John Swinburn

My thoughts this morning are tangled, as if some are fresh and new, yet are entwined with old, ragged ones. Together, those multigenerational thoughts form a grey web that blurs those thoughts, a translucent film that impedes ideas from coalescing into answers. The clarity of philosophy I had hoped to experience this morning eludes me. My philosophies pair perfectly with their opposites; I see and understand too many sides to every issue. Philosophies should compete with one another, not attempt to prove the rectitude of competing philosophies that are in outright conflict with themselves. But who am I to make pronouncements about the proper behavior of philosophies? Listen to what I say, but beware of believing. The world plays tricks on itself every day.

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An unguarded afternoon, which intoxicants can free of the behavioral rules normally followed during the course of that part of the day, can leave a person feeling embarrassed and regretful. The same thing can happen, of course, during other dayparts. But the comparative infrequency of such free-flowing afternoons tends to amplify brittle emotional reactions. Daypart. I started using that term to differentiate between different segments of the day; I heard the term quite some time ago, as used by television executives. The way I divide the day into components differs from the way others might. Daypart is a term that originated in broadcast programming. Some broadcasters separate their schedules into these various dayparts: Morning, Daytime, Early fringe, Prime time, Late news, Late fringe, and Late night. My days tend not to have as many parts. But sometimes, the number of dayparts in my depiction of the passage of a day can be astonishingly large. I strayed quite a distance from my opening thoughts. And that may be best. My thoughts can ricochet like bullets fired into the corner of room that has solid steel walls. Fragments of the bullet (or the thought) are left behind each time it hits a solid surface. With enough power propelling it (which, I realize, does not exist), the bullet (or thought) eventually would lose all its mass, which would have been left on the solid surface.

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Most of the items on our to-do lists (whether physical lists or just mental accounts) are not vital. In fact, only life-or-death obligations are absolutely necessary. [Even then, those items can be ignored, leading to deadly outcomes.] The rest are options, albeit sometimes obligations that—if not completed—can have extremely unpleasant consequences. When deciding what items to attack from an impossibly long to-do list, one may find it helpful to order the list by priority—or by severity of consequences. I am not suggesting I regularly practice this (I cannot claim to have ever done it, at least consciously); but it seems to me like sound reasoning.

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I am no more a poet than bacon is a vegetable, but I sometimes feel compelled to write poetry. Free-verse poetry often strips away unnecessary words, leaving only the words required to tell a story or deliver a message. Somehow, that spare style can be exquisitely beautiful, using negative space to complete the picture sketched with a smattering of words. I have written only a few poems of which I am proud. And, of course, I do not remember much about them. I do remember one of them, but only its message, not the words used to craft that message; I had to copy it to produce it here. The poem, Into Salt.

Into Salt.

The water was gentle that February day, the waves
subdued as if they knew we were coming and why.

Salt in the air and in our eyes.  Water splashing
against the beach and running down the rivers on our faces.

Wading, slowly, into the warm salt water,
hating every step and cursing every breath untaken.

Holding onto one another the way we
no longer could hold onto her.

Releasing the contents of a temporary plastic
urn into the permanence of an infinite sea.

Impossibly hard, brutally final, an ending come too early
in a world in which we too often say what we should too late.

The gentleness of the water was unwelcome,
waves should have pounded the sand,
wind should have shrieked in rebellion.

She had been someone who loved and
was loved, someone who cared and was cared for.

That final soul-crushing goodbye broke life into a million
shards, like brittle glass that cannot be made whole again.

You just go on, remembering what melted into salt.

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Yesterday’s bloodletting took just a few minutes. I was taken to an examination room at the far end of the medical suite, where a nurse made quick work of filling three tubes with my blood. She took my blood pressure (which was considerably lower than it is when I take it at home) and asked me questions about my medications. And then she sent me on my way. As I left, I was told I have an appointment scheduled in about four months for a follow-up with my oncologist. The longer the time between appointments, the better.

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The cat woke me (for the umpteenth time) around 6. I had expected to get up considerably earlier, but being awakened frequently during the night made me decide, unconsciously, otherwise. I am awake now, but can imagine a nap in the not-too-distant future.

Roughly thirteen years ago, essentially all news media were focused on the plight of 33 Chilean miners caught inside a collapsed gold and copper mine.  Ultimately, they were trapped for  69 days before being rescued. Media coverage for the 41 miners who have been trapped beneath a collapsed Himalayan tunnel since November 15 has been far less all-encompassing. The story of the Chilean miners did not have to compete with Ukraine and Israel and Gaza, so the relatively low level of media interest in today’s story may be understandable—to an extent. But I cannot help but wonder whether the story coming out of India deals with people the media realizes are not valued as highly by the public as are people in Chile. I do not have an answer; I only have some curiosity which cannot be satisfied. Just minutes ago, rescuers reached the Indian miners—I hope the outcome is as positive for them as it was for the Chileans.

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Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken. Although its light is wide and great, the moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

~ Dōgen Zenji ~

That quotation has fascinated me from the very first time I read it. I think I was enamored with it because I have experienced the wonder of looking at a little drop of water and seeing reflected in it my face and the entire landscape behind me. I marvel at that incredibly common reality. There is nothing about it that should surprise me, yet when I have seen the world reflected in a raindrop of a blade of grass I marvel at the magic.

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Another medical incursion into my privacy today—fortunately, it’s only a quick blood draw. I am not quite sure the lab work was scheduled for today by my oncologist, inasmuch as I do not have any more appointments with her within the near-term, but I will dutifully obey her instructions. I do sometimes listen to the admonitions of my doctors; when the instructions suit me, I follow them to a tee (I do not know how to write that…is it a golf tee or the letter T or a cup of freshly brewed tea?).

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The cat was rescued from the boarding house yesterday. So, at midnight, 2 a.m., and about 6 this morning, she worked on her “wakey!-wakey!” routine. If I had a house with a large porte cochère in front of it—a covered area big enough to serve as a “pet relief area” in rainy or snow weather—I might invite a cute little dog to move in. Perhaps the dog would be able to convince the cat to remain quiet until after I get up at, say, 5:00 or 5:30. Dog dreams.

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Time for another tiny espresso. It’s amazing how little I drink, compared to the amount of coffee I consume (when I consumed coffee regularly). Two or three little mini-cups and I am satisfied. I will now go pursue satisfaction.

I spent the last two hours writing and rewriting the president’s message for the church newsletter. The darkness I bring to so much of what I write on this blog found its way to the first three drafts—which I started writing the day before yesterdays—of the newsletter message. I abandoned and deleted those drafts—darkness is not what the congregation wants to see in messages from the president. The fourth draft may be acceptable. I will let it settle for a while and read it again; I will ask mi novia to read it and give me her opinion. I could never have been successful as a paid assignment-based writer because my mood dictates, in large part, what spills from my fingers onto the keyboard. Oh, I can try to override my attitudes, but the degree to which I am successful in that endeavor is hit-and-miss.

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A recurring, but not frequent, theme in my writing involves my fantasy about starting over. Not from the beginning, but from the present. I have written about leaving everything behind, including (perhaps especially) my identity. All I would take is the money I could lay my hands on—I could not start over, at least not satisfactorily, in abject poverty. I would go to a place no one knows me and I would present myself as someone quite unlike the man I am. The history I would share about myself would be radically different from my real history. I would try to be an extreme extrovert, but that might be impossible for me to pull off. Failing that, I would have multiple personalities—I would be extroverted until I could no longer fake it and I probably would just be extremely shy and withdrawn. Or, maybe, I would make it easier on myself by simply shedding my historical surface self; that would not require acting. Just be me, but with a completely artificial past. Perhaps I would have been an artist or a tenured professor of psychology. Or maybe I would have been a farmer. Something very different from reality. It might be easier to conceal my past by pretending I am suffering from amnesia, having lost all memory of my past as a result of a tragic mountain-climbing accident, in which I slipped off of Mount Everest just after reaching the peak. Ach! The history would not be important; it would be the new present that would matter. How would I make friends? Would I? Would I even try? I have had issues with friends; actually, the issues involve defining who constitutes a friend and who constitutes only a pal. There is a difference, I have found. Friends reliably and consistently make time for one another.  Pals, not so much. But that’s another matter. I’m writing here about my new identity. How could I explain just showing up someplace? Amnesia might do it; I remember nothing of my past, including where I am from. I emerged into the present moment fully-formed but without any knowledge of history. Who is president? I don’t know; I’ll  have to check the newspapers. What year is it? Ditto. But I would need to know how to use modern technologies like computers, cell phones, etc., etc. That might take some thought. I am not sure just why I keep returning to this odd fantasy. It has been with me for many years; the first occurrence probably took place when I was in my early forties. Hmm. My version of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” but without the same impact. I should let the entire fantasy spill out of my fingers; one day, perhaps.

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An eye doctor appointment today…I hope to discover what’s causing a recurring irritation in my left eye, along with a grey film that sweeps back and forth, blurring my vision when it does. I will take a list of concerns. The doctor will wonder what kind of bizarre patient she has in her chair…some guy with a list of complaints about his eye, including dissatisfaction with his vision, his prescription lenses, and the earpieces of his glasses (they have created permanent indentations in both sides of his head, making him look like he was patched together from unrelated parts).

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Enough said. For now.

An advertisement’s tag-line caught my attention this morning: “It’s the giving season.” There was a time such an acknowledgement—that generosity and altruism has temporal limits—would have raised my ire. Time has tempered me, I suppose. Today, seeing that not-so-cleverly-expressed suggestion—that it is “time” for investments in expressions of care, appreciation, and love—just depresses me. A few years ago, a few of my acquaintances recognized the unpleasantness of the “seasonal” nature of giving by jointly agreeing to make giving to loved ones and to strangers in need a monthly affair. I liked the idea…a little…but it seemed a bit contrived. Yet the alternative, I think, to scheduling such stuff is to change one’s nature so that reminders to be generous and altruistic are unnecessary. I prefer the latter. Unfortunately, I only preach it; I have thus far been unable to make myself become the person who practices it.

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I slept much longer than usual last night. I went to bed very early and, in spite of waking several times (beginning at 3), I went back to sleep. I got up after 6. And I’ve been dawdling ever since. I think I was in bed for 10 or 11 hours. Sometimes, I feel the need to sleep much longer than usual; perhaps it’s necessary for me to occasionally recharge.  I’m still dawdling. We plan to go to church. First my S-I-L will visit for awhile. And I still must shower and shave and get dressed in clothes suitable for public viewing—paint-stained sweats and flip-flops would be frowned upon by even the church’s progressive congregation.

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The only leaves I see on the trees outside my window are bright orange. A few evergreens brighten the scene, as well. The ground is littered with brown leaves. Some people might the view outside my window as drab; I think it is beautiful.

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Time for me to hurry. Though I am not in the mood to hurry, I must scurry, nonetheless.

Plans change. Flexibility enables such changes. Thus, flexibility is good. For example, our plans last night included dinner at Doe’s, but on arrival, we discovered it was closed for the day. So we made an adjustment. Instead of steak, we had Vietnamese. Considering how hungry I was (not very), a vermicelli bowl was preferable to a mass of beef. And, earlier in the day, we viewed the Annie Leibovitz exhibit at Crystal Bridges, as planned, but did not go on to see the rest of the museum; we were tired and desired a nap…and some afternoon wine. Flexibility. This morning, after breakfast with mi novia’s family, we will drive back home, saving considerable money by checking out of the motel a day early. Flexibility. We can come back any time, at our pleasure. And we shall. We are flexible.

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I understand how small groups of like-minded people can decide to form communes of one kind or another. By pooling their financial resources, they can create refuges that offer them protections against a society gone mad. The protections afforded them cannot be guaranteed, but banding together improves their chances of avoiding the insanity of dangerous social deviance on steroids. Unfortunately, pursuing such protections requires risk-taking and bravery, two elements in short supply. We (the collective “we”) are too comfortable to take risks, even when avoiding those risks is more dangerous and the avoidance is more likely to result in chaos. We think “it can’t happen here…not to us,” but it can. And it might.

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Time to move along, here.

Another atypical Thanksgiving. Like so many millions of others, we spent the day on the road, but our destination for the day was not “home” or “family.” Nor were we aiming for a traditional Thanksgiving meal. Our objective was to reach an upscale motel. Our food intake for the day began with a breakfast/lunch of fast-food fish sandwich and fries, followed an hour or so later by a “pig in a blanket” (in lieu of a hoped-for apple fritter, which was sold out) from a small-town chain bakery. Later, at the motel, we shared a bag of pretzels, some cheetohs, ice cream sandwiches, and diet Cokes. And some red wine, later, while we watched an assortment of swill on cable TV. Today, we will go to a Crystal Bridges Museum to view an exhibit of photographs by Annie Leibovitz. Tomorrow will be the “family” day, when we will have breakfast with mi novia’s daughter and son-in-law and her grandson, who are to be in town for an Arkansas Razor backs football game.

There was a time when I eschewed tradition. Lately, I sometimes wish I could experience certain holidays (like Thanksgiving) as they are presented by savvy marketers. And as I experienced them, in part, in my youth. I guess I am occasionally overcome by waves of sentimentality for life as I wish it had been and could be. Gatherings of family have become rare, almost to the point of existing only in the imagination. As we age and as members of our family die, such gatherings are no longer possible. So we improvise and adapt. And “family” takes on new meanings, adjusting to new circumstances and new realities.

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Plans are subject to circumstances beyond our control. The Russian invasion of Ukraine…the Hamas attack on Israel…the Israelis’ ongoing retaliation…companies reneging on their promises…hurricanes…earthquakes…sudden illnesses… dislocations of financial markets…equipment malfunctions…the list is endless. So, what is the point of planning? Because circumstances that can derail our plans are not as likely as our plans playing out as intended. But we should, to the extent reasonable and possible, steel ourselves against those disruptive circumstances. Life’s journey does not always unfold as we intend.  Readying ourselves for unwelcome surprises can lessen their effects.

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I watched the last few moments last night of a broadcast last of a video, ostensibly made by a Palestinian woman who died shortly after it was made. My understanding is that she spoke of the untenable circumstances experienced by Palestinian civilians due to the unrelenting Israeli response to the Hamas attack. What struck me was that she appeared to me that she was wearing makeup. I am a skeptic. Though I have no doubt that innocent Palestinian civilians are being subjected to horrors beyond my comprehension, I wonder why this woman would have spent time and energy on makeup in such circumstances.

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Where does one’s control over one’s own life begin and end? The question cannot be answered completely nor satisfactorily. So why ask the unanswerable question?

Today is Thanksgiving. Ten years ago, I wrote a very lengthy screed about the history of the holiday. I will not attempt to rewrite it, nor will I supplement it with new information or new perspectives. It is what it is. Later today, mi novia and I will make our way to a place where we will celebrate Thanksgiving in our own unique way. I suspect our Thanksgiving meal may involve Chinese food. Black Friday, for us, will not focus on the greed of acquiring sale-priced items; instead, we will be museum visitors. Small Business Saturday will not involve greater greed on a smaller scale; instead, we will breakfast with members of mi novia’s family. I will make it my mission today to think about people and experiences—past, present, and future—for whom/which I have been, am, and will be grateful. Gratitude and appreciation are the objectives of the day. To the extent possible, I will try to maintain those objectives every day going forward. That is an admirable aim; I hope I have the discipline to accomplish the goal on a continuing basis. May that be true of us all.

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Many years ago, my late wife and I took advantage of one of my business trips to England by taking a ferry, after my obligations in England had been concluded, from the coast of England to the Netherlands. My memory of the experience is dim, but I believe we took a ferry from Harwich to Hook of Holland. From Hook of Holland, we went to Amsterdam, though I do recall how we made that part of the trip. After a few days in Amsterdam, we took a train to Paris. At the time, the Kingdom of the Netherlands was known for being an open, welcoming, tolerant country. Ever since that trip, when I witnessed an incredible openness, I have admired the Netherlands. The country is one of several European nations that have seemed to me to understand and appreciate the beauty of tolerance and diversity.

However, the just-concluded Dutch election revealed a massive change in Dutch voters’ attitudes, with an anti-Islam populist party winning a huge victory, capturing 37 of 150 seats in the lower house of parliament. The leader of the far-right Party for Freedom (PVV), Geert Wilders, has called for the “de-Islamization” of the Netherlands; he has said he wants no mosques or Islamic schools in the country. He also wants a referendum on the Netherlands leaving the European Union, a total halt to accepting asylum-seekers, and migrant pushbacks at Dutch borders.

Obviously, the enormous change did not occur in a void. A massive influx of immigrants over the course of the past several years has impacted the way immigrants are perceived. Many of the more recent immigrants have come from cultures radically different from that of the Netherlands. Though the Netherlands’ attitudes and the country’s welcoming policies toward immigration have been among the attributes that allowed immigrants to enter the country, many immigrants apparently find the country’s culture of tolerance intolerable. The clash of cultures and Dutch concerns about real or perceived threats from immigrants seem to have contributed to the backlash. Welcoming people with open arms seems to have had unintended consequences. Tolerance and diversity, once almost universally embraced in Dutch culture, appear to be decaying in the face of intolerance and a tendency for “birds of a feather flocking together.” Two cultures with different characteristics and attributes and values can enrich one another—but they just as easily can clash and attack one another. What can be done to encourage the former and discourage the latter? I wish I knew.

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Time for more espresso. I am grateful that I can enjoy that luxury. That little luxury is one of a million things for which I am more than a little thankful. I am incredibly fortunate and I know it. It’s sad to realize there are so many millions of people who are not as lucky. That is true every day, not just on this day when many of the fortunate few sprinkle some of their good fortune on the less fortunate. If only those sprinkles were enhanced and made more frequent. Giving someone a turkey dinner may satisfy our wish to feel benevolent, but I think poor people need money much more than they need turkey. Stop it, John! Go get your damn espresso and quit being so damn judgmental.

The glass of incandescent light bulbs is onion-skin thin. So, too, is the glass of fluorescent tubes. But that glass is remarkably strong, yet astonishingly fragile. When either of them break, the explosive shatter suggests the sudden destruction of a mysterious power that holds them together. Otherwise, why would they fracture so violently and so completely? Their glass illustrates a physical contradiction: incredible strength and almost unmatched frailty. Physics might explain the incongruity; but magic, too, might offer an explanation. If magic is the province of magicians, then physics must be the province of physicians. This is going nowhere; nor am I…at least not at the moment.

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This morning, I read a story about a man, who had just entered into the USA illegally in the Arizona desert. There, he encountered a young boy who had escaped from a vehicle that was involved in a terrible accident that left his mother badly injured. The vehicle was resting precariously on a mountainside. Rather than continuing his quest for work in the USA, the man stayed with the boy and intentionally calling attention the two of them. The man did that despite the fact that he knew he would be detained and deported if they were rescued. They were rescued. He was detained and deported. The man was honored for his life-saving efforts; his heroism. The man stayed in Mexico after the ordeal. The boy moved to Pennsylvania to live with an aunt (his mother died in the accident…his father had died earlier). The expected reunion between hero and the boy did not happen. Still, the story was heart-warming. And it left a question I cannot answer: would I have done what the man did, knowing the consequences? I hope so, but I cannot be sure because I have not had that experience. And I have my doubts. Doubting oneself is troubling.

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Sixty years ago today, in the midst of an already steep decline, human decency suddenly was ripped from our subconsciousness and bludgeoned until it was unrecognizable, its bloody and lifeless image etched permanently in our collective psyches. The dam broke with the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, setting in motion the flood that emptied the remaining reservoir of innocence. Despite half-hearted attempts over the years, the dam has never been repaired. Stories we tell ourselves about the fundamental goodness of humankind are repeatedly revealed to be either well-intentioned fabrications or outright lies. Yet, our gullibility in full view, we cling to religion and dozens (or more) of other emotional analgesics, telling ourselves “hope springs eternal.” That attitude masks the pain of true knowledge; unvarnished understanding. Though the pain may be softened, the perpetual throbbing ache left by the weapons of reality is evidence of a wound that will not heal.

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I can take criticisms but not compliments.

~ James Taylor ~

I understand that emotional reaction to compliments; I have a hard time sometimes…I usually assume they are the result of a person wanting to be nice, not truthful. But when I give a compliment, I mean it, yet I wonder whether the recipient of my compliment things I am “just being nice.” Hard to know. I suspect it’s a little of both, when you look at all the compliments I have given, but I hate the idea of someone not believing the compliment was deserved.

He who wherever he goes is attached
to no person and to no place by ties of flesh;
who accepts good and evil alike,
neither welcoming the one
nor shirking from the other—
take it that such a one has attained
Perfection.

~ Bhagavad Gita ~

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The impossibility of understanding life accompanies us all our days. When, finally, we admit our inability to comprehend the incomprehensible, we stop attempting to explain the inexplicable. But the eternal mystery and the perpetual curiosity last as long as life confounds our capacity to know. Are those everlasting questions finally stilled? What happens to consciousness when it ceases to exist as awareness? Does it simply disappear, or does it change into another form—one that also defies the physical laws by which we define our existence?  Perhaps consciousness is the manifestation of a kind of energy we do not recognize, but that we take for granted. Unlike the physical world, it seems that consciousness cannot be precisely measured and cataloged. Some say sleep is the closest we can come to death without actually dying. Others argue that only total under total anesthesia are we utterly without consciousness and, therefore, in a death-like state. I doubt both—because both experiences take place in conjunction with a functioning physical body, one in which a connection, regardless of how tenuous, exists between two “living” states of being. Consciousness, therefore is still “there.” In death, consciousness has transformed into something no one fully understands.

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Now, on a completely different note, the matter at hand is this: I have had a hankering for nachos for the last day or two. Not the kind of nachos you might find at a stadium or movie theater—chips drenched in soupy yellow-orange cheese-like goo. The nachos I’m after consist of corn chips individually spread with refried beans and topped with shredded sharp cheddar cheese and slices of pickled jalapeños. But the ones I plan to make will be made even more delightful with the addition of magnificent chorizo imported from Arizona. If I were more energetic, I might make them for breakfast, but I must direct my morning energy, instead, to blowing leaves off the driveway before they become soaked, slippery, and ultimately slimy and steadfastly stuck to the concrete. So, the nachos will have to wait until lunchtime or dinnertime. I hope I can wait that long.

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This morning, I awoke early—roughly 4:30—to the sounds of a yowling cat. I got up, fed the beast, and attempted to blog. Twice I was interrupted by the cat, who insisted on sitting on my chest as I leaned back in my desk chair and massaged her face and neck and front legs. When I stopped and put her down, she seemed miffed for a few minutes and then confirmed her miffitude by yowling even more. She was extremely unhappy when, after I was notified by text and email that my grocery order was ready, I left to pick up the order. Poor creature; she believes my failure to respond instantly to her every wish is equivalent to the cruelty of physical abuse.

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Time to finish my third espresso, then blow leaves. Perhaps food will follow. And, maybe I will return to my philosophical inquisitiveness. I want to know what constitutes life. It is not simply the absence of death. It is something far more complex, but not necessarily any more meaningful. If there is any true meaning in either.

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I learned this morning that prothrombin is a plasma protein involved in blood coagulation that, on activation by factors in the plasma, is converted to thrombin. I had no reason to learn that fascinating fact, but I did it, anyway. I doubt I will retain that knowledge.

From a Long-Ago Archived Blog, Musings from Myopia, My Original Blog: Posted on August 10, 2008. 

I’ve grown so accustomed to using this blog to release pent-up (and not-so-pent-up) emotions. It’s hard not to let it be an easy outlet for my anger, fear, joy, loneliness, happiness, sullenness, emptiness, or angst. But there are some things one just shouldn’t share with a blog or, rather, with the rest of the world. Some pieces of our personal lives should remain private, hidden, and shielded from public view. But that’s increasingly hard to execute.

This is not news to most readers, I know. It’s probably not news to me. But today I am thinking about the value of anonymity or, at least, the desirability of anonymity. Try as we might, we cannot maintain anonymity the way we once could. Online searches of  Google or Intellius or dozens of other sites can give us details about people that we probably shouldn’t know and certainly shouldn’t want to know.

The identity of people posting messages on blogs or in chat rooms or simply responding to email messages is not private. With certain modest skills and basic tools at hand, one’s most private electronic communications to one’s innermost circle can be fodder for YouTube or FaceBook or god knows what else.

By the time it occurs to you that your identity, your entire life, is available for public view, it’s probably too late. Your secrets are out.

A would-be employer is reading your personal medical history with interest and horror and is busy deleting the job offer she had just written. Details of your visit to an abortion clinic as a teenager are being reviewed by investigative reporters, their neighbors, and your minister’s mistress. Your long-ago-expunged arrest record for DUI in the idiocy of your youth finds its way onto your employer’s desk at M.A.D.D. headquarters. Your sordid affair with a married biological weapons specialist in Second Life is thrown in your face by your spouse and your fellow members of the board of Amnesty International.

The hardest part of facing the fact that there is no anonymity anymore is that people you trust may be feeding details of your life to recipients who are hungry for the slightest shred of damning dirt. Either that, or you’re growing paranoid. But you better not let that cat out of the bag; it could be just the tidbit they’ve been looking for.

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Occasionally I dredge up the remnants of my original blog, which I called Musings from Myopia. Some of its contents strike me as funny. Other posts trigger memories of a time I cannot bring back; those can, and often do, bring me to tears. I am sometimes surprised by how often I mentioned my wife. That lifetime ago was so comfortable and, in many ways, perfect; I did not realize just how perfect it was until much, much later. Too late. That old blog, Musings from Myopia, had a consistent readership of one: my late sister. The lack of readers did not bother me in the slightest. I wrote it for myself, just as I write this one for me. Despite my frequent use of the old blog as a way to vent anger and frustrations, I recorded quite a lot of day-to-day minutia about my life. These days, I get both enjoyment and torment from reading those old posts. I sometimes think about gathering all of my blog posts…from all of my blogs…and then selecting many of them to edit for inclusion in a compilation. Some people might enjoy reading them. Most probably would not enjoy them in the least. Just another fantasy. Wading through several thousand pages of stream-of-consciousness-writing would be quite an undertaking. I am not sure how I would decide which of my posts to include and how much of each one I might extract for inclusion. It would be work. More work than I might want to perform. And it probably would require far more focused attention than I would be able to devote to the task. Still, I dream about doing it. But I probably won’t. I might find it terribly disheartening to discover, after publishing the monstrous volume(s), that sales of the book languished in the low two figures.

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I have no pressing obligations today. I will spend the day at home, perhaps doing some long-delayed housework, maybe forcing myself to do some long-delayed church-work, possibly just reminiscing about long-ago-missed opportunities. I cannot seem to force myself to adjust my frame of mind this morning. Just being alive takes too much energy. But the thought of quitting is overwhelming. So I will plod along.

The simple, banal, ordinary. Perhaps the least exciting is the most fulfilling. Excitement may be simply an exclamation point calling attention to what came before and after the exceptional. When life bubbles with activity that disappears with every instant, important natural events go unnoticed. Every mundane experience that is dismissed or neglected is a lost opportunity in the journey toward understanding.

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

~ Tachibana Akemi ~

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Safety is a myth. No one is safe, nor is any inanimate object. Everything and everyone is subject to the vagaries of the stars. At any moment, our sun could explode into a celestial fireball one hundred times its present size, incinerating everything within its incalculably hot reach. That cataclysmic event—which would occur with such speed and force that we would not have time to notice—would represent a microscopic disruption in the fabric of the universe. Instead of being blindsided by such a natural event, we could observe the destruction of our planet in the form of nuclear explosions and their subsequent imposition, almost instantaneously, of nuclear winter. Or just a random gunshot could take one out. Or an automobile accident. Or a disease or an injury resulting from climbing a ladder or stepping in front of a moving snow plow. Safety, then, represents a brief state of temporal and/or physical distance from danger. The brevity of safety is almost immeasurably short. But for the fortunate among us, it can go on for hours or days or years. All of us, I think, yearn for safety. The sense that one is safe extinguishes (or, at least, attempts to smother) the constant, gnawing fear that annihilation is just around the corner. Is fear a reaction to the idea of one’s experience of dying or to the idea that one has died? The latter is an impossible absurdity. If only we could wrap our heads around the idea that the cessation of our minds and bodies is simply another step in our transformation from one form to another (star dust and all that…), one’s safety would not seem so important. And one’s demise would not be viewed with trepidation; rather, it might be welcomed (although only after sufficient time has passed to enable one to fully experience and understand his life, which would take at least two lifetimes and then some…).

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Friendship has been in the news of late. I lately have read about matters of concern about friendship as reported by both CNN and NPR. Having had very few true, close friends during the course of my lifetime, I find the topic very interesting.  The title of  a CNN online article, entitled “Why most men don’t have enough close friends,” caught my attention. Before reading the first paragraph, I knew the ideas the author would address.  Vulnerability, emotional intimacy, and the attendant affliction: loneliness. The article attributes to Dr. Frank Sileo, a psychologist based in Ridgewood, New Jersey, the following: “social pressures remain that make it difficult for men to express the vulnerability and intimacy needed for close friendships.” That is as surprising as realizing the sun rises every morning. Dr. Niobe Way, a researcher and a professor of applied psychology at New York University says heterosexual men seeking closeness might turn to those they see as better at building relationships and feel comfortable exploring their vulnerability with: the women in their lives… Sileo says that approach may seem like a good solution, but it works neither for the men nor the women they look to; putting everything on a romantic partner can strain a relationship, whether it is going to a female partner exclusively for emotional support or depending on her to cultivate friendships and get-togethers for holidays and weekends. Men relying on women for emotional connections face another obstacle not mentioned in the article: the implicit social limits placed on male-female friendships. Both men and women—but especially women who are involved in romantic relationships—seem to fear how getting “too close” might appear to others, so they do not pursue or permit the same level of intimacy that female friends share with one another.  Socialization has many positive attributes; the limits placed on developing close friends do not represent any of them. Feelings of discomfort—implanted in our heads by irrational social pressures—should not override one’s sense of compassion, but apparently they do.

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Calm in quietude is not real calm.
When you can be calm in the midst of activity,
this it the true state of nature.
Happiness in comfort is not real happiness.
When you can be happy
in the midst of hardship,
then you see the true potential of
the mind.

~ Huanchu Daoren ~

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Gazing around my cluttered desk, I wonder how I let it get this way. Periodically, I organize my desktop, put away items I do not need with frequency, and otherwise introduce simplicity and minimalism to this tiny fragment of my life. It never lasts long, though. I allow myself to bounce from one thing to another, one idea to another, one question to another. The amount of time and energy required to maintain simplicity and minimalism exceeds my willingness to slow the process of thinking and daydreaming. So disorder…appearing almost like unchecked chaos…returns to what once was a clear desk. I enjoy and appreciate order—apparently not enough, though, to maintain it with any regularity. What, I wonder, would Huanchu Daoren say about me after observing my workspace…and me?

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What will this morning tell me I have not heard before? When I look in the mirror, will the face gazing back at me be any wiser than the one who was there yesterday? Does it matter? Who’s asking? The questions will go unanswered.

I can imagine interviewing each visitor to this blog. I would ask for narrative snapshot of their lives…where they were born, where they grew up, what they remember most vividly about their early lives, their parents’ political views, their religious philosophy, their favorite colors, and what about their spouse/partner/aloneness is especially appealing. An interview might take less than an hour or several days, depending on what I learn about them. My guess is that I would like to meet at an independent coffee shop for the second round of questions and conversation. Later, we would have a glass of wine at a little alfresco café; wouldn’t you know it. we’re in Paris! Because the popular tourist attractions are swarming with people almost around the clock, we would explore neighborhoods and follow people out of their houses to wherever they want or need to go.  I would get quite a lot out of you during our interviews. I might find you had been a pickpocket when you were a little boy. Or that you left the scene of a hit-and-run accident the day after you got your driver’s license. Or that your mother won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2029. Or that you want to talk to me about what’s on your mind. Even more.

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A couple of days ago, I mentioned in passing an interesting article I had read. The author, Maria Popova, wrote some words that resonate with me. She said, “we…simply cannot fathom how something as exquisite as the universe of thought and feeling inside us can vanish into nothingness.” In an earlier issue of the same blog publication, the quoted Goethe: “It is quite impossible for a thinking being to imagine nonbeing, a cessation of thought and life…in this sense, everyone carries the proof of his own immortality within himself.” This concept—the inability to imagine “non-being”—has come up with some regularity in the minister’s sermons/musings. Perhaps the fact our bodies eventually feed into the matter of the universe cements the point that we (humans, animals, etc.) are never “gone,” but are simply moving along the spectrum of celestial composting. Yet I think the point is not necessarily the cessation of our physical being’s functions; it is the inability to imagine the sudden and eternal disappearance one’s of consciousness. That’s what confounds us. Intellectually, most people probably do understand the end of consciousness; emotionally/mentally, though, probably not. No matter how hard we try. No matter how intense is our commitment to believing in the end of consciousness. If we were to imagine the end of consciousness, our consciousness would provide the assumed understanding, which negates the very idea of the absence of consciousness. A riddle. A conundrum. A dilemma. An impossible certainty.

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I could eat my weight in fried green tomatoes…dipped in spiced cornmeal and cooked in almost-smoking-hot bacon grease. That’s the way I had them as a child. Before we knew how bad bacon grease is for humans. I do not accept the idea that we should completely stop using foods that are “bad” for us. But I do accept that we (that is, everyone) should completely avoid all tobacco products. I suspect my psyche is chock-full of such conflicting philosophical foundations; absolutes and certainties surrounded by exceptions. I do not consume bacon grease the way I did when I was young; but I will willingly expose myself to the risk associated with occasionally eating a LOT of fried green tomatoes cooked in bacon grease. Everything in moderation. Except, of course, for the things specifically designed and intended for over-indulgence.

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Some perceptive blog readers may have noticed that this is my second post of the day. It replaces the non-post (i.e., the virtually empty post whose value even as a space holder is essentially zero). Well, I had to go to the grocery store, where I bought frozen broccoli, Velveeta cheese, and mushroom soup. After that kind of experience, I just naturally felt the urge to have a third espresso and write the story of a fleeting moment or two.

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A person vows to go the gym to remake his body. He sees a physical image of his body as he thinks about his reformation. Does the person who goes to a psychologist/therapist create an image of his mind…in his head…of who he wants to be? I suspect the person who desires or needs therapy wants only for the emotional pain to be extracted or expunged. Although I can imagine seeking help to replace one’s personality or otherwise radically change the persona—an introvert wanting to be an extrovert or a redneck wanting to be an Ivy League intellectual. These ideas bounce around in my head from time to time. I could just ask people to share their thoughts, but I tend to think of these things only when I am alone with my keyboard…and I have a bad habit of failing to write them down because “I’ll make a point of remembering them later, so I won’t need to write them down.”

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Large numbers of chicken pot pies should be kept in the freezer all winter long. If you have a freezer full of chicken pot pies, there is no question whether you will last the winter—chicken pot pies are all the certainty you need.  Frankly, though, I could do without the chunks of chicken. I would be perfectly happy with more carrots or peas or whatever.

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The time is approaching 10 a.m. This is not right! I should not be sitting at the keyboard at this hour.

Quantum mechanics is a fundamental theory in physics that describes the behavior of nature at the scale of atoms and subatomic particles.It is the foundation of all quantum physics including quantum chemistry, quantum field theory, quantum technology, and quantum information science. So says Wikipedia. Though some people are deeply skeptical of everything one finds on Wikipedia, I am not skeptical of Wikipedia. I suspect there’s less deliberate misinformation on Wikipedia than in the world at large. I cannot provide my suspicion to be true, of course, which is the best kind of suspicion to broadcast to the world. I cannot provide it right; you cannot prove it wrong. The perfect fit to enable us to fight about something pointless. Something absolutely meritless.

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I am not suited to writing some days. This, apparently, is one of them.

Wind seems to have fled from my location. There is no wind. Not even a little. Where could it have gone? Will it ever return? How does one measure the absence of wind?

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Early mornings have become cluttered with responsibilities, obligations I would rather slot into different times of the day but which seem to insist on interrupting pre-dawn serenity. Not so very long ago, I could get up, swallow a few pills, make coffee, and slide into my reflective morning routine. The addition of weighing myself, swallowing a much larger handful of pills, feeding the cat, herding the cat into a room to muffle its vocal yowls, stabbing my finger to measure blood sugar, taking and recording my blood pressure, and sometimes taking ten minutes or more to set up and use a nebulizer…those add-ons interfere with my desired simplicity. Some days, I want nothing more than to ignore those obligations and return to carefree mornings. I long for a simpler time. We all do, it seems. But complexity seems to be overtaking our lives. We face commitments that entangle us like heavily-fertilized kudzu. Few of these obligations are especially demanding, but collectively they hungrily devour our time, leaving us with little but memories of happy-go-lucky freedom.  Damn. Damn. Damn.

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Probably my least favorite “volunteer” role was as an adjunct instructor at a community college, teaching a course in exposition management. When asked to teach, I felt obliged to agree. My job at the time, number two for an association of exposition managers, made it difficult to refuse; doing so would have reflected badly on my employer. So, I reluctantly accepted. I was given a syllabus to follow for the course, which as I recall involved three hours of my time, one night per week. The course was dull. I am sure my efforts to engage students in lively discussions were abysmal failures. The students, many of whom already had day jobs in the hospitality industry, were bored. The syllabus seemed overly simple. I would have rather been at home. I do not recall how long I taught the course; it wasn’t long, but it felt like a century. I have not thought about that experience in years; I think it came to mind this morning as a result of my online search for careers one might pursue after age 70. Among the several suggested options: adjunct instructor (which triggered the memory) in a field related to one’s career. I have absolutely no interest in teaching about association management (I probably would advise students to pursue something meaningful, instead). Other options suggested in one of the articles included “writer” and “artist.” I like to write. I occasionally dabble in art. But the idea of having an obligation to write on a subject that might be dull or to write on a deadline holds no appeal. And my artistic capabilities compare unfavorably to a four-year-old. So, this whimsical early morning exploration into a new career fizzled before I finished my first caffeine fix. It’s probably best—I am growing to appreciate naps, an activity not likely to be an acceptable accompaniment to launching a new career.

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Time to release the cat from its TV-room prison. The beast has taken to sleeping on a soft blanket on a Stressless lounger in that room, but the moment I get up she insists on food, entertainment, and opportunities to yodel. So I’ve tried putting her in there and closing the door. But I hear her howling and yowling again, so the brief respite is over. I may become a hermit, if only for a month or two at a time.

Imagine yourself sitting one evening on a big flat rock high above the slow-moving water of the Mississippi River. As the air cools, you feel a gentle wind against your face. Suddenly, the wind grows much stronger; you reach out to grab the gust. Though it is strong, you successfully wrestle it to the ground and hold it down as you consider what to do with it—place it in a metal-capped clear glass observation jar or drown it in the Big Muddy.

Wait! Is it actually possible to put your hands around the wind? I suppose not. You’re not clutching the wind; you’re holding onto a stray piece of air caught in the frenzy of the wind’s movement. The wind you hoped to capture whipped away, leaving you empty-handed, except for that fragment of air. As the wind swept past, it chuckled at your feeble attempt to catch it. You open your fist, releasing the scrap of air back into the atmosphere. Just then, a gust sends the newly-freed shred of air sailing away from you. What an utterly pointless endeavor.

Wind and air occupy different places on the spectrum of experience and understanding. One needs the other, but the other prefers to be left alone to luxuriate in invisibility. They are related only to the extent that they often occupy the same space on the scale of perception. Otherwise, they are as different as night and electricity.

Air is an incubator for wind. Air urges soft breezes to try harder; become more powerful and more controlling. Air has a stake in wind’s success. But even if wind’s efforts collapse into absolute calm, air continues to thrive…if stagnation is synonymous with flourishing.

Some days call for breaking through the confines of normalcy. Plundering the boundaries of today’s version of sanity in pursuit of the thrill of madness. I admire and envy the fortunate few whose careers call for them to engage in that pursuit as they write television and film screenplays, substituting fantasy for reality. Others participate in the process by willingly suspending their disbelief, engaging in imaginary thinking as Coleridge suggested. Crazy is a word denounced for its harsh mockery of people who suffer from some form of mental illness or imbalance. That is unfortunate, in that crazy is the quickest and most descriptive word to use for either whimsical or maniacal deviation from the “norm.” In my book, crazy is not necessarily judgmental; it is merely descriptive. Of course, one must exercise care so as to avoid behaving as so many ignorant and/or stupid people so often do. All right, then. Back to reality for a bit.

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Yesterday’s brief but delightful “Friendsgiving” gathering at a nearby state park represented life as it should be—welcoming, sharing, caring, engaging…happy. Conversation, food, and wine in a natural environment suited to light sweaters and the abandonment of protective emotional shields combine to offer deep contentment and appreciation. If everyone practiced this kind of…ah, well, it’s just a dream, a fantasy to think we could possibly sustain it, especially in a world so full of suspicion and selfishness. But even a short-lived celebration of the sort that took place yesterday can energize one’s sense that humankind still has a chance to overcome its fatal flaws.

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Silence is a friend
who will never betray.

~ Confucious ~

Sounds and images comprise only a fraction of our experiences, yet we rely on them for the vast majority of our understanding. We augment those two components of experience with interpretive thought. And what’s left? Touch. Smell. Taste. They matter, of course. Just not as much…usually. But touch can be powerful; sometimes it seems more powerful than hearing and sight. And it is, of course. Hugs, Kisses. Expressive entanglements of skin against skin. The senses are incubators of emotions. And they serve as fuel for the intellect. Absent one or more of the senses, the ones remaining become more muscular; their normal capacities are amplified and extended. I sometimes wonder whether a person might enhance all of his senses by deliberately disabling each of the others—thereby forcing the ones remaining to compensate for the loss.  Fascinating. If only for long enough to write these words.

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I read an intriguing discussion of death and what happens when we die. I recommend it.

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Time to plunge into the orange forest. Or, at least, to drive through it on the way to breakfast.

Certain ideas can be so powerful, so beautiful, that merely thinking about them can bring one to grateful tears. Of course, in order for tears to fall, the mind that thinks about those powerful ideas must be open to their ability to unleash unbounded gratitude. Gratitude for, not gratitude to. Simple, but overwhelming, appreciation for the mere fact that an idea can be embraced by an understanding mind.

Zen in its essence
is the art of seeing
into the nature of one’s being,
and it points the way
from bondage to freedom.

~ D. T. Suzuki ~

Zen is not a thing. It is an idea—an idea whose foundation is beauty and serenity and receptivity to an environment in which peace resides comfortably. But I am not a practitioner of Zen; I am only an observer. So my concept of Zen may be radically different from those who are more deeply engaged in the simple complexity of Zen Buddhism. There is room in the universe for enormously divergent ideas, yet no room for hatred. Hatred, though, muscles its way into consciousness by strangling tolerance and leaving it struggling to survive. Love—the kind that carries with it the broad, overwhelmingly powerful enchantment with everything—is the only idea or emotion or experience that can overpower hatred. Unfortunately, conquering hatred does not occur automatically. It requires active engagement and support—too often missing in this tiny pocket of time we occupy.

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Meditating deeply…
reach the depth of the source.
Branching streams
cannot compare to this source!
Sitting alone in a great silence,
even though the heavens turn
and the earth is upset,
you will not even wink.

~ Nyogen Senzaki ~

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Peace, at all costs. At ALL costs? No matter that the costs might be war or famine or abject, unending poverty? The war to end all wars. Such a dream. A naive, hopeful, gullible dream. Yet there are those among us whose naiveté and hope and willingness to believe in the possibility of everlasting peace may one day be the sparks to achieve the unachievable. Their willingness to believe the unbelievable may be the only true salvation—saving us from ourselves.

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Even with the fuel of two espressos, I remain uncertain about whether I have the brainpower to think as deeply as I desire. Actually, I am certain; that amount of brainpower has always eluded me. Yet I want to think into being the ONE solution that will solve every problem. The single answer to every question. The impossibly simple explanation that will untangle all the world’s confusion, past and present and future. I do not have to be the one who thinks into being that solution; I would be delighted for anyone to think into existence that all-inclusive answer to every troubling question. Even if the thinker were someone I hold in pure, unmitigated contempt—I want that someone to think into reality the ideal environment in which unending joy replaces endless misery. That is not asking for too much, is it?

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The Christmas season—which has not yet begun, but which one could never tell by looking around at all the decorations—will never again be the celebratory period it once was. My wife died just six days before Christmas. Since that time, I have felt myself spiral downward for a month or so before that awful anniversary, lasting for a month after. Even during that period of depression, though, there are many times when happiness breaks through the fog of grief. But that fog remains; not as thick, perhaps, but there it is. I am eternally grateful to mi novia, who comforts me and demonstrates her love, even when I am at a low point. I am grateful to return that love. Yet that comfort can feel like a double-edged blade. Eventually, time may dull the sharp edges that visit me every day; especially the ones that slice into me at certain predictable moments. Time will tell, perhaps.

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It is late, already 8. I have been dragging lately. Dragging more and more. Even caffeine seems to have no appreciable impact on my energy level. Could be age, I  guess. How in the hell did I ever get to this advanced age? It’s a miracle or a curse.

The hour I spent writing when I arose early this morning was time I needed to release steam from a sealed container.  Had I let the words that gathered there metastasize into sharp sentences and fierce paragraphs, the container could have exploded. The words I wrote remain in my head, but they are invisible now; sealed off from places where eyes might see them. But they remain in me, aching to be released. That constant battle continues.

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This morning, I found my book, The Essence of Zen. The timing was perfect; I needed it.

Solitude is freedom.
It’s an anchor, an anchor in the void.
You’re anchored to nothing,
and that’s my definition of freedom.

~ John Lilly ~

And another…

The One and the All.
Mingle and move without discriminating.
Live in this awareness and you’ll stop worrying
about not being perfect.

~ Seng Tsan ~

Drinking tea can, it is said, help sooth one’s mind. I am not sure whether it works with me; I should try it again. Very soon. I am not sure whether espresso has that effect; I’ve had two shots of espresso this morning. Even with The Essence of Zen open to words of wisdom, I am not certain about the soothing impact of espresso.

Another quotation that speaks to me:

He who knows
he has enough
is rich.

~ Lao Tzu ~

Hmm. I think I have had enough…more than enough. I still need something to remind me of the way to become settled.

Within yourself
is a stillness and a sanctuary
to which you can retreat at any time
and be yourself.

~ Herman Hesse ~

That’s it. That is the one I need. A sanctuary to which I can retreat, free of the chatter and grating noise of certainty and discord. It is the one I need, but is it attainable? It is. Simply withdraw for a time. Ignore the flood of selfishness that seeks to overcome altruism. Breathe pure air, unsullied by the smoke from arsonists’ fires.  Pet the cat. Listen to her contented purr. Imagine being hidden in a delightfully comfortable cocoon. Engage with the world around you as if asleep.  Ignore the fray for as long as it takes for steam to become ice.

I’ve been drawing a blank about what to write this morning. Everything that comes to mind would require far too much time and energy and would leave me and anyone reading my words angry and depressed. Finally, I decided I would simply extract some wisdom from a book that, for years, I have kept on my desk within an arm’s reach. But I glanced around my desk…it wasn’t there. I turned and skimmed the bookshelves…apparently not there, either. My heart sunk. But I am confident it must be somewhere nearby. It has to be. I would never had gotten rid of it. The little black book, The Essene of Zen, has been my reliable counselor for several years. It does not tell me things I do not already know, but it reminds me to think more deeply about things I know already. I simply must find the book. And clear off my desk so the book can claim a place within easy arm’s reach,

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For now, though. Another shot of caffeine. It is late. The day already is attempting to get away from me. I cannot let that happen. I will grasp the day. For you Latin-speakers, that would be capiunt diem.

Nothing in the news moves me. I am not sure that it is because I do not care or I have come to realize how I feel about the news does not matter. Perhaps both. And more. Reading the news and coming to grips with the fact that nothing I do will change it in the least probably has something to do with it. And being tired…tired of the constant repetition of information about problems we, collectively, seem unwilling to solve. We are able, but we will not act. Because we do not agree. We do not even see eye to eye on the extent to which problems are problems—war, murder, homelessness, fleeing social decay, famine, etc., etc., etc. Some people seem to think some of those issues have “uses.” I am quite tired of it all. All. Of. It.

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An NPR article updated in December 2021 (I have no idea when it was originally published) asserts that there is no universally agreed definition of solitude. The assertion was made by one of the editors of The Handbook of Solitude. But there seems to be agreement that solitude exists when a person feels alone. That feeling can take place in a crowded room or in an empty stadium. The experience is what matters, not the circumstances surrounding the experience. I find that concept thought-provoking—it opens my mind to an entirely new way of looking at, and possibly experiencing solitude. Hmm. It is thought-provoking, but I have to be in the right mood. My mood at the moment is hard to define, but I do not think “right” is it.

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Changes in the seasons rarely affect me with any appreciable impact. But when seasonal changes coincide with indelible memories of loss, I feel overwhelmed by an intense sense of melancholy. No, it is more powerful than melancholy. It is grief that, in the moment, seems like it will be permanent and insurmountable. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to flee everything and everyone; find a hidden place far, far away and sleep for as long as it takes to recover my…sanity, I guess. Though that is what I want to do, I have never done it. At least not for long. I think the return from the respite to my “normal” life might make it worse, somehow. So, instead, I simply try to become unobtrusively invisible for a while. I am not sure whether the seasons have anything to do with it; it may just be coincidental. Regardless of the cause, the feeling that I am drowning in something impossible to escape defies description. I cannot equate it to any other sensation because it is the only sensation that has ever had that effect on me. But, eventually, I climb out of it. If circumstances are right, I will have successfully hidden the emotional meltdown. If not, I have to convince those around me to just “drop it” so I can avoid conversations I do not want to have. One of these days, I will encounter the right person—a stranger—to whom I can explain the experience and who might be able to help me end the cycle.

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I could sleep for days, if only I could empty my mind and calm my nervous system. I think I understand why people turn to dangerous drugs. They want to be empty and calm. Or, maybe, just the opposite. I do not know, of course. I only think. Thinking is dangerous, especially when thought morphs into opinion and opinion solidifies into belief. That bears repeating. Thinking is dangerous, especially when thought morphs into opinion and opinion solidifies into belief.

The person peering at you when you look in the mirror is not the same person who looks back at you from a photograph of your face. I prefer the mirror’s version of myself. It is hard to pin down just what makes my reflected image slightly more tolerable than the photo, but that rendition is better. Not more appealing, just not as hard on the mind’s eye. The fact that the mirror presents a reverse image (a mirror-image…duh) must have quite a lot to do with the level or lack thereof of appeal. This entire paragraph seems a bit narcissistic; but it is not. If I could recast the face looking back and me (both from the mirror and the photo), the image would be of a man with blue eyes, tanned skin, a chiseled handsome nose and mouth and jawline, and only one neck—sans the turkey-like wattle. I wonder whether my preference for my mirror-image is unique? I doubt it. Even when I try to quash my vanity, it finds a way to bubble to the surface. We’re probably all like that. Human. The image is not all we see, by the way. We see our own mood when we look in the mirror. And we see the mood we were in when a photo was taken. Others do not necessarily see the same moods we see. Sometimes, others’ interpretations of our moods are radically different from our own.

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The wonders of Nature sometimes seem so utterly remarkable and complex—so elaborate and sophisticated and intricate—that nothing humans do could possibly come close. But, then, I come across something as stunning as the world’s first whole eye and partial face transplant. A Hot Springs man was badly injured when his face touched a 7200-volt live wire. The victim had extensive injuries—including the loss of his left eye, his dominant left arm from above the elbow, his entire nose and lips, front teeth, left cheek area, and chin down to the bone. I viewed a series of three photos of the man: the first one taken pre-accident; the second one (a terribly disturbing one of his face after his injury); and the third, a more recent one, taken after his 21 hour surgery that involved a team of more than 140 surgeons, nurses, and other healthcare professionals. Humans can survive unspeakable horrors…and humans can perform work that seems to almost simulate miracles.

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Yesterday, we made a trip to Costco, got our COVID-19 boosters, and watched episodes of season 5 of Unforgotten. There must have been more…oh, I drafted a message to members of my church concerning a mundane, but important, matter. And I scanned the news, of course. Collected the mail, of course, including a lovely gift from mi novia, a wire “wreath” designed to display collected wine corks. Trying to itemize a list of all of one’s activities during the course of a day is, in my opinion, essentially impossible. Too many actions and activities take place with the mental equivalent of autopilot; some actions simply do not register—trying to capture all of them would be like attempting to make a record of every breath we take. Pointless. Yet, like breathing, omitting the actions that “do not register” could well lead to the same outcome as breath-cessation. They are vitally important, but they take place without specific intent.

Augmenting upsetting news with information that brings a smile to one’s face is not enough to erase the damage done to one’s psyche by the former. The only way to eliminate the injury done—and the psychological scars left—by exposure to news of war, murder, accidents, illness, and similar painful information is to prevent the exposure from ever happening. Ignorance is, indeed, bliss. A complete blockade of the kind of knowledge that savages one’s serenity may be the only means of experiencing peace of mind. Yet in an environment in which exposure to a constant flow of new data is natural and expected, shutting down that flow may trigger the imagination to fill the void with worry…a flood of disquieting “what if” scenarios. Perhaps the solution is to simultaneously stem the stream of news and train the mind to replace worry with mindful awareness of the present moment—a moment in which disturbing external stimuli are absent. As I consider these thoughts, I imagine a days-long “retreat” that involves leaving email, texts, radio, television, telephone, online access, etc. behind; in their place, frequent periods of guided meditation led by an experienced practitioner would train the mind to abandon its tendency to replace emptiness with worry. Anesthesia might accomplish the same thing, of course, but unconsciousness lacks the bliss of one’s awareness of one’s ignorance.

Unpleasant external information, unfortunately, is not the only source of anxiety. One’s own worries and concerns—the emotional equivalents to powerful punches to the gut—sometimes are far more damaging than are packets of impersonal reports delivered by news anchors. The world and all its potential for drowning one in grief sometimes is just too overwhelming to cope with; rational efforts to overcome its repeated gut punches can be pointless exercises in ineffectiveness.

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Fall weather is upon us. Short sleeved shirts and short pants have suddenly become inadequate. Temperatures are too cool to rely solely on long sleeved shirts, but too warm for heavy jackets. The “right” sweaters are appropriate for the chill of early mornings, but a bit too much for slightly warmer temperatures later in the day. Layers…that’s the ticket. Easily shed (and replaced) layers are ideal for the season. Maybe. As if I had the answers.

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The very idea of showering and shaving this morning seems so damn taxing. I want to have showered and shaved, but I do not feel like dealing with the process of having done those things. The idea of more sleep…hours more…appeals to me, but I know waking after more sleep would leave me aching—cursing myself for having spent so much time in bed. Life is hard. But not as hard as doing without it, I suppose. Deal with it. Just deal with it.

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Two shots of espresso have not cured my headache. Nor did two acetaminophen tablets a few hours earlier accomplish that objective. And two squirts of nasal decongestant failed, as well. It is said that time heals all wounds. If my headache is a wound, then time should do the trick.

Years ago—it must be close to 25 years, maybe more—I had the great good fortune of making a trip to Australia and New Zealand. The whirlwind experience took my late wife and me on very short visits—between one and three days each—to Auckland, Christchurch, Wellington, Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane. Though it was a business trip, it felt like a dream vacation, though its compact and hurried schedule reminded me that I was not in control of the experience. That trip has come to mind of late as I read the occasional Facebook posts of a friend who has been on a very long cruise destined for Australia; she could easily have convinced me to be her porter. As I think of that trip and others I have made over the years, it occurs to me that the appearance of many of the places I have been must be radically different from the time I visited. Watching television series filmed in London, for example, has shown me a city that looks remarkably different than the last time I was there. A large number of tall modern buildings has altered the cityscape to the point that it seems like a completely different place than the one I enjoyed. The same must be true of the quaint villages I fell in love with on my many visits to England. And, I suppose, Australia and New Zealand are not the same places I remember. That is true in the U.S., too. The Chicago I lived in years ago was a different city than the one I see in videos today. Even Austin, where I spent 3+ years in college, is no longer the somewhat sleepy college town I enjoyed; it is a traffic-ridden high-tech monster. And Dallas, the city I left nine years ago, seems to have erupted into the kind of place I want to avoid. Is that true of Sydney and Christchurch, I wonder? How different will the towns and cities young people visit today be in 25 years? Will those people wistfully remember experiences they enjoyed in places that no longer exist?

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Though I have never been to the Hebrides, I think I would find experiencing a secluded life there quite rewarding. That idea, though, will remain a fantasy. One of many I keep stored in my head. One of only a select few I share publicly. I find it difficult to explain the appeal of isolation, seclusion…distance from aspects of the world I find troubling. That notwithstanding, I’ll have another espresso and continue to mull it over.

Some concepts are subject to generational evaporation. For example, the idea that a person can “cherish” or be cherished. Baby Boomers, as a group, understand it. If for no other reason the 1966 tune written by Terry Kirkman and recorded by the Association, entitled Cherish, the word (and the concept) entered our vocabulary. But I suspect the term and its meaning both skipped subsequent generations. Do Millenials or GenX or GenZ or the latest cohorts know the word? I doubt it. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of word that slip quietly out of regular usage. Language is not static. Knowing that, getting sentimental about words disappearing and new one appearing is rather silly. But people tend to get sentimental about such things. I suppose we tend to associate specific words with treasured—or despised—experiences. Members of subsequent generations may not have such experiences or they may have them but may not make the same linguistic connections to them. This train of thought probably does not matter to anyone but me at the moment; but that’s true of so many of my thoughts.

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The vibrancy of a cosmopolitan city. The charm and pace of a pacific village. The serenity of a hidden, quiet, purely personal retreat. Mountainous forests, long stretches of empty sand beaches, majestic cliffs overlooking endless ocean scenes, the hustle and bustle of city crowds, and the peaceful silence of places known only to the select few. If only it all existed in just one place. But no such place exists. Those people fortunate enough to have the resources to be where they wish, choices must be made. The extremely fortunate among us can move from place to place, but even they cannot bring all those desirable spots together in one place. Decisions are required. People must establish priorities. But some people cannot force themselves to choose. For some people, choices are their demons. A decision to pick one place means others are not selected; those others may then become even more attractive—and the person who made the choice begins to resent his selection. In the absence of Shangri-La, the place that combines every desirable attribute, every place becomes almost hellishly imperfect. Choice of places to be represent only one kind of demon. Choices about who to be—or who not to be—can be equally demonic. In fact, every opportunity for choice can represent a risk…to be dissatisfied or, at minimum, incompletely satisfied. Is it a personality flaw or simply an accident of existence? Everyone has an opinion, but no one—having selected which opinion to hold—can be certain he has chosen the right one.

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Orange and yellow leaves are raining down from the trees outside my window. Every strong gust of wind tears countless leaves from their branches, sending them down to cover the ground. Over time, many of those leaves will compost naturally, providing nutrients to the trees that once held the younger, greener versions of the leaves close. If cannibalism applied to non-animal living things, I would say the process of trees “eating” their own (and other trees’) leaves represents cannibalism. But the dictionary tells me cannibalism applies only to animals. Perhaps, if I tried, I could find a terms that applies to plants. But I have not tried and probably won’t. It’s not that important to me. But I am modestly curious. So if anyone reading this knows the answer, I will be grateful if you tell me.

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If I had the energy, I might write about my long, somewhat annoying trek to the airport yesterday afternoon…and the long, unplanned route I took driving home. But I do not have the energy at the moment. More espresso, please. Okay, I’ll take care of that.

Early this morning, I came across a brief discussion of the Gabriel García Márquez novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude, which has been described as among the “supreme achievements in world literature.” Though I have long known of the novel, I have yet to read it. But as I read the discussion and a partial synopsis of the book, a few words that summarize the book’s core story line struck a chord deep inside me. The electrifying summary says the book “chronicles the irreconcilable conflict between the desire for solitude and the need for love.” Ach! I must make time, during a long stretch of isolation, to read the 417-page book.

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I have never taken enough photographs of people I love. Yet perhaps those relatively few photos take on an even deeper sentimental value than had I taken thousands.  Those I have taken should have been better organized and preserved. This line of thinking is silly and pointless. Deeds that never took place are impossible to “fix.” Fretting about past failures is an exercise in futility. If that and similar exercises built muscles, my physical strength would be on full display; bulging biceps and all. The absence of such evidence says such exercise does not build muscles; I know that exercise simply builds additional layers of guilt and regret. A lifetime recognizing mistakes of omission and commission is time wasted. So, knowing that, why is that futile and unhealthy mindset allowed to fester? Bloody good question. The answer or answers probably are just as unsatisfying as the thinking that allowed dwelling on the matter to take place.

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The urologist subjected me to a very uncomfortable, though quite brief, couple of procedures yesterday. But his analysis of his findings—nothing at all of any concern whatsoever—made the unpleasant indignities worth the experience.

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I washed the sheets a while ago. They are drying as I type this. One of my least favorite household chores is making the bed. In this house, one of the divisions of labor we have silently agreed on is that I do not have to do that chore. But in mi novia‘s weeklong absence, it is only fitting that I welcome her back with clean sheets on a made bed. If I had devoted every ounce of my creative energies for my entire life to alternative ways of preparing beds for comfortable sleep, I suspect I could have found more appealing options. But, alas, I have simply tolerated that unpleasant part of household management, instead of trying to find ways to get around it.

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Summer returned yesterday. Late in the day, while the sun was still shining brightly, I traded my jeans for a pair of gym shorts. And I took off my athletic shoes and replaced them with flip-flops. If the weather forecasts are correct, I should be able to avoid jeans and heavy, uncomfortable shoes for at least the next day or two. Happiness can come on the wings of small things.

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The dryer soon will remind me that I have to make the bed. “Pleasure with pain for leaven,” is one of my favorite phrases, taken from a poem I have always appreciated. The phrases is so apropos of the vagaries of life on planet Earth.

The complexity of our planet and everything on it is beyond comprehension. Looking out my window at the bark on tree branches thirty feet in the air, I see grey and light green lichens or fungus or moss—I guess. And I see living green pine needles and dying or dead brown ones. And acorns on oak trees, among leaves that the season somehow triggers to wilt and fall to the ground. Bark on tree trunks reveals holes where woodpeckers have sought insects, the variety of which is almost unimaginably diverse. I could go on for hours, detailing the variety of life forms just outside my window. But diversity is not limited to living things, of course. If I were viewing multi-colored layers of rock and stone in a road-cut, I could spend hours—perhaps months or years—noting the unique appearance and texture of each one. Sea creatures, volcanoes, clouds, earthquakes, tornadoes, desert sand, and on and on and on and on and on and on…ad infinitum.

Planet Earth is astounding. I wonder whether other planets are as remarkably complex as ours? And what about asteroids and the rings around planets and stars and the space between them? And then I think about my own body and its complexity, its growth and decay—and the resurrection of tissues and the degradation of bones and brain cells and hair that grows on my head and face and…on and on and on…ad infinitum. Stunning. My brain cannot hope to comprehend even a miniscule fraction of the realities it encounters. Any effort to absorb and understand all knowledge is a pointless endeavor, but humankind continues to try. But even our collective efforts are essentially wasted, if our objective is to know all there is available to know. On the other hand, the pursuit of knowing more promises to be an ever-expanding opportunity. Hmm.

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Visiting a urologist is not high on my bucket list. That notwithstanding, that is on my calendar for this morning. My oncologist, when she saw that my latest CT scan revealed a “circumferential wall thickening of the urinary bladder,” decided she wanted a urologist to evaluate finding. I realize, of course, that one’s body tends to rebel against aging as time progresses, but I would prefer to delay that revolution until the very end—perhaps twenty years hence. My preferences, of course, are irrelevant; one’s body does what one’s body does—on its own timeline—without being asked or given permission. So, after another espresso to prepare me for the day and a shower to prepare me to be around people, I will visit my urologist.

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If the stakes were not so high, we could leave mindless politicians to engage in pointless warfare with one another until only their bloodied corpses remained to remind us that stupidity kills. And, of course, there is the problem of the politicians’ indoctrinated acolytes, people who permit politicians to think for them. The incredibly high stakes, perhaps as high as they have ever been, require the rest of us to use one of the only tools available to us—the vote. The only other means of exercising control involves taking up arms at the risk of leaving politicians unscathed and insurrectionists dead or imprisoned. So, realistically, the vote is our only hope to retain—or recapture—control over self-governance. And, if we were to succeed, maintaining control would require concessions, compromise, and bargains across philosophical divides. Preserving democracy, even  an imperfect one, requires extremely hard work and a willingness to accept the fact that the Rolling Stones got it right: You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you’ll find you get what you need. We can only hope.

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Love. Does it have weight? Mass? Fear. Same questions. How can we know either truly exist? Do we have reliable measures, or must we rely on our senses…and hope they are dependable? Silly questions, but even silly questions might have intriguing, unexpected answers. Or they may not.