John Swinburn

Living at the end of a cul-de-sac in a mixed hardwood and pine forest satisfies my craving for solitude. But when that craving has been fully met for an extended period, I sometimes long for human interaction. That yearning for engagement takes two distinct forms: 1) a desire to anonymously and casually observe strangers go about their lives; and 2) an eagerness to experience the luxury of being in the company of friends or family or acquaintances whose presence can help block the discomfort that comes with exposure to the collective flaws of humanity.

What I’ll call observational experience can take place almost anywhere; a place in the presence of strangers where I can watch people. I remember standing in the middle of various bridges over the Chicago River, watching people scurry about. While I watched, I concocted stories about many of those anonymous strangers. I knew where they lived, their housekeeping habits, the kinds of people in their social networks, and the extent to which living or working in the city either satisfied their dreams or stood as an obstacle to achieving them. Their lives, although completely different from mine, were absolutely familiar to me. Knowing them, the way I did, I was safe with them and from them.

Engaged experience is my term for the kind of intimacy among people who are close; a completely anonymous stranger would not fit in that group of people. That level of closeness almost always involves emotional connections, perhaps tempered with something like intellectual parity. Intellectual parity, alone, cannot create the kind of bond to which I refer. Engaged experiences tend to be the most fulfilling (though both are appealing and satisfying), but they can change from comfortable relationships to difficult and unpleasant relationships in the blink of an eye. That potential for change (and the fact that dissolving connections gone awry with people in that sphere can be so difficult) tends to cause people, especially introverts, to slow the development of such relationships.

But, back to living in the woods. I am used to the privacy and the quiet. I like the aloneness living here provides. Yet it is the periodic visit by forest inhabitants that unexpectedly thrill me. Yesterday afternoon, I glanced out a front window to see a large deer saunter down the street directly in front of my house. It is not at all uncommon to see such sights; nonetheless, I am almost giddy with excitement when they occur. If what I saw, instead, was a human figure walking by, I would be at once curious and a little alarmed. The deer’s motives, from my perspective, are pure and unthreatening. Even though I know about as much about the man as I do about the deer, I distrust him. Whereas the deer has ample innocent reason to stroll by my house, I assume the man’s motives are not in my best interests. Fortunately, it is much more likely for me to see a deer walk by than for me to see a man pass by my house. Which is largely responsible for my happiness with my home’s location. If I had 2000 acres of land, surrounded by an impenetrable electrical fence, I might feel even more secure and comfortable in my solitude.

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I wrote a lengthy paragraph about my longing to create a third place. My connection was lost, though, and there is no record of what I wrote except in my mind. I am too tired/lazy to try to reconstruct it.  That’s upsetting; I was getting all excited about my ideas for a third place.

1. The planned half-hour visit at the oncology center this afternoon is being extended to 2 hours +/-. More fluids and magnesium and something to minimize the joint and muscle pain. Chemo apparently impacts patients in different ways, so every visit seems to involve adjustments to treatment. We had hoped for a quick visit, followed by some lunch…lunch will be later than planned. That is not a problem, though, as I have not been hungry for quite some time. But I need to eat, especially protein. A small NY strip might do the trick. Or something else…something light and not too filling. Deep boredom accompanies me to these sessions. One day, this will be finished. With good fortune, it will be complete, successful, and…history. When, though?

What should occupy one’s mind at any given moment? The answer, regardless of what it is, consists of a judgment. What “should” happen now? What “should” happen next? Depending on my mood, my response might begin by defining “should.”

must; ought (used to indicate duty, propriety, or expediency)
used to express an expectation
used to express a correction

Next would come my soliloquy on all the expectations we heap upon ourselves. There would be no purpose for launching into a speech, yet the urge to orate—when it comes—is unstoppable. And on and on and on. One thing after another and before the next. Over and over and over again until a quarter past the end of Time. That’s as close to purpose as we will ever get. We will forget it, though, before a complete memory forms and suddenly turns to warm mist. Old, inaccessible, recollections strewn with embarrassment take physical form when their use as memories is no longer viable. The burial vaults and wrought-iron fences of Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 in New Orleans began taking physical form in in 1833, paralleling the death of a number of New Orleanians. Clever survivors of family violence and farm accidents and attempted murders on Bourbon Street took to having elaborate stone carving made to mark the graves of their prominent predecessors. More than a little black magic prompted the creation of those headstones and private stone grottos. Rumor had it that an eternal resting place untouched by black magic would become a cauldron of unspeakable agony for the resident, hence the proliferation of stone grave markers. At least that’s the story I’ve been telling to children I’ve wanted to terrify.

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Another trip to the oncologist’s office today, this time to get routine blood work done and talk to the doctor and/or her nurse. I’ll request a new prescription for painkillers, inasmuch as there’s just one tablet left. Ideally, the aches and pains will disappear by later this morning; still, I’ll get the tablets just in case I need them for the next chemo session, two weeks hence. If this series of chemo rounds is like the last one, though, I’ll be back to see the oncologist at least once or twice a week.

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Three significant shots last night of powerful Crown Royal Peach Whiskey, coupled with two gummies, led me to sleep long enough to feel at least moderately rested this morning. I hadn’t had anything alcoholic for a week or thereabouts, so my intoxicating intake was enough to put me right to sleep, though I woke a few times during the night. Still, though, I feel close to becoming a member of the human species again this morning.

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I began this morning by focusing on the top of my head, first, then moving down slowly to the back of my head, my shoulders, and my chest and arms. My focus was to drain the stresses from every part of my body. I got part way there. I think I need instruction. Or a coach. Or an enabler. Or something. I can be distracted by a swirl of abstract black & white shapes I see through my shut eyes. I remain convinced the way to achieve complete relaxation is to be sedated by a skilled anesthetist for four days running. It could be three, could be seven; whatever is the “correct” number of days to remain in a comatose state. The combination of meditation and medication could be troublesome, though, so I’ll do whichever is safest. Except I sometimes need to take some risks. Maybe I do not need to; I just want to. I wonder if I am alone in getting the more-than-occasional urge to take risks? What is it about risks that rattle one’s brain? It is the fact that risk and romance both stimulate the same neural pathways (actually, I just made that up…may be or may not be true).

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Progressive anarchy may be the fairest and most efficient form of governance. Or, maybe, progressive monarchy. Or benevolent matriarchy.

The aches and pains and upset stomach are lingering far too long. But they could last even longer. I read answers to this question posed on an American Cancer Society website, “How long does it take for Taxol side effects to go away?”

“Many side effects go away fairly quickly, but some might take months or even years to go away completely. These are called late effects. Sometimes the side effects can last a lifetime, such as when chemo causes long-term damage to the heart, lungs, kidneys, or reproductive organs.”

I hope Taxol has not caused and is not causing long-term damage to my heart, lungs, kidneys, etc. And I hope the side effects I am experiencing will disappear soon. Already, though, they have lasted longer than the three or four days M.D. Anderson Cancer Center says is typical of their duration. My chemo treatment was last Thursday; I am now in the day five aftermath. The pain has diminished considerably, but there is room for more comfort in and around my joints, muscles, and other component parts. If each chemotherapy session mimics this one, I will take a strong disliking to every one of them. I should not complain, though; better now than I felt a couple of days ago.

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Mi novia drove my car to the auto repair shop this morning, where she left it to be coddled and nurtured and otherwise treated with tenderness and compassion (because, in her view, I think, I am too weak and fatigued…unfit to drive or even ride as a passenger). The morning reacted to the trip with growling and grimacing, filling the sky with menacing thunder and threatening lightning. Light grey clouds filter most of the sun’s light, as if hiding celestial dangers behind mysterious clumps of poisonous smoke. Those angry clouds appear dull and rounded, but they are as sharp as scalpels and as lethal as grenades. A particularly loud clap of thunder can spray blood-soaked blades and devastating shrapnel into the far reaches of the edge of the universe, a place where safety failed to find a hiding place. One’s imagination can rip comfort to shreds, leaving it frayed and torn and nearly disemboweled. A demonic morning transforms into an era of bleakness and hopeless regret. Where does all this gloom originate? The solution is laughter, of course; howling, screeching, shrieking laughter.

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Enough of this!

A quick look at the websites of the New York Times, NPR, Associated Press, etc., etc. has left me thoroughly unimpressed with this morning’s news. And Facebook disappoints me, as usual. So does CNN. And damn near everything else delivered by way of the internet. I cannot imagine that any “entertainment” on television or in newspapers would be interesting, either. Even the trees outside my window and the milky-white sky are dull and unattractive. Weeds in the “rock garden” are troublesome, too. Everything in my field of vision has all the appeal of a grainy, out-of-focus photograph of a hideous, dusty moonscape.

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A pain killer that had been prescribed for me last December, paired with a gummy, got me through the night in reasonable comfort. But they had worn off before 6 this morning. Though I am still waiting for the pain killer I took an hour and a half ago to start working, this morning’s aches pale—so far—in comparison to yesterday’s. My preference, of course, is to feel no pain at all, in part because whining is terribly unbecoming of me, both physically and mentally. Picture, if you will, the whimpering—very nearly weeping—of an old man as he suffers through the unpleasantness of drug-induced arthritis. The pain may not approach a level I could legitimately label agony, but I am behaving as if it does. The morning would be much more appealing to me if my pain would suddenly disappear. Poking fun at myself might help minimize the discomfort brought about by Taxol. If that’s what it takes, I will mock myself mercilessly. Seriously, the pain is nowhere near as unpleasant as it was yesterday, but I’ll complain about it just as fiercely as if it were.

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The cost of a first-class Forever postage stamp has just increased from 68¢ to 73¢. Even with that 5¢ increase, a U.S. first-class stamp is the least expensive among those available from more than 25 other countries. Japan, Brazil, Serbia, and Russia (as of June 2023) were the only countries’ first-class stamps that cost less than U.S. stamps. I am amazed by the fact that an average #10 envelope and a single sheet of paper contents can be physically delivered from Miami, Florida to Seattle, Washington for such a low price. The current pricing structure of the U.S. Postal Service is hemorrhaging red ink, though, which makes the price of a stamp seem ridiculously low and/or the service mind-numbingly inefficient.

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That is all.

A short while ago, mi novia persuaded me to cancel this morning’s scheduled appointment for my car’s maintenance, insisting I should not be driving in my condition. Though my joint pain and body aches are not as bad as they were at their worst, yesterday, they remain severe enough that they could make me a danger behind the wheel. I took two tablets of Motrin at 2:00 a.m., after taking two tablets seven hours earlier. The maximum recommended 24 hour dosage is six tablets; I want something considerably stronger. If I promise to use morphine or fentanyl responsibly, perhaps my doctor would prescribe an unlimited supply of one or the other? Wishful thinking, I am afraid. I will call her in a little while, though, to seek pain relief of some sort. And I will try to reschedule my car’s maintenance soon.

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Incoherent thoughts get in the way of contemplation. Efforts to think clearly are almost pointless in the face of moderate confusion—and impossible when confronted with full-on distraction. Headaches and body aches and worries and weakness scramble the brain’s attempts to given focused consideration to anything. Ideas transform into smoke and emptiness. Curiosity sinks like a stone, disappearing into an opaque, bottomless ocean. Even fire grows cold and rigid, its once red and orange flames turning muddy grey and obsidian black. Meaning degrades into useless vapor, leaving dull patches of triviality in place of everything it should have touched.

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I am unable to assemble even fragmented thoughts. So I will stop trying.

The side effects of the latest round of chemo treatments (including taxol) took two days to hit me. And when they hit, they hit quite hard. By mid-afternoon on Saturday, my knees started to ache; a couple of hours later, the pain had amplified several-fold. By 7 p.m., I felt the same level of pain in my elbows, wrists, shoulders, back, etc. During the course of the night, it intensified; every joint, muscle, and tendon felt a level of arthritis-like pain I have never before felt. The pain persists now, around 11:00 a.m., but it is not quite as intense as it was earlier—thanks, probably, to acetaminophen. According to a Mayo Clinic website, chemo-caused “pain in the joints or muscles, especially in the arms or legs…usually does not need medical attention.” Regardless, I will call the oncology clinic tomorrow to inquire. If there’s something I can take to lessen the level of pain, I would like to have it available. Ach! I anticipated possible hair-loss or thinning within the first three weeks of treatment, but I did not expect this. I should have remembered, though, that when my late wife underwent chemo for her breast cancer in 2003, the effects of taxol on her were pretty brutal.

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Between brief periods of sleep last night, I checked my phone for news. The all-consuming national news disturbed me, of course, as I considered what happens to a nation’s psyche after a traumatic event like an attempted assassination. If only human decency would again capture the national spirit, the future might hold some promise.

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Enough for now. I want to rest and minimize the damn pain.

Starting over. The thought of beginning a new chapter in one’s life prompts feelings of both excitement and fear. The idea simultaneously is inviting and daunting. But starting over is more than beginning a new chapter. Starting over erases old obstacles—and old accomplishments. Starting over rebuilds a life on an old foundation; maybe even building a new foundation on which to construct a new life. Discarding old chapter outlines to serve as guides. Weaving new fabric with fresh thread. All sorts of challenging metaphors apply. A young person with only a few years invested in building his life probably finds starting over challenging but doable. Middle age, arguably the time of life in which starting over is more commonly attempted, requires a person to abandon more of her investment in time and energy in order to try to start over. When one who has spent even more time—nearly a lifetime—writing the chapters of his life (or allowing the chapters to be written), starting over becomes considerably more difficult; circumstances may make it impossible, or almost so. Abundant and momentous challenges to beginning anew may dull whatever appeal starting over has: where to live; how to make new friends; who will join in the renewal; new doctors and other healthcare concerns; and on and on. And perhaps the most significant challenge of all: are the reasons to start over sufficient to merit the stresses and strains and loss of what is to be replaced? The reasons for starting over probably are as numerous as the people who try; certainly as numerous as the people who succeed. The core issue, of course, is whether starting over is primarily intended to change the life that heretofore has been lived or the person who has lived it? I think about this quite a lot. I never reach any steadfast conclusions. Sometimes, though, I think starting over becomes impossible at some point in a person’s life. When that point is reached, though, I think differs from person to person. And learning when that point has been reached requires a person to try, and fail, to start over. I have not stopped pondering these ideas; more to come, I suspect.

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Last night was quite enjoyable. Good food, good conversation, and lots of laughs. Casual. Comfortable. The kind of evening that is both stimulating and relaxing.

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My skepticism about the validity of  information from the internet grows with every passing day. Even sources I once I thought I could rely on for unbiased accuracy increasingly disappoint me with obvious slant and more and more frequent misinformation. Far right and far left so-called facts spread like wildfire, fueled by what seem to me intentional lies distributed by people and organizations who do not trust the truth to support their positions…so they manufacture facts to suit them. Fact-checking is becoming more and more difficult because reliable information sources are becoming harder and hard to find. I often feel it necessary to preface anything I pass along from the internet with something to the effect that “if it is true, and I would not stake my life that it is…” or “I cannot vouch for its accuracy (or its inaccuracy), but …” But I have learned that my cautions are not necessarily heard. All I can do, I think, is to express philosophies about how people should behave and how the world should work and not pass judgments on anyone or anything unless I have ALL the facts, which I typically do not. Yet what I think I can do I often fail to do. So I am as guilty as the next person for failing to direct my own thoughts to what is “right.” And  we’re all destined to suffer the same fate; humanity is doomed. We cannot be surprised, can we? We’ve had plenty of time to evolve into decent creatures but we’ve squandered our time on self-serving wars and other such power-grabs. I could go on about that for a week and a half, but I won’t. Not just now, anyway.

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I will drink another little cup of espresso. It may calm my nerves and settle my brain. It may not. Only time will tell.

I hoped for a shorter-than-advertised session with the oncologist yesterday. Hope is wasted energy. We arrived at 8:45 a.m. We left the oncology center at 5:20 p.m. I know little more now than I did when I arrived. Apparently, though, the carboplatin desensitization process worked; after it was completed, I was given a full dose of carboplatin and, as far as I can tell, I did not die from an allergic reaction.  And I was given a full dose of taxol. And a large infusion of magnesium. And an infusion of Benadryl that made me sleepy (but did no put me to sleep), and several little doses of various other stuff. It was a LONG day. I return Monday for more blood work and then again later this month for another long (but, I hope, not quite so long) treatment. And, I hope, additional information/updates. They will have me get another PET scan about 3 months after the most recent one. Little by little, I will learn what my body is doing to/for me.  In the meantime, no month-long road trips, I suppose.

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An online essay from the July 8 edition of the New York Times, entitled “The American Elevator Explains Why Housing Costs Have Skyrocketed,” offers a fascinating perspective on underlying causes of increasing home prices. Among them, according to the author, are special interests whose financial goals often conflict with one another but whose greed run in parallel. Developers want to maximize their profits by minimizing costs; union contractors want maximize their income by maximizing pay rates. Both focus, then, on what is best for themselves, sometimes (frequently?) at the expense of their end-use customers: the people who will occupy the structures they plan and build. I would not deny reasonable income to either developers or to contractors. The problem, in my mind, is who defines reasonable. I tend to support unions far more than I do developers, but I think unions can go much too far in their battles to maximize their members’ financial positions.  And the politicians and others who bend to the demands of unions are just as guilty. In my opinion, though, developers probably use their political and financial prowess to secure political support at the expense of both contractors and home-buyers. The article, by the way, extrapolates from the elevator experience to the home-building experience.  The elevator experience is what initially attracted my interest. The author, Stephen Smith, first explained the problems with elevators in this country and then illustrated the difference in price for American versus European elevators:

Elevators in North America have become over-engineered, bespoke, handcrafted and expensive pieces of equipment that are unaffordable in all the places where they are most needed. Special interests here have run wild with an outdated, inefficient, overregulated system. Accessibility rules miss the forest for the trees. Our broken immigration system cannot supply the labor that the construction industry desperately needs. Regulators distrust global best practices and our construction rules are so heavily oriented toward single-family housing that we’ve forgotten the basics of how a city should work

…

A basic four-stop elevator costs about $158,000 in New York City, compared with about $36,000 in Switzerland. A six-stop model will set you back more than three times as much in Pennsylvania as in Belgium.

What does it matter than I have read the article and feel that I better understand some of the cost-drivers of housing and elevator construction? Will I take any actions toward addressing the inadequacies and unfairness of the system? Short of calling for a series of massively advertised, highly focused, non-political national discussions aimed toward ways of achieving maximum fairness, best practices, at the lowest costs in EVERY sector of the economy, what other windmills might I tilt at? Children and idealistic old men and women, alone, view windmills as worthy of our attention. Is there anything else we can do and be equally as ineffective?

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Off to the bank in a while to complete the transfer of officer signatories for the church accounts. And, later, dinner with mi novia‘s daughter and, I hope, with mi novia‘s daughter’s father (who is AKA known as mi novia‘s former husband). I think I’ve said before I am glad to see that people who go through a divorce can remain friends; he is an intelligent guy, very interesting and pleasant to be around. Today will be a pressure-reduction day for me, I hope, easing the stress of yesterday’s unexpectedly long day of dealing with a downside of cancer. My advice: don’t get cancer—but if you do, go with the flow and float. Fight it, but try not to get caught in the rapids and drown in the process.

Today will be a long one at the oncology center. My patient portal indicates I will be there for five-and-a-half hours; my hope is that it will not take that long. But the Taxol (brand name for Paclitaxel) infusion alone, if I am to believe what I’ve read on the internet, will take around three hours. Add to that the time required for the other IV drugs and fluids, the blood draw, the conversation with the oncologist, and flushing the IV line, and I would not be surprised at five-and-a-half hours. During what I had hoped would be the only course of chemotherapy, which started in January, I often returned at least once or twice a week (if not more frequently) for blood draws and subsequent drug adjustments. It’s not like I have other pressing business, of course, but I prefer absolute freedom. Most of us do, I suspect. I hope to hear an updated prognosis, but I imagine it may be too early for that; only after the drugs have been given time to work and measures of their effectiveness taken can I legitimately expect anything more concrete than “we’ll have to wait and see.” Not that my oncologist would say that to me.  And so, Grasshopper, practice patience until that characteristic becomes your natural reaction to all thing that call for waiting.

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It’s jarring, the sense that the future is on hold until questions about its viability have been answered. But that truth is common—pervasive. We cannot know what will be until we know what is. Even then, we can only guess. And we do not seem to be able to agree of what has been. History, which cannot be changed, often is. Perception interprets reality; history is contextual and individual-specific. Two people who shared the same experience may recall completely different historical records of “what happened.”

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Enough thought for now.

Apathy once was of great concern to almost everyone. But nobody cares anymore. That’s just one more deeply-fatigued manipulation of a time-worn play on words. Uniqueness in creativity becomes harder to achieve with every new-born baby. Babies are not simply cute, innocent little beings—potential competitors, every one of them. Eventually—and it could happen today or ten years from now—all fresh, new creative thoughts will have been expressed. Every single creative idea will have been previously expressed, making it impossible to unearth more—they all will have become tarnished by use. Any new expressions of creativity claimed as one’s own will be taken as incontrovertible evidence of plagiarism. The penalties for plagiarism will rise sharply when creativity disappears. Short prison sentences will be replaced by something more meaningful—death by firing squad or guillotine…or public hangings. By that time, of course, the penalties for breaking traffic laws—speeding, rolling stop at a stop sign, unsafe lane changes, etc.—will involve public flogging. At some point beyond that moment, all crimes, no matter how petty, will be addressed with the same punishment: submersal, with no breathing apparatus, in a shark cage. Jaywalking or parking in a no-parking zone or any other minor infraction will be penalized by drowning. The immediacy of sentencing and the repeal of all appeal processes will result in an early surge of executions, followed by a period of terror-induced peace.

Cavender Baker had been proud to be a police officer. He served on the force with honor for twenty-eight years, beginning when he was only twenty years old. But changes in the statutes that resulted in treating once-lawful behaviors as capital crimes turned him against the law. His retirement at forty-eight came as no surprise, inasmuch as  he said too openly and too often, “Anyone serving as a police officer today should either quit or be treated as a threat to freedom and democracy and be disposed of accordingly.”

Four days after his retirement, Baker was bicycling toward his home after visiting Chamber’s Liquors when stopped by a police cruiser. The driver and his partner claimed Baker had unsafely crossed into the lane for motor vehicle traffic. Baker’s very vocal disagreement led to his forced placement inside a shark cage, now carried in all cruisers.

The police department docks were jammed with police cars and SUVs. Empty shark cages, wet from their recent submersion in the cold waters of Friendly Bay, were stacked on one side of the submersion point. Cages filled with screaming occupants littered the other side. Big metal dumpsters next to the wet shark cages were almost overflowing with big black plastic sacks. A crane swiveled over the full cages and carefully snagged one of them with a hook, when swung it over the water and lowered it into the bay. Five minutes later, the cage was hoisted out of the water, emptied of its criminals, and deposited on the stack of empty shark cages.

Cavender Baker knew a thing or two about escaping from a shark cage and disposing of morally corrupt police officers. Despite the fact that creativity was nearing extinction, it had not completely played out.

Already I’ve lost interest in what happens to Baker. Ach.

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Discard all you are not and go ever deeper. Just as a man digging a well discards what is not water, until he reaches the water-bearing strata, so must you discard what is not your own, till nothing is left which you can disown. You will find that what is left is nothing which the mind can hook on to. You are not even a human being. You just are—a point of awareness, co-extensive with time and space and beyond both, the ultimate cause, itself uncaused. If you ask me ‘Who are you?,’ my answer would be: ‘Nothing in particular. Yet, I am.’

~ Nisargadatta Maharaj ~

I am surprised at myself for, first, reading all the way through the above quote and, second, thinking I understand the author’s points and—moreover—agreeing with them. Nisargadatta Maharaj was, according to Wikipedia, an Indian guru of nondualism. Nondualism, I recently learned, is a viewpoint that questions the boundaries conventionally imposed between self and other, mind and body, observer and observed, and other dualities that help shape our perceptions of reality. In other words, nondualism seems to be one form of ‘woo-woo;’ but an unusual form I can understand and, possibly, embrace. According to someone, writing under the name Gobinda Sardar, Nisargadatta Maharaj ‘taught that there is no individual self , no world , no God , no creation , no liberation , nothing but the absolute reality which he called ‘I am,” I sometimes question the existence of the world, creation, liberation, etc. I regularly assert my disbelief in God. I wonder, though, about the self and liberation and other matters that may tend to mislead our perceptions of what and where and when we are. Most of the time, though, I keep such issues buried under mounds and mounds of irrelevant thoughts.

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Tomorrow, finally, I go back to the oncologist. I’ve been waiting more than a week to learn next steps. I learned yesterday, by viewing a document I earlier had missed in my patient portal, that my new/replacement chemo drugs will be carboplatin (after being desensitized to it) and taxol. I think I’ll still be on Keytruda, but I’m not sure. Taxol, I’ve read, causes most patients to lose their hair; it either goes away entirely or it thins a lot. I’ll ask the doc about whether I should expect to lose my hair. That does not bother me in the least. What bothers me this morning is the knowledge that this new chemo process is an experiment. There is no assurance it will work. That was true, of course, of the first set of chemotherapies, as well. We shall see.

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I do not hear the buzzing or ringing or pounding in my ears. Instead, I feel them inside me; in my head, in my chest, in my legs, everywhere. They can be loud, but not loud in the traditional aural sense. On the other hand, they can be nearly silent and almost sensually invisible; I sense them, but most people do not…as far as I know. I can only imagine what silence—absolute silence—is like. To experience the complete absence of sound and all its related vibrations must be glorious. I think about that frequently. But I cannot really imagine it, because I do not know what it is like. Noise, real and imagined, is my constant companion. Fortunately, many years of living with it has enabled me to often block much of its intrusive, annoying, irritating character. But that is equivalent to hiding noise beneath layers of different noises. Replacing the sound of piercing screams with the noise of sirens…fire trucks and ambulances and police cars. I make it sound worse than it is. Once you come to grips with it, your periods of aural rage or terror diminish in volume and frequency.

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The first taste of espresso this morning was…how do I best express this?…horrible. Another gulp confirmed the unpleasant surprise. Excessively bitter, somewhat metallic, utterly unlike the pleasing flavor I associate with coffee.  As I sit here, resigned to discarding the remainder of the wretched stuff in my cup, I wonder whether the coffee beans used in the powdery grinds went bad or whether the espresso machine has gone too long without cleaning? Or could it be something else? Perhaps a beetle or spider or other plump bug found its way into the little espresso pod, before it was sealed, where it decomposed and imparted the horrid flavor to what otherwise would be a wonderfully rich and flavorful delight. The nasty taste could be the work of the person(s) responsible for the Tylenol murders in the early 1980s—or copycats who may have gotten a macabre sense of satisfaction from imitating such unspeakable crimes. The origin of my awful experience with my morning espresso could be something entirely innocent; it might even be traceable to a combination of the taste of the toothpaste I used when brushing my teeth last night with the normal flavor of the ground intense dark roast beans used in the espresso. Whatever the source of the unpleasantness, I fervently hope it was a one-time experience. I hope, even more fervently, it was not the result of an obviously psychopathic would-be killer.

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The big television in our so-called TV Room,  not long after the pause button is pressed, displays a slow rotation of beautiful scenery from around the globe. Most of the photos are nature shots, with a few that mix nature and civilization in appealing ways (such as Sugar Loaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil).  Those images, collectively, both sooth and create a sense of intense longing—longing to be in those places that appear to guarantee serenity. I imagine a week or a month relaxing on a huge, private country estate in Italy or enjoying the crystal clear waters and warm breezes on a private beach in the Caribbean or sitting by a roaring fire in a remote and very private lodge in the Swiss Alps. And, of course, many more places. All very private, very remote and free of obligations. No expectations imposed on me, other than abandoning all pressures and  shedding my every worry. I do not want to be expected to ski just because I am at a ski lodge, nor urged to hike just because I am in an area known for its pristine hiking trails, nor asked to swim or snorkel or dive just because I am in a place considered ideal for such activities. I simply want to be in such beautiful places; soak in the experience of sights and sounds and sensations of simply existing in those spots. Seclusion, privacy, and the freedom to simply soak-in one’s environment are available almost anywhere. I suppose I could find those luxuries almost anywhere. And I should. But adding the spectacular wonders I see in those television screens might amplify the experiences a thousand-fold.

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Trying to think deeply in shallow pools of thought is a frustrating experience.

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The morning hours are mine, alone, today. Yet the sense I am in control—that I have power over my direction—still eludes me. Intrusive thoughts, tearing through my brain like a runaway locomotive, twist hard steel rails into thin, flaccid fibers. Certainty dissolves into ambiguity. Serenity remains a chaotic broken promise. Perhaps more time—much more solitary time—is the cure. But that time must function like a wax candle. And those invasive thoughts must behave like drops of water—trying, but failing, to soak that wax through and through.

Sitting here, many hours after I woke, I realize this morning’s time was never mine. It belongs to listlessness and its co-conspirators. Even this blog was part of the conspiracy, refusing to let me write and add more to it—or even read what I wrote in the past. Finally, after hours of frustrated waiting, I was allowed access to my editor’s platform. By then, though, my unsuitability for the task was obvious; I was a riverboat captain’s apprentice, attempting to land a supersonic jet aircraft on a baseball diamond in Golden Gate Park. My exercise of a sense of productive control will have to wait for another time. And that is fine; gathering clouds and depressing rain are not conducive to bursts of creative energy.

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I summoned enough motivation during the last few minutes to call the auto shop to arrange work on a list of routine maintenance items; next week. And I called to get an appointment to get a haircut; tomorrow. The rest of the day belongs to lethargy; enslavement by fatigue. No searing agony; no excruciating discomfort. Just a dull emotional ache, punctuated by an occasional, but microscopically brief stabbing pain. The same tedious pin-prick-like sensations whose presence have made themselves known for quite some time. Annoying, but not intolerably so. The little symbol is simply an expression of my understanding of the universe, such as it is. However, I am not especially enamored with most symbols because their original, limited symbolism tends to expand exponentially over time with the insertion of ideas and beliefs by people who had no involvement with its creation. People like me. But my insertion tends to operate in reverse. I like minimal meaning; meaning that can be adopted and adapted by people who share some very broad ideas that parallel the original. But, in the overall scheme of things, who cares? That is an unanswerable question, of course, but it summons answers from every corner of existence.

If Brit-Box is a model of experience in England, a number of villages and significant areas of the English countryside are awash in murder. And, if Netflix reflects the legislative landscape throughout Scandinavia, that part of the world seethes with shocking political intrigue. Closer to home, if the old standby television companies (ABC, CBS, and NBC) accurately portray life in this country’s largest metropolitan regions, our big cities are bubbling cauldrons of violence and rage. But, of course, those representations are overblown dramas meant to invite viewership. The intrigue in those programs presents an enormously amplified depiction of fear-inducing circumstance; nothing realistic about them, right? Certainly. But, still, after watching several episodes of Blue Lights, my interest in wandering alone at night along the docks of Belfast has declined considerably. Why is it, I wonder, that we sometimes allow fiction to take control of our thought processes and emotions, manipulating our perceptions of places about which we know very little? It’s embarrassingly gullible to accept that a set of imaginary circumstances involving imaginary people doing ugly, violent, dastardly things represent reality. Hmm. The appeal of such programs rests, in part, on the knowledge that they are, in fact, fiction. If viewers who watch those shows were to believe they were watching as-it-happens documentaries, perceptions might be radically different (I would hope).

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Corn on the cob and quartered fresh tomatoes. Except for the subsequent requirement for hours-long flossing to remove corn debris from between the teeth, the meal approaches perfection. A touch of salt, some pepper, and a bit of butter to compliment the corn can turn an appealing dinner into a joyous feast. Almost any array of veggies and their kin—okra, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, scallions, carrots, cauliflower, tomatoes, corn, green beans, bell peppers, radishes, squash, etc.—can make an immensely satisfying meal. No crucial need for meat. I envy people who live close to farms where such veggies grow and have ready access year-round to a fabulous mix of food fresh-from-the-field.

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Church this morning, followed by lunch with a small group of members/friends. I am almost certain I will need a nap immediately after lunch. I won’t complain about that reality; at least not at the moment. I’ve come to appreciate that I feel considerably better…more rested and relaxed…after a nap. My age and infirmity is catching up with me.

Some people are natural conversationalists. Some of us are not. Those of us who are not sometimes are labeled timid, quiet, reserved, dim-witted, private…the list goes on. Sometimes, the labels are radically different: pounce-ready, silently seething, brilliantly-murderous, pre-explosive, drenched in self-confidence…that list, too, extends for an eternity. Only people who spend a very long time in the presence of those of us who are simply observers or listeners can correctly (often) assign legitimate labels to us. Those labels might be legitimate for one minute or one hour or one day or one week, but they do not apply 24-7. Just like many others, observers tend to rotate between personalities. That means none of us can properly apply labels—that are reliably correct—to others. Our knowledge of people inside and outside of our spheres is, therefore, often artificial and almost always (at least partially) wrong.  We stumble blindly through individual and social experiences. No worries, though; we’re all equally as deaf, as well, and can smell a rat when we feel it biting our fingers. And even natural conversationalists often speak, unintentionally, in tongues that cannot differentiate between flavors.

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Meteorologists suggest that has-been Hurricane Beryl, now a tropical storm, may renew its “hurricane” label over the coming days as it nears the Texas coast. Forecast maps show the remnants of the storm sweeping through Arkansas on Thursday, with 25 MPH winds and some rain. Gentle rain is among the many weather events with which I have a close and personal relationship. Moderate winds, too, are my friends. That having been said, I also am enamored with shrieking, howling winds and horizontal, needle-like raindrops that appear capable of piercing steel; I prefer watching such storms from the safety of comfortable, impenetrable shelters. We shall see what actually transpires.

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Heart-burn has interrupted my evenings for two nights running. Somehow or another, I got in my head the idea that I was to stop using a prescription medication meant to prevent heartburn. Instead, I relied on Tums after-the-fact. I cannot trace the source of my apparent misunderstanding, so I will renew my nightly ritual of taking the prescribed medication. I wonder, though, if I would not have had the heartburn if the stresses an worries of the last few days had been absent. No matter how I try, I cannot seem to fully anaesthetize myself against them. I fully understand the pointless of worry; intellectual understanding and emotional sensation are entirely different experiences (as I’m sure I’ve said dozens of times). I’ll have some answers later in the week; that realization may quiet those stresses. If not the realization, maybe ****** will accomplish the task.

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A different environment. Like one on another planet, far far away.

History gives us a preview—a warning—of the future that awaits us if we ignore the lessons of experience. When we are the targets of that cautionary advice, we ignore it at our peril. Our disregard invites the repetition of past mistakes, modified and molded to suit a new time and new circumstances. More often than not, we acknowledge too late the messages that history provides. Is our proclivity toward repeating experiential mistakes a product of our stupidity, our arrogance, or both? Or is it simply a matter of failing to understand the differences between then and now are merely cosmetic?

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Friends invited us over for a wonderful meal yesterday. We enjoyed the feast they prepared and had a great time sitting and talking with them. As is often the case of late, though, I ran out of steam rather early. I understand that the processes of tests and treatments take their toll on my energy, but these latest rounds of frequent and sudden fatigue are becoming extremely annoying. I would have liked to have stayed and talked for hours, but my declining stamina insisted I should go home and recline on the loveseat. Once there, I found it impossible to stay awake and alert for long; I think I was in bed by nine. I woke many times during the night and finally decided, around 3, to get up and go about my day. Two hours have passed since I shuffled out to the kitchen. I may not write much more on this post, at least for now, because another wave of fatigue is washing over me. I sleep too much, but then when I try to stay awake, I learn I just have to acquiesce to whatever it is that requires me to nap, rest, sleep, whatever.

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This blog, long an outlet for my creativity, has become a whine-site—an outlet for my complaints about anything and everything.  I tire of it. I want to return to writing snippets of fiction—scenes that I might later weave into the fabric of stories (except for losing interest in them after a short time…is it ADHD?). If I cannot force myself to focus more time on writing, I will just have to dedicate my energies to ruling the world. “My energies?” I might need to limit the territory over which I seek control to the end of the driveway and work on the rest of the world later.

According to a couple of demographers (Toshiko Kaneda and Carl Haub), who updated an earlier estimate in 2022, 109 billion of people have lived and died since 190,000 BCE. Counting the additional people alive as of their updated 2022 estimate, the number of people who have ever lived is roughly 117 billion. With relatively few exceptions, each of those who lived and died have been mourned, as if they were among a tiny cluster of people who mattered. For those who mourned them, they were people who mattered. For most of the rest of humanity, they were unknown and unworthy of tears—their lives and deaths were largely irrelevant in the macro sense.  Even in the micro sense, the relevance of most of them diminished with time. We still acknowledge plenty of them, of course: Plato, Albert Einstein, Napoleon Bonaparte, Abraham Lincoln, Leonardo da Vinci, Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī, Julius Caesar, Kahlil Gibran, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Atilla, Emperor Shōwa…there are hundreds more. But those hundreds, or thousands—even if they number in the millions—represent only a miniscule fraction of all who have lived. The relevance of those we recognize from the past were relevant only to a limited extent; their relevance did not embed itself in the psyches of every person living at the same time they lived…and far fewer as time wore on. An argument could be made, I suppose, that one’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandmother remains relevant today because, absent her existence, her great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandchild would not have been born. But memories and relevance do not necessarily occupy the same places in the brain. Are any of us relevant today? Will any of us be relevant in one thousand years? Who knows? I do not. I do not know whether my assertions in this paragraph are true. My fingers deliver unverified thoughts to the screen. The reader believes them with peril.

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The results of my bronchoscopy on Tuesday were not the stuff of celebration. We spent a long day at the hospital—arriving at 8 and returning home around 4. My procedure was scheduled to “fit me in” whenever the pulmonologist could. I was wheeled into the procedure room right at noon. They claim I was awake (under “moderate sedation”), but I remember nothing between being asked to bite down on a mouth guard that provides a stable entry for the scope and opening my eyes after the procedure. We then waited for the doctor to come in to discuss the findings. He showed us photos taken from the scope inside my right lung. He said the images showed that it was not Keytruda (immuno treatment drug) that was responsible for the concerning images on the PET scan. [Apparently, the purpose of the bronchoscopy was to determine whether Keytruda was to blame.] Instead, he said, “it’s the disease.” He said he could not perform a biopsy because the tangle of blood vessels all around the prospective biopsy area would have immediately filled the lung with blood and I would have to intubated. The doctor’s bedside manner was a smidgeon better than the last time I saw him, but his demeanor made me think he could have been a robot created without the usual robotic levels of compassion and empathy. Of course, my reaction to him might based on the news he delivered, rather than the way he delivered it. What matters is his technical, medical competence; everyone I spoke to about him, even people who once worked for him and said he was arrogant, offered compliments about his expertise. I expect to discuss with my oncologist next week more detail about the results of the bronchoscopy and the  next steps in dealing with the resurgence of the cancer. Tuesday night, I had some of the common side-effects of the procedure: coughing, slight fever, vomiting, and extreme fatigue. With breaks for throwing up early Tuesday evening, etc., I spent 20+ hours between the time I got home on Tuesday and yesterday afternoon sleeping. Still, I know I am much more fortunate than many, many people who deal with such matters. I am deeply unhappy that I am adding more stress to an incredibly stressful time for mi novia. Ach.

My good fortune is almost boundless, especially compared to the circumstances confronting million and millions of my fellow Earthlings. But, still, I complain about the difficulties I face. With all those difficulties, I should not have to acknowledge the bounties of my good luck; but there it is.

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Naps, I’ve decided, are shields. They provide temporary protection—in the form of unconsciousness—from the psychological damage to which a person is naturally exposed by living in today’s brutally uncaring world. Children are taught, early, to rely on naps to replenish energy and to secure protection from the harsh world of adults and adulthood. Some of us forget those childhood lessons, though, retrieving them from ancient memory banks long after extensive swaths of time have robbed us of the safety and shelter of naps. Naps reduce the pressure in our heads; they are the relief valves that prevent unnecessary explosions.

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Medical bureaucracy—infamous for its speed that rivals frigid syrup—likes to surprise skeptics. In an unexpected burst of speed, I received phone calls yesterday, while sitting in the treatment chair at the oncology clinic…to schedule my bronchoscopy for this morning. The precise timing of the procedure is more than a little indeterminate, but will be performed this morning…well, today, anyway.  Mi novia, whose calendar for today conflicts with my bronchoscopy, insists on providing my transportation (I cannot drive myself because the procedure involves general anesthesia). So, despite generous friends who were more than willing to come to may aid, she cancelled her plans to care for me. I am not quite sure what my oncologist hopes to learn from the bronchoscopy. I know, I should not have left her office without fully understanding the purpose of the procedure. But my brain becomes scrambled by the reasons for all the scans and infusions and procedures and medications; I acquiesce to the notion that “they are better equipped than I” to determine the best courses of treatment, etc.

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.