John Swinburn

Watching a soundless video of the Fagradalsfjal volcano in Iceland, which has been erupting for the past three days, inspires awe. The beauty of orange and white-hot molten lava, spraying into the air and splashing down on the mountainous terrain, is stunning. But I suspect watching, live from a point near the caldera, and hearing the deafening explosions of an erupting mountain as belches fire and smoke, would be both breathtaking and terrifying. Nothing compares to reality. That is not to say I would always prefer “being there” to watching “there” on video. Feeling comfortable and safe, versus feeling miserable and threatened, has a lot to be said for it.

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I now am president of my church’s board of directors. Within minutes—literally—of my first public appearance in that role, I was inundated with questions, comments, and complaints that merited the attention of someone who, at least in terms of title, could do something about it. None of the questions, comments, and complaints were frivolous; all really did deserve attention. And though none of the matters constituted an emergency, some of them require more urgent attention than others. I view the role of president as an opportunity to serve the congregation; even when nearly overwhelmed by all the “stuff” needed attention, I think I will feel grateful for the chance to respond to the wants and needs of the congregation. It’s nice to be “needed.” Even when “need” is a considerably stronger word than is called for. (Do you not know not to end a sentence with a preposition, John? And can you confuse the meaning of a sentence by using negatives in self-negating pairs?) Fortunately, the responses do not all fall to me. The other members of the board, committees, and congregants at large have an important role to play. And that is good.

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We have been watching, on Amazon Prime, a television series that first aired in 2014.   The series, called Mozart in the Jungle, revolves around the transition from an “old” orchestra director (Malcolm McDowell) to a much younger, more energetic, and extremely creative Mexican musician/director (Gael Garcia Bernal). Bernadette Peters has an important role, as well, along with several others who play key characters. The show is labeled a comedy. I thought I was tired of comedies, but I’ve discovered I’m tired only of absurd or slapstick comedies. We’re on season two (I think) of four seasons. Based on what we’ve seen so far, I am sure I will reserve a high rating for the series.

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Obscene atmospheric heat is returning. Meteorologists predict we will experience heat index values of 108°F today between noon and 8 PM, during which a heat advisory is in effect. Rivers of hot, humid air are flooding much of the country, following on the heals of tragically historic downpours in the northeastern states. The damage is done. Whether it can be reversed or, at least, slowed is debatable. What should not be debatable is that human activities are sufficiently responsible as to warrant widespread action. But what “should not be” actually is; large numbers of brainwashed people accept that violent spikes in temperatures and unprecedented weather events simply represent natural fluctuations in climate. Climate change, they claim, is an act of God, not caused by humans. An angry, diabolical, deranged, fierce, punishing God, I guess.

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This morning, I cannot focus on any one topic. My mind is flitting about like a butterfly on speed. Though I am sitting at my desk, I feel like it is taking all my energy to enable me to stay here; if I were to cut the straps of control, I think I might fly out of the chair and bounce off the walls and the ceiling. The power to propel me thusly, though, does not reside in my body. It must be driven entirely by my mind. A mind drenched in a special kind of adrenaline that accelerates only thinking, not action. A mind spinning, almost out of control, and ricocheting off of everything it touches. I guess the best term to describe my state of mind at this moment is this: keyed up. It’s as if I am ready to burst with energy. But I know the energy burst would last only a fraction of a second, burning itself out with remarkable speed. Next.

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Once upon a time, I considered myself somewhat reclusive. I suppose I am, even today. But not deeply reclusive. Not as reclusive as I once was. And not continuously reclusive. Just periodically reclusive. And not thoroughly reclusive. Only slightly reclusive. To the degree that there are times when I want to be reclusive with someone else to keep me company. So, what term applies? Reclusive seems a bit much. I can think of no other word that means “slightly, periodically reclusive, but reluctantly willing to be in or near the spotlight for very brief periods.”

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I am a much better listener than talker. My tongue frequently gets tied when I speak. Or my brain locks up while attempting to process thoughts. Rather than relying on my lips and tongue, I count on my fingers to speak for me. That presents a problem when communication calls for giving a speech. The boredom of watching someone type probably surpasses the boredom of listening to someone speak, even when the speaker drones on and on. I simply cannot imagine sitting behind a lectern on a podium, on a raised chair, typing comments to an audience. The boredom of that scenario would be exceeded only by standing behind the lectern, reading—in an excruciating monotone—a prepared speech.  So, the answer is to untie my tongue and learn to think aloud. I used to do that quite often. I suppose I am just a little rusty. Or, perhaps, corroded to the point of needing a hammer to break away layer upon layer of decay.

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It’s just now 7 o’clock. Time for more coffee and a bit of time on the deck before the temperature and humidity conspire to make sitting outdoors insufficiently comfortable.

Neither of the terms midwife and doula have satisfactory gender-neutral counterparts or synonyms. The same is true of handyman, though one could argue that helper and jack-of-all-trades are gender-neutral. But the “jack” in jack-of-all-trades seems rather gender-specific (masculine) to me. Over time, American society has successfully extracted gender from various terms describing people who perform certain types of work, for example mailman or postman⇒postal carrier or mail carrier; headmaster (or headmistress)⇒head teacher; stewardess (or steward)⇒flight attendant; barmaid⇒bartender; etc. Expressing an obviously male-biased perspective, I wonder whether the energies we have put forth in acknowledging that vocations are not gender-specific is always worth the effort. We once called (and often still do) females who perform on stage and in film actresses. Their male counterparts were actors. Today, we try to avoid assigning gender stereotypes by calling those people, regardless of their gender, actors or performers. Back to the terms in the first sentence above: do we need gender-neutral terms for midwife or doula? And do we need terms for men who function in the same capacity? Would midhusband, for example, make any sense? I do not object in the least to using gender-neutral terms, provided they roll off the tongue with reasonable ease. But I wonder whether energies directed toward making ours a more egalitarian society might be put to better use in other ways. I have no specific suggestions; I just wonder. I am 110% and then some in favor of absolute equality, but I question whether replacing terms that may once have suggested a role performed by a male (or female) is especially important. It is easier for me to ask “who is the actress who starred in that film?” than to ask “who is the female actor who starred in that film?” My preference for ease may be sheer laziness; or it may be unintentional chauvinism. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being most important, this issue probably bounces between 2 and 4; at least in my mind.

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The cover of the latest issue of Family Handyman magazine (that periodical could use an identity makeover, perhaps, to erase its overt preference for masculine helpers) includes a photograph of a dog crate. Inside the magazine, one can find plans for making it. I do not have a dog. Even if I did, I doubt I would need a dog crate. But the image of the crate and the plans inside the magazine tempt me to make one. Or, at least, to adapt the plans to make something else that features the same dark grey wood frame, set off by shiny copper tubing (which, in reality, is reminiscent of a jail cell). Fortunately, I do not have the tools to make such a product. If I did, though, I wonder whether I would try hard to justify in my mind creating something resembling the photograph on the magazine cover? In the past, covers of the magazine have featured lawn furniture, storage sheds, bathroom vanities, and various other projects. If I had the space and the tools, I might have built a storage shed or remodeled a bathroom; I would hot have built lawn furniture, though. I suppose certain images trigger the release of desires in my brain that are just waiting for something to set them off.

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Ten, maybe twenty, years. That’s how long I give planet Earth before it rebels against humankind in earnest. And I may be too optimistic; March of 2024 could mark the beginning of the planetary revolution against its wannabe masters. Or even later this year. Perhaps the floods in the northeastern U.S. signal the beginning of the full-scale terrestrial rebellion. I realize I may be assigning unrealistic anthropomorphic characteristics to the planet, but that is only for effect. In fact, I think many of the planet’s systems are under so much human-caused stress that a natural reactive process is taking place that will, coincidentally (and not necessarily intentionally), address the infection. We humans are, indeed, part of the natural environment; but like viruses that run amok or cells that grow out of control in certain cancers, we are attacking our own host. If we do not stop, the host will either die or it will overwhelm and reject the deviant cells that have turned against it. The time to avoid the unavoidable may already have passed. But efforts to rob the viruses and aberrant cells of fuel are worth trying; that can do no more harm than we are doing now. I do wish I return to life one hundred years from now, just to see what we have done; and/or to see what a rebellious planet Earth accomplished after the tipping point was reached.

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It is time for me to take out the trash, shave, take a shower, and ready myself for the day. I must still have hope. Otherwise, I would simply watch the world around me decay and ready itself for battle with its own cancerous invaders.

I spent ten or fifteen minutes this morning reading about life in and around a Buddhist monastery in West Orange, New Jersey. As I absorbed the story, written by Rachel Martin, thoughts in my head returned to some of my earlier contemplations about Buddhism. But those earlier contemplations revolved more around monasticism in general than about Buddhist monasticism in particular. Off and on for at least twenty years, perhaps more, I  have considered visiting a monastery for a period of time—long enough, at least, to clear my head of the clutter that seems always to keep me from the serenity that has long eluded me. Each time that idea has come to me, I have let it stew for a bit; wondering whether it would take hold long enough to spur me to action. And each time I have allowed myself the luxury—and accepted the penalty—of insufficient self-discipline. I want to explore it, but I fear the allure of monasticism might be so strong that I cannot resist it; it might tear me away from a way of living and thinking that now has taken almost seventy years to develop.

When I allow myself enough time and freedom to think about the appeal of a monastic life, I wonder about what motivates my thinking: is my inclination toward monasticism a search for serenity or is it an effort to run away from chaos? In other words, is it interest that drives me, or is it fear? And when I experience fear of the allure of monasticism, is that a way for me to override its growing appeal? More fundamental, though, is this question: why have asceticism and monasticism and other expressions of simplicity always so powerfully appealed to me? And why have I always lived my life in ways that seem diametrically opposed to the way I perceive that simplicity? I “own” things. I listen to music. I imbibe in alcohol. I sometimes revel in drowning in the flood of millions of inputs: sounds, sights, emotions, sensations, etc., etc., etc. Why does the absence of that almost overwhelming sense of absorbing all of life’s experiences draw me toward… emptiness?

In reading the article, I thought of the hundreds—or more—of increasingly commercialized opportunities to experience the “quietude of Buddhist retreats.” My thoughts about them have become increasingly negative over the years because I question their legitimacy; are they really “pure” opportunities to understand and pursue and experience serenity, or are they simply ways to enrich the organizers of the events? The latter; that’s the conclusion I usually reach. Yet, still, I continue thinking about them; about finding one that might really connect me with an understanding that, heretofore, has eluded me.

A friend in Dallas once expressed an interest in participating in a Buddhist retreat in east Texas; she invited me to join her. For all sorts of practical reasons, we never followed up on it together. I have no idea whether she ever did; I should contact her to ask. And, if she did, what was the experience like? I know she continues to live the same lifestyle she did when I lived in Dallas; awash in materialism and worldly experiences—so, even if she attended, it did not transform her in the way I might wish I would like to be transformed. All of this, of course, is just musing and pondering. But it is musing and pondering that will remain with me, I am sure. Because there’s something about my inclination toward monasticism and my search for simplicity and welcome emptiness that has enormous appeal. Yet, as I think about it, my “wanting” it may be evidence that it does not hold the keys to serenity I have always believed it might. Curious, that one’s mind can identify opposites that are at once answers and questions, but in fact are neither.

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Thus completes a few of my morning thoughts. Or, at least, puts a few of them on “pause” for a while. Now, onward toward the day.

The muscles in my neck and shoulders feel like they are being stretched and twisted and pulled tight, as if badly frayed lengths of thick wire rope were clawing at me from the inside.  Maybe those pieces of wire rope are my muscles. Maybe I feel broken strands of steel wire stabbing and scraping me as the muscles response to my attempts to move.

Those muscles, pulling and stretching and writhing, cause my head to ache; a dull throbbing accompanied by a sharp pain, as if a thin slice of steel positioned between the lobes of my brain is twisting in an attempt to separate them from one another. In my mind’s eye, I see an oyster being pried open with a shucking knife. I wonder whether the oyster feels the same pain I do? Is the mollusk in agony as its shell is split in two, revealing the pearly lining that attempts to protect its soft inner self?

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I have to shower now. And then go to church, where I hope I will find that the HVAC system was properly set to cool the community hall and sanctuary for the service in a few hours time. If not, I will try to figure out how to make it work. Already I have regrets; not about my role, but about a role not adequately filled.  Enough. It’s a shade after 6; I have to move.  Dammit.

For at least three days running, thunderstorms with heavy downpours came through late in the day. Sitting out of the deck during those evenings, feeling the growls of rolling thunder, is magical. Watching bolts of lightning strike somewhere nearby, followed by explosive, bone-jarring claps of thunder, delights me. I feel both fortunate control my circumstances, enabling me to see and feel the weather burst into existence around me. But the vastness of the sounds and the massive power contained in every flash of lightning makes me feel tiny and insignificant. Seesawing back and forth between a sense of control and a feeling of absolute powerlessness is frightening, but it makes me giddy, as well. I am passionately in love with the extremes of weather and permanently timid in their presence.

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I very rarely go to my Twitter account because…well…I probably have never learned how to configure my feed to satisfy my interests. Now, suddenly, Meta introduces Threads. The idea that Twitter‘s owner, Elon Musk, must face another threat to a business that appears to be succumbing to Musk’s self-defeating decisions has some appeal. But will Threads have an appeal to me that has, thus far, eluded Twitter? That remains to be seen. First, I have to develop sufficient interest to download the app; that may be a few hours—or a few months—from now. We shall see; we shall.

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In a shade more than four hours from now, I will host a retreat at my house for the board of my church. This will be the first church board meeting over which I will preside. But it will be quite different from typical board meetings, in that it will be more of a blue-sky planning session than a formal meeting…but it will have a few more formal elements. Tomorrow, I will deliver comments about the challenges of change and about the ideas that successfully emerged from today’s meeting. Yesterday, I accompanied friends and fellow board members to deliver a check to the recipient organization of last month’s Share the Plate collections. In a matter of days, I have become immersed in church-related activities. It is part coincidence and part preview of the days and months to come. In my new role as president, I will be devoting more of my time to the church than has been the case in the recent past. I anticipated that. But expectations and reality sometimes look very different.

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The Dutch government has collapsed, leading to the requirement for new elections in the coming months. The problem revolved around the inability of the four-party coalition government to reach agreement over immigration policies. Globally, immigration issues increasingly are creating friction between groups that view migrants from widely different perspectives. On one side of the issue, the primary emotional driver of the controversy is compassion toward the migrants and the problems they face that prompted their need/desire to migrate. The other side is more fearful of the problems that migrants bring; its compassion seems focused more on the people who will be affected by incoming migrants, rather than the migrants themselves. Because my philosophy is more closely aligned with the first position, I am concerned about migrants’ problems. But I understand the fears and more positive motives of people who disagree. If leaders who command the respect of their respective followers would truly attempt to reach compromise, the urgency of the issue would diminish considerably. Yet solutions are needed…urgently. Issues like those that brought down the Dutch government are playing out all across Europe (and, by the way, the USA). Solutions really are needed…urgently. I say again, solutions really are needed…urgently. Compromises, therefore, must be made. Hard and fast positions lead to failure. Flexibility leads to acceptable solutions.

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I have bounced around quite enough. Now it’s time to get serious about the day. I wish you were here.

An obligatory year or two of service to one’s country or community; that concept, which I once fiercely eschewed, long ago took permanent root in my brain. The service need not be in the military (and, in fact, I have major “issues” with our country’s military-industrial complex), but demanding military-style discipline of people compelled to serve might be a positive aspect of whatever service is undertaken. Compulsory “volunteerism” might place young people in service in healthcare, in community maintenance or rehabilitation, or in dozens of other activities to improve the lives of everyone touched by the “volunteers.” Including improving the lives of the volunteers themselves. I did not serve in the military, nor did I embark on a dedicated year or two of service, but I wish I had. I think such service would instill pride and a sense of responsibility for one’s community. Reducing the allure of individualism, and replacing it with the satisfaction of communalism, would greatly improve life on this planet, I think.

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Today, and the following four days, will be busy for me. They will not be as busy as my days were when I worked, but they will be in stark contrast to what I envisioned retirement would be like…before I retired. Being retired is akin to having a target painted on one’s back; retirees become objects of interest to others (mostly other retirees) who thirst for the retiree’s engagement. That has a long list of pros and cons attached to it. The most obvious con to me, at this very moment, is the necessary deferral of deep and abiding relaxation. But the pros can, from time to time, overcome one’s bitterness at almost being forced to delay or eliminate time in which pure, unmitigated relaxation can take place. Such is life. Relaxation is gratifying, but the sense of accomplishment attached to helping others often…usually?…overrides the negatives. So I say today. Tomorrow, of course, is an entirely different day.

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Big cities—crowded with people who live in densely populated residential areas and commercial jungles—get the labels: smelly, dirty, crime-ridden cesspools of deviant and dangerous behaviors. But ugly horrors happen everywhere. Even in small towns surrounded by acres and acres of corn fields or soybeans or pastures filled with grazing cattle. Places like Fairfield, Iowa. Mi novia and I visited Fairfield almost two years ago during our since-abandoned search for the ideal “Mayberry,” where life would be slow, simple, and immensely rewarding. A fantasy, of course. A few months after we left Fairfield, we learned that a high-school Spanish teacher had been murdered. Two of her students were charged with beating her to death with a baseball bat—big-city horror in a town of only 9,400. Nearly two years later, one of the two students who pleaded guilty to the crime was sentenced to life imprisonment, with the possibility of parole after 35 years of confinement. The other teen is to be sentenced later. The deformation or dissolution of individuals’ humanity can take place anywhere. Next-door neighbors could become the stuff of nightmares. As hard as it is to believe—and harder, still, to accept—monstrosities could be committed by people who live in the same house. Even more horrifying is the possibility that psychotic breaks could occur in oneself. Somehow, society must explore preemptive or anticipatory “treatment” to stem the potential for such hideous behaviors. Is the possibility of keeping those big-city behaviors from infecting small towns just another fantasy?

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A foggy haze hangs over the tops of the trees I see outside the windows in my study. The temperature, just 70°F, would seem considerably cooler if the relative humidity were dramatically lower. As it is, walking outdoors is a bit like swimming. And inhaling water, instead of air. But I look forward to finishing this post, late as it is, and sitting outdoors for at least a few minutes before I get ready to go off on a working adventure with mi novia and some friends. And now I think I have finished this post. It’s too close to 8:00 for my comfort. Time to go about other parts of my morning routine.

I got up about an  hour and a half ago. It is hard for me to believe that much time has passed; I must have been in something of a daze for part of that period. I wonder whether it is possible for people (me) to slip into a coma of sorts without realizing it, then to return to current reality, not knowing of the departure from the present?

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Another set of odd dreams. First, I was listening to a presentation in a huge auditorium—located, I think, in Austin, Texas—when the event broke for lunch. I walked out with some other participants, hanging my coat, outside the doors, to retrieve later. I went through a confusing buffet line and took what was offered, then went to a confusing payment line, where I paid an exorbitant amount for my meal. When I asked for a receipt, the cashier dismissed me, telling me he would not give me one. I cursed at him and walked away, finding a spot where I could sit to eat my meal. After the meal, I walked outside and wandered down a very busy street, just taking in the sights (during all of this, I listened to voice messages on my telephone, including one asking me to return a cash donation given to my employer as an encouragement of some kind). I crossed the busy street and, on my way back to the auditorium, I realized I was not wearing a shirt. I had no idea where I might have lost it and knew there was no point in looking. There were many shops along the street, though, so I decided to buy a shirt before returning to the presentation. I entered a store, where the clerk showed me a few shirts that were too small; and they were expensive: $250 and up. I decided to leave and look elsewhere. But as I was crossing a side street, I discovered I somehow had left with one of the shirts I tried on at the store; it was wrapped around a briefcase I carried. I put it on and, when I got back to the auditorium entrance, I retrieved my coat. And the dream ended shortly after I walked back inside the auditorium.

In a separate (I think) dream, a woman was attempting to stay submerged in a very deep pool (or ocean…not sure), holding her breath, for an extended period. By the time I arrived, she had been under water for almost fourteen minutes. I decided to see how far I could dive and how long I could hold my breath. After jumping in the water, I discovered that I could sink quickly by expelling all the air in my lungs. And, once reaching the bottom, I could comfortably  sit, not breathing, for quite some time. I finally surfaced after six or seven minutes, but I wanted to try again in the hope of equaling the fourteen minute record held by the woman. And that is as far as my memory of that dream goes.

There was more to each of the two dreams, I am sure. For example, I think I knew quite a lot about the several voice messages I received. And I think I might have known what the auditorium presentation was about, but I do not remember now. If I could record my dreams and play them back as if they were films, I could learn a lot about how my brain works. But that might be quite disturbing to me; and to anyone else watching the film.

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Method acting. I must remind myself just what that is. I’ve heard the expression for as long as I can remember, but I do not believe I have ever fully understood it or, if I have, remembered what I knew. There’s so much about life that echoes my experience with method acting. I have been exposed to it, but I do not know whether I’ve every completely comprehended that to which I was exposed. Maybe it’s my failing memory. Or maybe it’s my intellectual inadequacy. It could be something else entirely. I just do not know. I wish I did. But what would I do with the knowledge? Would I put it to use, or would it be another useless example of knowledge for the sake of knowledge? Is there such a thing, though? Is not all knowledge bursting with possibilities? If only we knew how to put it to practical use, we might solve problems of humankind that seem, today, utterly unsolvable. If only I knew more than I do… If only I had the discipline to explore my curiosities with greater energy and longer periods of intense interest. Ach!

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Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

~ Langston Hughes ~

Reading an article that discussed a neurology professor’s discovery—that a man’s “out of body” experience could be traced to the anterior precuneus—caused me to remember a periodic mental/emotional experience I had when I was much younger; twenty-five or so, possibly even a few years younger. I can describe the experience only as an overwhelming sense of amazement that my body actually belonged to me. I remember looking at my hands and thinking to myself that those hands were mine to do with whatever I wished. If I wanted, I could cut into them with a knife or plunge them into a bucket of icy water or make a fist with them. They were mine—they were part of me. Obviously, I knew all along they were mine; but these sensations amplified that understanding to a reverential level. Memories of those strange sensations—of awe at my ownership of my self, my body, me—came flooding back when I read the article. Recollections of those odd, mystical experiences collided with the factual explanations I subsequently found in other sources as I explored what might have been responsible for my youthful fascination with the fact that my body was my own. For example, this complex definition of the precuneus, which I found on sciencebeta.com:

“The precuneus is bounded anteriorly by the marginal branch of the cingulate sulcus, posteriorly by the parietooccipital sulcus, and inferiorly by the subparietal sulcus. It is involved with episodic memory, visuospatial processing, reflections upon self, and aspects of consciousness.”

Another resource, this one from the August, 2012 issue of Nature, offers an explanation of humans’ sense of self:

Human adults experience a ‘real me’ that ‘resides’ in ‘my’ body and is the subject of (or ‘I’) of experience and thought. This aspect of self-consciousness, namely the feeling that conscious experiences are bound to the self and are experiences of a unitary entity (‘I’), is often considered to be one of the most astonishing features of the human mind.

At this very moment, as I write this, I have an overwhelming sense of regret that I did not pursue a career in the scientific exploration of human experience—looking into how and why we are what and who we are. Both on a macro level and on a deeply personal micro level. I wish I knew more than I know, more than I can ever hope to know, now that I am nearing the seventh decade of my life. But I know, too, that this feeling of remorse will dissipate quickly when I remember I have never been sufficiently focused on anything for long enough to develop even modest ‘expertise.’ My regret almost certainly is more a brief wistfulness than a permanent anguish. But, still, I wish I had written about and described the sensation of incredulous surprise that my hands and arms and legs and eyes—all of me—belonged to me and only me. The intervening years almost surely have deformed or otherwise distorted my memories…if only I had documented who ‘I’ was when I confronted this odd sense of self-ownership…

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We were invited to dinner last night by a couple who participate in our “wine group” and attend our church. The other members of the “wine group,” one of whom also attends our church, as well as another couple from our hosts’ neighborhood were there. Our hosts supplied fried chicken, wine, and various other components of the meal; the rest of us contributed food, too, and we took a couple of bottles of wine. The evening—relaxed, enjoyable, and entertaining—was the latest in a number of get-togethers involving most of these folks. It occurred to me that I have enjoyed their company for several years now, probably from about 2017 or 2018. Though we do not get together often, when we do it is natural; I appreciate the opportunity. Until I moved to the Village in 2014, my late wife and I had very little social life involving others; we were too busy with our company and too tired after long work-days and too many working weekends to socialize much. I thought I was not especially social—and in fact I was not and am not. But I have learned to enjoy spending social time, on occasion, with others. Though I am by no means a gregarious person, I am becoming increasingly more comfortable in social situations. That evolutionary development has taken a rather long time to unfold; almost seventy years now. Still, I must feed my introversion through solitude. I desire to spend a lot of time with a very few people in my sphere of friends and acquaintances. And, of course, those people have other demands on their time and probably do not have as much interest as I in “hanging out” with me as I do with them. That is reality, isn’t it? The world does not revolve around any one person. It never has. It never will. That reality is not as easily accepted as might be desired. Such is the way of the world.

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Two quotes I encountered as I read this morning stick with me now, quite some time since I read them:

The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.

~ Marcus Aurelius ~

Indifference pretends to create peace, but it is based on not caring, a silent resignation. It is a movement away, a separation fed by a subtle fear of the heart. We pull back, believing that what happens to others is not our concern. Our courage leaves us. Indifference is a misguided way of defending ourselves.

~~ Jack Kornfield ~

And with that, I will wander off into the day, my interests fueled by my experiences.

I spent the morning of the Fourth of July last year—2022—in the emergency room of  St. Anthony’s Summit Hospital in Frisco, Colorado, a town adjacent to Silverthorne, Colorado. In hindsight, we probably should not have been in the midst of a highway road trip on such a heavily-traveled holiday. But we were. Fortunately for me, mi novia was equipped to deal with bad roads, heavy rain, and her traveling companion’s hallucinations, stubbornness, and altitude sickness. It’s hard to believe that experience was one year ago. Time sprints, flies, and then transforms into history in the blink of an eye.

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Blind devotion to one’s country defines nationalism, not patriotism. Patriotism attaches to the foundational ideals upon which one’s country is based. It recognizes and encourages efforts to celebrate and realize those principles. Ample room exists in patriotism to acknowledge both historical and current flaws. Patriotism is burnished with the expectation that the lessons of history will be learned—that the flaws will be overcome and corrected on the march toward achieving the dreams upon which the country was founded. Patriotism is honest. Nationalism is dishonest; delusional and brutal and rigid and inflexibly stupid.

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Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.

    ~ Hippocrates ~

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Health food may be good for the conscience but Oreos taste a hell of a lot better.

    ~ Robert Redford ~

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One should eat to live, not live to eat.

    ~ Moliere ~

There is space in my mind for competing perspectives. The problem with that approach is that life becomes increasingly difficult with each new idea and its accompanying arguments. I can agree with diametrically opposed positions on matters both frivolous and crucial. And I can argue, fiercely, against them.  That ability to see matters from different angles tends to make it impossible for me to decide where I stand on some issues. Am I pro or con? Do I agree or disagree? How can I be and do both? Well, the truth is this: if I successfully eliminate my personal bias, I can listen better. And listening tends to make clear the reality that opposing perspectives often include at least kernels of truth. There is not obvious “right” or “wrong” in most cases. The image here illustrates my point better than my words can do. Reality is shaped by its context. Truth need not be the opposite of falsehood. Certainty tends to dismiss inconvenient perspectives, thereby hiding or at least shading different viewpoints.

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I look down at a colorful grocery store advertisement that came in the day’s mail. There is nothing special about it until I take off my glasses. Then, my blurred vision turns a sheet with photos of vegetables and meat and packaged cookies into beautiful, alluring, impressionistic abstract art. The same thing can happen if I stare vacantly at the forest in front of me; my eyes stop trying to focus and, instead, they let the images in front of me dissolve into brush strokes—a hundred shades of green and brown and yellow and blue compete for prominence on a blurry grey canvas. I wonder whether impressionist painters simply re-create the images they see when the world in front of their eyes goes out of focus. “Simply.” It is not simple. At least not for me. I have tried. The results look very much like the outcome of earnest efforts by a child, painting with his fingers.

I have given up trying to create wall-worthy paintings. Though I may dabble occasionally, my technical proficiency with a paintbrush is nonexistent. I do not expect the canvas to reflect what my mind imagines. If I had the patience, art classes might enable me to paint a little better, but because I feel confident I will never be as good as I wish I were, I am unwilling to spend the time. My lack of patience may be the reason I have never gotten especially good at anything; I quit trying out of frustration that I am not progressing rapidly enough. That is childish. I have never really grown up. I am a brat in an old man’s body. But that kid can conjure some pretty amazing art in his mind; unfortunately, those images will never make their way to canvas, at least not as intended. Or to ceramic or carved wood or sculpted stone figures. The only real downside to that reality is that I cannot share the images I see in my mind. Others cannot see the abstractions I see. But I suspect others create mental abstractions of their own. Whether they are willing to admit it, though…who knows?

+++

After yesterday afternoon’s ferocious wind and rain during an intense thunderstorm, the serenity of the forest seemed utterly unreal. How could those trees, whose trunks and branches seemed to be made of flexible rubber when subjected to the wind, be standing quiet and still—utterly immobile—afterward? I think it’s time to go outside, where the temperature is reported by my computer to be 70°F. Yes. More hot coffee and time to sit and ponder and mull and cogitate for a bit.

The activities of yesterday morning, into mid-day and beyond, ultimately led to an afternoon nap. That capped off a very pleasant day, but one which conflicted mightily with a pledge mi novia and I made earlier: to return to our healthier diet and lifestyle of a few months ago.  After church, we had a big, boozy Mexican lunch, along with lengthy conversation, with friends.  Though one big, caloric, carb-laden meal should have been enough, I ate a protein-only meal later in the day.

It makes my heart sick when I remember all the good words and the broken promises.

~ Chief Joseph ~

With that quotation, I am attempting to shame myself back into submission to my better judgment. I would use a whip, if that would help.

+++

Some memories play back like two-dimensional film. Others evoke all the senses involved in the original experience; those memories can recall the stress of the original experience, as well. I remember far too well the stresses of simultaneously dealing with multiple boards of directors, thousands of association members, human resource matters, sometimes tight financial circumstances, and access to healthcare. I am convinced those aggravations, often intensified after four or five consecutive seven-day weeks, contributed significantly to flare-ups of the symptoms of Crohn’s disease. Though stress may no longer be considered, in the medical community, the primary trigger of the condition, my body’s reactions to stress say otherwise.

I know now I might have been happier had I realized how decidedly unimportant my responsibilities were. Had I known, early on, that no one—including me—is “the indispensable person,” I would have lightened up much, much earlier. If I had shirked every responsibility, little of the world would have changed. No wars would be fought. No invasions would be launched. The time between now and the end of time would remain the same. Granted, a few people might have been inconvenienced when I abandoned my responsibilities, but those scars would have healed long ago.

I usually prefer the memories that invoke all the senses. But when the tension in my body is so high I can hear the bones in my body begin to crack, I default to favoring flat images that captured a microsecond in time.

+++

Why, I wonder, is it so hard to just acknowledge one’s blunders and move on? Why, when a person makes a simple mistake that anyone else easily could have made, does he insist on labeling himself incompetent, inadequate, and essentially useless? The reason, I am told, might be an affliction called perfectionism. Everything has to be just right. Any deviation—no matter how small—from plan or desired outcome is outright failure. That sounds reasonable, so I’ll buy it. The next question, naturally, is this: Can perfectionism be cured?

+++

The time is almost 6:30. I have not been outside yet, but I will in a moment. My computer alleges the temperature outside is a cool 70°F. Assuming that to be the case, I will abandon my fingers, in favor of treating my eyes, ears, nose, and skin to something special.

My left shoulder is bothering me again. The cause could be a pulled muscle, over-stretched tendons, bone-against-bone chafing, simple arthritis, or one or more of dozens of other possibilities. The underlying cause does not matter, except to the extent that the cause might suggest the best approach to muting or eliminating the pain. A comprehensive examination of the most likely culprits probably would require multiple MRIs, X-rays, blood tests, electrical conductance tests, and/or many more medical investigative tools. And the investigative tools’ results would require a detailed, focused, time-consuming evaluations of the tools’ findings. The time required of doctors and other medical professionals in such evaluations simply is not available. Doctors seem to limit the time they spend with each patient to no more than fifteen minutes per visit. Without those limits, my understanding is that many patients would not be seen. The doctors would run out of time before seeing all the people who visit them, hoping at a minimum for relief from troubling symptoms. Or, better yet, a full, immediate, and permanent elimination of those symptoms. So, although I wish my aching shoulder—and every one of the other nagging pains or symptoms I experience—would be thoroughly evaluated during a several-day-long medical assessment, I am resigned to the fact that no such appraisal will take place. I must either tolerate the pain or try medications that are more powerful than aspirin or ibuprofen or acetaminophen. Tramadol, a narcotic used to treat moderate to severe pain, perhaps. I have some left-over Tramadol, which was prescribed in the aftermath of an issue involving a kidney stone. I blame Tramadol, a narcotic I took for the pain, for the suicidal thoughts and bizarre hallucinations that followed. No, now that the memory is becoming clearer, I will pass on the Tramadol. I’ll save it, along with miscellaneous other prescribed narcotics, in case I ever reach the point of needing to permanently end the excruciating pain of deep and irreversible decline. Still, I want something to eliminate, or at least soften, the painful ache. A rheumatologist told me, several months ago, the cause of my pain was “nonspecific” and most likely chronic—permanent and not subject to cure. And, unfortunately, she said the pain probably would persist, regardless of drugs I might take to lessen it. Medical marijuana gummies may help, but I am not sure, as I cannot remember whether the pain continued in the past, after consuming a gummy. Even if they work to make the pain tolerable, they also work to dramatically reduce my inhibitions and increase my silliness. Plus, driving after consuming a gummy is out of the question. Perhaps I can simply “lean into the pain,” thereby taking control of it, rather than vice versa. Meditate, instead of medicate, as it were. Something. Whatever. If I could just get my mind off my shoulder, perhaps I could train my pain receptors to effectively “sleep” through the discomfort. One thing is certain: writing about the pain does nothing but amplify and exacerbate it. So I’ll stop.

+++

Yesterday, I’m sure for the umpteenth time, I viewed a Google map’s “layered” view of the United States and the water surrounding it. The image shows the contours of the land, as well as the ocean floor. As intriguing as are the images of the land, what truly captures my attention are the contours of the sea floor. The details of the underwater trenches, ridges, mountains, etc. are stunning. They are so detailed that I wonder about their legitimacy. Are the images of the waters surrounding us simply artificial representations of the submerged landscape? Are the ridges and valleys and long cross-hatches visual images from a graphic artist’s imagination, or are the geological/geographical images based on real data? I do not know. And I may not want to know. I think I want to retain the sense of mystery that I have always felt about the enormous bodies of water surrounding Earth’s small-by-comparison land masses. We have only a tiny inkling of what exists just three hundred feet below the surface. And our imaginations may not even be capable of creating in our minds images of what is really down there a mile and more.

+++

I blame last night’s penne arrabiata at Dolce Vita Italian Ristorante for the dramatic spike in my blood glucose this morning—158. I should instead blame myself, of course. I knew I was behaving badly by ordering a plate of pasta, but I did not realize just how much of an effect those carbohydrates would have on my body. Adding wine and gin to the mix amplified the measurement, I am sure. This undesirable jump in the blood measurement number, coupled with the scales telling me I have gained a couple of pounds of late, gives me a clear message: it is past time to invoke my self-discipline again. And so I shall.

+++

Phaedra is not happy at the moment. I shut the door to the laundry room, where she eats, after I fed her this morning. My reason was to give me some peace from hearing her claws scratching at the fibers of expensive rugs. Her howls inform me of her displeasure. I get no pleasure from her discomfort, but I get some serenity, some relief from worry for the rugs.

+++

Riots in France. Another mass shooting, this one in Baltimore. Enraged Supreme Court justices. The horrors of war in Ukraine. Dangerous and potentially deadly roller coasters. Wildfires and their smoky effects across North America. Fireworks. Celebrations of “liberty” in the face of naked oppression. I know I should not read the news during the first few hours of being awake. Yet I do, sometimes, anyway. Is it a macabre fascination with turmoil around the country and the world? Is it an addiction to the idea that I must keep up with world news because…because who knows what?

It occurs to me that this country’s celebration of freedom overlooks the diminution of individuals’ power over their own lives. While we promote our freedoms, they are being chipped away at an accelerating pace. Perhaps we will not notice the effects of  accumulating restrictions on our abilities to think and do what we want. We seem readily willing to cede control over our own destinies to the will of both power-driven majorities or powerful minorities. As individuals, we are expected to align with the “proper” powers-that-be. The beauty and righteousness of community and collective efforts is being hijacked to serve the interests of power-hungry groups, which are manifestations of individualists’ plans to consolidate their powers. They make the people into puppets who think they are in control, all the while ensuring that the strings that manipulate their every deed and every thought are clear of obstacles.

Even locally, we defer decisions regarding acceptable house colors to the Property Owners’ Association (POA)—a collection of people, ostensibly elected by “us”, who subjectively determine which muted, dull, “unoffensive” paint colors are acceptable. And we do the same for the State and for the Nation. We allow people who know virtually nothing about us our our core values to incorporate their values into our systems of governance.

I suspect there one day will be a “grey revolution,” in which older people suddenly say to one another, “This is bullshit! We’re not going to allow this to happen anymore!” The revolution will fail, of course, and the country’s prisons and jails will experience a rapid infusion of geezers. They might then revolt against the younger, stronger guards. The guards will have been successfully indoctrinated into the philosophical brotherhood and sisterhood that believes in crushing dissent, especially among the old and not-so-easily led. 1984 was tame.

+++

It’s late. I took a respite from writing, only to return here and find myself unable to coax my fingers into cooperating with me. So off I go, in search of clothing suitable for church; not a particularly challenging endeavor.

This afternoon, mi novia and I will host former neighbors, a couple who lived next door to me, for wine. We’ll then go for an earlier dinner to a nearby restaurant. Beforehand, we will take the necessary steps to ensure that we are able to meet our commitment to provide “goodies” for tomorrow morning’s church service. And before any of that, mi novia‘s ex-husband will return her car, which he borrowed a couple of days ago when his went into the shop. An active day today—the first day I am “officially” the president of my church, though only a little of the activity has any bearing on that fact. It is with anticipation, mixed with dread, that I assume that role, which will last one year unless earlier I am ejected or resign in exhaustion. Just another day, this one. Hotter than Hades. Speaking of Hades, I think I might enjoy taking a course in Greek and Roman mythology. I never learned enough about that complex, mysterious expression that interprets the universe in strange and fascinating ways. At least not enough to enable me to engage in a coherent conversation about the gods and other characters underlying mythology. I think I would like to know the stories of Prometheus and Pandora and Apollo and Poseidon and Zeus. I suppose a course is not necessary; if I have sufficient interest, I will simply read and learn. If. If. That’s a poem by Rudyard Kipling. My father kept a copy of that poem on the wall next to his desk. Odd, isn’t it, how the mind ricochets off of itself, causing entirely unrelated thoughts to occupy the same time, space, and intellectual real estate?

+++

I smoked a slab of baby back ribs yesterday. Four and a half hours in the smoker—two directly on the grate, two wrapped in foil and the final half unwrapped to allow the rub and sauce to become “crusty”—was the right amount of time. They were, by far, my best effort yet at smoking pork ribs. I think the flavor of meat may be enhanced when it is enjoyed infrequently. We do not consume a lot of meat, at least not a lot in comparison to days gone by. Beef, especially, has largely disappeared from our diet, except for the occasional splurge for a nice six-ounce filet mignon. Chicken, too, is a rarity. Pork tends to be the go-to protein of late. And fish. I can imagine being vegetarian if I could depend on a talented vegetarian-focused chef taking charge of all my meals.

+++

If members of the Supreme Court truly were nonpolitical—and if they made serious efforts to ensure their biases do not influence their decisions—decisions of the court probably would enrage either the right or the left about half the time. The court’s decisions would not give people of either political perspective consistent cause for celebration or mourning. But “lefties” and “righties” fight tooth and nail to have judges who support their causes appointed. And, of course, Congressional majorities makes a game out of going to war when the President represents the opposite party. As a result, the court seesaws between liberalism and conservatism (and their more intense cousins, of late) between new lifetime court appointments. Despite my loathing for that reality, I think limited-term appointments or enabling the public to recall appointed justices (or to elect them, rather than have them appointed) would drastically shorten the time between pendulum swings. Back to the original assertion: “If member of the Supreme Court truly were nonpolitical…” Wouldn’t it be nice. But rulings coming from completely apolitical justices probably would reveal enormous cracks in the practical application of the philosophies underlying our system of government. That’s just my opinion, of course. The depth of my knowledge of the philosophies guiding our system of government is considerably less than would be ideal. Yet my opinions often imply I think my knowledge is as deep as the Mariana Trench. I know better. That notwithstanding, I often pronounce judgments on rulings of the Supreme Court. I am afraid, sometimes, the justices make decisions on knowledge of the same depth as mine.

Remain calm, serene, always in command of yourself. You will then find out how easy it is to get along.

~ Paramahansa Yogananda ~

+++

The beastly heat of recent days apparently will recede, at least temporarily, in the coming days. Beginning the week in the upper 80s or low 90s, the end of the week might see high temperatures near 80°F. But we’re only just now in the early days of July. And August tends to be the hottest month. I may need to evacuate from Arkansas during that month; Wisconsin holds a certain allure for me. Madison and environs, in particular. And the Dells. Hell, I find the entire state appealing.

+++

A private swimming pool where I could splash about in naked comfort, far from prying eyes that could be damaged by the sight of me, might be the perfect place today. Even a “hot tub” freshly filled (with the heat switched off) might do the trick. I’ll just have to fantasize, I suppose.

Time is spinning out of control, as if a relentless rogue clock has taken the universe hostage. The timepiece is flaunting its unchecked power by accelerating the passage of days and weeks and months, causing them to rush past in a chaotic blur. Moments fueled by the temporal equivalent of nanoseconds on speed. A year ago I turned nineteen years old; I was thirty-two, nearing my forty-fourth birthday, before midnight a month later. Last week, I watched in horror as my fiftieth year flashed by in the blink of an eye, on the way toward the one-hundredth anniversary of yesterday.

An inverse exponential relationship exists between passion and hopelessness, according to an imaginary graduate student pursuing an advanced degree in pandemonium, with a specialty in bedlam. Obviously, even within the miniscule sliver of knowledge we possess, we have no concept of the intricate, exceptionally complex entanglements that pervade the expanse of time and space we think we understand. When we look at DNA, we think we may see hints of the keys to understanding life, but we see only a microscopic fragment of a beast whose enormity is utterly beyond the comprehension of the brightest minds of all time. Considering how—looking at the size of that fragment and realizing how futile it is to compare its size, side-by-side, with the distance between the center and the outer fringe of the knowable universe—undeniably hard it is to have even an inkling of understanding of EVERYTHING, my tiny little mind melts into a puddle of awe.

Neither science nor religion have any hope of achieving real understanding. The former, at least, seems to be going in the right direction. The latter? Understanding is not part of its core; it is best suited to serving as an imaginary protective shell that attempts to comfort us when we begin to understand the immeasurable enormity of the scope of our blind ignorance.

This flood of incoherent gibberish is a poor, useless, vain attempt to scratch the surface of the vastness of the complexity of all existence. Any attempt at understanding is, at best, a way to fill the void left when Time departed on its way to the other side of forever. Gibberish. Massive confusion. Misfirings of all the synapses of all the fibers of all the nervous systems of all life forms, all at once.

If Time were food, all of us—simultaneously—would starve while combatting layers of fat a thousand light-years thick. Obesity as we know it today would be unimaginably slim and svelte.

+++

Despite how this post might seem, I am not consuming psychodelia.

Permanent global totalitarianism. Dystopian evolutionary scenarios. Anthropogenic existential risks. Extinction of Earth-originating intelligent life. Permanent, drastic, irreversible destruction of humanity’s potential for desirable future development.

Those terms/concepts appear throughout academic papers dealing with existential risks to to the human population. Many of those terms appear in a paper produced by Nick Bostrom, who is (according to his website), “a Swedish-born philosopher who has a background in theoretical physics, computational neuroscience, logic, artificial intelligence, and philosophy.” The same site also claims he is “the most-cited professional philosopher in the world under the age of 50.” Bostrom’s credibility is strengthened by the fact that he is a Professor at the University of Oxford and is Director of the Future of Humanity Institute.

Irreversible existential risks to the human population have been trumpeted (and their impending outcome predicted) for centuries. The boys who cried wolf in both the recent and distant past tend to lessen the likelihood that people are apt to believe the theories espoused by current philosophers. But, unlike gloomy predictions in the past, more analyses of existential risks produced more recently seem to have considerably more academic and practical “meat” to them. And these more recent assessments are not hysterical pleas to humanity to “do something!” Instead, they tend to be well-reasoned, logical, and entirely plausible. And they acknowledge something many people tend to overlook: we do not know what we do not know. That is, all the most comprehensive analyses in the world might be reduced to ashes by matters those appraisals do not consider—because we did not realize they might influence the conclusions reached by the assessments.

The possibility of human extinction both frightens and intrigues me. Despite the impossibility of “knowing” what will or might cause our species to become extinct, I am fascinated by the analytical explorations undertaken by academics. But because I have a certain degree of skepticism about academic “mumbo jumbo,” I tend to take those explorations with a grain of salt. I do not reject them out of hand, though. I put enough credence in them to allow them to percolate in my brain. I do my own, far less rigorous, assessments, always keeping in mind I do not know what I do not know. And I acknowledge that what I “know” may be false knowledge based on incomplete or unknown information.

In addition to giving me something challenging to think about, the threats of human extinction also gives me something I might consider incorporating into future attempts at writing fiction. Mulling these matters over in my head provides me with an intellectual playground littered with both plausible scenarios and imaginary extensions of those scenarios. I worry that humans today are blithely stumbling into pools of viscous tar—many of which are of our own making—from which we cannot escape. But I temper that worry with curiosity and with resigned acceptance that I can do nothing to change our suicidal course.

I think I might enjoy engaging Nick Bostrom in conversation about his academic work, but only if he would be willing to leave most of the puffery of academia at the office. I prefer to let conversations flow from interests and creativity, rather than relying entirely on scholarly evidence. Maybe that is because I was never fully enmeshed in academia; I was never sure I was smart enough to be a dedicated academic. Whatever. That train has long since left the station. I am content to sit at a table in a caboose on a railroad siding, musing about “what if” and imagining the plausible, if unlikely.

+++

My car’s many dashboard warning lights, etc. have been fixed. Even though I have 112K miles on the eight-year-old vehicle, the repair was covered under a warranty extended because of a “known issue.” However, the sound/vibration—as if a brake pad might be barely engaged or something in the suspension rubs against something else when I veer slightly to the right—remains. I doubt the mechanics even took the car out for a test drive yesterday, so sometime next week I may ask another shop to have a look. If we did not have cars, we would realize we do not need to go all the places we go; we would be motivated to travel more by necessity than by desire. The world would be a simpler, less dangerous place. Maybe. Or maybe not. Certainty is imbecilic. We truly do NOT know what we do not know. Yet we behave as if we did. Fools. All of us. But most of us are, at least, tolerably decent fools. I do not always believe that; the decent part, I mean.

+++

I have a friend who, in an effort to find a permanent solution to her shoulder and neck pain, should go to the Mayo Clinic for a full-scale evaluation. But I doubt she will do that. And I have a self who should take far better care of his body and mind. But I doubt I will do that—at least consistently. And I have a novia who should do the same. But…ditto. SHOULD is a judgmental word. It speaks volumes about knowledge we think we have, but which may be entirely imaginary. And when we use the word in connection with the behavior of others, we reveal ourselves as people who believe we know better than others. I sometimes get quite frustrated with people who THINK they have knowledge they do not. And that, of course, includes me. Even softening the judgment by saying “I THINK you should…” reduces the friction caused by one’s sense of superiority. Even when we do not think of ourselves as superior, we reveal that we do think that when we say someone “should” do this or that. I must continued to train myself out of the habit; I really have been trying. For years. Maybe, on my 85th birthday, I will announce I have succeeded in kicking the habit. If I can stop smoking (which I did almost twenty years ago), I should be able to…there, I used the word again!

+++

In a short while, I’ll wander off to a local diner, where I’ll sit and listen to old men talk about what old men talk about. And I’ll try to say very little. I generally do exactly that. Later, I’ll go to the church to give a new church officer a key to the building. What an exciting, eventful, truly fascinating life I lead. And off I go.

Last year on this date, June 28, I wrote about waking to an odd sensation, as if my body was vibrating. The year before, on the same day—my late wife’s birthday—I expressed confidence she would have been happy for me as I go about rebuilding my life. That strange sense I wrote about last year was, I suspect, a physical manifestation of grief. Though I remain convinced my late wife would be pleased for me, the grief remains with me, though usually as an undercurrent. Hidden by the background noise of day-to-day life. What I chose not write about on those days was the fact that my grief at her loss was sometimes almost overwhelming. It sometimes still is. Certain events—anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, reminders of our travels, and other memories—trigger waves of grief and regret.

I feel fortunate—and I am beyond extremely grateful—for mi novia. Yet my ongoing grief for my late wife’s loss is accompanied by guilt that I am unable to compartmentalize my life enough to keep grief from intruding on that love and gratitude. If I could sleep my way through these days, I would. Or if I could deal with these conflicting and perhaps irrational feelings by simply confronting them, I would. But I doubt I will ever be able to glide past or through them. I imagine they always will be there, suddenly taking my breath away and causing me to try to steady myself against a storm of emotion.  I suppose I always will need to try to shake off the occasional return of a period of emotional disarray.

Despite my desire to “calm the waters,” I never want to lose the cherished memories of the more than forty-four years I shared with someone I loved deeply. If grief is the price I pay for those memories, so be it. I know mi novia understands my feelings and my dilemma. And I am grateful for that, as well.

+++

“Schizophrenia is a serious mental disorder in which people interpret reality abnormally. Schizophrenia may result in some combination of hallucinations, delusions, and extremely disordered thinking and behavior that impairs daily functioning, and can be disabling.” So says the Mayo Clinic. And so almost everyone who gives the matter any thought believes. But is it possible we are all wrong? Is it possible the behaviors we describe as schizophrenic are simply disturbing (to the rest of us) manifestations of a different—but not necessarily “abnormal”—interpretation of reality? The question is not rhetorical. It is entirely possible, I think, that modern society is so attached to “normal” behaviors that virtually any divergence from normalcy is regarded as deviant and, therefore, potentially dangerous. While behaviors that put at risk the individual and/or others, those behaviors are not necessarily “bad” by their very existence; they are “bad” because we choose to label them as such. Mental illness may not always be illness; it simply may be an expression of an alternate perspective, one that the majority of people do not share. The argument may be a matter of semantics. And in most cases, it probably is. But semantic differences may represent different perspectives; different ways of looking at the world.

We judge people whose perspectives deviate from “normal.” We label them and, in general, tend to fear them. Rightfully so, in many cases. But I think we tend to assume world views that differ from our own are weird, aberrant…wrong.  We assume ours are the proper, correct, true, actual, real-world perspectives. Even, sometimes, when ours are demonstrably wrong. If we leave no room for possibilities outside our own myopic field of vision, we risk overlooking revelatory conceptions of reality. Labeling someone as “crazy” or “deviant” or “mentally ill” shuts the door to all manner of possibilities. There was a time (and that time, unfortunately, too often continues to be “now”) when homosexuality was considered “deviant” and/or “bad” by the majority. Assertions that Earth was not the center of the universe were once labeled heretical, or worse. Dozens, probably hundreds, of other examples of deviance that are now recognized as variations along the spectrum of “normal” exist.

The potential desirability of “deviance” in some cases is framed quite nicely in the lyrics of Billy Joel’s song, You May Be Right: “You may be right, I may be crazy, but it just may be a lunatic you’re looking for.” Like so many other aspects of life, normalcy and its opposite sometimes are merely different places along an almost endless spectrum.

+++

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.

~ Washington Irving ~

+++

My appointment to explore and, I hope, correct the problems with my car is scheduled for just after mid-day. I am banking on the likelihood that it is safe to drive the vehicle, despite the multiple warning lights on the dash and the unusual sound I hear (or feel) as I drive. I took the car to a local garage last week, assuming the issue could be identified and fixed, but I was told I should take it to the dealer to deal with the matter, which had been the subject of a technical services bulletin a few years ago. Depending on what is involved in diagnosing and correcting the problem, and on the availability of a “loaner” car, I may (or may not) need mi novia to fetch me from Little Rock this afternoon. The wisdom of buying a car brand for which the closest dealer is fifty miles away (or more) is open to question. I need to remember to take my phone charger with me; if I have to sit in the service department waiting room for long, my feeble smart-phone may not be able to cope with the demands I place on it, without support from an electrical outlet.

+++

The beauty of the soul shines out when a man bears with composure one heavy mischance after another, not because he does not feel them, but because he is a man of high and heroic temper.

~ Aristotle ~

But if he bears it with agitation or instability, is he a man of low and cowardly temper?

+++

I’ve been up since 3. It’s now after 6. I suspect I later will regret giving in to insomnia. But I will get over it. Tonight, I will go to bed at a reasonable hour and will, I hope, sleep all night long…until at least 4 or 5. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. I’d settle for healthy and wise. Just healthy would be acceptable. I think I’ll go sit on the deck for a bit now and commune with the hummingbirds and woodpeckers and a tufted titmouse or two.  And remember.

The world can become too much. Too intense, too hard, too harsh, too unforgiving. Compromise is brushed aside by the force of inertia. Entreaties fall on deaf ears. Or, rather, pleas go unspoken. Because nothing is to be gained by attempting to reason with a steamroller. And making a stand is a pointless, suicidal invitation to obliteration. Hiding— and hoping not to be found—is the only sane response to the threat of being crushed under the weight of obligations and demands and expectations. The immediate reaction to such avoidance might be to call it cowardly, but a more careful assessment would lead to a different conclusion: it is the only lucid, prudent response to the inevitable. Yet hiding or retreat or surrender or whatever else it might involve often is labeled weakness, especially by people who have never faced an existential peril. You can’t understand someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. The wisdom in that saying is undeniable. Yet we judge people all the time, without taking the time or expending the effort to learn the “Why?” of their actions.

+++

Today will be hot—weather forecasters say the temperature will reach 91°F today—but the next three days will be considerably worse, with highs of 100°F or more. Thursday’s forecast calls for a brutally high temperature of 104°F. As bad as that is, it pales in comparison to the hottest USA temperatures on record. Death Valley, California has climbed as high as 134°F. Failure to take appropriate precautions when temperatures reach those levels is an invitation to heat stroke and death. In spite of an awareness of the dangers, I would not be surprised to learn of people who go jogging (without taking water with them, by the way) during the hottest part of the day. They must be out of their minds. Yet, what was I saying just a few minutes ago? You can’t understand someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Or jogged some distance…

+++

The veins in my hands and arms seem to be much more visible than usual of late. Whether or not the enhanced visibility of one’s veins corresponds to higher-than-normal blood pressure, there seems to be a correlation; at least, to me. My veins have been more pronounced lately, which has corresponded with higher-than-normal blood pressure measurements. Whether that correlation is causal or coincidental, I cannot say. But I have noticed what appears to be a relationship in the past. My limited research suggests there are causal correlations between blood pressure and the visibility of veins, but several causes other than blood pressure exist. Thinning skin as we age, for example. Decreasing body fat. Hot weather. And various health-related issues. Summer has arrived, with its searing heat. Advancing age, with its searing effects on the body, has arrived as well. And I’ve lost weight; hence the body fat in my hands may have decreased. Without considerably more investigation, I cannot know the cause of my more visible veins. In the overall scheme of life, my ignorance of the cause(s) probably has little to no importance. But it gives me something to write about.

+++

Still, there’s little of consequence I want to share this morning. Therefore, I will put my fingers back in their cases and put an end to this useless drivel.

I have an obligation to myself to write at least one blog post every day. Sometimes, though, I do not meet my obligation. I fail, in other words, to fulfill my promise to myself. Today, I began writing a post, but decided to set it aside. I then started another, but set it aside, as well. One of the two is silly, pointless. Childish, in fact. The other began to seem dark, somber, and deeply troubling. Neither fit my mood, which is beyond description. The closest I can get to describing it is this: fearful, sarcastic, biting, and isolated, yet too close to throngs of strangers I do not know and do not care to know. People whose morals combine feelings of hatred with a sense of superiority, both fueled by raw stupidity.

Naturally, I chose not to share those two attempts at writing. Instead, I am sharing this shard of broken thoughts and cracked emotions. More later, perhaps. Perhaps not.

I’m just starting on my second cup of coffee, more than an hour and a half after I awoke. Promises I made to myself notwithstanding, I spent that time pouring over news stories on cnn.com, apnews.com, npr.org, and bbc.com. Whether my actions are guided by simple habit or by a deeper addiction I can’t say. Only after I notice how much time I have spent absorbing “news” do I realize I’ve done it again. Fortunately, I suppose, I took my blood pressure before my foray into news of the world. Unlike yesterday, today’s numbers were closer to the desirable “normal” levels. If I measured it again now, I suspect coffee and emotions would have hiked the figures considerably. But I will not check it again today. I still have yet to check blood glucose; I anticipate feeling embarrassment at what I have consumed to permit the number to go so high.

+++

What is it, I wonder, that makes one deeply curious and more than a little emotional about events that have absolutely no direct impact on one’s life? Curiosity. Although I distinguish between curiosity and emotion, curiosity is a type of emotion. An interesting emotion, one that can be quite rewarding. Yet emotion, in the context of the question I rhetorically posed, tends not to be in the least rewarding. Instead, it tends to cause mental pain or anguish or something akin to those sensations. Odd, that.

+++

If an orbiting SpaceX rocket—carrying paying space tourists—were to lose the ability to return to Earth from its orbit, I wonder whether the U.S. Space Command would attempt a rescue? I suspect the answer is “No,” but I might be wrong. The underlying question, of course, is: “At what point does the expenditure of money and the risk to rescuers pass the threshold beyond which a rescue would not be attempted?” Though official agencies might claim the answer is “It depends…,” I suspect U.S. agencies have established precise processes/parameters that give an unequivocal answer for the specifics of virtually every circumstance. If people want absolute assurances that every attempt will be made to rescue them, regardless of cost and risk, they should make certain their mothers are in charge of rescue and recovery.

+++

Dawdling. That is what I have been doing. I sit here, staring at my screen, daydreaming about things completely irrelevant to my life. Traveling through outer space, beyond the edge of the Milky Way. Building a home that would withstand tornadoes, nuclear explosions, fires, earthquakes, and hundred-thousand-year floods. Intercepting and recording others’ thoughts. Experiencing the seconds and micro-seconds before death. Consciously experiencing the moments of my own birth.

Well, I suppose some of them are relevant to my life. But all of them are outside the realm of possibility. Why, I wonder, does my mind explore the impossible? Why even waste my mental energies imagining experiences that cannot happen under any conditions? I have no answers. Again. Unanswered questions are the ones most likely to propel people into the future. If we could answer all the questions, we might be horribly, frighteningly disappointed.

+++

Time to prepare for the day. And stop dawdling.

The social fabric is thinning. Fraying and threadbare, tensions on crucial fibers cause rips and tears. Critical seams split, revealing naked bigotry, aggression, hatred, and unchecked fury beneath the cloth. Efforts to mend the damaged protective material repeatedly fail. The cloth cannot be repaired; it must be replaced. The unfortunate reality is that, before that happens, the wounds caused by the underlying bitterness must heal. Or, more likely, be removed by excising or amputation. Regardless of the manner in which the infection is removed, the process will be deeply onerous and extremely challenging. In fact, restoring health may be impossible. The damage done might be so extensive and so pernicious as to require replacement. Or abandonment and surrender.

How bad must the situation be for meteorologists to be threatened with death for asserting that climate change is influencing weather extremes? At what point do the increasingly violent attack against women’s rights to control their own bodies call for open rebellion? When individuals’ rights to religious beliefs—or to dismiss beliefs—are snatched away by force and replaced by demands to accept fundamentalist dogma, is civil unrest and dissolution the only option? Are efforts to mend the rips and tears in the social fabric utterly pointless?  I fear they are. When the only solution seems to be the actual, physical eradication of fascists and other aggressors, the original strength of the social fabric is called into question. An entirely new textile, woven from the equivalent of impossibly strong, unyielding threads, may be the only option. But finding those threads, and devoting the time and energy to use them in sewing a new social contract, may be beyond the capabilities of humans, who themselves are innately flawed. Whatever the solution, or the universal realization that no solution will ever exist, I selfishly hope it occurs long after I am gone. I do not want to watch the further degradation of humanity. I do not want to be party to its extinction. Though perhaps that is best solution; the only one that assures success.

+++

I woke late and spent too much time reading the news. That is a bad, bad, bad habit that tends to ruin what otherwise could have been a reasonably pleasant day. Even before I read news that made my blood boil, I took my blood pressure; it was considerably higher than it should be, even though I have been taking my reduced-dosage blood pressure medication. Perhaps I need to return to a higher dosage. Or maybe I need not to medicate but to meditate. Hibernate. Isolate. Stay away from news about imploding submersibles and Russian war-mongering and insurrections. Avoid learning about the enormity of the problems of homelessness. Steer clear of reporting that deals with rabid, über-conservative politicians and the destruction their policies and politics leave in their wake. Stop getting personally invested in attempting to address matters over which I realistically have little to no control.

In place of these stress-producing activities, I should involve myself in gentler, more comforting pursuits. Hugs. Conversations about the astonishing beauty of the natural environment. Kisses. Daydreaming. Naps. Exploring and evaluating the remarkable tastes of different coffees. Comparing the flavors of foods. Attempting to be as creative as an artist and refusing to judge my own efforts, no matter how unimpressive. Thinking about subjects and topics mundane and esoteric and everything in between. Cleansing the stress-producing thoughts from my brain and replacing them with curative experiences. Perhaps doubling-up on anti-anxiety/anti-depression prescriptions. Eating papayas, flavored with with freshly-squeezed lime juice, for breakfast. Giving marijuana-infused gummies more opportunities to reduce my physical and mental pain.

I have grown to love sitting on the back deck, watching and listening to birds and soaking in the privacy of a home in the forest. But our house is a tiny, quiet, serene refuge in a vast sea of hurricane-force hatred. Therein lies a crucial problem. Living here may be a little like spending time in that ill-fated submersible—experiencing an alluring, quiet adventure that has the potential of suddenly imploding. Buckling under the intense pressure surrounding us. That is why I cannot get rid of the idea of abandoning where I am for someplace more hospitable. As if such a place exists. Though if it does, I cannot afford it. I wish I could find an island, strategically important to no one, with all the creature comforts I crave and access to all the necessities I need and luxuries I want. But would that be enough? There it is, again. Enough. Is anything “enough?” Why can’t we all—me included—be satisfied with what we have? Why can’t we all be willing to share our abundance so that EVERYONE has “enough?” Impossible dreams. The stuff of Don Quixote. “They say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…” John Lennon, the author/poet who wrote those words, was shot dead. By someone with a different dream.

+++

Can I retrieve a reason for living from the emerging morning? We shall see. I probably can. I always do. There is a crack in everything.

Rebellion. Expressions of individuality. Fitting in to a coveted social group. Pronouncements of (or attempts to declare) leadership of a coveted social group. The reasons for youthful (and not-so-youthful) bodily adornment and deformation are numerous. And they take many forms: hair styles; earrings; earlobe flesh tunnels; tongue piercing; nose rings; simple tattoos; whole-body tattoos; tattoo “sleeves;” eyebrow piercing; bellybutton piercing; nipple piercing; piercings of other kinds; and on and on. Common wisdom says each generation lays claim to a unique form of expression that preceding generations do not condone, do not appreciate, and do not understand. Most of these forms of generational differentiation probably are harmless. Yet “adults” often believe otherwise (and, sometimes, the adults are right). Even when adults view such stuff as harmless indicators that the maturation process is functioning properly, they do not necessarily approve. Approval from adults is not necessarily what kids want, either. Kids might want their actions to taunt their elders. The predictable familial explosions that often follow can last a day or a lifetime. If supporters and detractors of these bodily expressions will simply allow their respective temperatures to decline naturally, long-term negative effects probably would fall just as far. But people are people. Wars have been fought over matters less important. Whether the problem is ignorance, stupidity, stubbornness, or some combination thereof, I suspect it is here to stay. And, by the way, I will readily admit that nothing I say about the subject matters.

+++

So, I have an earring. Why did I get my ear pierced? Was it a youthful pronouncement of my individuality? At age 60+? I suspect vanity played an enormously important part in my desire to adorn my left ear with a loop or a stud, although I cannot quite pin it down. Vanity in what way? Did I think it would make me more appealing? More attractive? “Edgier?” Hell, I really do not know. But I suspect the idea of an ear piercing appealed to my desire to be unique—different from the majority of my age cohort. Perhaps the difference I sought was youth; I wanted to seem younger and I wanted my appearance to reflect my self-perception: more similar to 30-somethings than to 60-somethings. Pathetically attempting to cling to lost youth. So, if that was/is the case, shouldn’t the admission lead me to take off the earring and let the hole close up naturally? Perhaps. But I’m not about to stop wearing my ear adornment. I like it for some reason. Maybe I am just fooling myself. Maybe I am trying to trick myself into believing I am not a pathetic old man foolishly grasping for my inaccessible youth. If so, the ploy seems to be working.

+++

Body jewelry and other such decorations are born of vanity. There is no question about it. Reading a few plums from people who have given the matter some thought is a worthwhile endeavor.

Naïveté in grownups is often charming; but when coupled with vanity it is indistinguishable from stupidity.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

And another quotation addressing vanity:

We are so vain that we care even for the opinion of those we don’t care for.

~ Marie von Eschenbach ~

And now, I will wander into the kitchen to see what damage I can do.

Enormous oak trees—supported by spine, maples, hickories, and hawthorns—stand guard over the forest floor. Most people assume trees do not have thoughts or emotions, but people’s assumptions may be informed entirely by their innate limitations. Humans probably cannot comprehend the possibility that a completely different intellectual and emotional framework exists in trees. And most people probably cannot fathom the possibility that other forms of natural flora also might possess the ability to think and feel and otherwise engage with the world around them. Humans are informed by human experience; people cannot experience life as trees any more than trees can experience life as humans. Each can comprehend existence from a perspective available only to themselves and those like them.

Pain is experienced differently by different people. Yet all people seem to understand the pain they feel; and they can understand that other people feel something similar. It is entirely possible that trees also experience pain, but pain for trees may be utterly different from the human experience of pain. Pain, in people, involves both a physical experience and an intellectual experience; trees? Who knows? Pain, for trees, could be expressed as something completely foreign to human experience. And, so, entirely incomprehensible. Not even recognizable as pain. Or whatever other physical and intellectual experiences trees can know.

Humans experience the universe from an incredibly limited perspective. Yet we assume our perspective is the only one; we assume we are the only beings who can think abstract thoughts. That parochial assumption limits our ability to explore the universe outside our own myopic point of view. I wish I could engage in conversation with trees. But what I imagine as communication with trees might well be severely limited; I may be—I am—incapable of even imagining the way an interaction between trees and people might take place.

This entire discussion no doubt seems absurd. But only to those of us—me included—whose imagination and creativity is limited by our own insularity. I cannot decide whether my thoughts on the matter are evidence of stupidity or, instead, indications of my own potential for engagement between kingdoms or phyla or classes or…whatever.  Do trees know about, or care about, the taxonomic hierarchies humans use to classify life forms?

For things to reveal themselves to us, we need to be ready to abandon our views about them.

~ Thích Nhất Hạnh ~

Mi novia and I, while visiting with someone in Hot Springs yesterday, heard a piece of advice that went something like this: Don’t listen to or read or watch the news first thing in the morning. That sets you up for a day imbued with worry and stress. Start the day free of the world’s problems; the rest of the day will be much more pleasant if you do.”

I agree. But the habit is hard to break. I should be outside now, listening to the birds (which I hear, anyway, through the window). You and I should make it a point to spend the mornings outside, listening to the sounds of Nature and enjoying the absence of divisiveness and global conflict. Join me?

+++

Phaedra is expressing herself to me, but I do not understand what she is saying. Her meows could mean hunger or they could indicate a desire to be held or stroked. Or allowed to go outdoors. Or contempt for me and everything I say and do. I am baffled by cat noises. How in the world can I ever hope, then, to understand the language of trees, much less appreciate their experiences in the universe. It is thoroughly hopeless to think I can ever “engage with” trees. No more than I can converse with cantaloupes. Apparently, I am attracted to alliteration. And, of course, to you—who can talk to me and be understood and, possibly, who will not judge me harshly for my bizarre thoughts.

+++

Breakfast with my fellow geezers is on the calendar this morning. Typically, when I join them for breakfast, I listen and say little. Today is apt to be no different. I am predictable.

Downsizing. Minimizing. Trimming. Whatever the name, the act of reducing the number and volume of one’s physical possessions is appealing. Simultaneously, though, it is anathema to one’s obligations to preserve important components of the past. My mother’s set of beautiful wine glasses, etched with images of grape vines—a wedding gift she received—have sentimental value to me. They may have financial value, as well. They are, I think, fine crystal and are at least 85 years old. But my sentimental attachment may be the last in a line; as far as I know, none of my siblings’ children want them, nor would they value them in the same way I do. I am holding on to several of my late wife’s shirts because they hold meaning for me. My original thought, when I decided to keep them, was for images from the shirts to be used to create some kind of fabric “art.” That hasn’t happened. And it may not. So what do I do with the shirts? And what if I decide the two sofas and set of wood tables (and lamps) my late wife and I bought together are too much “stuff?” Like so much other “stuff,” they hold memories for me they would not hold for others.

Estate sales, quite popular in the Village, represent the disposal of vast quantities of “stuff” that meant a lot to their owners—sentimental value of immeasurable proportions—but that represent only “bargains” to most buyers. The idea of certain of my possessions going to unknown strangers is both understandable and upsetting to me. I am not sure I could ever forgive myself for selling those wine glasses or those sofas or tables or lamps. But if not, I am probably delaying the inevitable, with estate sale prices hiding the sentimental value my possessions  hold for me.

Why should possessions hold ANY value? They should not. But the connection we apply between possessions and events and/or emotions do no care whether possessions SHOULD have value. It’s a tough road, I think. But it’s one I plan to devote some intense though to. Possessions, after all, are like anchors; they tend to inhibit free movement. The older I get, the more I get a sudden desire to just “take off,” with virtually no preparation and no timeline. That is not possible when possessions require attention of one kind or another. The solution is to reduce the number of possessions and, therefore, the number of inhibitions to one’s freedoms. But the absence of possessions, whether sentimentally valuable or not, can be just as frustrating as the restrictions caused by owning them. I have no solutions. Only questions.

+++

The forest is thick enough that the dim light in the sky just before 5 a.m. is barely visible through a thin scattering of spaces between leaves and branches. As she props herself on her hind legs to peer out the windows, Phaedra focuses on something of intense interest. The object of her fascination could be a chipmunk or ground squirrel or bird or something larger and more sinister. I choose to believe the latter possibility is quite slim, so I her enthusiasm for an  unknown attraction does not alarm me. And I do not give much thought to the former, though obviously I am giving both of them enough thought to take up space in my mind and on the screen in front of me. My fingers have refused to deviate from the cat’s interest just yet, but I am confident they will acquiesce to my increasingly frustrated insistence. Eventually. Before the full light of the sky bathes the forest in solar illumination. “Solar illumination.” Ah, yes, why use one word—sunlight—when two or more will accomplish the same purpose. I enjoy using a variety of words, if for no other reason than to prevent them from getting encrusted with the plaque of forgetfulness for lack of use. I still forget the meaning of words, even relatively common words. And I’ve always had a habit of using some words that, if asked, I probably could not define—I must have heard them used in connection with the accompanying words in a particular context. And, therefore, I know my usage is correct, but I cannot be precise in explaining its meaning. That is embarrassing; it’s as if I was caught using words whose definitions I do not know. Which is exactly what I have done. Which is reason enough to be deeply embarrassed, even ashamed. And I am embarrassed and ashamed far more frequently than is comfortable. Or than is conducive to mental health. My mental health or lack thereof has no bearing on the light filtering through the trees. The Japanese word for that is komorebi. I am pleased and surprised I remembered the word and know its definition. I remain disappointed that, to my knowledge, the English language does not have a single word that would translate in Japanese to komorebi. Even so, misuse (or even proper) of words, mental health, and foreign language words for which there is no direct English translation have nothing to do with the way this paragraph began. Isn’t that often the case with me? Do I not slip, quickly, from one subject to a completely unrelated one, and then back again? I’ll answer that question: yes, I do. It’s either my style or evidence of mental degradation. Or both, perhaps.

+++

We made reservations last night for a flight to Guadalajara to visit my brother and his wife, who live in a village a bit further south. While the trip will not take place for some time yet, I already am getting excited. I have not seen them since my last trip down, which I think was about four years ago. Their village and surrounding communities have grown in that time, so I may not recognize parts of the area. But the core of the place, including blocks of colorfully painted and densely-populated one and two story colonial buildings and the village plaza, remain unchanged. What I most look forward to doing, though, is to sit on the veranda in the afternoon, sipping wine or a shot, and talking. Of course we’ll have to wander the streets and visit shops, but the most relaxing aspect of a visit there is to be in their beautiful house—surrounded by lush plants and a beautiful pool and offering a view of Lake Chapala—and soak in the serenity and the culture of Mexico.

+++

With luck, the repairs to my car today will be fast, inexpensive, and completed properly and professionally. If the problems are too deeply buried in the vehicle’s computer chips, I probably will have the thing towed to the Subaru dealer (I think my AAA membership will cover the towing). Either way, I will attempt to remain calm, accepting of things in my sphere that I cannot control, and will to learn from the experience. That does not sound like me in some ways. I know. There may be more than some.

+++

I am tired of writing and even more tired of sitting in a chair. I need to walk around. And I will do just that.

Curses and maledictions! Big damns and little damns!  Before I go overboard, I should allow the assessment to play out. I should chill. Take time to permit the universe to adjust itself. Give circumstances a chance to shrug off prospective waves of anger and other forms of upset. Relax. Take a deep breath or two. Let my pent-up annoyance behave like an ice-cube on hot pavement; first it melts, then it disappears into the ether.

I will try. I will do my best. Because doing otherwise would be a waste of energy, time, and mental resources. I cannot change the past; only the present and the future are within my sphere of influence. What I do in this and in succeeding moments will govern my mood as the day progresses. The days, perhaps. Plural. Okay.

I choose to flow. Not to sprint, not to stumble and trip and fall, but to slide and glide. To become a instrument of time, like a clock that measures the distance between then and now. “Then” can be both yesterday and tomorrow—and all their close and distant cousins. Which ones matter not. All of them flow into one another, with no natural distinctions between them. Yesterday and today and tomorrow exist simultaneously. And so do I; the me of yesterday is the same me as the me of today and the me of tomorrow. Just like time, I am the same, but with different names and different experiences.

All this philosophical mumbling evolved from dashboard lights. Warning lights. Unwanted illuminations. And an odd cyclical “hum” I heard or felt or otherwise sensed. A clerk at a nearby auto parts store attempted to check error codes by attaching a diagnostic device. The device was not sufficiently sophisticated, the guy said, to tell him anything other than “something is amiss.” He said a more precise diagnosis would need a more advanced diagnostic tool, the sort only a modern automotive repair shop would have on hand. I learned, from a call to a nearby repair shop, that no time slots are available today. Tomorrow morning is the first available time slot. So I will wait. And I will not worry. Even though the timing conflicts with other things I had planned to do. Oh, well. If it’s something minor, great. If it’s something more involved (and more expensive), I’ll just deal with it. Life goes on. Planet Earth continues to spin. Either way, I will adjust appropriately. I hope.

+++

Feeling a permanent sense of loneliness may act as a form of chronic stress, according to Turhan Canli, a professor of integrative neuroscience in the department of psychology at New York’s Stony Brook University. That’s what CNN.com reports. Loneliness is not necessarily the same thing as isolation, by the way. A person can feel lonely even when surrounded by other people; even when surrounded by friends or family. Loneliness is internal. Loneliness, according to a study of the effects of loneliness on health, “refers to the subjective distress people feel if there’s a discrepancy between the quality of social relationships they actually have and what they want.” Subjective is the operative word, I imagine. I suspect a reliable objective measure of loneliness does not exist. I guess only individuals can determine their own loneliness, or lack thereof. Yet we observe other people and make our own subjective assessments as to their loneliness; even the depth or extent of the condition. Is that subjective determination indicative of arrogance? Or is it empathy or compassion? Or, perhaps, both? I do not know and won’t even hazard a guess. At least not publicly. But I have an opinion or two, which could conflict with itself or one another.

+++

The missing submersible that was intended to take wealthy adventurers to see the wreckage of the Titanic is the subject of a massive search. I hope it is found, quickly, and the five people aboard are safely rescued. The extent and expense of the search raises a series of questions—questions I have each time a major search and rescue operation is launched. At what point is the expense or the effort “too great?” Is money no object? Or is there a point beyond which the expense associated with either searching or rescuing simply more than “we” are willing to give? “We” is my generic term for “the powers that be.” I suspect the families of the missing adventurers would insist that no limits be placed on bringing their loved ones safely back to the surface. Are “we” willing to devote the full capabilities of two navies to the effort? If not, would we be willing to do so if the number of missing had been five hundred, instead of five? Ethics and morality and compassion and economics and equality and equity and a thousand other considerations must be involved in such considerations. Selfishly, I am glad I am not responsible for making such decisions. My hypothetical response might be quite different from my response in a real-world situation.

+++

I am testing a pair of hearing aids. So far, I am not at all fond of them. The only positive, thus far, is that they sync with my smart phone, dramatically improving the clarity of hearing the voices on the other end of the call. Except for occasional static. Otherwise, they seem only to make sounds louder, but not any clearer. I will try them, off and on, for a week. Perhaps my assessment will change. Perhaps not.

+++

Tuesday. The local paper should be online. What news might it report that I want to hear?

The Texas Rangers is the only Major League Baseball (MB) team that is not hosting a Pride Night celebration this season. Given Texas’ deepening bigotry and hate-fueled culture, that is not surprising. But, wait. Is criticizing the sin of silence legitimate? Does the absence of speech constitute a fierce, unprovoked attack? Context, again, may help answer those questions. Martin Luther King, Jr. is quoted as saying, “He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps perpetuate it.” That statement can be used as a tool to defend one’s positions, regardless of the positions one takes. Its use to defend the Texas Rangers’ silence might suggest the Rangers’ decision not to host Pride Night celebrations is equivalent to silent protest. But its use to condemn the team for its silence might suggest the team is passively accepting the evil of homophobia. Context, yes But context within a framework of underlying philosophy; each of two sides of an argument can use the same “event” to support its position. Only but unraveling all the beliefs underlying an argument is it possible to come to a reasonable conclusion about what is “true.” But a reasonable conclusion can be fundamentally false. Depending on the context of one’s assertions. I sometimes hate being able to understand (but not necessarily agree with) the rationales underlying opposing points of view.

+++

Speaking of which, Garrison Keillor regularly uses/used reference to Unitarian Universalists in his comedy routines. Usually, I found his jokes involving UUs funny and appropriately irreverent. But sometimes I was relatively certain I detected in his “humor”  a deep contempt for Unitarian Universalism. I try to overlook—or, at least, not to judge—that contempt because to do otherwise would be extremely hypocritical of me; as I find various other religions and religious practices contemptible.

When I give serious thought to matters religious, I find that I hold ALL religions contemptible, to one extent or another. And that includes Unitarian Universalism. I believe UUs sometimes speak out of two sides of our mouths—lambasting other religions for their practices or their beliefs or their disdain for Unitarian Universalism while condemning others for doing the same in targeting our own. Either we are tolerant or we are not; either we acknowledge that no one—ourselves included—has all the answers or we acknowledge our sense of certainty in condemning others who claim they do.

In my ever-evolving point of view, religions would best keep their underlying philosophies to themselves and would judge themselves and others only by their actions. Even that, though, would leave us at loggerheads. Because, of course, our philosophies guide our actions, despite sometimes seeming to do precisely the opposite. Ach!

+++

Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.

~ Napoleon Bonaparte ~

I find myself at odds with others’ certainty that our church’s glass door was smashed by someone who hates our beliefs. While I acknowledge the possibility that is true, I do not claim certainty; either that hatred or simple vandalism was responsible. I do not see the value in making unverifiable assumptions about the motives behind the act. Regardless of what prompted it, our reactions probably will be the same: install cameras and other “defensive” technologies and post notices that visitors are under surveillance. It matters little what motivates an attack; it matters far more that preventive and/or reactive measures are taken. Taking the position that we are defending ourselves against a hate crime would tend to galvanize us in ways I think are not useful; in fact, bracing ourselves against non-existent acts of “hatred” expends energy in ways that could be better expended. My thoughts, in passing.

+++

While religious tolerance is surely better than religious war, tolerance is not without its liabilities. Our fear of provoking religious hatred has rendered us incapable of criticizing ideas that are now patently absurd and increasingly maladaptive.

~ Sam Harris ~

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I wonder whether my constantly evolving stance on religion, coupled with the steadfastness of the intensity of my religious doubt, makes me unsuitable to head a conglomeration of disparate questioners. I see all sides, yet I am firmly attached to none. Maybe doubt is not the best qualification for leadership.

Shortly after 1 a.m., brilliant flashes of lightning and extraordinarily loud, earth-shaking cracks of thunder roused me from deep sleep. Just as I awoke, the NOAA weather radio’s alarm screamed, followed by its almost indecipherable, crackling voice, warning of a powerful thunderstorm. I did not need the automaton’s warning, after being jolted by the hissing, growling, rolling, cracking thunder—and the spectacular light show.  The commotion was sufficient to prompt me to get out of bed. I prowled the house and, of course, came upon Phaedra, who was not especially enamored of Mother Nature’s tantrum. Normally, Phaedra hops into mi novia’s lap, but avoids me. The weather gave her reason to tolerate my lap for about half an hour, as we watched the strobe-like flashes of lightning and listened to the sky as it shattered into a million pieces in response to the storm’s attack. Finally, the light show and thunder softened just enough for me to think I might be able to get back to sleep, so I went to bed. Eventually, I went to sleep. And, eventually, I woke; after 6:30. Soon thereafter, another storm roared through. Though this morning’s storm is not nearly as powerful as the one last night, it is sufficiently strong to assert Nature’s enormous raw power. I love watching storms. Even after being roused in the middle of the night, I love witnessing the power and hearing the fury of Nature. Except, of course, when the power gets out of hand. Recent hail storms, dropping only a few hailstones on us, did serious damage all around our area; such stuff leaves me awe-struck, too, but I would rather watch such power in places where the damage to people, pets, and property is not so severe. As I write this, this morning’s storm continues to rage. I wonder whether tree branches litter the streets of the Village. We’ll see, when we leave for church less than two hours hence.

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We participated in two celebrations of life in recent days, the most recent watching, via Zoom, a service celebrating the life of a friend’s mother, who died recently. The other was a gathering, organized by the deceased man’s wife and daughter, held at a local community center. The Zoom service was both celebratory and sad, as might be expected of such an event. The in-person event, which took place several months after the man’s death, was more of an opportunity for family and friends to gather to view photos and relive fond memories. Both affairs were considerably more upbeat than traditional “funeral” services, which in my limited experience tend to be somber events drenched in gravitas and sorrow. Both people were known for their humor and love of life. Celebration was much more befitting than would have been a ceremony focused on grief and mourning. Surely, mourning played a part in both, but grief was secondary to celebration. The purposes of funerals and celebrations of life are to honor lives lost, to mourn losses, and to comfort surviving family and friends. There was a time I avoided such activities because I misunderstood them and they made me uncomfortable; that is no longer the case.

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The storm seems to have subsided. The cat has stopped yowling and scratching rugs and otherwise creating mischief. I have allowed myself to think with my fingers. If I had not overslept, I happily would continue to transfer my thoughts from my head to the screen. But I have places to be and things to do. So, here’s to another Sunday.