John Swinburn

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.

Suddenly, an individual’s world can become a swirling, chaotic, endless nightmare. One must feel pandemonium wash over one’s entire life experience, the horror so deep and terrifying that it is like drowning in an inescapable ocean of raw fear. How else can the panic be described? How else can the experience be described; of confronting a mass shooter equipped with semi-automatic weapons and access to a never-ending source of ammunition? Whether the circumstances are the massive Hamas attacks on Israelis or the unhinged, murderous attacks on residents of Lewiston, Maine, the experiences must do enormous emotional damage to the people caught in the terrifying fray. I fully understand the appeal of living life as a recluse. Humans are undeniably dangerous. Some are savages. Monsters disguised as something soft and easy and gentle. Ach!

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And, now, we will leave for a half-day session in which we hope to learn something about the impact of compassion. And other such stuff. Off we go.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

~ Voltaire ~

My exercise yesterday involved transforming the roadway of the little circle on our cul-de-sac. I changed, by using an electric-powered blower to remove from the roadway an enormous coating of pine needles, oak leaves, dirt, dust, and other forest. If I had considerably more energy, I would remove the remaining layers of dirt. And I would fill the circle of ground in the middle with lush plants. And I would put park benches all around, turning what amounts to an abandoned patch of forgotten soil into an oasis. Dreams. They keep me going.

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Next month, around Thanksgiving, will mark five years since my surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from my body—along with the lower lobe of my right lung. I have not been quite the same since. In a number of ways. I may have begun to soften, emotionally, about that time, accelerated or exacerbated during a five-month period late in the year—two years later—when my wife’s heart failure took a dramatic turn for the worse. She died six days before Christmas. My lung cancer was hard on me in some ways, emotionally, but my wife’s illness in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic was much harder. The guilt I felt, and feel, about my lung cancer, for disregarding warnings about smoking, was amplified during the pandemic, when everything was just too hard to deal with. Marking painful anniversaries is not a particularly healthy or easy or comfortable practice; I may make an effort to minimize my tendency to focus so intently on them.

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People can disappear if you don’t keep an eye on them. While you’re looking at a shiny distraction, your attention absorbed by the silver reflection from its polished surface, people can quietly slide out of your life. They are the ones who won’t tell you of their plans to go missing in advance. That being the case, you can say you probably weren’t that close to one another, anyway. But you assumed they would have the decency to let you know if they planned to disappear into the vapor. Without a word. Yet you should not be surprised. You did not even enjoy being in one another’s presence. You, a hard-left-leaning dreamer, versus a self-absorbed MAGA-lover. Certain people can disappear and when their absence is noticed, they are missed, but not in a sentimental way.  They are missed in the same way a can of beer is missed from what has become a five-pack. I realize, of course, that the attitude conveyed in the words above not one about which one should be proud to have written. They reflect reality, not aspiration. We all need more aspiration.

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What does this day want from me? And what do I hope to get from this day? If we answer those questions early, the day might become more productive. Well, not so much the day…more the we.

Everything happens at once. Choose any moment, at random, and freeze it in time. This frozen moment must be a universal moment; every action of everyone in every place on Earth must be captured. Nothing before that moment, nor after it, is relevant. Just that single, random moment. If one then were able to examine every action and activity that was taking place at the instant the moment froze, the fact that everything happens at once would become crystal clear. At the very moment the mother in Uzbekistan drops mung beans into the moshhurda she is preparing, a terminally ill man in Los Angeles depresses the plunger that will deliver a fatal dose of morphine. The bicyclist turns his head to look for approaching traffic; at that second, a car veers to the right, thus avoiding what could have been an ugly accident. A soldier in Venezuela sprints across the border into Guyana, leaving her friends and family and her entire life until that moment behind her. Everything happens at once. It has always been so. We pretend life is a series of sequential events, but that is not the case. It is a single event that takes place at the precise moment that other life events take place. “Now” is impossible to capture, except in the abstract. The same is true of “time.” “Time” is an idea, not a tangible experience. All those individual frozen moments constitute the way time would look if we could see all those events take place simultaneously. Time would be chaos, indistinguishable from pandemonium. But we like order, so we establish artificial parameters to provide us with some semblance of tidy structure. Parameters like seconds and hours and years and decades and centuries. None of them exist, in fact, except in our imaginations. The instant an event has taken place, the moment of its expression has passed. “Before” becomes the only way to describe “then,” when referring to a moment that was, but is no more. And the future, too, is a hallucinogenic representation of something that may take place, but is not assured. And even if it does, it does not remain the future; it becomes the past. Before. Then. Time is a tangle, like a razor wire fence dropped from a hurricane hunter into the eye of a storm.

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People clustered on either end of the ideological spectrum regularly dismiss information that puts their favored political perspectives in an unfavorable light. Demonstrable facts be damned, ideology takes precedence over facts. And, of course, the same people refuse to accept the possibility that positive information about their political opponents might reflect reality. In other words, both ends of the political continuum are populated by fanatics who value ideology over truth. Unfortunately, the numbers of inhabitants of the two extremes are growing. I have no idea how to transform those bitter beasts into a tolerable form of humanity. Fire and ice might be worth considering, I suppose.

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Another dental visit; just the routine cleaning that takes place far too frequently for my comfort. But it will be finished before 10 this morning, I think. And the rest of the day will be mine; I can do what I wish, when I want. Except, of course, everything happens at once. That really throws a monkey wrench into tranquility and serenity; but I refuse to allow the wrench to sully the day. Because. Just because.

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I had a dream in which I kissed someone on the neck. I was standing, along with dozens of other people, in a military-like formation in front of a castle. Everyone was supposed to stand rigidly upright and not move. But I leaned over and kissed the neck of the woman standing next to me. The moment I did it, I knew I had very publicly broken a rule and I was quite concerned what would happen to me. Fortunately, though, an orchestral flash mob suddenly appeared in front of the formation of which I was a part; everyone turned their attention to the music and the musicians. I slipped away.

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Today is Tuesday. Perhaps the local newspaper (such as it is) will have something of interest for me to read. Perhaps not.

Finally, awake and alone at a reasonably early hour. My obligations immediately upon waking (take weight, consume my kaleidoscope of prescription drugs, measure blood glucose, take blood pressure and record it [and the other measurements]) infringe on my day. This morning, I am lucky and have avoided (so far) the howling and yowling of a cat that claims she is on the verge of starvation. Let her sleep, I pray. (After an hour, she expressed a deep and abiding hunger.)

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Yesterday afternoon, friends took us to North Little Rock for lunch and hoppy libations at Flyway Brewery, after which we went to see a play, One Ninth, at the Argenta Community Theater, just around the corner. Powerful theater, it was directed and acted well and the story was clear. The play, written by Spirit Trickey Tawfiq, is the story of her mother, Minnijean Brown Trickey, one of the Little Rock Nine—the first Black students to integrate Little Rock Central High School in 1957. It tells the story from the inside out, based on the experiences and emotions of some of the students who integrated Little Rock Central High School. Yesterday’s matinee performance was, I think, the final performance of the play’s run.

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Every time we go into Little Rock to deliberately enjoy the amenities of the city, my mind drifts toward the possibility of buying a downtown condo there. In a magical place in my mind, where obstacles do not get in the way of impracticality, I see our friends who like to make frequent visits to Little Rock (and who would love to stay overnight instead of rushing to return to the Village before blackness falls), joining us in buying a place and paying its HOA fees.  Mi novia and I have had this conversation several times before: it would make far more sense (and be dramatically less expensive) to simply reserve a hotel room when a drive back to the Village is especially unappealing. I suppose the freedom afforded by a condo is what appeals to me; no need to look for hotel room. But essentially discarding money by buying a place that may not be used with frequency is fiscally irresponsible. The answer to my financial dilemmas is obvious: I just need instant and unending access to large sums of money. That way, I could be a gluttonous consumer of unnecessary and undeserved service. Such a simple solution.

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I had planned on preparing the church board meeting packet yesterday, but the trip to Little Rock interfered with that intended tasked. When I got home, my mind was too focused on unrelated thoughts, so I put off the process until this morning. I have to wade through emails for committee reports, inasmuch as I agreed to compile the committee reports for this meeting, as the VP was not going to attend. That changed, but responsibility for the committee reports did not. Sometime this morning, before noon, I will send what I develop to the board and to the office for distribution to members. Like most volunteer-driven organizations, very few members care about the inner workings of the board. This morning, as I contemplate what I need to do to prepare, it occurs to me that the monthly board meeting is a habit, not a necessity. The same is true of committee reports. We do what we do because “it has always been done that way.” My least favorite phrase, one that implies creativity is an unwelcome intruder in the operation of the organization that bears the burden of habit. I may change some things for the remainder of my term as president. Automatic, unnecessary, and unrewarding bureaucracy tends to cause my blood pressure to rise and my eyes to attempt to behave like flame-throwers.

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Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

~ Aristotle ~

I have a term to describe Aristotle’s two people whose single soul inhabit their bodies: soulmates. Soulmates need not be lovers, but of course they can be. But they must be deeply connected to one another, sharing philosophies, world-views, attitudes about life, and many more attributes. Yet they need not be completely in-synch, either. Their compatibility with one another is sometimes like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; the pieces are shaped differently from one another, but they fit together precisely to help create a larger image. Even in the midst of such closely-linked, precise fits, soulmates may not realize they are so closely aligned with another. Wait. I have absolutely no credentials that would legitimize these assertions. See how easy it is for a person to sell himself as an expert?

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Love is an act of endless forgiveness, a tender look which becomes a habit.

~ Peter Ustinov ~

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Today is my niece’s birthday…Feliz cumpleaños, Sobrina hermosa!

I turned seventy years old yesterday. Wait! That cannot be right! What the hell…?

One day can make an enormous difference. Yesterday transported me from my early-old-age-sixties to my progressively-older-age seventies. Among the few distinct thoughts I recall having in my youth was the idea that I would not make it past age sixty; no reason for it, just a concept that got lodged in my head. Later, the idea of reaching age seventy seemed ludicrous; after my history of potentially deadly flaws and maladies, I thought it extremely unlikely I would become a septuagenarian.

My body offers plenty of evidence of my age, but my mind tells me to remain firmly fixed at a point far in the past. A time, that is, when my mind and my body were in sync—and considerably younger. While that youthful attitude is no doubt healthy, it cannot disguise an obvious decline in intellectual capabilities and capacities. But one day did not cause that decline! The accumulation of days, layered one over the other in a seemingly endless pattern, is what led me to the slope one the right side of the bell curve.  I am not complaining about the dissolution of aspects of my self as I age; I am merely acknowledging the situation. Thinning hair and drying skin and forgetfulness are minor; they start so discreetly and they usually progress slowly, reaching their peak only after the body has reached ultra-old-age, which is different for everyone. Bodies change as they age. It’s a simple fact; only reality.

The older I grow, the more I distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom.

~ H. L. Mencken ~

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We celebrated my birthday last night with pizza delivered to our door. I was not (and rarely am) in the mood to go out for a special dinner at a pricey restaurant. Maybe sometime in the coming weeks, but yesterday I had no interest.

Mi novia and I had hoped to watch another episode of Annika after dinner, but we learned Season 2 is being released on PBS (and thereafter on our service) episode-by-episode. Instead, then, we started watching Long Shot. It has so far been mildly entertaining and improbably stupid. Sometimes, though, that’s exactly the sort of mindless entertainment one needs; whether that’s true of Long Shot going forward remains to be seen. I want something on the same level (and degree of interest to me) as Bosch or Breaking Bad or Sons of Anarchy or Dicte (or one of dozens of others that have held me riveted until the final scene. Sighhh…

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The day before my birthday, I treated myself to both a manicure and a pedicure. On a whim, just before noon, I called one of the few nail places scattered about the Village, to ask whether they could fit me in. They could, they said, if I were to come in immediately. So I did (sort of immediately…it took 15 minutes to drive there. I have had only a few professional pedicures over the years and only one professional manicure before this one. The cost for each of them was, from my miserly perspective, a bit steep. But I threw caution to the wind and gladly paid the cost; even if the only thing the technician had done was to massage my fingers and feet, it would have been worth it.

After I got home, I discovered a few jagged spots on the edges of my fingernails, so I had to do some “clean-up” work (not a real big deal, but I was disappointed that it was necessary). Aside from that minor annoyance, both my feet and my hands felt and looked very good after the treatments. And I was sitting in a massage chair while having all this done; I felt like someone was digging into my back with their elbows and then slowly moving that sharp bone up and down both sides of my back. I was not crazy about that bonus, but the entire experience was rather nice. Here’s a piece of congenial wisdom about good things that don’t go quite right: as long as it’s not bad, it’s good.

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Good fortune can mean something as “minor” as having readily available potable water or as “major” as a guaranteed living (comfortably) wage for life. In my case, good fortune means essentially every aspect of my life. I have a comfortable home, am in a loving relationship, have access to all the food and water I need, and am awash in luxuries: big-screen television, espresso every morning, dining “out” without worry about the cost, etc., etc., etc. It would take literally days for me to enumerate all the elements of good fortune that have been visited upon me. I want a pen, I get a pen. I want a stapler, I get a stapler. I want a computer, I get a computer. I want a car, I get a car. Now, every one of these material “things” may not be the most expensive or highest quality, but they each serve their purpose; I’m lucky I am in the shape I’m in…

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Wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.

~ Tom Wilson ~

Habitually arising in the neighborhood of 5 a.m. seems to have ceased, at least temporarily (I hope). A habit I have had since long before the beginning of time appears to have slipped away, almost unnoticed. While some people would cheer at having additional time to rest, I mourn the time lost to the blandness of sleep. Today, for example, I got out of bed around 6:15, a hour after I woke and considered doing just that. Instead, though, I gave myself “a few more minutes” under the covers. A hour later, I cursed my lethargy and asked myself just how long has it been since I awoke and actually got out of bed at a reasonable hour? Too damn long! I have missed the emptiness of the house in utter darkness, though this morning I am experiencing it again–and it feels good! Still, I lost at least an additional hour of empty darkness and fortifying solitude. I must work on that.

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Last night, I made arroz con pollo for dinner, an extremely easy—and delicious—dish to prepare. After dinner, I had a second helping. And this morning, the remainder is serving as a breakfast treat. A meal consisting primarily of rice is not highly recommended for someone with Type 2 diabetes, but you just have to break the rules from time to time in order to maintain a sense of control over your mind and body.

I had the second helping I mentioned during a break in watching the series, Annika. We do not have regular TV service, so we do not get PBS, which is the source of Annika. So, we’re having to stream it, after paying a hefty fee, by season. I am a fan of Nicola Walker, the title character, though after watching the program for a short while I was not sure I would like the series. But it grew on me; I rather like the odd second-person comments Nicola directs to the viewer.

Most of my time during the past few weeks has been spent inside my house. Illness and sloth contributed to my status as a shut-in, but I cannot blame illness any longer. I think I’ll need to shower and shave this morning, get dressed in uncomfortable street clothes, and explore a bit of the world around me.  This might be a good time to explore, inasmuch as today is a milestone of sorts.

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Space flight is not the exclusive domain of the United States. Russia and China also have launched crewed spacecraft. India is said to be working feverishly on launching crewed craft into space, as well. According to the notoriously reliable internet, eighty countries have launched satellites into space. They are not all recent additions to the list of space explorers; the United Kingdom, Canada, Italy, France, West Germany, and a consortium of ten European countries launched satellites by the middle 1960s.

According to the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs (UNOOSA) records, there were 8,261 satellites orbiting the Earth as on January 2022, out of which only 4,852 satellites were active (as of the end of December 2021). Those figures were confirmed by the Union of Concerned Scientists (UCS), which maintains the record of the operational satellites.

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Certain milestones have the capacity to offer either opportunities or obstacles. Sometimes both. Depressing inevitability flows from some of those landmark occasions while others (and sometime the same ones) present welcome challenges. It is said that a person can take control of his own emotions. Perhaps that is true. But it is not guaranteed.

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Time to face the day.

Peering intently at brush strokes that magically created semi-abstract trees and branches and leaves and footpaths into the hazy distance, I can get happily lost. These places that exist only on a piece of stretched canvas and in the artist’s mind draw me in and protect me from the world outside my cocoon. There, in that soft forest, there are no bullets nor guns nor loud voices drenched in rage. Oils or watercolors on receptive canvas or paper can provide serenity when the world around me refuses to allow an opportunity for calm reflection. When tranquility is under siege, art can provide shelter and solace. If I had the skills and vision of a talented artist, I might lock myself away in my studio, where I could create the world as I want it to be. How does one paint tenderness and love and compassion? Visionary artists transfigure colors and shapes into emotions. I am not sure whether their achievements are almost magic or entirely magic. I envy and admire them.

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There is no passion to be found playing small—in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.

~ Nelson Mandela ~

Mandela’s words are worth heeding, I tell myself. And I ask myself what is the life I am capable of living? Am I living it? Everyone should ask themselves that question, and then reach for the expansive possibility.

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The cardiologist did not surprise me. She said I do not drink enough water and I do not get enough exercise. The ice in my glass of gin and tonic provides insufficient hydration. I should drink sixty (?!) ounces of water every day. By my calculations, if I do that I will spend roughly half of my time drinking and the other half peeing, leaving me no time for exercise. Perhaps she wants me to extend my days from 24 hours to 36 hours, giving me 12 hours to split between exercising, eating, and other necessities. I realize, of course, she is right. I need to take better care of myself if I want to fully enjoy life and, possibly, extend it for several more years.

+++

The competition between hatred and love is on full display in every corner of the planet. No, that is not correct. The unfortunate display is—or, at least, seems to be—the victory of hatred over love and forgiveness and compassion and a dozen other healing emotions. And our appreciation for the planet on which we live is buried under layer upon layer of seething rage. Screw planet Earth; let bullets fly, let missiles explode, let shrapnel claim the lives of everyone embroiled in battles for superiority or survival. Whether each of us as individuals has a personal stake in the fray or not, we are drawn into the fury of bitter animosity. And should we express understanding for either rage or compassion, we are attacked, as if we were a dangerous enemy ready to carve our names in the foreheads of adversaries we did not realize we had. Obviously, I need to spend more time viewing semi-abstract images of beautiful, peaceful forests; while the world seems to be readying itself for self-incineration, I should not let it ruin life’s experiences.

+++

“Bee sting.” That is what the doctor said as he began to numb the skin on my chest around the raised lump, beneath which the chemo port had been implanted almost five years ago. He was the same doctor who had implanted the device, but he looked more than five years older. He understated what I should expect when he began the process. It was not a “bee sting.” It was more like the work of several angry hornets. But the pain subsided quickly, replaced by a tugging sensation as he sliced open my skin and began pulling on the little device.

“Oh, yeah, it’s obviously been five years. It’s taken root.” Or words to that effect. Though the process did not take long, the tugging, jerking, and pulling seemed to last much longer than it really did. And after he removed the device and began suturing beneath the skin to close the wound, I began to feel the needle; each time he stabbed it into the subcutaneous tissue, I felt myself wince.

“Do you feel that?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hmm, your tissue doesn’t seem to soak up the numbing agent the way it should.”

After the very minor surgery, which lasted no more than ten minutes, the doctor asked whether I was curious about what had been buried beneath my skin for five years. I responded in the affirmative and he showed it to me; a little heart-shaped gadget with a long white tube attached. Pointing to the tube, he said, “The end of this was just this far from the top of your heart.” He illustrated the distance by showing me a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger.

This morning, I feel a constant discomfort where the doctor sliced into me (with scalpels and scissors?), but the pain is minor. The glue he used to seal the exterior of the wound (inside are sutures which will dissolve) should disappear within ten days or so. The only evidence that I had the device implanted in my chest will be a jagged little scar. I do not know why the scar is so jagged; I should ask the doctor/surgeon whether he had been drinking before he performed the procedures.

+++

I will leave in a few minutes for my weekly breakfast with men from church. And a little later today I will drive into town to see my cardiologist for my annual checkup. I hope she does not have in mind subjecting me to a stress echo or other such uncomfortable process/procedure. If she does, I will plead to delay it until the gaping wound in my chest has fully healed…perhaps a month or three from now.

+++

The things on my mind at this very moment do not lend themselves to public disclosure, so I will stop typing and, instead, comb my hair.

What makes some images pleasing to the eye and others not? Among the only answers I have found over the years is the tired, old “I may not know art (or beauty or whatever), but I know what I like.” That explanation is empty and useless; it treats the question as if it were unworthy of thought. Usually, when I ponder the question (which I do quite a lot, for some reason), I tire early of seeking answers to a question that has none. But this morning I spent more time than usual exploring the question and reading what others have to say about it. Interestingly, some people consider the question a philosophical one, while others believe it to be a question whose answer may be found in science or facts or measurable reality.

This morning, I found a related question on Quora, which bills itself as “a social question-and-answer website and online knowledge market.” The question: “Why does visual composition always seek to represent images that are aesthetically pleasing to the eye?” An answer posted by Pamela Trow intrigued me. She wrote, “Nature’s formula for visual harmony and beauty is called the Dynamic Mean or Divine Proportion and the mathematical formula is exemplified by the Fibonacci Sequence (also known as the Golden Ratio) in which each successive number is equal to the sum of the two preceding numbers.” Interesting. I have long known of the Golden Ratio/Fibonacci Sequence, exemplified by images of a Nautilus shell, but I have not understood it to be the representative of beauty in all things. But if that is the key, then a person might be able to understand why he finds one person beautiful and another only mildly attractive. Yet a mathematical formula cannot incorporate emotion. For example, the closer I get, emotionally, to another person, the more beautiful I find that person to be. The appeal of art, though, might be explained by the degree to which its images approach the Fibonacci Sequence. But, no, one person may find a piece of art extraordinarily beautiful, while another person may find the same piece of art unappealing in the extreme. So much for a mathematical explanation of what constitutes visually appealing images.

And here I sit, watching the day unfold outside my window. Some of the supple green leaves on the trees are beautiful; others are brown, brittle, and deformed. But they, too, are beautiful in completely different ways. Physical beauty is shaped by the emotions; mood molds what is or is not pleasing to the eye. I do not understand it. I want to, but probably never will. That is both all right and awfully unsatisfying. That’s the way the world works.

Before the leaves turn vibrant colors, they lose their green vibrancy. A dull, greyish pall seems to envelop the forest, creating a depressing early-day atmosphere suited more to mourning than to morning. Or is it just me? Does the forest look the same now as it did a few days ago, but my eyes and my mind have adjusted somehow to make everything look more than a little bleak? Silence, on top of the dullness of the sun’s filtered light, makes the view out my window seem like a still-life enshrouded in a sullen mood.  Odd, that.

+++

I cannot feel the chill in the outside air—the temperature is 43°F—this morning, but I can imagine how it would feel if I were to go outside and let the chill soak into my every pore. This morning is ideal for a fire in the fireplace, but I have not had the gas tanks and valves serviced, so I won’t light a fire. I had all summer to do something about it, but spent my time, energies, and thoughts on other things. Now, I am ready to be mesmerized by flames licking the air; all I can do is light a candle, instead. Laziness does not pay the kind of dividends I wish it did.

+++

As I close in on the end of my sixth decade, the reality of the accelerating diminution of my physical and mental strength becomes more and more apparent. The reduction in strength and stamina began quite early, before I was nineteen, when Crohn’s disease figuratively punched me in the gut. Though the symptoms have long since subsided, the pain of periodic flare-ups plagued me for decades. Emergency surgery when I was in my mid-thirties—meant to respond to a wrongly diagnosed appendicitis—probably minimized symptoms in the years after, but even after surgery my gut occasionally reminded me that the disease is chronic. Then, when I was fifty or fifty-one, my long and stupid history of smoking led to a double coronary bypass; more weakening of a body too young to be decaying so fast. That same history of smoking left me with lung cancer about five years ago, which was treated with a lobectomy and chemo and radiation. More stresses and strains on a body already abused by time and my insolent belief that I must be invincible. There has been more, of course. Every physical assault on my health has been accompanied by the shame of recognizing that much of the damage was self-inflicted. And realizing that the time when I might have been able to repair some of the damage has passed. I have not given up on myself—not by any means—but I know I can never be a healthy forty-year-old again…as if ever I was a healthy forty-year-old.  This self-assessment came about this morning after I read an article that mentioned the world’s southernmost “city,” Puerto Williams, Chile.  Even further south is Caleta Eugenia, a tiny place (population of two), the southernmost place on the planet to which one can drive. For reasons I do not completely understand, I have always been fascinated with Chile…the entire length of the narrow country, from Arica in the far north to the southern tip of the country. For years, I dreamt of going to Chile, wandering the country to determine whether I could adapt to a completely different lifestyle. At one point, probably fifteen or twenty years ago, I came across images of an architecturally stunning, absolutely beautiful house built on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The place was for sale and I wanted to buy it (it was affordable!). Of course I did not, for many good reasons. But the dream of living in a secluded place with views of the Pacific stayed with me. Those dreams, of course, belong to a young man who has not yet reached the prime of life; not to an aging dreamer physically unfit to live in a challenging natural environment.  Ach! Now, I look back at unrealistic, impractical dreams and understand why I never allowed myself to pursue them. Had I tried, I would have failed; my interests would have suddenly shifted, as they always have, from one shiny object or idea to another. These depressing thoughts do not belong here with me. I will abandon them for something more appealing. Perhaps.

+++

As of this morning, I am eleven pounds lighter than I was when we left for Mexico. I am sure at least some of those lost pounds will be found, but perhaps I will, this time, stop looking so hard for them. Maybe I will turn my attention to something unlikely to recover that unwelcome weight. Most of the weight loss, I realize, resulted from the two weeks I was sick; little appetite, a bit of dehydration, and a lot of sleep. Yet I think my unconscious desire to force my body to discard unnecessary mass probably helped. Yahoo.

+++

The day is moving on, and so shall I.

Every breath we take, every step we make, can be filled with peace, joy and serenity.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

I am not sure I am comfortable with the idea that we can have control or power over our emotions, because power and control are at odds with the concepts of peace, joy, and serenity. But what else is it that can enable a person to assertively and deliberately select emotions to experience? Of course, my thinking is based on the premise that Thich Nhat Hanh‘s quotation reflects reality. The ability to select emotions and/or states of mind one wishes to experience is open to debate. Some would say emotions cannot be controlled; they might be masked, but the experience cannot be picked. To a certain extent, I would agree with that, but having occasionally practiced embracing peace and serenity in a very deliberate way, I am certain it is possible for one’s mind to override physical experience in favor of a desired emotion or state of mind. That having been said, my experiences in that realm is admittedly limited and has been—and continues to be—filled with potholes and starving alligators. Practice. It takes practice. And practice takes patience. And there’s the rub for me; I am impatient in so many ways. More than once, I have become annoyed— while reading an especially gripping book—that I will have to wade through the remaining pages to get the full storying that is being told. Impatience and serenity live in difference palaces, one filled with knick-knacks that share nothing in common, the other almost barren in its stark beauty.

+++

In just moments, I will leave for my early appointment with my family doctor’s APRN. It’s just a follow-up to confirm that the 2-weeks of exhaustion and 2 courses of antibiotics have left me, finally, moderately alert and reasonably healthy. I am in the mood for a Central Texas style sausage kolache; a chunk of coarse-ground, heavily peppered meat and a slice of jalapeño around which a piece of dough has been wrapped and then baked. Alas, I do not know of any reasonably accessible sources for that longed-for breakfast. I would have to drive six or eight hours to find one. Espresso, instead, I guess. Peace, joy, and serenity can be found in certain kolaches and in tiny cups filled with frothy foam atop deeply rich and strong espresso. I think so, anyway.

+++

Off into the day. I am wearing gym pants that will not stay up if I put even a penny in a pocket, so I’ll have to grab my man-purse and fill it with keys, phone, wallet, pocket knife, writing pad, and pen.

We were able to see yesterday’s eclipse. A few weeks ago, I ordered a couple of pairs of eclipse-viewing glasses, which we used to look at the moon taking a bite out of the sun. While we were not in middle of the path, the scene was quite interesting, anyway. Interesting in passing. Not sufficiently interesting to me to research the phenomenon. My interests are broad, but shallow. I know almost nothing about so very much.

+++

After six years of liberal government in New Zealand, most of that time under the leadership of Jacinda Ardern, the country has elected a conservative. As I mull over political changes that have taken place over the years, I notice the tendency for voters to vote for change after a while. My gut tells me voters’ reactions to their leaders’ approaches to governance is one of frustration. The majority of voters tire of both liberal leaning governments and conservative leaning governments; because, I suspect, the ones in power lean too fully left or right. I wonder whether moderate governments tend to stay in power longer than either one of the more strident political groups. Moderation requires compromise, which the fringe ends of the political spectrum seem to loathe. Is that disdain for compromise based in the fact that compromise requires the parties to yield some demands in favor of the other? Who knows?

+++

We had a conversation yesterday afternoon about whether my oft-expressed wish—to live in the middle of my own isolated, large (say, 2,000-acre) plot—is a tangible dream I might actually pursue or, instead, pure fantasy. (It was not so much participating in a conversation as being grilled by two seasoned interrogators.)  It once was a dream I thought I might one day achieve. But over the years it became less and less realistic. Today, it represents the shredded shell of a dream pummeled repeatedly by reality and impracticality. “I wish” is an admission of defeat, an acknowledgement that an attempt to achieve a fantasy is wasted time and energy. In considering that old, tired, impossible dream of mine, I ask myself “why?” has that been desirable to me? What do I find appealing about being insulated from other people? My response, which sometimes goes unheard in the shrillness of the day, is that I want the ability to be insulated and isolated, not that I want isolation and insulation to be a permanent condition. I need/want my solitude more frequently than most people, I suppose; but I do not want to be permanently isolated from others. Nor do I, though, want to be unable to achieve that physical and emotional distance. I want to be able to forget, if only briefly, that I share the planet with more humans than I’d like.

+++

I would like to spend this morning in leisure. No obligations, nothing I have to do and no place I have to be. But my multiple week respite (combining vacation with family gathering with an extended period of utter exhaustion) seems to be coming to an end. Today, we plan to go to church, after a long pause. And the coming week is lousy with appointments of one kind or another. So my desire for leisure this morning is simply a fantasy; a wish so worn and thin it is nearly transparent. I’m going to take the day, regardless, and milk it for all it’s worth.

+++

A dim sky. If I were sufficiently interested, I would seek today’s forecast to determine whether the sky will remain dull and forlorn. Apparently I am not sufficiently interested. Off I go to something else.

Oh, yes, it’s late! Quite late! I slept like a log last night, almost all night without interruption. When I woke, I heard a yowling cat and opened my eyes to a room thick with sunlight. Not the gentle sunlight that seeps through the windows shortly after daybreak, but drenching sunlight that leaves distinct shadows of everything in its domain. The computer screen allows that the air is a cool 54°F this morning, reaching for a high of 66°F, the kind of weather extremes I love. A clear, blue sky like the one outside my window this morning, and temperatures cool enough for a sweater but not for a coat—that combination is enormously attractive. If I could manufacture the ideal climate, I would model it after the weather that surrounds our house at this very moment. I drank my first double shot of espresso at the breakfast table. Perhaps I’ll have a second one as I sit on the deck in sacred gratitude for this morning that, I  hope, fully welcomes me back to the world of the fundamentally healthy.

+++

It seems that age 70 is the initial cultural dividing line between golden maturity and old age. That is my reading of the social cues I have seen in news headlines, e.g., “70-year-old attacked at bus stop,” or “71-year-old drives car into dry cleaner,” or “Missing 73-year-old found in neighbor’s basement.” Those headlines imply the subject is old. If he or she were 69- or 64- or 68-years-old, age probably would not have found its way into the headline. Inserting age into the headline is a means of separating “old” people from “normal” people; that is, appropriately-aged folks from those who are at or beyond their “use by” dates. Despite that readily-visible (if not necessarily intentional) distinction, those of us near or beyond the ages of 70 or 80 or 90 do not have to accept it. We can simply refuse to accept the implicit label. It really is that easy.

+++

Yesterday was a good day, one I would rank high among the days of the past two or three weeks. My intent is for each succeeding day to at least equal the one before it in terms of enjoyment and appreciation. That may be a tall order, but it is one I think well worth pursuing.

Finally, some semblance of normalcy…as if normalcy were anything but fiction. That notwithstanding, a return to an imaginary routine is more appealing than a roller coaster of relatively minor, but unpredictable, mental and physical chaos. Normalcy may be a hologram, but it is a moderately comforting hologram. I understand the appeal of virtual reality games; the artificial experience in which they immerse the player can substitute—at least for a time—a pleasant adventure for bruising reality. There will come a time when patients are treated with a combination of physical treatments—pills and surgeries and injections and the like—and mental manipulation, for example, immersion in virtual reality. In a nutshell (because the foregoing words are too confusing to offer a real explanation), I feel better than I have in two weeks. Better is not synonymous with good, but I’ll take better, rather than the same or worse, any time. Perhaps my visit with my doctor’s APRN on Monday will offer information about why I have been so achy, exhausted, and generally uncomfortable for so damn long.

+++

Want, as a noun. It’s that something desired and, in many cases, it’s that something that probably is impossible to attain. Knowing the impossibility, one would think the desire would dissolve, leaving only a hole that, over time, fills in. Scars over. Heals. But so often, we simply convince ourselves that the impossible is, in fact, possible. The scenarios in which the want would be filled often are just fantasies, but our minds manufacture ways in which fantasies can become realities. In so doing, we torture ourselves into believing the unbelievable. The question of sanity comes up, of course, but then we realize everyone is at least a little insane. And so it goes.

+++

I am becoming addicted to the New York Times. The paper’s subscription department understands how to lure unsuspecting occasional users into becoming addicts. The people responsible for boosting the number of subscribers give vulnerable readers full online access to the paper for just $4 per month for an extended period. Suddenly, when want becomes need, the modest $4 rate skyrockets to $325 per year (or more). By the time one reaches that point, it is impossible to stop; the addict would be willing to sell friends’ (or one’s own) children just to keep open access. Sly bastards.

+++

Yesterday’s overcast is forecast to continue today. Today, though, the possibility of rain is a teaser. I enjoy the dimness of overcast mornings, especially morning like this one when temperatures hover just above 60°F. I’ve already had a double espresso, followed by an 8-ounce cup of French roast, so there is no need for more caffeine to protect me against the chill as I go sit on the deck. I will do that now. And to boost my mood even more, I will take a cone of incense outside with me. A patchouli “high” is just what the doctor ordered.

And the day unfolds.

Yesterday afternoon, we sat on the deck for quite some time, soaking in the coolish temperatures and listening to the wind make its way through the trees. There is a word for that sound: psithurism. When I learned that word several years ago, I fell in love with it. I remember, at the time, doubting whether I would remember the word, though I was certain I would recall the definition. From time to time since, I have remembered; sometimes, I have had to struggle to recall the word, but usually it comes with little effort. As I gazed into the light of the forest, I thought of another word I love. It is a Japanese term that refers to the dappled light filtering through a canopy of leaves and branches: komorebi. Both words are drenched in a sensation of peace and serenity.

+++

I wrote the following paragraph before I wrote the one above, but I switched the order before posting because I wanted today’s post to begin on a positive note. I could have simply deleted the next paragraph, but doing so would have erased a record of my experience; something I would rather not do.

The occasional sign suggests the possibility of recovery: hours-long stretches during which I remain awake, albeit bone-tired. And, then, I realize, sometimes the weariness is not as overwhelmingly deep as it had been. But the exhaustion returns when I exert myself in only a minor way, like showering or slipping on casual clothes. Yet that doesn’t last as long as it did just yesterday or the day before; a glimpse of restoration. I am counting on a full—or, at least, an adequate—recovery by early next week, when I have various obligations, including multiple medical appointments. The most exciting is scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, when my chemo port is scheduled for removal. Among the others—oncologist and cardiologist—are reminders of my inevitable decay and the mortality that eventually follows. Actually, I think I have improved enormously in recent days. I may remain tired, but I am not too tired to breathe.  I have nothing to complain about, compared to millions and millions of others whose daily lives are exercises in agony. I keep reminding myself of that. So should we all.

+++

I feel as though I have missed the early days of autumn by sleeping 20 hours a day for the last two weeks. We had planned on driving to St. Paul, Minnesota to listen to Peter Mayer in concert in a coffee house, but both of us were ill, so we cancelled the trip. We assumed we would be better by the first part of this week, so we talked about driving to Mississippi to visit an art museum; that, too, was abandoned due to illness. Ach! And now I have a rash of obligations that will prevent me from making spur-of-the-moment road trips.  I should not complain. I keep telling myself I should not complain. And yet I do.

+++

I look forward today to a friend’s visit. Little things can brighten one’s attitude. Even though little things are not little things, after all. They are the things that count.

More than a week ago, I stopped bothering to write my usual morning posts. For each of the four days before abandoning my morning routine, I wrote something, but the output was nothing more than wasted energy. During that time, I have made two trips to seek medical treatment. A five-day antibiotic regimen was prescribed the first time; I was directed to follow a seven-day regimen of a different antibiotic the second trip. My energy level is next to nil. My sleep has ranged from 14 to 20 hours each night/day. I am to return to my doctor’s office next week for a follow-up; sooner if the symptoms do not begin to disappear. Though whatever I have is not contagious by this point, it does not seem to be disappearing. Mi novia, fortunately, seems to be emerging from her 12+ day illness (with different symptoms). I read the news and experience waves of depression and hopelessness. What the hell is wrong with humankind? Though I hope my illness passes soon, I am not sure just what will take its place. Exhaustion cannot be understood until one experiences it day after day after day. It’s eight o’clock. I will go back to bed. What else can I do?

Our respective illnesses are growing incredibly tiresome. We both are tired; fed up. I have never slept so much, nor felt so perpetually achy and…just sick. That is probably not true, but it is close. Yesterday’s high body temperature was 103.2°F, but it did not last. I record this crap for what reason? I have no idea. Just to have something to type. I will not continue this exercise in boredom. I will try to be seen at the walk-in clinic early this morning. Maybe a miracle…

Simultaneous sickness is not conducive to anything positive. Mi novia got absolutely no sleep last night and most of the past several nights. I, on the other hand, have done almost nothing but sleep or vegetate in bed for the last several days. Three days ago, we ordered a pizza for delivery because neither of us had the energy to make anything to eat. Under normal conditions, we would have consumed the whole thing within hours of delivery. Today, the remaining three pieces sit in the fridge. Our appetites have disappeared into the ether. While that has some appeal, the way it is taking place is completely unacceptable.

Last night, my temperature was 102.9°F. I felt like my hair was on fire. But the drugs calm the flames, albeit only mildly. I have one more hour before I can take another two acetaminophen tablets; they take at least an hour (usually more) to ease my splitting headache and then lose their potency after another three hours. So, I can take tablets every six hours for, at best, four hours of moderate relief. Cripe! I do not have the strength to see a doctor today. If I don’t feel even moderately better tomorrow, I will give the office a call and beg for something that works better than the tablets I’ve been taking; morphine might do the trick.

Enough of this. Back to bed and, I hope, quickly to sleep so I can forget the headache until it’s time to take another dose.

These monster ailments affecting us have led us to conclude making our trip to St. Paul is not wise. As much as I long for a road trip and as much as I’d like to see Peter Mayer again, and even if our symptoms disappear in the next few days, we think it best not to risk a relapse on the road. Both of us have been sleeping a lot (or in mi novia’s case, trying to sleep), but sleep’s usual healing powers have had essentially no impact on us. If conditions haven’t improved by tomorrow, she will return to her doctor’s office and I will try to get an appointment. In the  meantime, we will stay home and hibernate. No church today. No mah-jongg for her tomorrow. Blah.

+++

I’ve expended all my available energy writing the paragraph above. So, I’m finished for now.

Headache. Chills. Fever, perhaps. Aching muscles and joints. Extremely tired. Whatever it is, this cluster of symptoms is terribly uncomfortable. I napped yesterday from around noon to nearly six, I think. And then I got in bed shortly after six and stayed there, except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, until around three. Up for half an hour, then back to bed, but not to sleep, until five-thirty. The aches—some of them—may be attributable to all that time in bed, but the rest of the symptoms must be caused by something else. Acetaminophen and allergy pills have had no appreciable impact on how I feel. My symptoms are very different from mi novia’s symptoms and they started long after hers began to abate slightly, so we are suffering from different ailments. Some of her symptoms have improved, but others stubbornly continue. Her sore throat seems to have gotten significantly better, but she continues to cough and her sinuses are giving her all manner of grief. If asked how I feel, I might respond by saying I feel like hammered puppy poo (as if I knew how that might feel). Rotten, in other words. Ideally, the Village’s restaurants—at least some of them—would have prepacked meals available for delivery. There’s plenty of food in the refrigerator and freezer, but the energy required to prepare it has slipped away into the nearby forest. But it takes almost as much energy to eat a simple meal as it does to prepare it, so my complaint just represents whining. I bought a watermelon and a cantaloupe a few days ago, which sounds like a marvelous breakfast; slice them and carve out a few chunks and, voilà, a meal appears. That’s far easier than having to dress to be presentable to the delivery person. That notwithstanding, some day I hope the Village has multiple meal delivery options. There was a time when I might have considered starting such a business. No more.

+++

Good news seems sparse, weak, and flimsy in comparison to unpleasant news. Looking for good news is rather pointless in the face of an intentional government shutdown, courtesy of a group of right-wing members of the House of Representatives. And good news is overshadowed by the floods in and around New York City, the healthcare strike, the auto workers strike, the existence of a man named Donald Trump, and the Mississippi River’s prospects for being fed enough water to keep the waterway vibrant and operational.

+++

I saw a post on Facebook this morning that gripped my imagination in ways that few post do. It was posted by a group labeled English Literature. It included a quotation from Maya Angelou’s book, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now and an image of an Andrew Wyeth painting.

Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future. Jobs, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence. Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us.

~ Maya Angelou ~

And now I will continue dealing with my discomfort.