. My decision: I am satisfied, for the moment, to move on to absorb other information from other sources. However, if my contentment degrades by avoiding the full interview, I know where to go to find it.

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Several times last night I woke to hear rain pounding the roof. Accompanying the heavy “tapping” sounds of raindrops was the unmistakable gurgling of rainwater draining from the roof and through the downspout. The volume of the latter noise varied considerably and absolutely inconsistently. It might have been low and slow for a moment, after which the volume spiked…as if the velocity of the flowing water increased several-fold. No two iterations of the cycles of volume and flow were the same. The sounds’ inconsistency kept me away for several minutes at a time…and then allowed me to sleep for a few moments, only to be awakened again by a slightly different noise.

As I think about last night’s episodes of wakefulness, listening to the rain hitting and flowing off of the roof, it occurs to me that the experience was all-consuming at the time. The only thing on my mind at the time was a cluster of related thoughts: rain, sounds, flowing water, repeat… All my attention was directed toward the consequences of weather. Except I was conscious of the fact that I was awake and, most of the time, I did not want to be. My consciousness, though, a special kind of consciousness, not the consciousness I experience during most of my waking hours. It was, instead, an incomplete, fuzzy, hazy, translucent consciousness. It was an awareness that might be akin to the state of mind a person feels during the emergence from the sedation delivered during a medical procedure, like a colonoscopy. My thoughts about varying types or degrees of consciousness are new this morning; they did not occur last night, during the experiences of semi-wakefulness.

And my thoughts on the matter are, in all probability, completely useless. Remembering my sleeplessness and my state of mind accomplishes nothing. What possible value might there be in focusing one’s attention on how one felt—or thinks he felt—when awakened by the sounds of a late-night rainstorm?

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The deep, guttural sound of thunder echoes across the sky and rattles the ground this morning. Looking upward from my study window, I see small, dim grey clots of sky beyond the tree-cover. When morning climbs out of the depths of night to find grey skies, rain, and growling claps of thunder, the rest of the day takes on an unusual appeal. Rather than looking forward to walking out side to soak in the light of bright blue skies, I look forward to feeling safe and dry and warm, a membrane of glass between me and the the onslaught of…something. Weird, I think. As if I feel some form of communication between us—us being me and my assignment of anthropomorphic attributes to the weather. I “talk” to and “listen” to weather the way I might speak in and “understand” the language of a pet dog or cat. I am not the only person who speaks to animals and expects them to respond…am I?

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The topic of psilocybin came up during a conversation with a friend yesterday. Both of us are curious about psychedelic, hallucinogenic effects of the stuff. We agreed we would like to experience the effects; I would want to experiment under the supervision of someone very knowledgeable about what kind(s) of mushrooms to use and how much is safe. During the conversation about what constitutes hallucinogenic effects, we came across an interesting idea. That the effects hallucinogens have on one’s visual perceptions may differ. One person, for example, might see a wild assortment of colors flowing like bubbles; another person might see limited colors and rigid, angular shapes. I am curious about those differences and what might explain them.

Mi novia and I are in the midst of watching the television series, The Good Fight (her first time, my second). A main character in the series experiments with micro-dosing (of psilocybin), which leads her to hallucinate about bizarre political newscasts, among other things. I think that show, along with another recent conversation about the topic, is what spurred my interest. But I tend to be a somewhat cautious sort, so I doubt I will experiment anytime soon. When I do, though, I hope I have company (and a knowledgeable supervisor/companion).

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Many people, especially people who belong to an identifiable minority, are very conscious of their cultural roots.  Mexicans, for example, and indigenous people we in this country have labeled “Indians.” And Blacks. And Acadians/Cajuns. And Koreans. And Syrians. And on and on. But I have always felt that my cultural identity is being written, in perpetuity, on a blank page in disappearing ink. An Anglo with uncertain genealogical lineage and no other definitive characteristic that would establish me as part of an identifiable cluster of like people. If I were extremely arrogant and full of piss and vinegar, I might assert that only the weak would surrender part of their identity just so they can say they are part of a specific demographic. People like me, I might say, are self-reliant individualists who do not use cultural affiliation as a crutch to artificially elevate our worth. Yet I am only moderately arrogant. Piss and vinegar flow in different vessels. If I could choose to belong to a “minority” with strong cultural attributes, I think I might choose “Mexican.” But, then, I would probably need to clarify by narrowing my identity by saying “Chihuahuan” or “Oaxacan” or “Jaliscan” and so on. And then, maybe even “Guadalajaran” or “Chapalan.” I could say I am an “Arkansan,” but that would be true only if residence defines me. If I said “Texan,” I would be staking my cultural identity on my birthplace. And if I said “American,” I would be saying I belong to a large, diverse population containing what seems like growing numbers of mentally vacant nationalists. I am sorry. I slipped off the path of righteousness and into a whitewater rapids of scalding sarcasm.

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Saturday. I’ve waited all week for today. And here it is.

If I removed the filters that constrain my speech, people within earshot would be shocked. Awkwardness would wash over them—and me—putting a damper on casual conversations. Some people might blush. Others might be titillated. And still others might react with anger and offense. There could be other reactions, as well. Jealousy. Longing. Flattery. Fear, perhaps? Or disappointment? Embarrassment?  Of course, there might be no reaction at all; as if my words did not sufficiently disturb the molecules of air, failing to create the vibrations we associate with sound—as if I just mouthed the words. One day, when I am alone with someone—you, perhaps—I will speak my mind. Jointly and simultaneously, we will experience whatever shock my words could cause.

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The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.

~ Dante Alighieri ~

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As offensive as capitalism often is, the excitement and allure of the economic system can be intoxicating, as well. Years ago, I spent quite a bit of my free time “playing” with very small stock market investments. I relied heavily on Morningstar to learn how to assess a stock’s short-term and long-term potential. Because my investments were so small, even highly lucrative stock plays yielded little in absolute terms; a 100% increase in the value of a $100 investment does not constitute the accumulation of wealth. With such miniscule investments, the wrong buy and sell decisions could erase weeks or months of stock value. And that reality is what steered me away from investments in individual stocks. Over time, I lost too much of what I had won to convince me the allure was worth the risk. But I never completely lost my appetite for investment research. I still explore potential investments in stocks from time to time. Yesterday, for example, I spent a good hour or two reading financial analysts’ assessments of various company stocks, after which I employed my very rusty analytical skills, in an attempt to identify stocks with significant upside potential and only modest downside risk. But I did not invest in any stocks in response to my efforts. Not yet, anyway. Between yesterday’s foray into naked capitalism and this morning, I have almost decided to treat my interest in investing the same way some people (including me) treat gambling: give myself permission to establish an initial investment fund of up to a certain amount (for the sake of argument, I’ll say $10,000) and limit my losses to no more than that initial investment. So, the sky’s the limit in terms of investment returns, but if the investments do not pan out, the most I could lose would be that original amount. I’ve almost decided. But not quite yet. I want to remove more of the rust from my memories and my strategies. Only then will I be willing to give myself permission to invest and, in the worst case scenario, lose every penny of a limited investment pool. We shall see how it goes. In the interim, I will watch some stocks:

ASML, the predominant supplier of photolithography equipment for semiconductor manufacturers, has been identified by Morningstar analysts as one of 33 undervalued stocks that hold promise for the second quarter of this year. But it is not cheap; not by any stretch. It closed yesterday at $629.24. It’s 365-day price has ranged between $363.15 and $683.69. And the analysts give it a fair value estimate of $760. If a person were to buy 100 shares (a $6,292.40 investment at yesterday’s close) and if the stock reached its fair value estimate of $760 in one year’s time, the investment would reach $7,600, an increase in absolute value of $1,307.60. That’s a nice jump, but it is not enough of an increase to keep food on the table. Serious investors might need to buy 1000 shares of the stock at yesterday’s market price to make the investment’s payoff worth the risk. An investment of roughly $692,000 might yield a return, if the stock were to reach its fair value estimate, of $130,760.

Suddenly, the amount of money (and the risks associated with it) necessary to achieve a “significant” return seems out of reach. Even if it were within reach, I cannot imagine myself accepting such an enormous—in absolute numbers—risk.  Perhaps that is why it has been such a long time since I played the stock market. I am more risk-averse than I once was. And I am more risk-averse than I want to be. Yet I prefer safety and comfort to starvation and insolvency. For now, anyway.

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Silence is a true friend who never betrays.

~ Confucius ~

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Phaedra woke me this morning. When I did not get up immediately, she went into the bathroom and knocked an orchid off a table, littering the floor with potting soil and arrogance. Had I been in a different state of mind, I might have decapitated the cat and placed its severed head on a post in front of my office window. Fortunately, I was cool. I maintained my serenity. I stayed calm. Phaedra will live to yowl another day.

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I have a craving for something, but I can’t put my finger on it. Taste is difficult to explain; it is especially tough to explain taste to a person born without a tongue.

Time and experience nurture wisdom. Wisdom comes in cycles, each new one possessed of more profound levels of insight. That is what wisdom is, after all, isn’t it? Insight born of time and experience? As time and experience accumulate over the course of one’s lifetime, the scope of one’s insight deepens. Perhaps it is odd to think of either time or experience “accumulating,” but that is precisely what happens. Not to everyone, mind you, but to enough people to call the process a natural one.

What am I getting at here? The idea may be a bit convoluted. Essentially, my argument is that one tends to grow wiser with advancing age. But the growth in wisdom is not linear; it is exponential. With each new cycle of acquiring experiential knowledge, one’s wisdom increases by a factor of itself…or something like that. Knowledge builds on knowledge. Practical knowledge, by the way, is the foundation of wisdom; a photographic memory is total insufficient to create wisdom.

During the course of my life so far, I periodically have a rather mundane epiphany. It happens in the midst of a repeated experience of one kind or another, when I realize my previous thoughts during the past or most recent experiences were incomplete. Suddenly, the effects of time and experience enable me to reassess earlier experiences, based on subsequent experience. That subsequent experience transforms my earlier understanding, adding a new layer of knowledge/insight. And so it goes. Reasonably intelligent people grow wiser over time.  I know. This is not a newsflash. But it bears memorializing, which is what I have done.

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The newspaper business has changed radically during the past 50 years. Today, newspapers are available online; easily accessible from anywhere. But, like their paper counterparts, they are not free. The unfortunate difference today, compared to years ago, is that papers rarely make their contents available for a low price for a single issue. If I want to read an issue of the New York Times, for instance, I have to pay for a subscription or take advantage of a special $X for Y days/months. Unlike in years past, though, today a person has ready access to hundreds and hundreds of papers. I wish the newspaper publishing business would collectively establish a way to give access to all online papers for a reasonably low fee for a short time period. I would gladly pay $5 or $10 (depending on my mood) for universal access to newspapers in Denmark, the UK, Canada, the USA, Mexico, etc., etc. As it stands now, to get access to those same papers, I might have to pay $12 for each paper for a one-month trial. I don’t like it. But I do not understand the financial positions of newspapers and their cost to operate, so my dislike may be based on selfishness and ignorance. Oh, well. I suppose I should be satisfied with what life gives me.

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The population density of Mumbai, India is 76,790 per square mile. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in such an incredibly crowded urban area. With a population of 14,350,000, Mumbai is not the largest city on the planet, but it is the most densely populated. I suppose one gets used to one’s environment; “normal” depends on one’s experience and the context of that experience. But, of course, choice—or the lack thereof—probably has something to do with it, too. Living in a chokingly dense environment may be terribly difficult, but if one does not have the resources to escape it, one’s choices are severely limited. Choices. We have almost endless choices. I feel empathy for those whose choices are limited by circumstances over which they have no control.

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I have obligations today. Some will be fulfilled. Some may not. And I have wishes. Ditto.

I did not feel the need to write a blog post yesterday. So I did not. I may opt to skip a day or two or three or…whatever…more frequently in the coming weeks and months. The satisfaction I get out of writing seems to be receding. The occasional comment on a post adds a little interest, but comments are so rare that they are insufficient to sustain me. Besides, I am getting tired of forcing myself to think about what to write. Lately, I sometimes have had to force myself;  in the past, words spilled from the tips of my fingers like water from an open spigot.  I will not commit, either way. “Obligations” I impose on myself are not necessary to my happiness. In fact, unnecessary obligations tend to cause stress or anxiety or other mental distresses. Removing them might relax my tightly-wound mind. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.

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Sacredness lies somewhere between mindless faith—which gives irrational credence to the absurd—and steadfast skepticism—which refuses to acknowledge the impossibility of understanding the mysteries of existence. Sacredness mistakenly is linked to religious belief when, in fact, it is more closely aligned with secular awe. Dictionary definitions to the contrary be damned; the concept of sacredness is reverential appreciation for the intersection between the unknowable and the profoundly understood. Viewed from another perspective, sacredness exists at the point where light and darkness meet; where understanding and immutable ignorance share the same space and time and meaning. Sacredness and profanity are one and the same, yet they conflict with one another at their confluence; the same place their merger rebels with itself.

I can do without church. In any form. But I need a place to feel safely sacred and profane. That place may be a “room” in my brain, where I keep mysteries safely tucked away. Or it may be in the dialogue I have with a “mind-mate,” someone who shares a willingness to explore with curiosity certain unanswerable questions. Questions that may seem mystical to the casual observer but, to us, are simply unknowable. That safe place can change from moment to moment. Therefore, any “safe” refuge is temporary. Undependable. Unreliable. So, safety cannot be guaranteed. But sacredness, no matter what form it takes, is permanent. Yet it can be transitory, too. Like light and darkness. Like understanding and ignorance. Like conflict and harmony. Logic tells us these opposites cannot exist in the same place at the same time. Sacredness, then, is like Schrödinger’s cat. And so are we all. We experience profound changes in ourselves, yet we eternally remain who we are and who always we have been.

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Philanthropy is commendable, but it must not cause the philanthropist to overlook the circumstances of economic injustice which make philanthropy necessary.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

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Monday, mi novia and I drove to Bentonville, Arkansas, where we visited Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Our visit had two objectives: to experience the current special exhibition entitled, Diego Rivera’s America, and to see Cheech Marin in conversation with Max Durón about Marin’s collection of Chicano art and his museum—The Cheech, also known as the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture of the Riverside Art Museum. Both experiences were interesting, enlightening, and very satisfying. We stayed overnight in Bentonville and drove back home yesterday morning. I am glad to have been to Crystal Bridges several times in its relatively early life, before the current building boom turns Bentonville and Rogers and the towns and villages around them into a large, crowded collection of “too much.” Urban growth, even when managed well, leads to congestion. Developers change the character of places they develop, a fact exhibited clearly in and around Bentonville. As attractive as the area is today, I suspect I would find it unappealing in the extreme in short order, were I to live there. Its growth is too rapid and too endless; developers and ambitious municipal leaders and managers never incorporate ways to brake growth. They watch helplessly as the attractiveness of “new” becomes the choking, clogging suffocation of “too late.” In spite of the loneliness and isolation that might accompany life on a 2000-acre retreat, I would fine it far more appealing and much more satisfying than drowning in urban sprawl.  Yet I was enamored of Chicago when I lived there. And I enjoyed the boundless opportunities afforded me when I lived in Dallas. But over time, I have become far more interested in space and emptiness. If I could surround myself with a handful of carefully-selected people, and live a remote life with easy (yet distant) access to urban amenities but absent urban unpleasantness, I would do just that.

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The bank where I do most of my banking business seems to be doing its best to cause me to take my business elsewhere. The bank’s efforts in that arena are focused, for the moment, on making transfers to other financial institutions as difficult and time-consuming and error-laden as possible. Today, I will call the local bank manager to express my displeasure. I do not hold out much hope for satisfactory resolution, though, because “bank policy” seems far more important to the bank than does “satisfying customers.” Pulling out of the bank, if I should opt to go that route, will be more than a little hassle. It would involve changing all of my automatic deposits (Social Security, tax refunds, etc.) and my automatic payments (credit card bills, homeowners’ association dues, etc., etc.), which in my experience is something of a hit-and-miss proposition. But the hassle may be worth the effort and its attendant pain. Yet what is my assurance that another bank would be better? Every institution has its unique foibles; might my bank’s foibles be easier to deal with than those of another institution? Hard to say. But I just may find out. We shall see.

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Intellectual property has the shelf life of a banana.

~ Bill Gates ~

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I should remember Gates’ words whenever I find myself concerned that someone might “steal” an idea from me.  Nothing belongs to me. Not even my own thoughts. Everything is simply recycled. Even if I were to conjure a unique thought, its newness would wear off before the thought found an audience of one. We simply rearrange atoms to form “new” molecules. But the molecules are not really new. They simply represent different ways to understand reality.

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Yesterday was not a good day for my retirement assets. Their collective drop in value was significant to me, yet I try not fret about it. Wealth and poverty are cyclical. At least wealth is. I would like to think poverty is cyclical, too; just a temporary low point on a sphere that moves like a frenetic gyroscope, changing the orientation of its rotation a degree at a time. I am curious to know whether an absolutely equal distribution of the planet’s total wealth would lead to universal financial security. There’s only one way to find out: a global revolution pitting the ultra-rich against the rest of us.  I have been toying with the idea of taking $10K out of my retirement assets to use as the foundation for moderately high-risk, high-return investments. Knowing I might lose every penny of it must not dissuade me from the experience. Using $5K to invest is unlikely to lead to an investment fortune. But buying $5K worth of an inexpensive stock has some modest potential for satisfying the financial glutton and risk-taker in me. So, I may do something like that. I suspect I could enjoy being a day trader, behaving as if my full-time job was to trade stocks with the objective of maximizing my net worth and minimizing untoward risk. Hmmm. Time to mull this over…over another cup of coffee.

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To anyone reading this post, I wish you a wonderful day. And that goes for those who do not see these words, as well.

Oftentimes, I reveal too much here. I write as though this repository of many of my deepest and most personal thoughts is inaccessible to anyone but me. In fact, of course, anyone with access to the internet might find themselves here, whether intentionally or accidentally. And when a person lands here, she comes upon the equivalent of a psychologist’s or counselor’s notebook, filled with confidential observations—the kind of information one typically does not share openly with the world at large. Yet, here it is. A private journal, normally kept under lock and key; the lock, though, pried open and the pages visible to even the most casual passerby.

However, if a person were to assume all of my thoughts and deepest secrets are on public display here, he would be mistaken. Consider this comparison: a road cut into a hillside might reveal layer upon layer of rock, each a different color. The layers are the results of multiple eons of sediments hardening into unique strata. Beneath the road cut, though, there may be dozens or hundreds or even thousands of additional, invisible, layers. So it is with my “journal.” It is highly doubtful that I will ever write about, much less reveal here, the hidden strata buried beneath my public revelations. No one will ever know all the intricate thoughts and emotions underneath. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, exposing all those hidden matters might enable others to better understand me; but on the other, exposing all those hidden matters might enable others to better understand me. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. And, so, I continue wrestling with eternal damnation. Except, of course, “eternal” is a concept which never can be proven or disproven. And “never,” too, is a concept that relies on access to more knowledge than is available to us; so, “never” is just as inaccessible as “eternal.” And “always,” first cousin of “eternal,” similarly is an impossibility, given the brevity of human life in the scope of Time since the Big Bang, assuming the Big Bang is more than an explanation of the inexplicable.

I may rest for a while. I mean take a break from this infernal daily routine, using writing as a tool to uncover something about myself that seems always to remain hidden. Perhaps if I stop looking, it will fall into my lap. The likelihood of that happening is on par with the likelihood of losing a contact lens while frolicking in the waves off of Maui’s beaches, only to find it a year later, floating in the surf of Galveston Island. But we shall see, shan’t we? Indeed we shall.

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April is winding down. The month pretends to belong to the season we call Spring, but evidence of its close relationship with Winter is clear and compelling. Whether this seasonal fling is permanent remains to be seen; but I would not be surprised to learn that the two have been surreptitiously courting for several years. Whatever the case may be, shivering leaves and frigid flowers offer testimony of something untoward. And when I see the morning’s temperature, just a hair above the high 30s, I know something seasonally inappropriate is afoot. Today’s high in Hot Springs Village, forecast to reach only 61°F, further testifies that the climate has gone rogue.

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I am tired, both physically and mentally. A week or a month of deep seclusion, performing no obligations and ignoring all requests, may be just the ticket. But that will have to wait. As it always does. And, I suppose, it always will.

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Enough for today and maybe tomorrow. And possible the day after that and, perhaps, the next day and the next and the next and so on. Hit the brakes.

When I write fiction, I do not create characters. As they develop, they reveal who I am. They expose me at my core. Easily wounded, quick tempered, deeply flawed, empathetic, brutally uncaring, timid, quiet, loud, terminally sad, spontaneously silly, irresponsible, absolutely reliable, undependable, driven by fear, brave beyond comprehension. And more. In other words, awash in incongruities. I did not realize my characters were expressions of elements of my personality until quite recently. One or two people had suggested as much to me, but I gave the idea no credence. Until lately. When, for some reason, the legitimacy of the suggestion became clear. Everything about me is incongruous. Though it took time, my characters revealed that truth to me.

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For two days running, I have allowed my blood glucose numbers to spike into unwelcome territory. A quick trip to Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art will involve meals “out,” so controlling diet is a bit more of a challenge than at home (where I have recently failed miserably). I suppose I can tolerate two or three more days with elevated numbers. But, then, another numerous days on another trip. I must figure out how to discipline myself to exercise restraint in the presence of limitless appealing foods, everywhere I look.

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We have been watching The Good Fight. I enjoyed the series immensely when it was originally broadcast, though I am not sure whether I saw it to the end. Watching it again is not difficult or boring; it’s just as good the second time around. And that’s all I have to say about that.

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I sometimes see people engaging in customs common in other countries but not so common here. “Air kissing” one another on both cheeks, for instance. In the interests of learning a little more about kissing customs, I skimmed a Condé Nast Traveler online article. If I was hoping for iron-clad, specific “rules,” I was mistaken. And I was. Though I wasn’t. Not really. Every opportunity to learn something new is an opportunity to be grateful for it. If I kiss you on the neck, by the way, I probably find you irresistibly, dangerously, attractive. Seriously, the customs of kissing seem to be a little fluid. Or, perhaps, it’s just my reading of the article. I would probably shy away from initiating a kiss when I meet someone new. I’ve avoided it this long and I am confident I can avoid it still.

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I slept in this morning. Until 6:30. That happens sometimes. I do not like it, but it occurs. I could control it, but I am not as disciplined as I would like. So I slip from time to time. If I’m going to get to church this morning, I better start to unwind and unwrap.

A few years ago, discussions about climate change and increasing sea levels suggested that future generations will have to wrestle with coastal erosion and inundation. I remember wondering whether scientists were right about the geologically quick, but still relatively slow, changes. What if, I recall wondering, the changes were to accelerate? What if expectations about the effects of climate change in 100 years were far too optimistic? What if those changes were to take place over the course of a much shorter timeframe—like ten or twenty years?

The changes are taking place far more quickly than, just a few years ago, scientists expected. We are witnessing the rapid compression of geologic time. That reality provides an incredible opportunity for fiction writers to offer visions of the effects of the change. I suspect fictionalized accounts will be forthcoming of mass extinctions, abandonment of entire cities and regions, planetary “cleansing,” and dozens of other possible outcomes. Fiction, though, is just a temporary escape. Reality might well be more practical; a hellscape that presages the demise of the human race. Unless the pace of change quickens much more rapidly than it has to date, I will not witness that hellscape. I will have to be satisfied to witness this one, the one facing us on all fronts today.

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The good news: I do not have a detached retina. I took my car in for an oil/filter change and tire rotation yesterday morning. After checking in, I called my eye doctor’s office to ask if I could be seen sometime next week with regard to the translucent “veil” about which I wrote in yesterday’s post. Both doctors were out, but the nurse with whom I spoke and to whom I described my symptoms urged me to see the ophthalmologist in Hot Springs who was covering for the absent doctors on their day off. She arranged for me to be seen. Mi novia picked me up at the mechanic’s garage and drove me to town to see the doctor. The doctor’s diagnosis: one or more chunks of the clear “jelly” at the back of my left eyeball had pulled loose, causing my symptoms. It’s an age-related thing. And the “cure” is to let my brain reach its own conclusion that the glob of jelly is not going away and I, therefore, need to get used to it. Once that occurs, I won’t notice the unwelcome veil. “Your body is self-destructing, old man, but you will get used to the decay.” Good news.

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Routine. Ritual. Habit. Custom. Various words refer to repetitive acts. Depending on factors too numerous to describe, the effects of repetition range from boring to comforting and everything in between. I think about routine quite a lot because I begin most days following one. Recently, that routine has involved tending to the cat’s demands for food, making coffee, measuring and recording my own medical/health statistics, skimming online news sources, and writing blog posts. Sometimes, I inject another occasional ritual into the mix by engaging in my personal version of meditation. Whether those activities constitute several distinct rituals or comprise components of a single one is debatable. Not that it matters. What matters is where along a spectrum that repetition falls. Does it bore me? Does the routine provide me with comfort? Or is there something else about it that affects my state of mind? Those questions could take up all my waking hours, if I let them. Without giving them too much attention, though, I think the questions merit consideration, so I am giving it to them. And along with mulling over those questions, I am beginning to ask myself some others: What would a drastic change in my morning customs do to my state of mind? If I were to begin every day by deliberately expressing gratitude for the most important aspects of my life, would my perspectives change? If I were to start every morning by driving to the Balboa Marina to gaze at the water in the lake as the sun rises, would my mindset adjust in some way that rarely, if ever, occurs now? What if, instead, I made a conscious effort to begin each day differently, so that the activities of no two days were alike? (That conscious choice, by the way, would constitute a routine of its own.) I have no answers. I am just pondering the questions. The fact that the questions have arisen suggests to me I am frustrated with my rituals. It does not take advanced education and training in psychology to understand that.

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FoxNews is a deceitful, incredibly partisan, utterly unreliable news source, in my opinion. Its website is littered with obviously slanted “news” items, interspersed with “feel good” pieces clearly designed to appeal to the compassionate side of people who otherwise are right-wingnuts. The conceptual design is highly sophisticated and obviously is intended to garner support from a very large, diverse audience. And the website’s conceptual design is brilliantly augmented by the visual design of the site. Looking at Foxnews.com, one sees an endless supply of eye-candy. Were I in charge of any of the other high profile news organizations’ websites, I would hire Fox’s web designers to restructure and maintain their websites. the websites of NPR, AP, NBC, ABC, CNN, etc., etc. could benefit from complete, top-to-bottom redesigns, based on the visually appealing approach taken by the Fox designers.

Of course, appearance and functionality are largely irrelevant to a news organization’s website if its content is unreliable, biased, and clearly aimed at managing public opinion. Except that appearance and functionality seem to overshadow deceit, partisanship, unreliability, etc. in the case of FoxNews. That notwithstanding, I think redesigning news websites to appeal to a younger audience that is stimulated visually would be a wise move. Fox’s website probably is far more appealing to younger visitors than are the other sites I have mentioned. I suspect Fox has a long-term goal of manipulating youth so that, when they reach adulthood, they will behave as Fox wishes. Although it is a bit late, I think news organizations had better redesign their images quickly or they will lose both today’s audience and tomorrow’s.

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And now for some thought-provoking quotations.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

~ William Shakespeare ~

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

~ Marcel Proust ~

Several months ago, another blogger stumbled upon my blog and left a comment. I subsequently found his blog and decided to follow it. This blogger frequently shares insights and ideas from religious texts and other writers. This morning, his post shared the following thought-provoking quotation, from one of many books written by a doctor, a psychiatrist:

Forgive the past. It is over. Learn from it and let go. People are constantly changing and growing. Do not cling to a limited, disconnected, negative image of a person in the past. See that person now. Your relationship is always alive and changing.

~ Brian Weiss, Messages from the Masters: Tapping Into the Power of Love ~

Though I tend to avoid the “woo-woo” and trite motivational messages that often accompanies it, Weiss’s words struck a chord with me. The quotation was particularly meaningful to me in light of a relatively recent friendship (within the past year or so) that self-destructed. The aftermath of a series of interactions between this former friend and me left me with a very negative image of this friend. The words we exchanged left in ashes what had been an interesting, enjoyable relationship. Early on, I tried to repair the rapport between us, but my effort was rebuffed. Ever since, I have clung to a negative image of my friend, as well as myself, for permitting an unpleasant and unkind exchange of words expressed in anger to extinguish what was a budding close friendship.

Reading the quoted paragraph this morning prompted me to acknowledge the pointlessness of my negativity. Though I cannot change someone else’s mindset, I should be able to change my own. And so I shall. At least I will try.

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President Biden is expected to formally announce his bid for reelection in the coming days. Though I think Biden is a decent, rather innocuous, reasonably progressive guy, I would prefer him to announce his retirement at the end of his term. Someone who is equally (or more) progressive, possesses more charisma, and who has a greater capacity to forge cooperative relationships between left and right would be more appealing to me. Who that might be is open to question. I like Kamala Harris, but she is not the leader I hope for. Most of the other potential presidential hopefuls do not excite me. Among the obvious possibilities, only one has the requisite charisma, in my view: Pete Buttigieg. But I am concerned that the American people collectively are not smart enough to discount issues like sexual orientation. Looking at potential female candidates,  I am not sure the majority of Americans have abandoned enough of their misogynistic attitudes to permit them to support a woman running for the presidency. But there are a few other possibilities, both male and female, whose odds of getting on the Democratic ticket, much less winning the presidency, are slim. Stacey Abrams. Amy Klobuchar. Gretchen Whitmer.

On the Republican side, most of the possibilities are equally ugly and intolerable. My assessments:  Donald Trump—obviously the spawn of Satan. Ron DeSantis—self-important Neanderthal Nazi who would accelerate the country’s dive into a childish, though dangerous, dictatorship. Nikki Haley—I loathe her philosophies. Oh, there are many more, but few of the worst ones would be able to survive any kind of challenge. But there are some very long shots that could be worth a look, despite our significant differences in philosophies. Liz Cheney. Asa Hutchison. John Kasich. Mitt Romney.

We’ll see.

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We had a delightful dinner last night with friends. The meal was absolutely spectacular: chicken tikka masala, raita, salad, and for dessert a marvelous pistachio pudding. And, of course, the casual conversation was deeply enjoyable, and supremely comfortable. As I think back on last night’s dinner and conversations, it occurs to me that the same scrumptious meal could not have saved an evening spent in the presence of unpleasant people. Or, even among good friends, in a far more formal circumstance. The combination of a superb meal and a genuinely casual, relaxing, atmosphere with good friends is…what? The honey spot. Or something like that. What a lovely experience!

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I need to see an eye doctor, either an optometrist or an ophthalmologist. Within the last few days, I have noticed a left-eye abnormality: when I keep my head looking straight ahead, but then move my eyes either right or left, I seem to see a fleeting, translucent “something” that moves in front of my field of vision. I wrote yesterday about the “floaters.” Until I mulled it over last night and this morning, I did not differentiate between my black “floaters” and the sense that a translucent veil moves in front of my left eye when I look either right or left. Maybe I will call the optometrist later this morning.

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The rain, lightning, and thunder last night were entrancing, even after I went to bed. I awoke occasionally to hear rain pounding on the roof and splashing against the windows. At least that is what I think I heard. And Phaedra was acutely aware of the fierce weather, too. She yowled and howled and paced and meowed and jumped up on the bed and then off again. She sought comfort, I think. But she does not look to me for comfort; she only looks to mi novia. I am trying to be less terrifying to the cat, but I cannot seem to modulate the volume of my voice when I correct her when she claws on very expensive rugs (apparently, the condition of the rugs, and the fact that they were quite pricey, matters not a whit to her). I will keep trying. I would think she would like me for no other reason than the fact that I feed her every morning. And, often, at midday and late afternoon or evening. But, no, she barely tolerates me and certainly does not approach me to be cuddled. Mi novia is Phaedra’s target when the cat seeks to be held or looks for someone to serve as a mattress. I will keep trying. I will keep trying. I will keep trying. Up to a point…beyond which I will abandon that beastly feline as if she were a rabid wolverine with rage issues.

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What’s left of my coffee is cold. I will get another cup soon. Today, I will abandon all foods that could raise my blood glucose levels. This morning, my number skyrocketed in comparison to yesterday’s very slightly elevated level: 146 this morning, last matched in mid-January. Two big, sugar- and flour-laden cookies, along with various and sundry foodstuffs that probably I should have avoided, were no doubt responsible. Our hosts for last night’s dinner very graciously made a sugar-free dessert. Had the dessert been sugar-laden, yesterday’s consumption of cookies might have sent my blood glucose levels into the stratosphere.  By this time tomorrow, though, I intend to have exercised sufficient control to reduce the number from 146 to 100 or below. We’ll see how that goes.

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I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with identifying myself as a Democrat. Though my philosophies usually parallel those espoused by the Democratic Party, I do not agree with the party’s position in every case. For that reason, I have been moving away from self-identifying as a Democrat; I do not want to be pigeon-holed, nor to be seen as an echo chamber for Democrats. I do not want people to assume how or what I think, simply because I call myself, or am labeled, Democrat. I suppose I am a left-leaning independent who generally strongly disagrees with the Republican Party. I cannot, in good conscience, identify as a Democrat, though.  I have a growing desire to see a new political party whose left-leaning philosophies are tempered by practicality and realism. I am afraid, though, the new party would be small and intellectually and emotionally undernourished.

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I still haven’t gotten another cup of coffee. I will stop writing, now. Off to face the day, which includes having my car’s oil and filter changed and its tires rotated.

The warmth of recent days has been just a tease. Daytime highs are expected to cool to the mid-fifties by Sunday, increasing to the low to mid sixties by Tuesday and Wednesday of next week and then slipping back to the mid-fifties again on Thursday. As I consider the ebb and flow of temperatures and their accompanying atmospheric attire, it occurs to me that Climate and Weather are unique; each with its singular personality. In years past—in my youth—the two of them were generally pleasant, well-behaved, and respectful of those in their presence. But, as both of them have aged, they have become belligerent bullies who find puerile satisfaction in demonstrating the ability to cause discomfort, inconvenience, and—occasionally—stark fear. Weather, especially, seems to get perverse thrills by throwing tantrums that leave terror and worse in her wake. But Climate is no choir-boy; he, too, has become enamored with his ability to change the evolutionary course of the planet, transforming billions of square miles of ice into deeper and deeper ocean waters. They are bullies, to be sure. But they might not have behaved so badly if we had not poisoned their sources of sustenance. We may be reaping our just rewards.

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Just before I awoke this morning, I was in the midst of a disturbing dream. The details were so convoluted and confusing that any attempt to reconstruct it and describe it would be fruitless. Its purpose, though, was clear: to ensure that I never escape feelings of guilt and regret. It was the sort of dream that leaves a person exhausted, heartsick, inconsolable—impossible to forget and impossible to overcome. The dream accentuated certain of my flaws about which I do not need reminding; but regardless of need, the reminders remain. Sometimes I daydream about how restorative it would be to have the ability to completely erase certain of one’s memories. But, on the other hand, that capability might make one more likely to repeat the same mistakes, knowing the anguish that accompanies them could be easily erased. We may learn from our mistakes, but do we need to be reminded of them every waking…and sleeping…hour? It’s hard to say. Perhaps constant reminders, as unpleasant as they may be, are required to prevent their repetition.

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I recently began to experience a flurry of “floaters” in my vision. Sometimes, flecks flit across my line of vision. Other times, the “flecks” are much bigger and have distinct, but fleeting, shapes. They are not particularly bothersome, but because I know floaters can be symptomatic of potentially serious underlying conditions, I am keeping tabs on them. If they get appreciably more common or if they interfere with my vision in any way, I will have my eyes checked again. The last time I had an eye exam was in mid-October. There was nothing of concern then. Pollen and frequent sneezing may be the culprits causing the floaters of late. Time will tell.

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Though awake, I was not quite ready to get up at 5 this morning. A minute or two of adapting to consciousness and I would have been prepared to spring out of bed and charge into the morning darkness. But Phaedra was insistent. She meowed and paced back and forth on top of mi novia, who would have preferred to sleep—without the cat trudging back and forth, interrupting her slumber.

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Life is fragile.

Out of curiosity, I went to Fox News online this morning to read what the network would say about yesterday’s $787.5 million settlement with Dominion. Surprise. I found no mention of the settlement, which amounts to the network’s admission of guilt (how could it do anything else?).  I do not have all the details of the settlement, but it would be delightful if the judge overseeing the case were to require Fox to post online—in enormous, bold type—and broadcast, daily, an unvarnished admission of being a dishonest, unreliable, bullying, collection of the lowest form of human scum.

But it would then be only fair to require something similar, though not quite as harsh, of CNN.

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I picked up a shirt yesterday. And I will have to return to the store again sometime after the end of the month to pick up another one. To my chagrin, the shirt tails of all three shirts I bought there are far too long to wear untucked, so when wearing them I’ll have to return to the days—long, long ago—when a belt was always visible around my waist. I suppose I could use some “gussying-up;” most people in my sphere today have never seen me in anything but my extremely casual attire.

While in Little Rock, we visited Costco, where we had lunch for two for $3.86, including tax. And we bought groceries. And a supply of Kleenex for the guest bath that should last until a month and a day past the end of Time.  And, when in Little Rock, one is required to buy naan bread from Trader Joe‘s. And, while in Trader Joe‘s, one tends to buy chocolate and orchids.

Once home in the backwoods, we found our way into the center of the forest and nestled into our little cabin. We invited my SIL to come visit for an afternoon chat. And what a perfect day to introduce her dog, a Pug, to our cat, still a kitten. That introduction almost turned into a bloodbath. We had never before seen our kitten behave quite like a frenetic, growling, hissing, clawing, biting, uncontrollable demon from the bowels of Hell. But we saw it yesterday. Fortunately, we were able to corral her…a little…and get them separated before any damage was done. But, after the dog was outside and we released the cat from her cell (my office), she raced to the door and let out the most menacing, sinister, unholy, beastly, terrifying growl I have ever heard. She was very nearly ready to go through the glass of the back door.

After that excitement, we sat in our “yard” chairs on our newish flagstone and gravel forest retreat. There, the two women drank sparkling pink wine (and I had a sip or two) and we munched on the meat of pecans. Except for the yellow pollen covering everything and the gnats flying in my nose, ears, and mouth, it was delightful. Actually, even with those negatives, it was quite nice to sit beneath the green canopy of pine trees and oaks with their new displays of fresh leaves.

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Obviously, today’s post is almost entirely just a journal entry. I am not sure this morning about my thoughts or feelings or philosophies about anything. So, I will leave those weighty subjects for another day and/or another identity. I have multiple identities, you know. Those who know me as a calm, friendly, unrufflable guy have never seen the 87% of me who is someone else. And those who have witnessed a short-tempered, aloof, unfriendly side of me that I would rather amputate have never seen the 50% of me who is someone else. It is not your imagination: you did, indeed, see me slip in a non sequitur there. But was it really a non sequitur? That is the sort of question that can plague me for hours, days, weeks, even years, on end. Depending on your perspective, every answer is wrong; at least to some extent. I say that because answers imply truths and truths are contextual. Just ask Kellyanne Conway about that; she can school you on alternative facts. I know, truth and fact are not synonyms. But each contains elements of the other.

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I am thinking about you this morning. But, then, I always do.

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Time for more coffee and something to restore my faith in humankind.

Sometime later this month, we will drive to Dayton, Ohio. Unless we opt to travel the back roads—which is entirely possible—our eleven-hour trip will take us to Memphis, Nashville, Bowling Green, Louisville, and Cincinnati. Even keeping on main highways, we might decide to skirt around Memphis and avoid Nashville and Bowling Green altogether. Regardless of the route, the trip will help assuage my thirst for spending time on the open road.

There was a time when, for almost eight years, I was deeply enmeshed in the the world of entertainment and sports venues. Then, I would have known the managers of virtually all the major venues along the most direct route. I would have felt obliged to stop along the way in Memphis and Nashville and Louisville, etc. to visit briefly with as many of those people as possible. Twenty-five years later, though, many of the venue executives I knew probably have retired. Those remaining might no longer remember me. And that part of my life is bittersweet history, now, anyway; I will not take any detours for the purpose of attempting to visit people who have forgotten me. The only distractions along the way will be attractions that capture my attention and interest; professional business obligations will play no part in the itinerary.  I look forward to the trip.

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Day before yesterday, a woman I know—someone with whom I used to spend considerable time when both of us were involved in a local writing club—made a rare appearance at my church. During our brief conversation after the church service, she told me her husband had recently been diagnosed with terminal, incurable, stage 4 neuroendoctrine cancer. She said the two of them, during the two months they have known of the diagnosis, have come to grips with what is facing them. In thinking about what they are going through, I wondered how I might have reacted to my late wife’s prognosis had I been told about it several months before her death, rather than assuming and believing her condition would, eventually, improve. I learned that she had only days left only a short time before she died, though I had begun to believe a couple of months earlier that her condition might never get better. But I was advised of the need for hospice care less than two weeks before her death. I am not sure I would have been as resilient as my writer acquaintance seems to be. No, that is not true. I am sure I would not have been so stoic and capable of withstanding the heartbreak and stress for so long. Ach. Life can be impossibly hard.

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When, in my early twenties, I worked for a few months in a prison environment, I rarely encountered the raw brutality of prison life I see reflected in television and film. Perhaps that is because the prisons I visited for my job were managed in such a way as to scare inmates into behaving well. Or perhaps I simply did not see the ugly underbelly of those prison facilities. Or, maybe, the populations of the units I entered tended to be people who were not disposed to be monsters. Whatever the reasons, I rarely saw unrestrained contempt for others in the places I visited…except for a unit in which the inmates were “young offenders.” Almost immediately upon entering the unit, I saw and heard people for whom I immediately felt utter contempt. They were mannerless, brutal, ugly, unreservedly bad behaving beasts. I wonder whether people in my social sphere, if suddenly rounded up and locked in a prison environment, would turn into bullies and compassionless animals or whether, due to their upbringing and life experiences and mindsets, they would remain relatively decent, innocuous human beings? I am satisfied to wonder about, rather than witness, that reality.

++++

El inocente, the Spanish series we have been watching recently, shows some absolutely horrific, grisly, deeply disturbing scenes. Usually, I am not offended by what I consider over-the-top violence or gore in film, but I seriously question the need to show such monstrous stuff as I saw on the television last night. That notwithstanding, the show remains engaging. As I try to imagine it without the horrors, though, I think the program might not be as impactful, intellectually, as it has been. The absolute and utter absence of human decency illustrated through those hard-to-watch scenes may have been impossible to communicate without them. I may need an infusion of touching, feel-good entertainment before long, though, to give me back some of the serenity those scenes have taken from me.

+++

Years are slipping by with far greater speed than in the past, reducing my perception of the amount of available time to decide what to do next. Spending as much time as I like mulling over where to live, what to do, where to go, etc., etc. is a luxury I no longer feel I can afford. I feel an urgency to do something, make quick decisions, take action, move, move, move! In ten years, if I last that long, I will be nearing 80 years old. Ten years once was a long, long time. That amount of time was more than enough to make plans for the future. But today, ten years is the blink of an eye. The future and now are synonymous. If I want to live in a house with a pool “one day,” or if I want to wander aimlessly around North America “some day,” or if I want to “eventually” take some sort of startling action, I need to recognize the merger between some point in the future and this very moment. Perhaps this swelling sense of urgency is responsible for my growing misgivings about commitments I have made that will demand more and more of my time, energy, and effort. I put off until some later time making decisions that would free me of those commitments, all the while realizing “later” is a fiction I create in my own mind.

I wish I could sever my connections with the past and the present and exist only in the future. But, then, I think that is exactly what I am doing…in slow motion. That motion is getting slower and slower—as if I were wading through a lake of rapidly-cooling black-strap molasses—at the same time I am being propelled at breakneck speed toward an enormous, solid, immoveable wall. This train of thought is intense and immeasurably complex, and probably utterly insane. It is confusion, multiplied a million times and then tripled.

+++

I did not drive to Little Rock yesterday. I plan to do that today. To pick up my shirt and go to Costco. Both errands run diametrically counter to thoughts of the future. They are self-imposed roadblocks to forward motion. I imagine the hands of a clock, as they move clockwise toward 12, encountering resistance. The left side of the clock’s face begins to wrinkle, each wrinkle overlapping the one in front of it, until the entire clock face is jammed up, approaching the top. The hands keep trying to move, but the crumpled face of the clock prevents forward motion. Finally, the clock’s hands and face and time itself freeze. Everything stops.

+++

Another medical appointment today, another checkup. Ach!

Be an island unto yourself. Take refuge in yourself and not in anything else.

~ Thích Nhất Hạnh ~

After reading that quote this morning, I suspect my mental wanderlust may be an unconscious expression of seeking the refuge to which Thích Nhất Hạnh referred. My mind wanders from place to place, rarely staying anywhere long enough to understand the place, nor the mind that visits.  And as I contemplate what I just wrote, I debate with myself whether the word “mental” is the right one, or whether “spiritual” would better describe the source of my longing. For various reasons, “spiritual” goes against the grain with me. In my mind, it suggests another dimension, one beyond human understanding that, frankly, I do not believe exists. And it tends to remove from me the responsibility for my own thoughts, placing that burden somewhere “beyond;” in a “being” or “entity” with magical, mystical, mysterious powers. Yet “mental” seems too sterile and shallow to describe the depth—and the source of—my longing.

Perhaps I should describe, for the record (which may later provide the foundations for my own recollections), what I mean by mental (or spiritual) wanderlust. But defining that phrase probably is an impossibility, given the constraints of language and the limitations of the scope of my understanding. Regardless, I will use a few words to briefly touch on the concept. The refuge I seek is—I think—the equivalent of understanding. I want reliable, valid, comprehensive answers to “why?” And the “why?” I ask applies to everything: me, the world around me, the people in my life, the sky, Earth, pain, joy, longing, displeasure, rage…everything. The question is not suitable to a superficial answer. It seeks to know, at the deepest level of human comprehension, the reason for existence. Not just my existence or the existence of the people I encounter in the world around me, but all of existence. I realize, of course, that there is no legitimate answer to the millions of questions embedded in those concepts. Yet even in the realization there are no answers, I want proof of their non-existence. And, yes, I am familiar with the folk logic that “you cannot prove a negative.” Yet that very assertion is a negative; many (perhaps most?) professional logicians would argue with that folk logic…wait, I am wandering down a path unrelated to my point. If, indeed, I was making a point. Actually, I have been—and am—only thinking silently with my fingers. Contemplating or mulling over or considering or whatever one does when one ponders a concept too simple to understand, due to its limitless complexity. But the point, if there is one, is this: I have been seeking the refuge for which I so fervently desire by looking outside myself. Thích Nhất Hạnh’s words insist I have been looking in the wrong places; I should be looking, instead, inside myself. But, in reality, that has been precisely where I have been looking, isn’t it? Even though I claim—or appear—to be looking outward, it is obvious that I am looking inward; because all I can do is to examine my perspectives on the world around me. I have the capacity only to look at a reflection of my experience, not the actual experience. I look at how the experience affects me. So, ultimately, the refuge I seek is the epitome of selfishness. Though that seems harsh and judgmental, it is a simple fact. Not just for me, but for everyone like me and unlike me. The only control any of us have is over ourselves. But looking outward allows us to sidestep the fear that accompanies the realization that we really are in control. We fear being in control of ourselves because…what if we fail? That potential failure, if it occurred, would be catastrophic to our psychological well-being. To avoid responsibility for that horrific potential, we look elsewhere to place…blame or responsibility or whatever you might call it. When we reach that understanding, we tend to seek comfort in others. We want to be held, hugged, assured we are wanted or needed or loved. Thích Nhất Hạnh suggests our comfort should come from within. Ach. Looking there and finding nothing but emptiness could be devastating, so we reach outward, instead. Following Thích Nhất Hạnh’s advice would require strength I seem to be missing. But I will continue to try.

+++

It is hard NOT to take everything and everyone around us for granted. They are there almost every day, after all, without fail. It seems that only when we are in danger of losing something or someone of vital importance to us that we suddenly realize their enormous value. Knowing that, it seems to me I should make it a regular practice to dedicate time, every day, to dedicate specific thought/gratitude for every aspect of our good fortune. I know…that sounds a lot like prayer. Maybe it is. But I think of the concept not as an expression of appreciation TO an invisible entity, but as an internal reminder that I should be mindful of/recognize the immeasurable importance to me of…everything and everyone. That is a big ask, I  know. And I know there is a danger of a daily ritual becoming so routine that its meaning is lost in its endless repetition. Recognizing and regularly acknowledging that danger, though, can help in avoiding it.

I came across the following “contemplations” that are recited, in some form or another, by various Buddhist communities. These five contemplations could easily be adapted to encompass every aspect of our daily lives. I would add a sixth contemplation, as I write below, in an effort to minimize the possibility of gratitude losing its importance.

The Five Contemplations, recited before each meal, as adopted by the Still Water Community:

• • This food is the gift of the whole universe – the earth, the sky, and much hard work.
  • May we eat in mindfulness so as to nourish our gratitude.  
  • May we transform our unskillful states of mind and learn to eat with moderation.
  • May we take only foods that nourish us and prevent illness.
  • We accept this food to realize the path of understanding, love, and joy.

I might add a sixth contemplation, something along the lines of: May we remember the importance of avoiding the invisible allure of allowing these contemplations to become so routine as to lose their meaning.

+++

The plan for today includes a trip to Little Rock to pick up a semi-custom shirt that was not quite right when I went to pick it up a few weeks ago…it was too big for my shrinking frame. (I was delighted to discover, when I weighed myself this morning, that I am down by a shade over 40 pounds from my peak less than a year ago. But I still have a long way to go before I reach my “ideal.”) Assuming the modifications to the shirt are right this time, I may order another one, in the hope they can duplicate the “fit” exactly with another fabric (or, perhaps, the same fabric with a different pattern/design). And what is a trip to Little Rock without a trip to Costco? I only hope we can exercise some restraint and buy only what we really need and/or will use before its “expiration date.” Sometimes, in the presence of attractive things, it seems my innate greed is unleashed—with a vengeance. That is a personality flaw—one of many—that warrants dedicated corrective attention. We shall see, shan’t we?

+++

I had a series of dreams last night and early this morning. In one, I was in the driver’s seat of a car, with several passengers, on a ferry and was attempting to find a path off the boat right before it was to depart its dock. In the confusion of near-darkness, I finally found a way off the vessel by going the wrong way on an entry ramp. But as I was leaving, I realized the car’s headlights would not stay on; I worried that, invisible to to other cars in the heavy traffic, I would get into an accident. The dream disappears from my mind at that point. Another one popped up. I was with someone else in a very loud, crowded restaurant at an airport. We were in a rush to leave because we were trying to change flights to get one earlier…or something like that. We left the restaurant and went to a kiosk just outside. As we attempted to change our flights (as the kiosk kept spitting out torn boarding passes), a waitress ran out of the restaurant, holding my American Express card, and said “we do not accept American Express.” I gave her another card and she disappeared. (Apparently, in my dream, it did not seem odd that I would have left my credit card.) We kept trying to get the tickets changed, to no avail. And the dream goes away.

+++

And it’s time for breakfast! I may have an egg, a baked tomato, and a little slice of ham. And I will be grateful for it and for my breakfast companion.

Once again, another new Spanish Netflix offering, The Innocent (el inocente), was on tap last night. And, once again, its cast included José Coronado, who we’ve seen in several Netflix offerings. His acting credits, which are extensive, include this small sample we have seen: El inocente, Vivir sin permiso, Entrevías, and La chica de nieve. Mi novia and I tend to call him Nemo (from Vivir…) or Tirso (from Entrevías), because those two are among our favorite of his character portrayals.

Watching foreign-language flicks causes regrets to well up inside me—regrets that I have not had either the discipline or sufficient desire to learn multiple languages when learning them would have been far easier. I admire parents who insist on teaching their children (or having their children taught) to speak more than one language. Europeans, in general, are far more advanced in that regard than are most Americans. We tend to be insular, arrogant, and lazy when it comes to such worldly matters. And, even when we recognize the value in fluency in multiple languages, the process of learning and maintaining language skills tends to be convoluted and complex in the USA. One day, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, I suspect our descendants will find fluency in at least two or three languages necessary for success and, possibly, survival. If I were a betting man, I would put my money on Spanish, Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, and Arabic. In fact, I’ll wager $1,000,000 that virtually the entire population of what is now the USA will speak at least two of those languages (in addition to English) by the year 2099. I’ll come back to collect.

+++

This morning, I will read aloud at my church a poem I consider poorly-written, badly-conceived, and decidedly boring. I wrote the poem, spending no more than twenty minutes, in response to a request that I participate in a poetry reading for today’s “insight” service. I should have taken the request more seriously; yet even if I had, I  doubt I could have done much better. I have to be in the right mood to write poetry that I consider even modestly tolerable. For some reason, I have not been in that mood for quite some time. And, truth be told, I have never written poetry that I consider “good.” It might be marginally better than the poetic output of someone who has never written poetry before, but comparing a badly bruised apple to a rotten one does not make either of them appetizing.  After listening to the poems read by other participants yesterday, my unfavorable assessment of my own contribution was affirmed.

+++

Some people take great comfort in the belief that, after death, people “go on” to another dimension or experience or whatever. Though I think I understand the desire to believe such stuff, I do not share it. My admittedly unproveable belief is that, once life ends, that’s it. No soul, no transformation…nada. Our bodies decay and eventually merge with their surroundings, I think, but I have no reason to believe they (or their accompanying “soul” or what have you) make a “transition” to another reality or dimension or experience. Our time on Earth is the only time we have, at least the only time we have with consciousness or awareness. Like every other form of life, when ours ends, it ends. Permanently. No afterlife, no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, no “next step,” nothing. And that does not bother me in the least. In my mind, that is simply part of the natural order. I do not look forward to death (there’s nothing to “look forward to” as far as I know), but I do not fear it, either. Getting there may be unpleasant, of course, but once it’s done…emptiness… nothingness…just gone.  I am not sure why that’s on my mind this morning. It just is. Sort of like life. It just is. That is not to say that life is not spectacular. Every form of life is nothing short of magical. But that amazing, wonderful, stunning reality is a prelude to lifelessness. Our remains may well be dispersed into the universe over time and “pieces” of us become components of plants or animals or other life forms unknown, but I resolutely doubt any part of our consciousness remains during that process. Hmm.

+++

Last night, after dinner, I drank a gin and tonic—the first alcoholic drink I consumed since early July last year. Oh, I’ve had an occasional little taste of wine and a sip of mi novia‘s G&T, but nothing more. But since my recent visit with my primary care doctor, when he said an occasional drink would likely not do me any harm, I decided I would enjoy a very rare glass of wine or beer or mixed drink. Saturday evenings seem to be ideally suited to the one drink each week I will permit myself to consume. Last night’s G&T tasted wonderful. I could have gulped it down quickly—it tasted so good—but I sipped it slowly, making it last an hour or more. I have learned I can be disciplined in some aspects of my life. In others, though, I can barely contain myself; I would allow myself to pursue certain passions with wild abandon if not restrained in some way or another. Self-control is an interesting concept to study…from a distance.

+++

I tolerated the excruciating experience last night of watching a few minutes (eight, I think) of the basketball game between the Sacramento Kings and the Golden State Warriors. Thanks to the absurdity of “time-outs,” those eight minutes lasted something like twenty minutes. Mi novia was interested in watching the end of the game after we watched el inocente. I think I could “enjoy” watching basketball games if they lasted only as long as they are claimed to last. But they last much, much longer, thanks to the game clock stopping for minutes at a time while free-throws are made or fouls are assessed, etc. I was surprised and annoyed when, with 2.9 seconds left in the game, a free-throw was made while the clock remained stuck on that 2.9 seconds. Apparently, that part of the game is not really part of the game; or, at least, it does not count toward the time allotted for play. The idiotic complexity of professional sports tends to make me angry. And THAT is a silly thing to be angry about. But there you are.

+++

It is time for me to shave, shower, and dress. So, off I go to prepare to engage with the day.

Emotions, both positive and negative, probably take a toll on both the body and the mind. The mental peaks and valleys emotions carve into one’s life experiences leave behind a kind of rubble that cannot be left behind or discarded. That rubble stays with a person, as if it were an enormous bag of rocks; “baggage” that seems to grow heavier over time. All the while, the strength of the body and the mind dwindle, a natural response to the cycle of life. We may not recognize that our growing weariness is the result of years of emotional turmoil; but the evidence is there, just waiting for a clear-eyed assessment.

Sometimes I wonder whether the highs and lows of joy and sorrow are worth the subsequent experience of weariness and physical decay and mental deterioration. What if, I wonder, we could abandon emotion entirely? Would the result be greater physical strength and stamina? Would we experience greater and longer-lasting mental acuity? The arguments against erasing emotions, of course, would point to the dullness of existence in the absence of the highs and lows of emotion. But those arguments, themselves, are emotional reactions to circumstances few people have ever experienced.

I suppose the idea of erasing emotions is the natural outcome of emotional pain; the wish for it to end. Reality, though, tells us that emotions cannot be abandoned. They can only be appreciated or endured. They can end for us only at the end of our lives because emotions and inextricably intertwined with life. Life itself is wearying.

+++

Optimism. Realism. Pessimism. Three points on the worldview spectrum, perhaps. Or, they may be three conditions that arise in response to specific sets of circumstances. Dictionaries attempt to “quantify,” with words, ideas that may be properly understood only through experience. “Hot,” “cold,” and “happy” can be defined/quantified by relying on other, more descriptive, words—but only by experiencing the conditions they are intended to describe does a person truly understand their meaning.

+++

When I was younger, I had far more confidence than my abilities warranted. That confidence was never more evident than during job interviews or “pitches” I made to secure clients. Whether I had experience in an area of inquiry or not, I claimed capability; my rationale was based on my confidence that I could learn/do anything to which I dedicated myself. And that was, by and large, true. I knew my limits, of course. If I had been asked whether I could perform a heart transplant, I would have admitted that I could not—at least not immediately, until I had the opportunity to learn and practice. I was far more confident in my capabilities in those days. Maybe my confidence was an expression of arrogance; whatever it was, when I said I could do something, I felt certain I could do it, whether or not I had any experience whatsoever. That confidence/arrogance was largely responsible for my success in getting jobs and securing clients. Once I got the job, or when the client signed the contract, I dedicated myself to learning what I needed to learn or doing what I needed to do to perform as promised. My now-rusty knowledge of how to prepare and how to interpret not-for-profit financial statements came from one such incidence. During the interview process for a job, I claimed I had the necessary abilities to manage sophisticated finances and create/interpret relatively complex financial statements. Immediately after I was hired, I spent my evenings teaching myself the nuts and bolts of not-for-profit financial management. My success in learning and then doing it served me well later, when I had to use that knowledge on a daily basis to manage client finances.

Today, my confidence in myself is not as great. But the level of confidence I have in myself is contagious; it was when I was highly self-confident and it is now. Now, though, even when I feel confident in my ability to do or learn something, those around me do not always share my confidence. I suspect that is because I unintentionally send signals that suggest I am not certain of my abilities. Or, perhaps, it is because others may see something I do not. When these thoughts arise about my abilities, my confidence, and the possible discrepancies between them, I think about the point at which elderly people must relinquish their car keys. They may be absolutely confident in their ability to safely drive their cars; those around them, though, may recognize the diminution of the elderly person’s reaction time, depth perception, etc. At what point, if ever, do we “know” we are no longer the person we once were?

+++

In roughly two and one half hours, I will step inside my church for a “run-through” of tomorrow’s insight service, which will involve several people (including me) reading poetry. When I compare the poem I wrote for tomorrow’s program to the poems I have written in the past, I wonder whether certain of my “talents” have begun, in earnest, to decay. Like the aging driver, I may be at the point of needed to relinquish my poetic license. It does not matter. I will read the new poem, regardless, and I will try to enjoy the experience. In the meantime, I will make another cup of coffee and read something uplifting, if I can find something that fits the bill.

Today and tomorrow should be delightful, in terms of temperature—in the mid to upper seventies. But Sunday the high barely will reach into the sixties. I suppose deviations in either direction in temperature and other weather-related matters help us appreciate the complexity—the simplicity, too— and the beauty of climate.

+++

The scales of reckoning with mortality are never evenly weighted, alas, and thus it is on the shoulders of the living that the burden of justice must continue to rest.

~Wole Soyinka ~

+++

I can barely keep my eyes open. Occasionally, when I pause between sentences or between paragraphs, I fall asleep. Only when my 20 second nap ends do I realize that my fingers have been resting on the keyboard, filling my computer screen with line after line after line of repeated letters or figures…like this:

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

But the 20 second nap obviously was not enough. I sleep again, first taking care to remove my fingers from the keyboard. Yet somehow they find their way back, where they fall asleep on letters suitable for exponential replication. Is that a “thing?” Does exponential replication actually mean something, or did I just make it up?

+++

Until recently, I rarely gave much thought to prescription medications’ effects on my body. I just took the pills, etc. as directed by doctors and their professional colleagues. For a variety of reasons, though, I lately have been trying to determine the extent to which pharmaceutical interventions impact my body.  Though my observations are quite rudimentary—and are not adequately “controlled” to permit absolute confidence in determinations of causation—they offer clues about what happens to my body when I start taking prescriptions and what happens when I stop. Medications are not alone in causing changes in the way one’s body performs various of its functions. Foods, too, impact the body’s functions; I have monitored foods’ effects on me, too, along with pills and such.

My tendency toward elevated blood pressure has been under control for quite some time with two prescription drugs. But weight loss and changes in diet apparently resulted in the amplification of the effects of those drugs; instead of high blood pressure, I had very low blood pressure. Eliminating those prescriptions eliminated the problem of low blood pressure; but in the absence of the prescriptions’ control mechanisms, my blood pressure has risen (as of this morning) beyond the “ideal” range. So, in accordance with doctors’ instructions, I will take one of the blood pressure medications, though at a much-reduced dosage.

Various other recent experiences have illustrated the effects of starting or stopping other prescription medications. But the outcome of starting or stopping prescriptions does not illustrate the how; only the what. As I contemplate my consumption of pharmaceuticals, I wonder just how the drugs result in lower blood pressure and how, following their absence, blood pressure begins to spike. And I wonder whether the apparent “cure” afforded by some prescriptions might come at an unknown cost? For example, might a drug that slows the heart rate have the side-effect of minimizing the amount of blood-borne oxygen that keeps the lungs healthy? Though I am curious about such matters, I am not sufficiently intrigued to return, happily, to crowded civilization, where the answers may await.

+++

Another blood-letting this morning; a follow-up to enable my doctor’s APN to see the changes, or lack thereof, in my blood chemistry. I have no interest in the blood-letting, but it is an obligation, more or less. Ostensibly, the tests serve my own self-interest. So, I shall continue to follow the doctors’ and nurses’ orders. Until such time as I decide to ignore them.

+++

With some good fortune, today I will find a scanning device to make PDFs of about 20 pages worth of “stuff” the lawyers require  who will (I hope) address a change in title for some Texas properties.

+++

My thoughts, again, are scattered. I cannot focus, at least not for long, on anything, especially matters that matter. To hell with this. I need more sleep. There’s no doubt. The doubt comes in, though, when the question is “will I get more sleep?” The answer is impossible to know until after the fact.

Melancholy. That word fits my mood like a glove. When nearly all of one’s memories seem bitter-sweet, melancholy assuredly is either the cause or the result. I suppose logic would tell me melancholy emerges from bitter-sweet memories. Yet that same logic would say bitter-sweet memories are cultivated and drawn out by melancholy moods. Regardless of whether causation is involved or it is mere association, a distinct relationship exists between bittersweet memories and melancholy moods.

+++

Writing, in a style intended to be comedic, about melancholy apparently does not lessen the greyness of the mood. Nor does peering intently at a clear blue sky through the leaves and branches of a forest of trees. That eternal faith healer, Time, may be the only reliable treatment for melancholy—though “reliable” may not be quite right. Actually, Time is reliable only to the extent that “eventually” Time heals all wounds. Therefore, melancholy may last a lifetime but, eventually, it will be bested by Time. In the event that is the case, it might be advisable to get comfortable with melancholy. Today, my late wife and I would have celebrated our 43rd anniversary.

+++

I woke extremely late again this morning, a deviation from my routine I will not long tolerate. When I get up late, I feel anxious and out of sorts, as if a crucial element of the day is missing. And, of course, it is. The early, pre-dawn opportunity to ease, slowly, into conscious darkness and to coax full readiness for the day from my brain escapes me when I sleep late. I am thrown into the day like a Christian cast into an arena with a hungry lion. At that point, attempting to cope with the abrupt start to the day is the only option. I try not to consider how many Christians triumphed over the lions.

+++

In just a short while, I have to drive to town to visit with my cardiologist’s APN. It’s just a check-up, but it’s a check-up that interrupts my serenity (such as it is). I have other obligations throughout the day today and continuing on tomorrow. I am in one of those rare states of mind in which I think I would truly enjoy a month-long vacation to the Bahamas, where I would stay at a secluded resort and spend every hour of every day sitting on the beach, just soaking in the sun. At the end of each day, I would rinse out all of my clothes—a single swim-suits—and hang it to dry overnight. The next morning, I would go to the beach, get comfortable, and daydream all day until the time comes to repeat the process.

+++

I can wait no longer. It is time to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and head in to town. My enthusiasm for the day is, I hope, at a low ebb. Perhaps some time in rural traffic will boost my mood.

Using standard, generally agreed measures, Time is consistent. It passes at the same rate from moment to moment and from millennia to millennia. So, if it is not Time that changes, what causes our (my, at least) experience of Time to vary so dramatically? Why does summer seem to speed along, while winter crawls like molasses? Why do the few hours before daybreak race by, yet the hours after sunrise can seem so plodding?

Though the number of possible reasons is enormous, from my perspective, only a few explanations seem likely. First, I think positive experiences must cause biochemical reactions in our bodies; akin to flooding our brains with dopamine, perhaps. Our bodies’ responses to those biochemical floods are brief; joy is a fleeting emotion. But negative experiences trigger biochemical floods of a different sort—and those are like waves of physical or mental pain, or both, that unfold in slow motion. Depressive misery lingers. These explanations are pure supposition. I have no evidential basis for the theory. But there is no question that SOMETHING alters a person’s experience of Time. Is that “something” external to us or is it internal? Perhaps it is both, but I attribute the bulk of the variation to our individual psyches. But, wait. Is it possible that I, alone, experience these vastly different situations with respect to Time? Are my sensations indicative of a certain kind of mental deviation from the norm? I doubt it. But anything is possible. Anything. Even that which seems impossible can be accomplished. With enough energy  and effort—or treachery—magic can replace reality.

+++

One person’s joy can be another’s tragedy or trauma. That fact, alone, expresses the incomprehensible complexity of human experience. For example, consider two un-married (to each other) people involved in an extramarital affair with one another, who find joy in the relationship. But their respective spouses, when the affair is revealed, might feel as though tragedy had befallen them. The experience that triggers the competing emotions is the same; but the ways in which the people affected by the experience differ enormously. Taking examples to a different level, consider the person who commands a drone to fire a missile at an enemy target; she may react joyously as the missile successfully finds its target. But the survivors of the missile strike, bloodied and broken and surrounded by dead victims, see the experience through different eyes.  These are extreme exceptions to routine experience, of course, but the exceptions best illustrate how deviations from “normal” can be experienced in such different ways.

+++

I wonder…at what point does the friendship between two people become so close that either or both friends would share almost all their secrets? Is that closeness reserved for long-time life-mates…spouses or domestic partners/romantic pairs? Or does that level of trust grow between platonic friends, as well? Or is that level of closeness and trust an illusion? Trust, I think, is the key to the answer; if, indeed, there is a single answer. Perhaps the answer is far more complex than the question, which in itself is far more complex than it might appear. Thinking about such things may be a pointless exercise, but…pointlessness has its utility.

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People have different kinds of curiosity. Perhaps not different kinds of curiosity…different objects of curiosity. And the degree to which one is curios differs from person to person. Scientific researchers who explore life in the deepest part of the world’s oceans, for example, probably are far more curious about deep-sea life than I, but I believe I am extremely curious about ocean life. Yet my “extreme” curiosity pales in comparison to people whose ever working/waking hour is dedicated to satisfying their curiosity. Those researchers, though, may be curious about human emotions, but my curiosity about emotions might be orders of magnitude stronger. Curious, eh?

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I spent a while this morning scanning articles in The Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, and a few other online newspapers. Though reading non-USA publications does not necessarily make me more aware of important international matters than if I limited my reading to domestic news sources, I do learn stuff I might otherwise not know. For example, I was delighted to learn that the world’s first second-hand-store-in-an-airport has opened at the Helsinki-Vantaa airport. Yet my attempts to learn such stuff sometimes get derailed. For example, when I tried to learn more about the Mississauga city council’s plan to reconsider a ban on cannabis retail stores, I was stopped short; if I wanted to know more, I would have had to pay for the privilege. And it would have been a privilege; but I am unwilling to pay for that particular privilege.

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Yesterday afternoon was lovely. I would like to replicate it regularly. Perhaps this morning is not too soon.

Tupperware is in danger of going out of business. The company is one of many that once seemed to me to have been permanent fixtures in the commercial landscape. But that permanence was illusory. Dozens of retail establishments I once assumed would be around forever have either died or are dying. K-Mart, Fry’s Electronics, Lord & Taylor, ToysRUs, Filene’s Basement, Borders Books, Waldenbooks, Sears, Woolworth, etc., etc., etc. Like the rest of the world around me, the retail world is in a constant state of flux. The demise of the businesses often is attributed to management’s failure to be flexible; refusal to reinvent the business in response to a changing retail environment. While that may well contribute to the death of businesses, I doubt blame can be placed entirely on managerial failures. Some businesses simply may not be suited to the rapid adaptations required to remain going concerns in a business environment that changes with increasing speed and scope. The same may be true of some people. They simply may be unable to change their world views quickly enough to remain attuned to the society around them. And so they become inconsequential; their outmoded thinking sentences them to irrelevance. “Some people,” indeed. More likely, all of us. Whether physically or mentally or both, we cannot keep up with what is required to stay vibrant and necessary. In the natural order, we eventually die. That may well be true of businesses, as well. Businesses that “have always been here” fade into oblivion. No matter how many times they may reinvent themselves, there will come a time when the energy required to adapt simply is insufficient.

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Obligations are anchors; they tie us to one place or one experience, unable to move. And, like anchors, obligations can pull us down, drowning us in a sea of responsibilities. That is not to say that all obligations are dangerous or deadly; but without at least occasional respite, they can tighten around us like boa constrictors, making every breath an almost overwhelming challenge. Freedom is the antidote to unchecked obligations. Freedom can be dangerous, of course, but with proper precautions and adequate understanding of its limits, freedom can loosen the chains of obligation.

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I saw my doctor yesterday. He was pleasantly surprised at the dramatic change in my A1C measurement: 6.1% compared to 9.3% three months ago. And he said an occasional alcoholic drink would be perfectly safe and acceptable; very little danger of causing pancreatic problems. But he warned me that the caloric intake of more frequent imbibing could counteract the weight loss I have experienced over the past several months. I knew that, of course, so I will continue to refrain from all but the very occasional consumption of alcohol. But, if I were diagnosed with an incurable, fatal condition of some sort, I probably would swill liquor with abandon, whenever the mood struck me. I am disciplined to some extent; but, when conditions are right, I am equally capable of undisciplined debauchery.

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Yesterday’s lunch at Pho Hoang My, otherwise know as the Pho House, was wonderful. But the consumption of a rather significant amount of vermicelli in my grilled pork and shrimp bun bowl had the effect of boosting this morning’s blood glucose measure, though not unhealthily so. We had errands to run in town yesterday, which coincided nicely with lunchtime.

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Phaedra is in my lap again. Having interrupted my blogging several times this morning, I think she is now insisting I stop typing. I shall heed her command. For now.