John Swinburn

The simple, banal, ordinary. Perhaps the least exciting is the most fulfilling. Excitement may be simply an exclamation point calling attention to what came before and after the exceptional. When life bubbles with activity that disappears with every instant, important natural events go unnoticed. Every mundane experience that is dismissed or neglected is a lost opportunity in the journey toward understanding.

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

~ Tachibana Akemi ~

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Safety is a myth. No one is safe, nor is any inanimate object. Everything and everyone is subject to the vagaries of the stars. At any moment, our sun could explode into a celestial fireball one hundred times its present size, incinerating everything within its incalculably hot reach. That cataclysmic event—which would occur with such speed and force that we would not have time to notice—would represent a microscopic disruption in the fabric of the universe. Instead of being blindsided by such a natural event, we could observe the destruction of our planet in the form of nuclear explosions and their subsequent imposition, almost instantaneously, of nuclear winter. Or just a random gunshot could take one out. Or an automobile accident. Or a disease or an injury resulting from climbing a ladder or stepping in front of a moving snow plow. Safety, then, represents a brief state of temporal and/or physical distance from danger. The brevity of safety is almost immeasurably short. But for the fortunate among us, it can go on for hours or days or years. All of us, I think, yearn for safety. The sense that one is safe extinguishes (or, at least, attempts to smother) the constant, gnawing fear that annihilation is just around the corner. Is fear a reaction to the idea of one’s experience of dying or to the idea that one has died? The latter is an impossible absurdity. If only we could wrap our heads around the idea that the cessation of our minds and bodies is simply another step in our transformation from one form to another (star dust and all that…), one’s safety would not seem so important. And one’s demise would not be viewed with trepidation; rather, it might be welcomed (although only after sufficient time has passed to enable one to fully experience and understand his life, which would take at least two lifetimes and then some…).

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Friendship has been in the news of late. I lately have read about matters of concern about friendship as reported by both CNN and NPR. Having had very few true, close friends during the course of my lifetime, I find the topic very interesting.  The title of  a CNN online article, entitled “Why most men don’t have enough close friends,” caught my attention. Before reading the first paragraph, I knew the ideas the author would address.  Vulnerability, emotional intimacy, and the attendant affliction: loneliness. The article attributes to Dr. Frank Sileo, a psychologist based in Ridgewood, New Jersey, the following: “social pressures remain that make it difficult for men to express the vulnerability and intimacy needed for close friendships.” That is as surprising as realizing the sun rises every morning. Dr. Niobe Way, a researcher and a professor of applied psychology at New York University says heterosexual men seeking closeness might turn to those they see as better at building relationships and feel comfortable exploring their vulnerability with: the women in their lives… Sileo says that approach may seem like a good solution, but it works neither for the men nor the women they look to; putting everything on a romantic partner can strain a relationship, whether it is going to a female partner exclusively for emotional support or depending on her to cultivate friendships and get-togethers for holidays and weekends. Men relying on women for emotional connections face another obstacle not mentioned in the article: the implicit social limits placed on male-female friendships. Both men and women—but especially women who are involved in romantic relationships—seem to fear how getting “too close” might appear to others, so they do not pursue or permit the same level of intimacy that female friends share with one another.  Socialization has many positive attributes; the limits placed on developing close friends do not represent any of them. Feelings of discomfort—implanted in our heads by irrational social pressures—should not override one’s sense of compassion, but apparently they do.

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Calm in quietude is not real calm.
When you can be calm in the midst of activity,
this it the true state of nature.
Happiness in comfort is not real happiness.
When you can be happy
in the midst of hardship,
then you see the true potential of
the mind.

~ Huanchu Daoren ~

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Gazing around my cluttered desk, I wonder how I let it get this way. Periodically, I organize my desktop, put away items I do not need with frequency, and otherwise introduce simplicity and minimalism to this tiny fragment of my life. It never lasts long, though. I allow myself to bounce from one thing to another, one idea to another, one question to another. The amount of time and energy required to maintain simplicity and minimalism exceeds my willingness to slow the process of thinking and daydreaming. So disorder…appearing almost like unchecked chaos…returns to what once was a clear desk. I enjoy and appreciate order—apparently not enough, though, to maintain it with any regularity. What, I wonder, would Huanchu Daoren say about me after observing my workspace…and me?

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What will this morning tell me I have not heard before? When I look in the mirror, will the face gazing back at me be any wiser than the one who was there yesterday? Does it matter? Who’s asking? The questions will go unanswered.

I can imagine interviewing each visitor to this blog. I would ask for narrative snapshot of their lives…where they were born, where they grew up, what they remember most vividly about their early lives, their parents’ political views, their religious philosophy, their favorite colors, and what about their spouse/partner/aloneness is especially appealing. An interview might take less than an hour or several days, depending on what I learn about them. My guess is that I would like to meet at an independent coffee shop for the second round of questions and conversation. Later, we would have a glass of wine at a little alfresco café; wouldn’t you know it. we’re in Paris! Because the popular tourist attractions are swarming with people almost around the clock, we would explore neighborhoods and follow people out of their houses to wherever they want or need to go.  I would get quite a lot out of you during our interviews. I might find you had been a pickpocket when you were a little boy. Or that you left the scene of a hit-and-run accident the day after you got your driver’s license. Or that your mother won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2029. Or that you want to talk to me about what’s on your mind. Even more.

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A couple of days ago, I mentioned in passing an interesting article I had read. The author, Maria Popova, wrote some words that resonate with me. She said, “we…simply cannot fathom how something as exquisite as the universe of thought and feeling inside us can vanish into nothingness.” In an earlier issue of the same blog publication, the quoted Goethe: “It is quite impossible for a thinking being to imagine nonbeing, a cessation of thought and life…in this sense, everyone carries the proof of his own immortality within himself.” This concept—the inability to imagine “non-being”—has come up with some regularity in the minister’s sermons/musings. Perhaps the fact our bodies eventually feed into the matter of the universe cements the point that we (humans, animals, etc.) are never “gone,” but are simply moving along the spectrum of celestial composting. Yet I think the point is not necessarily the cessation of our physical being’s functions; it is the inability to imagine the sudden and eternal disappearance one’s of consciousness. That’s what confounds us. Intellectually, most people probably do understand the end of consciousness; emotionally/mentally, though, probably not. No matter how hard we try. No matter how intense is our commitment to believing in the end of consciousness. If we were to imagine the end of consciousness, our consciousness would provide the assumed understanding, which negates the very idea of the absence of consciousness. A riddle. A conundrum. A dilemma. An impossible certainty.

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I could eat my weight in fried green tomatoes…dipped in spiced cornmeal and cooked in almost-smoking-hot bacon grease. That’s the way I had them as a child. Before we knew how bad bacon grease is for humans. I do not accept the idea that we should completely stop using foods that are “bad” for us. But I do accept that we (that is, everyone) should completely avoid all tobacco products. I suspect my psyche is chock-full of such conflicting philosophical foundations; absolutes and certainties surrounded by exceptions. I do not consume bacon grease the way I did when I was young; but I will willingly expose myself to the risk associated with occasionally eating a LOT of fried green tomatoes cooked in bacon grease. Everything in moderation. Except, of course, for the things specifically designed and intended for over-indulgence.

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Some perceptive blog readers may have noticed that this is my second post of the day. It replaces the non-post (i.e., the virtually empty post whose value even as a space holder is essentially zero). Well, I had to go to the grocery store, where I bought frozen broccoli, Velveeta cheese, and mushroom soup. After that kind of experience, I just naturally felt the urge to have a third espresso and write the story of a fleeting moment or two.

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A person vows to go the gym to remake his body. He sees a physical image of his body as he thinks about his reformation. Does the person who goes to a psychologist/therapist create an image of his mind…in his head…of who he wants to be? I suspect the person who desires or needs therapy wants only for the emotional pain to be extracted or expunged. Although I can imagine seeking help to replace one’s personality or otherwise radically change the persona—an introvert wanting to be an extrovert or a redneck wanting to be an Ivy League intellectual. These ideas bounce around in my head from time to time. I could just ask people to share their thoughts, but I tend to think of these things only when I am alone with my keyboard…and I have a bad habit of failing to write them down because “I’ll make a point of remembering them later, so I won’t need to write them down.”

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Large numbers of chicken pot pies should be kept in the freezer all winter long. If you have a freezer full of chicken pot pies, there is no question whether you will last the winter—chicken pot pies are all the certainty you need.  Frankly, though, I could do without the chunks of chicken. I would be perfectly happy with more carrots or peas or whatever.

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The time is approaching 10 a.m. This is not right! I should not be sitting at the keyboard at this hour.

Quantum mechanics is a fundamental theory in physics that describes the behavior of nature at the scale of atoms and subatomic particles.It is the foundation of all quantum physics including quantum chemistry, quantum field theory, quantum technology, and quantum information science. So says Wikipedia. Though some people are deeply skeptical of everything one finds on Wikipedia, I am not skeptical of Wikipedia. I suspect there’s less deliberate misinformation on Wikipedia than in the world at large. I cannot provide my suspicion to be true, of course, which is the best kind of suspicion to broadcast to the world. I cannot provide it right; you cannot prove it wrong. The perfect fit to enable us to fight about something pointless. Something absolutely meritless.

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I am not suited to writing some days. This, apparently, is one of them.

Wind seems to have fled from my location. There is no wind. Not even a little. Where could it have gone? Will it ever return? How does one measure the absence of wind?

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Early mornings have become cluttered with responsibilities, obligations I would rather slot into different times of the day but which seem to insist on interrupting pre-dawn serenity. Not so very long ago, I could get up, swallow a few pills, make coffee, and slide into my reflective morning routine. The addition of weighing myself, swallowing a much larger handful of pills, feeding the cat, herding the cat into a room to muffle its vocal yowls, stabbing my finger to measure blood sugar, taking and recording my blood pressure, and sometimes taking ten minutes or more to set up and use a nebulizer…those add-ons interfere with my desired simplicity. Some days, I want nothing more than to ignore those obligations and return to carefree mornings. I long for a simpler time. We all do, it seems. But complexity seems to be overtaking our lives. We face commitments that entangle us like heavily-fertilized kudzu. Few of these obligations are especially demanding, but collectively they hungrily devour our time, leaving us with little but memories of happy-go-lucky freedom.  Damn. Damn. Damn.

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Probably my least favorite “volunteer” role was as an adjunct instructor at a community college, teaching a course in exposition management. When asked to teach, I felt obliged to agree. My job at the time, number two for an association of exposition managers, made it difficult to refuse; doing so would have reflected badly on my employer. So, I reluctantly accepted. I was given a syllabus to follow for the course, which as I recall involved three hours of my time, one night per week. The course was dull. I am sure my efforts to engage students in lively discussions were abysmal failures. The students, many of whom already had day jobs in the hospitality industry, were bored. The syllabus seemed overly simple. I would have rather been at home. I do not recall how long I taught the course; it wasn’t long, but it felt like a century. I have not thought about that experience in years; I think it came to mind this morning as a result of my online search for careers one might pursue after age 70. Among the several suggested options: adjunct instructor (which triggered the memory) in a field related to one’s career. I have absolutely no interest in teaching about association management (I probably would advise students to pursue something meaningful, instead). Other options suggested in one of the articles included “writer” and “artist.” I like to write. I occasionally dabble in art. But the idea of having an obligation to write on a subject that might be dull or to write on a deadline holds no appeal. And my artistic capabilities compare unfavorably to a four-year-old. So, this whimsical early morning exploration into a new career fizzled before I finished my first caffeine fix. It’s probably best—I am growing to appreciate naps, an activity not likely to be an acceptable accompaniment to launching a new career.

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Time to release the cat from its TV-room prison. The beast has taken to sleeping on a soft blanket on a Stressless lounger in that room, but the moment I get up she insists on food, entertainment, and opportunities to yodel. So I’ve tried putting her in there and closing the door. But I hear her howling and yowling again, so the brief respite is over. I may become a hermit, if only for a month or two at a time.

Imagine yourself sitting one evening on a big flat rock high above the slow-moving water of the Mississippi River. As the air cools, you feel a gentle wind against your face. Suddenly, the wind grows much stronger; you reach out to grab the gust. Though it is strong, you successfully wrestle it to the ground and hold it down as you consider what to do with it—place it in a metal-capped clear glass observation jar or drown it in the Big Muddy.

Wait! Is it actually possible to put your hands around the wind? I suppose not. You’re not clutching the wind; you’re holding onto a stray piece of air caught in the frenzy of the wind’s movement. The wind you hoped to capture whipped away, leaving you empty-handed, except for that fragment of air. As the wind swept past, it chuckled at your feeble attempt to catch it. You open your fist, releasing the scrap of air back into the atmosphere. Just then, a gust sends the newly-freed shred of air sailing away from you. What an utterly pointless endeavor.

Wind and air occupy different places on the spectrum of experience and understanding. One needs the other, but the other prefers to be left alone to luxuriate in invisibility. They are related only to the extent that they often occupy the same space on the scale of perception. Otherwise, they are as different as night and electricity.

Air is an incubator for wind. Air urges soft breezes to try harder; become more powerful and more controlling. Air has a stake in wind’s success. But even if wind’s efforts collapse into absolute calm, air continues to thrive…if stagnation is synonymous with flourishing.

Some days call for breaking through the confines of normalcy. Plundering the boundaries of today’s version of sanity in pursuit of the thrill of madness. I admire and envy the fortunate few whose careers call for them to engage in that pursuit as they write television and film screenplays, substituting fantasy for reality. Others participate in the process by willingly suspending their disbelief, engaging in imaginary thinking as Coleridge suggested. Crazy is a word denounced for its harsh mockery of people who suffer from some form of mental illness or imbalance. That is unfortunate, in that crazy is the quickest and most descriptive word to use for either whimsical or maniacal deviation from the “norm.” In my book, crazy is not necessarily judgmental; it is merely descriptive. Of course, one must exercise care so as to avoid behaving as so many ignorant and/or stupid people so often do. All right, then. Back to reality for a bit.

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Yesterday’s brief but delightful “Friendsgiving” gathering at a nearby state park represented life as it should be—welcoming, sharing, caring, engaging…happy. Conversation, food, and wine in a natural environment suited to light sweaters and the abandonment of protective emotional shields combine to offer deep contentment and appreciation. If everyone practiced this kind of…ah, well, it’s just a dream, a fantasy to think we could possibly sustain it, especially in a world so full of suspicion and selfishness. But even a short-lived celebration of the sort that took place yesterday can energize one’s sense that humankind still has a chance to overcome its fatal flaws.

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Silence is a friend
who will never betray.

~ Confucious ~

Sounds and images comprise only a fraction of our experiences, yet we rely on them for the vast majority of our understanding. We augment those two components of experience with interpretive thought. And what’s left? Touch. Smell. Taste. They matter, of course. Just not as much…usually. But touch can be powerful; sometimes it seems more powerful than hearing and sight. And it is, of course. Hugs, Kisses. Expressive entanglements of skin against skin. The senses are incubators of emotions. And they serve as fuel for the intellect. Absent one or more of the senses, the ones remaining become more muscular; their normal capacities are amplified and extended. I sometimes wonder whether a person might enhance all of his senses by deliberately disabling each of the others—thereby forcing the ones remaining to compensate for the loss.  Fascinating. If only for long enough to write these words.

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I read an intriguing discussion of death and what happens when we die. I recommend it.

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Time to plunge into the orange forest. Or, at least, to drive through it on the way to breakfast.

Certain ideas can be so powerful, so beautiful, that merely thinking about them can bring one to grateful tears. Of course, in order for tears to fall, the mind that thinks about those powerful ideas must be open to their ability to unleash unbounded gratitude. Gratitude for, not gratitude to. Simple, but overwhelming, appreciation for the mere fact that an idea can be embraced by an understanding mind.

Zen in its essence
is the art of seeing
into the nature of one’s being,
and it points the way
from bondage to freedom.

~ D. T. Suzuki ~

Zen is not a thing. It is an idea—an idea whose foundation is beauty and serenity and receptivity to an environment in which peace resides comfortably. But I am not a practitioner of Zen; I am only an observer. So my concept of Zen may be radically different from those who are more deeply engaged in the simple complexity of Zen Buddhism. There is room in the universe for enormously divergent ideas, yet no room for hatred. Hatred, though, muscles its way into consciousness by strangling tolerance and leaving it struggling to survive. Love—the kind that carries with it the broad, overwhelmingly powerful enchantment with everything—is the only idea or emotion or experience that can overpower hatred. Unfortunately, conquering hatred does not occur automatically. It requires active engagement and support—too often missing in this tiny pocket of time we occupy.

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Meditating deeply…
reach the depth of the source.
Branching streams
cannot compare to this source!
Sitting alone in a great silence,
even though the heavens turn
and the earth is upset,
you will not even wink.

~ Nyogen Senzaki ~

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Peace, at all costs. At ALL costs? No matter that the costs might be war or famine or abject, unending poverty? The war to end all wars. Such a dream. A naive, hopeful, gullible dream. Yet there are those among us whose naiveté and hope and willingness to believe in the possibility of everlasting peace may one day be the sparks to achieve the unachievable. Their willingness to believe the unbelievable may be the only true salvation—saving us from ourselves.

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Even with the fuel of two espressos, I remain uncertain about whether I have the brainpower to think as deeply as I desire. Actually, I am certain; that amount of brainpower has always eluded me. Yet I want to think into being the ONE solution that will solve every problem. The single answer to every question. The impossibly simple explanation that will untangle all the world’s confusion, past and present and future. I do not have to be the one who thinks into being that solution; I would be delighted for anyone to think into existence that all-inclusive answer to every troubling question. Even if the thinker were someone I hold in pure, unmitigated contempt—I want that someone to think into reality the ideal environment in which unending joy replaces endless misery. That is not asking for too much, is it?

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The Christmas season—which has not yet begun, but which one could never tell by looking around at all the decorations—will never again be the celebratory period it once was. My wife died just six days before Christmas. Since that time, I have felt myself spiral downward for a month or so before that awful anniversary, lasting for a month after. Even during that period of depression, though, there are many times when happiness breaks through the fog of grief. But that fog remains; not as thick, perhaps, but there it is. I am eternally grateful to mi novia, who comforts me and demonstrates her love, even when I am at a low point. I am grateful to return that love. Yet that comfort can feel like a double-edged blade. Eventually, time may dull the sharp edges that visit me every day; especially the ones that slice into me at certain predictable moments. Time will tell, perhaps.

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It is late, already 8. I have been dragging lately. Dragging more and more. Even caffeine seems to have no appreciable impact on my energy level. Could be age, I  guess. How in the hell did I ever get to this advanced age? It’s a miracle or a curse.

The hour I spent writing when I arose early this morning was time I needed to release steam from a sealed container.  Had I let the words that gathered there metastasize into sharp sentences and fierce paragraphs, the container could have exploded. The words I wrote remain in my head, but they are invisible now; sealed off from places where eyes might see them. But they remain in me, aching to be released. That constant battle continues.

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This morning, I found my book, The Essence of Zen. The timing was perfect; I needed it.

Solitude is freedom.
It’s an anchor, an anchor in the void.
You’re anchored to nothing,
and that’s my definition of freedom.

~ John Lilly ~

And another…

The One and the All.
Mingle and move without discriminating.
Live in this awareness and you’ll stop worrying
about not being perfect.

~ Seng Tsan ~

Drinking tea can, it is said, help sooth one’s mind. I am not sure whether it works with me; I should try it again. Very soon. I am not sure whether espresso has that effect; I’ve had two shots of espresso this morning. Even with The Essence of Zen open to words of wisdom, I am not certain about the soothing impact of espresso.

Another quotation that speaks to me:

He who knows
he has enough
is rich.

~ Lao Tzu ~

Hmm. I think I have had enough…more than enough. I still need something to remind me of the way to become settled.

Within yourself
is a stillness and a sanctuary
to which you can retreat at any time
and be yourself.

~ Herman Hesse ~

That’s it. That is the one I need. A sanctuary to which I can retreat, free of the chatter and grating noise of certainty and discord. It is the one I need, but is it attainable? It is. Simply withdraw for a time. Ignore the flood of selfishness that seeks to overcome altruism. Breathe pure air, unsullied by the smoke from arsonists’ fires.  Pet the cat. Listen to her contented purr. Imagine being hidden in a delightfully comfortable cocoon. Engage with the world around you as if asleep.  Ignore the fray for as long as it takes for steam to become ice.

I’ve been drawing a blank about what to write this morning. Everything that comes to mind would require far too much time and energy and would leave me and anyone reading my words angry and depressed. Finally, I decided I would simply extract some wisdom from a book that, for years, I have kept on my desk within an arm’s reach. But I glanced around my desk…it wasn’t there. I turned and skimmed the bookshelves…apparently not there, either. My heart sunk. But I am confident it must be somewhere nearby. It has to be. I would never had gotten rid of it. The little black book, The Essene of Zen, has been my reliable counselor for several years. It does not tell me things I do not already know, but it reminds me to think more deeply about things I know already. I simply must find the book. And clear off my desk so the book can claim a place within easy arm’s reach,

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For now, though. Another shot of caffeine. It is late. The day already is attempting to get away from me. I cannot let that happen. I will grasp the day. For you Latin-speakers, that would be capiunt diem.

Nothing in the news moves me. I am not sure that it is because I do not care or I have come to realize how I feel about the news does not matter. Perhaps both. And more. Reading the news and coming to grips with the fact that nothing I do will change it in the least probably has something to do with it. And being tired…tired of the constant repetition of information about problems we, collectively, seem unwilling to solve. We are able, but we will not act. Because we do not agree. We do not even see eye to eye on the extent to which problems are problems—war, murder, homelessness, fleeing social decay, famine, etc., etc., etc. Some people seem to think some of those issues have “uses.” I am quite tired of it all. All. Of. It.

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An NPR article updated in December 2021 (I have no idea when it was originally published) asserts that there is no universally agreed definition of solitude. The assertion was made by one of the editors of The Handbook of Solitude. But there seems to be agreement that solitude exists when a person feels alone. That feeling can take place in a crowded room or in an empty stadium. The experience is what matters, not the circumstances surrounding the experience. I find that concept thought-provoking—it opens my mind to an entirely new way of looking at, and possibly experiencing solitude. Hmm. It is thought-provoking, but I have to be in the right mood. My mood at the moment is hard to define, but I do not think “right” is it.

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Changes in the seasons rarely affect me with any appreciable impact. But when seasonal changes coincide with indelible memories of loss, I feel overwhelmed by an intense sense of melancholy. No, it is more powerful than melancholy. It is grief that, in the moment, seems like it will be permanent and insurmountable. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to flee everything and everyone; find a hidden place far, far away and sleep for as long as it takes to recover my…sanity, I guess. Though that is what I want to do, I have never done it. At least not for long. I think the return from the respite to my “normal” life might make it worse, somehow. So, instead, I simply try to become unobtrusively invisible for a while. I am not sure whether the seasons have anything to do with it; it may just be coincidental. Regardless of the cause, the feeling that I am drowning in something impossible to escape defies description. I cannot equate it to any other sensation because it is the only sensation that has ever had that effect on me. But, eventually, I climb out of it. If circumstances are right, I will have successfully hidden the emotional meltdown. If not, I have to convince those around me to just “drop it” so I can avoid conversations I do not want to have. One of these days, I will encounter the right person—a stranger—to whom I can explain the experience and who might be able to help me end the cycle.

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I could sleep for days, if only I could empty my mind and calm my nervous system. I think I understand why people turn to dangerous drugs. They want to be empty and calm. Or, maybe, just the opposite. I do not know, of course. I only think. Thinking is dangerous, especially when thought morphs into opinion and opinion solidifies into belief. That bears repeating. Thinking is dangerous, especially when thought morphs into opinion and opinion solidifies into belief.

The person peering at you when you look in the mirror is not the same person who looks back at you from a photograph of your face. I prefer the mirror’s version of myself. It is hard to pin down just what makes my reflected image slightly more tolerable than the photo, but that rendition is better. Not more appealing, just not as hard on the mind’s eye. The fact that the mirror presents a reverse image (a mirror-image…duh) must have quite a lot to do with the level or lack thereof of appeal. This entire paragraph seems a bit narcissistic; but it is not. If I could recast the face looking back and me (both from the mirror and the photo), the image would be of a man with blue eyes, tanned skin, a chiseled handsome nose and mouth and jawline, and only one neck—sans the turkey-like wattle. I wonder whether my preference for my mirror-image is unique? I doubt it. Even when I try to quash my vanity, it finds a way to bubble to the surface. We’re probably all like that. Human. The image is not all we see, by the way. We see our own mood when we look in the mirror. And we see the mood we were in when a photo was taken. Others do not necessarily see the same moods we see. Sometimes, others’ interpretations of our moods are radically different from our own.

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The wonders of Nature sometimes seem so utterly remarkable and complex—so elaborate and sophisticated and intricate—that nothing humans do could possibly come close. But, then, I come across something as stunning as the world’s first whole eye and partial face transplant. A Hot Springs man was badly injured when his face touched a 7200-volt live wire. The victim had extensive injuries—including the loss of his left eye, his dominant left arm from above the elbow, his entire nose and lips, front teeth, left cheek area, and chin down to the bone. I viewed a series of three photos of the man: the first one taken pre-accident; the second one (a terribly disturbing one of his face after his injury); and the third, a more recent one, taken after his 21 hour surgery that involved a team of more than 140 surgeons, nurses, and other healthcare professionals. Humans can survive unspeakable horrors…and humans can perform work that seems to almost simulate miracles.

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Yesterday, we made a trip to Costco, got our COVID-19 boosters, and watched episodes of season 5 of Unforgotten. There must have been more…oh, I drafted a message to members of my church concerning a mundane, but important, matter. And I scanned the news, of course. Collected the mail, of course, including a lovely gift from mi novia, a wire “wreath” designed to display collected wine corks. Trying to itemize a list of all of one’s activities during the course of a day is, in my opinion, essentially impossible. Too many actions and activities take place with the mental equivalent of autopilot; some actions simply do not register—trying to capture all of them would be like attempting to make a record of every breath we take. Pointless. Yet, like breathing, omitting the actions that “do not register” could well lead to the same outcome as breath-cessation. They are vitally important, but they take place without specific intent.

Augmenting upsetting news with information that brings a smile to one’s face is not enough to erase the damage done to one’s psyche by the former. The only way to eliminate the injury done—and the psychological scars left—by exposure to news of war, murder, accidents, illness, and similar painful information is to prevent the exposure from ever happening. Ignorance is, indeed, bliss. A complete blockade of the kind of knowledge that savages one’s serenity may be the only means of experiencing peace of mind. Yet in an environment in which exposure to a constant flow of new data is natural and expected, shutting down that flow may trigger the imagination to fill the void with worry…a flood of disquieting “what if” scenarios. Perhaps the solution is to simultaneously stem the stream of news and train the mind to replace worry with mindful awareness of the present moment—a moment in which disturbing external stimuli are absent. As I consider these thoughts, I imagine a days-long “retreat” that involves leaving email, texts, radio, television, telephone, online access, etc. behind; in their place, frequent periods of guided meditation led by an experienced practitioner would train the mind to abandon its tendency to replace emptiness with worry. Anesthesia might accomplish the same thing, of course, but unconsciousness lacks the bliss of one’s awareness of one’s ignorance.

Unpleasant external information, unfortunately, is not the only source of anxiety. One’s own worries and concerns—the emotional equivalents to powerful punches to the gut—sometimes are far more damaging than are packets of impersonal reports delivered by news anchors. The world and all its potential for drowning one in grief sometimes is just too overwhelming to cope with; rational efforts to overcome its repeated gut punches can be pointless exercises in ineffectiveness.

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Fall weather is upon us. Short sleeved shirts and short pants have suddenly become inadequate. Temperatures are too cool to rely solely on long sleeved shirts, but too warm for heavy jackets. The “right” sweaters are appropriate for the chill of early mornings, but a bit too much for slightly warmer temperatures later in the day. Layers…that’s the ticket. Easily shed (and replaced) layers are ideal for the season. Maybe. As if I had the answers.

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The very idea of showering and shaving this morning seems so damn taxing. I want to have showered and shaved, but I do not feel like dealing with the process of having done those things. The idea of more sleep…hours more…appeals to me, but I know waking after more sleep would leave me aching—cursing myself for having spent so much time in bed. Life is hard. But not as hard as doing without it, I suppose. Deal with it. Just deal with it.

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Two shots of espresso have not cured my headache. Nor did two acetaminophen tablets a few hours earlier accomplish that objective. And two squirts of nasal decongestant failed, as well. It is said that time heals all wounds. If my headache is a wound, then time should do the trick.

Years ago—it must be close to 25 years, maybe more—I had the great good fortune of making a trip to Australia and New Zealand. The whirlwind experience took my late wife and me on very short visits—between one and three days each—to Auckland, Christchurch, Wellington, Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane. Though it was a business trip, it felt like a dream vacation, though its compact and hurried schedule reminded me that I was not in control of the experience. That trip has come to mind of late as I read the occasional Facebook posts of a friend who has been on a very long cruise destined for Australia; she could easily have convinced me to be her porter. As I think of that trip and others I have made over the years, it occurs to me that the appearance of many of the places I have been must be radically different from the time I visited. Watching television series filmed in London, for example, has shown me a city that looks remarkably different than the last time I was there. A large number of tall modern buildings has altered the cityscape to the point that it seems like a completely different place than the one I enjoyed. The same must be true of the quaint villages I fell in love with on my many visits to England. And, I suppose, Australia and New Zealand are not the same places I remember. That is true in the U.S., too. The Chicago I lived in years ago was a different city than the one I see in videos today. Even Austin, where I spent 3+ years in college, is no longer the somewhat sleepy college town I enjoyed; it is a traffic-ridden high-tech monster. And Dallas, the city I left nine years ago, seems to have erupted into the kind of place I want to avoid. Is that true of Sydney and Christchurch, I wonder? How different will the towns and cities young people visit today be in 25 years? Will those people wistfully remember experiences they enjoyed in places that no longer exist?

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Though I have never been to the Hebrides, I think I would find experiencing a secluded life there quite rewarding. That idea, though, will remain a fantasy. One of many I keep stored in my head. One of only a select few I share publicly. I find it difficult to explain the appeal of isolation, seclusion…distance from aspects of the world I find troubling. That notwithstanding, I’ll have another espresso and continue to mull it over.

Some concepts are subject to generational evaporation. For example, the idea that a person can “cherish” or be cherished. Baby Boomers, as a group, understand it. If for no other reason the 1966 tune written by Terry Kirkman and recorded by the Association, entitled Cherish, the word (and the concept) entered our vocabulary. But I suspect the term and its meaning both skipped subsequent generations. Do Millenials or GenX or GenZ or the latest cohorts know the word? I doubt it. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of word that slip quietly out of regular usage. Language is not static. Knowing that, getting sentimental about words disappearing and new one appearing is rather silly. But people tend to get sentimental about such things. I suppose we tend to associate specific words with treasured—or despised—experiences. Members of subsequent generations may not have such experiences or they may have them but may not make the same linguistic connections to them. This train of thought probably does not matter to anyone but me at the moment; but that’s true of so many of my thoughts.

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The vibrancy of a cosmopolitan city. The charm and pace of a pacific village. The serenity of a hidden, quiet, purely personal retreat. Mountainous forests, long stretches of empty sand beaches, majestic cliffs overlooking endless ocean scenes, the hustle and bustle of city crowds, and the peaceful silence of places known only to the select few. If only it all existed in just one place. But no such place exists. Those people fortunate enough to have the resources to be where they wish, choices must be made. The extremely fortunate among us can move from place to place, but even they cannot bring all those desirable spots together in one place. Decisions are required. People must establish priorities. But some people cannot force themselves to choose. For some people, choices are their demons. A decision to pick one place means others are not selected; those others may then become even more attractive—and the person who made the choice begins to resent his selection. In the absence of Shangri-La, the place that combines every desirable attribute, every place becomes almost hellishly imperfect. Choice of places to be represent only one kind of demon. Choices about who to be—or who not to be—can be equally demonic. In fact, every opportunity for choice can represent a risk…to be dissatisfied or, at minimum, incompletely satisfied. Is it a personality flaw or simply an accident of existence? Everyone has an opinion, but no one—having selected which opinion to hold—can be certain he has chosen the right one.

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Orange and yellow leaves are raining down from the trees outside my window. Every strong gust of wind tears countless leaves from their branches, sending them down to cover the ground. Over time, many of those leaves will compost naturally, providing nutrients to the trees that once held the younger, greener versions of the leaves close. If cannibalism applied to non-animal living things, I would say the process of trees “eating” their own (and other trees’) leaves represents cannibalism. But the dictionary tells me cannibalism applies only to animals. Perhaps, if I tried, I could find a terms that applies to plants. But I have not tried and probably won’t. It’s not that important to me. But I am modestly curious. So if anyone reading this knows the answer, I will be grateful if you tell me.

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If I had the energy, I might write about my long, somewhat annoying trek to the airport yesterday afternoon…and the long, unplanned route I took driving home. But I do not have the energy at the moment. More espresso, please. Okay, I’ll take care of that.

Early this morning, I came across a brief discussion of the Gabriel García Márquez novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, which has been described as among the “supreme achievements in world literature.” Though I have long known of the novel, I have yet to read it. But as I read the discussion and a partial synopsis of the book, a few words that summarize the book’s core story line struck a chord deep inside me. The electrifying summary says the book “chronicles the irreconcilable conflict between the desire for solitude and the need for love.” Ach! I must make time, during a long stretch of isolation, to read the 417-page book.

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I have never taken enough photographs of people I love. Yet perhaps those relatively few photos take on an even deeper sentimental value than had I taken thousands.  Those I have taken should have been better organized and preserved. This line of thinking is silly and pointless. Deeds that never took place are impossible to “fix.” Fretting about past failures is an exercise in futility. If that and similar exercises built muscles, my physical strength would be on full display; bulging biceps and all. The absence of such evidence says such exercise does not build muscles; I know that exercise simply builds additional layers of guilt and regret. A lifetime recognizing mistakes of omission and commission is time wasted. So, knowing that, why is that futile and unhealthy mindset allowed to fester? Bloody good question. The answer or answers probably are just as unsatisfying as the thinking that allowed dwelling on the matter to take place.

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The urologist subjected me to a very uncomfortable, though quite brief, couple of procedures yesterday. But his analysis of his findings—nothing at all of any concern whatsoever—made the unpleasant indignities worth the experience.

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I washed the sheets a while ago. They are drying as I type this. One of my least favorite household chores is making the bed. In this house, one of the divisions of labor we have silently agreed on is that I do not have to do that chore. But in mi novia‘s weeklong absence, it is only fitting that I welcome her back with clean sheets on a made bed. If I had devoted every ounce of my creative energies for my entire life to alternative ways of preparing beds for comfortable sleep, I suspect I could have found more appealing options. But, alas, I have simply tolerated that unpleasant part of household management, instead of trying to find ways to get around it.

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Summer returned yesterday. Late in the day, while the sun was still shining brightly, I traded my jeans for a pair of gym shorts. And I took off my athletic shoes and replaced them with flip-flops. If the weather forecasts are correct, I should be able to avoid jeans and heavy, uncomfortable shoes for at least the next day or two. Happiness can come on the wings of small things.

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The dryer soon will remind me that I have to make the bed. “Pleasure with pain for leaven,” is one of my favorite phrases, taken from a poem I have always appreciated. The phrases is so apropos of the vagaries of life on planet Earth.

The complexity of our planet and everything on it is beyond comprehension. Looking out my window at the bark on tree branches thirty feet in the air, I see grey and light green lichens or fungus or moss—I guess. And I see living green pine needles and dying or dead brown ones. And acorns on oak trees, among leaves that the season somehow triggers to wilt and fall to the ground. Bark on tree trunks reveals holes where woodpeckers have sought insects, the variety of which is almost unimaginably diverse. I could go on for hours, detailing the variety of life forms just outside my window. But diversity is not limited to living things, of course. If I were viewing multi-colored layers of rock and stone in a road-cut, I could spend hours—perhaps months or years—noting the unique appearance and texture of each one. Sea creatures, volcanoes, clouds, earthquakes, tornadoes, desert sand, and on and on and on and on and on and on…ad infinitum.

Planet Earth is astounding. I wonder whether other planets are as remarkably complex as ours? And what about asteroids and the rings around planets and stars and the space between them? And then I think about my own body and its complexity, its growth and decay—and the resurrection of tissues and the degradation of bones and brain cells and hair that grows on my head and face and…on and on and on…ad infinitum. Stunning. My brain cannot hope to comprehend even a miniscule fraction of the realities it encounters. Any effort to absorb and understand all knowledge is a pointless endeavor, but humankind continues to try. But even our collective efforts are essentially wasted, if our objective is to know all there is available to know. On the other hand, the pursuit of knowing more promises to be an ever-expanding opportunity. Hmm.

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Visiting a urologist is not high on my bucket list. That notwithstanding, that is on my calendar for this morning. My oncologist, when she saw that my latest CT scan revealed a “circumferential wall thickening of the urinary bladder,” decided she wanted a urologist to evaluate finding. I realize, of course, that one’s body tends to rebel against aging as time progresses, but I would prefer to delay that revolution until the very end—perhaps twenty years hence. My preferences, of course, are irrelevant; one’s body does what one’s body does—on its own timeline—without being asked or given permission. So, after another espresso to prepare me for the day and a shower to prepare me to be around people, I will visit my urologist.

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If the stakes were not so high, we could leave mindless politicians to engage in pointless warfare with one another until only their bloodied corpses remained to remind us that stupidity kills. And, of course, there is the problem of the politicians’ indoctrinated acolytes, people who permit politicians to think for them. The incredibly high stakes, perhaps as high as they have ever been, require the rest of us to use one of the only tools available to us—the vote. The only other means of exercising control involves taking up arms at the risk of leaving politicians unscathed and insurrectionists dead or imprisoned. So, realistically, the vote is our only hope to retain—or recapture—control over self-governance. And, if we were to succeed, maintaining control would require concessions, compromise, and bargains across philosophical divides. Preserving democracy, even  an imperfect one, requires extremely hard work and a willingness to accept the fact that the Rolling Stones got it right: You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you’ll find you get what you need. We can only hope.

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Love. Does it have weight? Mass? Fear. Same questions. How can we know either truly exist? Do we have reliable measures, or must we rely on our senses…and hope they are dependable? Silly questions, but even silly questions might have intriguing, unexpected answers. Or they may not.

Yesterday afternoon’s weather was close to perfect. Clear skies, the temperature ideally suited to sitting outside on the deck, soaking in early November’s version of the beauty of the forest…it is a shame the experience cannot be captured and lived again on demand. But experience on demand might lessen its power…its ability to instill a sense of awe at Nature’s ability to cause a person to feel joy, simply by being. What is it, I wonder, that enables an experience to shut down all the negative thoughts that accompany living in a harsh world? Thoughts of war, hatred, poverty, and all the rest of humanity’s self-imposed horrors can vanish—albeit only briefly—simply  because of Nature’s presence or existence or…something inexplicable.  Perhaps it is some sort of natural anesthesia, the equivalent of a numbing agent that deadens the pain of living in a world beset by so very many unnecessary problems. Whatever it is—was—yesterday afternoon was delightful. I shared it with my friend, my late wife’s sister, and her dog. The experience was enhanced, perhaps, by a cocktail (gin & tonic), but even without that, simply sitting and feeling the air was close to spectacular. Watching the way sunlight changes the colors of leaves as the sun moves across the sky reminded me of how remarkable the world can be, if only we sit and observe it.

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Later, as I pondered whether to watch television and, if so, what to watch, it occurred to me that the experience of enjoying Nature a few hours earlier stayed with me. I did not need to find a riveting program to grab my attention…I could be satisfied with anything I happened upon. I ended up watching a news/crime documentary (I do not recall the name…it is a regular broadcast television series) that investigated the crimes of a charismatic criminal who created and led a cult, killing cult members periodically so the cult could collect their life insurance money. Needless to say, watching the program had an unpleasant effect on my earlier euphoric mood. I did not need to watch it. But I did. We (I) can ruin our own experiences if we let ourselves do it.

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Light came to the skies early this morning, thanks to turning back the clock. Would it not be wonderful to be able to “turn back the clock” by years, instead of just an hour? I would be extremely grateful to the universe if I could turn the clock back twenty years, giving me the opportunity to live those years again without making the mistakes I made along the way. If I could relive that time period, always conscious of avoiding those mistakes, I could be a happier man. And the people around me could be happier, as well. Some of the actions I took—or did not take—were mistakes, but some were either intentional missteps or the results of thoughtlessness. We cannot turn back time, though. In place of that ability, we experience regret, the price we pay for our many failings.

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It’s late. I need to shower, shave, and dress for the day. I will go to church in a bit. When I return home, perhaps I will accomplish some of the tasks I delayed…again…yesterday and the day before. Time will tell.

Space exploration is viewed by many people as a wasteful endeavor. The money and effort spent going to the moon and Mars and beyond, they believe, should be spent solving problems of poverty, climate change, etc., etc. Though I understand that perspective, I do not share it. Space exploration has the potential of revealing extraordinary secrets of the universe, many of which might prove valuable in solving the terrestrial problems that face humankind—and every other creature that shares the planet with us. I envy the astronauts and cosmonauts and scientists and astronomers who can see beyond the boundaries of our solar system and our galaxy. For brief moments, they can escape the shackles of gravity and see at least a little of what’s “out there.” They can escape, for a while, the mess we have made of and on this planet. They may find answers we have been seeking for centuries and longer. Their efforts are worth the time and expense dedicated to expanding our knowledge of a limitless universe.

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One hundred years from now—and probably much, much sooner—no one will remember anything about me and my life. Thinking about that reality puts in perspective everything I think is important today. The uncomfortable reality is that, on an individual and personal basis, nothing matters. Our brief impact on the world, as miniscule as it is in our lifetimes, becomes far less than microscopic when considered on a timeline that stretches millions and millions of years. Yet that reality does not deter us—me, at least—from thinking and wondering and attempting to understand the inexplicable. Even when we know we do not matter, we pretend we do. If we did not pretend we mattered, our brief time on this planet would be utterly wasted.

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Spending several days almost entirely by myself—venturing out daily only to check the mailbox and to have brief encounters with other people a few times—reminds me how much I need solitude. Extended time alone relieves me of the exhaustion that social engagement brings about. But until I have the experience of being alone for a few days, I do not even realize how draining social interaction can be. I enjoy spending time with certain people—people I find appealing in one way or another—but if I spend too much time in situations in which I am surrounded by people, I get tense, tired, and anxious. What that means is this: I am an introvert, through and through.

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My thoughts are too jumbled and garbled and otherwise too utterly indecipherable to document, so I will give up for now. I will spend another day in solitude. I may do laundry I intended to do yesterday and I may clean the house as I had planned to do yesterday. And I might do a hundred other things on yesterday’s list. Yesterday, the day I had planned to use as a time dedicated to “getting things done,” turned into an exercise in lethargy. I am afraid this day may do the same. If so, I will chalk it up to recovering from the exhaustion of being an introvert in an extrovert’s world. And on I go. Life goes on as this little blue dot spins in an endless sea of darkness. There are secrets so numerous and so vast we cannot hope to ever know them; but we keep pursuing an incredibly attractive, yet pointless, endeavor.

The cat woke me around 4; I finally got up at 5 and fed her. She has since disappeared; no yowling, no ripping through the house and sliding into walls in her frenzy to escape some imaginary predator. On the one hand, the serenity is a welcome departure from what has become an annoying routine; on the other, I worry that she may have slammed into something beneath the bed and knocked herself out. I must go look for her. After I make another espresso. I have become addicted to espresso, thanks to spending a week with my brother and his wife in Mexico. I drank espresso every morning while we were there. And I ate fresh fruit almost every morning. “Fresh” fruit here is unripe fruit imported from Mexico or Guatemala or Honduras or other distant places that is allowed to ripen in transit. There’s a difference in flavor and texture; truly fresh fruit is magical. I recommend it highly.

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A cat is no companion. It refuses to behave like a friend or a dog. A cat is driven entirely by selfish motivation. Unlike a dog or a friend, a cat either cannot sense a person’s emotional fragility or it can but does not care about it. As long as it is fed and its litter box is frequently emptied and refreshed, a cat’s expectations are adequately met. Of course, some dogs seem more like cats than one would hope. And friends cannot be expected to ignore their primary obligations to comfort someone whose favorite sports team has gone down in defeat. AI has the potential of standing in for dogs and friends; and, if one is enamored of soulless, uncaring beasts, AI could stand in for cats, I suppose. I should not be so judgmental.

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Here is a completely revised poem that I began to write some time ago. It was unfinished then. It is a battered mistake today, and it is finished now; in more ways than one.

Lost Chance

When shoulders aren’t there for the crying,
when love is a wall made of stone,
when life seems a prelude to dying,
when you’re tired and weeping alone.

It’s time to create your salvation,
crafted from sweat and from sands.
You emerge from your bitter stagnation
and build a new life with your hands.

The fire in the furnace inside you
is stoked with the pain of the past.
You stare at the face looking at you
from shards of a mirror’s cracked glass.

But your mind is a kiln or an oven,
that melts with a history of hate,
but your friends belong to a coven
that saves you before it’s too late.

Yet you shout at the liars, scream at the thieves,
calling everyone out for a fight.
You tear into the fighters, shredding their sleeves,
and do battle all the mutinous night.

You chase them with hatred and laughter,
you insult them with snarls and love.
You taunt them before and then after
and trap them below and above.

Your chance at creating salvation
was lost when you traded in hatred.
Now the train is leaving the station
taking with it everything sacred.

It is a lesson too late in the learning,
made of sand, he sang in a song,
and it leaves you with an impossible yearning
to forsake all you did wrong.

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Yesterday’s post expressed raw emptiness; the sort of emotion in which sharp pain competes against itself in the form of numbness. Emotions rarely exist in a vacuum in which only one purely physical and/or mental sensation has taken residence. In fact, there exists no pure emotion, entirely untainted by other feelings; one emotion may be dominant, but it is almost always impossibly knotted with others, a tangle of eels. Deep sadness, for example, often is combined with anger or fear or confusion. If a pure emotion existed, what might it be? Love? Hatred? Joy?

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I would welcome long, leisurely conversations today. As much as I enjoy my solitude, I prefer it to be interrupted from time to time. Especially when the interruptions involve pleasant conversations with people whose company I find enjoyable.

Another load of clothes to wash. Domestic chores can be soothing.

Today is my late sister’s birthday. My late brother’s birthday was in the second week of September. Lately, everywhere I turn I learn of the death of acquaintances, some very casual and others I knew better. And, of course, the news is bursting with news of the deaths of celebrities and thousands of innocents and terrorists and people whose warped grasp on reality led them commit mass atrocities. Though mortality is assured to everyone and everything that lives, the end of innocent lives, especially, pains me deeply. The emptiness left behind is raw. It leaves in me a feeling of meaninglessness.

I may be back later today to write of matters less brittle. Perhaps. If such matters exist.

At what cost? That question is posed in so many circumstances it becomes almost meaningless. But in practical terms, it is far from irrelevant. Some examples might highlight the point:

• We might save the planet from irreversible, catastrophic warming, but at what cost? If the cost involves shutting down entire industries, leading to massive unemployment and grinding poverty and starvation that follow, is the cost worth the “investment” of human lives? But if failure to make that horrific investment would lead to even more widespread and catastrophic terrors, how could we justify protecting the “few” to save the “many?”
• Elimination of fanatical, murderous religious zealots could end their reign of terror, but at what cost? If the cost involves collateral damage in the form of the death of millions of innocent victims of the terrorists, is the cost of eliminating the terrorists worth the “investment” of human lives? Yet at what cost would we incur by letting the zealots live to continue their rampages?
• Reducing the depletion of aquifers by redirecting aquifer-sourced agricultural irrigation water to cities could provide vital, life-giving water to large populations, but at what cost? Would the result be human populations having plenty of water, but little or no food to put on the table?

Life on Earth is fragile; it is not a given. Thanks substantially to decisions made by humans, it grows increasingly fragile with every passing moment. Questions about the costs of both complex and simple decisions are rarely rhetorical. They are consequential—often so consequential that actions based on our responses can mean the difference between survival of our (and other) species and extinction. And unlike the rapid extinction resulting from a catastrophic asteroid strike, for example, the process of extinction resulting from human actions or inactions could be long, excruciating, and unbearably horrible. The urgency of answering questions involving the difference between thriving, barely surviving, and extinction is growing more crucial every day. Yet our species, collectively, seems intent on putting off both answers and actions. At what cost?

And what if our species does not survive? What does it matter to those of us living on Earth today? It’s a legitimate, reasonable question. Unsentimental answers may cause some people to shrink away in disbelief and disgust. Sentimental responses may cause some people to roll their eyes and smirk. But when the initial reactions fade, contemplation may cause people to explore the answers in depth. Or, if the thoughts are too taxing, the entire topic may be dismissed as irrelevant. But at what cost?

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The final day of October 2023 is here. One-sixth of the calendar year remains to be experienced. What if our collective experiences here on Earth suddenly ended before the last day of December? Would the New Year become an irrelevant concept? Irrelevant to whom? All human endeavors would suddenly have no meaning, because meaning requires human understanding. Contemplating such dark topics is both intriguing and depressing. Thinking about these things will ultimately lead one to realize that both intrigue and depression would cease to be without us to experience them. We are both everything and nothing. We represent all meaning and all irrelevance. We have absolute control and no control at all.

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Onward toward November and beyond.

Until this morning, I could not understand why some people get so wrapped up in television and film. Wrapped up to such an extent that people probe details about the actors’ and authors’ lives, and other matters so far removed from viewers’ real world experiences. But today, as I reacted in revulsion to another morning’s deeply depressing news about war, mass shootings, and other expressions of hatred, I suddenly “got it.” The stories presented on the screen allow the viewer to only temporarily escape the horrors of the world around them…delving into details about actors and writers and directors and so on extends the temporary escape. This morning, as I struggled to distance myself from a world that seems intent on destroying every shred of joy, I found myself exploring details about the Swedish series we began watching last night, Rebecka Martinsson. The title character is a Stockholm lawyer who returns to her home town in Sweden’s far north (the village of Kuravaara, near the town of Kiruna) after the death of somebody she was close to as a child. What initially looked like an accident is discovered to be a murder. The lawyer, operating in extra-legal ways, pursues the truth. The story was gripping. This morning, it gave me something to which I could direct my attention, rather than to the terrible news the media seems intent on force-feeding to us. At any rate, I explored the genesis of the series, I learned that it was based on the work of author Åsa Larsson, described by one reviewer as “one of the least popular Swedish crime authors…” whose work…”constitutes a noteworthy addition to the Nordic noir genre.” And as I investigated further, I learned that the actress who plays the title character is Ida Engvoll, who apparently is quite well-known to audiences for her work in Arne Dahl: Europa Blues, Beck, A Man Called Ove, and more. My point is this: immersing myself in details about the actress, the author, the village of Kuravaara, and other aspects…sometimes only tangentially relevant to the series itself…delivered me from the ongoing horrors in Gaza and the emerging facts suggesting law enforcement knew about the potentially deadly potential of the Lewiston, Maine shooter. Yet, when I attempt to understand my somewhat irrational interest in the actress and the author and the brutally cold landscape of the far north of Sweden, I slip away from those diversions and back into the painfully bleak disappointments of living in the world today. The solutions: stay glued to Nordic noir presentations on the television screen and/or to the pages of absorbing stories in book form—and prohibit the world’s news media from infecting one’s mind with bacteria and viruses that carry serenity-slayers.

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Another delicious day, a day for which I have intentionally kept the calendar utterly empty. No obligations. Nothing to deter me from letting my mind wander and relax and otherwise be free of stress—to the extent that is possible in the world in which we live. Today is ripe for pleasant surprises, if pleasant surprises wish to visit. Fall weather is here. Last night, we briefly had a fire in the fireplace; more for its mesmerizing effects than for its heat. Today might call for the same. Chill. Chill. Chill.

Demons. We read about or hear about or even talk about people whose troubled lives are attributed to psychological (or, some say, spiritual) demons, but what, exactly, are those so-called demons? The definitions are almost boundless; it seems everyone has a personal definition of those demons that negatively affect the lives of people who do battle with them. Here is my understanding of demons: they are troubling aspects of ourselves that we rarely, if ever, outwardly reveal or acknowledge, but that live inside us. They constantly remind us we have uncorrectable and unforgiveable flaws that almost no one else, aside from ourselves, knows. These parts of ourselves sometimes lead us to behave in ways that cause us to loathe ourselves. And we can never forget how we behaved; our recollections of who we were in those moments are photographic—we relive and regret every action we took and every thought that crossed our minds.  Though demons occasionally may lay dormant for extended periods, thereby enabling us to live relatively normal lives, they are ever-present. And they are prone to be awakened by the slightest trigger. The shame and regret and deep misgivings that arise from such awakenings cannot easily be erased because those emotions are based on reality. And they cannot easily be forgiven because decent human beings do not behave in ways that give rise to such remorse and regret.

This morning, while reading about the death of Matthew Perry, I came across several references to Perry’s “demons” over the years (which, as far as I know, had no bearing on his drowning death). I felt compassion for him and his long-term struggles with those demons. I suspect those close to him knew of and forgave him for whatever led to his ongoing encounters with his demons. But forgiving someone else is far easier than forgiving oneself; I doubt he ever forgave himself for whatever it was that led him to give demons access to his inner life…his “soul,” so to speak.

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As we know, forgiveness of oneself is the hardest of all the forgivenesses.

~ Joan Baez ~

Philosophical advice is both valuable and useless.

Forgive many things in others; nothing in yourself.

~ Ausonius ~

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I awoke pretty early today, but I changed my normal routine enough that my schedule is completely out of kilter. Showering, shaving, and getting dressed preceded the usual cat-feeding and blood-letting (checking my blood-glucose) and various other activities, putting this blog near the end of my to-do list for early morning. It is now almost 8, hours later than I’d like to be writing. But, looking at what I’ve written, there’s no reason to like writing. I feel a need to think philosophically, but my brain is not accommodating my desire. So I will pause for a while…either until later today or until tomorrow morning…so I might be able to attack this blog with a greater sense of intellectual relevance. Or something akin to it.

This morning I am experiencing the first truly unpleasant case of heartburn/indigestion I have had in quite some time. Two Tums may have toned it down just a touch, but not enough. Pizza (again) last night is to blame; I know this because I can taste and feel its aggressiveness. I may have to recline on a sofa in an attempt to moderate the discomfort. Damn pizza.

I cannot think clearly enough to write anything with even a shred of value. So I will give it up. I haven’t even consumed the espresso; I’m afraid it would make the heartburn even worse. Another sip of water and a morning nap. I hope that resolves the matter.

Heartburn is a reasonable descriptor. Although, I honestly think magma-chest is closer to the experience.

An article on the NPR website, written by Manuela López Restrepo, delivers less than I expected. Titled, How many friends do Americans have? A survey crunched the numbers, I expected the article to offer a serious—if probably incomplete—exploration of friendship. Instead, the author wrote a piece that is rather flippant and that throws around important (in my opinion) terms without defining them. I cannot legitimately law all the blame the author, though; the source of her information is similarly lacking. Among my complaints: while the article (and the research report upon which it is based) says a slim majority of adults surveyed report they have between one and four close friends and less than 40% report having five or more, “close friends” is not defined. Yet respondents seemed readily willing to answer questions into which an understanding of the term was embedded. Eight percent of respondents, by the way, reported having no close friends. I might have been included in that small slice of people simply because I do not know what is meant by close friends. How close must a friend be to be close? And does the degree of closeness differ, in situations in which a male’s close friends are female, from more traditionally recognized male-to-male close friendships? And vice versa, of course.

For as long as I can remember, the concept of friendship has intrigued me; friendship is not a precisely defined point on a measure of relationships. Like so many other aspects of matters involving the human condition, it is a complex matter that exists on a very wide spectrum. The number and degree of influence of the variables impacting friendship is enormous; probably incalculable. The depth and type of friendship relationship between an unmarried woman and a married man is shaped by social expectations and by each person’s assumptions. If one or both parties to a friendship is gay or otherwise “out-of-norm,” a whole basket of other assumptions, concerns, potential jealousies, etc., etc. comes into play. I suppose one of the reasons the concept of friendship intrigues me is that I have always had far more female friends/acquaintances than male. The traditional views of friendship often seem irrelevant in such cases. Topics that might readily be discussed between two male friends might be considered “mine fields” that must be avoided between a male and a female friend. The complexity of the matter grows even more interesting though, for example, when the friendship is between a heterosexual male and a gay female (or vice versa, of course); the “mine fields” might be irrelevant, perhaps making the bond between the parties stronger than one between a male and a female—especially if one or both parties to that latter kind of friendship are married.

Topics that two male friends never discuss might be the subject of regular conversation between a male and female friendship pair or a pair of female friends. Yet topics discussed between two male friends might constitute mine fields between a male and female friendship pair. That raises the question: how close can friends be if they cannot/will not discuss such “difficult” matters? Even matters of simple curiosity could be too “personal” to be included in a conversation between close friends. And the dynamics of friendships, can be shaped, unfortunately, by the extent to which friends’ married/attached partners are suspicious, jealous, or otherwise unwilling to readily grant a partner the freedom to be his or her own person. Of course, I may be imagining all of the possible twists and turns in relationships between friends and partners; I fortunately have not had to deal with them. But, still, I continue to try to understand the complexities that might apply to me, especially with regard to relationships with female friends. I suspect the degree of sharing between female friends is significantly greater than between male and female friendship pairs; society has drilled into us that there are certain things that are simply not to be discussed with friends of the opposite sex. For example, if a marital relationship is under stress, I imagine close women friends might discuss the matter; but that matter might be off limits between a close woman/man friendship pair. I could go on. But I won’t. I’ve dwelled on this far too long.

As society becomes less puritanical (assuming, of course, the current puritanical resurgence does not maintain its death grip) about matters involving relationships between males and females, questions about the intricacies of those relationships will become more common and more complex. But will friends, either male or female, be comfortable discussing those issues? Who knows? I do not.