John Swinburn

In spite of my fascination with journalism, I never took a college-level course in the subject. But my interest has remained relatively high during all the intervening years. This morning, the attraction to journalism and its effects on its audience surfaced. I use the term “journalism” here to include allegedly factual non-fiction stories and news one might find in newspapers, television, radio, social media, etc., etc. Pop-up curiosity—unplanned and definitely unannounced—is not suited to thorough scientific investigation. So, this morning’s interest had to be addressed with pseudo-scientific procedures, absent agreed and widely recognized reliable study design. In other words, the exploration was undertaken on-the-fly and by-the-seat-of-my-pants. Oh…the topic of interest: the volume of news stories that do not involve politics or crime. In other words, how voluminous would our news sources be if stories involving crime or politics were purposely excluded? Even if reporting of local crime were to continue, how much non-criminal and apolitical “news” would be left over to digest? My quick and dirty assessment, whose design is admittedly unscientific and irreparably flawed, suggests only about twenty percent of the volume of “news” would remain if crime and politics were given no space in news media. Adding my personal opinion to that most-likely-biased “fact,” the world and the people in it would be more serene, more pleasant to be around, and fundamentally friendlier. They would smile more often…and mean it. Humans would be less likely to abuse animal pets and their own children. Arguments would more frequently be civil and based on rational perceptions, rather than uncivil and based on indoctrinated opinions. The sky’s cerulean blue would be gentler and even easier on the eye. Screaming children and barking dogs would be less annoying. The universe might stop expanding, explaining to anyone who would listen: “Now that crime and politics are gone from journalistic reporting, I’m satisfied with my size and scope. There’s no longer a need to expand.

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Well, that little fact-based diversion went entirely off the rails. I suspect I’ll hear from the universe about this. Which leads me to this: I hear the universe virtually all the time. Sometimes, the sound of the universe is muted by my thoughts or by loud automobile mufflers, but I usually am conscious of the noise. I’ve been told it’s tinnitus. The American Heritage Science Dictionary defines tinnitus as follows:

A buzzing, ringing, or whistling sound in one or both ears occurring without an external stimulus. Its causes include ear infection or blockage, certain drugs, head injury, and neurologic disease.

I would be most grateful if the sound would stop. Its sound, to me, varies between “background crickets,” “thumping/grating,” and a combination thereof. I am not conscious of it all the time, but the moment it comes to mind, I realize the sound has been there all the time, in the background. Ach!

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I have never been able to wrap my head around the idea that languages insist on translating proper names. Americans call a certain European country by the name Italy. Italians call the country Italia. Germans call it Italien. Russians call it Италия. Punjabs call it ਇਟਲੀ. Somalians call it Talyaaniga. Or, take another country, the one we call Germany. Germans call it Deutschland. Spaniards call it Alemania. Slovaks call it Nemecko. The examples are more numerous than one might imagine. Which takes me back to my confusion: doesn’t the practice of translating proper names seem extremely rude? I think I would find it offensive if a Cuban insisted on calling Arkansas by another name…say Tierraestúpida or Arkanombre or Sincalidad or Colinasbaldías. I could go on. Obviously. I have asked the question hundreds of times. Never have I received a completely satisfactory answer. Perhaps I will keep trying.

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We judge one another every day. Many times a day. We judge people in the grocery store, in cars beside us on the road, walking along the roadside, seated at a nearby table in a restaurant…and on and on. We fantasize about people, even though we do not necessarily acknowledge that is what we’re doing. We manufacture stories about people—both strangers and people with whom we interact regularly—that judge them. We make assumptions about people: their education level, their income level, their social philosophies and political perspectives, you name it. We may or may not realize we are judging them; we usually protest that we are NOT fantasizing. But we are, regardless of our refusal to admit it. When we picture people in any setting, we are fantasizing about them. And we are judging them; simply by virtue of showing up in our thoughts, we are fantasizing about them and judging them. Admitting that reality could be more than a little embarrassing.  “I fantasized about you last night.” “I made some extremely uncomplimentary judgements about you yesterday; and they remain firmly entrenched in my mind as I continue to fantasize about you.” Perhaps it’s better to keep it to myself, you say? You’re probably right, although I might be very interested to know of someone else’s judgments and fantasies, even if they were not as complimentary as I might hope or if they were blush-inducing fantasies that would make my pulse race.

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Once again, I discovered myself sleeping in front of my computer screen. I could use some actual sleep. And so I shall relax on a couch for a brief respite from the world.

We rely on the predictability of the climate. Granted, predicting weather is an imprecise science—some would call it an art—but climate is another story. Summer follows Spring, which follows Winter, which follows Fall, with precedes Summer, etc., etc. We know the cycle. We count on it, year after year. But we may be entering an era of unpredictability. Summer may not always surrender to Fall. Winter may not yield to Spring. How would a dramatic interruption of the regularity of the season affect our lives? Crops, of course, would be among the first to experience the changes in the normal weather patterns associated with climatic cycles. Disruptions in climate cycles would quickly impact everything from shipping to agricultural employment to the timing of seasonal lines of clothing. Chaos would rein supreme, at least for a while. But humankind would adapt. Though the changes might trigger enormous adjustments—millions (or just dozens) might die in the frenzied acclimatization—humans would muddle through. Maybe. Or perhaps climatic changes would be seen by vast numbers of inhabitants of Planet Earth as precursors to a mass extinction—and, anticipating that potentially excruciating event, those people might unite in and carry out a global suicide pact. Other possible outcomes of massive changes to climate are possible, of course. Millions of possible outcomes. Maybe even billions. or more.

Image this: Temperatures dancing between 99°F and 105°F in late June. Continuing through July. And August. And September. And, January ends and February begins, more of the same. No signs of Fall. No signs of Winter. Just evidence of perpetual Summer.

I could make a story out of this. If I worked at it. If I had the motivation. If I could get my mind off other things. Other potential catastrophes. Other closing chapters. I can, of course. But will I?

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When Time drags like an anchor,
When it slows to a crawl
When all around you there’s rancor
And Life feels like a brawl
Don’t worry, we’ve got you
All it takes is a shout
To get a new tattoo
So lose any doubt
We’ll take you on road trips
And embrace you with love
That’s etched on our lips
From the sky up above.

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The sky is a bit hazy. The morning light is pleasantly dim. Time for me to change clothes from early morning leisure-wear to church-worthy casual.

The day is speeding by, far faster than it should. Now later than 7:30, I am stunned by how much time has roared by since I awoke. Have I been in a trance? Where have I been? How could more than two hours have slipped by so quickly? Those hours are gone, never to be retrieved and experienced again. Wasted, perhaps, since I do not know what occurred during those long minutes that hurried by so quickly. I should be happy that, in this moment, I am here. And I am happy. No, happy is not the word. Accepting, perhaps? I have no choice but to accept, so that is not it. Understanding? No. Content? Hmm. Maybe that’s it.. Sort of. Contentment, though, implies satisfaction, happiness, acceptance, embrace, etc., etc. Am I content, then?

The secret to contentment may be—but is not necessarily—found in the words of Lao Tzu:

In dwelling, live close to the ground. In thinking, keep to the simple. In conflict, be fair and generous. In governing, don’t try to control. In work, do what you enjoy. In family life, be completely present.

Lao Tzu

Are those words soaked in wisdom, or are they awash in hope? Or, possibly, swimming in both? We seek simple answers to hideously convoluted questions; questions so tortuous and perplexing that even the most sophisticated answers would be horribly inadequate. Every question has an infinite range of answers. As the complexities of a question increase linearly, the potential answers increase exponentially. Even the simplest question is enormously complicated, because it is posed in the context of chaos. Life, itself, is chaos. A single cell in a distant rosebush can, conceivably, have ramifications on how much rain will fall on Saigon. That is stretching the concept of impact, of course, but it illustrates my point. Or, perhaps, it simply clouds an already muddy idea.

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Finally, as I approach my seventh decade, I stumbled upon something I wish I’d known before: fast-track learning of Swedish through SIFA (Stockholms intensivsvenska för akademiker). If I had known about SIFA years ago, soon after my one and only trip to Stockholm, my life might have taken a radically different path. I fell in love with Stockholm during the few days I spent there. I fantasized about changing my life by moving to Sweden, where my attitudes about many aspects of life would be “main stream,” unlike where I lived in the U.S.A., where my ideas lived with the weirdos on the fringe. But I thought learning the Swedish language would have been next to impossible for me. Granted, I probably could have gotten by, because so many Swedes speak English. I would have felt extremely  self-conscious and utterly inadequate, though, with my stunted linguistic facilities. Perhaps if I had known about SIFA, I might have taken the enormous risk of immersing myself in another culture, one which appealed to me so much. But I did not know of SIFA until this morning. I read an invitation to a Swedish fika on August 24, during an open house to introduce prospective students to SIFA; if I were twenty years younger, I might surprise myself (and everyone who knows me) by buying a one-way ticket to Stockholm, with the intent of determining whether my interest in living in Sweden is/was sufficient to spur me to learn to speak the language.

Alas, I am not twenty years younger. Twenty years have slipped by without my explicit consent. Those years are now lost and unrecoverable. Like the result of opting not to take a risk, the outcome of opportunities not taken can never be known. Opportunities and risks often live together; rejection of one is rejection of the other. Like decisions not made, opportunities and risks not taken are mysteries that never can be solved. Those ideas left languishing sometimes return in the form of regret, sometimes as relief. “That would have been a mistake” is a familiar refrain of mine, as relief floods over me for not doing something I once considered.  But just as often, it seems, the language of my emotional response to a memory begins with “If only…”  The only healthy response to those emotional reactions to what was or was not is an acknowledgement that one has control only over the present, not the past. And one’s control over the future is tenuous, at best. So now is what matters. Making the most of today is the best and healthiest approach. Yet I still permit myself to long for a life not lived, an experience not had, an interaction that took place only in my mind and not in the physical world in which I function. Daydreaming. “I wish” is an assertion bathed in regret, though some might say desire propels one toward achievements one would not make without it. “It depends,” always gets to the heart of the matter.

One of the attractions of Sweden is the culture’s embrace of a proverb, “Lagom är bäst.” The meaning of the phrase can be translated in any number of ways, but the ones that make the most sense to me are these: “enough is as good as a feast,” and “there is virtue in moderation” and “the right amount is best.” I like the attitude. And I like the open-mindedness of Swedes, in general. I realize that is a stereotype…and that there are plenty of Swedes who are bigoted…but the culture seems proud of its own willingness to accept reality for what it teaches. “It is what it is,” is a woo-woo phrase that embodies the concept, I think. Enough. I am wallowing in regret for something that exists only in my mind. That is dangerous. It can sever one’s ties to the present, potentially leading to unthinkable, irrevocable decisions. Best to stop before the tightwire snaps halfway across the canyon.

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There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

~ Aeschylus ~

My memories this morning are, I think, attempting to crush me. They are succeeding. If I can just move on to something else, I might overcome the weight of those sweet, painful memories.

I am not in the mood to write coherently this morning. So I probably will write gibberish, as I am wont to do.

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There are places so dry cracks appear in the sky the moment the morning sun washes away the darkness. Darkness conceals the cracks; light exposes them. And heat expands them. Just the opposite of what happens when the brutality of winter is at its peak.

But what of humid environments? What of the sky there?

No one knows. People do not return from those places to tell their stories. Some surmise visitors to wet places drown. Others say wet places are like paradise; no one wants to leave. I once asked a fish for his take on the matter. “What is a wet place?,” he replied, the way his long-dead cousin had done years before.

The moral of the story (if this is a story) is this: We know who, what, and where we are only by comparing our circumstances to those outside our experience. Try telling that to a five-year-old. Or a twenty-five-year-old. Or someone considerably older. Expect dull, blank stares to greet your tale and the moral it conveys. Remember David Foster Wallace’s story about a fish wondering about water? Same thing. Just in a less eloquent form. Though Wallace did not mention the cracks in the sky and their influencers. Perhaps because cracks in the sky are visible only to people whose delusions are of a particular, especially peculiar, type. But that’s just a guess, a hunch guided by nothing more than a whisker bent slightly out of alignment with the rest of its regiment.

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I am off to breakfast this morning to renew an acquaintance; someone with whom I used to discuss writing. Our writing styles differ dramatically from one another and the content we tend to include in our fiction is quite different.  I have largely abandoned fiction for the past few years; my reasons are clear to me but not something I want on display for now. And I am not sure I want to reveal my reasons to another writer. But that remains to be seen. It is my understanding my writer acquaintance has abandoned fiction—perhaps writing all together—of late, as well. Those factors notwithstanding, perhaps each of us can help rekindle the spark toward writing fiction suited to our respective approaches. But if not, the cost of trying is just a little time and a meal.

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Leonard Cohen introduced me to cracks in the sky. And in everything. I had always wondered how the light gets in. For most of us, when we have questions, we tend to “Ask Google.” But for poets and philosophers of a certain stature, the appropriate question has always been “Ask Leonard.” Now that Leonard is gone, there’s no one but the mirror to ask the questions. And Google usually answers faster.

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We assign labels. We are given labels. We form attachments to the labels we give and the labels we are given. Labels become both badges of honor and weapons of deliberate destruction. We acquiesce to labels’ implications about us. We comply with their implications about others by behaving accordingly.

Democrat. Republican. Liberal. Conservative. Religious. Irreligious. Assertive. Timid. Libtard. Right-wingnut. RINO.  And so on.

Labels offer short-cuts that sometimes fail to accomplish their intent, which is to provide a brief summary of a longer explanation. But they can be used to mislead, as well, offering an erroneous description of the matter being explained. I use labels as often as anyone, I suppose. But when I think of how they can be (and often are) misused, I am embarrassed by my laziness; instead of taking the time and finding the words to be clear and precise, I sometimes opt for imprecise shorthand. Or, even worse, precise but intentionally biased shorthand. Once a person recognizes how easy it is to misuse labels, he faces a choice. And that’s the unfortunate problem.

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My car has new oil and a new oil filter. The tires have been rotated. But the noise of concern remains, its source unknown to the mechanic and to me. I may take the car back and ride with the mechanic (who, I was told, heard the sound but could not determine its source). Or I may take the vehicle somewhere else. I doubt the sound indicates a serious problem, but until I know its genesis, I will be a bit concerned. These little annoyances sometimes are responsible for changing my mind; maybe I SHOULD look at replacing my vehicle. Ach! I want a car that’s small on the outside and very large inside. A vehicle that rides as smooth as a soft cloud, but delivers the feel of the road and a sense of absolute control like a Formula 1 racecar. The exterior of the car can appear bland and unremarkable, but its interior must be plush, luxurious, and pampering in the extreme; the transportation equivalent of the presidential suite in an upscale spa-hotel. All this for less than $30,000. Hmm. Methinks I’m dreaming.

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Two hours until I participate in a practice with a group of geezers, where we will collectively give an organ recital, describing the recent, current, and planned medical analyses and procedures that accompany the decay of advanced age. I sometimes wonder how many of us in the breakfast group would be here if not for modern medicine. In days of yore, several of the ailments I have experienced could have killed me: lung cancer, Crohn’s disease, clogged arteries in the heart that required bypasses, and others that do not come immediately to mind. I seriously wonder how many in my sphere of friends and acquaintances would be alive today if not for the “magic” of medicine. Many minor afflictions today essentially would have been death warrants a few centuries ago. The average life expectancy in 18th century England was between 25 and 40. Our longevity, on the average as a species, may be nearing its maximum. I doubt average lifespan will reach 100. At least I do not expect to live to see it. Giving the matter some focused thought makes me think; at this stage of my life, I should live what is left to the fullest. But what, exactly, does that mean? It does not necessarily mean going surfing in Hawaii or diving in the Caribbean or making weekly trips to the Colorado Rockies during skiing season. Behaving as if one is younger than one’s years is an invitation to physical damage, which tends to heal slower as we age. But sitting in a rocking chair, never leaving the confines of one’s yard, is just as dangerous—if not worse. “Living life to its fullest” deserves some attention; its attributes should be defined very precisely for each person. I will give that more thought.

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Almost three hours have passed since I awoke. The day is getting a little long in the tooth…well, that’s an exaggeration. But, still, I’ve been awake since before daylight. All I’ve accomplished is feeding the cat, taking my morning handful of colorful pills, making and drinking a cup of coffee, and spilling this superfluous string of letters all over the screen. Will that be my legacy? I will give that more thought, too.

Perhaps this image will calm me. It is a photo I took while attending a Peter Mayer concert at the Miami Valley Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. The stained glass was created in honor of the memory of Howard Forrer Peirce. I will leave it to the reader to explore who Peirce was and why the window was created to honor him.

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The news media are awash in articles about the most recent indictment facing the former dissembler-in-chief. Repulsed by photos of the man and disgusted by the very mention of his name, I skip over dozens of news clips in which he is featured. Though I know the swirls of legal issues surrounding him and his behavior are important, I cannot bring myself to delve more deeply into the stories. I do not want to know more about him and his alleged crimes. I use the word “alleged” because I want—desperately—to believe in our system of justice. My bias against him is impossible to hide, but even my strong belief in his criminality…his lack of morals, the utter absence of compassion and honesty in his “character,” if that’s what he has…will not allow me to convict him without a thorough and impartial review of the evidence. It is very hard for me to force my biased emotions to withdraw into the shadows so that his guilt or innocence can be assessed fairly. I do not force myself to try to be “just” because of any positive feelings I have for the man. Instead,  I try to allow justice the opportunity to express itself because I know it is possible that people about whom my feelings are far more positive could find themselves under suspicion. And I would want the accusers to be willing to allow evidence—not intuition—to govern their assessments. Frankly, though, I am not sure whether I believe myself. Am I serious about giving him the opportunity to confront his accusers and defend himself? Or am I putting on a show, attempting to demonstrate my nobility—my passion for due process and true justice—in spite of my real predetermination of his guilt? Justice is malleable—contextual, flexible, subject to interpretation—even when it insists on a simple, rigid, assessment: Guilty or Innocent. I do not know my own mind on this. I do not trust myself to be open-minded and receptive to information that would argue against my preconceived determinations. But that is exactly how I would hope others to be for in similar circumstances.

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I left my car with a mechanic yesterday in the hope the cause of the oddly speed-related, disturbing hum can be found and corrected. And, because the time and mileage was about right, I asked for and oil & filter change, as well as a tire rotation. With good fortune, I will hear something this morning; and, still relying on good fortune, the problem with the annoying noise will have been found to be simple, easily correctible, and inexpensive. Cars these days last much, much longer than once was the case. But, when certain features of today’s cars—notably features involving sophisticated computer-driven operations—break down, the astronomical expense to repair them causes me to shake my head in disbelief. Ach!

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Light-grey streaks interrupt the gentle serenity of the scenery outside my windows. The flashes of grey look and behave like meteors; there for a split second, then gone. I question whether I saw a grey streak or not…or was it my aging eyes simply demonstrating what happens when one’s body decays? No, the streaks are real. Those flashes of grey sometimes stop moving, abruptly, landing on a bush outside the window or on the bird feeder that sits above the bush. I do not know with certainty what kind of birds they are. A Carolina Chickadee, perhaps, and a Tufted Titmouse. The rest of the scene is absolutely still. Every leaf is immobile, as if captured in a still photograph. But the meteoric streaks of light-grey birds makes the scene appear artificial, as if the background was pasted on a flat screen behind the frenzied birds. Occasionally, the birds flutter against the window, sometimes tapping repeatedly against the glass with their beaks, as if attempting to break in. Maybe that is precisely what they are doing. But I think not. Why would birds want to break the glass? They may not need a reason…a motive…to do what seems deliberate. Here I am, attributing based human emotions to a little bird. Am I crazy? Or is it you? Or are we all deluding ourselves into believing we understand anything…anything at all?

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Today may be a busy day. Or I may gather my thoughts and hibernate for a while. Time will tell.

What is too early? Mi novia and I have divergent views of this. She feels that a phone call or text message should wait until after the recipient’s 9:00 a.m. hour unless the communication is urgent. I suppose our difference is in defining urgent. A friend or acquaintance who just feels a need to talk is urgent enough for me. On the other hand, a fellow volunteer who wants me to discuss volunteer business on the same schedule (which falls outside “normal” too early or too late timeframes) can and should wait. I have always felt that it would be both an obligation and an honor to respond to someone’s call for help, regardless of time of day. An obligation because when someone needs help I think I am obliged to give it; and an honor because I was the person chosen to be asked for help.

Of course, the fact that I often am up before 5 may contribute to my willingness to be roused at all hours. But even if the text comes in at 2 a.m., I would not be upset at its receipt…unless it obviously is “business” that could easily wait until 10 a.m. that morning.  Even then, I probably would not be furious. I think I would always assume the caller/texter has something on his or her mind driving the “out of the ordinary” timeframe of contacting me.

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The line between saying too little and saying too much is not simply fine. It is 1/100th of one half of one quarter the width of a newborn baby’s hair. Drift to one side of the line or the other; judgments flood like river rapids with a fresh source of limitless water. The same thing is true of thinking, although far fewer people can recognize thought than can visually identify even microscopic deviations from “the right amount of” words.  An intelligent guiding principle might be this: Always err in favor of too little. Too little can be corrected by the addition of more; too many cannot be unspoken and they are capable of leaving damage that cannot be undone. Even when the damage does no harm to the listener, the speaker sometimes cannot recover from what he said. Because his speech emerged from what he thought, he faces double the damage. Twice the injury that lasts a lifetime.

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The man who is a pessimist before 48 knows too much; if he is an optimist after it, he knows too little.

~ Mark Twain ~

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Time is no common commodity. In fact, its value surpasses the rarest jewel and the most precious metal. Yet we treat it as if it were without limit; like we always will have uninterrupted access to more of it. The reason we cannot wrap our minds around the limits of time is that we cannot imagine our own death. We cannot imagine our death because there is nothing to imagine. Our consciousness fades or suddenly disappears. Our capacity to experience anything is gone in an instant. Death is not  the absence of life—if that were the case, mountains and windstorms and steel posts and rocks would all be dead. Death is the abandonment of a life once led. But, like that fine line between too little and too much, the point at which abandonment becomes nothingness is microscopically small; even smaller. We cannot imagine that which is impossible for our minds to comprehend. The statement seems absurdly simplistic, but in my opinion it is among the most complex, most intricate ideas we must try to understand. Simplicity is its own antonym.

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I have no idea how long it might take for the mechanics to figure out what is wrong with my car—if anything. I think something is wrong, because my car makes an odd noise whenever I veer, even slightly, to the right. It’s a repetitive sound, reminiscent of one material coming into contact with another; perhaps something turning with, on, or near a tire or part of the car’s steering/front suspension. I hope they can figure out, quickly, what it is and can fix it, inexpensively, just as fast. To avoid overuse of a potentially dangerous vehicle, I have not used my car much of late; instead, we have taken mi novia‘s vehicle. Its ride is smoother, by far, than mine. And I can “feel” its considerably greater weight when I drive it; I can imagine easily knocking smaller cars and one-story buildings out of its way. But I still want mine back. And so I will be nice to the mechanic.

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When I see friends with some frequency, then experience a “dry spell,” my mind returns to the concept of co-housing and how nice a communal experience like co-housing sounds. I have had only one such communal experience. When I was in college, my brother and his then-wife and several others collectively rented an old, multi-bedroom house near campus. I was able to rent the tiny garage apartment out back. We all shared kitchen duties, though I do not recall whether it was daily, periodical and regular, or only occasional. As I think about that time, I remember very little about my coursework. Instead, I remember experiences in that house with those people. I remember being introduced to the music of Leonard Cohen while living in that place. And I remember a brief tryst with a graduate student, a woman five or six years older than I, who lived there. I recall a time when, after consuming too much beer, I attempted to confront a car-load of fraternity brothers making what I considered too much noise and leaving too much litter in their wake. My attempt to engage in a David and Goliath encounter with drunk frat-rats was spoiled by my brother, I think, and some other residents of the house.

Co-housing. In my mind, it’s a little like independent “assisted living,” with the assistance provided by neighbors selected for their compatibility, compassion, decency, reliability, and trustworthiness. Co-housing offers plenty of privacy (the immediate objection I hear from people when I try to describe the concept of co-housing to them), but at the same time it is a strong safety net of both gratifying and potentially life-saving relationships. Common interests. Common commitments to the group. Common needs to be away from one’s “partners” in lifestyle. I have a powerful need for privacy and solitude, but I have an almost equally strong desire for engagement, friendship, and love. Commonality of care; that phrase is one of many that describes part of the appeal of co-housing.

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The computer clock just turned over to six o’clock. The sky is showing signs of light and the temperature is a cool, refreshing (I hope) 72°F.  Unfortunately, the humidity stands at 93%. Today feels different; I suppose it’s because of the water in the air. That is dangerously close to exposing those of us who venture outdoors to the potential for atmospheric drowning. That is, taking a deep breath of water-laden air, filling our lungs with liquid, thereby blocking the body’s ability to extract necessary oxygen. Oh, well. I’ll give it a shot, anyway. Here’s looking at you…

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I am grateful you are reading this. I will be delighted if you tell me what you think of what I wrote. Be brutal, if appropriate.

The wee hours of the morning brought rain, lightning, thunder, and the sound of trees locked in fierce battles with the wind. Some days, but not last night, I would have gotten up to watch and listen, immersing myself—comfortably safe and distant from its most dangerous elements—the experience of Nature. I suppose I was too tired to participate in the spectacle; but I enjoyed hearing it play out and experiencing the flashes of blue light beyond my closed eyelids. This morning, the outdoor temperature is temporarily quite comfortable: 69°F. That pleasant coolness will quickly disappear, the chilly dampness replaced by humid heat, with temperatures reaching 95°F and heat index values climbing to a range of 105°F to 109°F. When the sky barely begins to shed its darkness, I will venture out on the back deck with my cup of coffee. As the sky brightens, I expect to hear the celebratory sounds of bird calls. Unless, of course, last night’s celestial circumstances sent those feathered friends away, seeking shelter from the storm.

I could use far less intense, expressive language to describe last night’s experiences and this morning’s expectations. But what joy would that bring to me? Why waste the energy in my fingers on dull expressions of fact when I can take advantage of my phalanges’ flexibility by describing reality as seen through an emotional lens? There is a distinction between expressive language and overuse of adjectives and adverbs—the latter frowned on by so-called experts in writing. On one hand, I cringe when I hear or read descriptions that flood me with what I consider entirely unnecessary fat. On the other, fat is what gives language its flavor, so I forgive myself the occasional—or frequent—overindulgence. I am not writing for third-party publication, after all, so I can safely offend self-described experts without fear of economic reprisals.

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And, now, at a quarter to six, the rain has come again. But it seems to have tapered off, just as I completed that sentence. I wonder, does Nature hear me think? Does Nature respond to my thoughts and my arthritic fingers by making a liar of me? I believe the correlation between my assertions and the sudden reversal of what I describe is purely coincidental. Unless, of course, Nature enjoys toying with me, doing everything possible to drive me over the extremely narrow mental ledge on which I stand. The very idea that Nature is capable of such intentional and potentially criminal trickery is absurd, but… I may need to explore getting a restraining order which could give me ammunition if I ever have to file an injunction. Ach! I just noticed the temperature has risen four degrees since I first noticed how cool the computer said it was; it is now 73°F. There it is! It IS intentional! I would not be surprised in the least to find myself involved in spontaneous combustion by mid-afternoon. “Spontaneous combustion” indeed! That’s just a euphemism for arson committed by Nature.

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We had a delightful Caribbean lunch yesterday at the Caribbean Café. Jerk shrimp and chicken, conch fritters, rice N peas, Calypso cabbage, Jamaican meat patty. There may have been more, I think, but my memory is almost a day older now, so it can be excused for its aging imperfection. The place used to be open only a few hours each week, but I think its hours have expanded in recent weeks or months; it is now open Friday through Monday. Most of the menu is awash in carbohydrates, which I have been advised to avoid, but I have to weigh the dangers of an unhealthy, early death against the joys of a rich and full life. I would prefer to avoid the former and maximize the latter, but apparently a long, healthy life and a rich and full life may not be compatible. I am only half jesting. Or, perhaps, I am trying to excuse the recent decline in my full-throated discipline. An occasional lapse is forgivable. Why is harsh discipline not appropriate for children, but harsh self-discipline is expected of adults? Someone should explore that in depth and report on it.

+++

The latest news: Yellow trucking company is shutting down and is expected to file for bankruptcy as early as today. If that occurs, some 30,000 jobs will be lost.

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It’s now just after six and I must go outside soon or I will miss the tolerable temperatures. So I will end this useless blather. Give yourself a hug and a kiss from me. I’ll do it myself later, unless you object. Some people do not like to be touched or fondled by strangers.

Poetry explores corners of the world hidden from the bright light of natural, normal, conspicuous understanding. The language of the poet probes those dark corners, helping us think in uncommon, but quite revealing, ways. The webs of philosophy spin poets and poetry, sometimes exposing the obvious as an impostor who must be interrogated at length before f0rcing truth to pour forth like a geyser. Knowledge and belief often spar with one another until gentle jabs become brutal slashes, slicing through human decency with the speed and finesse of a surgeon’s scalpel. Blood hides just beneath the surface of the skin, ready at a moment’s notice to spill over the surface of the battlefield. Poetry is at once light and darkness; images and the shadows they cast. A person is not a poet simply because he claims to be a weaver of words; he may take comfort in words, but drape himself in tattered rags sewn from ragged threads spun by someone else. The difference between poetry and chaos is the same as the similarity between feathers and anger. Watch the sneer drip from his lips as he laughs at the questions he leaves in his wake. True poetry is not unintelligible noise, but we sometimes pretend it is when we do not wish to admit we do not understand the random pairings and clusters of unrelated words. Then, we do not “wax poetic.” Instead, we “grease poetic.” And the fabric refuses to release the stain. Artificial poetry is identical to real poetry, except it lacks the meaning and the message.

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Real misanthropes are not found in solitude, but in the world; since it is experience of life, and not philosophy, which produces real hatred of mankind.

~ Giacomo Leopardi ~

I have never attempted to understand hatred, at least not with any appreciable fervor. I certainly have given thought to the emotion from time to time and wondered how it forms in the human brain, but never have I explored it with passionate intensity. Maybe today is the day I will do that. More likely, though, I will delve into the subject with moderately fierce passion, only to allow the vigor to diminish as the spike in my interest wanes. That is, after all, my modus operandi; I cannot seem to maintain zeal for anything for long. In fact, I personify the concept of “a wind blowing hot and cold.” But, wait, already I risk going off the rails—this post was not meant to be about ME. It was intended to contemplate the sensation of hatred: how and why it develops, what maintains it, and the mechanism by which it dissolves into disregard or even morphs into a more positive emotion. Realistically, I doubt I’ll get very far with those aims, though, as I am easily side-tracked. I could be the poster-boy for lack of discipline.

Think of hatred as a physical fortress. A concrete and steel edifice fortified with cannons and missiles. A castle protected by fearless, sword-wielding, eight-foot-tall robots programmed to destroy. Picture tangible manifestations of hatred. Hatred is constructed from meticulously drawn plans, the components of which are extracted from previous experiences and the expectations created from those experiences. Hatred is both a reaction to experiences and a “thing,” with mass and weight and form. It can be seen, as it stalks dark city streets and rural backroads. Hatred is an odious response to both opacity and clarity. Both simple and immeasurably complex, hatred is obvious and insidious. Humankind fiercely condemns hatred, yet passionately embraces it as if it were the only connection to both immortality and endless, lifeless, inanimation. Hatred is a paradox, because it is created by unmitigated loathing and sustained by perceived threats to people for whom we feel love/admiration or to ideas we hold dear. Obviously, the topic is far too complex to be fully and adequately addressed by an off-the-cuff blog post on a Sunday morning. Why I thought I could even begin the process with any hope of making appreciable progress is a mystery to me.

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I thought I had left my career behind me when I stumbled into retirement. Somehow, though, that history caught up with me. It grabbed me and bound me with a soft twine that miraculously turned to barbed steel wire. Only the fastest and most agile retirees can outrun crippled careers; the slow, plodding, failures are sloths attempting to escape the claws and jaws of a cheetah. Fodder. We are just fodder.

No matter how badly a person might want to escape the tentacles of his society, that desire is virtually unattainable. People already “own” every diminishing habitable square inch of Planet Earth. Even “ownership” does not protect the owner from meddling by the State, which is the name we give to our collective right to meddle in the affairs of one another. Once we established governments—ranging from family units to tribes to consortiums and on and on to nation-states and beyond—we ceded control over our lives. The individual human is not a self-governing entity, but a servant to the body politic.

I have mixed feelings about that. Individualism is not all it is cracked up to be. Only by joining with others who share common interests and/or needs can we survive with any degree of comfort or safety. Yet collective thoughts and actions can stifle creativity and rob a person of the ability to make decisions based solely on what is best for him. On the other hand, one of the allures of individual freedom—personal serenity—is essentially impossible in a societal setting. Only by eliminating all thoughts outside of himself can a person achieve pure, unadulterated serenity. The introduction of even a single thought about just one other person interferes with the stillness of serenity, replacing it with a swirling slurry of mental images outside of oneself. Yet no matter how much I might crave that pure stillness, I know I can achieve it only by forsaking the rewards of social bonds.

Mixed feelings, indeed.  I had an odd experience/fantasy this morning, as I rested in bed before getting up. I imagined serenity as an actual “being,” a misty, glowing ball of light who could communicate with me through thought.  She “spoke” to me, telling me death would promise serenity. When she spoke the word, a pleasurable feeling of calm washed over me like a warm, comforting wave. But as I rose from the bed, my thoughts returned to last night’s dream, in which I hired two women to fill positions vacated through promotions. Their first day on the job turned sour when I discovered that my superiors had completely changed the job descriptions and had taken away perquisites I had promised to the new hires. The two women blamed me and complained to my superiors, who claimed I was the one who had made the changes and would suffer the consequences. Which, I gathered from their tone, was discharge. Half way between memory and imagination, I wandered out into the kitchen and contemplated eating a slice of cold, two-day-old pizza. I did not eat it. Not yet, anyway.

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Heat index values today are expected to reach 107°F, according to this morning’s weather forecast. Triple digit temperatures will continue through next Friday, at least, according to the meteorological prognosticators. On Wednesday, August 9, though, the high temperature is forecast to reach only 77°F, after a low Tuesday night of 68°F. A lot of things can change within the next ten to fourteen days, though. A massive, heat-fueled hurricane could spawn tornadoes and straight-line winds of 275 miles per hour, tearing telephone poles out of the ground and flattening old-growth forests at ground level. Or a sudden reversal in temperatures could plunge us into a new, and possibly permanent, ice age, with daily high temperatures reaching only -97°F; the frost depth would plumet to 40 feet below the surface of the soil. If those possibilities were to occur, I would also expect meteor showers—with 6-foot balls of molten rock falling from the sky like heavy, unimaginably hot, rainstorms. I am not predicting this, by the way. Not yet.

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The word “adultery” has an interesting etymology. It is too involved for me to grasp completely at this later-than-usual early hour, but it merits extracting a few quotations from Online Etymology Dictionary. Here are a few:

In Middle English, also “sex between husband and wife for recreational purposes; idolatry, perversion, heresy.”

Good God! Recreational sex?! Such horrid perversion!

As a crime, formerly classified as single adultery (with an unmarried person) and double adultery (with a married person).

I might take that further: quadruple adultery (with two married [but not to each other] couples. 

“Adulteration” is another interesting word, obviously related to adultery but broadened to a more extensive and sophisticated level with the description of state of being debased by mixture with something else, followed by mentions of debauchery, corruption, falsification, and a few others.  I am easily amused, I suppose. Words and their origins intrigue, but not enough to warrant spending more than a few entertaining minutes with them before moving on.

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Yesterday felt entirely like Saturday, so much so that I never changed out of my “morning leisure clothes.” In other words, I was utterly, completely, fully slovenly. Today, an actual Saturday, I will shower, shave, get dressed in clothes suitable for public display, and go to lunch with friends, who have invited us to join them at a newly-opened restaurant. I look forward to that! So very, very much! But, now, I need more coffee to wake me fully. It’s almost 8 in the morning. I woke after 6 today; lazy, slothful, and undeniably lethargic. Time to move!

The last time I traveled to England—probably 25 years ago—I was reminded of a U.K. practice I wish would take hold in the U.S. That is, inclusion of Value Added Tax (VAT) and other mandatory taxes and fees in advertised prices. Unlike list prices in the U.S., in the U.K. the prices for goods included taxes and fees (and, based on what I read this morning, I think they still do); whatever the buyer is required to pay to purchase a product. So, for instance, if I were to buy a book in the U.K., the price might be listed as £15.50, inclusive of VAT. The actual price of the product, roughly £12.92, would have been subject to the 20% VAT. In the U.S., the book’s price would be listed as $12.92. Depending on where I live, I might have to pay sales tax of 7% or 10% or 13% or some other percentage. I would not know the actual amount I would have to pay until either I calculated the taxes (assuming I knew the local, state, county, and city taxes) or I received the receipt, which would detail the taxes associated with my purchase.  According to the British section of the SumUp.com website:

The United States has a complicated system for sales tax. It’s charged at the state and local level instead of the federal level, meaning that the tax rates vary significantly between states and even cities and counties within states.

In the US, when you pay for a good or service, the state and local sales tax are combined creating a “Combined Tax Rate”. In 2023, the combined sales tax rates varied between 0% and 13.5%.

Despite the fact that the U.K.’s VAT amount is probably is greater than the figures for the more complicated U.S. tax structure, I find the VAT preferable, in that the VAT system offers consumers a much more transparent price. Another online source (an unverified [by me] comment on Quora.com, claims that “Tax is included in the display price of retail products in pretty much every developed country in the world.” Except, of course, the U.S.A. (the same contrarian state that insists on clinging to the Imperial system of measurement, rather than following the practices of most of the rest of the world’s countries, which long since have adopted the metric system).

I have long since been convinced that the arrogance of the U.S.A. in insisting its systems are the “best” ones will one day come back to haunt us. Our tax system, our systems of weights and measures, and various other practices that are out of step with the rest of the developed world eventually will leave us wishing we had conformed long ago. Conformity has a bad reputation, as if “going along” is somehow indicative of weakness. In some cases, perhaps it is. But in many cases, conformity simplifies life and acknowledges that displaying raw individuality throws a monkey wrench into systems that otherwise operate smoothly and effectively.

For many, many years, the U.S. was been able to claim that the standard of living for the majority of its citizens and residents was higher than much of the rest of the world. We have bigger houses, bigger cars, higher salaries, etc., etc., etc. While those thing may be nice, the come at a price. And eventually that price will be extracted from our culture at the expense of our future. Many European countries have lifestyles that demonstrate quite well that smaller houses, smaller cars, smaller salaries, and larger tax bites contribute to greater long-term stability than our systems might offer. But we tend to insist that we are “the best.” Arrogance. Ego. While some of the social and economic systems in place in the U.S.A. may be superior to the rest of the world, I doubt we can rightfully claim EVERYTHING about us is better. A little humility and recognition that other cultures may have surpassed ours in certain areas might go a long way toward improving our lot in life and in generating admiration, rather than disdain, for our way of life.

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Taste is a matter of preference, not evidence of superiority or a reason for ridicule.

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I wonder why experiencing a culture by immersion in it seems better than experiencing it through the eyes of a cinematographer?

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Reading poetry aloud has a more profound effect on my emotions than reading it silently or listening to someone else read it aloud. Usually. What is it that brings about that greater impact? Why do the words resonate with me to a greater degree when they come out of my mouth, than when they simply enter my brain through my eyes?

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This morning seems like an ideal time to eat a papaya. If I could turn back time, I would visit a grocery store to find a perfectly ripe papaya and some fresh limes. I would bring them home and pair them. Breakfast of the gods. Alas, I have no papaya. I have no papaya today.

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I must go outdoors very soon to take advantage of the coolness of this morning. Later today, the temperatures will climb to uncomfortable levels. And for the next several days, the forecasts call for highs of 100°F or higher. Now is the time to seize the experience of comfort. In the days ahead, comfort may simply be a memory that seems like a fiction from another time. And that will, indeed, be the case. Off I go, to embrace the comfort of a loving morning; later, she will turn into a heatful (or is that hateful?) afternoon.

Dreams are merely fantasies. Or nightmares. They have no hidden meaning; at least their meaning is not hidden from the dreamer. The dreamer understands the dream, if he is willing to take the risk of unwrapping it. But that can drape a shroud over a day. Or a week. Or a month. Or the rest of a lifetime. Dreams may be interpretations that escape one’s psyche, making their way to consciousness.

After waking—and thinking about a dream that erases every trace of positive expectations and hope from one’s mind—writing a blog post has only one purpose: to document a mental experience one wishes, fiercely, to forget. That is not a purpose I will pursue. Not this morning, anyway.

For reasons that remain unclear to me, gradations sometimes fascinate me. Depending on my mood at the time I write about them, I may refer to them as points along a spectrum. I have written about spectra on more than one occasion. And here I am again, writing about and comparing gradations along completely different spectra: precipitation and emotional attachment.

The idea of comparing precipitation and emotional attachment came to me this morning while I lay in bed, wishing I could get back to sleep but knowing my wish was an exercise in futility. The cat had just jumped up on the bed, no doubt sensing that I had been awake for a while and assuming I was ready to respond to her demand for food—which she would reject as inadequate and insulting. She was wrong about my readiness to respond to her expectations. But her presence prompted me to accept the fact that I would not get back to sleep. It was 4:30, anyway, so it was probably time for me to investigate what the pre-dawn hours might hold for me.

Before I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the thought occurred to me: precipitation and emotional attachment share certain attributes. Both exist along what I perceive as a spectrum that has points that seem to me to reflect parallels. The gradations of precipitation—fog, mist, showers, steady rain, driving rain, downpours, deluges, floods, and what have you—can be compared to the degrees of emotional attachment people have for one another.  How do we describe the way we feel about another person? We might say we are attracted to them. Then, perhaps, we like them. We might then feel budding affection that grows into a deeper emotional attachment. And perhaps we then feel adoration; love; passion. Depending on a host of factors, lust may crop up along the way.

While mulling over the comparison between precipitation and emotional attachment, another comparison came to mind: the effects of different atmospheric pressures. A gentle breeze, a stronger breeze, a light wind, a stronger wind, a powerful wind, a gale, hurricane force winds, etc. There may be more descriptive and more precise terms, but for my purposes, the terminology is not important. What is more important is the possibility that wind and rain and affection are comparable to one another with respect to the way they can be perceived and interpreted. The spectra of ways in which affection can be demonstrated can be included in the comparisons, as well. A handshake, a hug, a short embrace, a longer and more intense embrace, a peck on the cheek, a short and cursory kiss, a longer mouth-to-mouth interaction, a full-on open-mouthed engagement, and so on.

Weather is a metaphor for love. Or vice versa. Or, perhaps, attempting to understand the universe can lead to questionable observations. But, before dismissing such observations and conclusions out of hand, I think they deserve consideration. Because even if the connections between spectra may be tenuous, those tenuous connections may trigger ideas that might lead to creative ways of seeing the world around us. Everything in our experience can be informative; if only we let it lead us where we are willing to go.

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Is it possible, I wonder, that an intelligent, articulate, attractive, charismatic Democratic alternative to Joe Biden might burst on the national scene in time to change the party’s dynamics before the next convention? And might an alternative to the existing muddle of right-wing fascist thugs, someone whose conservatism is fueled by reasonable intellectual philosophies and real compassion, take center stage at the Republican convention? Either one, I am beginning to believe, would be preferable to the options that now appear to be coalescing. I hate the idea that the only reason to vote for a candidate is that he or she is a Democrat or a Republican, regardless of abilities, intentions, or suitability for the job. My distaste for party politics—attaching relevance to either party—has been a burning ember for years. That distaste is becoming hotter. It has been flaring on occasion for at least the last few elections. At the moment, it is a raging flame. This morning, I loathe both parties. Both are driven by slogans and irrational emotional fervor, not by intelligence and reason and passionate commitment to a better world. I feel a combustible mixture of distrust and rage growing inside me. Would that a nonpartisan “savior” might appear to protect us from dangerous dimwits.

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Time to leave these thoughts to settle, while I go about my day.

Another one of those odd nearly-sleepless nights. Here is it, barely past 4, and I’ve been awake for almost three hours and out of bed for a bit more than an hour. No matter how I tried to settle my mind, thoughts roared through it like a runaway train full of terrified passengers.

I was not terrified, though. I was resigned to the fact that, eventually, the train would derail—probably as it crossed a trestle high above a raging river—and that would be that. No one knew the train was out of control. No one knew there was a trestle over that canyon. In fact, no one knew about that canyon. The wreckage of the train would not be discovered for years. Perhaps decades. All the once-terrified passengers who perished in the fiery crash were anonymous. And the engineer—me—had failed to mention to anyone that he was going for a joy ride.

That is how the mind works at 4 a.m. It fabricates impossibilities and weaves them into ugly, imperfect, unreliable cloth. The kind of cloth that, if used to make clothing, would not hold threads at the seams—the garments would fall away at the most inopportune times, like crossing in front of cars at a busy intersection at rush hour on the way to an important, life-changing job interview. Imagine the distress a person might feel if he were to be suddenly, unintentionally, and irreparably nude just moments before a crucial life event. See. That’s how the mind works in the pre-dawn darkness after a mostly sleepless night. Ach!

Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.

~ Frederic Chopin ~

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Among the thoughts that kept me from getting back to sleep when I woke around 1 a.m. has to do with the separation of church and state. Though I have long been a fierce advocate of that separation—requiring an unbreachable wall—I suddenly questioned the legitimacy of that position. It occurred to me that religion and government/politics both rely on adherents’/constituents collective agreement about values. Though “the church” should not interfere in the mechanics of government (and vice versa), there can be no absolute distinction between the tenets of the two. The dividing line is naturally blurred. When the values that undergird either politics or religion begin to shift, the adherents of one or the other (or both) experience discomfort. That discomfort can lead to calls to install doors in the wall—or demands that it be torn down. Depending on which side of the wall a person believes best reflects his values, he will naturally demand that side assume superiority. The solution, if there is one, would be to engage the uncomfortable parties in a deep discussion of values, with the objective of memorializing (on both sides) the ones that are shared; those values would be used to reconstruct the wall. Where differences exist, they would fall on one side or the other; neither side would meddle in the affairs of the other. Perhaps it is not that simple. But that’s where my mind went. Though I still favor separation of church and state to the extent possible and reasonable, I think we should recognize that the two cannot be inextricably separated because both share values that are common to the societies in which they function.

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It is now 4:43 a.m. I have written a little, sipped my now cold coffee, and wondered why I think my deep night thoughts are worthy of documenting. I have no answer to that, other than to say all thoughts are worth documenting…if for no other reason than to reexamine, later, to find clues as to what led to one’s madness.

When I have projects to accomplish around the house, I need a clear calendar if I want to succeed in getting them done. For some reason, if I have to interrupt work on my projects, I rarely can get back on track with them until I have a clear day. An empty calendar. If not for a follow-up appointment with a dermatological nurse practitioner this morning, I would spend the entire day getting little tasks done around the house. But before I visit her, I will have to shower. When I shower, I feel my cleanliness should last for more than a couple of hours. Getting back to spackling or painting or sanding or otherwise doing things that might involve dust or sweat or both, after a shower, seems counterintuitive. Why get clean if, almost immediately, I will get dirty again? I try to overcome that absurdity, but rarely do I succeed. I tend to find reasons to avoid the dirty work because…well, because. I want to do the work. It is satisfying work. The results will be gratifying. But, hey, I took a shower! Damn. The logic is perhaps flawed, but it is mine so I will own it.  One possibility, of course, is for me to do a bit of the work before I shower, thereby accomplishing some of my project objectives and also meeting my skin-care obligations. Maybe. But I only have about four hours until my appointment. Giving myself one hour to shower, shave, get dressed, feed the cat, have some breakfast, etc. leaves me only three hours. Half an hour of pre-work preparation and I only have two and a half hours to actually do some project work. But part of those two and a half hours will involve post-work clean-up, so the time actually available to do the work begins to look like a tad less than two hours. With that kind of limited time available, what’s the point of even starting on the projects? Exactly! So, I may look for other things to occupy my time today—things for which cleanliness is appropriate.  Ideas?

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I got word last night that the church door that would not lock will now lock, thanks to the persistence of the woman who recently agreed to take on the responsibility for managing church building matters. She actually took the locking mechanism apart and corrected the problem. While it is probably a temporary fix, it is a very welcome temporary fix. She had already arranged for a visit by a door specialist, which she will not cancel because all the doors could use some professional assessment. But the specialist’s skills will not be needed to get the door to lock…because she did it! I am a little displeased with myself that something as mundane as locking a door can brighten my day. I think I may need to explore getting a life.

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The day’s light has yet to show itself, but I have written as much as I can without expressing thoughts best kept to myself.

As I emerged from sleep early this morning, an assertion about the contradictory nature of “hope,” made by Pema Chödrön came to mind. I did not recall her specific words, so I went in search of them. I found that they came from her book entitled, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times.

Without giving up hope—that there’s somewhere better to be, that there’s someone better to be—we will never relax with where we are or who we are.

That contention seems to go against the core premise of something drilled into our minds from a very early age. Never give up hope. Yet hope is the enemy of contentment. The antithesis of satisfaction with now. The denial of acceptance that the reality of each moment is all we have; and all we ever have. Fond memories and dreams of a better future may give us temporary solace, but they also stand in the way of understanding the paramount importance of being “in the moment.” That is not to say that past experiences and optimism about experiences to come have no legitimate place in the human experience. But there is a time to accept oneself and one’s station in time and place: this moment. Even that idea is paradoxical; we do not need to approve of our mistakes and their consequences, but we need to accept that both led us to this moment. As have our past accomplishments and all the coincidences surrounding them. Appreciating ourselves and our circumstances, come what may, allows us to “relax with where we are or who we are.” The emotional conflicts that surround those concepts make difficult the process of accepting without forgiving. Perhaps that dilemma is an ever-present tension eased only by giving up hope.

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Seventy degrees at 5:30  in the morning, in the waning days of July. I am grateful for that cool comfort. In a few moments, I will step out onto my deck and gaze at the forest. I may see and hear birds. If a breeze rustles the leaves of the trees, I will hear them, too. I wonder whether leaves are “conscious” of the noises they make as they rub against one another and against the bark of the trees on which they reside? Their consciousness, if it exists, must be radically different from the consciousness we experience; the consciousness we try (but usually fail) to understand. I have the same questions about soil and rocks and molecules of air. As days grow increasingly warm—or cool—do inanimate objects experience something akin to what humans feel? I understand, of course, that those objects do not have neurons that conduct impulses in the same way that animals do. But are those things “aware,” but in a different way? I keep coming back to questions that argue against almost everything science tells us: are we certain we know what “life” really is? Is it even remotely possible that humans are fundamentally like lab rats; being observed and studied by the very subjects of our own explorations? I rather doubt it. But I am willing to acknowledge possibilities that fly in the face of everything we “know.” We may know nothing; we may exist only in the imagination of a universe too immense to be understood, even by itself.

The surest cure for vanity is loneliness.

~ Thomas Wolfe ~

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After a brief break to refresh my coffee—which cooled during my reverie—I am back with thoughts more mundane than mystical. I wonder whether I have ever unknowingly made a stranger feel loved, simply because I extended a kindness that, in other circumstances, I would have wanted a stranger to give to me? I want to believe I have. I want to believe I am the sort of person who, without thinking, usually is kind and considerate. But I remember too many occasions when I failed to seize the opportunity to improve someone else’s moments. And I wonder what other people really think of me. Olin Miller is credited with having said, in 1936, “You probably wouldn’t worry about what people think of you if you could know how seldom they do.” I will accept that most people seldom think of me. But I wonder, still, what they think when—on those rare occasions—they do think of me. Is that thought evidence of curiosity or is it the outgrowth of low self-esteem; or a lack of confidence? That sort of concern is fundamentally useless. Yet it remains a strong driver of behavior; not just mine, but, I suspect, a large percentage of the human population. I could be wrong, of course. Most people may not give a moment’s thought to what others think of them. Hmm. No, I am afraid vanity argues forcefully against the idea that people do not care how others perceive them. Vanity. Self-esteem. Or is it narcissism? Or egotism? When such matters weigh on my mind, I ultimately reach the conclusion that the opinions of only a relatively few people truly matter deeply to me. I might prefer for many others to hold me in at least moderate regard, but if they did not I would not lose sleep over it. And I truly do not give a damn what the rest of humanity thinks of me. Or that the rest of humanity does not even know or care that I exist and, therefore, never thinks of me. Or does it actually matter to me, way back in the deepest recesses of my brain? Either way, I wonder whether I am more like other people or more different from them? Not that it matters, in the full breadth and height and depth of existence.

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Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretense to make it live.

~ Joseph Conrad ~

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Somehow, time accelerated this morning beyond its usual capacity to thrust me into the day. The clock tells me 7:00 has disappeared into the ether of history, which virtually assures that seven o’clock will be remembered for attributes it never had—thanks to the human mind’s ability to manufacture reality from moments lost to time. More coffee, first, then an attempt to force myself to do work I wish had already been done.

Humans define life in ways that correspond to the ways in which we perceive the universe around us. One generally accepted definition is: a process that takes place in highly organized organic structures and is characterized by being preprogrammed, interactive, adaptative and evolutionary. Another is: a principle or force that is considered to underlie the distinctive quality of animate beings. Humans tend to regard the universe itself—including stars, planets, asteroids, light, heat, etc., etc.—as separate from life. We regard certain circumstances that occur in various places in the universe as capable of sustaining life, but we do not consider the universe itself as a life form. Yet some of the language used to describe processes that take place in the universe suggest otherwise. Stars and planets are born and they die. Perhaps the descriptors we use to describe processes in the universe mirror terms we use in connection with life only because they help us understand the world in ways that relate to our experience in that world. Or perhaps, despite our embrace of science, we still cling to an ancient sense of the mysteries of…everything. Or maybe, though we are loathe to admit it, we actually consider the universe and all its innumerable processes a life form of its own. We do not know and almost certainly never will. But such thoughts are worth turning over in our minds on cool summer mornings.

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I have such unusual thoughts, in spite of the horrendous headache that makes me wish I were still asleep. If I had been as alert when I got dressed as I am now, I would have taken acetaminophen or some other product that claims an ability to quench pain. Now, as I sit at my computer on the other end of the house from my bedroom, the effort required to trudge back seems too great and the distance too far to warrant making the endeavor worthwhile. But calming the shrieking nerve endings that seem to pound incessantly against the back of my eyeballs is quite an attractive prospect. Once I finish my coffee, I may make the trip back. One way or another, I must end this fierce headache, and soon. I cannot imagine enjoying church while feeling this way. And I will be unable to continue the tasks I began to undertake yesterday if this beast of a headache keeps up. I will not wait to finish my coffee; I will take a break now and make my way back to find painkillers.

One benefit of a dangerous drug like fentanyl is its near-instantaneous effectiveness. If I had been given an intravenous injection of fentanyl rather than just now swallowing a couple of acetaminophen and a sinus medication, my pain probably would have suddenly disappeared. I have had such an experience with fentanyl. Roughly a year ago, when I was in pain severe enough to merit calling an ambulance (the pain was caused, I later learned, by an inflamed pancreas), I was given an injection of fentanyl after being put in the ambulance but before it left my house for the hospital. The pain disappeared before the ambulance began to move. I suggested to the EMT who rode in back with me that I was suddenly fine and did not need to go to the hospital, after all. She disagreed, of course.  This morning’s headache is not nearly as debilitating as was last year’s inflamed pancreas, but I do wish I had access to something that worked as well and as quickly as fentanyl. Acetaminophen is a very poor substitute, in terms of quickly and completely eliminating pain.

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If I do not hurry and go outside soon, I will miss the opportunity to soak in the cool morning air. For that reason, along with the mental stagnation brought on by this damned headache, I will conclude this attempt to think with my fingers. Perhaps the cool temperatures will sooth me.

Some of the “words of wisdom” one encounters along the way are thought-provoking in ways that challenge one’s own beliefs. A skeptic’s worldview, while often seen through a  scratched grey film, can offset the optimist’s outlook by causing us to think. One need not agree with the skeptic to learn from him.

There are slavish souls who carry their appreciation for favors done them so far that they strangle themselves with the rope of gratitude.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche ~

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The time has long since come and gone when humans should have abandoned their arguments about the causes of global climate change, instead directing their energies toward mitigating its effects. But we tend to get caught up in drawing useless lines in the sand as we engage in wasteful, argumentative, and utterly unproductive debates. In my opinion, we have waited far too long to be able to do anything of consequence to stop, slow, or reverse the effects of climate change. Yet to do nothing, assuming anything we try will be fruitless, is idiotic. Massive, enormously large-scale efforts should be tried. Before knee-jerk reactions that could have monstrously harmful unintended consequences, though, we should ask the best and brightest scientists to consider the ramifications of the various options. Banning the production and use of plastics, for instance, might dramatically reduce plastics pollution in our oceans, but it might also result in a large spike in unemployment, a dramatic cut in production of important materials and products, and various other impacts. We should quickly assess, to the best of our capabilities, the direct and indirect consequences of actions we take. Only then should we demand compliance with critical action. Despite my sense that such efforts ultimately will prove futile and pointless, I think it would be idiotic to give in without a fight. But we’ve allowed the situation to become both urgent and critical when we could have acted to address the matter without so many unintended consequences of action. Now, the unintended consequences of either action or inaction must be addressed. The longer we remain stupid, the harder it becomes to get smart.

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Temperatures in the upper 60s and lower 70s make for an ideal deck-sitting situation. Consequently, I plan to do just that before I delve into the day. But, first, I will continue expressing my mind’s fragmented functioning.

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I slept with Phaedra last night. Or, rather, she slept with me. She usually prefers sleeping in the tomato-bisque-colored chair, but last night the large expanse of a king-sized bed was more appealing. She was quiet and peaceful until 4:30, when she decided I should wake up and do her bidding. I dutifully complied. And then I washed dishes I should have washed last night. Later this morning, I will clean the smoker—which I should have done yesterday, as well—and will then clean myself. A shower sounds extremely appealing at the moment. And shaving will put icing on the cake. Then, I will get to work piddling around the house to do various tasks I’ve been putting off for months. Because I will no doubt sweat profusely in the process, I will shower again later in the day so the clean sheets are not sullied by my unclean body; but before bed, I will wash and dry the sheets. Housework is never completed.

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Early yesterday morning, I smoked a batch of thick pork chops. A heavy overcast kept much of the normal morning light at bay, but even in semi-darkness I succeeded in filling the smoker with apple wood chips. Following a recipe I found online, I prepared a buttery, gingery brown-sugar rub and slathered it on the chops. I smoked them for a couple of hours until the internal temperature of the meat reached about 145°F. I then wrapped pairs of them in foil and put each pair in a zip bag. We now have the main courses for four meals; all that’s needed now is to thaw a pair of chops, sear and warm each pair briefly on a very hot grill, and plate them. Well, there’s more to it, actually. Before I sear them, I will prepare a peach-bourbon sauce (with a little dijon mustard, vinegar, and brown sugar) to complete the process. I can hardly wait to see how they turn out. First, I must buy peaches. Then, I must wait for mi novia to return home. I should have waited to begin the process. I now have to wait longer than I’d like to try them.

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I probably did not adequately thank the two people who came to the rescue yesterday when an entry door of our church could not be locked. Both of them no doubt had more pressing personal matters to attend to, but instead they opted to give priority to the needs of the church. Their willingness to step in to help, interrupting their personal agendas,  illustrates of one of the attributes of members of the congregation that make the church so appealing to me.  By the time I learned of the uncooperative door, one of the rescuers had already disassembled a faulty lock and had called for a professional to come work on it. Later, when I sat waiting for the professional to arrive and discovered my phone was almost out of power, I asked a friend and fellow board member to come sit in for me while I ran home to get my charger. Fortunately, she also came with a willingness to jump in and do more than asked. Though both of them went “0ver and above” in service to the church, their efforts were not uncommon; many others in the church respond the same way when needs arise. There was a time I would not have felt comfortable asking people in my sphere for help, but since coming into this congregation, I have come to better understand the true meaning of community. The reality of people readily willing to give up their time and talents in support of friends and acquaintances in need remains almost magical to me. But I am gradually coming to realize that magic is a natural component of compassion.

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More coffee half an hour of meditative relaxation on the deck will smooth the way for a good day, I hope. I wish. I think.

Artificial intelligence (AI) increasingly is in the news of late in light of concerns about the degree to which AI might interfere with the daily lives of people on Planet Earth. Generative tools that can produce voices, images, sounds, and other aspects of “reality” concern lawmakers, scientists, ethicists, and to an increasing degree, the general public. Extremely life-like, three-dimensional, utterly believable videos could appear to show public figures admitting to horrendous crimes. Worse, the same sorts of realistic videos could show governors and senators and Hollywood stars engaging in sex with children or animals or each other. But those kinds of AI-aided products probably would—today—require human intervention. AI has not developed quite far enough to enable computers to “think” of such ugliness on their own. Or has it? Has AI already crossed the threshold into competition or conflict with human coders and programmers? Until yesterday afternoon, I would have said we are a long way from having to worry about science fiction mutating into reality. An experience yesterday revealed just how incredibly capable AI has become. My understanding of that remarkable capability came very late; computer gamers have long been exposed to AI’s stunning abilities. Knowing only a little about the amazing capabilities of AI in virtual reality (VR) games, I can easily imagine AI being released “into the wild” with instructions to pursue nefarious objectives.

My introduction to VR yesterday afternoon took place in the home of a couple; good friends. He, an aficionado of VR games, was introduced to the entertainment genre by wife’s son. She seems to enjoy VR games, but is not as much of a fan as he. From the moment I put on the VR goggles, I knew I was in for an extraordinary experience. I controlled much of what I saw by moving my eyes and my head. But my control did not extend to defending myself against an attack by a monstrous white shark. I could dodge it a bit, but I had no control over its movements. AI controlled them; and AI’s control of its movements were made, in part, in response to movements I made. Another experience, in which I was riding in a roller-coaster car and shooting lasers at clowns and zombies, was even more realistic. My understanding of VR is that the latest VR equipment and games have evolved so that the imagery and motions are even clearer, crisper, and more realistic than what I saw. My brief introduction to VR games very likely was the beginning of what I expect will be an ongoing fascination and a desire to have other VR experiences. But it also clarified for me just how advanced AI has gotten; and I am sure AI in VR games is not nearly as sophisticated as state-of-the art AI. The AI that may have the potential of upending society. If nothing else, my experience yesterday opened me up to an exciting opportunity to explore what seems to be pure magic; or, in the wrong initiators’ hands, hell on Earth.

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Ach! It’s late. I’m off to pick up an order of groceries. The day rushes by at the speed of thought!

Yesterday, my eldest brother sent me a link to some philosophical gems left by the Chilean writer, Roberto Bolaño, who died twenty years ago. It took me a while to process Ten Ideas by Roberto Bolaño (though I admit to remaining a bit puzzled by some of them), but they were sufficiently intriguing to prompt me to explore a bit more about him. One of the pieces I read, lamenting the fact that no one has written his biography yet, twenty years after his death, offered this interesting observation: “Bolaño wrote often of the role of courage—and its dark sibling, cowardice—in the lives of writers.”  Bolaño’s  last novel, published posthumously in 2004, entitled  2666, is described as a fragmentary novel which, according to Wikipedia, is “a novel made of fragments, vignettes, segments, documents or chapters that can be read in isolation and/or as part of the greater whole of the book.” The idea of a fragmentary novel appeals to me. I can imagine adapting an assortment of my writing into such a beast, though the product probably would be rightfully regarded as an incoherent mass of competing ideas. But, back to Bolaño’s writing: I have read nothing of his work, but what I know of 2666 appeals to me. Again according to Wikipedia, “2666 explores 20th-century degeneration through a wide array of characters, locations, time periods, and stories within stories.” The English translation of the book, though, is roughly 900 pages (compared to 1100 pages in Spanish). I can get thoroughly wrapped up in learning about people whose literary lives parallel the literary life I might wish I had. But my self-diagnosed ADHD (or simple laziness or lack of discipline) makes a 900-page book seem an almost insurmountable challenge. I know I have the capacity to write such a voluminous monster (I have proven it with this blog), but I can do it only in small fragments.  Reading such a lengthy literary product requires me to take the same approach: just a little bit at a time. And my memory of books (and films, etc.) is terrible; so I would forget the contents of the first ten pages by the time I reached page 90.

Reading about Roberto Bolaño led me to take a few detours, including one in which I read a good bit about Karl Marx. Marx was a philosopher, sociologist, economist, and political theorist, among his other roles. His best known literary works, Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto, presented his political and economic theories, which have since driven countless political movements, including several that thrive today. Too many people, I think, consider Marx a dangerous revolutionary (well, he did call for a workers’ revolution…), without thinking deeply about and analyzing (without bias) the theories that underlie his calls for action. I cannot claim to be intimately familiar with Marx and his works, but I know enough to believe him to have been a remarkably intelligent, perceptive, and socially aware man.  I could go on for days, writing about ideas and people I know very little about; but I won’t.

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The problem with societal stagnation is the fact that people tend to believe they have no power to change economic, political, and social systems. And they are right, in the absence of one or more charismatic leaders who can attract and maintain a large, committed following; people willing to seize the political control that will enable them to enact change. Unlike Marx (I think), I have very little confidence in the average citizen’s ability to think and to understand social philosophy. Wait. I said I would not go on writing about such stuff.

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I walked outside just now. Though the temperature is a bit warmer than I would like, the breeze and the sounds of leaves rustling in the wind were pleasing to me. If not for chiggers and snakes, I might go walking in the woods, stopping occasionally to soak in the quiet serenity and enormous power of nature. Standing on the driveway, though, cleared my head and prepared me to engage with the day. I might once have said “conquer the day,” but I know that grandiose assertion is utterly absurd. All I can and should do is participate. The desire to control is an emotional characteristic that leaves one wanting more; feeling insufficiently in control. Real control is embedded in a person’s ability to engage; and to decide whether to accept the control others with to impose.

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I am alone now and will be alone for several days to come. Mi novia has gone for awhile to pursue her own interests and obligations, leaving me in solitude. This aloneness is oddly comfortable; if Phaedra (the cat) went off on vacation, I could abandon all my obligations and simply be. I can do that anyway, with only an infrequent interruption to feed and water Phaedra. I have mixed feelings about solitude, though. While I crave it and need it and enjoy the freedom of aloneness, it can be too constant and too lengthy. As much as I must have solitude, I want periodic injections of social interaction. A few hours of conversation on the deck (or inside, if the heat is too much), offset by many more hours of quiet aloneness, may be ideal. This morning, I am off to breakfast and coffee with my men’s group from church. When I return, the solitude will return with me. But my mood changes rather frequently. I might want solitude now, but I may not want it to last for long—provided I know it will return. I cannot read my own mind sometimes. Ah, well, such is life. Time to get dressed and wander off for coffee.

When the color of the sky appears (to me) matte silver, I attribute its unusual character to a rare interaction between my eyes and my brain. Though I have never in those moments asked anyone else to describe the color of the sky to me, I am confident their descriptions would not include matte silver. Tarnished white, perhaps, but not matte silver. Grey, but not matte silver. The enormous differences in perceptions between individuals still surprise me, even though I have witnessed those massive variations all my life. It is possible, of course, that individuals’ rods and cones are responsible for the discrepancies in this particular incidence of visual perception, but I doubt it. Instead, I am relatively sure a person’s state of mind at the moment of seeing is largely responsible. The brain interprets the same visual signals in different ways, depending on circumstances involving other receptors of external stimuli. Anger, sadness, joy, worry, and all the complex threads that weave those emotions and dozens of others together color our perceptions—pardon the pun. I remember, when I was a child, posing questions about color perception to anyone who would listen: “What if the color you and I both call “red” looks different to the two of us? What if my “green” is the way you see “red” and vice versa?” What if, indeed. A child’s expression of wondrous curiosity.  The questions usually were dismissed as simple uninformed inquisitiveness. But I still have the same kinds of curiosity I did when I was younger; the questions may have changed, but their impetus has not. I still question the “known” and the “fully understood,” because I believe our knowledge of virtually all aspects of the world in which we live continues to unfold. Knowledge is simply theory that has not yet met a successful challenger. My suspicion about certainty is not new. About four years ago, I wrote:

Once a mind is made up, irrevocably, it becomes unbending and brittle. It becomes subject to irreversible rupture when irrefutable, contrary facts present themselves. When evidence—that an immutable decision was based on fallacy—is impossible to ignore, the mind shatters into  shards of sacrosanct debris, scraps of certainty strewn across the mindscape.

I still believe those assertions…but they are subject to change when presented with evidence that suggests my belief is based on faulty information or faulty reliance on broken logic.

Other perceptions and beliefs, outside my interpretation of the measurable physical world, are just as subject to change. When my mental filters are cleaned; or “facts” are refuted or clarified; or when the fractured links in my chains of logic are repaired, my beliefs about the world adapt to the new realities facing me. But I probably am just like so many millions of others who, once committed to “facts” or ideas, refuse to allow certain opinions to bend, much less break into pieces. For example, I am confident my liberal world-view is based on the “correct” interpretation of all the inputs my brain processes. I tend to view information that might challenge that world-view as false, bogus, intentionally misleading, or otherwise “wrong.” Right-leaning people, I suspect, are just as confident their understanding of the world is just as “right.” Neither of us are as willing to question our ideas as we perhaps should be. Yet if both of us would listen to the other, without judging, we might discover slices of information that puts part of our world-views in danger of collapse. But because that would be emotionally catastrophic, we refuse to even listen. We cling to certainty with clenched iron fists. We refuse to consider, even for a second, that our respective world-views might be distorted by lenses that have been tinted or scratched or, in the extreme, cracked.

I want to be open-minded about everything. But is that possible? Do I really want to consider the absurdity that Earth is flat? Apparently not. Certainty is not entirely dangerous. But where is the dividing line? At what point does my liberal world-view cross into uncertainty or even further into doubt? And where do my conservative counterparts discover their own doubts? Neither of us want to entertain the possibility that we could be mistaken in our firm beliefs.

Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.

~ Voltaire ~

Today, I will give more thought to my unshakable beliefs; my certainty about matters that cannot be supported by available facts. And perhaps I will open my mind just a little more. Or discover my pride in my open-mindedness is badly misplaced.

This is published post number 4401. For some reason, the frenzied excitement I expected to feel with this post—or the previous one—did not materialize. Perhaps my sedate reaction to the milestone of yesterday’s post can be explained by its content; yesterday’s post and the one before were exceptionally short (especially compared to some of my other recent posts) and dull in the extreme. My brain simply would not willingly get in synch with anything but its own slow, irrelevant, molasses-like drip, drip, drip of creativity. It felt for all the world like it had been harnessed by a steady stream of barbiturates, despite the fact that no barbiturates were consumed in the writing of those posts. That is to say, my thought processes have been horribly, horrendously, awfully, unacceptably, monstrously, amazingly slow. Bah!

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My attempt to infuse the morning with good cheer, hope, a sprinkling of elation, and a touch of pure happiness has floundered.  Record high temperature records in Phoenix, state-sponsored terrorism in and near the Rio Grande in Texas (courtesy of Greg Abbott), the broiling of Europe, devastating floods in the northeastern U.S., and a string of similar blasts of bad news chased joy out the front door and into the forest. Joy is hiding behind towering pine and oak trees in the distance. I would go after it, but I am afraid I might be overcome by heat exhaustion. Or a copperhead snake could inject venom into my foot or calf or hand. Or I might simply trip on a vine, plunging into poison ivy  so thick and lush it could cover me from head to toe in an instant.

The pleasure delivered by the events of the last few days has melted, leaving only its dried and brittle remains as evidence of the euphoria that enveloped the weekend. But, though it’s gone, the memory remains. The challenge is to retain that memory; to keep it polished and gleaming so it will serve as a reminder that bliss has a place on the planet. Quite the challenge, given the circumstances that swallow us as if we were a snack and the circumstances a ravenous python. On we go, though.

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One’s interpretation of the world in which he lives depends, in large part, on his perspective. Where is he in relation to what he sees? He sees reality, but reality is shaped by context, as the image demonstrates. Every “shadow” is a legitimate expression of reality, yet every one is dramatically different. This image captivates me because it shows so clearly how different contexts can dramatically change the way one sees the world. The three dark shadows offer unique perspectives about the shape that is casting those shadows, yet the shape itself is an amalgamation of each of the shapes illustrated by the shadows, as well as a completely different shape of its own. Life is far more complex than the image. Image, for example, how the view might seem from behind each of the shadows, assuming the shadow was translucent or transparent. And how would the view appear if one looked at the image from the “corner” of the shadow box; an entirely different set of images, all appearing very different from anything we see in the view as presented. A lot like reality, in other words.

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A dry spell. Or, rather, a drought that leaves the air and the ground as dry and parched as Death Valley. I refer not to the soil, but to my creativity. I feel the same emptiness I have felt for the last two days. Nothing of consequence to write about; nothing of consequence to think; nothing that has the potential for triggering even a slight uptick in my mood. This barren, dry, dehydrated, dusty emptiness leaves me angry at myself for allowing my creativity to wither. Anger is not really it, though. It’s disappointment. Humiliation. Embarrassed acknowledgement that I am not in control of my own internal emotional environment. It is odd that a person can be on such an extraordinary “high,” only to take a single step off a cliff into an almost bottomless canyon. Manic depression. Naturally, that word pair prompts me to think about Jim Hendrix and his music. All Along the Watchtower. The Wind Cries Mary. Hey Joe. Purple Haze.  If nothing else, remembering those tunes and the lyrics I used to sing under my breath is beginning to suffocate the dreariness.  After all the jacks are in their boxes.  I remember how I was struck by the cleverness of that phrase.

After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness
Staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers
“Mary”
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces
Of yesterday’s life
Somewhere, a queen is weeping
Somewhere
A king has no wife
And the wind, it cries
“Mary“

And thus ends the worst of the mood’s downward swing. I think I need to upgrade my computer’s sound, though. Listening to Jimi Hendix over lousy speakers does not have anything like the impact as hearing the same music through a perfect, rich, balanced, WONDERFUL amplifier and speakers designed to maximize the experience.

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Spencer Tunick, the American photographer known for his photographs of crowds of nudes, recently engaged hundreds of Finnish volunteers in a series of nude shots. According to an article in the Helsinki Times, “as the clock struck 3:00 am on Saturday, nearly a thousand naked participants flocked to the designated locations” to be photographed by Tunick. The human form, with all its beauty and its flaws, fascinates me. And what fascinates me more than the form itself is the fact that the shock of nudity disappears when individual nudity is multiplied many times over. It fascinates me that there is nothing titillating about naked crowds, yet if each person from a crowd shot were extracted from the photo and presented individually, one’s emotions would tend to change. Nudity is absolutely natural. But we treat it as an aberration; something unnatural and, to far too many, immoral. And—something that causes me to get deeply irritated—too many people express disgust or disapproval if the nude body they see is not “ideal.” Too old, too fat, too blemished by experience or lifestyle or too different from that very unusual “perfect” body presented by marketers as that shape and size we all should strive to achieve.

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Perhaps I haven’t fallen entirely into a deep pit in which creativity does not exist. Maybe I am here, just looking at it from a different angle.  Look at things from my perspective, won’t you?

Once again, I slept late, thanks in no small part to regular meows and tail-chasings. That is to say, I was awake far too much and slept too little. And too late. Such is life. The day commences at its own pace, regardless of how I might feel about it.

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The weekend just ended was nothing short of spectacular. Saturday began with a brunch with Peter Mayer, our church minister, the immediate past president of our church (who sponsored Mayer), and me. Then, an outstanding concert performance by Peter. That evening, a group of church leaders and hosts went to dinner with Peter. Sunday morning, the pairing of Peter’s music with the minister’s delivery produced deeply meaningful messages. After the morning program, a group of church friends took Peter to lunch. And then, more personal, mi novia and my sister-in-law sat on the back deck, enjoying the forest, even in the heat and humidity.  It’s rare that an emotional “high” lasts as long as it did…has…but I wish for more frequent long-lasting euphoria.

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Jumbled thoughts do not make for coherent writing. Competing emotions, intellectual uncertainty, and a frothy mixture of resignation, exhilaration, fear, and jubilation suggest, strongly, that I should give up attempting to write this morning. And I will, for the second time in a rare doubling, listen to what I have to say to myself.

Daylight fills the forest outside. Here and there, branches and leaves highlighted by the sun’s rays appear to have sunlight aimed directly at them, accentuating a thousand different shades of bright yellows and greens and golds and browns. The surrounding, almost identical, foliage seems dull in comparison. But, ignoring the illuminated contrasts, the comparatively drab leaves are, themselves, bright. The forest is a study in contrasts that, unless one forces his attention on the full spectrum of hues and shades, appears a uniformly mottled green.

Looking intently at the world outside my windows—and giving my undivided attention to every image before my eyes—causes a deep sense of appreciation to build inside me. If I look at the forest long enough and think deeply enough about how fortunate I am to see what is before me, I understand, viscerally, what “awe-inspiring” means. Wonder washes over me like a wave.

The experience of deep, life-altering sorrow can enable a person to develop a capability of providing solace to others who suffer emotional wounds of the same level. But that capability does not arise in everyone who goes through grief of similar magnitude. Whether the capacity to offer solace after experiencing one’s own anguish can be learned or is tied to one’s innate personality is not clear to me, but I tend to think the latter is more likely. While learning to be compassionate probably is possible, I suspect compassion is more easily developed—and comes more naturally—to people born with certain mental attributes. And those not born with those attributes (or who do not develop them in early infancy), while perhaps able to learn compassion, do not seem to be as comfortable with the trait.  Psychological literature probably is rife with arguments for and against my “gut feel” on the topic. To my knowledge, though, no one has been able to measure or demonstrate, with near-certainty, the original source of compassion. But I have witnessed people who seem moderately compassionate develop extraordinary compassion after they experience the wrenching pain of irrevocable loss. And I have seen people who seem unmoved by suffering in others, even after experiencing, themselves, horrendous loss. Perhaps there is no correlation; maybe it have been a matter of simple coincidence. But I think not. I believe there’s something innate, or that evolves very early in childhood, that corresponds to later compassion; or something like disregard for suffering.

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This afternoon, a well-known (at least in certain circles) singer/songwriter will perform during a special concert in our church. I have been asked to introduce him and to explain how his performance came to be arranged. His presence today was not my doing; I had no part in making the arrangements. But I did see and hear him perform a few months ago and I was extremely impressed. I look forward to his performance today. I’m a tad nervous about introducing him, though, because it seems I will not be standing behind a lectern as usual, where I can keep notes hidden from the audience’s view. Instead, I will be in full view of the audience. My reliance on notes will be obvious. I wish I had the ability to ad lib or memorize my intended lines. It’s a bit late for either, though, so I will just have to stumble my way through it. With a bit of good fortune, I will not bungle it. As mi novia says, though, I am not expected to be a professional speaker; I am just some guy who’s responsible for making a few introductory comments. The audience will be there to see and hear him, not me. Unless I make serious missteps, no one will remember my words. But, still, I would like to give the performer a smooth, seamless, unobtrusive introduction. Before the concert, I will join the performer (Peter Mayer) and a few other people from church for brunch. Then, after his performance, a small group of church leaders will take him to dinner this evening. Assuming my introduction is not a massive, memorable, and embarrassing failure, dinner should be enjoyable. Time will tell, as always.

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I was spurred to write about compassion this morning by happening upon something I wrote a year or so ago. I had mentioned, in my blog, a book entitled The Solace of Open Spaces by Gretel Ehrlich. Solace and compassion go hand in hand, in my mind. I knew very little about Ehrlich. The fact that she had been married to the late Neil Conan may have been nestled somewhere deep in my memory, but if so, it was buried quite deep. When I read that he had been her husband, I was surprised. And when I then read that Neil Conan earlier had been married to Liane Hansen, I was even more surprised. It occurred to me that literary and NPR “types” tend to have relatively tight circles. And that’s what I have to say about that.

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The older I get, the more nervous and anxiety-ridden I get. I don’t know how to fix that.

~ Vince Gilligan ~

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When Phaedra enters my study, she stops, looks up at me, and meows. I wish I understood what she is saying to me. Or maybe I don’t. She could be expressing unmitigated loathing for me. Well, some days the feeling is mutual; when I see her clawing a white leather sofa, I tend to get cranky in the extreme.

An experiment: Place a freshly-sawn two-hundred-pound piece of an oak tree trunk on the granite floor of a well-constructed stone building. Place a newly-dead corpse of a two-hundred-pound human next to the hunk of wood. Finally, place a two-hundred-pound sack of new-cut grass next to the other items. Seal the room—tightly—and leave it for two hundred years. Upon re-entering the room two hundred years later, which of the three items would most closely resemble the appearance it had when left in the room? I do not know with certainty, but my guess is that the hunk of oak would remain largely as it was when it was left. The other two? I suspect the human body would have deteriorated considerably, its store of water largely absorbed into the room’s air. The sack of grass clippings leaves me stumped. Perhaps they would have withered, but would the blades of grass retain their shape, albeit with considerably less volume? I don’t know. And I do not have the time to find out. But my curiosity remains. If I am right about the varying degrees of decline and decay, today’s forests are poised to outlast today’s human population; assuming humans do not burn them, pave over them, or otherwise decimate the natural world in which we live. But we know we already are doing just that. Any prediction as to what the world will look like in two hundred years is no more than vapor, changeable at the whim of nature or the destructive tendencies of humankind. Still, if we were to leave everything to decompose at its own pace, without external influence, how would the world look? It’s too bad we cannot come back and have a look. All we can do is imagine and wonder.

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I have never understood why some people are so thoroughly fascinated by jewelry. The appearance of cut diamonds of varying carets are interesting to me—briefly—but they do not hold me in rapt awe at their overwhelming beauty. Because their beauty does not overwhelm me. I prefer to look at oil paintings created by people who possess extraordinary talents. I would rather spend my time gazing at sunsets and mountains and valleys etched deep into solid rock by the flow of water over millions of years. My interests, though, are not “correct.” They are simply mine. And people who love the look of diamonds have their own unique and—to my way of looking at the world—somewhat deranged perspectives. There was a time when I found the intense fondness for jewelry a bit annoying; I do not know why. Now, though, it does not bother me; it just perplexes me. That having been said, I have been won over by certain pieces of jewelry. For reasons I cannot understand, I find certain pieces of jewelry quite beautiful or, at least, extremely interesting and attractive. But diamonds? Meh, pretty much. Except for the occasional diamond whose sparkles captivate me. I would not wear it on my finger or dangling from my ear, though. Probably.

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The rumble of thunder is not what woke me this morning. It was the meowing of Phaedra. If I am not up before 5:30 (I usually am), she announces my lethargy to anyone who will listen. Her point is not to shame me, I am sure, but to encourage me to get up and serve her breakfast. This morning, she roused me from a rather horrid dream in which I was lost in a filthy slum-like environment. I was trying to find my way out, but I had no idea where I was trying to go. And it was pitch-dark; the only lights came from cars’ headlights, which shone only briefly before leaving me blind and feeling my way around. I was surrounded by people who either did not or would not speak a language I could understand. Many of the people in my proximity threatened me. Or, at least, I felt threatened by them, whether they intended to threaten me or not. I was glad to wake up. Three hours earlier, I was awake for at least half an hour and probably closer to an hour. Then, I wanted desperately to get back to sleep. But sleep, when it came, was ugly and stressful. I suspect I will find a reason to drift off to sleep sometime during the day today. Or early this evening. Thunder can lull me to sleep. I might consider allowing it to do just that, right now. Probably not, though.

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If you could read my mind this morning…I would urge that you maintain my thoughts in absolute secrecy. They would have to be kept in the most strict confidence, just between you and me…