John Swinburn

My chemo session on Wednesday apparently has had/is having some of the old stand-by side-effects I recall from earlier treatments; among them, fatigue, sleeping late, periodic stabbing pains, etc. But the analgesics seem to work reasonably well, most of the time. And I haven’t gotten tired, yet, of being so tired so frequently. I try to look on the bright side—too often, though, that is a lot like staring at the sun. I have no obligations on my calendar today, so I will try to experience relaxation of the highest order. I wish I hadn’t let my medical marijuana license lapse. I wish even more fervently that I would already have taken the simple steps to renew it.

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The relevance of knowing—when I wake each morning—into which day of the week I awaken no longer matters. In fact, it never did, but I allowed myself to be taken in by the concept of its relevance. The man I am today may have successfully emerged from the broth that insisted on differentiating between “work-days” and “week-ends;” yet offered no evidence to support that assertion. What convincing argument might be made to justify assigning greater recuperative value to Saturday than productive value to Thursday? Propaganda needs no justification.

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CORRECTION: We learned—within the last few days—that one of my nephews and his wife (my niece-in-law) will visit us soon. It will be a short trip, but one to which we greatly look forward. Within the last couple of years, we’ve been fortunate to have received visits by—and visited—several family members. Most recently, my niece  and my nephew-in-law came to visit and before that, my sister came to see us. Unfortunately, the timing coincided with a week or more I spent in the hospital—but their visit, still, was very enjoyable and greatly appreciated. Before that, we spent time with my oldest brother and his wife, my sister-in-law. I’ve had other occasions in the not-too-distant past to visit with other nephews, another brother, and an array of other “blood” relatives and others…all of whom matter deeply to me.

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The expanse of monotonously flat sand surrounding us was monstrous. I sat in a plush ophthalmic chair that was equipped with all sorts of equipment designed to measure visual acuity and optical health. In front of me, an ophthalmologist in a white coat directed me to focus my attention on an image that was visible through a sophisticated set of lenses…all connected in some way to one another. The doctor flipped a switch, which made the image appear clearer and more precise. After what seemed like a dozen—or more—iterations, the image I saw seemed  to have changed dramatically. It seemed like a highly magnified image of a dense patch of hair.

His explanation stunned me: “With each new view, you were looking deeper and deeper into the distance. But that final image completed the view. You were looking all the way around the planet to see the back of your head.”

“That’s obviously nonsense!” I answered. “What am I really seeing?”

He had hit me with enough force to knock me unconscious. At least I assumed that’s what happened.

“Twinkles, can you hear me? We’re going to try a slightly different treatment this time. You’ll need to keep your head perfectly still for about 30 seconds.”

After that treatment, I had absolutely no recollection of anything before being examined by the ophthalmologist in the desert. Even today, all these years later, I have no other memories. It’s as if my entire life’s experiences simply disappeared. They told me they did not have to get my permission to do any subsequent treatment; I was not competent to authorize treatments. And there was nobody else, other than the laboratory technicians. They could do anything they wanted to do, with no limits.

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What would the experience be like? Traveling to another country, making contact with members of fierce criminal gangs, and launching a new career as a brutal and dangerously violent money-hungry beast? I suspect it might be quite different for me now, as I approach the age of 72, compared to the experience as it might have been 30 years ago. The problem, of course, is that I cannot compare it to that 30-year-old experience because I did not have it. My only option is to imagine what it would have been like all those years ago, and then to compare it to the reality of today.

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I left my two grandchildren in a bus station in Nacogdoches in east Texas. From there, I drove to San Antonio for the night. and then to Shafter, a ghost town about two hours northwest of Big Bend National Park. I stayed in an abandoned building in Shafter for a couple of nights. Just as I was about to pack up and head north to Lloydminster, Alberta/Saskatchewan, I was approached by a highway patrolman who already knew my name and my history. He asked me why I had left my grandchildren in Nacogdoches. I told him they had been after me to cut them loose ever since we left Refugio and I’d finally had it up to my neck with their whining. Besides, I told him, I left each of them a crisp $100 bill and a cheap cell phone with my number in it; if they’d needed me, they could have called. But they never did. Apparently, though, they called the Nacogdoches police and told them I would probably go to Big Bend (because that’s what I told them). They had not said a word about Lloydminster because I hadn’t said a thing to them about going up there. I figured they would have told the police about my plans, if I shared my plans with them, so I just kept my mouth shut. Somehow, though, somebody had told the police I was going to head up to Lloydminster to recover some money I lost late last year in the casino. If the snitch told the police that I also planned to make the town a safer place by ridding it of  a miserable cheat, I never got wind of it. But somehow the RCMP, which contracted with the town for police services, knew what I intended to do. Fortunately for me, the RCMP was delighted to know someone else was going after the same guy they had planned to permanently remove from their list of criminals they would encourage to leave town and never return.

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Black holes sometimes are described as locations in space where stars, as they collapse near the ends of their lives, generate enormously powerful gravity. Nothing, not even light, can escape from the black hole’s event horizon (essentially, the surface of the black hole). Limiting one’s understanding of black holes to individual stars…or even groups of stars…fails to recognize the immensity of their gravitational pull. I am confident that black holes are not created by the collapse of individual stars. They represent the collapse of entire galaxies;  even giant segments of of the universe, each comprising hundreds or even thousands of galaxies. Black holes are the places where time and space shred into miniscule particles, each one no larger than one billionth the size of an atom. In other words, black holes are the places where the embers of existence are extinguished. They are the places where beginnings and endings and everything in between are erased, confirming that the time between them cannot be measured by a traditional clock, nor even an advanced calendar. Black holes are dangerous; they are the final resting places for every creature, living or not. Before those creatures die, though, they prepare their own obituaries and they write their own identical autobiographies, each one entitled The Autobiography of Time.

I woke late (after 6:30) this morning, for the second consecutive day. That kind of unintentional adjustment to my morning routine seems to compress my day—as if time is snatched away from me as an unrecoverable, permanent loss. There is no such thing as “making up for lost time.” Lost time is equivalent to a piece of eternal emptiness; a place that could have made enormous differences in one’s lifetime, but leaves an immeasurable void, instead. Lost time leaves the unimpeachable assertion that “you’ll never know what you missed.”

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A tiny segment of the sky, bright blue and cloudless, is visible to me but I can tell that the sun is hidden—presumably by clouds—in other parts of the sky. My understanding of certain aspects of the sky is based on experience, although I cannot claim to have experienced every possible point of view. I allow myself to make assumptions based on extremely limited “facts.” My assumptions are correct, more often than not. But if they weren’t…what, then? Would I run in circles, screaming in rage and distress? Would the circumstances facing me be equivalent to the ones with which I would have to deal in conditions of lost time? The sky’s effect on certain trees is now suggesting that the clouds hiding the sun have moved. Paying attention to one’s environment can be educational. Or it can lead to delusions.

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Yesterday’s chemotherapy treatment was short and uneventful. But I learned that I will be expected to visit my oncologist next Monday afternoon, after my PET-scan. The appointment will not be scheduled; I am expected to just “pop in” to see her after the morning scan (and lunch)…and possibly after a brief follow-up visit with the radiologist who managed my recent radiation treatment. I prefer to have specific appointment times; I suppose my preference suggests that order or regimentation appeals to me over chaos or turmoil. I wonder whether a cancer patient’s personality type has (or should have) a bearing on the treatments an oncologist recommends?

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I am awfully tired. I could sleep again. My thought processes have been hijacked by a brain that heretofore has been unknown to me. Oh, it’s my brain…just a part of it that prefers to remain hidden. It is observable. Only shy.

A report published in 1972 (Limits to Growth) suggested a highly likely scenario in which, by 2040, a precipitous and uncontrollable global decrease in population and industrial capacity will take place…unless significant alterations are made in resource utilization and environmental destruction. Several updates to the original report (including Beyond the Limits; The Limits to Growth: The 30-Year Update; and Limits and Beyond) subsequently were published. Gaya Herrington, a Dutch econometrician, researcher, and women’s rights activist published one of the most recent follow-up pieces; her analyses found that the original model’s projections are broadly consistent with current trends. In other words, things still look bleak for the near-term experiences of human society. I am under no delusion that I will be alive to watch the catastrophic collapse. But, then, I suspect that may be exactly what I am watching every day—the “sudden” implosion of social structures that took thousands and thousands of years to build. The speed of the unraveling of society—compared to the tempo of its development—is blindingly fast. There it is again, that morbid fascination with the brutally painless decay of what could have been tomorrow…a thousand years hence. Eyewitness to emptiness.

If the pain accompanying a physical malady had a unique sonic signature, deaf doctors might be at a distinct disadvantage in diagnosing the ailment. How odd it must be to listen to a doctor—with unimpaired hearing—say, “I can hear your pain.” Yet it would not be so unusual for a doctor to say “I hear a gallop rhythm,” when describing an abnormal heart-beat sound. The sound is said to resemble the noise made by the hooves of a galloping horse, a symptom of ventricular dysfunction or heart failure. So, it’s not necessarily the pain the doctor hears…it’s the sonic symptom. As I give these matters more thought…and give my mind the freedom to explore concepts that might usually be dismissed as nonsense…it occurs to me that highly sensitive listening devices might one day enable physicians to detect sonic symptoms of all kinds of aches and afflictions. Imagine, for example, a device that can detect and record sounds associated with stress cracks in the skeletal structure…BEFORE a hip joint breaks, thereby providing an opportunity for preemptive reinforcement surgery.  Or, consider detection of the impending likelihood of Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA), enabling doctors to initiate treatment to avoid TIA and subsequent full-scale stroke. Effing magic…that could either protect our species from extinction…or accelerate the process.

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I have yet to commence this morning’s sonic and olfactory immersion. I will interrupt my thought processes in favor of giving myself a limited sensory treatment.

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The patchouli cones have been used up, so today I am using sandal incense cones to accompany relaxing sounds. I am increasingly conscious of the amount of time I devote to morning routines. That consciousness has made me realize what a spendthrift I can be, ignoring the fact that time is not the inexhaustible resource I once seem to have believed it to be. Once spent, the temporal equivalents of money are gone. Unlike bills and coins, accumulations of time cannot be restored or recreated. Time does not accrue interest. And like incense, time leaves only ashes and—for a while—a lingering aroma. Sounds leave echoes…or memories that remind me of echoes…that cling to the past like sonic portraits painted by keepers of wisdom.

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Two people left comments on my post yesterday; one a person I’ve known for almost 30 years and one for more than 10 years. I am beyond grateful for their comments…and even more grateful for the people who left them. I often feel I am incapable of expressing how much my limited audience means to me. But on the other hand I think my unrestrained expressions of appreciation would seem overly maudlin, to the point of being almost unbelievable. Oh, well, so be it. As long as the people for whom I am so grateful understand that I am sincere, that’s all that matters.

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My fingers keep slipping from their “do not type” position into their “type j a thousand times” position. I slide from one to the other and back again. Evidence is clear; I have been awake for 3 hours and need a bit of a nap.

I am, again, enlisting the calming aroma of patchouli incense and the mesmerizing sound of “spa” music in my attempts to engage peacefully with the day. These are not the weapons of war, nor the instruments of surrender. They are simply tools that may be pleasantly useful in shaping my encounter with the moments I confront with the passage of time. Are they effective tools? Or are they just symbols of the ease with which I can mislead myself or be misled? At what point does open-mindedness become raw gullibility?

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Yesterday, again, after waking at 3:00 a.m., I wanted the world to leave me alone for a while…to stop taunting me. Hoping again to slip into a serene sense of calm, I opted to burn incense and listen to soothing sounds. However, in short order I came to realize that typing, thinking, and attempting to focus my attention on a specific objective are not gentle on my mind. I quickly learned that I wanted to achieve a state of tranquility without expending any effort; I wanted to wish myself into a placid state of mind, without having to work at it. So, I abandoned the blogging endeavor, deciding instead to take a wee-hours nap on a living room sofa. Roughly 90 minutes later, I woke. When I looked out the window, I thought I saw the dim remnants of sunlight…it must be early evening, still, but not too early to return to watch another episode of Line of Duty. So I went into the kitchen, grabbed a plastic container of peanut-butter-filled pretzels, and went into the entertainment room (assuming mi novia might already be there). She was not, so I went looking for her. I slipped quietly into the bedroom, where I saw that she was sleeping under the bed covers.  I spoke to her: “Are you all right? It’s rare for you to nap at this hour.” She replied that she was fine and inquired about the time. I said, “It’s 5:53,” and she responded that she was not napping…she was still asleep from the night before. My confusion vaporized in an instant; I apologized. I slipped under the covers and went back to sleep. When I woke a bit later, I got up and began the day again; fully conscious, this time, that the sun had risen only an hour or so earlier. But the earlier…quite confusing…experience of mistaking the middle of the night for late afternoon rattled me. I did not return to the blog yesterday. I spent the day, instead, wondering whether the strange episode might be a forewarning that something is amiss in the deepest recesses of my brain.

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Sitting in front of a blank computer monitor, waiting to be struck by a bolt of enlightenment, leaves me both empty and fulfilled. I am neither dead nor alive until that bolt of enlightenment bathes me and my state of waiting in a pool of engagement. Schrödinger’s cat paces impatiently, its eyes trained on the crowded vacancy. If the cat could calculate the volume of space found inside a lower case “o,” shrimp boats would never again be lost at sea.

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Just when I was about ready to finish this morning’s blog post, I lit a cone of incense, something I have not done in quite some time. Mi novia mentioned that noticeable pause in what used to be my common practice; the fact that the massage therapist had an aromatic diffuser in her waiting room probably prompted her memory. Something about the aroma of burning incense helps relax me. Yesterday, in the darkened massage room, the therapist had another diffuser operating. Also, very low-volume, soothing music played in the background, giving the setting a calming, relaxing environment. After lighting the cone of incense, I played the “Spa” playlist on my Amazon Echo. I should have lit the incense and started the music when I first sat at my desk this morning. Together, the sound and smell are delightful. I plan to reinstitute that practice.

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When the crush of reality approaches intolerability—even when reality is simply unacceptably distasteful—one’s options decrease in number. Depending on the situation, a person may be able to cause circumstances to change, thereby making reality more appealing or, at least, tolerable. But if the changes required are beyond the individual’s influence or control, that option decays into an unachievable wish. Something that enables one to avoid reality—or minimize exposure to it—may be the only viable option to make life more appealing than its alternative. That something may be as basic as simple distraction or as complex as unrestrained escapism. Those two possibilities actually may represent two distinct points along a spectrum of a single option; different degrees of variation from reality. Yet that single spectrum may constitute far more options.  On one end is a minor distraction; on the other is an utter abandonment of reality in favor of fantasy—between those two ends are almost innumerable variations. Thus far, I have recorded my thoughts about options for responding to unpleasant realities in the form of generalized hypothetical philosophies. I could share far more specific ideas, but some of them might be correctly interpreted by people with whom I’d rather not share my thoughts. They probably don’t read this blog, but just in case…

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Yesterday began with a light-touch body massage, followed later in the day by an hour-long infusion of IV fluids. Last night, we watched a couple of episodes of Line of Duty on Acorn TV. If I haven’t already, I must say I highly recommend the series. It is an intriguing…riveting…police procedural that distracts me from thinking about/dealing with realities I would rather not have to acknowledge. I scheduled another massage for early next month. I’ll have another infusion this afternoon. I expect I’ll continue watching Line of Duty this evening, while mi novia attends a “girls” gathering with friends. I may brine a pork loin this evening and roast it tomorrow in our as-yet unused new oven. If I had sufficient energy, I would clean the smoker so I could smoke the meat tomorrow, but that would take enormous amounts of energy (since I haven’t cleaned it since the last time I smoked something…at least a year or two ago).  Ach! I seem to be getting increasingly lazy as I age. I seem to be mellowing at the same time, which is a good thing, but the simultaneous lethargy is unwelcome.

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When my pain of unknown origin overwhelms the fentanyl and hydrocodone, I try to sleep my way through it. Unrestrained escapism, though, might be worth a try. Actually, I suspect many of my dreams are expressions of unrestrained escapism, though that did not occur to me until just now. Until a moment ago, my first thoughts about unrestrained escapism revolved around the practice I’ve read about in which people in groups take on the identities of imaginary space aliens, “acting out” their way to unbridled escape. That particular activity holds no appeal for me, but dreams in which I am alone in the desert in the wee hours of very early morning, watching the stars, may provide me with a similar escape. It’s odd, now that I think about it, that I have no recollections of pains in my gut and back before my diagnosis of cancer’s recurrence. Since then, though, pains have slowly taken hold, becoming increasingly common within the last six months (or maybe the last year?) or so. Lately, the drugs usually keep the pain in control, within tolerable limits. I have a fairly low threshold for pain so when I feel no pain I tend to be ecstatically happy about it. I wonder, though, whether this more recent pain is any worse than its identical twin would have been three years ago? The fact that it’s related to cancer may have the psychological effect of making it sometimes seem worse than it really is.

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At this very moment, I feel intensely sad that my life will likely be cut short by cancer. That emotion has not intruded on me much until just now. I am not sad about my own future, just the emotional trauma it will inflict on people to whom I matter and who matter to me. I wish we (humans) could accept death as a simple matter-of-fact and not experience our losses as painful. Far easier said than done. I hear myself thinking, though; perhaps I can think myself into accepting the world as it is.

Safety is a concept. A wish or dream or desire or promise or expectation or…who knows just what it is?  One thing it is not, though, is concrete…no mass and no weight, it takes up no space. It is neither warm nor cold. Perhaps it is an imaginary condition; a status based entirely on either an emotional or a physical context. Or both. Or neither. Maybe it is an idea planted in our brains to minimize our natural fear of everything around us. Something to diffuse the terror embedded in circumstances. Though we’ve heard the phrase “seek shelter, go to a safe place,” we know safety is not a place. Safety could be a veil that introduces a translucent film in front of our eyes—a film that mitigates our view of the horrors confronting us. It’s maddening; not knowing what safety is, but wanting it desperately…regardless.

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I read something surprising yesterday. I read that Greenland sharks have a lifespan of 250 to 500 years. One such shark evaluated not long ago, according to the article, had a confirmed age of 400 years. That shark would have been born around the years 1625, the year King Charles declared Virginia, the Bermuda Islands, and New England to be royal colonies directly dependent upon the crown. Early that same year, led by the Duke of Soubise, the Huguenots launched a second rebellion against King Louis XIII, with a surprise naval assault on a French fleet being prepared in Blavet. Later that year, a Dutch fleet attacked the Portuguese garrison at Elmina castle at modern-day Elmina, Ghana, but was defeated with heavy casualties. I doubt the 400 year-old shark remembers those events. But I could be wrong.

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During my visit to the oncologist’s office in the Village yesterday, I learned I am to return again this afternoon to the office in Hot Springs for more IV fluids. And I am to return tomorrow for another infusion. And I have more visits scheduled next week. And a PET-scan on the 25th, with a follow-up visit to review the results on the 27th. The results of the PET-scan, according to the nurse practitioner’s comments yesterday, may enable the oncologist to give me an indication of the speed with which my cancer is progressing. Maybe. We shall see. By the way, yesterday was my oncologist’s birthday. Had I known in advance, I would have delivered a card. At least I saw her briefly and was able to wish her a happy birthday.

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Today’s the day for my long-awaited massage. I’ll go over this morning for a 50-minute professional massage. I have mixed feelings about it. I expect it will be delightfully relaxing, but I’m concerned that the tenderness in my gut and my back may make the experience less than ideal. I just have to remind myself that I can tell the masseuse to stop any manipulation that causes too much discomfort.

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My mind has been trying, ever since I woke this morning, to recall one or more dreams I had while I slept. So far, the effort has been unsuccessful. I get quick flashes of memory, but they disappear even before they register in my brain. I do not know why I am so curious to recall the dream(s); they must have been either delightful or terrifying.

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Enough typing for one morning.

I try to combat the natural…well, I suppose it’s natural… tendency to allow my cancer diagnosis to wreck my emotional state. When I was first diagnosed with lung cancer in late 2018, I entered the fray with the assumption I would win the battle. From the start, I fully expected to conquer the disease; almost to the point that I viewed the diagnosis as little more than an annoyance that would deliver some irritating experiences. I considered the idea that it would kill me as only remotely possible—and overly dramatic. I assumed I would join the legions of people who have overcome the diagnosis to live many years of happy and fulfilling lives. After a year of treatments, my assumption were proven correct. The disease went into remission, as far as anyone could tell, and stayed there for five years after the original diagnosis. But after its recurrence was discovered in late 2023, my confidence that I would “win” began to evaporate.  With its return, I learned the disease was no longer curable. It ultimately would kill me, but treatments could prolong my life—perhaps by a lot. The treatment plan was based on the expectation that a limited number of chemotherapy treatments, followed by two years of weekly infusions of Keytruda immunotherapy. After almost two years of treatment following its recurrence, the initial treatment plan has long since been replaced. None of this is new information in this blog. I’ve repeated it so many times…maybe in an attempt to make my brain accept reality. Maybe, though, it is because I have not been as successful as I had hoped in preventing the disease from overwhelming my emotions.  I’ve considered that possibility before. An online article I read this morning on the NPR website might reinforce that idea.

Coping with cancer is rarely easy for anyone, but men tend to fare worse — emotionally and physically — than women. Evidence shows male survivors isolate more, seek less peer and other support and, alarmingly, die earlier.

Yuki Noguchi, NPR

The NPR article addressed the emotional toll cancer takes on young men. While my youth is far behind me, I share some of the emotions described in the article: “You feel so beat up and powerless;” “So much of cancer is the loss of the self and loss of control…that’s probably the hardest thing.” The article focuses on age and sex, but I suspect sex is the attribute contributing most to the emotional toll of a cancer diagnosis. The article notes that women tend to go to treatments in the company of friends and family, while men tend to go alone (not in my case, though, at mi novia’s insistence). Our culture, which expects men to conform to strong, silent type images, discourages men from seeking help in confronting their fears. In my case, it’s not fear of death that is debilitating, but I am not sure exactly what it is that has led me to isolate myself from an already limited network of friends. That having been said, it may be fear of another kind; fear of being unable to control my emotions if I allow them to crack the veneer of practical realism. But that’s just a guess. The idea of participating in a “support group,” in which I can remain anonymous may have some merit.

I pride myself on refusing to be taken in by the nonsensical mythology of masculinity, yet that very independence may be just for show. An aspiration, not really an attribute.

My attitude about my diagnosis and about my emotional state of mind may go through a dozen changes before noon today. That possibility bothers me. It provides evidence that my “take what comes” approach to this challenge in my life may be a counterfeit $223 bill featuring a portrait of Clarence Thomas. Oh well, maybe laughter is not the best medicine, after all. Maybe cyanide, instead, can claim its rightful place in that metaphor.

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Today’s visit with the oncologist probably will be a brief one: a blood draw for labs, a short conversation with my oncologist, and (depending on the results of the labs) an injection to address either anemia or bone-related issues.

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The time is closing in on 7:00 a.m. Before the morning is out, I’ll make myself clean and presentable so I can sit in the oncology treatment room, where I will attempt to be invisible.

I get it. I understand the motivation. In fact, the quest for ideal isolation may be the only thing I truly comprehend. Everything else is distraction…maddening interference that gets in the way of achieving serenity. Not just achieving serenity, but even pursuing it. Sometimes, it is hard to differentiate between isolation and insulation, but the two are not the same. The objective of isolation is permanence—severing the connections between now and then—fully embracing then. Insulation is brief; a temporary reprieve, just long enough to stem the hemorrhaging of hope. Insulation is a two-week vacation to a remote island. Isolation is the permanent relocation to an uninhabited planet.

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Sitting in a black office chair, rocking back and forth, and listening intently to sounds emanating from somewhere deep within my body. The source of the noise may be artificial—my brain convincing itself that the sounds arise from blood cells slamming into the inner walls of arteries. But the sounds could be real. Evidence of tissues being torn by force from underlying strata. Repetitive thump, thump, thump noises might be coming through the skin, amplified by big, empty lungs. But the high-pitched voice of a little girl interrupts my analyses; a neighbor taking her granddaughter for a walk in front of my house on this lonely, almost-empty cul-de-sac. Evidence of inadequate insulation.

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I’ve reached deep inside myself, only to find more of the same emptiness. Not conducive to writing. Another planet, perhaps.

Drawing Hands by M.C. Escher, © Cordon Art-Baarn-the Netherlands.

I remember the overwhelming sense of awe I felt when, as a teenager, my brain permitted me to fully understand that my body was mine; and mine alone. As I remember the circumstances, nothing in particular triggered the sense of reverential amazement that I was in such astonishing control of my body—especially my hands. The clearly visible blood vessels and tendons in my hands and forearms struck me, somehow, as miraculous. I have never shared with anyone my sense of wonder at my own hands. I thought fascination with my own body and, in particular, my hands was strange and inexplicable—an embarrassingly narcissistic appreciation of something so plain and so common. Instances of being enthralled with my own “ownership” of my body declined in frequency as I grew older, but they have never completely disappeared. To this day, I do not understand the source of this esteem and veneration. I wonder whether I am alone in attributing such intense appreciation for my own physicality? Obviously, this narcissistic tribute is not based on exceptionalism. Maybe, instead, it arose from my admiration for the image produced here; I have always loved the work of M.C. Escher, ever since my oldest brother gave me a copy of a coffee table book of Escher’s drawings.

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I’ve been sitting at my desk for half an hour or so, laughing quietly to myself over stories I doubt I ever heard before. Despite having never heard them—to my knowledge—my artificial memories seem very real. One of the stories, told to me in my oldest brother’s voice in my head, had to do with my mother preferring to have a Staffordshire Terrier as a pet, as opposed to a Mexican free-tailed bat. Somehow, the story incorporated some erroneous embellishments that changed the nature of the story entirely. My mother had once favored the bat over the dog because of the bat’s superior skills at catching and killing mosquitoes but, because the bat had accidentally flown into my mother’s glass of wine, her preference had changed. The dog subsequently was outfitted with a set of artificial wings that enabled it to fly around the sun porch to capture mosquitoes. I do not remember this story first-hand, but the telling of it convinced me it was real.  Another story that flitted through my mind involved my sister returning from a summer traveling in Europe, with a reindeer in tow. The reindeer could not be transported in the aircraft cargo hold due to space limitations, so my sister had to buy a seat for it in the first-class cabin. The animal over-imbibed on the flight back to the U.S….to the extent that it had to be escorted off the plane by security guards to control the drunken beast. My father posted bail for the creature; unfortunately, the intoxicated boozer fled after being released from jail, so my father forfeited the bail money.

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I believe it was Dorothy Parker who was quoted as saying, “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

James Ussher, an Irish priest and religious scholar, asserted the creation of the universe took place on October 22, 4004 BCE, just 4057 years and a day before my birthday. Georgi Gospodinov, a Bulgarian writer, wrote in his novel, Time Shelter (which won the 2023 International Booker Prize), that some people suggest creation took place at around 6:00 in the afternoon. Naturally, I am curious about world events that occurred from 4057 years before I was born to the present. But I am especially interested about what occurred in the days and weeks and months before Creation: October 22, 4004 BCE. Time, as we imagine it today, would have been impossible before October 22, 4004 BCE. In fact, nothing would have been possible before that date. Except, of course, the creation of the universe. But, wait, that can’t be right. At some moment before the impossible event took place, the impossible had become possible, even if only for a fraction of what we now call a second. Yet, if time began at roughly 6:00 p.m. on October 22, 2004 BCE, possibilities did not exist before that moment because possibilities are based on time. Before and during and after. Generic time. The existence of time is a necessary requisite for everything. Time cannot exist in the absence of life and death, either. Yet that assertion makes life an impossibility, too, because life is the absence of death…or is it the precursor? But there it is again…generic time (like an attribute owned by a word like “precursor) intruding on my ability to understand anything, because all things depend on time for their very existence. Rocks could not be formed without the passage of time. Planning would go by the wayside if time did not exist as a measure against progress toward a plan. Leaves on trees…and the other parts of trees, as well, require time to grow; so, no time, no trees. What of the indescribable moments before 6:00 p.m. on October 22, 4004 BCE? Am I expected to believe there was NOTHING?  No air, no Earth, no moon, stars, no pre-existent bones of dinosaurs that died long before time commenced its never-ending prelude to everything? And how could there have been a “tomorrow” on October 21, 4004 BCE…since there was no “today” during that slice of non-existent duration? Every living being dies without getting answers to fundamental questions about life, so what’s the point of living? Apparently, it’s not to get answers to questions that go unanswered for hundreds of generations.

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Wearing a self-designed parachute, Franz Reichelt jumped off the Eifel Tower on February 4, 1912 to prove the viability of his invention, plunging to his death. A scratchy video of the tragic event, widely available online, brings to mind the question that invariably arises when driver slow to a crawl as they roll by accidents on the highway: are the watchers slowing in the interest of safety, or are they voyeurs yielding to their morbid curiosity?

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Phaedra is slightly more tolerant of me now than she was the day we brought her home from the recycling center…you know, the place that receives recyclable paper and plastics and so on in exchange for delivering already-pregnant sexually-active kittens. My tolerance of her has increased during that time, as well. My tolerance would grow dramatically, though, if she were to magically transform into a self-watering, self-walking, self-feeding dog whose devotion to me were obvious with every step and every wag of her tail. Speaking of tails…dogs wag, cats swish. We cannot say with certainty why they behave the way they do; we can surmise (based on questionable observable criteria), but cannot KNOW. Our respective languages are separated in the same way that sonic differences exist between car engines and motorcycle engines. When a person screams and flips his finger at you, you can know with some confidence the person is upset with you. But when a dog wags her tail and smiles and you, she could be thinking about biting off your arm…and you would not know it until you feel her teeth rip into your flesh. We pretend we know what dogs and cats are thinking or saying, but we don’t. If, in human years, your Dobermann is 14 years old, he’s like an unpredictable 13 year-old child who treats you with admiration and love and respect, all while plotting your demise with the help of his closest friends. Don’t turn your back on the beast.

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There is no coming to consciousness without pain.

Carl Jung

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Traces of who I used to be slip away every night, when I dream. Memories wander into the darkness, replaced by imaginary moments. The people I wish I had become get lost among the crowds of people who occupy my mind. I remember the members of those crowds, but most of them do not remember me…at least not who I am now.

The sub-head displayed for an image on the New York Times website shatters the hope for optimism:

Matt Chase, New York Times

In a pessimistic era, a temporary, tenuous pause to fighting has become the most anyone is trying to achieve.

A brief interruption. A misleading respite from the brutality of warfare, meant to convince observers that the initiators of the conflict are—at their core—gentle pacifists who crave the placidity of tolerance and embrace.

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Misguided. Misdirected Misinformed. Sent into battle with a single objective and only one acceptable alternative: kill or be killed. Trained to view death on the battlefield as the only acceptable way to die. Taught that old age is the province of cowards who retreat from the glory of battle. The embrace of spiritual culpability, they say, is the only path to righteous indignation. For reasons unknown to me, I have used various forms of the word “repository” in several pieces I have written for this blog of the years. And here is it again:

“…strong enough to carry them to the edge of the widest valley and the deepest repositories of thunder.”

Who can explain for me where I can find “repositories of thunder?” I think I can find multiple answers to innumerable questions if only I can locate these “repositories of thunder.”

Finally, in closing, I want to clarify that, yes, I posted on Facebook this morning, “Her only other unusual feature was a nine-foot-long tail that was infested with yellow thermomagnetic scorpions.” You know, in case there was any question.

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Short posts, laden with absurd gibberish, are more demanding than you might think. But you probably knew that, didn’t you?

I took the opportunity during yesterday’s chemo treatment to inquire, again, about my prognosis. The oncologist’s response was, again, just as expected: we want to keep you alive for as long as you are content with the quality of your life. I asked for a specific date I might give to the crematorium. She demurred. I understand her position. She really does not know. But she did suggest I would have died before now if I had opted to refuse chemo treatment when I was diagnosed with a recurrence of lung cancer.  I agreed to continue treatment for the foreseeable future, provided my quality of life does not get appreciably worse. Oh, she called me “frail.” The man I was fifteen years ago would have slapped her. But, having turned into a frail old man with a completely different personality, I chose not to; I probably would have lost my balance and fallen to the floor, breaking a hip, dislocating my shoulder, and yanking the Infuse-a-Port from my chest in the process.  As for my prognosis, I’m assigning myself enough time to allow an as-yet-undiscovered-cure for my form of cancer to be found and successfully administered to me. In other words, I have as much time left as I have time left.

I’m returning today and again tomorrow for another infusion of IV fluid. I cancelled my physical therapy sessions (except for the final “summary” session in a week). My intent is to retrieve some of the time I have given over to treatments that do no measurable good. Nice guys, my physical therapists, but they can do more good elsewhere.

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The highway is an expanse of mottled tan sand, embedded with threatening fragments of beige and brown and off-white pebbles. Visible from my vantage point, walls of the nearest building and its roof are similar in color, though darker, as if chosen from a companion palette that share density and tone. The combined color schemes seem designed as the perfect setting for a scene of hopeless emotional rubble. The only elements missing are blowing sand and tumbleweeds. Give them time and the harshness of the environment will adjust accordingly. Before long, a swirl of poison and dangerous ideas will merge to create an atmosphere of ominous perversity.  But that may be just a nightmare, crippled when it was struck by a malevolent locomotive that derailed as it slammed into a a ghost-town left on the tracks by irresponsible dream-weavers.

Where is this place? There are no rattlesnakes here…none that are visible. But the palpable shame in the streets is more dangerous and deadly, anyway. I can’t make out whether the scenery around me is real or simply an ugly fantasy in the midst of transformation into an eternity one step down from Purgatory and one step up from Hell. I’ve heard of this place before. My grandmother taunted me with predictions I would end up here—my body on fire in perpetually excruciating pain. A demon—with a massive belly and hair coiled into horns—will approach me, holding a can of gasoline he will use to douse the flames. Oh, my grandmother. She was a brutal old gal, an evangelical television newsreader who attempted suicide on live TV before I was born. When she babysat me for my parents, she spent the entire time in their absence poking me with an ice pick she had heated over an open flame on the gas stove-top. Ah, but this place cannot be the one my grandmother described to me, can it? Where are the high-rise buildings expelling thick smoke and burning corpses from the windows? Where are the promotional signs offering cigarettes, self-study courses in burglary, and parental torture…all without charge? No, this is not the place the old woman talked about. Unlike that repository of unspeakable iniquity, this place has vague hints that its toxicity may not last forever…hospitals that occasionally discharge patients, rare “not guilty” verdicts rendered by judges assumed to be in the pockets of corrupt politicians, and other uncommon actions by individuals and entities long since assumed to exemplify the face of wanton injustice and unnecessary vengeance.

Those shreds of evidence that all is not lost, though, constitute intentional misdirection… promises of hope in an environment in which hope simply cannot survive. After being misled by two or three shattered promises, even people who most fervently cling to the slimmest hopes surrender to despair. The tiny filaments of optimism that illuminate their confidence dim, at first, and then fade into complete darkness. Belief erodes into doubt. Doubt shrivels into bleak certainty. Bleak certainty erupts into the darkest of despair. And from there on, it just gets worse.

Forlorn highways always lead away from ugly places. That’s as positive a perspective as one can have about such circumstances. At the other end of the spectrum, though, is recognition that those same highways lead toward worse places…places where the damage has already been done and will only decline further into a place where “worst” is only an interim step into a bottomless abyss.

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I haven’t taken my meds yet this morning. I woke up late, after sleeping for roughly 12 hours, and decided to jump right into the real world…rather than spend 10-15 minutes eating and drinking medicine. I’ve spent almost an hour blogging. Time to return to reality. I’m still tired, though. I could sleep another 3-4 hours, if given the opportunity.

My weight began to creep back up during the past weekend, barely topping 150 pounds for two consecutive days. Mi novia…and others…urge me to eat more. Protein-laden foods, especially, but anything that will pump calories into me. I understand their concerns and I share them, but I doubt anyone who hasn’t experienced my specific set of circumstances can fully appreciate that “just eating more” is not a matter of simple choice. Most foods usually have no appeal whatsoever; those that do are acceptable only in very limited amounts. Cancer probably is not to blame; I suspect the treatments are responsible, though skipping recently-scheduled treatments has not yet improved my appetite. The chemicals involved in attacking cancer, I am told, stay active in one’s body for quite some time. So, even without the regular infusions, they continue performing—the functions of both treatments and side-effects keep going for a while after they are stopped. My reactions to food are not easy to explain. It’s not that food is actually intolerable, physically, but that my body sends me messages that suggest the results of eating more would be contrary to all the hopes and expectations that drive people to encourage me to consume more food. It’s impossible to explain in a way that is understandable…even to myself.

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This afternoon, I go into town for a brain MRI, a procedure intended to determine whether there’s evidence that cancer might have metastasized to that vital organ. No one thinks it has, they say; it’s only to rule it out…the fact that I tend to “wobble” a bit when I walk could conceivably indicate such metastasis. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to the oncologist for the treatment that was to be given last week (but was withheld for reasons that are no longer clear to me). And one week from Thursday I will get a massage, courtesy of the generosity of mi novia’s ex-husband. I haven’t had a massage in so very, very long—I’ve forgotten the protocols associated with the practice. I do remember, though, how relaxed I usually felt after getting a massage…except when the therapist placed heated stones on my back before they had cooled enough that the risk of second-degree burns had dissipated.

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I hibernated again yesterday, off and on, which had the unintended side-effect of keeping me from sleeping for as long as I would have liked last night. I woke just before 3:00 a.m. this morning. It’s now almost 5 and I finally am beginning to feel like I could get some sleep again. I suppose I could try to find a movie that would hold my interests, but my efforts along those lines have not been especially productive of late…other than No Country for Old Men. A film that might transport me to an era before my time…a time when the grittiness of life was unavoidably educational…might be what I need. Something that would thrust me back to a place and time I’ve not endured—living again through experiences I’ve never had. In spite of the welcome attention and loving support I regularly receive from family and friends, I sometimes feel very lonely, as if I spend all my time at the bottom of an inaccessible well, miles from…something. But that loneliness is almost soothing, an anchor I can count on if I find myself in need of absolute solitude. Describing a unique, unshared emotion for which no descriptive language exists is impossible.

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I could keep thinking and writing for days if I let myself do it. But there seems to be no point in documenting confusion, misunderstanding, chaos, and repetitive mistakes. So, instead, I will finish my Miralax and swill my Ensure and celebrate the impending end of a dark and disappointing night.  I will consider the night a success, though, if I avoid spending time before it ends by filtering the air through a wet Brillo pad.

This morning’s My Unsung Hero on the NPR website triggered in me a flood of memories and emotions. The piece told the story of a neighbor helping a woman facing growing obligations while dealing with her husband’s brain injury. One of those obligations—clearing leaves on the lawn in time for a looming city collection—found her crying and under stress as she began to undertake the task. Just as she began, a neighbor stepped in and advised her to go rest while he took over the task. Her neighbor’s kind gesture remains an emotional memory for her eight years later. A similar memory of mine causes emotions in me. Shortly after my late wife was diagnosed with breast cancer and advised to have a total mastectomy, I planned to go home from work one day to mow the lawn, which I had neglected for weeks. When I pushed my lawnmower out of the garage, I heard another gas-powered mower and saw one of my neighbors pushing his mower through my yard. He knew about my wife’s condition and wanted to do something to help alleviate some of the pressures facing me. I remember approaching him that afternoon to try to thank him, unable to articulate my appreciation through the tide of tears running down my cheeks. I wonder, this morning, how much longer NPR will be able to continue distributing My Unsung Hero and other moving programs. My emotions this morning comprise a mixture of gratitude for compassionate humanity and rage at cruelty for cruelty’s sake.

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Yesterday morning’s nap evolved into something else. Something resembling hibernation. Feeling fatigue and fighting a sense of general malaise, I decided to rest while mi novia went to church. I got back in bed about 9:40 a.m.  I slept…soundly, for the most part…until 4:00 p.m. I have not slept so long—during the daytime—for quite some time. On one hand, I relish the serenity of largely uninterrupted sleep; on the other, the experience seems wasteful of precious and irretrievable conscious living.

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I might find life in Malmö, Sweden to my liking. I’ve already found an apartment there that I like. It’s in a high-rise (54-story) residential building called the Turning Torso. The only significant downside, I think, would involve living in a human-laden environment. People tend to create everlasting disturbing chaos wherever they go. We scatter broken glass like seeds and tend to the shards like professional gardeners, celebrating as each piece of sharp debris evolves into a million tiny glass knives that spread their destructive capabilities far and wide.

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Never. That word suggests a relationship with Time, but refuses to be explicit about the nature of any such relationship. The reason? The relationship…if there is one…is implied, but when confronted with demands for evidence, is denied. Never is the half-sister of Always. She is Eternal’s cousin, as well, but is related to her daughter’s incestuous grand-uncle, Occasional, solely on the basis of forged certificates of authenticity. None of them have even remotely similar parentage. Like Never, though, Always hints at a familial connection with Time. The closest they ever came to a blood relationship was during a custody battle between Before and After, when Never testified on behalf of Infrequent, who claimed to have been involved in an intimate relationship with Perpetual. Who knows enough about Long Shortcomings to be able to untangle her imperfect flaws? Does any of this sound remotely familiar…like the whining musical notes created by arrows as they pierce fully-inflated helium balloons…or the eerie spoonerisms that erupt from burping chirds as they neather their fests?

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Enough absurdity. I thought it might ease my entry into the work-week but, alas, I forgot I am unemployed. “Retired” sounds so much more civilized; but “unemployed” is so much more descriptive.

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Last night, we began watching a 2007 film that I think I watched when it first came out; No Country for Old Men. It’s the sort of gritty film the Coen brothers are known for and the kind of film that, according to Wikipedia, “revisits the themes of fate, conscience, and circumstance” that I find so intriguing. I had been thinking for days about finding and watching the film, but we stopped watching in mid-film last night because I was not feeling well. We’ll finish it tonight…soon, anyway. And I might look for opportunities to stream some other Coen brothers films, like Blood Simple, Fargo, and Miller’s Crossing. Maybe I just need a break from a steady diet of Scandinavian Nordic noir films, though the departure from one genre to the other is not especially wide.

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If I were considerably younger, I might invest my youthful energy in promoting and supporting a rebellion against what is now clearly a fascist dictatorship fueled by a narcissistic cult of power-hungry sociopaths and psychopaths. Sadly, though, my youth is long gone. Left to me now are just rage, righteous cunning, and little left to lose. Those attributes blossom late in one’s life when the wisdom of experience confronts the opportunity to do battle with injustice and cruelty. Old age may rob a person of the ability to engage in hand-to-hand revolt, but it provides a planning platform that might be employed to vanquish authoritarian despotism. There is little realistic hope that the actions or leadership of just one person, though, could pave the way for triumph. A large-scale elder resistance, committed to victory at all costs, would be necessary to offer suggestions about strategies and to encourage and support action by a youthful insurgency. Perhaps an existing organization might form a secret division, devoted to defiance? The Grey Berets?

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A few years ago, I met a guy who told me he wanted to write some fiction, based loosely on his experiences as an architect, based in Japan, for an international hotel company. He and I talked several times about writing, but as far as I know he never delved into it the way I hoped he would. The stories he told about his experiences in Japan fascinated me. If memory serves me, I think he had met his ex-wife while living in Japan. I met him when he joined his sister as part of a group in which I participated that regularly attended a local wine dinner. He and I had a fair amount in common and I looked forward to getting to know him better and to discussing writing with him. Unfortunately, during a routine colonoscopy his colon was punctured; he landed in the hospital for quite a while as a result. During that hospital stay, he experienced problems with pulmonary fibrosis; the problems stayed with him and grew far worse after he was discharged. I saw him only once or twice after his hospital discharge; he died several months later. My limited interactions with Paul were among hundreds I have had with various people over the years that could serve as the springboard for fiction stories. A story that grows out of my brief exposure to Paul might feature an American architect who moves to Japan and becomes enamored with Japanese cuisine. Another story, based on a married woman with whom I worked while I lived in Chicago, could focus on her (whose name escapes me) traumatic experiences dealing with a diagnosis of breast cancer at the same time she began a series of affairs with married men. For reasons unknown, she confided in me about her dalliances. I moved away from Chicago before breast cancer claimed her life a year or so later. Yet another character could be based on a woman who tries to hide her low self-esteem by adopting the offensive persona of a non-stop braggard whose behavior suggests her contempt for almost everyone around her…who she considers to be less intelligent and far less interesting than she perceives herself to be. Her name, by the way, is Veronika. All of these modified real-life characters could launch many more fictional people. If I follow my usual path in writing about them, though, I will not reveal much about any of them; broad and shallow is, unfortunately, my style…a river two miles wide and two inches deep.

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Kung-Fu Watkins collected a salary from Bayview County, which employed him as a 911 operator. In his spare time, Kung-Fu volunteered at a rescue center for abandoned standard poodles. When not working or volunteering, he either slept, watched silent movies, or drank shots of jagermeister at the Pliant Steel Bar. Kung-Fu’s wife, Madelaine Patel, had spent sixteen years as a flight attendant for Cloud’s Edge Airlines before she was dismissed for “erratic behavior” in an airport restaurant in Berlin. Though the “erratic behavior” was not specified, it was widely assumed to have involved what a patron had captured on a video camera: Madelaine, stark naked at the restaurant’s hostess stand while slurring the words to Everybody Knows. After that incident, she found a part-time job as a housecleaner for the Throbbing Thrills Motel and Lounge, a licensed pleasure palace on property owned by the Bayview County Country Club. Both Kung-Fu’s and Madelaine’s brief and pointless lives came to a meaningless end on that bright and sunny afternoon when the Bayview County Emergency Services Director accidentally triggered a nuclear explosion that vaporized the county.

Answers to every question ever posed can be found in a microscopically thin atmospheric layer surrounding our home planet. All the information ever collected is stored there, as well. Each conversation, every fit of anger, every step taken by every soldier in every war, all the handwritten notes, each email sent and received, the flavors of every food ever eaten, every pet that has been a companion to humans, every person ever born, and the aromas of every flower that ever blossomed and every perfume dabbed on every neck, every insect that crawled on every surface, and every raindrop that ever fell —all of it exists in The Repository, that thin band of atmospheric magic. The Repository encircles Earth just beyond the troposphere, stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere, and exosphere. Atmospheric scientists do not know about The Repository, simply because it is so incredibly thin and transparent. No one really needs to know about The Repository; when its capabilities are needed, its functions will commence automatically. And when that happens, its next new cycle will begin. It will replicate forever…until it collapses on itself in recognition of the pointlessness of existence. Recent developments suggest that point may be reached sooner, rather than later. But that will eliminate only The Repository for our planet; identical functions exist in various forms for every planet in our solar system and every other celestial body, so we can assume the process will continue through all eternity. 

Religious scholars and spiritual explorers have long sought something to which they can assign (for want of a better term) “supernatural powers.” The Repository, as it happens, may be that something. But, unlike the entities manufactured in the minds of clerics and alchemists, The Repository is not an all-knowing, all-powerful, supremely compassionate, monstrously evil source of all things great and small. Instead, it is a practical and incomprehensibly powerful component of celestial memory. It is the equivalent of a computer whose storage capacity and speeds will be forever impossible-to-obtain by humans (or our servants who are trained to think and do for us).

The Repository is composed of tiny pieces of incredibly thin silicone-like material. Each piece has a surface area no greater than a fraction of a miniscule portion of a tiny piece of glitter that has been torn into a thousand pieces. Each silicone-like wafter contains a comprehensive record of an event or an attribute or an idea or a being, along with the equivalent of a numerically-coded link to all other related experiences and entities. Basically, each wafer is capable of performing several billion functions simultaneously. It is like today’s most powerful super-computer, amplified on an exponential scale far greater than any number thus far conceived by the mind of humankind. This may help to understand a wafer a bit better: a single wafer holds enough information to enable it (if it “chose”) to train a dust-mite to design and construct all cities with a population of more than 10 million worldwide.

Ponder that, if you will.

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Finally, I’ve received my first hard-copy issue (July 2025) of The Atlantic magazine. The cover article, Witness by Elizabeth Bruenig, addresses her experience in being a witness to executions, including what she has learned in her years of covering the death penalty. The article comes at a time in our nation when executions are making a “comeback,” thanks in large part I think to the degradation of our society’s compassion, civility, and human decency. I have not read the article word-for-word; it is quite long and is not uplifting in the least. But what I’ve read thus far is intriguing, informative, and flush with observations that make me question how people come to the conclusion that the death penalty is ever appropriate. Yet once, long ago, I was a death penalty proponent. The questions I was inspired to ask about the practice, though, changed my attitudes and made me feel ashamed to ever have supported it.

I found another article from the July issue surprisingly fascinating. The author, Jason Anthony, writes about an odd game called mheibes that involves teams trying to guess which members of an opposing team are  holding a silver ring and in which hand that player is holding it. The article, The World’s Hardest Bluffing Game, describes the game’s process. As simple (and as improbable) as the game sounds, it apparently teaches participants to apply their experiences in the game to determine whether an “opponent” is lying to them. Something as seemingly innocuous as seeing sweat on a brow or hearing stress in a voice can make the difference between “guessing” and “knowing.” Anthony notes that there are many bluffing games throughout the world, with different cultures favoring difference approaches to the process. I was surprised to learn how frequent the team captains are right in their determinations about who hold the ring and in which hand. The game Anthony writes about was held in India; I may explore whether there are any such games nearby. Poker, the most popular “bluffing” game, has never interested me much, but I might learn to appreciate it. First, though, I’ll look into mheibes.

Though I enjoy The Atlantic quite a lot, I think it is intended for people who are far more intellectual than I. My intellectual interests are quite broad, but rarely deep. I might be considered a semi-pretentious subscriber, rather than a semi-literate subscriber.

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It’s closing in on  9:00 a.m. I woke many times during the night, which I blame for sleeping late (until around 7:00 a.m.). I’m still wrestling with stomach pains. The painkillers tend to cause constipation, which can be more annoying and almost as painful as the pain the drugs are intended to quell. Perhaps sleeping pills will not produce the same side-effects. Another possibility to explore.

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Seconds after the morning sky begins to absorb the sun’s light, dozens of birds, each visible for just a fraction of a second, flitter from branch to branch. Only by staring intently at the tree for several minutes at a time can I see them. They are invisible  except when they fly between branches. Otherwise, I would miss viewing the frenetic activity taking place behind a thick crust of leafy green camouflage and dark brown and grey bark.  Like those birds, the moon remains hidden behind a privacy barrier most nights.

If  I leave my house on the right cloudless night, I can look upward and see where the moon hides. But I rarely leave my house at night…cloudless or clear. I stay inside, deceiving myself that a roof over my head will protect me from meteors and asteroids and birds that die in mid-flight, plummeting to unsuspecting targets below.

Standing outside in front of my house, day or night, I cannot see much of the sky…thanks to trees blocking my view. Is it only the trees, though, that hide the sky? If I cannot see the sky, what assurances do I have that it is actually “there?” How can I be sure, too, all the stars have not disappeared with it into a portion of space that remains invisible to my eyes?

A composite image of the far side of the Sun was acquired at 18:16 Universal Time (Greenwich Time) on February 14, 2011. I remember that momentous occasion as clearly as I recall the sound of the Liberty Bell cracking, sometime after the year 1840. Important events take their importance from the context in which they occur. One is probably safe to say the crack in the Liberty Bell would have been overlooked entirely if—when the crack took place—a massive extinction event in which dinosaurs disappeared from Earth was occurring. And the importance of the image of the far side of the sun would have dimmed in comparison to a photograph of newborn baby Destiny Whitney published in her family’s album at the same moment. Saddam Hussein’s execution by hanging did not make newspaper headlines on Christmas Day in 2001 because he did not die until a few days past five years later.

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Pagan rituals must have fulfilled a need at one time. To the extent they are practiced today by people who take them seriously, they may still fulfill a need. Not for me, though.

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It’s 6:01 a.m. Time for me to return to a horizontal position…more suitable for sleeping than sitting in a chair.

The world is spinning around me, the top and bottom halves and right and left spheres moving in opposite directions. Connections between its quadrants—top and left…bottom and right…left and bottom…right and top—are chaotically tangled in perfect harmony.  Sound can be seen and not heard; blindness is the sole illumination in the unbalanced symmetry between fact and fiction.  An obvious pattern in the pandemonium reveals nothing but raw disorder. Yet in this twisted nest of impossibly complex knots of frayed rope and malevolent live electrical wire, we seek  comfort. Our lives are rigidly ordered in tumultuous disarray. This, we surmise, must be sanity. And serenity is a sickness to be cured. So we employ governments to starve citizens into prosperity. We launch economic warfare in the name of peace. Because information and knowledge are so vast and overwhelming to the “common folk,” we allow our elected autocrats—our oppressors of choice—to limit our access to ideas. We permit them to change the definition of truth and falsehood at will; sometimes reversing them in mid-sentence. When the actions of our chosen despots conflict with our principles, we condemn the tyrants and, in defiance, promptly imitate their behaviors. Someone once said it, and I believe it to be true: “We’re all perfect, but we could use a little work.”

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Sharing one’s secrets is a temptation that’s difficult to avoid, but one that can be deadly dangerous. Information is both a beautiful tool and a monstrous weapon…simultaneously, at times. Serial killers who proudly leave complex clues about their identities might wonder how they ended up on a gurney in an execution chamber, a needle ready to deliver a final measure of vengeance.  The detectives who unraveled the clues, asked by a prison official to view the killers’ last living moments, might consider the invitation to be a supreme form of flattery. The “faithful husband” who invites his secretary to take her vacation at the same time he takes a “business trip” can be stunned to find his wife and his secretary waiting for him in his hotel room at his destination. The doctor who over-prescribes opioids in return for a portion of the “take” should not be taken by surprise when her patient agrees to testify against her in a plea arrangement.  A housewife—who shares with her best friend suspicions that her husband is having an affair—probably does not realize she may have just launched a murder plot between two paramours. Trust can be so very hard to develop; but it can be the only thing keeping one sane. Yet it can be lost in an instant, triggering a set of circumstances that change the landscape of one’s life. “Innocent bystanders” can become victims of misplaced trust, just as can the parties to undeserved trust. Somewhere along trust’s pendulum swing, its “bob” can become a guillotine’s blade.

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For the past week or two, I’ve been wondering whether the pains I’ve been feeling (and for which I am being treated) are temporary. Or, I wonder, are they likely to continue and simply get worse as time goes by? Inasmuch as no one seems certain what’s causing them, no one is prepared to give me an answer. But the vagueness I sense in the replies I get to my questions suggests to me the latter scenario may be likely. My retiring primary care doctor suggested, during a visit to this officer earlier this week, the problems might be connected to issues with my gall bladder…and that addressing those problems (either by “fixing” the problem or removing the offending organ) might cure the pain. I did not see my oncologist yesterday (only the nurse practitioner), but I hope to see her next week. If so, I will ask her for her opinion about my primary care doctor’s thoughts. Today, I will be visited by a representative of Arkansas Hospice, who will discuss with me the palliative care services the organization offers (as I have written before, I’m not ready for hospice). Minimizing pain and discomfort while enabling me to live as “normal” a life as possible would be my objective. I do not want to be tethered to pain meds, etc. that would effectively make me permanently stuck at home. God, this is getting to be so damn old! The recurrence of my lung cancer was found around the end of the year in 2023. At what point, I wonder, do the limitations on my daily life reach the point where I do not  want to keep dealing with them? I am not there yet; I know that. But is that a stage of the evolution of this experience that I can expect “soon?” And what, by the way, is “soon?” Nobody knows.

Yesterday, again, the nurse practitioner decided not to administer chemo—only IV fluids and injections to address nausea and to protect bone density.  The last time I had a chemo treatment was July 2. I wonder what effect, if any, skipping several treatments might have on me. I will ask next week…if I remember.

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My weight is down to 153 pounds or thereabouts, around 100 pounds below my maximum a few years ago. The nurse practitioner (and various others) emphasize the need for me to eat more protein-rich food and more food, in general. No one wants to read about these ongoing issues; I mention them here, though, as a record of what’s going on during  the course of my cancer experience. Not that this record will have any significant value. As much as anything else, keeping a  record seems both like a function I can perform and one that has “potential” (but not much) value.

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My sister-in-law lost both of her pets…a cat and a dog…within the past week. What a difficult set of circumstances to face. Both of them were old and ill and it’s good that they are out of their miseries…but to have them both go within just days of each other has to be extremely tough to take. Ach! Living isn’t easy;  death adds emphasis to that unfortunate reality.

Peace begins with oneself. I read several paragraphs from several sources about that motto—and the symbol said to represent it—this morning. A quick review of various sources led me to conclude that no one among us is likely to be privy to indisputable “facts” about them. Instead, we should be satisfied to appreciate the philosophies that drive us to place such enormous value on the fundamental concepts of peace. Focusing on the paint or chisel marks or letters or lines that define the concept or appearance of peace is sure to confound and confuse us, rather than illuminate the ideas that serve as the foundation for peace.

The third image here is not a universally accepted symbol for peace, but it suggests (to me) the symmetry of peace. That statement, though, raises a question: What is the “symmetry of peace?” Is it a collection of syllables meant to be thought-provoking or simply a meaningless concept nicely-arranged and illustrated by a set of designer rocks?

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More than two weeks ago, we began watching a Nordic crime noir series (The Bridge). It remains just as intriguing as it was at the beginning. We are closing in on the end of the series, something that’s always a disappointment when watching good films. However, several Scandinavian actors we’ve seen in other series are in this one, so it has confirmed that other films/series in which they play a part might be just as interesting. The character of the female lead (Sofia Helin) in The Bridge is on the autism spectrum. Initially, I thought the idea impractical and unlikely, but it has grown on me. Other actors with whom I have seen in other Swedish and Danish series include Kim Bodnia, Sarah Boberg, Dar Salim, Lars Ranthe, among others.

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I’ve had some odd…downright strange…morbid thoughts lately. For example, as I watched some of the later episodes of The Bridge, it occurred to me that my cancer might be progressing a faster pace than my film-watching. Which could mean I might not finish watching the series unless I hurry and finish before I die. That’s morbid for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it won’t matter whether I watched the full series or not…but it seemed to me that  I might be wasting my time if I did not complete the series. I doubt my medical prognosis is quite so immediately dire, but it must be on my mind from time to time, considering how those thoughts have so easily slipped into my “routine” thoughts.

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Potentially dangerous high levels of potassium in my blood are being treated with a drug that is intended to remove excess potassium from the intestines before it is absorbed into the body. I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow, during my weekly blood work, whether the treatment is working. Superficial evidence of its effectiveness is not obvious, so something else may be necessary. Ach! I am getting so tired of infusions of minerals, etc. that are too low and extractions of those that are too high.

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I’ll try to get another 15 to 45 minutes of sleep now. No reason not to do it.

The New York Times published online on July 28 a piece about the few remaining Japanese survivors of World War II. Tetsuo Sato is quoted in the article, giving this advice to young Japanese: “They wasted our lives like pieces of scrap paper,” he said. “Never die for Emperor or country.” That war is said to have killed 60 million people worldwide. Yet the so-called “leaders” of many nations today are so lacking in morality and/or intellect to understand how fundamentally crucial that advice is, if humankind is to survive.

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Clear night skies, when neither clouds nor atmospheric haze and dust impede the view, are stunning in their simple beauty. Despite astronomy’s enormous contributions to our understanding of the mysteries of black night skies—riddled with twinkling microscopic lights—viewing the bewitching grandeur of space is a magical experience. Our relative paucity of understanding the universe reenforces its beauty, I think. I wonder how our experience of mystery might be changed if the skies were utterly clear—no clouds, no stars, no planets, no meteorites, no satellites; nothing but empty space? Assuming Earth-bound organisms had no need for rain nor wind nor wireless communications, would the emptiness surrounding our planet hold so much allure? To what extent do we depend on the unknown to fuel our creativity and our sense of wonder? Early mornings fill me with wonder as I await daylight to reveal whether the sky is still there…whether the trees I saw yesterday remain…whether the world as I knew it when I went to sleep will appear the same if I awake. Does the acknowledgement that our assumptions are not guarantees fuel our capacity to imagine how lifelong understanding of existence could change in the blink of an eye? So many questions…valid answers to which probably can never be found.

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My creativity sometimes can explode as if a fuse had been lit to unleash my imagination, causing it to explode from an enclosed, pressurized space. What causes that potential power is beyond me. I know of circumstances that cause that fuse to burn slowly or die, though. Discomfort, either physical or emotional/mental can douse that fuse and rob me of my creativity. Pain tends to smother the spark of my imagination. I think fear can have the same effect—which makes sense, in that fear can drive mental or emotional pain. There is no shortage of examples of creative people—painters, sculptors, novelists, actors, etc.—whose creativity seems to have died after they experienced some kind of powerful trauma. None of those numerous examples, of course, come to mind at the moment. But they exist. And they serve as evidence of the power of pain to quell the imagination. I wonder whether, though, the memory of pain can have the same impact on one’s life? The pain may have softened enough to be tolerable, but not enough to stop its memory from extinguishing creativity.

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My November 25, 2014: Thoughts for the Day

When trees shed their leaves, they reveal beauty inaccessible in full leaf.  People do the same when they shed their clothes. It doesn’t matter whether the tree is gnarled and imperfect, any more than whether the person is wrinkled and worn.

The heartwood of the trunk is as perfect and pristine as it was a hundred years earlier, just as the person’s heart is clean and pure and unmolested by the ravages of time.

And, when a person sheds the protective layers of emotional armor developed over a lifetime of responses to pain and uncertainty, the beauty that remains is stunning.

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I will deal with today in the same way I have dealt with so many days before: I will take it as it comes and ponder how I might overcome the shame of allowing the decay of humanity without a fight.

Death is a lonely experience—one that raises countless questions that cannot be answered. One cannot ask questions of people who can respond on the basis of personal experience. I find it hard to understand the concept that death is simply the cessation of all experience. But without relying on the “spiritual” or “supernatural,” I cannot understand what else it could be. And I do not accept the premise that acknowledgements of magic might trend toward  understanding. I suspect these matters increasingly will be on my mind.

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My cancer-related pains have not become constant, nor excruciating, but they have become considerably more noticeable and more frequent. Fortunately, the pain management drugs have thus far been able to make pain manageable. But the speed with which levels of pain  have increased in recent weeks is worrisome. My next visit with the oncologist will give me the opportunity to again ask about how rapidly may pains might worsen and what, if anything, that might tell us about how long I might have to live while pain is still tolerable.

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We have had visitors recently, a welcome divergence from getting too used to hours-long naps. Friends from Oklahoma arrived Thursday night and we have enjoyed conversations with them, ranging from discussions of current events to social and financial philosophies to travel to…on and on! It’s nice to be able to talk with people who understand the challenges we faced in the “old days” of one’s career…and whose interests and philosophies are so similar to our own. I have allowed myself to ignore my blog for many days during the past few weeks; I appreciate the patience of people who follow my writing…letting me have some time to back away from what has become a daily and occasionally unwelcome chore.

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I want to emerge from the depression that seems to have taken hold lately. It may not be depression, though; it may just be anxiety. Whatever it is, it paints most days a little too grey. Fortunately, mi novia is here to help me wade through it and make it better. I think the recent uptick in the frequency of medical visits may be responsible in part for my “bluesy” mood. That surge may be scaled back soon, though, after upcoming brain MRI scans, CT scans, PET scans, etc.  These damn pains, though, keep requiring stronger drugs; the drugs apparently work, but they do not maintain their ability to alleviate pain without stronger and stronger prescriptions.

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It’s just a quarter after six. I think I’ll try to get some more sleep. I feel like the last two hours have been wasted on this blog post; I would have been more productive had I just stayed in bed.

Every year, within a day or two of my father’s birthday, my thoughts wander into a poem written by Rudyard Kipling. The poem—If— is said to have been among my father’s favorite poems.  I did not know my father very well, despite having spent more than half of what was then the first half of what was then my entire life in his presence. Being told he had a favorite poem, though, introduced me to a side of him that I had not known previously. The same thing happened when I was told he could play the piano. Who was this man with whom I had spent so much of my life? I should have known more about him…especially in light of the fact that he kept a copy of Kipling’s poem pinned to the wall above his desk. Two lines from that poem are forever etched into the corridors of my mind:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim…

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Just shy of an hour from now, three of us (mi novia, mi sobrina, y  yo) will leave the house in search of radiologists. The radiological team will direct magical rays at my chest in an effort to eliminate the cáncer. I wish them well in their endeavors.

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The evidence is clear; Phaedra spent time on my desktop. She left physical testimony that she wandered about my keyboard, depositando pelo de gato in her wake. I could use those depósitos de pelo de gato as proof of her actos criminales. Podríamos publicar fotos policiales de la gata descarriada en las oficinas de correos cercanas. La Oficina Federal de Detención de Gatos emitiría un Boletín de Puntos de Control para ella. Pronto, la pondrían encadenada. ¡Justicia!

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Dajcie mi waszych zmęczonych, waszych biednych,
Wasze stłoczone masy pragnące swobodnie oddychać,
Nędzne odpady z waszego rojnego brzegu.
Przyślijcie tych bezdomnych, miotanych burzą, do mnie,
Unoszę moją lampę obok złotych drzwi!

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氷の入ったマルガリータをください!