John Swinburn

Last night, sitting on the deck in darkness, drinking wine, we heard the distinctive sound. Mi novia launched the Merlin app on her phone. The phone listened and informed her of the bird’s identity: a Great Horned Owl.  We have not seen the bird…well, maybe we have. Sometimes, especially in the evening hours, a large unidentified bird swoops down close to us, but its sudden appearance and its speed make impossible even a cursory guess as to its identity. We have heard it, though. Many times. This time, though, technology at the ready, we could tell who was producing those soft but piercing sounds. It is hard—perhaps impossible—to adequately describe a sound so that the listener (to the description, not the sound) can accurately imagine the noise. But that is another post. Identifying the Great Horned Owl as the bird responsible for the sound that we had earlier correctly identified as an owl, but not what kind, added to our recently-developed “current-location life list” of birds seen and/or heard. The list would be considerably longer if experiences in other places at other times were included; but, then, the “current-location” modifier would be invalid. At any rate, the “current-location life list” now includes the following:

• White-breasted nuthatch
• American crow
• Blue jay
• Carolina wren
• Red-eyed vireo
• Summer tanager
• Ruby-throated hummingbird
• Tufted titmouse
• Carolina chickadee
• Pine warbler
• White-eyed vireo
• Pileated woodpecker
• Mallard
• Downy woodpecker
• Red-bellied woodpecker
• Great Horned Owl

I do not know why each word in the owl’s name is capitalized; that is the way I see it in print, so that is the way I show it here.

If I were to add to my “life-list” experience by documenting all of the mammals—and all the reptiles—I have seen in my lifetime, I suspect I would surprise myself with the size and the diversity of the list. Add insects and the list would be overwhelmingly long; I doubt I would have enough strength in my fingers to type the entire list.

We share the planet with so many types of other creatures. It boggles the mind. With the remarkable diversity of life on Earth, I can only begin to imagine the possible diversity of life in our own galaxy. Or the entire universe. Stunning. Mind-boggling. Breath-taking.

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This morning, I return to my oncologist’s radiology lab to have a follow-up CT scan. The procedure this time requires me to drink a large bottle of mocha-flavored barium in advance of the scan; half two hours beforehand and half one hour before. I just finished the first roughly eight ounces of delicious, filling barium. In half an hour, I’ll drink the other. I am not quite sure why I was asked to drink the barium (though I have done it before, I did not ask), inasmuch as the cancer I hope I have defeated was in my lung, not my gastrointestinal track. Perhaps I’ll ask the technician this morning. But he/she may not know. So I’ll ask the oncologist next week, when I go in for the follow-up visit to learn the results of the CT scan. Though almost five years have passed since my lung cancer surgery, I get a bit on edge sometimes, thinking about the possibility of a recurrence. My intent always is not to worry when there is nothing I can do about the situation—either I remain cancer-free or it returns—but remaining worry-free about the issue is close to impossible. I do not worry a lot; but on occasion I worry. Worry seems to blossom in connection with follow-up visits involving tests. That is natural, I suppose.

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Phaedra is yowling. She is locked away in the laundry room, where I feed her and where I lock her away in the mornings so she does not wander the house making noise. At least the sounds are muted behind the door. But when they become loud enough, I tend to let her out. I realize, of course, by letting her out when the sound becomes almost deafening, I am teaching her how to get free from her prison cell. I know it, but I continue doing it, nonetheless. Insanity, personified. Right here. In my head.

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Joy. Does everyone feel joy? Would they all admit it, if they did? I am thinking of a guy— a high-school dropout who has reached early middle-age and is employed as a laborer in a rural area. Even if he experiences joy, would he admit it? Is admitting feelings of joy something only “wussies” do? That’s the sense I get, though I may be entirely wrong. I try to keep my biases out of certain of my writings, but I just cannot control them sometimes. Ach! Time is scooting past apace. I have to stop and drink my second glass of delicious mocha-flavored barium, then take a shower. I might as well end this post now. And so I do.

Meditation requires the temporary abandonment of impatience, which can be quite difficult. But is it really necessary to abandon impatience? These comments, posted by someone having a difficult time with impatience when meditating, were extracted from a thread on Reddit, and they merit consideration:

QUESTION:  I do a basic meditation where my breath is my focus. I watch my thoughts, feelings, and senses, observing them, and always coming back to the breath….But I’m having a hard time because I’m feeling impatient. I’ll open my eyes and glance at the timer I have set and I just can’t seem to want to sit longer than 10 minutes. I’d like to go further. Does anyone have any advice for dealing with feeling impatient during their session?

RESPONSE 1: Try observing your feelings of not wanting to sit any longer same way as you observe all your other feelings. Accept all feelings but do not react. Just observe. Welcome all feelings but don’t engage with them. Just let them be. Let them come and go as they want.

RESPONSE 2: It’s good. You recognize your impatience. This is the core of the work. When you get the fortitude to sit longer, even with impatience gnawing away at you, this is a break through. This is the core of the practice. As long as you do sessions of sitting observation, this will happen. Every time you persist through the rancor of the impatient mind, your perseverance will be rewarded. It accumulated over time. So just sit a little each day and see impatience and be with it, and change will come.

Considering these issues suggests that meditation is, indeed, a practice. It is a practice unique to each person. Yet its uniqueness does not preclude borrowing ideas from other “practitioners” whose experience might be beneficial to one’s own.

According to the Mayo Clinic, “Meditation originally was meant to help deepen understanding of the sacred and mystical forces of life. These days, meditation is commonly used for relaxation and stress reduction. Meditation is considered a type of mind-body complementary medicine. Meditation can produce a deep state of relaxation and a tranquil mind.” The idea that one can, through meditation, achieve a “deep state of relaxation and a tranquil mind” is exceptionally appealing, especially to someone who feels almost permanently tense and whose thoughts produce an almost perpetual sense of emotional turbulence.

It occurs to me that meditation has the potential for being most beneficial to people who need it the most, yet those people are apt to find the practice quite difficult. And some of them may be apt to reject the basic premise of the practice because their tension is so engrained in them. Meditation is entirely voluntary; only when one is willing to explore the possibility that it can, indeed, help unwind the tightly-wound springs that produce stress does its potential have a chance of being achieved. A willingness, though, must transform into a commitment if meditation is to be successful. That sounds difficult, though; meditation should relieve stress, not add to it. Like life itself, meditation is both simple and complex. Its many styles and forms seem labyrinthine, but that intricacy may be precisely where the power of meditation rests. Simplicity first, though. I think.

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After darkness feel last night, we paused our latest binge (now on season two of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel) and drove to the Coronado Center parking lot on the edge of Lake Coronado. We were among a few others who drove to that spot, got out of their cars, and stared in awe at the super blue moon. If I had been thinking more clearly, I would have brought a pair of binoculars, so we could have seen it with even more clarity. But even without binoculars, the experience was beautiful. The next opportunity to see that rarity will occur August 21, 2032, nine years from now. I am glad we saw this one. And I hope to see the next. In a fit of wild optimism, I added that event to my Google calendar. When I added that one-time event, I noticed that the calendar for that week also includes some recurring events that were added to individual calendars (which we share) some time ago: My Thursday church men’s group breakfast at Debra’s restaurant, mi novia’s Monday Mah Jongg at the church, and a flurry of exercise classes that my SIL attends. We’re all wild optimists.

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A dream I had last night featured my late sister and my oldest brother and his wife. The dream mixed elements of my first association management job with my “current” employment, as well as pieces that somehow involved a member of my church. The location was, I think, my parents’ house, the one destroyed by Hurricane Celia on August 3, 1970. My employment had a connection with that first job: a surface preparation handbook, which in my dream I thought was published by the Steel Structures Painting Council. While my sister was out for a walk, I asked my brother and his wife to help me find a copy of the book. I then asked the church member, who in my dream I thought was a temporary employee from an employment agency, to help me find the book. If only I could find that book, I could use it in some way in a course I was planning to offer. Utter chaos, that dream, with unconnected threads/shreds of various parts of my life woven together into an irrational fabric.

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Yesterday’s Costco run was transformative. That is, expensive. A leg of lamb, a brisket, several bottles of wine, a couple of bottles of gin, and various other wants and needs combined to make the shopping trip among the most financially demanding in my memory. But it yielded such treasures! I spent part of yesterday afternoon reading recipes for crying leg of lamb. And I refreshed my memory about my favorite ways to prepare brisket for smoking. I do not live to eat, but I can get great pleasure from preparing meals (sometimes) and from consuming foods that bring joy to my palate. I feel so incredibly fortunate we are able to occasionally indulge ourselves in this way. That gratitude is coupled with concern for others who cannot. Guilt creeps in. I have been told I have issues with guilt (in other areas of my emotional life); and I do. It is difficult to differentiate between legitimate guilt and undeserved attacks on oneself. Holy shit! How did a wonderful spending spree so savagely turn on me?!

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Time to prepare for the day. Comb my teeth, brush my hair, take off the morning leisure-wear, don attire more suitable for public display, and otherwise get ready to meet people outside the tiny but fabulous sphere in my house.

Bad habits are hard to break. They covertly find ways to circumvent obstacles placed before them, hiding their work-arounds behind opaque veils. At some point, though, their evasions  come to light, angering and embarrassing the habit-holder who discovers he has failed in his efforts to quell undesirable behavior. Eventually, if the habit-holder persists, victory can be his. Victory may not be the right word for it, though; truce may more accurately describe his cessation of the bad habit. Frequently, the habit does not die—its corpse is not buried, never to rise again. Instead, the habit simply is incapacitated, as if in a coma. When circumstances are favorable, the habit may unexpectedly awake from its coma, sometimes stronger and more aggressive, thanks to its restorative “nap.”

Working people have a lot of bad habits, but the worst of these is work.

~ Clarence Darrow ~

Paying heed to Darrow’s insight, I retired early, at age 58. Had I been considerably brighter than I am, I would have realized much earlier what a terribly bad habit work had become. Work was doing its best to shorten my life. It had already shortened my temper and my patience. But I “saw the light” and, finally, responded accordingly. The fear of what might happen if I stopped working was less than the fear of what might happen if I continued. Okay. My tongue is firmly planted in my cheek; I will continue, but in a more serious manner.

I remember the many times I tried to quit smoking. Over and over I tried to conquer the habit—addiction, really—only to fail when I allowed myself to give nicotine the upper hand. The odor and taste I now find utterly revolting tricked me, repeatedly. Nicotine assured me that only by taking a drag off a cigarette could I experience that brief moment of bliss I had come to associate with smoking. “Nothing else can do this for you,” it whispered. The one solution that worked, but only in specific situations, was absurd. I sat at a table in a tiny room, drawing long drags off my cigarettes; wires were attached to my hands. Every time I took a drag, electrical currents were sent through the wires, giving me an unpleasant jolt. Problem solved! At that moment and to this day, I knew I would never again smoke a cigarette while confined, with wires attached to my hands, in a tiny, smoke-filled room.  Years later, the ultimate solution came from fear and determination. After I had to have double bypass surgery, my surgeon told me if I continued to be a smoker, I probably would die within two years. The habit/addiction had met its match. Though I had some help, with medication, my fear and determination finally won out. But after so many previous failed attempts, I knew the tricks my habit would play to overcome the obstacles I placed before them: the key to keeping them in place would be to avoid even a single drag. For all time. The addiction had been overcome. But if the habit’s tricks were allowed to jump over or through the fence, there would be no guarantee…I could never permit the habit an opening. Overcoming bad habits can be an incredibly difficult struggle, made even more challenging when paired with physical or psychological addiction. It is most definitely worth the struggle.

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A run to Costco  is on the agenda for today. I have other things to accomplish, too. And… Oh, there is so much more on my mind this morning, but I do not have adequate motivation to write about it. Trust me, it is better that I let my fingers rest.

I had almost forgotten about this morning’s scheduled bloodwork. Age and past illness and mortality once again conspire to intrude on my obliviousness to the inevitability of reality. As if that is not enough, my own thought processes are battling with one another over being too serious versus not serious enough; too carefree versus too bureaucratically rigid.

Sometimes, it behooves me to restrict my fingers’ movement; to remain silent rather than ventilate by giving them free rein. Now is such a moment. And so off I go to prepare for a day that has the potential to be either pleasant or not, as do all days.

Negative Space

The absence of compassion acts like the negative space
used by an artist who unveils images to the viewer by
painting around emptiness, drawing the eye to what
is not there, revealing what is, by what is missing.

Compassion is best understood in its absence,
when someone else’s indifference takes its place.
When being alive feels as though rivers of
shattered glass flow through one’s veins,
opening invisible wounds that one knows
must be there, hiding beneath stoicism.

Experience often is defined by negative space.
Love by its lack, truth by its omission,
interest where there is none, knowledge by its dearth,
and certainty by decisions left unmade.

The whole of one’s life unlived is a study in negative space.
Romantic relationships that could have been, but were not.
The unmade bed, the garden not planted, the journey not made,
children not conceived, and job offers never received.
What could have been, but was not, is as important
as what was allowed but should have been prevented.

Negative space, with carefully crafted emptiness, expresses what is.
Perhaps, then, carefully crafted fullness expresses what is not.
That calls into question whether reality is simply an
expression of the absence of fantasy—or vice versa.

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Jennifer Warnes was 45 years old when she released her album, The Hunter. I am especially enamored of two songs on that album:  Way Down Deep and Rock Me Gently. Another of her songs (actually, her cover of a Leonard Cohen song) on a different album (but I do not recall which one), First We Take Manhattan, is another favorite. I know Warnes was 45 when she released The Hunter because I stumbled upon her current age (76) this morning. I was surprised to learn she has aged so much since 1992, when she released that album, because I know I have not! When I thought of her this morning, I thought of her as the relatively young woman (okay, middle-aged) who released that album. Warnes collaborated with Leonard Cohen quite a lot and was featured on several of his albums as a backup singer and/or an accompanying singer. I knew that, but I mention it here because I do not know whether you knew and, if you did not, I figured you would want to know.

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I have written only a few poems I think are worthy of being read in a public setting. Actually, I may be giving myself more credit than is due; perhaps they are better suited to private readings. The poem above, Negative Space, is not one of them. I wrote it this morning.  I am moderately satisfied with the first two or three stanzas, but it goes downhill from there. I suppose I will eventually return to it and rewrite it (probably discarding the remaining stanzas in total), but I do not know whether it will ever be one of those I feel relatively good about. Yet I still occasionally write poetry because writing poetry sometimes helps me think through either intellectual or emotional obstacles of one sort of another. Or, in some cases, it allows me to express—far better than non-fiction prose or plain fiction—abstract ideas that I can express only within the emotional framework of a poem. But that may not be entirely true. In fact, I do not know what is true and what is not. I may have been deluding myself my entire life. Not “may have been.” No, it is definite. My Birkman Report (the summary of my Birkman & Associates psychological measurement [The Birkman Method]) says about me, when I am under pressure: “tells stories and believes them.” I have mentioned my Birkman Report twice before on this blog: the first time was on November 19, 2014 and the second was on November 10, 2018. As usual, I have wandered far, far away from the topic that began this paragraph. I doubt there is any question that I suffer with (or through) ADD or something like it. But that self-diagnosis has never been confirmed by a qualified psychologist or psychiatrist. Nor will it be confirmed by one of those folks; I have no compelling reason to seek out a diagnosis of what could be dozens of disorders and other sorts of deviance.

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Meteorologists are not inveterate liars, despite the fact that their assertions often prove to be fundamentally flawed. From time to time, in fact, they are dead-on. But their earlier promise of considerably cooler temperatures this week seems to be falling apart. Instead of highs in the low to mid-80s, they’re now saying high-80s to low-90s. That is unacceptable. I hereby demand they revert their predictions to mirror their earlier forecasts!

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It’s just after 7, time to put this post to rest. Today is house-cleaning day, which means either I will clean house or will feel guilt for having opted to do something else, instead. That’s probably the wrong attitude to have. I should try to fill that negative space in my head with positive thoughts.

Opinion: The light that illuminates the world tends, for soulmates, to be refracted through the same prism.

A soulmate is “a person with whom one has a strong affinity, shared values and tastes...” or “a person who shares a deep understanding or bond with another…” Both dictionary definitions note the connection between oneself and that person may especially apply to one’s lover or spouse, though implicit in the way a romantic connection is mentioned is a suggestion that soulmates are not necessarily romantically involved.  Best friends, for example, may be soulmates; so say a number of sources accessed through the internet. Some of those sources make unyielding assertions about the nature of the relationships between soulmates, as if there can be no argument with their assessments about those relationships. When encountering such arrogant certainty, skepticism or doubt may be the best reaction. The definitions of the term, as I see them, set parameters of meaning that individuals may then refine in ways that best suit their perspectives. Long-lasting relationships between spouses or partners, in which both share most of their fundamental philosophies and values, may be seen as examples of the relationship between soulmates. The same applies to long-term friendships. The people involved in those relationships need not be in lock-step with one another on all matters, but hold enough shared worldviews to cement the connection. The modifier, long-term, may not be necessary, though, for a soulmate relationship. Time may not play a crucial part in determining a soulmate relationship, though, nor is a time a guarantor that a soulmate relationship will survive, because people change. For some reason, that brings to mind a pithy sentence I recall from management courses I took years ago, referring to staffing issues: If you can’t change people, you have to change people. That has nothing to do with soulmates…does it?

Psychologists and psychics seem to have different understandings of soulmates. From what I have read, psychologists tend to view the soulmate relationship in a more measurable, clinical way, whereas psychics see it as an expression of karma, or something like it. I have seen the term twin-flame used in connection with who otherwise might be called a soulmate; the explanations seem to be overtly spiritual, as if destiny plays a part. I wonder whether both terms describe more wishful than factual relationships. I sometimes use soulmate as if it legitimately describes a deep relationship, but the idea may be more romantic than real. It’s a matter of semantics, I suppose, as so many things are.

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I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?

~ Zhuangzi ~

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About a week ago, I read a transcript on the National Public Radio (NPR) website of an interview on All Things Considered. The interview was between NPR’s Rachel Martin and Vanessa Zoltan. Zoltan is a humanist chaplain who describes herself as an “atheist chaplain.” The title of the piece is Why this chaplain sees her atheism as a gift. All four of Zoltan’s grandparents were Nazi concentration camp survivors. Zoltan’s parents’ religious philosophies emerged from the impact their experiences during the Holocaust. Zoltan explained that “…every law I was taught, as to how to walk through the world, was through the orientation of the Holocaust.” She went on to describe how that influenced her thinking. The following comments, extracted from Zolan’s interview, struck a chord with me:

Like, you don’t get in lines, you know, our people have stood in enough lines. You always get involved if you see anything—that you don’t understand that’s going on with a neighbor, you get involved…we were taught to sort of look at our friends and wonder whether or not they would hide us if we ever needed to be hidden…

My dad wasn’t just raised with these stories, it’s very real for him that at any moment you can have to leave your country. And this is the lived truth of probably half the globe, right? That at any moment you might have to leave. And so you keep your eye out for who could help you.

I sometimes wonder whether those of us without Zoltan’s direct link to ugly historical experiences can truly understand how very realistic those possibilities remain, even today. The people fleeing from Syria and Honduras and Nicaragua…and on and on…understand how social upheaval and the dissolution of compassion can happen at any time and in any place. Until not terribly long ago, I felt the likelihood of the need to flee the disintegration of the relative peace in the USA was extremely low. I almost felt “it can’t happen here,” though I knew it was a possibility, albeit a remote one. Today, as I observe growing tensions both domestically and internationally, I realize the remoteness of the possibility shrinks every day. I can happen here.

The rest of Part I of the interview with Zoltan left me feeling more firmly ensconced in my own atheism. In expounding on her decision to be and remain atheist, but keeping some Jewish traditions, she explains her atheism this way:

I want to marvel at the fact that lions exist and despair at the fact that they’re dying from being overheated because we’ve ruined this planet and not leave myself the option to put a silver lining on it.

The second part of the interview is scheduled for today, Sunday August 27.  I look forward to reading and/or hearing how Zoltan, according to Rachel Martin, “had to find a different kind of spiritual center. And she found it in literature — specifically Jane Eyre.”

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I type my thoughts far more frequently than I speak them. My thoughts flow more easily through my fingers than from my mouth. I often wish I could be a more eloquent speaker, someone who can think on his feet. Wishing is a waste of time, though. Dreaming is far better.

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The day is here. The sky is filled with early morning light. Today will be quite warm, but not as hot as yesterday. Tomorrow morning will be comfortable. I think. I hope. I dream.

A collection of a few pocket knives hidden away in a seldom opened drawer tells the same story as a larger collection of unicorn figurines stored in boxes. The story is repeated by an even larger collection of wine glasses, water goblets, shot glasses, and assorted other pieces of fine crystal and cheap glass. Accumulations of “prized” possessions—some with monetary value, but more with only sentimental worth—just take up space and act like anchors, tying their possessors to places or memories that might better be left or forgotten. In time, the commonalities of the objects in the collections will dissolve; the commonalities exist primarily in perception, not necessarily in fact. The knives are unrelated to one another; they are part of a “collection” only to the extent that they are all knives and they all belong to one person. Unicorns belong together only because they share an identity as unicorns and they were consolidated into a collection only because someone decided to do so. The same is true of the crystal and glass. When the collector disappears, the collections probably will disappear, as well. Individual pieces will be discarded or go to different people or be lost to time and disinterest. Someone may evaluate both the monetary value and sentimental value of the objects and may decide neither are sufficient to merit expending the energy to keep them together.

People accumulate material possessions that do not belong to collections, too. Paintings. Kitchen gadgets. Clothing. Knick-knacks. Bottles of wine. A million and one things that, if they suddenly were to disappear, would have no appreciable positive impact on quality of life. Indeed, amassing “stuff” makes changes in one’s life more difficult to accomplish. I read yesterday of a man who seeks out unknown indigenous peoples in the Amazon. The article’s author remarked on the freedoms those people enjoy. To survive, they need only “fire, a couple of hammocks, a blunt machete.” And the man who seeks those people out to protect them from being consumed by the modern world said, comparing modern civilization to the two remaining men from a tiny indigenous tribe: “We need a home, we need a car, we need a bunch of crap. Then you meet these two guys, living happily with nothing, no clothes, no supermarket, no water or electricity bill.”

There must be a happy medium between an ascetic, bare, minimalist lifestyle and unrestrained materialism. I think that happiness is closer to the former than to the latter. Unrestrained materialism, I think, is a sickness that robs us of genuine happiness, replacing it with an artificial sense of well-being that frequently is brittle, fragile, and broken. But where do we find that balance between comfort and unsatisfying greed? Is it that the more creature comforts we have, the more distant real contentment becomes? That question has remained with me for a very long time. No reliable, satisfactory answer has emerged. My opinions change with the seasons or the sunrise. Perhaps the true answer involves both physical and emotional comfort; or, maybe, the absence or minimalization of both kinds of pain. And, of course, satisfaction does not rest exclusively with one’s own experiences; others matter to us. Their experiences are closely tied to our own. The complexity of existence makes real knowledge hard—or impossible—to attain.

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So much more to say. But it will wait.

We know less today than we will know tomorrow, but there are never enough tomorrows to learn all we do not know today. That fact can be cause either for complaint or for celebration. It is a choice we make, based either on our outlook or on our circumstances—or both. When that boundless knowledge we pursue is sought purely for the sake of expanding knowledge and the wonder that accompanies it, we can choose to acknowledge the beauty of all we learn or we can opt, instead, to complain that we will never know all we want to know. When we are chasing knowledge to solve life or death problems—a cure for a deadly disease, for example—celebration erupts when we find it. But even dead-end explorations can bring us one step closer by reducing what we need to know to achieve our aims. Pessimism and optimism accompany us wherever we go.

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Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

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Argentina and New Zealand. With a bit of Italy thrown in. And an American diversion. That describes last night’s “World Tour of Wines” dinner. Wines from all three countries were featured, along with dishes created with either Argentinian or New Zealand influences. The evening was fun, lively, and informative. Aside from enjoying the food and wine, we learned that one of the hosts of the event, a friend we have known for several years, will be signing the Star-Spangled Banner at the September 5 Arkansas Travelers minor league baseball game in Little Rock. When we learned that he would be signing, and that September 5 is his birthday (a major milestone birthday, at that), the group (six last night, but usually eight) spontaneously decided to go to the game. If all goes as we hope, we will find a limo or other group transportation option to take all eight of us there and return us after the game. None of us want to be the designated driver; hence the idea of a limo. Our friend told us he has been taking American Sign Language (ASL) classes in Little Rock for three years, simply out of interest in learning. The idea of watching a game between the Arkansas Travelers and the Amarillo Sod Poodles, as well as watching a friend sign the Star-Spangled Banner is appealing to me, even though I am not a baseball fan. I enjoyed watching a live game years ago, though; this should be fun. I hope it all pans out.

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An unknown friend delivered a gift for me before the church board meeting yesterday; it was on the board meeting conference table when I arrived. The gift included a spray bottle of cat-deterrent and a role of tape. Whoever it was knows that Phaedra’s annoying habit of clawing rugs (and leather furniture) triggers an anger response in me. Whoever you are, if you are reading this, thank you very much! You may well have saved one of this cat’s nine lives.

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Left front wheel bearings. $425, more or less, for parts and labor, plus tax. I hope yesterday’s diagnosis was correct. I’ll find out today. I questioned whether I should have the right wheel bearings replaced at the same time, since they have been in service for 113,900+ miles, the same as the left bearings. I was advised by the mechanic that “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” At that price, I won’t. But if the right bearings fail in the near future, I’ll begin to have serious thoughts about whether I want to deal with an aging vehicle that may begin to experience more and more frequent needs for normal wear-and-tear maintenance. The costs of repair will not compare with the costs of a replacement vehicle, but increasing inconvenience and uncertain reliability would make replacement more attractive. We shall see.

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Knees, hips, and other body parts subject to failure may at some point become the objects of consideration for replacement. Unfortunately, unlike automobiles, today there is no option for whole-body replacement. If such an option were available, I might give it serious consideration. I would find appealing the possibility of replacing mine with the body of a healthy, well-toned, strong, and handsome 35-year-old. But I would insist on keeping the contents of my brain, though since I’m going through the process of replacement I might ask for some personality tune-ups. I’d have a checklist to give the physicians (or technicians…whoever does the work); more easy-going, more patient, more consistently generous, etc., etc.

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Last night’s dream requires some analysis. Private, personal, absolutely confidential analysis. I will document it, to the extent I can remember it, in a document I keep password protected and saved under an innocuous name that does not reveal anything of the subject of the dream. Usually, people seem not to want to hear about another person’s dreams. That is a good thing.

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It’s very, very late. After 8, now. The morning thus far has been long and convoluted. Perhaps it will smooth out from here on.

When the forest looks bleak and drab, something obviously is amiss with the world. The problem, of course, is that there is no sure way to determine what causes that hazy, muddy, muted dimness. It is the same sky, the same trunks and branches and leaves, and the same air surrounding the trees. But in the midst of that sameness there exists a darkness that is immune to light. There is no reflection; instead, light is absorbed in some way. As if it is eaten; consumed by the very objects it attempts to illuminate. Illumination fails to illuminate.

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Depression. Anxiety. Whatever. Perhaps a quadruple dose of Zoloft would help. Or a couple of 30 mg gummies. Or getting away from everything and everyone for a week or four, spending the entire time in dreamless sleep. Maybe a medically-induced coma. A mood reset; something to overcome the dull, grey, overwhelming dreariness.

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I barely have enough mental energy to record my reactions to last night’s Republican debate, but I will do what I can:

• Nikki Haley outperformed everyone else on stage
• Ron DeSantis was dull and artificial
• Asa Hutchinson’s listlessness put the nail in the coffin of his candidacy
• Vivek Ramaswamy’s arrogant showmanship merits deep disdain
• Chris Christie has no chance of competing against the felon
• Mike Pence belongs in an evangelical religious cage
• Doug Burgum does not matter
• Tim Scott matters only slightly more than Burgum

+++

Anger is energizing. The opposite of anger is depression, which is anger turned inward.

~ Gloria Steinem ~

+++

Mirrors are tools of vanity. I thought those words were original to me, but when I searched for them with Google, I found them buried in the website for a shul/synagogue in Miami, Florida. That was the only “hit” for the sentence. I wonder if there is any meaning in that coincidence; which would mean the discovery is not a coincidence at all, wouldn’t it? Meaning. There is no meaning in anything. Things and situation and circumstances just are. No causation, no correlation, no explanation. But those assertions may simply be the results of distemper. Once serenity returns, all will be well. Meaning will again exist in the real world.

“Damn the torpedoes, Full speed ahead!” That famous quotation was uttered in August 1864, long before torpedoes as we now know them were created. At the time, mines were known as torpedoes. One of the squadron of ships David Glasgow Farragut commanded was struck by a mine during the battle of Mobile Bay. Farragut, the U.S. Navy’s first full admiral, issued the famous order in spite of (or because of) that attack as he noticed the hesitation of his crew aboard his flagship vessel, the Hartford.   According to the U.S. Navy’s website, Farragut’s loyalty was questioned when the Civil War erupted, despite his lengthy Naval career and his criticism that secession was treason. Apparently, the concerns about his loyalty disappeared after his success in Mobile Bay.  The Navy’s website indicates Farragut did not opt to discipline with corporal punishment. The website says his choice “…not to discipline with the lash despite its popularity among other captains…also proved that tolerance, kindness and moral courage are not disadvantages, but rather strengths to naval leadership.”

Whether the Navy’s reporting about Farragut’s character and his leadership is accurate, I do not know. Because of what I have experienced during almost seventy years of learning and “being taught” about history, only to subsequently learn that more than a little of the country’s history has been whitewashed, my skepticism is always alive and well. If nothing else, though, the fact that current Naval press officers and historians assert that human decency is a strength is naval leadership gives me hope. By the way, Farragut’s father was Jordi Farragut Mesquida, who was born in Minorca, Spain; a subheading of the article that supplied the information I relate here (Navy’s First Admiral Was Hispanic Hero) celebrates that fact. Incremental growth in the incorporation of progressive philosophies in military institutions is better than no growth.

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We have our tickets for the Peter Mayer concert in St. Paul, Minnesota. And we registered for a 2-hour kirtan workshop on September 2. If we were not going to Mexico to visit my brother and his wife, we might have instead gone to Santa Fe to hear Peter perform at a house concert; that would have been extraordinary, I think. But we’re happily planning both our trip up the Great River Road to Minnesota and our journey to Mexico. We’re fortunate, indeed. The term, kirtan, is new to me. According to Wikipedia, “With roots in the Vedic anukirtana tradition, a kirtan is a call-and-response style song or chant, set to music, wherein multiple singers recite or describe a legend, or express loving devotion to a deity, or discuss spiritual ideas.” A promotion of the workshop describes the practice like this: Chanting in kirtan uplifts your spirits, creating a joyful and blissful atmosphere. The rhythmic chanting and devotional mantras help release endorphins, reducing stress and anxiety. I have not gone all “woo-woo,” but I continue to enjoy having new experiences. I tend to think the experience of kirtin, as well as others (like meditation) that can help a person achieve, at least temporarily, a greater level of calmness is primarily a physiological practice; more so, I think, than what many call “spiritual.” Whatever contributes to the core substance of the experience, I imagine it will be interesting.

+++

Yesterday, I got a pedicure, which left my feet and toes feeling quite happy. Today I will get a haircut, which will improve my mood when I look in the mirror. Tomorrow will be considerably busier: my geezer breakfast, a morning appointment with a mechanic to explore the cause of my car’s odd noises, a church board meeting, and a “World Tour of Wines” dinner in the evening. I am confident the evening dinner will again be a bright spot that will again elevate my mood. My phone just “dinged,” notifying me that my new morning news summary email link from Associated Press is available. Rituals, all, I suppose. Rituals tend to either annoy me or please me; I am not quite sure why, but I am exploring possible reasons. It’s probably my own psyche, rather than the rituals, that prompt my reactions to the experiences.

+++

Early one morning four days ago, just after the sun began to illuminate the forest, I sat on my deck and listened to a cacophony of bird sounds; calls and songs and so on. I recognized and could identify some of them, but not all. So I opened my phone’s Cornell Lab Merlin app, which listens to bird sounds and identifies them. Usually, the app identifies four or five birds. Saturday, though, it identified quite a more:

• • White-breasted nuthatch
  • American crow
  • Blue jay
  • Carolina wren
  • Red-eyed vireo
  • Summer tanager
  • Ruby-throated hummingbird
  • Tufted titmouse
  • Carolina chickadee
  • Pine warbler
  • White-eyed vireo
  • Pileated woodpecker
  • Mallard
  • Downy woodpecker
  • Red-bellied woodpecker

I saw many of the birds, as well as hearing them. There’s something almost magical about seeing and hearing so many types of birds. One of the pileated woodpecker’s calls/songs is easily recognizable; it sounds to me like a laughing hyena. But even without its call/song, I usually can tell one is nearby when I hear its exceptional loud “pecking” against a tree. I am by no means an accomplished “birder” and I have no desire to invest the time and discipline in becoming one. But birds in the wild can mesmerize me. Their sightings and hearing their sounds tend to make me feel lighter and more at peace.

+++

It’s almost 7:30! I’ve been up 2 hours and a bit, but it seems to me more like 30 minutes. Time on speed…ach, there’s not enough time to allow any of it to go to waste.

+++

I have successfully minimized my use of the word “shard” in 2023; only four posts, before today, this year. I am not sure why the word seems to fit so perfectly in so much of what I write; it describes, as well as any word can, pieces of something. I can use pieces or scraps or particles or fragments or remnants or…plenty of other words…but shard suggests, to me, a shattered piece with sharp edges. Describing what’s left after breaking a sheet of glass as particles or fragments or scraps just does not spur the imagination’s creative visions quite as well.

+++

Okay. Enough of this. I must shower, shave, and otherwise strip away the comfortable layers of laziness that embrace me. Oh, and I need to go online and order a swimsuit. 🙂

I sometimes feel like the world is decaying and crumbling around me—even when, at the same time, I recognize how incredibly fortunate I am in so many ways. I find it hard to square those two competing sensations. It is unexpectedly difficult to acknowledge that horror and happiness can coexist, often at the same time and in the same place—despite the fact that those opposing circumstances are as common as air and water. Guilt plays a part in the dilemma; how can I be satisfied, content, even deliriously happy when people the world over are dealing with painful struggles that threaten their very survival? Of course I realize the simple absurdity of feeling guilt just for feeling good. Yet that simple absurdity, coupled with compassion and fundamental humanity, may be what drives people to try to relieve others’ pain. Every time I read or listen to the NPR special series called My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain: Stories of People Whose Kindness Left a Lasting Impression, I think about the conflicts between pleasure and pain, joy and misery. This morning, I read an Unsung Hero story about a woman who fell and injured herself on a Washington, DC street as she was on her way to an important meeting. Two strangers came to her aid, tended her bleeding scrapes and cuts, and helped her move on so she could make her meeting. Guilt probably did not play a role in those strangers’ responses to the woman’s injury. But compassion did. And empathy. And the fundamental humanitarian motive that drives us to care about others in need. But as I think about those things that move us to action, I wonder why that desire to help sometimes seems so random. Why do we (some of us, anyway) feel empathy for a stranger who trips on a curb, but that compassion is often absent when we consider families doing their best to escape living hell by crossing the border into this country? One could easily identify a thousand pairs of scenarios that illustrate both empathy and indifference exhibited by the same person for circumstances in which suffering is similar. The question is, of course, rhetorical. I can answer it in a thousand ways. But none of those ways truly get to the heart of the matter. The bottom line is that we just do not know. We guess. We have hunches. We might think we know, but we do not. If we knew, we would correct the discrepancy. Wouldn’t we?

+++

Empathy should not be contingent on our proximity to suffering or the likelihood of it happening to us. Rather, it should stem from a disdain that suffering is happening at all.

~ Clint Smith ~

+++

Here is where the concepts imbedded in my writing in the paragraph above clashes with my own behavior: I scheduled myself for a pedicure this afternoon. I could have, instead, arranged for the money I will spend on the pedicure to be donated for food for the hungry. But if I allow myself to feel guilt for such things, I should insist on feeling guilty for spending money on every indulgence. Better yet, I should simply not engage in behaviors that beckon guilt. If only we all were “saints,” yes? But we are not. We defend personal indulgences in myriad ways, often suggesting that only by pampering ourselves are we able to muster the strength to do the occasional “saintly” thing. It is absurd to think we can be “saints,” but if we completely abandon guilt by abandoning ourselves, we have done good for no one. Not others, nor ourselves. Where is that perfect balance?

+++

I have long since abandoned most television. I do not have access to television channels that will air the Republican debates tomorrow evening (but I am pretty sure I can watch online). Though I do not intend to vote for any of the Republican contenders, I do want to know what they say they would do if they were chosen to be the Republican candidate for President.  I suspect the Republican hopeful whose approaches to governance and philosophies I will find least offensive is Asa Hutchinson. But I want to hear from the others. I’d rather watch on a big screen than on my computer monitor, but I’m unwilling at the moment to subscribe to “cable” television and I do not want to go somewhere else to watch. So, I’ll satisfy myself to tune in to Fox News tomorrow evening. This morning, when skimming the news channel websites, I stopped at Fox to see what that propaganda machine is saying; it is far worse than CNN, but that is only because Fox has an ultraconservative slant on “information.” CNN‘s attempt to deliver “information” is just the other side of the mirror. Both are contemptible for claiming to be news channels. Yet, still, I visit them to see what ugly misinformation the two ends of the political spectrum are spewing. Chill, John. Chill. Yesterday afternoon’s conversation about meditation should guide me toward doing more of it.

+++

Breathe. Breathe.

Painting by Éric Le Pape

The world confuses me. In one moment, the ugliness of war and humankind’s degradation of the planet appall me and make me ashamed to be a member of the human race; the next, I am in love with the magic of life and the stunningly gorgeous experiences that surround me. Even in the midst of the offensiveness found on Facebook and Fox News and the horrors embraced by the Proud Boys and all the other hideous aspects of the deranged fringes of society, there is incredible beauty. This morning, among all the monstrous negativity on Facebook, I came across this painting by Éric Le Pape. The moment I saw it, I was completely taken by it. So much so, in fact, that I had to know more about the artist and his other work. I found the English language version of his website, where I spent quite some time reading about his paintings and watching and listening to a video in which he discussed his life and work and the influences on his paintings. As I thought about how his paintings made me feel, I reflected on several other pieces of art I had seen recently that affected me in much the same way. Another Facebook group page, entitled A Celebration of Female Artists, contains dozens (or hundreds, perhaps) of pieces of art that I find extremely appealing. I love a watercolor painting entitled Syrener (lilacs) by a Swedish artist who died in the mid-1940s, Hilma af Klint. The site has many more that capture my imagination.

Perhaps art can drown the sorrow that attempts to drown me. Or, at least, maybe art can temporarily stifle the ability of the ugliness of the world to bury me. Or it is possible that art can divert my attention away from circumstances that simply are  too painful to face without dissolving in tears or erupting in rage. Who know? I can only guess.

In the midst of Nature’s reminders that we may be overstaying our welcome, art and other human expressions keep reminding us of our ability to produce beauty. That may be it.

+++

The planet seems to be rebelling against us. Dangerously high, sweltering temperatures throughout the western and southwestern U.S. Out-of-control fires in Hawaii, Canada, Spain, Greece, Portugal, and elsewhere. Extremes of tropical weather flooding parts of Baja California, Mexico, as well as the U.S. west coast (along with a modest earthquake yesterday, a reminder that Nature has multiple options available to her). More tropical storms and hurricanes brewing in the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico. Melting glaciers. Rising sea levels. And that is just a small sample of Nature’s apparent revenge against abuse by Earth’s residents: renters, not owners, who have been ignoring the implicit provisions of the rental and use agreements that govern humanity’s unfettered access to the planet. Our landlord seems to have lost patience with her tenants’ abuse and misuse of her property. She threatened us with eviction if we did not comply with the terms of our mutual agreement. Apparently, she meant business; even if she has to burn us out or drown us, she is willing to re-take possession by any means necessary. Once we are gone, she can rebuild.

+++

One of my nephews, who lives in Long Beach, California, reported by text last night at midnight that the weather delivered by Hurricane/Tropical Storm Hilary “never got so bad that I even bothered to close the windows or the front door and instead enjoyed the breeze.” He noted that the “official word” was that the storm would not end for the LA area for another eight hours, but he was confident it was finished in his area. I hope he is right. A few hours earlier, in a series of back and forth texts, he reported that he was fully prepared for the storm; he had done all the right things: stocked up on food and water, filled his car with gas, etc. He even has a portable stove in the event he loses power. As long as he is right about the worst of the storm being behind him, all’s well with the world. Well, for him, anyway. Images of flooded roadways and angry, over-filled flood channels suggest some areas and the people in them continue to face severe threats.

+++

Thanks to One Hour Heating & Air Conditioning® of Hot Springs, we slept in comfort last night. The “fix” to our air conditioner is temporary, but a technician is to return today (I hope) to replace two parts in the system’s components that reside in the crawl space beneath the house. Though the cost was significant, it was not (in my opinion) unreasonable for a Sunday service call. And the guy who came to do the work was very nice and accommodating. He could have left the system inoperable until he could return with replacement parts; but he performed a “work-around” so we could remain home in comfort. And multiple friends offered to let us stay with them until repairs could be made, too. We are fortunate beyond measure.

+++

Enough pondering for the moment. Time to face the day, whatever it brings.

Our air conditioner stopped working sometime during the night. The temperature in the house as of 4:00 a.m. was 81°F. No doubt the temperature indoors will continue to rise after daybreak. Today’s high temperature outdoors is predicted to reach 104°F. The forecast calls for temperatures over 100°F for the remainder of the week, through Friday, reaching a peak of 108°F on Thursday.  We will, of course, call for emergency weekend service; I expect we will be among dozens, perhaps hundreds, of others who will attempt to be high on the list of priorities for HVAC companies’ service calls. Fortunately, we can make arrangements to stay elsewhere while waiting for the air conditioner to be repaired (though I am not quite sure what to do with the cat…perhaps boarding at a local veterinary clinic), if necessary. The discomfort of the extreme heat amounts to more than an inconvenience for others, though; it constitutes a danger that could rise to the level of life or death circumstances. That is true for at-risk people whose air conditioning systems fail. And it is true for people who live without air conditioning in their homes. It is true, as well, for people who have no homes; people who spend their days and nights on the street. Yet another spectrum…or, more properly, additional spectra. Discomfort, ranging from modest to severe. And dangers, heat-related illnesses ranging from heat cramps to heat exhaustion to heat syncope to heat stroke and, finally, heat-induced mortality—death. Social safety nets—dismissed by ultra-conservatives as wasteful give-aways that encourage lazy people to rely on the State, rather than take care of themselves—are intended to deal with such urgent issues and with emergencies that require immediate action. I wonder how the safety nets in Arkansas compare to the ones in California or Massachusetts or Wyoming? Should a person’s place of residence (or simply the place a person happens to be at any given moment) dictate the level of care to be expected? In an ideal world, it would not matter what city or county or state—or country—a person is in; society should look after people who find themselves in unfortunate circumstances. I am willing to risk over-serving a few so-called “undeserving freeloaders” if that is what it takes to ensure being ready to serve people who, through no fault of their own, cannot take care of themselves. But that is not the world we live in. We could make it into that world, though, if we tried hard enough. Yeah. Tilting at windmills.

+++

I just wrote my President’s Message for the September issue of the church newsletter. Based on information gathered about the percentage of recipients who open the newsletter email and the much lower percentage of recipients who click on links (which allows them to open the remainder of each article), I question the investment of time and energy into the process. While a need exists to inform stakeholders about the church and its activities, a newsletter format may no longer be the approach to take. We may need to explore alternatives to keeping stakeholders informed. When I retired from association management, I thought I had left such concerns far behind me. Hah! Was I ever fooled?!

+++

My concerns about my own comfort are beginning to take precedence over my interest in writing. So, I will end this post here.

Replacement glass for one of the church’s front doors was delivered to the church yesterday morning, as promised. But, like the sheet of glass delivered a few weeks ago, this one, again, did not fit. It was too tall; the wrong size. I should have controlled my anger, but did not. I asked the installer why he had not thought to measure the glass before delivering it to the church to install it. I called the company’s office and expressed my anger, in no uncertain terms, and demanded to know what they were going to do to correct the mistake—and I insisted that I was unwilling to wait several weeks, again, for the replacement. I complained that their ineptitude had wasted hours of my time and left the congregation wondering why the people in the church who are responsible for the building were unable to get the glass door repaired much more quickly. The solution the company offered was to offer a free upgrade to laminated glass, versus the tempered glass we ordered. Unlike tempered glass, which must be manufactured to size, the company could cut laminated glass to size in its shop. And that is what they did. The installer returned late yesterday afternoon with a sheet of cut-to-fit laminated glass. The installation took less than half an hour. I apologized to him for losing my temper earlier in the day. On Monday, I plan to call the person with whom I spoke to at the company’s office to apologize for losing my temper when I spoke to her. Though I remain convinced the company should have handled the first screw-up better and should have measured the second improperly-sized replacement before delivery, my displeasure with the process could have been and should have been conveyed with greater compassion.

Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before – it takes something from him.

~ Louis L’Amour ~

There was a time when I would have congratulated myself for being a no-nonsense, demanding hard-ass. That attitude now embarrasses me. It is not a strength. It is evidence of a weakness, of a willingness to place blame—to demean, bully, debase, and belittle with the intent of achieving an objective that could and should be achieved with a more charitable approach. I am less prone to allowing my temper to get the better of me today than I was in years past, but I obviously have not conquered my inexcusably short fuse. I have left a trail of people wounded by my temper; I added more yesterday.  I have not been hard enough on myself to overcome that trait. I need to work harder on myself.

+++

Once again, I woke at 3. By 3:30, I admitted defeat in my battle to get back to sleep. And once again I read the news. That’s yet another dangerous bad habit. If I expect to become a more relaxed, calmer and less volatile person, I need to be more judicious in how I begin my days. At any rate, I read about Hurricane Hilary and the dangers it poses for Mexico and the U.S. southwest. And I read comments that the U.S. media tends to ignore threats to Mexico, focusing instead (and sometimes exclusively) on the threats to U.S. interests. And, of course, I read about Trump’s latest indictments and how his surrender to authorities in Georgia might play out. And I consumed more disturbing information about the impacts of climate change on the human population and the fears many have about how communities’ ability to respond to catastrophic storms at the same time dangerously high temperatures threaten the population. The one more pleasant piece of news I read reported on the common ground some communities in northern New York State are finding on matters that, in the past, threatened to tear those communities apart. Perhaps I should have looked for tips on dealing with insomnia.

+++

And now, for some self-educational reminders, courtesy of people whose intellectual accomplishments might provide valuable insights to resolving emotional failures:

A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them.

~ Carl Jung ~

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.

~ Mark Twain ~

+++

It’s 6:20. The light in the sky is beginning to infiltrate the forest. Soon, the dim outlines of trees will become brighter and clearer. And the heat of the day will begin in earnest. The temperature now is 72°F; the forecast calls for a rise of 28 degrees, topping off the day’s heat at 100°F. Today might be a good day to wander the backroads of northern Michigan; it’s a bit late to come to that realization though, isn’t it?

Instead, I will sit on the deck for a while, listening to birds converse about the best places to find savory seeds.

Much of my afternoon yesterday was needlessly wasted. In response, I ate too much pizza. Any pizza is, for me, too much, so I’ll rephrase that: I ate far, far, far too much pizza; enough too much that I should consider a six to ten month pizza-fast. Replacing pizza with water. Nothing but water. As for how yesterday afternoon came to be wasted…

The chair of the church building committee, who was to meet the glass repair technician yesterday afternoon, tested positive for COVID-19 (along with some other members of the church). So, I cancelled my car repair appointment in Little Rock to fill in (she earlier had agreed to fill in for me when my car repair schedule conflicted with the glass company’s availability).

The backstory: the scheduled “early afternoon” glass replacement was the second scheduled appointment—the first appointment failed because the glass the company delivered and tried to install was the wrong size. After noon yesterday, I called the glass company (from the church) and was told the technician would arrive between 2:30 and 4:30. I ran home to get my cell phone charger and returned. I got back around 1:30. Since I had heard nothing by 3:30, I confirmed the time, by text. Yes, I was told, it was still on for 2:30 to 4:30. About 3:50, I got a call, telling me the tech would be “late,” because of troubles with another job. “Late” could be quite late; they could not be more precise. They offered an appointment for Friday (today) between 8 and 9. Despite my anger at the situation, I agreed to an 8-8:30 time frame. I am not happy, as one might imagine, especially since I had to reschedule my car repair appointment for two weeks hence. We shall see whether: 1) the technician shows up; 2) the glass is appropriately sized and is properly installed; and 3) apologies and compensation of any kind are offered.

I know, stuff happens. But when it does, something beyond a lackadaisical attitude on the part of product and/or service suppliers can go a long way toward salvaging unpleasant situations.

+++

The flurry of news about the apparently illegal seizure of computers, cell phones, and other materials from the offices of the Marion County Record in Kansas is disturbing. The fact that the seizures are being covered by the media does not bother me; what bothers me is the fact of the seizures themselves. First Amendment rights must be protected. The First Amendment reads as follows:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Reading those words causes me to wonder whether the First Amendment should be modified, because the actions of the Marion, Kansas Police Department were not taken under the auspices of a law made by Congress, nor (to my knowledge) under any interpretations of the legality of abridging the freedom of the press. Did the seizure of the newspaper’s computers, etc. constitute a breach of laws established by Congress? Or was the seizure illegal under some other law or regulation? That is not a rhetorical question. It may be an uniformed, ignorant question, but it is not rhetorical. I sometimes think we make what seem like logical assumptions that are not, in fact, made on the basis of legitimate logical leaps. In my mind, the rights of a free press should be explicitly stated, rather than implied through the prohibition that Congress cannot abridge that freedom. If Congress cannot legitimately abridge that freedom, does that prohibition extend to the Marion County Police Department? To judicial magistrates in Marion County, Kansas? To other individuals and entities?

Regardless of laws and rights as presently framed, I am a strong believer in the necessity of a free press, protected from intimidation, hindrance, and interference. Press freedom is among the few safety nets available to the public in the event that rogue public officials target individuals or organizations for nefarious reasons. If the press is at risk, so are we all. That reality is especially troublesome to me in light of the fact that “news” often blends with opinion of late. And it bothers me that newspapers are struggling to survive in an environment in which they compete for revenue against “citizen journalists” who do not necessarily subscribe to journalistic ethics. We (the public) must support and come to the defense of newspapers (whatever physical form they take). Otherwise, we simply await the loss of the protections afforded us by a free press.

+++

Once again, the damnable cat woke me with her loud, obnoxious yowling. It began sometime before 4. Finally, around 4:30, I gave up my attempt to sleep; her meows and pacing up and down on the bed (and its inhabitants) made sleep impossible. I coaxed her, with food, into the laundry room and closed the door behind me. Soon thereafter, as I was making coffee, she attempted to coax me into letting her out of her little prison with plaintive yowls; her attempts did not work.

+++

Just now, I heard the very loud and distinct sounds of an owl. It sounds like it is just outside my window, but I cannot see it. The sky is just barely beginning to brighten and the lights inside make it impossible to see much beyond the glass. I think the cat heard the same thing; she is howling with sufficient volume to make me wonder whether her vocalizations will awaken mi novia. I hope not. I need my morning solitude to last for awhile longer.

+++

Less than two hours from now, I will go to church to await the glass installer. As I think about it, I can feel my blood pressure rise. I need to take another cup of coffee outside on the deck, light a cone of incense, and sit in meditative silence. Calmness. Stillness. Sounds of nature. Cool air. Time to clear my head of troublesome thoughts and replace them with dreams and fantasies and joyous illusions. I will attempt to do just that. Now. Forced serenity.

Keeping an open mind is demanding. It requires a willingness to suppress one’s own strongly-held opinions and innate bigotry. And it requires being patient while information is uncovered and analyzed, so that facts can be verified and their meaning can be determined. The process is particularly difficult when “everybody knows” the truth, especially when “all the evidence” points to the rectitude of biased opinions. Everyone, it seems, is guilty of making judgments based on assumptions that spring from one’s own clouded perspective.

Recently, I read a comment on Facebook about an accusation of domestic abuse made against someone I do not know. The comment “confirmed” that the accusation was correct and that the accused person was guilty. I pointlessly replied, suggesting the commenter might want to wait to make a judgment about guilt or innocence until the accused’s trial. My reply was pointless because, as I well knew, it would only further cement the person’s opinion. She would double down on her assertion of guilt, despite having not been present at the time of the alleged crime and having not been privy to any information not contained in a newspaper’s report. If the person accused of abuse is convicted of the crime, the person who commented will, I feel sure, crow about how right she was in asserting the man’s guilt. If he is not convicted, she will insist the justice system is rigged against the victims of domestic abuse. Perhaps she is right. But I am sure I am the one who is more likely to know the “truth.” Because I, too, am guilty of being biased. Will I be satisfied with the judgment of the judge or jury if the man is found guilty? What if he is found innocent? Keeping an open mind is demanding. Nearly impossible, sometimes.

+++

My stomach is making loud noises, loud enough that I am afraid the sound might awaken mi novia or the cat. The loud gurgling must have begun in response to my drinking coffee, though it is possible that last night’s dinner, coupled with the coffee, may be at fault. Judgments. Potentially erroneous is what I was getting at in the paragraph above. Come on, John; stick to the topic at hand, won’t you? I am sorry, but my thoughts this morning are too chaotic to give clear thinking a chance of success. Unrelated thoughts are bouncing around my brain with such ferocity and speed that I cannot possibly control them.

+++

An early dinner with friends at a Ecuadorian restaurant (Rolando’s, a place also identified as a restaurante nuevo Latino), followed by Open Mic Night at Kollective Coffee & Tea helped make yesterday a good day. We joined our friends Patty and Terry and Kim and Robert for a satisfying meal and entertaining evening of listening to poetry readings. Patty and I both read poems of our own. We participated, along with other people who expressed themselves through poetry. The audience welcomed and expressed support for each poet; all of who read our work were enthusiastically shown appreciation and thanks for sharing. I have not participated in Open Mic Night in quite some time; I thank Kim, who suggested the gathering, for providing the impetus. I enjoy reading to an appreciative audience. Regardless of how well or how poorly I perform, the audience at Open Mic Night always boosts my mood.

+++

It’s a quarter to seven. I am about to fall asleep again, nearly three hours after waking far too early for someone who needs at least another hour of sleep. I could not sleep, though, with my stomach’s loud gurgling interrupting my quietude. Dammit. Dammit all.

Nearly everyone has heard the story about the cobbler’s children having no shoes. But what about the one about the barefoot cobbler? Do you know that story? No? Well let me explain.

The cobbler’s feet hurt and she took off her shoes to relieve the pain. Even when she got her shoes off, though, the pain continued. Friends suggested the cobbler visit a podiatrist. “No,” she said, “when I told the tailor that I wanted a blazer that fit a little tight and a little loose, he couldn’t figure out how to sew a blouse that would do both. It would be the same with a podiatrist. The podiatrist wouldn’t be able to figure out what’s causing my foot pain.”

So, rather than going to the podiatrist, who might have corrected the problem with her feet, the cobbler started going barefoot all the time. As a consequence, she had stone bruises on the bottom of her feet and painful puncture wounds where she stepped on thorns.

Regardless, her friends continued to hound her about doing something to dramatically reduce or eliminate the pain in her feet. They vowed to nag her until she visited a podiatrist. Their annoying insistence was evidence of their care.

The end of the story? The ending has not yet been written. Will the cobbler become crippled and confined to a wheelchair? Or will she relent, tell a podiatrist all about her foot pain, and undergo the treatment the podiatrist proposes, probably leading to an eventual elimination of the pain? Only time will tell. Her friends will continue harping on the need for her to visit a podiatrist until the cobbler relents. And then they will envelop her in a loving embrace, glad that she finally gave in to their loving insistence that she care for herself as much as she cares for those around her.

And the moral to that story is…

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Mi novia and I are planning to make a road trip within the next few months. We will drive up the Great River Road which follows the Mississippi River. About a year ago, we drove part of the road north of us, making it almost to Minnesota, but we veered east just before reaching the Minnesota border. This time, our plan is to drive all the way up to the twin cities, where we will go to a coffee house “concert” by Peter Mayer. Though we’re not “groupies,” we look a bit like we are just that. But we’re not. Just to clarify. Our trip will be relatively slow and meandering, providing us (me, at least) with an outlet for my wanderlust. Apparently, I continue to seek something that eludes me. Even that “something” eludes me, inasmuch as I do not know what it is I am seeking. But I may find it. Or I may be in perpetual “seeking” mode. I rather suspect the latter is the case. But I do not know. I just do not know.

Perhaps I am seeking a place that will teach me what I need and/or want to know. A place both gentle and harsh, comfortable and unpleasant, accessible and hidden, welcoming and unfriendly, straightforward and mysterious. I skate back and forth along a narrow band of emotion and concepts and ideas, rocketing from one end of the spectrum to the other, occasionally stumbling off the edge of the band and tumbling through space before crashing into something that forces me to stop and get situated again. Awe and abject boredom are the antithesis to one another, but both reside in the same places in everyone’s brains. Unless, of course, I am “projecting,” which means (in psychology) placing one’s own negative traits or unwanted emotions onto others. I assume you are like me, when in fact you may be my polar opposite. Simultaneously, sometimes, I assume you are my polar opposite, when in fact you could be my intellectual and/or emotional twin.

I am fascinated, sometimes, by the ease with which I slide almost effortlessly between what seem to be utterly unrelated topics. On one hand, I find my facility with cognitive non sequiturs to be quite appealing, yet on the other I fret that it might be evidence of an irreparable cerebral flaw. What the hell does this to do with driving the Great River Road?

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An acquaintance from my days as an association executive—a guy who did the same kind of work I did—retired a year or two (or more?) ago. He lived in Dallas, but had in the past talked about returning to his native New Mexico. After he retired, he bought a second home to serve as a retirement retreat, located in a village north of Albuquerque. Recently, he decided to make New Mexico his primary residence. And he reported on Facebook that he had purchased a Tesla. I like the idea of electric vehicles. But I am unlikely to buy one in the immediate future. I value certainty in some things; like readily accessible and extremely widespread fast recharging stations.

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Because I did not cook filet mignon last night for dinner, as I had planned, I will prepare a steak and eggs breakfast this morning. It is now time to do precisely that.

Twice during the past ten years I mentioned, in this blog, an experience I had when driving around rural north Texas with my late wife. We stumbled upon the town of Windthorst and its St. Mary’s Catholic church and a shrine attached to the church. A Latin inscription on the shrine intrigued me; upon returning home, I did some research and found its English translation—Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. A friend informed me that the phrase was part of Catholicism’s Hail Mary, the full Latin version of which is:

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

Thinking back on that, it occurs to me that religious practices—even practices of a religion to which I have had virtually no exposure—have permeated my life experiences. Everywhere I turn, it seems, I see or hear common prayers from various religions and religious denominations. In years past, I often found the intrusion of religion into my secular life irritating, to put it mildly. I was incensed by the intrusiveness of religious phrases, practices, ideas, thoughts, etc. into my personal, private life. But time tends to soften one’s stridency, I think. Anger melts into annoyance and, finally, disappears into tolerance. And, though I am relatively certain I will never become an adherent of any religion based entirely on the premise that an all-powerful being controls the universe, I have come to appreciate some of the sentiments expressed in various religious language, rituals, and approaches to life. While I do not accept divinity, I accept the notions sometimes associated with it and/or the religions that echo one another in certain of their assertions about morality. Norman Rockwell, the famous artist whose painting, The Golden Rule, served as the cover of the April 1, 1961 cover of the Saturday Evening Post, wrote the following notes about a notion that is common to many/most/perhaps all religions: the so-called Golden Rule (Do unto others as you would have them do unto you):

Buddhism: Hurt not other with that which pains yourself. Udānavarga

Christianity: All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets. Bible, St. Matthew

Confucianism: Is there any one maxim which ought to be acted upon throughout one’s whole life? Surely the maxim of lovingkindness is such — Do not unto others what you would not they should do unto you. Analects

Hebraism (Judaism): What is hurtful to yourself do not to your fellow man. That is the whole of the Torah and the remainder is but commentary. Go learn it. Talmud.

Hinduism: This is the sum of duty: do naught to others which if done to thee, would cause thee pain. Mahabharata.

Islam: No one of you is a believer until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself. Traditions.

Jainism: In happiness and suffering, in joy and grief, we should regard all creatures as we regard our own self, and should therefore refrain from inflicting upon others such injury as would appear undesirable to us if inflicted upon ourselves. Yogaśāstra.

Sikhism. As thou deemest thouself, so deem others. Then shalt thou become a partner in heaven. Kabir.

Taoism: Regard your neighbor’s gain as your own gain: and regard your neighbor’s loss as your own loss. T’ai Shang Kan-Ying P’ien.

Zoroastriansim. That nature only is good when it shall not do unto others whatever is not good for its own self. Dadestan-i Denig.

Though, to my knowledge, Unitarian Universalism does not have a directly comparative statement, three of its principles (The inherent worth and dignity of every person; Justice, equity and compassion in human relations; and Acceptance of one another and encouragement to spiritual growth in our congregations) seem to me to incorporate the “Golden Rule” concepts.

To the extent that religious philosophies at their most basic can be expressed in some form of the “Golden Rule,” I do not quarrel with them. My quarrels generally arise from their deviance from those core tenets. But enough about a theory, a belief, an idea. The words of a poet who wrote The Man With The Hoe speak to a call to action:

We have committed the Golden Rule to memory; let us now commit it to life.

~ Edwin Markham ~

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The time is nearing seven o’clock. During the last three hours, I have scanned the news (a habit I know I should break), made coffee, contemplated my history of rabid quarrels with religious, fed the cat, and written this post. Time, now, for more coffee and relaxation on the deck…complete with the aroma of a burning cone of patchouli incense.

Rachel Martin, near the end of a May 2023 interview with actor Rainn Wilson, asked him, “To see sacredness in the everyday means purging yourself of cynicism, doesn’t it?” He answered “yes” and went on to describe an interaction he had with André Gregory that challenged Wilson’s cynicism. Commenting about her interview with Wilson, Martin said she, “…realized that fostering hope and fostering joy in others is maybe our highest spiritual calling…”

Martin’s question about the sacredness in the everyday brought to mind words from the lyrics of a song by Peter Mayer, Holy Now.

When holy water was rare at best It barely wet my fingertips. Now I have to hold my breath Like I’m swimming in a sea of it. It used to be a world half there, Heaven’s second rate hand me down. Now I walk it with a reverent air, ‘Cause everything is holy now.

Atheists and agnostics and the deeply religious, I suspect, all might agree on the sacredness or holiness of “everything,” though the term they use to describe those conditions probably differ. However, of course, there are people—like me, from time to time in years past—who say everything “just is,” with no attribution of any sort of majesty or awe-inspiring characteristics. On one hand, I fully understand that position. But on the other, I think that attitude gets in the way of accepting the magic of the universe; which is not to say, by the way, that there is a God. I believe God is a human creation, an attempt to enable us to explain the inexplicable. But perhaps, if that human creation leads people to foster hope and joy in others, it is worth accepting, even by atheists and agnostics.

I vacillate between hope and despair, which is by no means a path to stability and happiness. Hope arises when I view humanity as an unnecessary component of the universe that is conscious of its good fortune in realizing both its irrelevance and its good fortune and sentience. Despair surfaces when I see humanity as blind to its potential, which is unreachable due to humans’ arrogance and willful ignorance. If only I could stabilize my senses, somewhere near the mid-range of that sine wave.

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If the world’s media that has an online presence would collectively work to establish a single “point of entry” for access to every online media outlet, I would be happy to pay a reasonable price for entry. Clicking on a story linked from the main page of The Times of London leads me to a few of the story’s introductory paragraphs, but I can go no further without subscribing for the low, low price of £1 for 6 months. After that, though, access would be available only on payment of £10 per month. Perhaps a bit steep, but “doable.” But access to The Times, The New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, Sentinel-Record, etc. at their regular (or even introductory) rates would be unaffordable. A collective fee structure, shared by multiple online media companies, might make widespread access more readily available while simultaneously generating revenue (perhaps even more than current practices generate, due to larger audiences willing to pay for broader access). That my idea for the day; probably a repeat of an idea I have had for years, but still high on my list of things that would improve my online experience.

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May the house you live in never fall down.

Up before four, and what do I do? I read and I write and I wonder. I drink strong black coffee and think about cats and gaze at photographs of magnificent scrap metal sculpture. I think about characters I’ve created and muse about where they are now. Life is a boat, a vessel that can be steered like a ship or simply allowed to float like a raft.

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Take the back roads instead of the highways.

~ Minnie Pearl ~

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Archeology did not fully capture my interest until recently. I suppose I found the subject dry, thanks to several erroneous assumptions I made about the discipline. Only in recent years have I come to understand how much we can learn from the study of archeology. This morning, I watched a BBC video that deals with some of the culinary habits of Vikings. The archeologist filmed for the video demonstrated how dried cod, ground barley, herbs, and malt vinegar were used to create a porridge that was accompanied by roasted turnips. Just watching and listening to the video opened my imagination to what life might have been like for Vikings during cold winters. By examining archeological evidence, the world as it once was—and how that world served as the foundation for the one in which we live today—becomes more real and more understandable. Archeology is just one of dozens—perhaps hundreds—of disciplines that have sparked my interest over the years. If I had a mind capable of absorbing and retaining vast amounts of information, I think I would have been delighted to have been a perpetual student. I might have become the legendary Renaissance Man, cultured and knowledgeable in a wide range of fields. Alas, my brain seems incapable of retaining much of what passes through it. Only bits and pieces of information remain after stopping to visit. Those shreds are often adulterated with fantasies that infiltrate and contaminate the “real” information residing there. Such is life. Still, I enjoy learning and relearning. It is not too late to become enamored with archeology. And medicine and metallurgy and on and on…

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Pleasure comes in innumerable ways: eating ice cream, viewing beautiful paintings, watching talented creative people engage in their crafts, experiencing a clear, dark night when the sky is rich with twinkling stars, warming in front of a roaring fire on a cold day…the list is endless and it is unique to the individual. The pleasure for one person of tasting the flavor of a peach and feeling its texture in the mouth is, to someone else, an unwanted, unpleasant experience. No matter one’s preferences, the concept of pleasure is almost universally regarded in a positive light. And that probably is as it should be. But what of the pleasure some people derive from inflicting discomfort or pain on others? Is that deviant experience actually pleasure, or is it something else…something that only mimics pleasure? An article published ten years ago by the Association for Psychological Science does not answer the question, but implies that people who enjoy inflicting pain on others do, indeed, experience “pleasure” from their actions. The article reported the work of three researchers, whose earlier work identified a “Dark Triad” of personality traits, “surmised that sadism is a distinct aspect of personality that joins with three others — psychopathy, narcissism, and Machiavellianism — to form a “Dark Tetrad” of personality traits.” The authors’ later work suggests “sadists possess an intrinsic motivation to inflict suffering on innocent others, even at a personal cost.” The article does not address the question, directly, of whether sadistic “pleasure” is, in fact, the real thing; but it implies as much. Another article, published earlier this year in the Journal of Personality, notes that “Sadistic pleasure presumably incorporates processes that support an authentic enjoyment of others’ pain.” An untested theory about sadists’ “pleasure” in inflicting pain, supported to some extent by the article, suggests “sadistic people may occasionally care about seeming moral (or not seeming antagonistic) and that sadism may be somewhat ego-dystonic in this respect.” The meaning and practical implications of the exploratory work surrounding sadistic behaviors and their ostensibly pleasurable components to sadists have yet to be fully fleshed out. But the admittedly limited reading (and considerably more thinking) I have done on the matter leaves me thinking this: the enjoyment some people experience from inflicting pain is not the same thing as the pleasure most of us feel from more positive experiences. If I were a psychologist involved in behavioral research, I would explore my theory that the infliction of pain on others does not give pleasure to the sadist but, rather, gives a deviant psychological “high” that resembles pleasure. Perhaps it’s a matter of semantics, but I simply cannot fathom the idea that a person who enjoys inflicting pain on others feels the same sense of pleasure I have when enjoying a glass of wine while sitting on my deck, reveling in the sights and sounds of the forest.

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I have long appreciated a poem by a poet whose last name and mine are almost identical (but to whom I have no evidence I am related). These words, extracted from the chorus of a poem-play by Algernon Charles Swinburne (Atalanta in Calydon), appeal to me:

Before the beginning of years,
There came to the making of man
Time, with the gift of tears,
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the labouring earth;
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth;
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love,
With life before and after
And death beneath and above,
For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span
With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.

I must have thought of this poetic expression because of the phrase, “Pleasure, with pain for leaven.” That phrase resonates with me and it is somehow linked in my mind with the subject of the paragraphs above regarding pleasure and whether sadistic “pleasure” is really pleasure at all.

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When circumstances call for action, but timidity or fear stand as obstacles to  moral responses to those demands, one’s philosophies are meaningless. Beliefs in what is “right” are hollow when the prospect of facing potential risks outweighs the certainty of the results of inaction. Somewhere along the spectrum between very real danger and the illusion of risk, cowardice may come into play. Yet no one wants to admit to cowardice. Explanations for inaction, when situations scream for immediate response, rarely include cowardice. But there comes a point when one’s refusal to act—fueled by fear for the consequences to oneself, whether personal safety or potential damage to one’s image—cannot be adequately explained by anything else. Fervent support for others’ difficult reactions to perilous conditions may be beneficial to one’s self-esteem, but others’ bravery is not a legitimate proxy for one’s own fortitude. Or lack thereof. Cowardice probably is far more common than courage, though it is extremely difficult to measure either and impossible to compare their prevalence.

The foregoing paragraph offers an abstraction of reality. Sometimes, reality is too brutal; it can be safely approached only by stepping around it, gingerly. By so doing, the brutality of reality may be made even more clear.  And cowardice steps up and confidently proclaims its legitimacy.

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I spent quite a long time with my primary care doctor yesterday. The purpose of the visit, a thorough follow-up appointment, seemed almost tangential because we got into a discussion of politics, morality, conservatism versus liberalism, and a host of more concrete issues. Despite the fact that the two of us gravitate toward opposite ends of the spectrum of political and social philosophies, we share a number of opinions about social and political issues. And we seem to share an interest in civil conversation, discussion, debate, and argument about matters on which we disagree. Both of us feel strongly that compromise on philosophical disagreements is absolutely necessary for progress. Stalemates resulting from obstinate refusal to compromise are unnecessary and irresponsible. I appreciated the opportunity to experience a conversation with my doctor, as opposed to what I have become used to: an almost mechanical exchange in which the humanity of neither doctor nor patient is acknowledged.

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Today, Saturday, will feel more like a workday than a usual weekend day. Church-related “business” is on the agenda, both morning and afternoon. Such is life in retirement.

He wanted to live a ballad, like a quiet, rebellious, withdrawn, assertive teenager
born in the wrong century, yet comfortable as an outcast and an intellectual.
But he did not have the strength or the stamina to break the mold into which he was poured. He acquiesced to the expectations of people afraid to speak unless questioned—role models who taught him to fear his shadow and to obey loud-voiced, steely-eyed leaders. They were not leaders, though. They were despots. Bullies. Demons in suits and ties. “Influencers,” some called them, though most labeled them masters or managers or mentors. He called them butchers, but only under his breath. He loathed and feared them, but pretended to be unafraid. Until one day his anger overcame his terror and his rage conquered his dread. He would have been a hero, had he succeeded in vanquishing them, or a martyr had they shackled and dragged him into a public prison. Instead, he disappeared quietly and was quickly forgotten, which is why we knew nothing of him and why we never will.

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Unexpected, abrupt volcanic eruptions, dozens of them, stunned the nation. Residents along the Mississippi River south of Memphis had no warning, when boiling, viscous magma flows filled the river’s channel, displacing the water and sending enormous waves of water and steam washing over Tunica and Helena-West Helena and Rosedale—all the way down far below Natchez. The subsequent ash-fall, which lasted two weeks, was deep; deeper than what was left in the aftermath of Mount Vesuvius. Large swaths of southern Arkansas and Mississippi and most of Louisiana were buried under thirty feet or more of pumice and ash. Unlike what happened in the time of Pompeii, though, news of the unimaginable catastrophe instantly circled the earth. While most of the world’s population saw the cataclysmic event as a horror that called upon all humanity to come to the aid of the stricken, a small group of people in Topeka, Kansas viewed the calamity as a sign from above. They viewed the sudden horror as an opportunity to spread their unique form of religious insanity worldwide. And, as they considered their chance to seize religious power, they contemplated how that power might expand into more complete control. If the unspeakable volcanic disaster was not enough, the religious wars that followed would shake humankind to the core and, quite possibly, would determine how the species would become extinct. Blah, blah, blah, blah…

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Fast-moving storms provided plenty of entertainment for me this morning. While I was attempting to write something out of character for me (lately), I watched lightning flash and listened to the loud cracks and growls and hisses of thunder. Rain pelted the windows of my study so hard that I thought it might have been mixed with hail; but probably not. Now, as the sky begins to brighten and the sounds of thunder diminish off in the distance, the day is beginning in earnest. The time is just past seven and I am ready to have another cup of coffee before I shave, shower, and dress for my visit with my doctor. It’s a follow-up appointment to check my blood glucose, which I am afraid will reveal how badly I have strayed from good behavior. That is, I have not been following the advice of dietitians and my doctor with regard to what I should and should not eat. I did, for a while. Roughly six months. But, then, I decided to treat myself, very briefly, to the good life. Brevity, though, is not my strong suit. But anyone who regularly (or even occasionally) reads this blog knows that. Ach! Enough of this. I’m ready to leave this blog alone for awhile. I have other things on my mind.

Long, long ago—probably when I was in my teens—I read a tawdry novel. I do not remember much of the book, but for some reason I remember the substance of a conversation in which one of the main characters made an interesting assertion. He said two people—even strangers—would fall hopelessly in love with one another if they followed a specific process: sit, facing one another, and stare into each other’s eyes for twenty minutes, with minimal blinking and no looking away.  Because it was so long ago, I would not be surprised to learn that the setting might not be exactly as I remember, but I am sure that I recall the concept. Even though I doubt the legitimacy of the assertion, over the years, I have wanted to try it. Just to see. But circumstances have always argued against it. And I imagine how creepy it would have sounded if I had approached someone with the suggestion we give it a try. I suspect the request would result in the opposite of the suggested outcome.

But out of curiosity, I did an internet search this morning to learn whether there might be any truth to the concept. I found something on healthline.com:

In a pair of studies from 1989, strangers who looked into each other’s eyes for 2 minutes experienced mutual feelings of love. A 2003 study found that the longer someone started at a face, the more they became attracted to it.

So there you go. Look deeply into my eyes…

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As Maui burned, police continued their probe into Saturday’s senseless brawl on the Montgomery riverfront. And presidential candidate Fernando Villavicencio, who had been outspoken about corruption in Ecuador, was assassinated at a campaign event. And Craig Robertson was shot and killed during the FBI’s attempt to arrest him for threatening to kill President Biden. There is more, of course. More madness to distract us from the horrors of an historic Hawaiian town burning. More insanity to prevent us from focusing our attention where we might be able to do the most good.

But if we look hard enough, we can find more uplifting news, though the good news cannot erase the bad. For example, a new national monument, called Ancestral Footprints of the Grand Canyon National Monument was created, comprised of one million acres of public land to the north, south, and northeast, of Grand Canyon National Park.  And on another continent, the breathtaking resurrection of the Notre Dame Cathedral is underway. A police officer in Hapeville, Georgia solicited money from his fellow officers to buy a gaming console for a boy who had been soliciting yard work to earn money to buy one.

The good news stories are morphine, helping to deaden the pain of natural and unnatural disasters. But while a band-aid soaked in topical pain killers might help us get through an unpleasant ordeal, what we really crave is a cure for the horrors of coping with a harsh, menacing, brutal environment of our own making. To date, only death seems to offer that antidote. That is a last resort, though, attractive only after trying every other possibility; but then the cure seems considerably worse than the ailment.

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Crepe myrtles, drenched in beautiful, deep red flowers, contrast with the other flora I see out the window in front of me. As I gaze at the crimson bursts at the end of long, slender branches, I see a hummingbird pause outside the window. I am not the only set of eyes trained on the bird. Phaedra, sitting atop the five-step ladder I used a few days ago but have not yet returned to the garage, also sees the tiny creature. The cat realizes she cannot lunge through the glass to get at the delectable morsel, but I can see that every muscle in her body aches to spring toward her prey. Phaedra likes to sit and look outside, a place she is not allowed to go lest she become prey herself. The forest here is not a safe place for domestic cats. Where can she find a guarantee of safety? Where can any of us find that guarantee?

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I wonder whether I could train myself, psychologically, to “turn off” feelings of hunger. If a mental exercise could accomplish that, weight loss would be much easier to achieve. Recently, I was able to discipline myself to avoid eating foods that could negatively affect my blood glucose levels. It was fairly easy to do. But after six months or so, my discipline shattered. I began to eat toast. And chocolate kisses. And gin. And a hundred other things I know I should avoid or, at least, consume very sparingly. There is a difference between disciplining oneself to eat a healthier diet and “flipping a switch” to eliminate desire. I would like to find and flip that switch, if it exists. If it does, it is buried deep inside my brain. Cravings and hunger are different from one another, too, I think. But I cannot quite put my finger on how they differ.

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I read a blog post by an American woman who now lives in Sweden with her Swedish husband. She wrote that July in Sweden is a delight because everyone is on vacation; no traffic on the highways, no cars in the parking lot, and almost nobody in the office. She had already taken her vacation, so she was back at work when almost everyone else was off work. I remember times when I was almost alone in my office for various reasons. It was so refreshing to be alone; no uninvited input and interactions. That sense of freedom from external stresses is a joy. I remember it well.

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It’s almost 8. I’ve been dillydallying for too long. Time to get on with the day.

Something important is missing and will never return. Something that defined who I was, long, long, long ago. It’s gone, now, and so is the definition. I am a vacant room; four walls, a ceiling, a floor, but nothing else. Emptiness everywhere. A vacuum. If anything came along to fill it, I would be someone else. I would define myself, and be defined by others, as someone I never was and did not intend to be. So, it is better to remain empty and to remove the “Vacancy” sign, to keep people from trying to fill the void.

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Even though I often express a desire to avoid hearing anything about politics, I cannot seem to keep myself from wandering into that emotional battle. This morning, for instance, I walked into that buzz-saw.  Fox News is hard for me to stomach, but periodically I skim the organization’s website to learn the current state of its right-wing madness. This morning, I read an opinion piece by Liz Peek, who suggested a way to move forward with the 2024 presidential election without either Trump or Biden. Her idea is that Biden agree to pardon Trump for past, current, and future federal charges in return for dropping out of the presidential race. In return, Trump would convince Republicans to drop investigations into Hunter Biden and the President, provided the President agrees to drop out of the presidential race. That would leave the current field of  Republican candidates, except Trump, and would open up the Democratic field to a number of presidential hopefuls, provided the Democrats initiate an open primary. Neither Trump nor Biden are liked and/or respected by the majority of voters. My gut tells me Trump’s indictments will drag out for an eternity plus fifty years. That same gut feel says Republicans will continue their rabid attacks on the father-son Biden team for as long as humans wander the face of Earth. I am in favor of a giving voters a clean slate. While pardoning Trump is an idea I find hard to swallow, I think it would be worth the discomfort if it would lead to a more appealing set of candidates on both sides of the political spectrum. How likely is it that Liz Peek’s idea will morph from fantasy into reality? Nearly nil. But, still, her unlikely fantasy fascinates me.

Divide and rule, the politician cries; unite and lead, is watchword of the wise.

~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe ~

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I loathe agricultural practices that mistreat animals raised for food. But loathing those practices and hating the unnecessary pain they inflict on animals does not translate into vegetarianism. At least not for me. I skimmed at article on the Vegetarian Resource Group website early this morning. The article, adapted from a talk by John McArdle, Ph.D., asserts that humans are, naturally, omnivores. We are essentially opportunistic eaters, consuming whatever is available and appealing. Our closest primate relative, the chimpanzee, also is an omnivore. In my opinion, the most obvious difference between humans and other omnivores (or carnivores) with regard to eating animal flesh is this: non-humans probably have no compunction about the pain they inflict while pursuing and killing the prey that will serve as the protein they need to survive. Humans, though, tend to have misgivings about the pain inflicted on creatures that serve as part of our diet. Rather than allowing those misgivings to ruin our psychological health, humans tend to bury our thoughts about the processes that led from the farm (or wherever) to our tables. It is easier to be omnivores when the horrors surrounding the raising and killing of animals are silenced in our minds. Yet we seem to be able to tolerate the fact that a cheetah chases and kills an antelope, presumably causing the antelope to experience great pain before its death. Because, I assume, that process is “a fact of nature.” Yet we cannot seem to tolerate the processes involved in raising and killing animals for human consumption. Ultimately, I think we humans can tolerate raising and killing animals, but only if we employ processes that minimize animals’ pain. We do not like to hear about poultry farms in which chickens live their short lives in crowded, dark, horribly uncomfortable conditions. We do not like to know that cattle are fed unnatural diets so the animals fatten quickly; and we hate learning of their miserable living conditions. Ditto pigs. And every other sentient creature that dies in order for us to enjoy diets that include, naturally, animal protein. For my part, I think humans can get by on less meat than Americans tend to eat (and it is possible, of course, to live without any animal protein). But I am not in favor of shaming people into becoming vegetarians by reminding them of the horrors of raising and killing animals for food. I am in favor of minimizing the stresses and pain inflicted on animals. Of course, the reasons for the practices in use today involve financial issues; making life better for livestock, etc. would have the effect of increasing the cost of animal protein, which would negatively impact people who already struggle financially. Given adequate thought and commitment, I am confident humans could successfully address those effects. It is natural for humans to eat meat. We may wish it were not so, but such a wish would be a pointless exercise in abject futility.

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How long would a person last if he believed no one loved him? Would the lack of love be sufficient to cause a person to react to the world around him by withering and dying? I suspect a sincere belief that no one—not parents, not siblings, not “friends,” nobody at all—loves you would be more than enough to cause you to lose the will to live. But I think even people who feel abandoned, alone, and unlovable feel, at their core, that someone loves them. They may not know who, but they think someone must. And, I further suspect, that is probably true. Someone does. And that little sliver of realistic hope is enough to keep a person going. But there are people who are utterly alone. No family, no friends, not even someone to talk to. Those people, I think, are most at risk. Without love, there is no reason to live. There is no reward to staying alive, without love. Love really does keep us going. Love prevents us from stepping off a precipice into oblivion. Yet even where there is love, emptiness and pain can still exist. So love may not be enough. What else do we need to feel that life is worth living? That question is hard to answer. So hard that I will not try. At least not now. I think the answer will require a focused effort by a group of people dedicated to finding, and then sharing, the answer. Will it happen? Who knows? I don’t.

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Tears are the silent language of grief.

~ Voltaire ~

Tears are considered proof of weakness. Yet criers are labeled “sensitive,” as well, the label equivalent to permission to cry. But the idea of underlying weakness remains, even when tears are celebrated as evidence of feelings…despite the sense that feelings are best hidden away, lest they become ammunition for mockery. Tears, even tears of joy, arise from a deep, unconquerable grief. A grief so vast that it defies description. Tears speak, quietly, of sorrow that refuses to depart; loss that leaves reminders in every breath and every glance.

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An empty calendar awaits. I can do anything. Or nothing at all.

If you want to know more about the shocking news delivered in the title of this post, you’ll have to read on. I’m not going to make this easy for you. I have a reason for being so ornery. You never speak to me. At least not here, in public. You watch and read and make judgments about what I write, but you do not share those appraisals with me. I’m not even sure you actually visit, inasmuch as you don’t leave any evidence of your presence. I may be writing to an empty seat. Or dozens of empty seats. Seats that have gone unoccupied for years. But, then, I’ve always said this blog is for me, not for an audience. And that’s usually the reality of the matter. Occasionally, though, I wonder whether my thoughts trigger any reactions or responses. I wonder whether my words paint the picture of a committed thinker or, instead, a probably crazy thinker who should be committed.

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Once again, an earth-shaking crack of thunder tears into my consciousness, followed by the rolling growl the thunderclap leaves behind.  And lightning bolts crease the sky, their ragged blue paths from cloud to earth bathing the atmosphere in a unique electric blue flash. I love early morning storms. The sounds of thunder and raindrops slamming against the roof and the windows make my heart beat faster. I feel like I belong on the planet when I soak in the experience of storms that are invisible, except when the flashes of light illuminate the dark sky, revealing for a fraction of a second the outline of dark, angry clouds above. I love to wake up to stormy weather. For some reason, I feel more alive when I get the sense that Nature is intentionally demonstrating power that far exceeds any that humans might create. There it is again: anthropomorphizing the natural world. Or am I doing just the opposite: taking on characteristics of the natural world in an effort to diminish human characteristics?

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What, I wonder, is the motivation for travel? Why do people long to go exploring the world? Why are “other places” so appealing that they call on us to leave our homes in search of them? The potential responses to those questions are innumerable. That notwithstanding, I will offer two reasons people are motivated to travel: adventure or excitement and escape. The first—introducing new experiences into one’s life—is common. More common motive, though, is to escape—abandon, at least temporarily, the demands placed on us by society in general, friends and family, and finally and most crucial, ourselves. Travel gives us a temporary reprieve from the stress of who and where we are. While travel can educate and inform us about other cultures, it also can insulate us from the damage inflicted by our own culture. Travel can allow us to hide from the hideousness of our own society. We can pretend we live in a free and friendly place, even when we know that is untrue.

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Shocking, I know. My only child is 11 years old. Let me clarify: my only child who still matters to me is 11. Or will be in two days time. I have long since abandoned my other children. I killed one of them, though I regretted it soon after and tried to revive him; he survived, but is in what seems to be a perpetual coma. The others are alive, but I do not give them sustenance; they are largely on their own, but stagnating, as abandoned children sometimes are. Back to the child whose birthday I will celebrate tolerate. Stop worrying; the child is not a human. He is simply a receptacle for my blather, which he stores in perpetuity in the event someone ever finds a use for the words of a mildly misfitted man.

I call him JohnSwinburn.com, as he is my namesake blog. He will be eleven years old on August 10.  He was meant to give me a place I could record my thoughts, philosophies, ideas, and stories. I wanted to infuse him with my beliefs and attitudes, as well as my hopes and dreams. Several years after his birth, I discovered I was indoctrinating him with both my good ideas and my bad habits. That fact no doubt reduces what value he might have had, but he does not care because he is not a sentient being. Some people question whether his father is a sentient being. Especially when he opts not to participate in conversations but, instead, simply watches and listens, as if he were making a mental record of the proceedings. That is precisely what he is doing—most of the time. [If you read this sentence, let me know by Tuesday, August 8, 6 pm Central, and I will commit to taking you to lunch someday soon.] Occasionally, he is simply bored or mentally exhausted. A more appropriate term might be “psychologically exhausted,” but I would verify that with a licensed psychologist before bandying it about, quite possibly sounding like an impossibly stupid impostor.

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It’s not quite 6:30 yet, but time for a second cup of coffee. So, I’ll wander out onto the dark deck and listen to the thunder and watch the sky flash until sometime after the sky begins soaking in the light of the sun.