John Swinburn

Depression has stalked me intermittently over the years, although I usually tend to deny I am depressed. I remember a time, about fourteen years ago, when a friend suggested to me that I was in the midst of what she called a “dark night of the soul.” Though her religious beliefs molded her belief about my state of mind, I think the concept she attempted to explain to me mirrored what was really going on in my mind—a dull tangle of depression whose causes were impossible for me to understand. At the time, I felt dissatisfied and valueless; wishing I could pin down what was on my mind that was making me feel morose and disconnected and sensing acutely that nothing mattered. That sense of hollowness never completely disappeared, though it has ebbed and flowed over the years. I have never been completely able to pin down what triggers the wash of grey that sometimes overtakes me, nor what causes it to fade away. At the moment, I suspect the cycles of illness—cancer, pneumonia, COPD, pneumonia, cancer, etc., etc.—are the obvious contributors. But it is not simply sickness. It’s the absence of control over sickness or, perhaps, the apparent absence of control. Even though cancer and pneumonia seem to be in retreat, there is no assurance they will continue to respond to treatment. Apprehension gnaws at me, even though there is absolutely no point in worrying about something over which I have no control. Invariably, the depression (or whatever it is) subsides. Knowing that, I should just let it slide away according to its own random schedule. That is harder than it should be, though, because my treatments seem to be commanding even more of my time lately than they did in the beginning. Sleep. That’s the key. I need dreamless, uninterrupted sleep. Not today, though. A hospital follow-up visit with my doctor, another infusion at the oncologist’s office, and more of the same for the remainder of the week. Such is life, for now.

I had hoped and expected the chemotherapy regimen would have concluded by now, but my blood continues to be quite low on magnesium. So, at least four of five “work-days” this week will include a visit to the oncologist’s office, where I will be infused with the stuff. At the same time, the nurses will draw blood to determine the extent to which I remain low on the important mineral. Ach… Whatever it takes, of course. Whatever is necessary. Now that the majority of chemo treatment is ending, I will have roughly two years of immunosuppressant therapy; an infusion every three weeks intended to coach my body to attack and destroy rogue cancer cells. A seemingly endless series of treatments designed to extend my life for quite some time to come. If that series of treatments coincide with ongoing improvements in my sense of health and well-being, I will be well-satisfied.

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Sleep eluded me again for much of last night. I am tempted to return to bed to nap for a while, but I suspect I would continue to have difficulties falling and staying asleep. Bah. Even with relatively good news from the oncologist last week, my mood keeps slipping in and out of the place I want it to stay. The absence of pain is not the same as a sense of well-being. What that means is beyond me; it must mean something. This very brief post is a waste of the strength in my fingers. Again.

Disarray describes my desk. It’s not laziness that keeps me from organizing the piles of paper and assorted odds and ends littering my office. Lethargy, a non-blood cousin, is responsible. In my opinion, lethargy does not suggest apathy or indifference. Unlike laziness, lethargy does not carry with it a deserved, negative judgment. Lethargy is an affliction, whereas laziness is an embarrassing state of mind. I have been lazy, of course. But not now. Not today. Today, I am lethargic. I want energy, but energy eludes me. I think the chemotherapy drugs in my system are responsible for robbing me of the stamina and strength I crave. I do not wish for them to stop doing what they are doing, though, because simultaneously they are attacking and killing cancer cells. They are free to do the oncologist’s bidding in peace. I willingly accept their unpleasant side effects. But I would be even more grateful if they would fulfill their roles at the same time they cause my desk and my office to be well-organized and attractive. The universe is complex and mysterious. So is my office. So are we all.

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I have very little interest in anything. Nothing captures my imagination at the moment. If I could fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, I would gladly do it for as long as my body would permit. Emptiness. Blankness. Feeling nothing. Requiring no energy, no strength, no power. Just existence, without any obligations. Not even breathing. Not even a heartbeat. Well, I think I would want those to continue; but absent any responsibilities. I cannot convince myself that there is a way to accomplish this empty, dreamless state. If I could make an effort, though, without trying, I think I would. There’s no point in continuing to write about an emotional odyssey that refuses to cooperate with my own mindlessness. So, instead, I’ll pause for as long as it takes for me to re-emerge into reality. Until then, I will rest my fingers and my mind.

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A drink of cool water—before making espresso, before swallowing a handful of pills, before feeding the cat, before thinking about and then deciding to ignore a few dishes left in the sink overnight—welcomes me to pre-dawn darkness. We are fortunate to have ready access to that cool, clean, clear gift, yet we seldom take time to sit in contemplation of something so crucial to our comfort and our survival. When clean water is scarce, we want it all the more. And when we are sick, we clamor for health. If we are sinking in abject poverty, we seek wealth; or, at least, adequate prosperity. Sufficiency. Enough. That is all we really need. And that, I think, is the most we should try to obtain. The benefit of enough. Sufficient to meet one’s needs. We permit needs and wants, though, to be confused in our minds; we think of them as one and the same. How much is enough? Enough water may be far less than the amount we want. Does thirst for water signify the insufficiency of water, or is thirst merely an expression of want? Where, along the continuum of need and want, do the two intersect? Physics probably can be used to quantify that point, but the emotion of want may not be as easily measured through physics as is (or may be) need. I allow myself to think in circles; better than thinking in cubes, I suppose. Which calls into question the matter of ice—and where it belongs in this stream of consciousness meditation.

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When I went in to the oncologist’s office for my two injections yesterday afternoon (one to deal with a low volume of red blood cells and one to address a high volume of white blood cells), I learned I was again low on magnesium. So, I was infused with a bag of magnesium. The APRN told me the doctor was concerned that she may need to put me back in the hospital over the weekend to ensure adequate magnesium in my blood. But the nurse convinced the doctor to let me take pills until Monday. So, I was advised to pick up a new prescription for more magnesium pills and to return to get another infusion of magnesium on Monday. When I went to the pharmacy to pick up the pills, though, they were out. They will not receive a shipment until Monday, the pharmacy clerk told me. I am rationing the few magnesium pills I have left, hoping there are enough to keep me healthy until Monday. Damn pharmacy! The same pharmacy that repeatedly has failed me in the recent past. Apparently, one of the chemo drugs I have been on has the potential for consuming magnesium with a vengeance. I may try to find another source for magnesium today; there must be somebody out there who can be my supplier for the short term. Ach! Reading about the dangers of extremely low magnesium levels now has me a bit worried. I may try to reach my doctor’s on-call people to determine whether I need to do something more aggressive to boost my levels. The idea of a return visit to the hospital is not at all appealing; but someone else should make that call, not me.

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It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.

~ Jiddu Krishnamurti ~

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A dull grey-blue sky behind a curtain of trees appears to be staring at me. What, I wonder, did I do to deserve getting the stink-eye from the celestial beyond?

My oncologist’s smile yesterday was a delight—she appeared genuinely happy to report to me the results of my Wednesday PET-scan. Although the cancer remains in evidence, the scan revealed that its presence was greatly diminished. Her follow-up written report, posted on the patient portal—tremendous response to therapy—gave me a smile. The treatment for my cancer is not expected to be a permanent cure, but it is being delivered as a means of extending my life for an as-yet-unknown period; a long period, I hope. Several years, if the universe cooperates with me the way I think it conceivably could. We shall see.

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With good fortune like I experienced yesterday, perhaps I should buy a Mega Millions jackpot ticket today, which could yield a lump sum of $413.5 million—$977 million if I were to choose the full payout. I cannot remember the last time I won either a full payout or a lump sum jackpot lottery; I would be happy with either, which would position me to be quite the philanthropist (and obscenely cash-rich, as well). Mi novia and I (and my friends and family and plenty of others) would be able to make a lot of lives far easier. Ah, yes; but in order for this to happen, I will need to buy a ticket—that has always been the obstacle, hasn’t it? I simply must overcome that obstacle today. Otherwise, the winnings will be no more than dreams.

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The factors that are squelching my efforts to write more extensive blog posts are beyond my understanding. I should know better why I am failing to write more—and more interesting—posts, but I do not. Instead, I simply wonder why I am at a loss to know what is keeping me from tapping into greater creativity. Does it have something to do with questions about my health? Might it revolve around anxieties that continue to perplex me? Or is it something completely unrelated? I just do not know. What I know is I am stumbling and bumbling as I try to spark at least a tiny sense of ingenuity, only to witness  embers dim into smudges, turning into whisps of cold smoke in the air. Something must change. And I am relatively sure it will. Eventually. In the interim, I will continue to wish for ashes to catch a breeze that will cause them to spark and burst into a few transformative flames. For now, I will sit at my desk, staring at the dull grey sky outside my windows—not even a whisper of wind to rustle leaves or branches on the trees outside. I see only a two-dimensional still life out there, awaiting a brush with wind to bring the emptiness to life.  Odd, isn’t it, that the thrill I felt with the oncologist’s happiness seems to have withered. Perhaps the recent tornado that ruined so many hundreds of pines and flattened so many acres that once were alive with possibilities just ripped the joy out of the air. Ach! I want to leave this desolation for something else; something alive and promising. How long will it take for the landscape to recover from this miserable desolation?

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More injections today at the oncologist’s office. And more hands full of pills to ward off the pneumonia that has kept me sick lately. When will I feel “well” again? Really well? I feel much better than I have in recent days, but still not as good as I want to feel. Off to have something tasty for breakfast. Maybe that will do the trick.

Last night, we spent a few hours with a friend. The three of us enjoyed the wonderful dinner she made and delivered; a spectacular casserole, homemade bread, an exquisite dish of pears and cheese, and wine. The meal and conversation were the perfect ways to cap the long day that had, finally, included my PET scan. The stresses I did not even realize I was feeling seemed to melt away as we talked; I felt like I was the fortunate recipient of a mental massage. This morning, if the PET scan has been read and interpreted by the medical team that supports my oncologist, I may learn whether the chemotherapy is working as hoped and planned. Whether I get that news or not, I will have blood drawn and get an hours-long chemo treatment. After getting released from the hospital on Tuesday, I felt much, much better than I did going in. I still feel pretty good; it’s nice to be able to breathe without laboring hard to get a bit of oxygen.

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I look forward to a visit, in about a week, by my niece and her mom. Like last night’s dinner with a friend, a few days with family can have an extraordinary effect on one’s sense of mental well-being. There is something about the casual comfort of being in the company of one’s relatives that disables stress. Despite the reputation that family visits seem to have in the media, getting together with members of the familial clan tends to carve away the anxieties of day-to-day life. Just a few thoughts…

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Once again, I made the mistake this morning of scanning online news. It’s not a mistake; it’s a pathology that warrants treatment. What is it, I wonder, that draws otherwise reasonably intelligent people into behaviors that trigger explosive emotional turmoil? Perhaps there is a link with addiction or a connection to the brief “high” of an adrenaline rush. Even a negative adrenaline rush—the kind that follows on the heels of an automobile accident or an attack by an armed assailant—might deliver an experience equivalent to taking an illegal drug. This is pure supposition, of course; I have nothing upon which to base my suggestions, other than untested ideas.

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Okay. Enough. I have tried to think of something interesting to explore with my fingers here on the page, but nothing has presented itself. I’ll try again sometime.

The tornado that skipped and ripped through Hot Springs Village on the evening of March 14 was classified as an EF-2—relatively weak but strong enough to snap power poles, blow down big pine trees, break massive limbs from huge oaks, and tear roofs from some homes. Our only “damage,” as far as we can tell, amounted to loss of a large bush adjacent to the house, two massive pine trees blown down (lifting their root balls from the ground), a few pieces of outdoor materials blown away, and the loss of the contents of our refrigerators/freezers. Power was out for roughly 52 hours, beginning when the tornado struck just after 8 on Thursday (March 14) evening. We fumbled in the dark that evening, but decided to go to a motel the next night to enjoy the comforts of air conditioning/ heating and electricity-powered light. But from the time we checked in on Friday evening, I not feel well and I could not sleep that night. We had planned to go home Saturday morning, but I found breathing progressively more difficult. Mi novia badgered me to go to the ER and I finally relented. They admitted me Friday afternoon, determining I should be treated for pneumonia. My breathing (at rest, at least) has much improved over the course of my hospitalization, through Tuesday, when I was released. Still, though, I get extremely short of breath with just a bit of exertion—like walking from one end of the house to the other.

My re-scheduled PET scan will take place this afternoon to determine whether my body is responding as hoped to cancer treatment. My final, originally-scheduled, chemo treatment will take place tomorrow, Thursday. Depending on the results of the PET scan, there could be more. Assuming all is as planned and hoped for, I will continue with immunotherapy treatments every three weeks for the next two years.

And that sums up what I would have written during the last few days, had I felt good enough for one-finger blogging. I didn’t, though, so I didn’t. I now have oxygen at home and I have a portable unit. I’ll see whether I get used to that. I hope my need for oxygen disappears very soon. I cannot imagine needing supplemental oxygen from now on; my lifestyle would change dramatically and I would have to decide whether that change was acceptable. If I could not thrive, would I find it tolerable to simply survive? I suppose that’s another continuum that, at some point, would trigger a profound decision.

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Speaking of tornadoes (and I was), the landscape of my neighborhood has changed dramatically, courtesy of the tornado. Hundreds of trees were blown down, leaving a massive amount of damage that will require a very long time to clean up. Once the trees have been cut up and removed, large swaths of land will have been transformed from forest to field. We were very fortunate to have been spared the worst of the devastation; but less than a block or two away (in my rough estimation of distance), the tornado left evidence that will be visible and obvious for generations.

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The oxygen concentrator that was delivered to my house yesterday afternoon is horrifically loud. I can barely hear myself think while the thing is running. I’d almost rather do without breathing than listen to this nearly-unbearable noise. But, for the time being, I will try to get accustomed to the sound. I received no direction as to how long or how often I should use the machine. I did not use it at all yesterday and I’ve used it only for half an hour or less so far this morning. The noise is too loud for me to continue using the device for much longer without a break—an opportunity to let my ears rest and soak in some serenity. Serenity  is contextual…just like everything else. I may have mentioned that a thousand times before.

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I must stop for now, lest my eardrums spark a revolution in my brain that leads to a massive and violent attack on that machine that’s disturbing the peace.

A few days ago, when I received my regular premium notice for my car insurance, I was surprised to see a significant increase. Though the figure was small in absolute dollars, it was enough of a bump to catch my attention and cause me to plan to call my agent to inquire about the reason for the increase. An online article I read this morning gave me the reason: auto insurance rates across the board have increased significantly of late. While the increases are not universal (the adjustments are, apparently, made on a state-by-state basis), they are very widespread. Insurers have increased rates to parallel higher costs associated with more expensive repairs, a higher number of accidents, and various other factors that cause their costs to go up. Inflation finds a way to burrow its way into almost every facet of our financial lives. Individually, we have little control. But if we were to collectively exercise better judgment and safer driving habits, we might contribute to minimizing increases in our insurance rates. That is true of so many collective behaviors, though, isn’t it? We do have a degree of control over circumstances that impact our lives; we simply fail to change our collective behaviors to exert that control.

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With one eye open, I looked at the clock: 2:45 a.m.—I was wide awake, which was no surprise, considering how much I slept yesterday afternoon and evening. I thought about trying to get back to sleep, but by 3:00 a.m. I gave up on the idea. So, here I am, just before 4:00 a.m., spilling my thoughts onto the screen. Though I understand that, among the effects of chemotherapy, fatigue is one of the most significant ones (for the kind of therapy I am receiving), I remain surprised at the rapid oscillation between being energetic and feeling utterly drained. Maybe I am not really surprised; I am just unprepared for suddenly feeling like I need to sleep for several days…weeks…months. And then, just as suddenly, I wake and am ready to conquer the world. Ready, I said. Unfortunately, not able. Perhaps another espresso will empower me to change the my world.

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I took a break from writing this post to compose a short email message to an acquaintance from my past life as an association executive. Email is my preferred form of communication for several reasons: 1) it’s easy to be spontaneous; 2) it requires no stamps; 3) it does not require me to know the recipient’s cell phone number (so, no text messages); 4) I can send email from my phone or my desktop computer; 5) etc. Text messaging has become far more popular than email, I think—and I frequently use text messaging—but texts tend to be limited in length in order to be readable. I am not known for the brevity of my written communication, so email is better for me. Yet, if I were a better, more thoughtful, less slothful, human being, I would write letters. The kind that require stamps and envelopes and more focused attention. On rare occasions in the not-so-distant past, I have written and mailed letters, but have been unable to discipline myself to make the practice a habit. I admire people who do. When I say “write letters,” by the way, I mean type and print letters on 8½ x 11 paper, My handwriting is the physical equivalent to sheer monstrosity and is not something to which I would want to expose to people for whom I care even a little. I have written something like that before; I tend to repeat myself from time-to-time, as well.

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My second little demitasse cup of freshly-brewed expresso sits on my desk at my right hand, ready and willing to imbue me with additional energy.  Unlike many people, caffeine does not seem to interfere with my sleep, so I can (though very rarely do) drink coffee and its family of refreshments at night. I will admit, though, that enough espresso can get me really and truly wired. My first experience with that reality occurred during a staff meeting, held at an Italian restaurant, of an association where I worked for a short time (a year or so). During the course of the post-luncheon meeting, I think I ordered about five espressos; by the time I had consumed the fifth one, the speed of my speech had increased about three-fold and my bodily movements mirrored my speech. My behavior at the table become a subject that elicited laughter for months afterward.

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Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.

~ Anais Nin ~

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Related to my comments about espresso/caffeine, I sometimes question the genesis of our habit (in this culture, at any rate) of drinking caffeine drinks early in the day and limiting alcoholic drinks to later in the day and into the early evening. I think it might be interesting to intentionally flip that on its head. The idea of wine with breakfast, though, does not appeal to me, so other changes would have to be made. Breakfast in the afternoon hours, perhaps, accompanied by coffee. Dinner in the wee hours, before sunrise, accompanied by wine. And a postprandial cocktail as the sun peeks above the horizon. I am not a night owl, by any means, so I would have to work hard to train myself to adjust my “days” to reflect those changes. I like the idea of having a small group of friends to share the adjustment. They might arrive at my home around 2:00 a.m. for cocktails, followed by dinner at 3:00. Such quirky ideas appeal to me for some reason. Am I utterly alone in finding this concept appealing—at least worth giving it a shot?  Sigh…I do not expect to be overwhelmed by enthusiastic supporters.

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Another visit to the oncologist’s clinic today with yet another infusion, just like yesterday. I cannot plan my days anymore; my plans tend to be ripped to shreds by telephone calls, telling me I need to return for more injections or “labs” or infusions. I will try not to complain, though, because these little inconveniences might well forestall my death for a while longer. I am in favor of that. The longer the better.

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The five o’clock hour has come and I remain perfectly happy to keep writing about… nothing in particular. Mindless scribbling with the tips of my fingers, though, will do nothing but lengthen an already long post, making it less and less likely that anyone will wade all the way through the morass. So, to avoid putting anyone who might have read this far into an even more difficult entanglement, I will stop writing for now. One day—soon, perhaps—I may return to writing fiction. Something that, in spite of its irrelevance to anyone’s daily life, might actually be worth reading.

Expectations of a week relatively free of doctor visits were dashed yesterday afternoon when I got a call from my oncologist’s office, informing me that I need to return for three more visits this week. I will return for two to three hours for each: today, tomorrow, and Friday. Monday’s labs revealed an array of both low and high levels of various components of my blood, requiring more infusions and injections. So goes my “vacation” from healthcare. But, of course, I am pleased that the oncological team is keeping such close tabs on me, frustrations to the contrary notwithstanding.

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What matters? Not only “what,” but “why?” How do we determine whether ideas, experiences, relationships, and so on have some sort of intrinsic importance or value? And how do we—or can we—determine the legitimacy of that determination? Though the simplest answer may suggest the determination rests entirely on individuals’ decisions about importance and/or value, there must be more to it than that. When we assert that collective decisions about “what matters” is what determines intrinsic importance, we base our assertions on an array of assumptions, many of which we often do not even recognize as having been made. Perhaps morals—principles of proper conduct or beliefs, or the ethical distinction between right and wrong—contribute to our determination of “what matters,” but “something” must undergird those principles. What is that “something?” Religion, some would say. Hmm. Religion simply attempts to articulate morality; but its explanation of the source of “what matters” is essentially arbitrary. I suspect discussions of “what matters” have never reached—and will never reach—a universally agreed conclusion as to the source of importance or value. But thinking about the subject provides limitless opportunities to occupy one’s time. Yet the premise that there is no universally agreed answer to the question suggests that thinking about the question is a waste of one’s time—a pointless exercise in philosophical blathering. Does that matter? Hard to say.

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I spent a minute or two this morning watching and listening to a video—courtesy of BBC.com—describing and illustrating (via astrophotography) various aspects of the sun. There was no intrinsic value to me for watching the video; it was pure entertainment and, to a lesser extent, education. I rather like knowing that there is no reason for viewing the video, other than pure interest. I cannot change the sun. I cannot change any aspect of my life on Earth simply by learning a bit about the sun. But, still, viewing and listening (well, reading…the language of the video is Argentinian Spanish) changed me in some small but fundamental way. Not in a way that “matters,” but in a way that feels important. I stared at the sun.

For breakfast this morning, I ate a pomelo and a grapefruit mi novia bought a a few days ago. The pomelo, with its thick rind and its rather bland flavor was not especially good. But the small grapefruit (much smaller than those I recall from my childhood) was incredibly tasty! Its ruby red flesh combined tartness and sweetness into a joyous flavor I would like to have every morning for breakfast. The taste and coloring reminded me of my youth, when my father brought home big bags of Ruby Red Grapefruit from his travels around the Rio Grande Valley in south Texas. Ah, those were the days! Dad also brought home enormous papayas, bags of limes, oranges…and on and on. I rarely remember much 0f anything from my childhood, but this morning’s grapefruit breakfast triggered some wonderful memories. I remember Dad used to get up early and fry lots of bacon. And I remember hearing about his work history, before he settled on lumber wholesaling (buying lumber from mills and selling it to lumberyards). If memory serves me correctly, Dad worked in the Brownsville shipyard during World War II. And I have vague recollections of hearing, before that, that he was involved in importing South American fruits and vegetables—and that he made occasional trips to South America. If my siblings read this, I hope they might be able to verify or correct my recollection. I find it interesting that I have so few memories of my childhood. But I remember some specifics, like joining Dad on some of his multi-day trips to the Rio Grande Valley. During one of those trips, one of his customers, a lumberyard owner, joined Dad and me at a little diner in Woodsboro, Texas, where we had pie. The diner is probably long gone, but I may take a long, meandering drive to south Texas sometime before long, including a detour through Woodsboro to see whether I remember anything about the little town.

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Groups of people usually are willing, albeit often begrudgingly, to acknowledge leaders. There is evidence of that fact in all sorts of political divisions—from neighborhoods to villages to towns to cities to states nations, and even the entire world. But the degree to which people support (or do not support) leaders of various social and political subdivisions varies to such an extent that “leadership” is often targeted for forced change. Leadership in such circumstances is equivalent to chaos. The reason, as I see it, can be traced to the fact that, within groups, the beliefs and interests of individuals and sub-groups are at odds with those of leaders and leaders’ acolytes. Even situations in which little or no discord exists “in the ranks,” unity eventually seems to eventually break down. Peoples’ interests and beliefs and desires change; the direction and rate of change varies within groups, leading to fractures in the bonds that once might have held the group unified tightly together. No matter the size or geographic scope or other attribute, groups of people always split at some point. Even globally “unified” groups do not stay serenely connected forever. Consider, for example, religions that one might think would reflect unity among their adherents. The Pope is not universally recognized by all Catholics as the leader of the Catholic religion. Protestants, it seems to me, are only vaguely unified; that unity is in name only. Efforts to establish global unity of sorts among nations, vis-a-vis the United Nations, have been only marginally—very marginally—successful. I wonder, in the face of all the evidence that suggests unity is a hopeless goal, why human beings keep trying to achieve the impossible? I guess we’re all romantics, deep down; we refuse to acknowledge that failure is guaranteed, so we try against insurmountable odds to achieve the impossible dream.

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True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories.

~ Florence King ~

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Somewhere, deep inside me, a seed sprouted long ago but still has never fully matured. If ever my body is autopsied, the coroner (or whoever) will find the sprout; it will be Don Quixote, clawing fiercely, trying to get out.

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I know, it’s very late in the morning for me to be blogging. It may be a sign that I am transforming myself into the person I will become next.

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Below is a video that expresses how to how to wish someone Ramadan Mubarak in various languages around the world. The video is from the Aljazeera website. I post it here in case you have an interest. It interests me, for reasons unknown.

Yesterday’s insight service at church consisted of a screening of a documentary film entitled, Join or Die. Based on the research that led to Robert Putnam’s book, Bowling Alone, the marketing tag line for the film is “A film about why you should join a club — and why the fate of America depends on it.” I was extremely impressed with the documentary and the messages it delivered. I studied sociology in college and have maintained a strong interest in the discipline ever since. Watching the film, I felt the rush of interest and intrigue I felt as I delved into sociological issues in school. A friend at church, to whom I had mentioned my interest in sociological subjects, lent me Putnam’s book a week ago. I thumbed through the lengthy (almost 600 pages) book, but had not yet begun to read it when, last night, mi novia and I decided to listen to the audio book. The first chapter was just as interesting as I had hoped; I expect I will be just as transfixed by the rest of the book.

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Another visit to the oncologist’s office is on the agenda this morning for “labs,” meaning a few tubes of blood will be extracted from the port in my chest. The process has become routine for me, though the brief stabbing pain (the intensity of which is supposedly reduced by a quick, cold spray of local anesthetic) still causes me to wince for a moment. It’s better than multiple attempts to find a willing vein in my arm or hand.

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Though I am in a state of mind suitable for writing, I will resist the urge to allow my fingers to spill the contents of my brain, through my fingers, onto the screen. But know that, if I were to write more this morning, you would feature prominently as I revealed my very positive thoughts. For now, though, I will rein in my fingers, holding them in check until I write again another time.

Several of the clocks in the house either have been adjusted or adjusted themselves overnight, reacting to the admonition that most U.S. residents’ clocks “spring forward.” Daylight saving time (DST) has a long, convoluted history—one insufficiently interesting to me to warrant exhaustive research into its evolution. That having been said, I explored enough to learn that Port Arthur, Ontario, Canada, was the first city in the world to enact DST, on 1 July 1908. DST was first implemented in the US with the Standard Time Act of 1918, a wartime (World War I) measure intended to add more daylight hours to conserve energy resources. DST and its companion, Standard Time, have been mucked with repeatedly on a global basis since then. That is more than enough for now; except for my suggestion that everyone who lives in areas impacted by the imposition of DST should adjust their clocks accordingly to avoid being late in meeting their various obligations.

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My sleep patterns continue to annoy me. Once again, I was in bed by around 8 last night. My energy behaves like artillery; a massive burst, followed by an eerie emptiness with only shrapnel left as evidence of its explosive power. That—explosive power—is a bit much. Actually, it is more like the force of an abrupt hiccup. But after the hiccup, only the deathly quiet shreds of a spent artillery shell. Is it odd that I would compare the oscillations in my level of energy to instruments of war? War is hell, smeared with insanity. I sometimes feel that my unpredictable levels of energy (or lack thereof), are hellish states in which to find myself. But when I give serious thought to what I imagine to be the horrors of war, I realize my circumstances do not merit even a single sigh. War is more than just insane; it is monumentally stupid. War-mongers should be disemboweled and hung—bleeding and in excruciating pain—from electric power transmission lines. I realize, of course, how harsh that scenario must seem to people who are unprepared for such repulsive images. Perhaps, though, if we could collectively view the atrocities of war through such scenes, we could collectively end war and the people who wage it by proxy, sending people off to die in pursuit of power. And thus ends my diatribe about my irritation with my sleep patterns.

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The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.

~ Leo Tolstoy ~

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If I can maintain at least the level of energy I feel at the moment, I will go to church in a while. An interesting video about the crucial importance of community engagement is to be shown; I want to see the entire thing. I hope my energy can last until the end of the film, at least.

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Another previously unscheduled visit to the oncologist tomorrow morning. This time will involve only a blood draw for labs. I gather some of the components of my blood have been too low or too high of late, prompting the oncology team, on Friday, to ask me to return on Monday. If nothing else, the trip into Hot Springs might provide me with the opportunity to stop at a donut shop, where I might get an extraordinarily tasty apple fritter or a jalapeño sausage wrapped in a soft dough. I suppose it would be too much to get both; but that would be a very nice reward for making the trip into town at an early hour—again.

+++

Mi novia made an extremely good, rich, filling turkey-noodle soup a couple of days ago. One-pot meals tend to be quite good. She knows how to pick them.

+++

I am anxious to get my PET scan; but it is scheduled for more than a week hence. I hope the results are good. If they are not, my oncologist and I will have to talk about next steps and a different approach. Worry does no good, but it sometimes is so intrusive as to be impossible to shed. Ach.

People who speak a language other than their native tongue are to be admired. But yesterday, when I called the foreign bank (with a domestic US headquarters office) to attempt to renew a CD I originally bought online, my admiration turned to frustration. I made the original purchase because the rate—5.00% APY—was among the highest I could get when I bought it a year ago; no point in investing with a local bank when I could earn an additional 4.25% by transferring money from my day-t0-day bank. And last year’s purchase was easy. Yesterday, though, when I tried to renew it online for 7 months at 5.30% APY, I encountered confusion, frustration, and annoyance. So I called the bank’s customer service number. The first time was a wash-out; the very nice woman with whom I spoke tried to communicate with me, but her accent was so heavy I could not understand her; she said she could not transfer me to anyone else who might be easier for me to understand. I sent an email to customer service, explaining the problem and asking for a number I could call to reach a native English speaker. The email response gave me the same number to call. I tried it. A different woman, equally pleasant but equally impossible to understand, attempted to help me. Without success, I finally hung up again. I then decided to close out my CD online, only to learn that I had to call the same number to reach a customer service representative to assist me. The third phone call yielded another pleasant woman, considerably easier to understand. I closed my CD account with the bank, transferring the funds to my local bank. I plan to visit a local bank on Monday to buy a slightly shorter-term CD at a slightly lower yield. The calls I made yesterday were transferred out of country—I suspect either Hong Kong or Singapore or the Philippines. The polyglot customer service representatives are no doubt paid less than domestic native English speakers would be paid, but I wonder how many customers and how many dollars are lost to frustration like mine? I admire those folks’ linguistic abilities, but I think their skills would better serve the bank if they were limited to written, not voice, communications.

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Mi novia tends to laugh at my tendency to weep at the drop of a hat; I am sure I have mentioned that in more than one post. I wonder what it is that causes some people—like me—to be so damn sensitive? My thoughts on the matter range from believing ultra-sensitivity is intrinsic—a genetic trait, perhaps—to thinking it is a characteristic cultivated somehow through experience or that a core tendency is enhanced (or exaggerated) through repeated incidents that either are rewarded or, for lack of a better word, punished. The answers, I suspect, are no more than theories; considered beliefs that seem to make sense to the people who hold them. I change my mind quite a lot about the causes of what I call super-sensitivity; and my mind changes equally as often about the causes of what I tend to think of as apparent unkindness…callousness…hard-heartedness…insensitivity… and a dozen other such words. People who do not weep at what are, to me, powerfully emotional situations, are not necessarily unkind or uncaring; they simply have different levels of emotional triggers, right? Or is there a distinct characteristic that differentiates between people who are, like me, super-sensitive and those who maintain unflinching stoicism in circumstances that might bring others to their knees? Why does this issue weigh on me so much? What does it matter? Do other people care? And does it matter whether they do or not? Probably not. I suspect we’re all simply different. Our personalities are carved from the same materials. Or some are carved from stone and some are carved from clay. Or soap. Still, I want a definitive answer. Dammit. But in the immortal words of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, “You can’t always get what you want.”

+++

I got a call from a friend yesterday afternoon, who phoned from a distant vacation spot to inquire how I was doing. Her call instantly boosted my spirits, even though my spirits were not especially low; but the call conveyed that I was on her mind and that she cared to know that my medical engagements were going well. Several other friends commented on yesterday’s blog, too, which was the first one I had written in several days. Again, reading those brief  comments brightened my day. And others who communicated with mi novia during the past several days inquired about me, too, adding “meat” to the reality that I am important to people who are important to me. Spending so much time either at home or sitting in treatment chairs in the oncologist’s office makes those brief inquiries especially meaningful. I am grateful for people who care; people who carve out a little time to get in touch are special sorts.

+++

I find this man’s thinking unattractive and irritating. Is it just me, or is he as upsetting to decent people as I think he should be? I know just enough about him to attach unflattering labels to him.

Wallow too much in sensitivity and you can’t deal with life, or the truth.

~ Neal Boortz ~

+++

Have you appeared in others’ dreams? Have others appeared in yours? What, if anything, might those facts mean? What might your insistence in keeping those facts private mean about you? There are so many things to think about, aren’t there? How many people wonder what cold pumice feels like? What sort of person would wonder about such a thing? If the process of dying were guaranteed to be painless, would more people be less frightened of it? If you could be assured that bouncing on a trampoline on your ninety-fifth birthday would fill you with joy, would you do what you have to do to live that long? Every idea probably has some merit; we just need to be willing to explore what that merit might be.

+++

Hugs can be extremely curative. Just ask me. I’ll tell you.

I sit here, letting fluids and medications flow through the port in my chest. A vitamin B-12 shot in my upper arm was a new experience…I think. Too many stabs and jabs to remember. I have been weak and tired most of this week; uninterested in blogging. I feel better today. But I am very, very tired of the restrictions imposed on me by chemotherapy.

I have a PET scan scheduled for a week or two hence. The results of that test should tell whether the treatments are working as planned.

The vision in my left eye has degraded of late, so I must make an appointment to see my eye doctor. Degradation is a lousy experience.

Enough one-finger typing.

On rare occasion, I feel a slight tightness in my chest. It always dissipates within a few hours, a day at most, but during the time I feel the pressure I worry that it could be something worth being concerned about. But it almost always is accompanied by a bit of an upset stomach, so I blame my diet. If I were to visit a doctor or a clinic or otherwise engage with the healthcare system every time I feel bodily discomfort, I would develop a reputation as a hypochondriac. Visiting doctors or clinics or otherwise engaging with the healthcare system also is a royal pain in the behind, too; the time it takes tends to be extensive and, generally speaking, the outcome is an embarrassing acknowledgement that the reason for the visit is, essentially, “nothing.” Yet every refusal to engage could be that one time that engagement would have been highly appropriate. I have come to the conclusion that the intensity of pain (or the rarity of its characteristics) is a good governor of when it makes good sense to engage. Given individuals’ different experiences with pain, etc., though, it is unlikely that there is a single set of circumstances that would work for everyone. We we all have to wing it or be willing to assume the mantle of hypochondriac. Or refuse medical care in all cases. Winging it makes the best sense to me. For the moment, anyway.

+++

Mi novia bought some ginger ale recently, which I am drinking at the moment instead of my usual demitasse of espresso. It seems to be dealing with my slightly upset stomach and, to a similar extent, the slight tightness in my chest. I wonder what it is about ginger ale that reduces such symptoms? I doubt it is a cure, but it can have a positive effect on one’s body. Or, possibly, the memories of ginger ale’s “curative powers” from one’s youth might have all the mental impact one needs to return the body to a state of reasonable comfort.

+++

I think I slept considerably more last night than the two previous evenings, Though I was up and down several times, I seemed to fall quickly asleep each time I returned to bed. That notwithstanding, I am tired this morning. I think I could sleep for a few more hours, but I first have to get a couple of prescriptions filled. I should have gotten one of them on Friday or Saturday, but they slipped my mind; my blood level of magnesium is low, the nurse told me, and I need to replenish it with pills ASAP. If the pills do not work, I can return to the clinic for an infusion of the stuff…and for more saline solution, if I have trouble remaining hydrated.  Jeez! Everything this morning is whiney medical conversation with myself. I am more than a little tired of that.

+++

No matter the attention I try to give to other subjects, my mind keeps drifting back. I could scream. At least, though, when I called my sister to inquire about the status of her new hip (which has yet to fully and magically heal), the conversation touched on the carry-out or delivery (I don’t remember which) of Indian food they (my brother and sister-in-law are visiting her in Berkeley) were about to eat. Indian food is among my favorites. Lamb vindaloo often tops my list, although plenty of meatless dishes involving eggplant, okra, potatoes, and dozens of other veggies are wonderful…when properly combined with the marvelous flavors of spices from all around the subcontinent. Mi novia has yet to develop a passion (or even a particular tolerance) for Indian food. If we lived in Little Rock (or visited sufficiently 0ften), we could dine in Indian restaurants frequently enough to train her palate. Maybe. Not everyone likes or will ever like Indian food. I realize that. But I will always like it; love it, perhaps is the better way to describe my affinity for the cuisine. A bowl of sambar alongside some potato dosas would wonderful right now, though perhaps a tad too spicy for the condition my gut may be in. Iddlis might be more appropriate than dosas (I do not know enough about the proper regional combinations to know which is “right”). But I prefer dosas.

+++

I learned yesterday of the deaths of two people who were extremely important to friends of mine. The wife of a former employee died of cancer. Another friend’s mother died, though I do not know the cause. And, within the past week or so, a member of our church—a delightful guy—died. Death is an unwelcome constant in life. The closer it comes to our own experiences, the less welcome it becomes. Ach!

Another mostly sleepless night, when I would have expected to be made sufficiently tired by last Thursday’s chemotherapy to sleep soundly for hours and hours. Perhaps I will fall fast asleep during the day. I hope so. In the interim, mi novia went to church; I had planned to go, but did not have enough reliable energy to get dressed—and, had I gone, I might have fallen asleep while sitting in the pew. For now, I am washing a load of laundry; I may not wait for them to finish before I try to sleep again. If the washer completes its cycle before I get back in bed again, I may let them sit; better to dry them later, than to let them dry and get badly wrinkled before I hang the shirts and pants. Ach. The feeling of exhaustion, without being able to get to sleep, is maddening.

+++

Though I would like to express profound thoughts and ask probing questions of the universe, I am unprepared to do either. Instead, I will admit to feeling fatigue that severely limits my intellectual abilities at the moment; maybe beyond the moment. I want sleep. I need sleep. I will attempt to get sleep. This blog can wait. It can always wait. I am the only one who exerts pressure on me to write, write, write. Not now, though. Not for a while.

My brother who lives in Dayton will be appalled to learn that I had white chicken chili (with cannellini beans) for dinner last night—and it was exceptionally good! A true believer in the singular authenticity of beef-only red Texas chili, he refuses to accept that adjustments to recipes are not only legitimate but, often, extraordinarily appealing. In my book, the adjustments do not replace the recipes from which they sprang, they simply add to the reserve of options available to enjoy. Actually, th0ugh, I suspect his loathing of white chili is, at least in part, an act; one he performs rather well (but far too often 🙂 )

+++

After brief periods of intermittent sleep, I finally fell asleep sometime after 5 and awoke at 6. I went to bed around 8 last night, when I felt tired, but sleep did not come except in fits and starts for the rest of the night and into the morning. Perhaps the insomnia was preparation for my post-chemo exhaustion. Fatigue regularly follows those infusions within a day or two. We shall see. The carboplatin, for which I suddenly developed an allergy during my second infusion this time around, was replaced by cisplatin. And I was given a new prescription yesterday, during my post-chemo injections (to fight infections that could sneak in after the chemo weakens my immune system). The pills are meant to boost my magnesium, which has dropped again. They can have unpleasant side effects; though, which if they become intolerably troublesome can be replaced by another infusion. My body will remains a repository of drugs, medications, saline solution, immunotherapy solutions, and cancer-killing poisons for a while longer. A PET scan in the not-too-distant future will reveal whether the stuff is working as intended. Assuming it is, it won’t be long before the cancer-killers will cease and the immunotherapy solutions will continue their work—for two more years, if all goes according to plan.

+++

As I was viewing my photos on Google Photos this morning, I came across a reminder of the wonderful little brew-pub (Corazón de Malta) near my brother’s and sister-in-law’s house. The growler in the photo—which sits on a table on their terrace—is (or was) full of a marvelous locally-brewed (in Ajijic, Jalisco, Mexico) beer. Sitting on the terrace, feeling the breeze from Lake Chapala and viewing the lush plants in the surrounding area, is glorious. Ah! Though I was not feeling up to walking around the village much while we were there a few months ago, I was—as usual—transfixed by the environment. And simply sitting on the terrace, enjoying the views while engaged in conversation was a delight. I should have jumped in their pool while we were there, but I didn’t. Maybe next visit.

+++

I intended to call my sister—who has a new hip—yesterday, but I let my intentions roll down the road. I will try to stay awake long enough after this morning’s long range planning meeting for church to call this afternoon. Though I am confident all is well, I want to confirm that. I am advised—and advise others—not to worry about matters over which they have no control, but I tend not to avoid taking my own advice.

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And now for some expressions about peace; something to think about, even for those think the quotations banal, meaningless, or trite.

We can never obtain peace in the outer world until we make peace with ourselves.

~ Dalai Lama ~

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An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

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Well past time for breakfast, I suppose. It is said one should eat the breakfast of kings, the lunch of princes, and the dinner of paupers.

One of the reasons I often do not feel confident or competent when developing fictional characters who are stereotypically masculine males is that their personalities do not reside in me. The only aspect of their personalities that may mirror components of my own is their tendency to be loners, either intensely private or with public faces that conceal something they do not wish to share. But they do not readily express emotions, because the stereotypically masculine male does not reveal elements of his psyche generally considered feminine. When I write such characters into being, they tend to be emotionally shallow; incompetent to either express or understand emotions deeper than an affection for golf or hunting. I suspect, though, if I had the ability to explore such characters—real, nonfiction characters—I would find they are not as shallow as I usually perceive them to be. I imagine I would discover that they simply hide their sentimentality beneath layer upon layer of machismo—dry sweat and leather. I might learn they are afraid of looking weak. To that extent, we have commonalities. But they are better with camouflage than I. As I perceive my flawed writing the stereotypical male, though, I think it may not be my inability to write about him, but my fundamental dislike of him. I do not want to create another macho man. I do not want to add yet another to a world already overwhelmed with too many. I prefer to think my flaw is an emotional block rather than incompetence. But that may be just another way of protecting myself from an unwelcome reality.

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This morning I read a piece in the New York Times in which the writer said he had always had a small social circle of around 12 people, but that number had been shrinking. His comment made me think about my own social circle. First, I had to define what social circle means to me and what it does not mean. It does not mean the totality of people with whom I have occasional social interactions; not all members of my church, for example. Those people constitute my circle of casual engagements. My social circle represents that far smaller number of people with whom I socialize regularly—or periodically. Unlike the writer, my small social circle might be called tiny; closer to four or five…six or seven if I were to expand the measures to include another degree of separation. My social circle, as I define it here, is entirely local; I have a very small number of friends who live in other places. Hmm. I wonder the “average” size of the “average person’s” social circle? There is no average person, of course. And, so, no average social circle. But, still we wonder, what are the most common sizes of social relationships of various kinds? The smaller the circle, I think, the more intense the relationships. But that is simply my thought about it; others may see if from a completely different perspective. One day, I may ask my social circle to think hard about the concept and share it with me. What if they refuse, though? That might cause me to rethink the theory.

+++

I return to the oncologist’s office today for an injection, a follow-up to yesterday’s four-hour infusion of multiple chemotherapy drugs and related liquids. The intent of today’s experience is to minimize my risk of infection…I think. I took a list of 11 questions with me yesterday and I got answers to most of them. The question about what the purpose of today’s infusion/injection/whatever was not on my list; it should have been. Yesterday was the first time my blood draws and my therapeutic deliveries were made with my recently-implanted infuse-a-port, located on the upper right side of my chest. The port simplified the process, from my standpoint; at the very least, it eliminated what had become multiple attempts to find a suitable vein in one of my arms or one of my hands. My veins have become smaller, it seems, and more likely to roll as I have aged. More evidence of bodily degradation, I suppose.

+++

My attempts to sleep last night between 8 and 11 were futile, as was my attempt to sleep after 3:30 this morning. But I napped for much of the afternoon after returning from the chemotherapy session, between 4 and 7. I have accumulated an enormous stockpile of rest; my reserve of sleep should serve me for much of the rest of this century. I know, it doesn’t work that way. I should.

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A different language is a different vision of life.

~ Federico Fellini ~

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Crows, some of them the size of cats, sit in my driveway and perch in the trees around the front of the house. They are noisy creatures, their sounds utterly different from roosters but just as loud. I am certain they communicate with one another with the calls and cries and songs (though I have a bit of trouble calling any of those noises “calls”). What are they saying, I wonder? Though I seriously doubt they use a syntax anything like ours, they must have patterns of sounds that carry meaning for one another. Otherwise, why would they make those noises. I have the same questions about cats. Phaedra’s meows and yowls have very specific meanings, I believe, and I think I have come to have a rudimentary understanding of some of them. Dogs, too, communicate with barks and sighs and growls and such. As do most other creatures. Whales’ songs. Snakes’ hisses. What an enormously interesting world it would be—even more so than it is already—if humans could understand the languages of animals and could communicate in those languages.

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From the same article I mentioned above:

“May you be healthy and free of pain.”

“May your life be filled with happiness.”

“May you find peace.”

“May you always be treated kindly.”

I go in for another chemotherapy treatment today. Less than four hours from now. Every time I go in, I have new questions—or old questions I forgot to ask. Before I settled in to write this post, I typed eleven questions to ask; dozens more, I suspect, rattle around in my subsconscious. They hide there, wanting answers but failing to alert my conscious mind that they worry me and deserve some attention. I will remember them again late at night or over the weekend. That is the way it works for me. The questions for which I am especially anxious for answers cannot be answered—not yet. But some of the eleven questions on my typed list attempt to get at clues to those that are not yet ready for responses. I am sure oncologists and oncology nurses recognize those efforts to get them to forecast the future; they must be quite adept at replying without answering.

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On Saturday morning, a few hours of church time will be devoted to soliciting input for the next iteration of the church’s long range plan. Were I chairing the effort again, I would start fresh. I would utterly abandon the existing strategic plan—a tactical plan, actually—in an effort to be free of the constraints the “old” plan might place on thinking about the future. But I am not in charge. And my approach might well be rejected in its entirety by the congregation. So it’s best for me to simply observe and throw in an occasional idea or observation—assuming I feel well enough to participate in the gathering. It’s hard to know whether this morning’s chemo will intrude on my ability to think by Saturday morning. My thoughts about the future of the church have changed in the nearly five years since I chaired the endeavor. I suspect others’ thoughts may have similarly adjusted to subsequent circumstances. I hope I feel well enough to participate; or, at least, to observe. It is apparent to me that the primary facilitator of the Saturday meeting is extremely well-prepared. Unlike my approach, the facilitator is not apt to let personal perspectives color the way the discussions evolve. The ultimate outcome, therefore, is more likely to be a congregational plan than an individual plan imposed on the congregation. That, of course, is best. Unless one happens to have the personality of Joel Osteen; hmm, I thought I had a better handle on controlling the control-freak hiding just beneath the surface of my brain.

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My cursory read of yesterday’s post revealed an embarrassing number of typos. If I were more energetic and cared more, I would have corrected them this morning. But the energy just isn’t there. And I have come to realize mistakes in my posts do not matter. It would be different, of course, if my blog had a large readership, but it does not. One or two dozen people—on a day of especially robust viewing—might read a post. While those people are important to me, I convince myself they will not judge me too harshly for my un-corrected typos and the sloth my failure to correct them reveals. There was a time I would write—post—correct. I should have approached it with a write—correct—post attitude. But, now, I am just deeply lazy. And I can tolerate being judged, if that’s what were to happen after my mistake-laden posts were published. I should be embarrassed. And I suppose I am. Just not sufficiently embarrassed to do anything about it.\

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If I were to go back to bed right now, I would fall instantly asleep. That sounds sound incredibly inviting…but, no.

Unlike physical pain, emotional injuries are abstractions. They consist of interpretations of intellectual encounters. They express one’s understanding of experience through a unique filter. They are responses to circumstances—mental acrobatics driven by unseen forces. Though they arise from the imagination, emotional injuries can be just as damaging as gashes made to the flesh and as painful as the mark left by a red-hot branding iron. But they are invisible and impossible to measure with precision. Oh, they can leave evidence, but never enough for us to know, with certainty, the source of the scars.

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It’s not the prose and poetry I envy. And it’s not the sculptor’s finished figure.  It’s not the products I envy.  It’s the mind from whence they spring, the mind that recognizes the chaos in clarity and the clarity in confusion. [A slight modification to something I wrote more than 11 years ago…something I stumbled upon and instantly remembered. Odd, I think, that passing moments can leave indelible marks on the memory.]

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Republics will blame Democrats for solar flares. Democrats will blame Republicans for near-misses by asteroids. I blame the sky for the colors I see in the morning, the hues hidden by grey clouds and the impenetrable mist of memories. French mercenary soldiers blame language interpreters for the Icelandic translation mistakes that lead to surrender. There is enough blame to go around; everyone can have an ample share of culpability. But praise is always in short supply.

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With or without plans, the future unfolds in the same way. The future already exists, like the chicken embryo comfortably in its shell, waiting for the egg to crack. Whether the mother hen envisions her chick covered in garish orange and purple feathers or she imagines it in simple white, the outcome has already been established. It’s not predetermined, it is just the way it is. Neither dye nor bleach after hatching changes reality. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” It doesn’t matter; the cycle takes place with or without an answer.

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The phrase “children without parents” is easy to understand, though it could be interpreted in various ways. But the phrase “parents without children” is universally understand as nonsense…though it could be twisted into meaning it was never meant to have.

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Two or three or four generations from now, today’s parents will be permanently forgotten. I will be expunged from history much more quickly. There is nothing inherently sad about that reality. It is simply a fact that time has been repeated since the beginning of parenthood and its absence.

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Joy is temporary insanity. Nothing is inherently joyous, is it? Then again, no behavior or experience is inherently insane, either. Every experience must be measured against another one that looks, feels, and smells differently. Yes, smells.

Clearly, all of us have lost our minds. There is no question about it. We go about our days as if there is nothing wrong with electing drunk, rabid alligators to manage our country’s affairs. The solution, of course, is to round up the reptiles, place them in an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and fill it with quick-drying concrete. But will we do it? No, certainly not. Instead, we will get as far as putting them in the pool, but instead of concrete we will argue over whether to fill the pool with hydrochloric acid, manure, or Jello, instead. Or maybe we will simply ignore the fact that we’re supplying the creatures with an endless supply of high-end Scotch. We should not be allowed to permit rabid beasts of any kind to engage in squabbles on our behalf. Our behalf? Hah!

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I have what some folks would call an ugly fantasy. I, on the other hand, consider it beautiful. In this fantasy, I have the ability to project invisible bolts of electricity from my eyes. And I can project them over enormously long distances. Those bolts are deadly. When they strike a drunken, rabid alligator, the animal’s body instantly turns to dust. Not ugly, in my opinion.

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A few years ago, I created some dummy magazine covers (I may have written about them recently…forgive me). The magazine covers were geared toward practitioners of specific criminal enterprises: car theft, burglary, bank robbery, financial market manipulation, and so forth. The titles of the magazines were modeled after Psychology Today. I do not remember all the details, but I believe I created covers (I used Photoshop to alter photos and text) for Auto Theft Today, Home Invasion Today, Bank Robbery Today, Securities Fraud Today, etc. I was more than a little surprised when someone saw images of those dummy magazine covers and said to me something to the effect that “I did not know you had been involved in publishing.” The comment was real. I wonder whether there might be a market for such periodicals? Today, of course, I probably would have to deliver them online; the cost of printing and distribution would be to great to produce hard-copy magazines.

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A great production of a black comedy is better than a mediocre production of a comedy of errors.

~ Tom Stoppard ~

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When I was younger, I wished for the ability to accelerate time—clear away the underbrush that kept the future so distant. I no longer wish for that capability. Today, I would prefer, at least, to slow time’s progress. Better yet, I would like to “rewind” time so I might revise who I was, how I behaved, risks I took, advice I ignored, and dozens of other experiences. But neither wish can be met, of course. It’s too bad, though, that all the mistakes cannot be blotted out of my memory, thoroughly forgotten so that the past would not hang over me like a guillotine. If only. If only. If only. The value of wisdom is recognized far too late. Time twists us into knots that cannot be untied.

Gmail has about 1.5 billion users worldwide, according to Statistica. If a post on X (Twitter) had been proven to be legitimate (but, fortunately, the post was bogus), those users’ accounts would have disappeared with the closure of Gmail in August of this year. Google, thanks be to the gods of email communication, has publicly stated that Gmail is “here to stay.” But how would the world of Gmail users deal with the disappearance of the service, if it did shut down? I am essentially certain there would be a mad scramble to establish alternative email accounts. Other services, I suspect, would spare no expense in ramping up and promoting their offerings. While other services might fill the gap left empty by Gmail‘s closure, enormous numbers of users of the service would face the daunting task of notifying their contacts of their new email addresses. And, of course, many of those notifications would go unheeded or unrecorded or otherwise ignored. Email communications, especially for users who rely on the service for business interactions, could swirl into chaos. Could governments the world over step in to require Google to pause its planned closure of Gmail? Probably not, though I suspect they might try (and could well have some forceful, but limited, control). The pandemonium that the potential closure of Gmail could cause should give everyone reason to think about the consequences to our daily lives that the sudden (or even gradual) disappearance of ubiquitous services like Gmail could bring about. Not that we would have any control over such matters, of course. But we should give some thought to how we could prepare, at least to a limited extent, for such disruptive circumstances. Thinking about this possibility sparked my memories of the 1973-1974 Arab oil embargo and its impact on the price and availability of gasoline. The national 55 miles-per-hour maximum speed limit (since abandoned) was one response, as was the creation of the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. As I think about our response to the embargo, I wonder whether we would react to the closure of Gmail in the same way; by applying a band-aid to a gushing hemorrhage. Hmmm. Something to occupy my mind, when nothing else will do.

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Somewhere in the darkness outside my window, a mourning dove expresses its grief. Or could the sound I hear come from an owl? There was a time not long ago when I could easily differentiate between the two birds’ calls. I have forgotten how the sounds differ, though. I wish I were better acquainted with the natural world; knowledgeable enough to understand everything far better than I do. My understanding of the world around me comes through communications based upon layer upon layer of filters. Those filters were created by people and artificial experiences influenced deeply by bias and misunderstanding. So what I “know” is what I have surmised through interpreting misinformation or been taught by following an agenda-infused syllabus.

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I have enormous regard for people who not only live on the land but learn from it; and who share their wisdom without arrogance and pride. I respect people who consider farming, for example, not simply as an occupation but as an obligation to understand and tend to the products from and of the earth. Hmm. I remember a brief time when, in my late teens, when I thought I wanted to be a large-animal veterinarian. I was interested in animal husbandry. My interest was based on what I thought, as opposed to what I knew. I could not have known because I had not experienced. I am too old and physically infirm to learn by experience now. I remember those rare times I spent a few hours at a time visiting farms for one reason or another. The odors were at once oddly offensive and intriguing; what some of the people around me found disgusting I found inviting. Hard physical work, coupled with extensive knowledge of the way the natural world works, is required for survival in certain pursuits.

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I stumbled upon a video about a book—Comrade Sisters: Women in the Black Panther Party. And that led me to a brief excursion into reading snippets about other aspects of the Black Panther Party. Some of the names were very familiar to me—Eldridge Cleaver, Stokely Carmichael, Angela Davis, Huey Newton, Bobby Seale, et al—but my memories did not extend to specifics about their roles in the organization. I skimmed some articles that told me of their roles and their lives outside the Black Panthers, but I doubt I will remember much because I did not take time to absorb what I read. What is the point of skimming, when the material I read will not stick? Skimming is just a way to pass the time, I suppose; it attracts my attention away from less innocuous subjects, I suppose.

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When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said ‘Let us pray.’ We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.

~ Desmond Tutu ~

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I have never trusted missionaries. Their quid pro quo, whether hidden or obvious, troubles me.

My intentions this morning were smothered in sleep. I woke late, giving myself so little time to get ready for church that I opted to stay home and view the service online. But not long after waking and having coffee with mi novia and my sister-in-law, I felt an overwhelming need to sleep again. And so I did. For a few hours. I can feel awake and rested one minute, only to suddenly feel fatigued and exhausted the next. My most recent chemo-therapy session was 2+ weeks ago, yet its effects seem to linger. While these sudden spurts of exhaustion frustrate me, the advice I receive is to just accept them as my body’s expression of how it needs to deal with cancer and cancer treatment. I will continue to view it from that perspective, to the extent I can.

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Even geology—the natural science that relies on facts, observations, and rational understanding—can be tainted with perverse opinions and infected with political greed. Oil. Precious metals. Even gravel pits. Every aspect of geological science can be twisted to serve the worst qualities of humankind—attributes once, perhaps, decent but now gone irreversibly rogue and awry. So is it any wonder that psychology and sociology and dozens of other disciplines are manipulated so readily? The question is asked, “is nothing sacred?” The answer?  No. Nothing is sacred. Nothing. Not even family, friends…nothing matters, except power and money. Or so it seems. But slivers of decency and honor may still have a chance, provided adequate numbers of the “common man” are willing to excuse certain murders. When the ballot has been stripped of its validity, power to the people may be restored only with sufficient pressure applied to a supremely sharp and well-placed razor. How can such ideas find a place in the minds of good people? Peering back in time to the very beginning, witnessing the evolution of humankind, how can they not? A slender smile crosses his face as he contemplates competing moral judgments and wonders which one will win. He knows, of course, for every “winner” there is a loser. And vice versa. For every fact, a falsehood waits with a dagger clenched in its teeth.

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Could a significant population of the U.S.—people who may not share ethnicity or religious beliefs or socio-economic position—find a way to collectively emigrate to a relatively unpopulated part of the world? Could this collection of otherwise like-minded people who share progressive beliefs and liberal perspectives become its own diaspora? I will never know, of course, because if a movement in that direction were to commence, it would take more time to come to fruition than most of us have left. But thinking about the possibility is intriguing. A pipe-dream that softens in our minds the realities that plague us today and the bleakness facing us in the immediate future.

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I sometimes think the pain I occasionally feel in the upper right side of my torso, creeping around toward my back and just beneath my shoulder, must be akin to the pain I would feel had a bullet pierced my body. I have no experience with bullet wounds; it’s just my imagination.  I suspect the pain of a bullet would be far more excruciating, too, and I think it would linger, unlike my actual pain. My pain, I think, is an artifact of my lobectomy of five years ago. The location corresponds to the long scar left from that surgery, but the pain is not limited to the surface; it feels like it is an inch or two beneath the skin. I am used to the periodic sharpness that jars me into awareness; five years is enough time to make the pain natural. But still not welcome. Tolerated, though. The diagnosis that my cancer has returned after five years probably makes me more aware of the pain, too. I am tired of it.

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I feel it coming on again. The need or desire for more sleep. The time is just after 3 in the afternoon. Damn.

He would have turned 14 next month, but Flaco died before reaching that birthday. His last year of life was the only year he experienced freedom, courtesy of a vandal who shredded the wire mesh of his cage in the Central Park Zoo. Flaco, a Eurasian eagle-owl, was hatched on March 15, 2010, at the Sylvan Heights Bird Park in Scotland Neck, N.C. Less than two months later, he was transferred to the Central Park Zoo. The last year of his life, spent in Manhattan, thrilled New Yorkers and others when they managed to get a glimpse of him perched on terraces and rooftops. Flaco’s body was found yesterday. Apparently, he had struck a building, becoming a victim among the roughly 230,000 birds that die every year when they hit building windows. There’s more to the background and to Flaco’s story, of course. But this synopsis that I created after reading online about Flaco in this morning’s New York Times is enough to remind me that human interest stories sometimes involve humans only tangentially.

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A relaxing visit yesterday afternoon by friends was just what my psyche needed. And the visit yielded something else that is highly important: exceptionally tasty cake. Another visit, this afternoon, will provide an additional uplifting emotional infusion. I have not had a great deal of social engagement in recent weeks, thanks to how I have felt (blah) and to cautions that I should avoid being around people too much. I do not know what “too much” is, but I understand the cautions; my immune system is not up to par during my series of chemo-therapy treatments, so I am especially susceptible to potentially troublesome illnesses. I have been to church, off and on, and I have enjoyed restaurant meals on occasion (but I make a point of maintaining as much distance from others as I can). Just being conscious of the concerns has made me keep to myself (with mi novia, of course, and with a few friends). When, I wonder, will visiting with others—without concern—become common again?

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Friendship improves happiness and abates misery, by the doubling of our joy and the dividing of our grief.

~ Marcus Tullius Cicero ~

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Another infusion of poisons is scheduled for next Thursday. Though I call the stuff poison only in jest,  the liquids the oncologist and her team infuse into my blood are poisons. By regulating how much and how quickly the stuff is pumped into me, the oncology team controls the degree to which the poisons make me sick and minimizes the likelihood the liquids will kill me. Putting oneself at the mercy of people one does not know well—allowing them to inject deadly poisons into one’s bloodstream—requires trust, confidence, and a little spark of madness.

Assuming a repeat of the process used in recent infusions, some of the drugs given to me next Thursday (and/or the day after) will make me feel alive, alert, and energetic for a couple of days afterward. But, then, I will fall back into day after day after day of fatigue, exhaustion, and what seems almost round-the-clock sleep. I know this. If you have been reading this blog much lately, you know this. So why do I keep repeating it here? I suppose it’s because I am having trouble thinking creatively. Even when I feel reasonably alive and alert, my brain seems to be in something of a fog. Alert? Sort of…but not really…or…hell, I don’t know. It’s after 8:20 in the morning and I still cannot seem to write anything of consequence. I guess it’s just one of those days. Ach!

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My sister’s hip replacement went well, I’m glad to say. Interestingly and coincidentally, I lately have had increasing experiences of sudden, sharp but brief pains in what I assume is my right hip. But the pains are not sufficiently frequent, painful, or otherwise meritorious of a doctor’s investigations to warrant anything other than passing mention; and only to myself, though the fact that I am writing on the matter here exposes the issue to perhaps a dozen other people. I’m still unable to think and write. So I will stop. Instead, I will try to play Wordle and the NYT Mini Crossword. If my performance is atrocious in the extreme, I will keep it to myself. If only mediocre, I will keep it to myself. If superb, I may or may not share it. Apparently, my ego is on shaky grounds; I’m a little uncertain today.

The last printed edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica was “the 2010 version of the 15th edition, which spans 32 volumes and 32,640 pages.” Though the resource continues now exclusively online, the cessation of the print version marked a significant acknowledgement about the way in which information is stored and accessed. The transformation of the Encyclopædia Britannica from a massive, multi-volume hard-cover collection to an expression of information in the form of zeroes and ones completed the erasure of who we were to who we are. Unlike cruising the internet, getting engrossed in a set of encyclopedias always seems personal; a far more intimate experience in which the physical, paper page shares information and ideas only with the person holding the books in his hands.  Millions of people simultaneously can access the same information online, of course, but the sensuality of those books in one person’s hands—the way they feel, look, smell—is far more appealing than the impersonal fire-hose of information that is the internet. That having been said, the internet is faster, more extensive (though not nearly as well-vetted), and the information it provides is far easier to store. When the choice must be made, I pick that faster, less personal resource; with regrets to the romanticism of a massive set of hard-bound books. Watch ideas and information spray throughout the dark universe.

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Last night, mi novia made a wonderful dinner, Miso-Mushroom Barley Soup, the recipe for which she found in the New York Times. It was nothing short of exceptional. I love all the noted, main ingredients, individually, but mixing them together, along with the marvelous flavors that blend and bind them all together, yields a soup so flavorful that I found it difficult to stop at one bowl. In fact, I did not stop at one; I topped off the meal with another quarter-bowl of the stuff. The fact that the soup’s ingredients include miso made me think of one of my favorite Japanese-influenced breakfasts: miso soup, rice, cucumber, radishes, and salmon filet. I doctor-up my miso soup, adding dried and diced wakame (a species of kelp with a distinctive flavor), sambal oleke, and a few muscular squirts of soy sauce. I am making myself hungry at this late hour (almost 8). I got up very late; after 6. I could kick myself; and I probably will.

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Let there be work, bread, water and salt for all.

~ Nelson Mandela ~

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I feel human at the moment. And I felt human yesterday, though I think I zoned out a few times, which I think signaled that I was not quite finished with my periodic exhaustion. Today, though, I am knocking on wood; maybe I will have a few days of normalcy before next Thursday’s chemo treatment. My sister, who lives far, far, far away on the western fringes of the continent, is having hip replacement surgery today; I send her positive vibes and I look forward to hearing that it was a spectacularly successful procedure. She has dealt with a painful hip for way too long.

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Periodically, I open FoxNews.com in an attempt to better understand the information that feeds people whose political perspectives generally are 180° from mine.  I took a look this morning. The term “information” is far too generous; the network is almost entirely a propaganda machine. Whether the “information” it spews is based entirely on lies, I do not know; I can tell, though, the moment I see the words on the screen that lies, bigotry, intellectual dullness, and all manner of other ugliness inform the network’s decisions about what to say and how to say it. I find absolutely NOTHING of any merit on FoxNews.com. But I’ll keep taking a look from time to time so I can have a better understanding of “the others.” There’s plenty of left-leaning propaganda, too, but I believe a majority of left-leaning consumers of the “news” can separate the wheat from the chaff; no so, I am afraid, on the other side. I try. I try. But maybe not hard enough?

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I can understand the genesis of blind rage. Exponential growth in the number of encounters with frustration can finally cause something—I do not know just what—to snap, releasing pent-up energy that cannot be contained. The frightening aspect of this is that the explosive release is not limited to a particular personality type. It can happen to almost anyone. But it need not happen. If only we just change the world for the better. That’s all it will take.