John Swinburn

Half of the year disappeared at a speed even faster than Time. If I were to try to be cute, I would say it was more like Time Squared. But I’m not being cute. This is profoundly serious stuff. Male Sugar Ants (those in Florida, anyway) live only about a week; so, a period we call six months is equivalent to 126 consecutive lifetimes for Sugar Ants. If human lives lasted as long, on a comparative basis, our average 80-year lifetimes would translate into 20,160  years. If Time correlates with lifetime experience, those of us who live longer than 80 years will be even more ancient when measured in Sugar-Ant-Lifetime-equivalents. But Time is not necessarily a correlate of anything. Time just is; unless you subscribe to the idea that Time simply is a notion developed to make it easy to pinpoint events relative to other events, on an imaginary line. (In much the same way monetary units were created to measure exponential increases in greed.)

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Reaching the crescendo of a temporary social wave. That is the quickly-diminishing and overly-hopeful expectation. Social waves either create rip tides and guiding currents or cause mass drownings that should have been expected. Sociology and social psychology offer the only plausible explanations for those powerful circumstances in which collective thought (which requires individual thoughts) alters the individual thoughts from which they emerged. That is, the generation of collective thought by way of digesting an almost endless supply of individual—and frequently opposite/counter—thoughts.

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My term as president of the local UU church is behind me. Not that it was legitimately onerous in any way, but I am glad to have had the shreds of pressure peeled away from me. Henceforth, when I opt not to attend a church service or other church function, I will not have to deal with as much unnecessary guilt. That, alone, has been a troubling pressure; because I am overly, irrationally sensitive. Sometimes, certain aspects of my personality irritate me no end. When they become intrusive, I should flog myself with a thick piece of wet sisal rope, thus forcing those quirks to evacuate my brain (occasionally leaving my cranial cavity completely empty).

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Instead of watching Brit-Box programs last night (who-done-its, lately), I foraged through Amazon Music to listen to a few tunes I do not hear enough:

• Quiet Town, by the Killers
• Sultans of Swing, by Dire Straits
• Making a Fire, by Foo Fighters
• Multiple selections by Taj Mahal and Keb’ Mo’ (together and separately)
• Multiple selections by Ruthie Foster
• And a long mix of others

Music—both the lyrics and the tunes—amplifies or solidifies or otherwise codifies one’s mood. Not always, of course, but often. When listening to music alone, I have a tendency to immerse myself in the lyrics and allow the tune to wash over me, insulating me from the world outside my insular shell. When listening with someone else (or in a setting with a few friends), the focus on the music is not as intense. I unconsciously look for clues in the faces of those around me that we share high appreciation for certain elements of a song—the emotional tone established by the tune or the path of intellectual excursions set by the lyrics. I used to get lost in music for hours at a time. Now, music is not as much of a part of my life as it once was. Yet when I immerse myself in music, I feel like I’ve shed 10 or 20 years; I should drown myself in music more often, methinks.\

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Distance shares some mysteries with Time. But Time is ever on the move, while Distance can languish, eventually becoming meaningless by virtue of its stagnation. Philosophies about travel vary widely; frequently, philosophies are diametrically opposed to one another. “Travel is the best way to know the world and yourself.” or “Time away from home is time of lost understanding.” Something like that. Both are woven from the same fabric and both are true to some extent.

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Another visit to the oncologist this afternoon, this time to spend one or two hours getting an infusion of magnesium—the mineral in my blood that seems perpetually low. I hope to learn the scope and schedule of my new treatment regimen, though details on those matters may have to wait on the as-yet-unscheduled bronchoscopy and the desensitization process which will enable use of the chemo as a treatment to which I earlier developed an allergy.  That’s an embarrassingly long sentence. After writing such a convoluted string of words, I feel dirty. I need to shower.

Sometimes, restraining the tendency to ascribe human emotions to Mother Nature is hard—almost impossible. Acres of huge trees, each massive piece of timber weighing thousands of pounds, slammed to the ground by tornadic winds. Streams, transformed by endless rainfall into oceans of fast-moving rapids, consume huge and stately houses as swirling water and mud devour once-dry-land turned into river banks. Glaciers break into giant melting icebergs, increasing sea levels enough to drown ocean-front communities. The examples of Natural rage are too numerous to name. Mother Nature can no longer be considered a cooperative companion. Instead, she has become an enraged, vindictive adversary, bent on inflicting maximum pain on us. We treated her as a slave and servant to our desires; revenge is now hers. She has only just begun to unleash her wrath on humankind. Be warned.

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Mi novia is now in possession of a new vehicle, replacing the low-mileage aging auto she has driven for several years. I sat back and watched as she deftly negotiated a very favorable deal. Her interchange with the sales associate and sales manager went quickly; it was a painless process. The challenge to me, now, is to avoid catching a case of incurable new-car-fever. My vehicle, a year older and with twice the mileage of the one she discarded like an old shoe, continues to serve me well—but it is asking me to invest an enormous amount of money for expected major maintenance. My discipline is in the balance.

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The difficulty (one of them, anyway) with Time is this: it speeds by when we want it to linger, but it is painfully slow when we need it to hurry to answer pressing questions. I do not want to wait to know exactly what to expect with regard to my new treatment regimen and when to expect it. But Time has its own agenda. It thinks it can teach me patience, so it puts me through a slow-motion process of acquiring information…not knowledge, just information. What makes Time think it can teach me patience? How utterly arrogant! And cruel! Time is much like Nature in that regard; both are unwilling to cede control over our experiences. That’s why I fantasize. Fantasy gives me significantly greater control over life’s experiences than does Reality. Contrary to the way it is so often depicted, Madness can be an extraordinarily pleasing experience. So I’ve been told.

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Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.

~ Edgar Allan Poe ~

Time has a sound—like a whispered hiss; its volume so low only Time itself can hear it. In fact, no other sound has volume so low. Because Time is the perpetual companion of the Universe, situations in which sound is absent are impossible. The idea silence is the opposite of sound is mythic; based on faulty information. In fact, silence is the word created specifically to apply to the sound Time makes. Someone recently—or long ago—published assertions that the imposition of complete removal of external sound causes a person to hear the body’s blood flow. Then, after no more than 45 seconds, the poor person goes mad. Now, whether this came from a reliable source or from The Ambulance Chaser and Gossip Spreader Monthly Magazine, I do not know. I choose to believe the assertion probably has elements of Truth and its opposite, Falsehood. This brief obsession with opposites is making my mind wander. What about Time? Does Time have an opposite? Always and Never are subsets of Time, of course, so perhaps the subset provides legitimacy to the idea that Time has an opposite.

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An apple turnover would be the perfect peacemaker between today and me. There are times I cannot smile without the opulent taste of sugar in my mouth; this is one such time. I am tempted (that is, I am in the process of tempting myself) to get in my car and drive to a nearby doughnut shop. But I probably won’t. Actually, I’m close to certain I won’t. Damn it. Ach! I rarely feel such a strong need to eat sweets; I hope my discipline is strong enough to resist the urge this morning.

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Mi novia has an unquenchable desire to investigate. She spent many years as a fraud investigator. That experience infected her with a chronic desire to know more about places, times, things, people…everything. Consequently, almost immediately after meeting people, she knows where they live, the value of their homes, whether they have criminal records, their marital status, their approximate net worth, and possibly the last piece of clothing they purchased online from Macy’s. I share her desire to learn more through investigation. Have I mentioned that I am considering becoming a working private investigator (PI)? We could become a PI team; perhaps call it BS Investigations. No, the idea of going through a boatload of bureaucratic nonsense to get a license is off-putting to me. I may have to do it under the table. Maybe call it Anonymous Investigations.

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Two hours is almost inconceivably short, compared to the age of the universe. But two hours, in essence, is more than a lifetime to a newborn baby. Context defines every aspect of our experience. I’ve written it so many times, but I have not been able to get across the significance of context. Its level of importance often exceeds that of the events that place in the middle of it.

Today, June 28, is a day of reflection for me. In one sense, it is a normal day—a day like any other. But in an another way the day has deep personal significance. This day impels me to think deeply, with mixed gratitude and regret, about how I came to be who I am and to acknowledge that the past sets the stage for the future. Today, my emotions are complex; a tangle of joy and anguish about all the yesterdays and the promise of every tomorrow. As powerful as today’s imprint is on me, though, it is not about me. Words lack the power to explain the inexplicable.

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Yesterday’s morning’s visit with my oncologist confirmed that the results of my PET scan were not what I had hoped for. The changes in my body went in the wrong direction, leading the doctor to make some changes in treatment. The intent, from the start, was for me to have a four-course round of chemo treatments, followed by two years of immunotherapy. Tuesday’s results revealed that the progress initially made during chemo was largely “undone.” So, the oncologist plans to use a different combination of chemo therapies, including one to which I had developed an allergy early on; she will use a process intended to “desensitize” me to that drug. Assuming that process is effective, she will combine that drug with some others (plus immunotherapy) to continue chemo. She also referred me to a pulmonologist for a bronchoscopy, which may help identify certain attributes of some areas of concern revealed by the PET scan. I have yet to learn when that procedure will be scheduled. Mi novia pointed out to me that the oncologist did not appear panicked by the results (if she had appeared panicked, I might be a tad more concerned). The magnesium level in my blood remains inadequately low, so yesterday’s office visit was capped by a one-hour infusion; an attempt to overcome that stubborn inadequacy. I will have another magnesium infusion on Monday. My hope for a respite from taking up residence in the oncology center seems to have been dashed. 🙂 So it goes.

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We watched and listened in horror to last night’s Presidential Debate. Just a few minutes in, both of us began to cringe at every one of Biden’s unintelligible responses, his failure to call out Trump’s inexhaustible supply of lies, and visual clues about the President’s confusion. I like Joe Biden, but his performance during last night’s debate was horrendous. During the debate, mi novia and I described our reactions to the situation; the talking heads’ discussions after the debate echoed our deep, deep concerns. I cannot imagine Biden successfully recovering from such an abysmal performance. Even in the face of the oh-so-obvious lies that spewed from Trump’s mouth, Biden could not seem to collect his thoughts to respond. I do not see a way out; even if Biden were to leave the race, I cannot imagine Harris (or anyone else) gathering enough steam to overcome last night’s debacle. I will (with more than a little distaste in my mouth) vote for whoever is at the top of the Democratic ticket, of course; a second Trump term would be (and, I’m afraid, will be) utterly disastrous. Damn it!

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Oklahoma says it will require the Bible to be taught in public schools. Louisiana will require the Ten Commandments to be displayed in the state’s classrooms. Religious zealots all over the country (but especially in the South) are pulling out all the stops to try to get judgements from the Supreme Court that would tear down all remnants of the wall between church and state. Welcome to the End Times.

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I wish I could find an inspiring quotation—extolling the power of hope—that could convince me of its own validity. But every time I find one that seems to hold promise, it implodes on itself. Are all “hopograms” as substantively imaginary as holograms?

Imagine watching an entire video clip, which normally would take ten minutes, in just one minute. But, instead of seeing blurred images race by at ten times actual speed, imagine that the entire video appears to take place in real-time—yet events outside the video take place occur at a much faster pace; accelerated in a ten-to-one ratio. Though such a scenario may be difficult to envision or understand, that experience plays out for me most mornings. During the ten minutes it takes me each morning to take my first round of daily pills, feed the cat, make a cup of espresso, and sit down at my computer, more than an hour and a half of the day has flown by. Whether I am dividing my experience between two dimensions of space and time or simply repeating a daily mental break, I do not know; perhaps both. This morning, darkness became full-on daylight in less time than is required to inhale and then exhale a single breath. But the clock claimed otherwise, insisting that more than an hour elapsed between breaths. At precisely the moment I want time to slow, its speed quadruples—or more—but when I want time to hurry along, it flows like thick, cold molasses. I am not ready for hours to behave as if they were seconds. Yet, seconds can tend to plod along as if they were days or weeks…when I would much rather jump past periods in which time indelibly etches certain experiences into my brain. Maybe my experience with time is entirely artificial. But I think not.

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A tiny flying insect buzzes by—and then into—my ear. My hand, attempting to swat the creature into oblivion, is far too slow. The pest easily evades my attempt at insecticide. I think I hear its microvocal  laugh as it disappears into the vast emptiness of the air in my office. I had hoped, incidentally, that I had coined a fresh new neologism with microvocal. But, no, the word is not mine; others imagined it long before I decided I needed a new word to describe miniature sound the way microscopic applies to miniature size/sight. How can a person create new words when the chosen words have already been taken?  Ach, I’ve rolled off into a mental ditch again; thoughts should be subject to control through the installation of tracks to prevent distractcidents. Another futile effort at word-craft.

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That damnable flying beast is at it again, this time attempting to reach my lungs through my nose. If it continues, I may turn to serious measures, such as stabbing it with an icepick. Before I attempt to take such drastic action, I will want to feel absolutely confident in my ability to stop the icepick’s movement at precisely the moment the weapon pierce’s the monster’s heart; otherwise, I might have to uncomfortably explain why I jammed an icepick up my nose or, worse, into my brain.

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Two hours from now, I will visit my oncologist to hear her explain the results of my PET scan. Though I have no control over the results (and so should not be worried about them), I will admit to feel apprehensive…anxious…a tad fretful about listening to her tell me what the scan revealed and what the results suggest for further treatments. Too much of my train of thought revolves around my diagnosis. I do not want to be fixated on what is only a possibility, not a certainty. Yet I cannot seem to help thinking the news could be bad and it could suggest my previous thoughts—that any “worst case” outcome would be at some unimaginable time in the future—may have been overly optimistic. But I will try to think positive; I have far too much on my agenda to let such obstacles take control of my optimism. And, again, worrying about things over which I have little or no control is a waste of time, energy, and emotion. Instead, I’ll make it my mission to enjoy all the moments I can.

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Later today, I will preside over my last church board meeting. I am happy to pass the chalice (we have no gavel, as far as I know) to my successor. Despite the fact that the role has not been burdensome, its potential to be demanding has been enough to make me feel a bit of pressure. I welcome the opportunity to let someone else assume my worries (and enjoy the challenges). I want to take a vacation from Hot Springs Village, leaving behind for a while all the demands on my time…not that they are particularly heavy nor onerous. A week in an ocean-side cabin, watching the Pacific Ocean while sitting in a hot tub and wallowing in decadence, would be just fine.

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Even when people are found guilty of a heinous crime and subsequently and irreversibly  sentenced to death, they tend to hold out hope that something—the State, the Universe, God, anything—will intervene to save them. People diagnosed with an incurable, terminal disease may cling to the same futile wish for salvation. Facing the certainty of one’s own impending demise is very nearly impossible to comprehend; even highly intelligent, extremely rational people often find inconceivable the possibility that their lives may really end. Belief in an afterlife is one way of coping with the inevitable. In the absence of such belief, though, they may “accept” their own death. But they might envision “seeing” themselves dead…as if consciousness extends after their life ends. Why, I wonder, do we find it so difficult to comprehend the incomprehensible?

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Yesterday’s PET scan took significantly less time than usual (the technicians told me they were uncharacteristically ahead of schedule), but the time I spent being examined by the machine seemed longer than normal. While I waited for the injected radioactive dye to circulate through my body, I heard a technician comfort and reassure another patient whose procedure was to follow mine. The patient’s husband had been undergoing cancer treatment and, now, she was getting a PET scan to help determine whether she, too, has some form of cancer. A wave of compassion washed over me as I listened to her frail voice admit to being afraid. Hearing the technician attempt to calm her nerves, I felt admiration for him. He must frequently need to help patients get through a very stressful experience; though he might have been trained to handle such situations, he sounded to me absolutely genuine as he tried to comfort her. I think even heartless, highly-trained liars cannot fake compassion. This guy’s tone of voice and his choice of words sounded to me absolutely authentic.

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When I learned I had a recurrence of cancer, I was surprised. I felt sure, five years after my diagnosis and subsequent treatment, I had beat the beast. I knew, though, from shortly after my oncologist told me of the recurrence, it was serious. I asked her, directly, whether the treatments she would use to combat the cancer were expected to cure me or whether they would be intended to extent my life. She said her intent was to extend my life. That honest response jolted me a bit, but I am glad she did not try to sugar coat her answer. Research I had done revealed that the five-year survival rate after a diagnosis like mine was not as high as I would like. Ten-year rates and beyond were even less uplifting. But I had already slightly beaten the odds at five years, so I was ahead of the game. The last PET scan before yesterday revealed the cancer was responding as hoped to the chemo treatments. I will find out tomorrow whether that trend has continued. If so, great. If not, I’ll ask whether additional therapies are in order. No matter how much I would like to be lackadaisical about it, I can’t seem to muster as much stoicism as I would like. But I am reconciled with the fact that I have limited control over the progress of the disease. I hope, of course, to get good news. As in all things miniscule and mighty, time will tell.

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Greed and growth are not necessarily synonymous, but they often exist in the mindsets of the same people. They share the attitude that “more” is sacred. Power and profit are sacrosanct elements of their philosophies. I want to train to immerse myself in the beauty of minimalism; the serenity of “less.” But that serenity is difficult to achieve, after a lifetime of social pressure. Competition to accumulate, to win, to spread, to increase, to thrive as measured by aggrandizement. “I want” can be an ugly word pairing. Yet I used it in this snippet of thought as an objective. We confuse ourselves by saying we want to eliminate poverty while hoarding food that could feed the starving and by building McMansions rather than providing shelter to people who need a place to sleep.

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Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.

~ Edward Abbey ~

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I do not know the object of my anger, only that rage threatens to consume my animosity as if anger were an ice cube.

What if…

Sounds had flavor? Every color had a unique odor? Vision was always accompanied by a noise exclusive to the sight being seen?

Would our experience of life be radically different from today’s “normal?” Or would those variations from what we consider natural, today, go unnoticed? Curiosity is not necessarily instructive or informative; some might say unanswered curiosity is just wasted thought. The jury’s still out on that one, I think. And it will remain so well beyond the end of Time.
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A “bite” has suddenly appeared on the outside of my right elbow. The itch and the raised, round evidence that a nearly-invisible creature recently attacked me suggests I have been targeted by a chigger. But I have not been outside for well over 24 hours…so how could a chigger have managed to make its way to my outer-elbow and bite me within the last ten minutes? It is a mystery to me. A distressing mystery. A worrisome, alarming, annoying, irritating mystery. If anything positive were to come out of the incineration of Planet Earth in an impossibly gigantic thermonuclear blast, one of the most appealing outcomes would be the extinction of chiggers. And, of course, Peace on Earth. Let’s not forget Peace on Earth.

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In preparation for today’s PET scan, I ate very little yesterday: a bagel with cream cheese along with a peach yoghurt for breakfast and some tuna salad for lunch; no dinner. I was instructed to consume no carbs and no sweets/sugars of any kind after 10 yesterday morning. And nothing but water after 6 this morning. I can feel and hear my gut twisting and churning, as if is in the process of digesting itself. Surprisingly, though, I do not feel especially hungry. Unless, of course, I have moved beyond hunger and into the starvation phase; I doubt it.

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My brain is empty of creativity. Again. I’ll stop attempting to perform the impossible; enough for now.

A bank in Huntsville, Texas once lent me money to buy a pair of glasses to replace a pair that broke—I think. I was living hand-to-mouth at the time, with my income as a prison system research intern barely enough to cover basic living expenses. If my recall is accurate, the loan was $200 or less. The memory is vague, at best. It could be entirely artificial. But why would my brain manufacture such a mundane, synthetic memory? I suppose the mind can fill in blank spaces around incomplete recollections simply to give otherwise meaningless pieces of pointless consciousness some relevance. Yet does the brain need relevance in every shred of memory? My guess is that relevance is not necessary to justify remembering specific moments. On the other hand, maybe only experiences that were—or seem to be—relevant in some way qualify for registration in the brain as memories. Most of our lives’ experiences probably are irrelevant; otherwise, we might all have photographic memories. While trying to make sense this morning of my thoughts surrounding the subject, I learned another term for such precise recall: eidetic memory. But photographic memory and eidetic memory are slightly different; the former is limited to visual experiences, whereas the latter includes recall of auditory and other sensory experiences. I will not remember the distinction between the two, of course; nor will I remember the meaning of eidetic. For now, though, the differences and similarities may be relevant. Or may not be of any value whatsoever. I am almost certain that I no longer have any physical record of the bank loan transaction; if, indeed, it actually took place. It does not matter, of course. The importance of the memory—whether real or false—does not rise to the level of relevant. So, why does it exist? Dunno.

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Speaking of memories, they are unreliable. Even crisp, clear, vivid recollections sometimes are distortions; similar to reality, perhaps, but not dependably accurate. That being said, maybe “false” memories are not truly false. Perhaps they simply are misrepresentations of historical experience—efforts to fashion full-blown memories out of bent and broken fragments. Some dreams may arise from similar attempts. But a dream (or a “memory”) in which the recollection involves one’s service in the Union Army during the Civil War probably has not connection to reality. Probably? Huh!

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Beginning at roughly 10 this morning, I must refrain from consuming sugars, starches, and dairy until 6 tomorrow morning, at which time I must refrain from eating and drinking until after tomorrow’s PET scan. The instructions I was given were oral; by phone. Ideally, I would have been given a sheet of paper (or an online reference) with more details; such as whether the sugars in strawberries and blueberries are off limits or, instead, just the raw stuff. What can I eat? Steak? Bacon? Lettuce? Earthworms? Brussels sprouts? Fasting probably is the safest route to take. I should recommend to the medical folks, though, that incomplete oral instructions should be replaced with more comprehensive written materials. But will I?

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Never question the relevance of truth, but always question the truth of relevance.

~ Craig Bruce ~

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Pain triggers fear. Not always, but often enough to give it credence. “It?” Referring to which, pain or fear? Everyone is a heartbeat or a brainwave away from “the end.” Yet we assume that last heartbeat or final brainwave will be much, much later. At least we hope so.

I, who lately have made too many trips to the hospital with my own ailments, was not the one who needed last night’s visit to the hospital ER. The culmination of mi novia‘s week-long fatigue, multiple (and long-lasting) nose bleeds with subsequent headaches, and abnormally high blood pressure prompted the trip to CHI in Hot Springs. The doctor who saw her seemed to agree that recent stressful situations (the death of her sister-in-law and her mother just days apart, coupled with travel to and from California and related strains and stresses) shouldered much of the responsibility for those symptoms. But he referred her to an ENT specialist for the nose bleed and gave her a prescription to address the blood pressure issue if it reaches a certain level. And he suggested an over-the-counter medication to deal with any addition nose bleeds. He instructed us to return to the ER, though, if the nose bleed returned and could not be controlled. Stress-relief and rest, too, were mentioned as treatments. Fortunately, when we arrived at the hospital around 8:00 p.m., there was no Saturday night ER frenzy (yet), so she was seen by nurses and the ER doctor right away. We were home by around 10. Of course, the evening’s excitement left us both wired, so we got to bed late (for me, anyway). So, we’re skipping church again (we missed last week to spend time with visiting family). Today will be a day of rest and relaxation for mi novia, provided I can persuade her to let me handle our to-do list by myself. My responsibilities as caregiver pale in comparison to what she has had to deal with over the past many months—but they remind me of what that role requires.

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Early this morning I read an article on the AP website about onigiri, a Japanese dish of rice balls typically stuffed with various fillings and wrapped in seaweed (nori). The fillings (called gu) range from umeboshi (salted plum) to mentaiko (hot, spicy roe) and all manner of things in between. Onigiri are simple; made by hand of sticky rice, gu, and nori, though only the rice is absolutely required. The article mentioned various ingredients for gu,  some of which I might find to locate: salmon, shrimp, miso-flavored ginger, a pungent Japanese pickle (iburigakko), edible kelp (kombu). That notwithstanding, I think I’d like to try my hand at making onigiri one day before long. Feel free to join me. My understanding is that it’s healthy.

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Even the Associated Press (AP) news website has allowed advertisements to creep in, though they appear on the home page only near the bottom. But CNN and FoxNews seem unconcerned that advertisements might be confused for news. In fact, I wonder whether the confusion is exactly what they are after; advertisers may pay more for something that looks like a genuine information source, rather than an obvious piece of propaganda hawking products or politics. The NPR website probably is nearly (or maybe even completely) free of ads-as-news, but I’m not as certain today as I was five years ago. Aljazeera includes ads on its various region-specific home pages; those ads, though, are quite obviously advertisements and not blatant attempts to trick visitors into believing they are dependable news resources. I understand their need to generate revenue, but I cannot trust news from sites that do so by misleading customers. I harp on this topic more often than I’d like, but it’s something I feel must be done. Though I doubt most visitors to this, my blog, site would be confused by the attempted misdirection. I’m just annoyed that news sources cannot be trusted to deliver news that can be trusted.

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I have been up since around 5 this morning, very early for me of late. Until late last year, I was (generally) reliably up between 4:30 and 6. These days, no matter when I get up, I am sure to feel tired and in need of a nap within two or three hours of waking. I feel that need now. Ach! I’d rather feel energized and ready to take on the world. Instead, I get the impression the world is ready to take me on; and win. Perhaps another hit of espresso will provide the injection of fuel I need to overcome the desire to sleep. I’ll give it a try; if it doesn’t work, I’ll give in to my body’s desire for more rest. That, I’m told, is good for one’s health.

Comfort and anxiety are like two magnets attempting to establish dominance over the other. Each one repels the other. But anxiety is the more powerful of the two. Anxiety is covertly muscular and subtly assertive. Comfort tends to quickly acquiesce to its stronger opponent’s implied—or actual—ferocity. But even in its suggested savagery, anxiety is not as strong as fear. And comfort is not synonymous with luxury. Similes often lose their persuasive qualities when confronted with metaphorical insistence.

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Life is wasted on the living.

~ Douglas Adams ~

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Never is not the opposite of sometimes. Always is not an antonym of occasionally. Live (liv) and live (līv) look alike, but sound different from one another…and have different (though related) meanings. Language fascinates me, but not to the extent that I would want to devote my life’s work to understanding all the intricacies and conflicts and confounding curiosities of any language; even the one whose fluency I continue to pursue (but not with dogged determination). What, exactly, is one’s life work, by the way? What has mine been?

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It is hard for me to say, with a straight face, that I have spent my life’s work becoming an accomplished association executive (or manager or whatever). Associations are just clubs that have decided to clothe themselves in slacks, button-down shirts, and shiny leather shoes. Clubs are satisfied to wear cut-off jeans, paint-stained t-shirts, and flip-flops. Oh, there’s more to it than the attire, of course, but that provides an adequate illustration of their differences to create sufficient understanding. But people who take the “profession” of association management seriously (too seriously, in my view) would argue that managing such organizations requires extensive knowledge, communications skills, an understanding of  and ability to apply organizational psychology, managerial expertise, diplomacy, tact, and much, much more. Having done the work, I smirk at many of those assertions; I have seen many trained seals celebrated for doing a perfectly adequate job. A slight exaggeration, yes; but only very slight. And I was one of them. My life’s work. I beam with pride. Don’t get me wrong. I know many extremely intelligent, remarkably capable people who are or have been association executives—but those people could have spent their careers doing work that could have made a positive difference in the world.

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I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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The arrival of Saturday…it has happened again.

Stacks of individual sheets from newspapers. A poem, typed on a single 8 x 11 sheet of paper, missing from those stacks. Broken hand-held garden trimmers. Weed killer, meant to supplant those broken trimmers, sprayed indiscriminately on prized decorative garden plants. A trio of arrogant salesmen, whose especially obnoxious leader is later revealed to be entirely artificial, who refuse to leave the premises, even after the police were summoned. Unkempt, smelly passengers—on a chartered motor coach—discussing topics about which they were badly misinformed. A broken deadbolt lock that triggered a delay in beginning a long walk to a critically important, time-sensitive distant meeting. Growing panic caused by the realization that I had only two weeks to complete almost twelve months’ worth of administrative preparation that I had utterly ignored for a year. Some of these scenarios may have been related to others, but then again maybe not. They all were waiting for my brain to sort out when I awoke this morning. My brain has yet to sort them out. Some of them may have been leftovers from brief moments of sleep from the night before. Again, though, maybe not. But they seem to have been fragments of dreams—dreams that were in the process of being carved into nightmares of one kind or another. Sleep and dreams and time share mysteries I cannot understand. No matter the impeccable logic used to explain them, they remain mysterious and threatening and impossible to avoid.

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A temperature of absolute zero would be, according to Google’s latest announcement (this morning), 0 kelvin, or -273.15 degrees Celsius, or -460 degrees Fahrenheit. That, theoretically, is the coldest temperature possible. Depending on which theory one chooses to believe, the hottest temperature might be 10 trillion degrees Kelvin (10¹² K). But that is relatively cool, compared to the Planck temperature, which some theorists say is 10³² K. Having never been able to comprehend conversations about the magical mysteries of physics, I do not (nor do I want to make the effort to) understand such extreme numbers. But even in my luxurious ignorance, such stuff fascinates me. If only I could be given an injection of pure understanding and maximum knowledge, I think I would be happy to know what, at present, I do not. But if I have to work for it…no. I am mentally retired. Yet I would like to understand Hagedorn temperature but, again, only if a painless injection would accomplish that state of awareness.

+++

My first real “date” took place well before I had my driver’s license. My father drove Maggie and me to the theatre, where she and I watched Fantastic Voyage. I have very little memory of subsequent dates, except one with Nancy, who tickled me before we got out of the car (I was driving by then) to go inside the theatre. I have no idea of what we went to see. I remember only that I walked Nancy to her front door afterward, where she kissed me with a fervency I rarely experienced thereafter. Dating seems, to me, overly formal. Enjoying time spent with someone for whom one feels a budding attraction need not be labeled. The label can carry too much weight, especially for external observers who sometimes think it merits more seriousness than it deserves.

+++

If governments spent as much on medical research as they do on space exploration, military might, and/or warfare, I might be able to stop in at Healthy Replacement Store #71 and pick up new eyeballs that would give me comfort, perfect vision, and cosmetic choice. The same store could provide me with replacement lungs (unlimited warranty, of course), a new and improved bladder, fresh kidneys, a pristine liver, the perfect pancreas, and a full-length intestinal tract. And more, naturally. But warfare and its supporting services line the pockets of a greater number of greed-mongers than does healthcare (even though healthcare does a fair amount of pocket-lining of its own). The idea of off-the-shelf, high-quality body parts has significant appeal. But so does on-demand transplantation. Yet on-demand organ-harvesting presents some ethical issues. Does the donor have a say in the matter? Or does “on-demand” mean I could select anyone to be a donor? Even if the donor had to be agreeable to giving, would I be required to accept any healthy organ offered to me? What if I rejected an organ from a healthy donor (alive or dead) I considered unacceptably stupid? (Who wants a kidney from a donor who’s dumber than a rock?) Would the sketchy ethics of my bigotry be enough to stop the transaction? Or would I be “punished” by being forced to accept the organ? So many questions. So many possibilities.

+++

The time is almost 9 a.m. I’ve wasted half the damn day by getting up late, plodding along with this blog, and otherwise being lazy and unproductive. Such is life.

Most of them are vague—memories that seem to emerge from a different life—but a few are so crystal clear as to be deceitful. Those vivid remembrances confuse the brain, insisting the experiences are taking place again, for the first time, in the here and now. Yet those recollections are fictional fabrics, woven from real threads combined with imaginary fibers. They are so real and so synthetic they call into question the truth of even those memories about which there can be no doubts. All reminiscences become suspect; are all the elements of the full catalog of memories artificial? Can thoughts about the past be trusted? And if the past is dubious, what of the present? If the future relies on the present for a foundation, a future based on a vaporous, unreliable present must be unstable. Like a cloud of invisible gas that may exist—or may not. Certainty is only a fantasy; like a dream constructed of ice placed in a hot kiln.

+++

Magic tricks are meant to deceive. We applaud them for their ingenuity and their dishonesty. “Do not tell lies, children, unless they are all in good fun.” Mixed messages muddle the mind with madness. Confusion negates opportunities to learn the lessons we try to teach. Trust evaporates when a child is encouraged to lick the bottom of an ice tray. Perhaps that is the point; educating the child about the dangers of the real world. Instilling doubt and distrust in a young mind as a means of equipping the child to be wary of a cruel, uncaring world.

+++

The seeds of the distressed little town I planted in my mind are growing. They might grow faster if I were to devote a solid month to nourishing the budding buildings and the people who occupy them. The place has a tangled history and a fragile present. Flawed personalities and imperfect compassion litter the streets. Greedy developers have all fled the place, having failed in their attempts to turn a handsome profit by selling impossible dreams. Boarded windows and chipped paint remain as evidence of the developers’ departure. But a small cadre of townsfolk who sent the developers packing remain, intent on preserving the skeletal remains of the town and draping new flesh on its old bones.  The story will change—radically, I suspect—over time. I hope to refuse to acquiesce to the easy way out, in which formulaic solutions to the town’s problems save the day. Unless I stop mulling it over, though, and get busy writing it, the story will not be told. I must either torture myself into getting the job done or promise all manner of goodies and treats to encourage myself to willingly keep going.

+++

Time for more espresso and, perhaps, a cookie.

Astrophysicists and other experts tell us the sun will begin to die in about 5 billion years, when its supply of hydrogen is depleted. That unfathomable length of time is easy to dismiss as “nothing to worry about.” Surely some other cataclysmic event will occur long before then to end human habitation of Planet Earth. Whatever that event might be, it will take place so far in the future we need not worry about it today…right? But the scientists might be wrong. While I write this morning’s post, a heretofore unknown but absolutely natural “bomb” at the center of our favorite star may be nearing the critical temperature at which it will detonate. That super-explosive component, previously unknown to humans, might have uncontrollable violent power several hundred million times greater than the combined energy of the fifty stars nearest to us. When that power is unleashed—in five minutes or five days or five billion years—our current expectation that the sun will wither into a cooling white dwarf will be irrelevant. A large section of the Milky Way and several nearby galaxies instantly will be consumed by incinerating heat. The pressure of the explosion will cause the universe to fracture into multiple dimensions that are so far beyond anything that exists today that no one can even begin to describe them. Not that it matters, of course, in that no one will exist to attempt to describe them. We might see some warning signs of the impending end, though. Pieces of the exterior surface of the sun may peel off in shreds, piercing space at speeds rivaling the speed of light, and pass near Earth in a frightening display of atmospheric terror. So, we may well have time to panic—pointlessly—before our bodies instantly meld with empty space and celestial debris. But this is all supposition; these potentials may not be possible. So, all we can do is live in dread or concoct our own scenarios about the actual end of the world as we know it.

+++

How many gallons of cow’s milk are produced, worldwide, every twenty-four hours? How many grains of sand exist, today, on Planet Earth? And what about leaves—is anyone responsible for keeping a running count of the number of leaves on all the trees on the planet? At what point do numbers become meaningless—is there such a point? How much is too much? How little is too little? I think numbers become useless and irrelevant when the context of their measures becomes so large that all meaning is lost. Though it is possible for the number of grains of sand in a ten by ten foot by ten foot room to be counted, when the context (the room) is increased to over two-hundred-thousand acres. But where is the dividing line? When does possible become impossible? If I were asked to count backward to zero from 500-billion multiplied by itself, I would not know where to start; fulfilling that request would be, for me, impossible. There is a point beyond which everything is absurd. But is there a mathematical formula that can be used to calculate that dividing line? If so, what’s the point?

+++

I was more than a little tired yesterday, so after lunch I napped while the rest of the folks in the house went off in search of shoes. Last night, when I went to bed, I had a hard time getting to sleep. In fact, I was awake for much of the night, which probably means I will be quite tired today. My body needs rest; I know that. And I am happy to provide opportunities for it to get what it needs. But there’s a point beyond which sleep may be inviting but unnecessary. I suspect I reached that point yesterday. Ach!

+++

Fatigue is the best pillow.

~ Benjamin Franklin ~

+++

Time for more espresso. The machine is not working properly, but even in its stinginess it gives me enough caffeine to begin to engage with the day.

We have family visiting for a week, so our often dull routines have been replaced to a great extent with more interesting activities. Even sitting around the dining table with additional people, just talking, is a welcome change. A visit with family over a period of several days is like a reinvigorating retreat from much the rest of the world. National news is largely ignored for a while; its absence is an incredible stress reliever. For a while, at least, many of the day-to-day demands of life are put on “pause,” and the world seems to be not as demanding as usual. So many years have passed since I was living with a sizeable cluster of close blood relatives, that I cannot remember exactly what “family life” was like when surrounded by several people with whom I felt completely comfortable. But even with this small cadre of family, I think that is what “family life” in my youth must have felt that way. At least sometimes. My memories, though, are utterly unreliable, except when they are even sharper than high-resolution video with crystal clear sound. Is that clarity due to the memories’ fresh manufacture in my brain, or are certain circumstances so sharply etched into the mind that they seem to be occurring in real time?

+++

Though I did not attend church on Sunday, I was pleased to see the video report that—close to the very last minute of the pledge drive and by the skin of our teeth—the congregation succeeded in meeting its pledge drive goal. That means we will not have to cut the budget; we will have the resources to accomplish our plans for the year. I have less than half a month left in my year as president of the church; I look forward to shedding that admittedly not-especially-stressful role. Who would have thought, ten years ago, that I would regularly attend a church and, even more surprisingly, be a member of the governing board? I am not quite ready to call it a miracle, but close.

+++

A broken promise…of rain. Dark clouds and distant thunder offered false assurances that, soon, the sky would weep. Those meaningless pledges, as it turned out, were not worth the thin, vaporous clouds on which they were written with invisible ink. Often, promises made by the heavens shatter into pieces of jagged betrayal. The reason? Accountability…or lack thereof. No repercussions follow when the atmosphere reneges on its vow of spilling fierce winds and heavy rain and electric blue flashes in the air. If consequences followed such deceptions, indications of coming storms would become more reliable. It probably is past the point of no return now, though. No matter who or what tries, the sky will reject out of hand any attempts to exert control over it.  If humankind had taken actions as late at the 1930s, we might have had a chance to gain at least a shred of power over natural phenomena. But our failure to seize authority when the option was available means we can never have the power we want. Ach. Such a shame that such a golden opportunity was squandered.

+++

White Lotus. A Thousand Cranes. Above the Fold. All three distinct products from Origami Sake are excellent, in my opinion, but White Lotus was my slight favorite from day-before-yesterday’s tour and tasting. Above the Fold has extremely limited availability (at the brewery only, I believe), but the other two increasingly are available in liquor stores in and around Arkansas. Origami also brews and bottles a few “test” brews that are available in extremely limited quantities only at the brewery. Origami Sake is Arkansas’ first (and, as of today, only) sake brewery. Located in Hot Springs, Arkansas, the brewery prides itself on using natural water from an on-site well and Arkansas-grown rice to brew its sake. The recent brewery tour was interesting and educational; I had known virtually nothing about how sake is made until hearing Justin Potts, Director of Brewery Relations, describe the process and take a group of about ten on a tour of the facility. I was impressed with the complexity and sophistication of the operation. And the tastes reminded me that I enjoy sake.

+++

I wish everyone in the world would allow their minds to be open to new ideas, conflicting philosophies, and divergent points of view. Wish. Wish. That accomplishes nothing. Then again, it might if properly employed in circumstances where opportunities have at least a shred of a chance.

Fear and rage are emotions of the young. Understanding, which arrives slowly with age, begins to alleviate fear. Wisdom, a nutrient grown from the soil of experience, eventually cures rage. These are not hard and fast certainties, of course, but they tend to be proven more often than not. Sharing these truths with the young generally meets with youthful skepticism (or mocking laughter and vocal expressions of disbelief). Unfortunately, these facts cannot be taught; only learned through time and experience and modeled behavior. Sometimes the fear and rage of youth take up permanent residence—through perpetual arrogance and stupidity—in certain young minds immune to intelligent thought. In those cases, young minds decay into crumbling monuments to lifelong ignorance—passed down generation to generation. Some may suggest only through selective familocide can that hereditary plague be eradicated. That, of course, is not true. Except for those with traits caused by ingrained, intractable genetic damage, young people constantly exposed to proper behavioral modeling can overcome familial flaws. Desirable role models, tough but limited discipline, and positive reinforcement can overcome the unfortunate tendencies of youth. Nothing is guaranteed, though; saints with human blood dripping from their sharp incisors…and monsters beaming with gentle smiles and soft hearts always tend to surprise us.

+++

Dreams—even vivid dreams that take place during during the transition from sleep—blur into indistinct mist if not instantly documented immediately upon waking. Efforts to record them notwithstanding, powerful dreams may weaken into vague, but disturbing, fantasies. Impossible to recall, but equally impossible to fully erase from memory. Fragments of seemingly unrelated dreams that took place over a period of days or weeks or months can occupy the mind simultaneously, tricking the brain into assuming a connection. Futilely attempting to understand the sometimes frightening nonexistent connection only exacerbates the confusion. Trying to explain disturbing dream fragments to others only elicits disinterested vacant stares, even from those who might be shocked to learn the parts they played in those scenes. But people who played those roles can never be told, lest the relationship with the dreamer be irrevocably altered. Perhaps that is the reason some vivid dreams tend to vaporize into inexplicable and nearly obscure holograms—one cannot share what one cannot describe. If dreams have no intrinsic meaning, though, what is the point of making those fantasies almost impossible to clearly remember? Indeed.

+++

Two weeks hence, more or less, a new PET scan should reveal whether my lung cancer is in retreat or simply hiding from plain view.  I will take nothing for granted. You never know what is going on inside your body, waiting to delight you or disrupt all your plans.

+++

We have guests coming today; my eldest brother and his wife. This will be their first trip to visit me since I moved to Arkansas ten years ago. I look forward to showing them what appeals to me about this place; and explaining how I can tolerate certain aspects of the state that are simply intolerable.

A difference exists between laziness and apathy, though often they manifest in similar ways. Laziness is characterized by an unwillingness to invest energy to accomplish what may be an intriguing objective. Apathy would treat the same objective with passionless disinterest. At times, identifying the reasons for opting not to pursue an objective is difficult; sometimes impossible. Laziness may lead to apathy or vice-versa. That is not to say one causes the other, only that ruling out a relationship between the two may be a mistake. Triggers may give rise to both attitudes; fear of failure, for example, or a closely allied emotion, lack of self-confidence. A person may want to achieve a goal, but not with enough vigor to overcome self-doubts about the ability to do it. Is that due to fear of failure or is it entirely a lack of self-confidence? Or is it both? I may want to pursue a career in medicine, but I am unwilling to devote the necessary fervor to the objective; is laziness or apathy to blame? It doesn’t matter. In the end, all I need is an excuse that leaves me with at least a few shreds of pride intact.

+++

Another long morning at the oncology clinic today. Blood draws for lab work, followed by an hours-long infusion of immunotherapy drugs and saline solution and, I hope, an update as to when I will have my next CT scan or PET scan or both. I am interested to get the scan(s) to learn whether cancer is retreating, holding its own, or gaining ground. Naturally, I would prefer to learn it is retreating. But it will be a while before I get the scans done, and longer still before I get the results. There’s nothing I can do about the wait, so I will simply cope.

+++

Off I go to the cancer clinic. Another routine to follow for a time. I’d prefer a different routine, or no routine at all.

Consorting with heretics and treasonous enemies of the State. 

That was the charge levied against members of the Democratic Party of Harris County, collectively, despite the fact that the statute was obviously unconstitutional.  The Texas legislature, vocal in its claims of exceptional patriotism, had taken to frequently enacting statutes that flew in the face of the U.S. Constitution. That notwithstanding, a hyper-partisan super-majority on the Supreme Court, claiming to be originalists, interpreted the framers’ intentions quite differently from the way I viewed them. The Texas legislature was usually correct in assuming the Court would rule in its favor. Still, Malcolm Fielder felt compelled to argue in favor of the Democrats when their case came before the Court because, at the time, he believed in justice.

—

Malcolm arrived in court chambers early for the arguments, scheduled for 10:00 a.m. Short and stout, thinning grey hair that could have used a brush, and dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit in need of a good pressing, he did not appear to be a man who paid particular attention to his appearance. Years earlier, when he made his first appearance before the justices, he might have had a more polished look. That day, though, he was not there to make a dressed-for-success impression; the purpose of his appearance was entirely intellectual.

Mahogany benches and furnishings, marble columns, bronze and marble staircases, and sculpted marble panels lend an air of majesty to the court chamber and the surrounding spaces. The space, drenched in dignity and decorum, reminds all who enter that respect for the Supreme Court as an institution is not only expected, but demanded.

After the procedural rituals and niceties, Malcolm launched into his presentation.

“The absurdity of the charge is obvious on its face,” he began, “making accusations about religious ‘infractions’ and based on undefined terms like ‘enemies of the State’ to manipulate and prejudice the judicial system.”

“It seems to me,” Chief Justice Magness Clark interjected, “that your argument makes unsupported assumptions, suggesting there is only one way—from the perspective of religion—to look at the word ‘heretics.’ And why should we view efforts to manipulate and prejudice the judicial system as improper? That is precisely what lawyers aim to do whenever they argue before judges, isn’t it?”

Throughout the remainder of Malcolm’s arguments and then through the Assistant Texas Attorney General’s defense of the State’s charges, all nine members of the court asked questions and made comments that revealed their predetermined positions on the issues. Malcolm seemed undeterred by the justices’ apparent biases; he made clear arguments that would have swayed an earlier court. The composition and philosophies of this court, though, were very different from earlier times.

—

Soon after the Court’s ruling, which came down against members of the Democratic Party of Harris County, the number of members in the organization understandably plunged. Fearing a roundup and mass incarceration, members flooded Party headquarters with resignations by email, postal mail, text messages, and telephone calls. The drop in membership was matched by the withdrawal of candidates from a dozen races. Denise Fuego was not among those who withdrew. She said she understood why others had withdrawn, but she could not completely conceal her disappointment.

Certain memories—like long-dormant volcanoes—occasionally erupt unexpectedly. Their sudden and explosive power takes over all five senses, focusing one’s consciousness on a single experience in the past, to the complete exclusion of the present. When those all-consuming memories take hold, one’s brain erases awareness of the present, leaving the mind in an inexplicable limbo. That confused state permits those jarring memories to be hijacked by fear or longing, transforming historical reality into fantasy, tinged with truth. That transformation is where the flames of madness can ignite. If the fire is extinguished quickly, only a few ashes remain as evidence of combustion. If supplied with ample fuel, whisps of smoke from the conflagration become permanent pipedreams. But the results of glowing embers, beneath which are layers of cool combustibles, are difficult to predict; delusional sanity, though, is the most frequent outcome, characterized by listening to one’s dreams as if they were extracts from an instruction manual. Listen.

+++

Sunlight asked for permission before it shattered darkness, breaking out of the prison of night that surrounded it like a shroud. Whether or not permission had been granted, daytime would have emerged, deliberately and without constraints. Sunlight’s perfunctory requests are known to be polite expressions, to which the replies are obligatory. But, in fact, the responses to sunlight’s requests are irrelevant. Power is less intimidating when accompanied by humility, yet humility quickly transforms into seething anger when the expected response is not forthcoming.

+++

According to Google’s Generative AI response to the question, “What is guilt?,” there are three basic kinds:

• • Natural guilt, or remorse over something you did or failed to do
  • Free-floating, or toxic, guilt—the underlying sense of not being a good person
  • Existential guilt, the negative feeling that arises out of the injustice you perceive in the world

The Generative AI response goes into more detail:

Guilt can stem from:

• • Believing you’ve failed to fulfill expectations you or others have set
  • Surviving trauma or disaster
  • Guilt can also arise from a process of self-evaluation and introspection. It can involve your perception of how others value you.

Guilt can be difficult to endure and doesn’t go away easily. Some signs that you might be coping with a guilt complex include: Anxiety, Crying, Insomnia.

All three kinds of guilt probably can exist at the same time in the same person. That statement is not from Google’s Generative AI. Perhaps the most difficult to overcome is free-floating guilt; that kind of guilt probably arises from natural guilt that is allowed to fester. That having been said, though, overcoming remorse over action or inaction may take herculean effort, especially if the result of the act or failure to act causes or prolongs mental or physical pain in another person or otherwise creates in someone an intense level of distress. And failure to overcome that kind of guilt can lead to the free-floating sense of inadequacy or worse.

Understanding guilt does not necessarily enable one to overcome it, especially if getting to that understanding reveals aspects of one’s personality that the person cannot accept.

+++

Today is Tuesday. Wine discount day. Newspaper publishing day. A day for other things.

Local newspaper editors and their television-station-news-anchor counterparts do their part. They inform their respective publics about knifings, robberies, gang violence, murders by firearms, and other such information crucial to well-informed citizenry. News media with broader reaches—television networks and newspapers with national circulation—expand coverage beyond ambulance chases to include serial killings, mass-casualty events, and socio-political upheavals that hold the promise of generating explosive social rage. Global news outlets—television, streaming services, newspapers, etc.—encourage viewers and readers to think from an international perspective in terms of information that could portend the catastrophic end of civilization as we know knew it. With all that supportive guidance, who could avoid giving hopelessness and despair all the emotional room necessary to successfully overcome optimism? Compassion, once the rage, is no longer in fashion. Ferocious self-interest seems to have taken its place. But can we legitimately blame the media for our despondent self absorption? We tend to treat media messages as “truth,” accepting the messengers’ guidance about their meaning. Thus, we share the blame with the media. Because we do not know enough about how to interpret the “news,” we allow ourselves to be taught what to think. It’s all very smooth and unintrusive; we do not even realize we are complicit in our own ignorance. That (among other situations) is what sometimes makes me feel like swallowing a handful of razor blades. I’ve probably said all this before. So, treat me like an old-time leper.

+++

Fifteen-year-old photos of me reveal me to be an exceptionally over-chunky fat guy. Some more recent photos show the same guy in the same condition. A photo taken today would reveal a much leaner, but still fat, and much older-looking man. Greyer, thinner hair today; no longer willing to cooperate with a comb. I look healthier today than I did fifteen years ago, but in that time my body has battled two rounds of cancer, a couple of bouts of pneumonia, several miscellaneous illnesses, and a belligerent pancreas—probably more. Mentally and emotionally, today I am identical to myself of fifteen years ago but changed so completely that I cannot recognize myself. Odd that I am the identical twin of the person I once was, but I share no attributes, no characteristics, and no similarities of any kind with him.

+++

Off to church. Soon.

This morning, I depart from my usual “diary” style post, wandering into fiction. I doubt I’ll continue working on this. But maybe…

==================================

Glisten Pace loved to write. She was not a bad writer, but needed a lot of improvement before she could even think about getting published. Every week, she and a group of several other of her small-town neighbors gathered at a group member’s home, where they read aloud what they had written during the preceding week. Yesterday, Glisten began by reading her short story:

Though you won’t find Darkwater, Arkansas on maps—the place exists. If it existed only in my mind, the events that happened there could not have taken place. But they did.

Todd and Sharon were happily married—to other people—and it was not uncommon to hear people comment about how the two of them and their respective spouses seemed to be the perfect couples. Sharon’s husband, Steven, was a retired locomotive engineer who fancied himself an all-around handyman, archer, shade-tree-mechanic, and paintball enthusiast. Todd’s wife, Wendy, had retired from a career as a contract forensic accountant, consulting with law enforcement and with companies who suspected senior financial officers of ineptitude or criminality or both. 

By now, you know more about Todd’s and Sharon’s spouses than you do about the main characters involved in the activities I am about to describe. Let me resolve that matter.

Todd had “retired” as a low-mid-level redundant executive with a universally despised life insurance company. He tried to find a similar role with a similar company after his separation from the insurance outfit, but gave up soon thereafter when he discovered the intrinsic appeal of retirement.

Sharon had been grant manager for a philanthropic organization that supported human services non-profits with grant funds. She had enjoyed her job, but when the opportunity to take early retirement presented itself, she jumped at the chance. Coincidentally, Sharon’s retirement and Todd’s retirement began at roughly the same time.

Sharon and Steven moved to Darkwater within weeks of Todd and Susan making the same move. Todd and Sharon became good friends not long after, thanks to their common interest in tai chi, literature, and music. Their respective relationships with the other’s spouses were friendly and cordial, but not especially close, nor were the relationships between their respective spouses. 

“Enough! Let’s stop here and discuss what you’ve done. Do not tell the story…show it!” Annalee Hale, who considered herself the grand dame of local writers, made a point of criticizing before praising. She seemed to want her students to feel afraid of her, first, before they felt respect.

“It’s backstory,” Glisten responded. “I want to set the stage so the reader knows something about them. I can’t very well have them mention in casual conversation their job histories, can I? And I disagree that you always have to show. I believe a good story emerges from good story-telling.“

Annalee glared at Glisten, her demeanor suggesting contempt for someone who would dare question her.

“That’s just laziness!” Annalee bellowed. “You can supply the same information to the reader through carefully-crafted scenes…conversations, documents shared with the reader, a thousand other ways… Engage the reader! Make it easy on the reader, not the writer!”

==================================

Some stories are expressions of unresolved desires. Some are the detritus from a mental shipwreck. Still others are admonitions or warnings. I doubt it’s possible to know as much about a story simply by reading it as by first reading it, then thinking about it, exploring the author’s psyche (to the extent possible), and otherwise extracting motives from the writer.

I write a lot, but I cannot legitimately consider myself a writer. I repeat myself, for one thing. And I rarely finish what I start to write. Perhaps it’s fear that, if I finish it, I will discover that all the time and effort I’ve invested in it were wasted. Ach.

I like the idea of a place called Darkwater. I will visit the place one day. And I will visit other places I’ve manufactured in my skull; maybe one of them will come to life and tell the full story.

Practice makes impatient. I want to know without having to learn. The time spent in medical school is time withheld from treating patients who are in dire need of medical attention. Prospective dentists could save many more teeth if not for the delay in earning the right to engage in dentistry. Nonsense, of course. Simplicity is an impossible objective. If I were to sleep during my trip to the optometrist this morning, I would feel more rested when I arrive; but I would not arrive because alert consciousness is necessary to avoid traffic accidents. Yet it may be possible to convince oneself that the “car almost drives itself.”

+++

My eldest brother emailed a book to me yesterday—Time Shelter, by Bulgarian writer Georgi Gospodinov. Fortunately for me, the book he sent was an English translation. Though I’ve only skimmed through the first chapter thus far, I can tell the writing, the theme, and the story itself combine to make an intriguing read (for me, anyway). My posts on this blog, in which I muse about the nature of time, prompted my brother to send the book to me. I am fascinated by the concept of time and the ease with which “time changes everything.” Time simultaneously is rigid and endlessly flexible. Looking at the world through each of time’s many lenses is both enormously satisfying and hopelessly confusing. The concept of time travel is moderately frightening; physically moving oneself while visiting a temporary dimension of time can cause potentially deadly dislocations upon returning to the original moment, but in a different place. Movement in the absence of time has the potential for tearing reality into ragged strips, leaving only shreds of uncertainty where facts once stood.

+++

There’s nothing more of consequence inside my head. I need conversation to rekindle creativity.

We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak.

~ Epictetus ~

Those words may raise a question for people who identify as writers. What would Epictetus say to them? Perhaps:

We have two eyes and favor one hand over another for writing, so we can read twice as much as we write.

~ Epictetus ~ (maybe)

This causes another possibility to pop up:

We have one mouth and one brain; someone who relies on the former instead of the latter may be labeled “mouthy,” while the reverse could prompt a label of “brainy.”

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The plain old voice-only telephone (or today’s basic cell phone) is wholly unsatisfactory as a two-way communications device. Talking over one another. One party asking another to repeat what was said (thanks to talk-over). Words are exchanged over the phone; facial expressions and other such cues to a party’s emotional state are not. Telephone voices, although often recognizable to those involved in the conversation, lack the depth—the resonant fullness—of face-t0-face, person-to-person conversations. Those unsatisfactory aspects of telephones contribute substantially to my preference for conversations that take place in the same room. Video calls are better than voice-only phones, but they lack almost as much dimension as do their image-less counterparts.

Perhaps oddly, even though vocal inflection is missing in text-based messages (email or instant messenger applications), I prefer them to voice-only. The knowledge that I can delay replying, even for a microscopically short moment, gives me more time to understand the message, before thinking of a response or reaction. Face-to-face discussions tend to be more forgiving, still, lending themselves to an unspoken mutual agreement that both participants are free to think aloud. Potential problems exist there, though, inasmuch as confusing, convoluted free-form thinking may stray from the topic at hand. But those are some of the most appealing and engaging conversations.

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For quite some time, my interest in detective/private investigator (PI)/etc. work has been growing. Movies and series that depict the role as potentially exciting and probably interesting have, no doubt, contributed to my interest. This morning, out of idle curiosity, I explored what’s required to become a PI in Arkansas. First, to apply for a PI license, “Arkansas requires two years of consecutive on-the-job training with a licensed investigations company before you can apply for licensure.” Applicants must: be at least 21 (I qualify); pass a background check; pass a written examination with a grade of at least 70%; squeak by (at least) on a mental evaluation; a few others. Oh, and pay a fee of $486.25. I think I could swing all that, though finding a job and working two years in a PI company might be a challenge. Just waiting two years would be quite the challenge. Another option, I suppose, that’s probably even more challenging, might be to go to work in a police department, as a detective; but that probably requires a couple of years as a beat cop, first. That might be a real obstacle. I might as well apply to medical school, aiming to become a neurosurgeon. The biggest problem with this area of my interest is that, even after finding a job and getting certified as a PI, I would be expected to work a significant number of hours every week. I do not want to work a significant number of hours every week. I want to work at will and pause for breaks for days or weeks or months at a time. Although, if I could get a job with a police department as a homicide detective, I would be willing to put in the extra hours. Documentaries about homicide investigations sparked my interest in that specialty. This is all fantasy, isn’t it? And I know it, right? I am just daydreaming. I do a lot of that.

Openness to new ideas or different perspectives is incompatible with fear. Fear tends to malignantly transform belief into certainty and opinion into fact. Though fear can provide a protective warning against danger, left unchecked, that protection can morph into paranoia. Paranoia supplies an endless supply of fuel for malignant transformations, enabling the erasure of the dividing lines between belief and fact, opinion and certainty. How, then, can useful, protective fear be prevented from making the transition to paranoia? Answers are hard to come by in turbulent times, when neither progressive nor conservative outlooks offer reliable shields against unfounded beliefs and flawed opinions. Especially in times of chaos, fierce intellectual independence—that treats claims and assertions from all quarters with healthy skepticism—provides a buffer between gullibility and disbelief. Independence tends to minimize bias, whereas both left-leaning and right-leaning perspectives, by nature, invite and celebrate bias (though usually while denying the existence of bias in their points of view). Realistically, though, unbiased perspectives exist only in fantasies; pure rationality is entirely theoretical. Independent thinkers are biased, but their biases are contextual, rather than universal. I might call myself an independent thinker, but whether I am biased to the left or right would depend on the context of an issue. Two independent thinkers might have diametrically opposed biases, of course, which would open each of them to being labeled with “left biases” or “right biased,” depending on the context of the issue in question. What does all this mean? It depends on one’s perspective.

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Life’s difficult moments often summon conflicting emotions that, on the surface, may be difficult to understand. Beneath the surface, though, the conflicting emotions make sense; they acknowledge the connections between joy and sorrow, for example. Pain may arise from memories of joyous occasions that are no longer possible. But pleasurable memories of joyous occasions can keep the pain in check. Emotions, both positive and negative, help define humanity. We can be happy and sad at the same time for the same reason. Complexity, too, helps define the nature of our existence.

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I wish I could record my thoughts at the same speed at which they occur. Second best would be the ability to “play back” my thoughts so I could capture my thinking. Unfortunately, I can remember details of only a tiny fraction of my thoughts, so my records of what I was thinking at any given moment are, at best, incomplete. A ten-minute musing might cover a ten-year period of time. Though much of the memory of that musing is inconsequential, some of it—which I never can fully remember—is vital to a story I want to write or tell. In some cases, I manufacture something (often completed unrelated to the forgotten moments) to replace the lost thoughts. But the replacements are never as satisfying as were the missing pieces. I have tried to record my voice, which covers far more ground in the same amount of time than does typing, but I cannot speak fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. The result often is an incoherent set of mumblings whose only practical use might be as evidence in a court mental commitment proceeding. Such is life. On a scale of one to ten, the importance of my inability to record my thoughts as fast as they occur would fall somewhere somewhere between minus one hundred thousand and minus ninety-nine thousand.

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Rain. Again. I love rain; I do. But I prefer it to stop when I want to go outside. Rain either doesn’t hear my wishes or it doesn’t care. So I sit at my desk, late in the morning, engaging in slovenly behavior. Take the world as it comes. Excluding the violence, famine, disease, hatred, pain, natural disasters, poverty, paralyzing fear, and everything else that infringes on the comfort and happiness of all the beings in the universe in which we live. Fantasy. Pure, irrational fantasy.

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Another visit with the oncologist this afternoon. Between now and then, I need to go to the pharmacy, etc. to pick up prescriptions and supplies. And I should eat something. And, before I venture out into this rainy weather, I should try to accept the world as it is.

You’re too old. Those words sting, at first. But as their meaning sinks in, they take away strength in the legs and empty the lungs of air. Suddenly, breathing is not only impossible, it is undesirable. The only desire remaining is the longing to throw oneself into a bottomless black abyss where consciousness ceases to exist. Too old? Too old for what? Too old to serve in the military, become a police officer, pilot a commercial aircraft, join government clandestine services, and a thousand other things. But those are just jobs—they don’t equate to a person’s value, do they? Do they?

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The timing was right. Right before I called yesterday for an appointment with the dermatology nurse, someone had just called to cancel an appointment this morning, so I am scheduled for 9:15 today. And when I called the optometrist’s office for an appointment, I was able to get on the schedule for this upcoming Friday morning. I recently had been forced to cancel earlier appointments with both of them, thanks to appointments with my oncologist. When her office unexpectedly asks me to come in, that takes precedence. The dermatology and optometry appointments both are moderately pressing in importance, but oncology appointments eclipse them. Speaking of calls from the oncologist’s office, I got one yesterday: they want me there tomorrow, even though my next appointment had been set for next week. And so I will go for an interim adjustment infusion. Even if I were not too old, my commitments to healthcare appointments would not leave me time to serve in age-restricted activities. I feel okay, except for the fact that I have limited control over my schedule—when the appointment bell rings, I behave like Pavlov’s dogs. As annoying as that can be, though, I realize how much better it is than having none of those appointments.

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Mi novia is away for awhile, so I have considerable time to myself at the moment. I should be using that time productively, but my own thoughts distract me. Unless I can devote an entire day to productive activities, I tend to get very little done. So, for example, when I have errands to run, I fritter away much of the time I might otherwise have devoted to being productive at home. I could still get things done, of course, but my personality insists that I need a full day of uninterrupted time to devote to productivity…even if the time I need to accomplish my tasks is only a few hours. Procrastination? It’s not quite that; it’s more a strange psychosis that resembles sloth, but it’s not that, either. Therapy might h help…if only I could find a suitable therapist with whom I could feel absolutely comfortable. Of course, I realize there are few people on Earth with whom I feel absolutely comfortable, so I have quite the obstacle to overcome. I am a nearly-full-time recluse; partly by choice, partly by circumstance. I have limited tolerance for being around people, even for those I like and whose company I enjoy—even my own company. That probably makes me seem more than a little aloof. Have I mentioned that before in my random musings?

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Time to scramble to get ready to go out!

Another day, the same images. Grey skies, green trees, cat sitting on her perch looking out the windows—an endless, repetitive loop. Thin fog, high in the trees, causes the tops of forest green pines to appear sage. On my drive to pick up groceries, fog thicker than what I had seen through the windows at home, enshrouded the upper branches of the trees. A short while later, on the return trip, the haziness of the treetops had brightened a bit. Despite the improvement, the morning remains gloomy. Some days are better this way, though. If this morning had been bright and sunny, I would have witnessed a deliberate attempt by Nature to put me at odds with my environment. As if I did not belong in the same dimension as the world around me. Often, when I feel as I do this morning, I think of the lyrics of a song I enjoy: You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness… As if feeling melancholy and mournful are emotions to relish, rather than reject. Ach, for no apparent reasons, the mind can find its way into tangled mazes that have no entry and no exit points…and in there wander aimlessly until it exhausts its source of sullen fuel.

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Ever since I started chemotherapy a few months ago, my hunger for beef has diminished considerably. The idea of a nice steak or burger can appeal to me, but my interest declines precipitously after the first bite. It’s not just beef; pork and chicken similarly are of declining attraction for me. I have been a fan of many kinds of sausages (beef or pork or mixed) for as long as I can recall, but lately I find them too fat-laden for my taste. I am not complaining. I rather appreciate the fact that I do not have such a strong hunger for meats. I am curious, though, about what is causing my change in taste. Is it the chemo? Or is there another reason for me to lose my attraction to meat products? When I have such questions, I tend to inquire of Google as to the answer. But I have not done so, yet. Maybe I will. Maybe not.

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If you discover that I have posted nothing new for several days, fear not. It is probable that I am attempting to recover my creativity and sharpen my ability to think and write and question everything.