John Swinburn

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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!

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Fatigue is the best pillow.

~ Benjamin Franklin ~

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.”

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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?

+++

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.

+++

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?

+++

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.

+++

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.

+++

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.

WordStar. Wordstar 2000. WordPerfect. Word. Lotus 1-2-3. Quattro Pro. Excel. Those are just a few of the PC productivity applications (word processing and spreadsheets) I have used over the years. There were, no doubt, many others. And, I am sure, many others based on Apple operating systems have evolved over time. Though I have never had an interest in video games, those applications also grew more sophisticated and capable over the years. The basic stuff evolved, too; for example, word processing’s cousins—page makeup software—came on the scene with Adobe PageMaker and QuarkXPress and InDesign. They, too, evolved. They became more sophisticated and simpler to use, leading to products like CorelDraw and MS Publisher. I learned enough, on my own, about how to use and apply all of the products so I could claim at least moderate skills. While never reaching the level of expert with any of the products, I became proficient with several. Because of so many new iterations (and, especially, with each new integrated suite of products), I have devoted enough do-it-yourself training to keep my skills from becoming unusably rusty. But I question the extent to which keeping moderately up-to-date on all this legacy software is worth the efforts—especially now that artificial intelligence (AI) is getting so firmly entrenched in so many aspects of our lives. I do not have the inclination nor the interest in learning more about AI than the bare essentials. Instead, I wan to simply master enough to take advantage of what AI can do for me. Teaching software to learn how to do what I would rather not do has no appeal to me. Is this attitude of mine a naturally-occurring phenomenon that accompanies aging? Does one’s brain simply get tired, over the years, of being forced to take in and comprehend more and more new information, just to keep up? I feel sure I have the ability to keep up with new information and new technologies and new software, etc.; but I am not at all sure I want to invest my time and energy in those endeavors. I suspect the dullness of this overcast, rainy afternoon is contributing to my somewhat sullen mood. I am alone in the house, except for a needy and narcissistic cat who sometimes demands love but refuses to give it in return; but she does, occasionally.

+++

Rain, again. Lots and lots and lots of rain. Days and days of rain. Though I rarely enjoy walking (or driving) in the rain, I enjoy watching it and listening to it and smelling the air just before a Spring shower. Too much rain, though, can causes floods. Too much can weaken trees’ hold on the ground, causing them to topple. As much as we sometimes seem to think they do, meteorologists do not control the weather; they cannot be held responsible and accountable for the rain. Give them a break, please.

+++

The day largely has slipped away. My attempt to blog, early this morning, got derailed by obligations. Later, nothing seemed sufficiently interesting to give me reason to write. Later, still, I wrote but then abandoned the effort in disgust and self-loathing. I then considered writing about my intellectual and emotional reactions to Trump being found guilty on all 34 counts; my opinions on the matter are irrelevant, so I dropped that idea. Finally, I wrote the paragraphs above. And then I watched Ken Burns’ keynote address to the 2024 graduating class of Brandeis University. It was brilliantly written; everyone in the U.S. should watch and listen.

Three windows. Each of the two smaller windows—one on the left and one on the right—are separated by mullions into eighteen panes, nine in the upper section and nine in the lower. Mullions split the wider, stationary window in the middle into twenty-four panes. A computer monitor, a treadmill, and a cat tree/viewing post partially block my view of the windows and the greenery outside; but those obstacles do not hide the knowledge of what’s there, beyond them. The view is the same from day to day, except for the greenery, which changes slowly—at the same pace as the seasons.

Even the most strikingly attractive vista becomes routine, losing its emotional power through repeated viewing. Beauty dulls into a grey smudge, its precise details blurring into a nondescript haze. It’s hard—sometimes impossible—to know whether it’s the sameness that leads to depression or vice versa. Whether one’s depression robs the environment of its natural appeal or whether monotony reduces contentment to grimy rubble.

The time for a change of scenery is before that transition is complete, regardless of which is the cause and which is the effect. Yet recognition that the progression is taking place may come only after reversal is impossible. Only after the response can no longer be restoration but, instead, recovery.

+++

Time is malleable. I have believed that for as long as I can remember, but I have never been able to adequately explain my belief. The inability to explain exactly what my belief means and why it matters continues. Every so often, though, a brilliant(?) but fleeting thought crosses my mind; if only it lasted long enough, that though would enable me to explain in relatively simple terms how the measurement of time provides an answer. I seem to recall that my flashes of thought verify that distance influences the matter; but I am not sure. Time differs, too, depending on where it is measured. I read this morning that time on the moon is at odds with time on Earth: On the lunar surface, a single Earth day would be roughly 56 microseconds shorter than on our home planet. That does not explain much of anything, though. Gravity plays an important part in the measurement of weight…or is it that the very nature of weight (not just its measurement) is effected by gravity? Does time have weight? Is it possible that time weighs less on Earth than on the moon? Or that time in distant galaxies may much heavier or lighter than here in our own? Speaking of distance, how does one measure speed when miles per hour must be radically different on Earth from miles per hour on the planet formerly known as Pluto? Are miles different from place to place? Should we be talking about kilometers per annum? And how long, by the way, is a year in various spots around the universe? I do not need to know the answers to these questions, but I might be happier and better looking if I did.

+++

Two days ago, on Memorial Day, I expressed some thoughts about how this country might express appreciation to people who made the ultimate sacrifice by fighting—and dying—in unjust wars. This morning, I read an essay, written by a Marine veteran, that delivered much more forcefully than mine a message about unjust, mismanaged wars. That message, delivered by someone much closer to the reality of unjust wars than I, has considerably more credibility than mine.

+++

It’s late already; a quarter past nine. In a while, I have a doctor’s appointment. I must take a shower soon or my doctor will think I only bathe weekly or monthly or annually. Not that it really matters, does it? Should I be embarrassed if I were to leave my doctor with the impression that I am unashamedly unclean? Probably. So I will shower. Shave. Put on some post-shave smell-good juice. Get dressed (an important step in the process, not to be overlooked). I may try to get a haircut this afternoon. I intended to get my hair cut about a month ago, but apparently I lost the calendar and was, therefore, unaware of my intent.  Get cracking!

+++

“I will not strangle myself this morning.” When I say those words, I feel confident that I am speaking the truth. Certainty flows through my body like warm blood. Truth. It’s such a powerful noun. “I will shower in a few minutes.” Those words do not imbue me with as much confidence. Could the difference have to do with the fact that the first is a negative statement and the second is a positive statement? It could be something else. I will force the issue. Off to the shower!

Theoretical possibilities inhabit one part of the brain; emotional responses to reality occupy another. Dealing rationally with theoretical possibilities tends to impose less stress on a person than does coping with emotions, which can overwhelm logic. But when theory and feelings collide, a person’s innate temperament often takes control. The problem with “knowing” so little about so much is that it is nearly impossible to predict which of countless variables will intervene and how they will influence the way a person reacts to reality. A map of the United States is interesting and informative, but unless it is a road map, it is essentially useless in planning a drive from coast to coast.

+++

A nonsense phrase came to mind this morning: clandestine amnesia. This was not the first time a grammatically correct but utterly absurd term popped into my head. Meaning is not entirely a function of either grammar or vocabulary. The two must complement one another in ways that make sense. There must be millions of ways in which an adjective can modify a noun, yielding only gibberish. Superficial clock. Drunken catamaran. Elderly babies.  Rabid Chevrolet. Slovenly popcorn. My question, of course, is “why?”

+++

In my dream, I was in a long line in front of a posh hotel, waiting for my valet-parked rented Porsche to be brought to me. The scene was chaotic; hundreds of people in line, cars zooming toward waiting drivers, crowds milling about and blocking the hotel’s doors, and valets smoking cigarettes and leaning against the glass of the front of the hotel. I was in a city that was unfamiliar to me and I did not know where I needed to go; only that I already was late. There was more to the dream, of course, but I do not remember it. Damn!

+++

Imagine looking toward the horizon in every direction and seeing a perfectly smooth sheet of shiny black obsidian as far as the eye can see. The vista is identical in every direction except directly in front of you where, about a hundred yards away, a solid white goat struggles to get to its feet. Suddenly, you realize this is someone else’s dream and that terrifies you. As you turn to run, you feel a sharp pain on the side of your neck. You hear the metallic sound of a scalpel hitting the obsidian beneath you. And you see blood on the ground. This is not how it was supposed to be, you say to yourself. As you begin to lose consciousness, you hear someone say “Happy Father’s Day, Gregory.” But I’m not Gregory, you think… 

+++

I much prefer to write realistic fiction. On occasion, though, I try something else. And I rediscover the reason for my preference.

Sunlight brilliantly illuminates a branch here and there, drawing my gaze to them. Behind those highlighted branches, the leaves and needles are deep green. Compared to the leaves bathed in sunlight, the forest background is dark and foreboding. The ways the sun’s rays strike some leaves, yet barely touch the others, is mesmerizing. Light filters through the leaves to light a few spots on the trunks of big oak trees, making those strips of bark seem to almost reflect the light—the rest of it barely visible in, leaving lacey, dappled patterns of leaves on the gnarled wood. Almost anything in my sight can seem remarkable, almost magical, if I give it my undivided attention for a few minutes. Staring at the forest canopy soothes my anxiety a little; stress can slip away, if only for a few moments, when I leave it in the real world, focusing instead on fantasy in the trees.

+++

A Facebook friend, who lives with her golf-course designer husband in Traverse City, Michigan, periodically writes about some of her favorite places about town. Often, they involve exercise…gyms and so forth…which do not capture my interest, but for which I applaud her, nonetheless. Occasionally, though, she writes about/recommends restaurants and other places she finds worthy. I thought about her Traverse City recommendations this morning while reading a travel piece about the city in the NYT. And I thought about a high school classmate, who I have not seen since 1972 but with whom I am a Facebook friend, who recently moved to Traverse City. He extolls the virtues of the area and all its delightful offerings. I have never been to Traverse City, but I hope I will go one day. It seems like a place I would enjoy. But not in the winter.

+++

I have been a blameless victim in collisions at the intersection of expressing concern and invading privacy. Sometimes, though, there has been no evidence that concern was involved in the impact; the crash occurred in the midst of meddling intrusiveness. The term I remember hearing, as a kid, to describe the invasion of privacy involving car wrecks was “rubber-necking.” I think my mother called it “morbid curiosity.” That is the term I would use to name behavior in which an “interested” party inquires about my “stage” of cancer. The same words would fit when the probing inquiry (posed by the same person) asks whether I had ceased receiving treatment for cancer (hoping to verify, it seems, that treatment was futile). Such a query made by a very casual acquaintance does not merit a response. Only close friends and relatives have a legitimate, vested interest in answers to those questions. And I would happily ease their minds. But the prying vulture, hungry for carrion, need not ask again.

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Some days refuse to welcome me. They try to convince me that being awake is equivalent to aggravation. Dreamless sleep, they tell me, is far preferable to dullness and boredom, the two trademarks of consciousness. Those days—which constitute most days of late—are persuasive. When I follow their recommendations, I return to bed and fall asleep, sometimes waking two or three hours (or more) later. Then, after I wake, I realize they are right. Chunks of the day that would have crept by in dreary monotony, as if measured by a half-time clock, have disappeared. But, still, even when I tell myself I must really need my extra sleep, I feel like sleep is an excuse. An escape. A way to elude melancholia. Such is life.

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Today is Memorial Day, a day honoring members of the armed forces who died in service to the country. I sometimes think we should have one such day to honor all those who died  in service to the country and another to honor those who died unnecessarily after being ordered into service to fight unjust wars and imperialistic misadventures. If we continue to avoid acknowledging those latter fatal mistakes, we will continue to make them. I hate the fact that calling attention to “bad” wars and police actions is seen by so many as unpatriotic. In my view, honoring the principles of democracy—rather than “my country, right or wrong”—is the pinnacle of patriotism.

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Today is one of those Saturdays the universe calls upon to mete out punishment for an unknown—to me, anyway—infraction. The day is not appreciably different from most others, but something about it expresses a need to inflict revenge on me. Perhaps the imprecise color of the sky is the trigger that urges the universe to treat me to torture of one kind or another. Maybe a power even greater than the universe insists on exacting retribution—without even the courtesy of an explanation of my transgression. There’s no point in speculation, of course. The universe is under no obligation to explain itself. Its motives are forever hidden behind the same hazy cloud that spits lightning, torrential rain, hail, and other mayhem into the air. The rumble of thunder shattered my sleep again last night, before midnight. Later, I woke to the pillow case and sheets wet with cold sweat. The indentation of my chest, too, was filled with icy perspiration that drenched the bottom sheet when I rolled onto my side, refreshing my discomfort. The sky at that hour of the night is invisible—so it wasn’t the dull color of the atmosphere that precipitated my abuse. Something did, though. Something transformed the sheets into cold, wet rags that made me flinch when I touched them as I returned to bed after drying my chest and arms. That was the moment I knew to how to classify today. No matter how the rest of the day plays out, I can expect punishment for bad behavior; or bad thoughts. It could be something as simple as wishing I could push a certain politician in front of a fast-moving train; or wanting to douse with merthiolate a right-wing minister’s back after carving the entire Old Testament into him. I doubt I could find the courage to do either; but you never know. Today is odd and unfriendly, though; I know that.

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In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.

~ John Steinbeck ~

Paraffin. Paraffin wax was first created in 1830 by German chemist Karl von Reichenbach. Among its many uses, it first offered an especially valuable use in candle-making because it burned very cleanly and was cheaper to make than other candle materials like beeswax and tallow—the latter of which, by the way, is an interesting product. Tallow, strictly defined, consists of rendered beef or mutton suet. In practical use in commerce, though, tallow that meets specific technical criteria may contain fat from other animals like lard from pigs. It can be derived from plant sources, as well.

My curiosity about paraffin grew by leaps and bounds when I learned how broad its uses are. Paraffin has dozens of uses, from forensic investigations of shootings to food additives and from use in lava lamps to lubricant for bullets. It touches our lives in numerous ways, many of which are completely unexpected by the average person. If my interest in paraffin were considerably stronger than it is—even though it is fairly strong—I could conduct intensive research into the stuff and could write about its history and go on endlessly about its extraordinary utility. But, of course, my interest erupts explosively, only to quickly burn to dull, dry, cool ashes. It’s a shame, really, that I cannot seem to maintain a high degree of interest in many fascinating topics; if I could, I might be able to polish a reputation as a Renaissance Man. Alas, I am incapable of honing my interest to such a degree; my inquisitiveness is wide, but shallow. In the absence of an unquenchable interest in any specific subject, one cannot become an expert in anything.

By the way, the photo is non-contextual. It’s just there, for no apparent reason. I did string the beads, though, in answer to any curiosity along those lines you may have.

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