John Swinburn

Time and experience nurture wisdom. Wisdom comes in cycles, each new one possessed of more profound levels of insight. That is what wisdom is, after all, isn’t it? Insight born of time and experience? As time and experience accumulate over the course of one’s lifetime, the scope of one’s insight deepens. Perhaps it is odd to think of either time or experience “accumulating,” but that is precisely what happens. Not to everyone, mind you, but to enough people to call the process a natural one.

What am I getting at here? The idea may be a bit convoluted. Essentially, my argument is that one tends to grow wiser with advancing age. But the growth in wisdom is not linear; it is exponential. With each new cycle of acquiring experiential knowledge, one’s wisdom increases by a factor of itself…or something like that. Knowledge builds on knowledge. Practical knowledge, by the way, is the foundation of wisdom; a photographic memory is total insufficient to create wisdom.

During the course of my life so far, I periodically have a rather mundane epiphany. It happens in the midst of a repeated experience of one kind or another, when I realize my previous thoughts during the past or most recent experiences were incomplete. Suddenly, the effects of time and experience enable me to reassess earlier experiences, based on subsequent experience. That subsequent experience transforms my earlier understanding, adding a new layer of knowledge/insight. And so it goes. Reasonably intelligent people grow wiser over time.  I know. This is not a newsflash. But it bears memorializing, which is what I have done.

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The newspaper business has changed radically during the past 50 years. Today, newspapers are available online; easily accessible from anywhere. But, like their paper counterparts, they are not free. The unfortunate difference today, compared to years ago, is that papers rarely make their contents available for a low price for a single issue. If I want to read an issue of the New York Times, for instance, I have to pay for a subscription or take advantage of a special $X for Y days/months. Unlike in years past, though, today a person has ready access to hundreds and hundreds of papers. I wish the newspaper publishing business would collectively establish a way to give access to all online papers for a reasonably low fee for a short time period. I would gladly pay $5 or $10 (depending on my mood) for universal access to newspapers in Denmark, the UK, Canada, the USA, Mexico, etc., etc. As it stands now, to get access to those same papers, I might have to pay $12 for each paper for a one-month trial. I don’t like it. But I do not understand the financial positions of newspapers and their cost to operate, so my dislike may be based on selfishness and ignorance. Oh, well. I suppose I should be satisfied with what life gives me.

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The population density of Mumbai, India is 76,790 per square mile. I cannot imagine what it must be like to live in such an incredibly crowded urban area. With a population of 14,350,000, Mumbai is not the largest city on the planet, but it is the most densely populated. I suppose one gets used to one’s environment; “normal” depends on one’s experience and the context of that experience. But, of course, choice—or the lack thereof—probably has something to do with it, too. Living in a chokingly dense environment may be terribly difficult, but if one does not have the resources to escape it, one’s choices are severely limited. Choices. We have almost endless choices. I feel empathy for those whose choices are limited by circumstances over which they have no control.

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I have obligations today. Some will be fulfilled. Some may not. And I have wishes. Ditto.

I did not feel the need to write a blog post yesterday. So I did not. I may opt to skip a day or two or three or…whatever…more frequently in the coming weeks and months. The satisfaction I get out of writing seems to be receding. The occasional comment on a post adds a little interest, but comments are so rare that they are insufficient to sustain me. Besides, I am getting tired of forcing myself to think about what to write. Lately, I sometimes have had to force myself;  in the past, words spilled from the tips of my fingers like water from an open spigot.  I will not commit, either way. “Obligations” I impose on myself are not necessary to my happiness. In fact, unnecessary obligations tend to cause stress or anxiety or other mental distresses. Removing them might relax my tightly-wound mind. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.

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Sacredness lies somewhere between mindless faith—which gives irrational credence to the absurd—and steadfast skepticism—which refuses to acknowledge the impossibility of understanding the mysteries of existence. Sacredness mistakenly is linked to religious belief when, in fact, it is more closely aligned with secular awe. Dictionary definitions to the contrary be damned; the concept of sacredness is reverential appreciation for the intersection between the unknowable and the profoundly understood. Viewed from another perspective, sacredness exists at the point where light and darkness meet; where understanding and immutable ignorance share the same space and time and meaning. Sacredness and profanity are one and the same, yet they conflict with one another at their confluence; the same place their merger rebels with itself.

I can do without church. In any form. But I need a place to feel safely sacred and profane. That place may be a “room” in my brain, where I keep mysteries safely tucked away. Or it may be in the dialogue I have with a “mind-mate,” someone who shares a willingness to explore with curiosity certain unanswerable questions. Questions that may seem mystical to the casual observer but, to us, are simply unknowable. That safe place can change from moment to moment. Therefore, any “safe” refuge is temporary. Undependable. Unreliable. So, safety cannot be guaranteed. But sacredness, no matter what form it takes, is permanent. Yet it can be transitory, too. Like light and darkness. Like understanding and ignorance. Like conflict and harmony. Logic tells us these opposites cannot exist in the same place at the same time. Sacredness, then, is like Schrödinger’s cat. And so are we all. We experience profound changes in ourselves, yet we eternally remain who we are and who always we have been.

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Philanthropy is commendable, but it must not cause the philanthropist to overlook the circumstances of economic injustice which make philanthropy necessary.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

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Monday, mi novia and I drove to Bentonville, Arkansas, where we visited Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art. Our visit had two objectives: to experience the current special exhibition entitled, Diego Rivera’s America, and to see Cheech Marin in conversation with Max Durón about Marin’s collection of Chicano art and his museum—The Cheech, also known as the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture of the Riverside Art Museum. Both experiences were interesting, enlightening, and very satisfying. We stayed overnight in Bentonville and drove back home yesterday morning. I am glad to have been to Crystal Bridges several times in its relatively early life, before the current building boom turns Bentonville and Rogers and the towns and villages around them into a large, crowded collection of “too much.” Urban growth, even when managed well, leads to congestion. Developers change the character of places they develop, a fact exhibited clearly in and around Bentonville. As attractive as the area is today, I suspect I would find it unappealing in the extreme in short order, were I to live there. Its growth is too rapid and too endless; developers and ambitious municipal leaders and managers never incorporate ways to brake growth. They watch helplessly as the attractiveness of “new” becomes the choking, clogging suffocation of “too late.” In spite of the loneliness and isolation that might accompany life on a 2000-acre retreat, I would fine it far more appealing and much more satisfying than drowning in urban sprawl.  Yet I was enamored of Chicago when I lived there. And I enjoyed the boundless opportunities afforded me when I lived in Dallas. But over time, I have become far more interested in space and emptiness. If I could surround myself with a handful of carefully-selected people, and live a remote life with easy (yet distant) access to urban amenities but absent urban unpleasantness, I would do just that.

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The bank where I do most of my banking business seems to be doing its best to cause me to take my business elsewhere. The bank’s efforts in that arena are focused, for the moment, on making transfers to other financial institutions as difficult and time-consuming and error-laden as possible. Today, I will call the local bank manager to express my displeasure. I do not hold out much hope for satisfactory resolution, though, because “bank policy” seems far more important to the bank than does “satisfying customers.” Pulling out of the bank, if I should opt to go that route, will be more than a little hassle. It would involve changing all of my automatic deposits (Social Security, tax refunds, etc.) and my automatic payments (credit card bills, homeowners’ association dues, etc., etc.), which in my experience is something of a hit-and-miss proposition. But the hassle may be worth the effort and its attendant pain. Yet what is my assurance that another bank would be better? Every institution has its unique foibles; might my bank’s foibles be easier to deal with than those of another institution? Hard to say. But I just may find out. We shall see.

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Intellectual property has the shelf life of a banana.

~ Bill Gates ~

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I should remember Gates’ words whenever I find myself concerned that someone might “steal” an idea from me.  Nothing belongs to me. Not even my own thoughts. Everything is simply recycled. Even if I were to conjure a unique thought, its newness would wear off before the thought found an audience of one. We simply rearrange atoms to form “new” molecules. But the molecules are not really new. They simply represent different ways to understand reality.

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Yesterday was not a good day for my retirement assets. Their collective drop in value was significant to me, yet I try not fret about it. Wealth and poverty are cyclical. At least wealth is. I would like to think poverty is cyclical, too; just a temporary low point on a sphere that moves like a frenetic gyroscope, changing the orientation of its rotation a degree at a time. I am curious to know whether an absolutely equal distribution of the planet’s total wealth would lead to universal financial security. There’s only one way to find out: a global revolution pitting the ultra-rich against the rest of us.  I have been toying with the idea of taking $10K out of my retirement assets to use as the foundation for moderately high-risk, high-return investments. Knowing I might lose every penny of it must not dissuade me from the experience. Using $5K to invest is unlikely to lead to an investment fortune. But buying $5K worth of an inexpensive stock has some modest potential for satisfying the financial glutton and risk-taker in me. So, I may do something like that. I suspect I could enjoy being a day trader, behaving as if my full-time job was to trade stocks with the objective of maximizing my net worth and minimizing untoward risk. Hmmm. Time to mull this over…over another cup of coffee.

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To anyone reading this post, I wish you a wonderful day. And that goes for those who do not see these words, as well.

Oftentimes, I reveal too much here. I write as though this repository of many of my deepest and most personal thoughts is inaccessible to anyone but me. In fact, of course, anyone with access to the internet might find themselves here, whether intentionally or accidentally. And when a person lands here, she comes upon the equivalent of a psychologist’s or counselor’s notebook, filled with confidential observations—the kind of information one typically does not share openly with the world at large. Yet, here it is. A private journal, normally kept under lock and key; the lock, though, pried open and the pages visible to even the most casual passerby.

However, if a person were to assume all of my thoughts and deepest secrets are on public display here, he would be mistaken. Consider this comparison: a road cut into a hillside might reveal layer upon layer of rock, each a different color. The layers are the results of multiple eons of sediments hardening into unique strata. Beneath the road cut, though, there may be dozens or hundreds or even thousands of additional, invisible, layers. So it is with my “journal.” It is highly doubtful that I will ever write about, much less reveal here, the hidden strata buried beneath my public revelations. No one will ever know all the intricate thoughts and emotions underneath. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, exposing all those hidden matters might enable others to better understand me; but on the other, exposing all those hidden matters might enable others to better understand me. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. And, so, I continue wrestling with eternal damnation. Except, of course, “eternal” is a concept which never can be proven or disproven. And “never,” too, is a concept that relies on access to more knowledge than is available to us; so, “never” is just as inaccessible as “eternal.” And “always,” first cousin of “eternal,” similarly is an impossibility, given the brevity of human life in the scope of Time since the Big Bang, assuming the Big Bang is more than an explanation of the inexplicable.

I may rest for a while. I mean take a break from this infernal daily routine, using writing as a tool to uncover something about myself that seems always to remain hidden. Perhaps if I stop looking, it will fall into my lap. The likelihood of that happening is on par with the likelihood of losing a contact lens while frolicking in the waves off of Maui’s beaches, only to find it a year later, floating in the surf of Galveston Island. But we shall see, shan’t we? Indeed we shall.

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April is winding down. The month pretends to belong to the season we call Spring, but evidence of its close relationship with Winter is clear and compelling. Whether this seasonal fling is permanent remains to be seen; but I would not be surprised to learn that the two have been surreptitiously courting for several years. Whatever the case may be, shivering leaves and frigid flowers offer testimony of something untoward. And when I see the morning’s temperature, just a hair above the high 30s, I know something seasonally inappropriate is afoot. Today’s high in Hot Springs Village, forecast to reach only 61°F, further testifies that the climate has gone rogue.

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I am tired, both physically and mentally. A week or a month of deep seclusion, performing no obligations and ignoring all requests, may be just the ticket. But that will have to wait. As it always does. And, I suppose, it always will.

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Enough for today and maybe tomorrow. And possible the day after that and, perhaps, the next day and the next and the next and so on. Hit the brakes.

When I write fiction, I do not create characters. As they develop, they reveal who I am. They expose me at my core. Easily wounded, quick tempered, deeply flawed, empathetic, brutally uncaring, timid, quiet, loud, terminally sad, spontaneously silly, irresponsible, absolutely reliable, undependable, driven by fear, brave beyond comprehension. And more. In other words, awash in incongruities. I did not realize my characters were expressions of elements of my personality until quite recently. One or two people had suggested as much to me, but I gave the idea no credence. Until lately. When, for some reason, the legitimacy of the suggestion became clear. Everything about me is incongruous. Though it took time, my characters revealed that truth to me.

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For two days running, I have allowed my blood glucose numbers to spike into unwelcome territory. A quick trip to Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art will involve meals “out,” so controlling diet is a bit more of a challenge than at home (where I have recently failed miserably). I suppose I can tolerate two or three more days with elevated numbers. But, then, another numerous days on another trip. I must figure out how to discipline myself to exercise restraint in the presence of limitless appealing foods, everywhere I look.

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We have been watching The Good Fight. I enjoyed the series immensely when it was originally broadcast, though I am not sure whether I saw it to the end. Watching it again is not difficult or boring; it’s just as good the second time around. And that’s all I have to say about that.

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I sometimes see people engaging in customs common in other countries but not so common here. “Air kissing” one another on both cheeks, for instance. In the interests of learning a little more about kissing customs, I skimmed a Condé Nast Traveler online article. If I was hoping for iron-clad, specific “rules,” I was mistaken. And I was. Though I wasn’t. Not really. Every opportunity to learn something new is an opportunity to be grateful for it. If I kiss you on the neck, by the way, I probably find you irresistibly, dangerously, attractive. Seriously, the customs of kissing seem to be a little fluid. Or, perhaps, it’s just my reading of the article. I would probably shy away from initiating a kiss when I meet someone new. I’ve avoided it this long and I am confident I can avoid it still.

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I slept in this morning. Until 6:30. That happens sometimes. I do not like it, but it occurs. I could control it, but I am not as disciplined as I would like. So I slip from time to time. If I’m going to get to church this morning, I better start to unwind and unwrap.

A few years ago, discussions about climate change and increasing sea levels suggested that future generations will have to wrestle with coastal erosion and inundation. I remember wondering whether scientists were right about the geologically quick, but still relatively slow, changes. What if, I recall wondering, the changes were to accelerate? What if expectations about the effects of climate change in 100 years were far too optimistic? What if those changes were to take place over the course of a much shorter timeframe—like ten or twenty years?

The changes are taking place far more quickly than, just a few years ago, scientists expected. We are witnessing the rapid compression of geologic time. That reality provides an incredible opportunity for fiction writers to offer visions of the effects of the change. I suspect fictionalized accounts will be forthcoming of mass extinctions, abandonment of entire cities and regions, planetary “cleansing,” and dozens of other possible outcomes. Fiction, though, is just a temporary escape. Reality might well be more practical; a hellscape that presages the demise of the human race. Unless the pace of change quickens much more rapidly than it has to date, I will not witness that hellscape. I will have to be satisfied to witness this one, the one facing us on all fronts today.

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The good news: I do not have a detached retina. I took my car in for an oil/filter change and tire rotation yesterday morning. After checking in, I called my eye doctor’s office to ask if I could be seen sometime next week with regard to the translucent “veil” about which I wrote in yesterday’s post. Both doctors were out, but the nurse with whom I spoke and to whom I described my symptoms urged me to see the ophthalmologist in Hot Springs who was covering for the absent doctors on their day off. She arranged for me to be seen. Mi novia picked me up at the mechanic’s garage and drove me to town to see the doctor. The doctor’s diagnosis: one or more chunks of the clear “jelly” at the back of my left eyeball had pulled loose, causing my symptoms. It’s an age-related thing. And the “cure” is to let my brain reach its own conclusion that the glob of jelly is not going away and I, therefore, need to get used to it. Once that occurs, I won’t notice the unwelcome veil. “Your body is self-destructing, old man, but you will get used to the decay.” Good news.

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Routine. Ritual. Habit. Custom. Various words refer to repetitive acts. Depending on factors too numerous to describe, the effects of repetition range from boring to comforting and everything in between. I think about routine quite a lot because I begin most days following one. Recently, that routine has involved tending to the cat’s demands for food, making coffee, measuring and recording my own medical/health statistics, skimming online news sources, and writing blog posts. Sometimes, I inject another occasional ritual into the mix by engaging in my personal version of meditation. Whether those activities constitute several distinct rituals or comprise components of a single one is debatable. Not that it matters. What matters is where along a spectrum that repetition falls. Does it bore me? Does the routine provide me with comfort? Or is there something else about it that affects my state of mind? Those questions could take up all my waking hours, if I let them. Without giving them too much attention, though, I think the questions merit consideration, so I am giving it to them. And along with mulling over those questions, I am beginning to ask myself some others: What would a drastic change in my morning customs do to my state of mind? If I were to begin every day by deliberately expressing gratitude for the most important aspects of my life, would my perspectives change? If I were to start every morning by driving to the Balboa Marina to gaze at the water in the lake as the sun rises, would my mindset adjust in some way that rarely, if ever, occurs now? What if, instead, I made a conscious effort to begin each day differently, so that the activities of no two days were alike? (That conscious choice, by the way, would constitute a routine of its own.) I have no answers. I am just pondering the questions. The fact that the questions have arisen suggests to me I am frustrated with my rituals. It does not take advanced education and training in psychology to understand that.

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FoxNews is a deceitful, incredibly partisan, utterly unreliable news source, in my opinion. Its website is littered with obviously slanted “news” items, interspersed with “feel good” pieces clearly designed to appeal to the compassionate side of people who otherwise are right-wingnuts. The conceptual design is highly sophisticated and obviously is intended to garner support from a very large, diverse audience. And the website’s conceptual design is brilliantly augmented by the visual design of the site. Looking at Foxnews.com, one sees an endless supply of eye-candy. Were I in charge of any of the other high profile news organizations’ websites, I would hire Fox’s web designers to restructure and maintain their websites. the websites of NPR, AP, NBC, ABC, CNN, etc., etc. could benefit from complete, top-to-bottom redesigns, based on the visually appealing approach taken by the Fox designers.

Of course, appearance and functionality are largely irrelevant to a news organization’s website if its content is unreliable, biased, and clearly aimed at managing public opinion. Except that appearance and functionality seem to overshadow deceit, partisanship, unreliability, etc. in the case of FoxNews. That notwithstanding, I think redesigning news websites to appeal to a younger audience that is stimulated visually would be a wise move. Fox’s website probably is far more appealing to younger visitors than are the other sites I have mentioned. I suspect Fox has a long-term goal of manipulating youth so that, when they reach adulthood, they will behave as Fox wishes. Although it is a bit late, I think news organizations had better redesign their images quickly or they will lose both today’s audience and tomorrow’s.

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And now for some thought-provoking quotations.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

~ William Shakespeare ~

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.

~ Marcel Proust ~

Several months ago, another blogger stumbled upon my blog and left a comment. I subsequently found his blog and decided to follow it. This blogger frequently shares insights and ideas from religious texts and other writers. This morning, his post shared the following thought-provoking quotation, from one of many books written by a doctor, a psychiatrist:

Forgive the past. It is over. Learn from it and let go. People are constantly changing and growing. Do not cling to a limited, disconnected, negative image of a person in the past. See that person now. Your relationship is always alive and changing.

~ Brian Weiss, Messages from the Masters: Tapping Into the Power of Love ~

Though I tend to avoid the “woo-woo” and trite motivational messages that often accompanies it, Weiss’s words struck a chord with me. The quotation was particularly meaningful to me in light of a relatively recent friendship (within the past year or so) that self-destructed. The aftermath of a series of interactions between this former friend and me left me with a very negative image of this friend. The words we exchanged left in ashes what had been an interesting, enjoyable relationship. Early on, I tried to repair the rapport between us, but my effort was rebuffed. Ever since, I have clung to a negative image of my friend, as well as myself, for permitting an unpleasant and unkind exchange of words expressed in anger to extinguish what was a budding close friendship.

Reading the quoted paragraph this morning prompted me to acknowledge the pointlessness of my negativity. Though I cannot change someone else’s mindset, I should be able to change my own. And so I shall. At least I will try.

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President Biden is expected to formally announce his bid for reelection in the coming days. Though I think Biden is a decent, rather innocuous, reasonably progressive guy, I would prefer him to announce his retirement at the end of his term. Someone who is equally (or more) progressive, possesses more charisma, and who has a greater capacity to forge cooperative relationships between left and right would be more appealing to me. Who that might be is open to question. I like Kamala Harris, but she is not the leader I hope for. Most of the other potential presidential hopefuls do not excite me. Among the obvious possibilities, only one has the requisite charisma, in my view: Pete Buttigieg. But I am concerned that the American people collectively are not smart enough to discount issues like sexual orientation. Looking at potential female candidates,  I am not sure the majority of Americans have abandoned enough of their misogynistic attitudes to permit them to support a woman running for the presidency. But there are a few other possibilities, both male and female, whose odds of getting on the Democratic ticket, much less winning the presidency, are slim. Stacey Abrams. Amy Klobuchar. Gretchen Whitmer.

On the Republican side, most of the possibilities are equally ugly and intolerable. My assessments:  Donald Trump—obviously the spawn of Satan. Ron DeSantis—self-important Neanderthal Nazi who would accelerate the country’s dive into a childish, though dangerous, dictatorship. Nikki Haley—I loathe her philosophies. Oh, there are many more, but few of the worst ones would be able to survive any kind of challenge. But there are some very long shots that could be worth a look, despite our significant differences in philosophies. Liz Cheney. Asa Hutchison. John Kasich. Mitt Romney.

We’ll see.

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We had a delightful dinner last night with friends. The meal was absolutely spectacular: chicken tikka masala, raita, salad, and for dessert a marvelous pistachio pudding. And, of course, the casual conversation was deeply enjoyable, and supremely comfortable. As I think back on last night’s dinner and conversations, it occurs to me that the same scrumptious meal could not have saved an evening spent in the presence of unpleasant people. Or, even among good friends, in a far more formal circumstance. The combination of a superb meal and a genuinely casual, relaxing, atmosphere with good friends is…what? The honey spot. Or something like that. What a lovely experience!

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I need to see an eye doctor, either an optometrist or an ophthalmologist. Within the last few days, I have noticed a left-eye abnormality: when I keep my head looking straight ahead, but then move my eyes either right or left, I seem to see a fleeting, translucent “something” that moves in front of my field of vision. I wrote yesterday about the “floaters.” Until I mulled it over last night and this morning, I did not differentiate between my black “floaters” and the sense that a translucent veil moves in front of my left eye when I look either right or left. Maybe I will call the optometrist later this morning.

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The rain, lightning, and thunder last night were entrancing, even after I went to bed. I awoke occasionally to hear rain pounding on the roof and splashing against the windows. At least that is what I think I heard. And Phaedra was acutely aware of the fierce weather, too. She yowled and howled and paced and meowed and jumped up on the bed and then off again. She sought comfort, I think. But she does not look to me for comfort; she only looks to mi novia. I am trying to be less terrifying to the cat, but I cannot seem to modulate the volume of my voice when I correct her when she claws on very expensive rugs (apparently, the condition of the rugs, and the fact that they were quite pricey, matters not a whit to her). I will keep trying. I would think she would like me for no other reason than the fact that I feed her every morning. And, often, at midday and late afternoon or evening. But, no, she barely tolerates me and certainly does not approach me to be cuddled. Mi novia is Phaedra’s target when the cat seeks to be held or looks for someone to serve as a mattress. I will keep trying. I will keep trying. I will keep trying. Up to a point…beyond which I will abandon that beastly feline as if she were a rabid wolverine with rage issues.

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What’s left of my coffee is cold. I will get another cup soon. Today, I will abandon all foods that could raise my blood glucose levels. This morning, my number skyrocketed in comparison to yesterday’s very slightly elevated level: 146 this morning, last matched in mid-January. Two big, sugar- and flour-laden cookies, along with various and sundry foodstuffs that probably I should have avoided, were no doubt responsible. Our hosts for last night’s dinner very graciously made a sugar-free dessert. Had the dessert been sugar-laden, yesterday’s consumption of cookies might have sent my blood glucose levels into the stratosphere.  By this time tomorrow, though, I intend to have exercised sufficient control to reduce the number from 146 to 100 or below. We’ll see how that goes.

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I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with identifying myself as a Democrat. Though my philosophies usually parallel those espoused by the Democratic Party, I do not agree with the party’s position in every case. For that reason, I have been moving away from self-identifying as a Democrat; I do not want to be pigeon-holed, nor to be seen as an echo chamber for Democrats. I do not want people to assume how or what I think, simply because I call myself, or am labeled, Democrat. I suppose I am a left-leaning independent who generally strongly disagrees with the Republican Party. I cannot, in good conscience, identify as a Democrat, though.  I have a growing desire to see a new political party whose left-leaning philosophies are tempered by practicality and realism. I am afraid, though, the new party would be small and intellectually and emotionally undernourished.

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I still haven’t gotten another cup of coffee. I will stop writing, now. Off to face the day, which includes having my car’s oil and filter changed and its tires rotated.

The warmth of recent days has been just a tease. Daytime highs are expected to cool to the mid-fifties by Sunday, increasing to the low to mid sixties by Tuesday and Wednesday of next week and then slipping back to the mid-fifties again on Thursday. As I consider the ebb and flow of temperatures and their accompanying atmospheric attire, it occurs to me that Climate and Weather are unique; each with its singular personality. In years past—in my youth—the two of them were generally pleasant, well-behaved, and respectful of those in their presence. But, as both of them have aged, they have become belligerent bullies who find puerile satisfaction in demonstrating the ability to cause discomfort, inconvenience, and—occasionally—stark fear. Weather, especially, seems to get perverse thrills by throwing tantrums that leave terror and worse in her wake. But Climate is no choir-boy; he, too, has become enamored with his ability to change the evolutionary course of the planet, transforming billions of square miles of ice into deeper and deeper ocean waters. They are bullies, to be sure. But they might not have behaved so badly if we had not poisoned their sources of sustenance. We may be reaping our just rewards.

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Just before I awoke this morning, I was in the midst of a disturbing dream. The details were so convoluted and confusing that any attempt to reconstruct it and describe it would be fruitless. Its purpose, though, was clear: to ensure that I never escape feelings of guilt and regret. It was the sort of dream that leaves a person exhausted, heartsick, inconsolable—impossible to forget and impossible to overcome. The dream accentuated certain of my flaws about which I do not need reminding; but regardless of need, the reminders remain. Sometimes I daydream about how restorative it would be to have the ability to completely erase certain of one’s memories. But, on the other hand, that capability might make one more likely to repeat the same mistakes, knowing the anguish that accompanies them could be easily erased. We may learn from our mistakes, but do we need to be reminded of them every waking…and sleeping…hour? It’s hard to say. Perhaps constant reminders, as unpleasant as they may be, are required to prevent their repetition.

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I recently began to experience a flurry of “floaters” in my vision. Sometimes, flecks flit across my line of vision. Other times, the “flecks” are much bigger and have distinct, but fleeting, shapes. They are not particularly bothersome, but because I know floaters can be symptomatic of potentially serious underlying conditions, I am keeping tabs on them. If they get appreciably more common or if they interfere with my vision in any way, I will have my eyes checked again. The last time I had an eye exam was in mid-October. There was nothing of concern then. Pollen and frequent sneezing may be the culprits causing the floaters of late. Time will tell.

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Though awake, I was not quite ready to get up at 5 this morning. A minute or two of adapting to consciousness and I would have been prepared to spring out of bed and charge into the morning darkness. But Phaedra was insistent. She meowed and paced back and forth on top of mi novia, who would have preferred to sleep—without the cat trudging back and forth, interrupting her slumber.

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Life is fragile.

Out of curiosity, I went to Fox News online this morning to read what the network would say about yesterday’s $787.5 million settlement with Dominion. Surprise. I found no mention of the settlement, which amounts to the network’s admission of guilt (how could it do anything else?).  I do not have all the details of the settlement, but it would be delightful if the judge overseeing the case were to require Fox to post online—in enormous, bold type—and broadcast, daily, an unvarnished admission of being a dishonest, unreliable, bullying, collection of the lowest form of human scum.

But it would then be only fair to require something similar, though not quite as harsh, of CNN.

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I picked up a shirt yesterday. And I will have to return to the store again sometime after the end of the month to pick up another one. To my chagrin, the shirt tails of all three shirts I bought there are far too long to wear untucked, so when wearing them I’ll have to return to the days—long, long ago—when a belt was always visible around my waist. I suppose I could use some “gussying-up;” most people in my sphere today have never seen me in anything but my extremely casual attire.

While in Little Rock, we visited Costco, where we had lunch for two for $3.86, including tax. And we bought groceries. And a supply of Kleenex for the guest bath that should last until a month and a day past the end of Time.  And, when in Little Rock, one is required to buy naan bread from Trader Joe‘s. And, while in Trader Joe‘s, one tends to buy chocolate and orchids.

Once home in the backwoods, we found our way into the center of the forest and nestled into our little cabin. We invited my SIL to come visit for an afternoon chat. And what a perfect day to introduce her dog, a Pug, to our cat, still a kitten. That introduction almost turned into a bloodbath. We had never before seen our kitten behave quite like a frenetic, growling, hissing, clawing, biting, uncontrollable demon from the bowels of Hell. But we saw it yesterday. Fortunately, we were able to corral her…a little…and get them separated before any damage was done. But, after the dog was outside and we released the cat from her cell (my office), she raced to the door and let out the most menacing, sinister, unholy, beastly, terrifying growl I have ever heard. She was very nearly ready to go through the glass of the back door.

After that excitement, we sat in our “yard” chairs on our newish flagstone and gravel forest retreat. There, the two women drank sparkling pink wine (and I had a sip or two) and we munched on the meat of pecans. Except for the yellow pollen covering everything and the gnats flying in my nose, ears, and mouth, it was delightful. Actually, even with those negatives, it was quite nice to sit beneath the green canopy of pine trees and oaks with their new displays of fresh leaves.

+++

Obviously, today’s post is almost entirely just a journal entry. I am not sure this morning about my thoughts or feelings or philosophies about anything. So, I will leave those weighty subjects for another day and/or another identity. I have multiple identities, you know. Those who know me as a calm, friendly, unrufflable guy have never seen the 87% of me who is someone else. And those who have witnessed a short-tempered, aloof, unfriendly side of me that I would rather amputate have never seen the 50% of me who is someone else. It is not your imagination: you did, indeed, see me slip in a non sequitur there. But was it really a non sequitur? That is the sort of question that can plague me for hours, days, weeks, even years, on end. Depending on your perspective, every answer is wrong; at least to some extent. I say that because answers imply truths and truths are contextual. Just ask Kellyanne Conway about that; she can school you on alternative facts. I know, truth and fact are not synonyms. But each contains elements of the other.

+++

I am thinking about you this morning. But, then, I always do.

+++

Time for more coffee and something to restore my faith in humankind.

Sometime later this month, we will drive to Dayton, Ohio. Unless we opt to travel the back roads—which is entirely possible—our eleven-hour trip will take us to Memphis, Nashville, Bowling Green, Louisville, and Cincinnati. Even keeping on main highways, we might decide to skirt around Memphis and avoid Nashville and Bowling Green altogether. Regardless of the route, the trip will help assuage my thirst for spending time on the open road.

There was a time when, for almost eight years, I was deeply enmeshed in the the world of entertainment and sports venues. Then, I would have known the managers of virtually all the major venues along the most direct route. I would have felt obliged to stop along the way in Memphis and Nashville and Louisville, etc. to visit briefly with as many of those people as possible. Twenty-five years later, though, many of the venue executives I knew probably have retired. Those remaining might no longer remember me. And that part of my life is bittersweet history, now, anyway; I will not take any detours for the purpose of attempting to visit people who have forgotten me. The only distractions along the way will be attractions that capture my attention and interest; professional business obligations will play no part in the itinerary.  I look forward to the trip.

+++

Day before yesterday, a woman I know—someone with whom I used to spend considerable time when both of us were involved in a local writing club—made a rare appearance at my church. During our brief conversation after the church service, she told me her husband had recently been diagnosed with terminal, incurable, stage 4 neuroendoctrine cancer. She said the two of them, during the two months they have known of the diagnosis, have come to grips with what is facing them. In thinking about what they are going through, I wondered how I might have reacted to my late wife’s prognosis had I been told about it several months before her death, rather than assuming and believing her condition would, eventually, improve. I learned that she had only days left only a short time before she died, though I had begun to believe a couple of months earlier that her condition might never get better. But I was advised of the need for hospice care less than two weeks before her death. I am not sure I would have been as resilient as my writer acquaintance seems to be. No, that is not true. I am sure I would not have been so stoic and capable of withstanding the heartbreak and stress for so long. Ach. Life can be impossibly hard.

+++

When, in my early twenties, I worked for a few months in a prison environment, I rarely encountered the raw brutality of prison life I see reflected in television and film. Perhaps that is because the prisons I visited for my job were managed in such a way as to scare inmates into behaving well. Or perhaps I simply did not see the ugly underbelly of those prison facilities. Or, maybe, the populations of the units I entered tended to be people who were not disposed to be monsters. Whatever the reasons, I rarely saw unrestrained contempt for others in the places I visited…except for a unit in which the inmates were “young offenders.” Almost immediately upon entering the unit, I saw and heard people for whom I immediately felt utter contempt. They were mannerless, brutal, ugly, unreservedly bad behaving beasts. I wonder whether people in my social sphere, if suddenly rounded up and locked in a prison environment, would turn into bullies and compassionless animals or whether, due to their upbringing and life experiences and mindsets, they would remain relatively decent, innocuous human beings? I am satisfied to wonder about, rather than witness, that reality.

++++

El inocente, the Spanish series we have been watching recently, shows some absolutely horrific, grisly, deeply disturbing scenes. Usually, I am not offended by what I consider over-the-top violence or gore in film, but I seriously question the need to show such monstrous stuff as I saw on the television last night. That notwithstanding, the show remains engaging. As I try to imagine it without the horrors, though, I think the program might not be as impactful, intellectually, as it has been. The absolute and utter absence of human decency illustrated through those hard-to-watch scenes may have been impossible to communicate without them. I may need an infusion of touching, feel-good entertainment before long, though, to give me back some of the serenity those scenes have taken from me.

+++

Years are slipping by with far greater speed than in the past, reducing my perception of the amount of available time to decide what to do next. Spending as much time as I like mulling over where to live, what to do, where to go, etc., etc. is a luxury I no longer feel I can afford. I feel an urgency to do something, make quick decisions, take action, move, move, move! In ten years, if I last that long, I will be nearing 80 years old. Ten years once was a long, long time. That amount of time was more than enough to make plans for the future. But today, ten years is the blink of an eye. The future and now are synonymous. If I want to live in a house with a pool “one day,” or if I want to wander aimlessly around North America “some day,” or if I want to “eventually” take some sort of startling action, I need to recognize the merger between some point in the future and this very moment. Perhaps this swelling sense of urgency is responsible for my growing misgivings about commitments I have made that will demand more and more of my time, energy, and effort. I put off until some later time making decisions that would free me of those commitments, all the while realizing “later” is a fiction I create in my own mind.

I wish I could sever my connections with the past and the present and exist only in the future. But, then, I think that is exactly what I am doing…in slow motion. That motion is getting slower and slower—as if I were wading through a lake of rapidly-cooling black-strap molasses—at the same time I am being propelled at breakneck speed toward an enormous, solid, immoveable wall. This train of thought is intense and immeasurably complex, and probably utterly insane. It is confusion, multiplied a million times and then tripled.

+++

I did not drive to Little Rock yesterday. I plan to do that today. To pick up my shirt and go to Costco. Both errands run diametrically counter to thoughts of the future. They are self-imposed roadblocks to forward motion. I imagine the hands of a clock, as they move clockwise toward 12, encountering resistance. The left side of the clock’s face begins to wrinkle, each wrinkle overlapping the one in front of it, until the entire clock face is jammed up, approaching the top. The hands keep trying to move, but the crumpled face of the clock prevents forward motion. Finally, the clock’s hands and face and time itself freeze. Everything stops.

+++

Another medical appointment today, another checkup. Ach!

Be an island unto yourself. Take refuge in yourself and not in anything else.

~ Thích Nhất Hạnh ~

After reading that quote this morning, I suspect my mental wanderlust may be an unconscious expression of seeking the refuge to which Thích Nhất Hạnh referred. My mind wanders from place to place, rarely staying anywhere long enough to understand the place, nor the mind that visits.  And as I contemplate what I just wrote, I debate with myself whether the word “mental” is the right one, or whether “spiritual” would better describe the source of my longing. For various reasons, “spiritual” goes against the grain with me. In my mind, it suggests another dimension, one beyond human understanding that, frankly, I do not believe exists. And it tends to remove from me the responsibility for my own thoughts, placing that burden somewhere “beyond;” in a “being” or “entity” with magical, mystical, mysterious powers. Yet “mental” seems too sterile and shallow to describe the depth—and the source of—my longing.

Perhaps I should describe, for the record (which may later provide the foundations for my own recollections), what I mean by mental (or spiritual) wanderlust. But defining that phrase probably is an impossibility, given the constraints of language and the limitations of the scope of my understanding. Regardless, I will use a few words to briefly touch on the concept. The refuge I seek is—I think—the equivalent of understanding. I want reliable, valid, comprehensive answers to “why?” And the “why?” I ask applies to everything: me, the world around me, the people in my life, the sky, Earth, pain, joy, longing, displeasure, rage…everything. The question is not suitable to a superficial answer. It seeks to know, at the deepest level of human comprehension, the reason for existence. Not just my existence or the existence of the people I encounter in the world around me, but all of existence. I realize, of course, that there is no legitimate answer to the millions of questions embedded in those concepts. Yet even in the realization there are no answers, I want proof of their non-existence. And, yes, I am familiar with the folk logic that “you cannot prove a negative.” Yet that very assertion is a negative; many (perhaps most?) professional logicians would argue with that folk logic…wait, I am wandering down a path unrelated to my point. If, indeed, I was making a point. Actually, I have been—and am—only thinking silently with my fingers. Contemplating or mulling over or considering or whatever one does when one ponders a concept too simple to understand, due to its limitless complexity. But the point, if there is one, is this: I have been seeking the refuge for which I so fervently desire by looking outside myself. Thích Nhất Hạnh’s words insist I have been looking in the wrong places; I should be looking, instead, inside myself. But, in reality, that has been precisely where I have been looking, isn’t it? Even though I claim—or appear—to be looking outward, it is obvious that I am looking inward; because all I can do is to examine my perspectives on the world around me. I have the capacity only to look at a reflection of my experience, not the actual experience. I look at how the experience affects me. So, ultimately, the refuge I seek is the epitome of selfishness. Though that seems harsh and judgmental, it is a simple fact. Not just for me, but for everyone like me and unlike me. The only control any of us have is over ourselves. But looking outward allows us to sidestep the fear that accompanies the realization that we really are in control. We fear being in control of ourselves because…what if we fail? That potential failure, if it occurred, would be catastrophic to our psychological well-being. To avoid responsibility for that horrific potential, we look elsewhere to place…blame or responsibility or whatever you might call it. When we reach that understanding, we tend to seek comfort in others. We want to be held, hugged, assured we are wanted or needed or loved. Thích Nhất Hạnh suggests our comfort should come from within. Ach. Looking there and finding nothing but emptiness could be devastating, so we reach outward, instead. Following Thích Nhất Hạnh’s advice would require strength I seem to be missing. But I will continue to try.

+++

It is hard NOT to take everything and everyone around us for granted. They are there almost every day, after all, without fail. It seems that only when we are in danger of losing something or someone of vital importance to us that we suddenly realize their enormous value. Knowing that, it seems to me I should make it a regular practice to dedicate time, every day, to dedicate specific thought/gratitude for every aspect of our good fortune. I know…that sounds a lot like prayer. Maybe it is. But I think of the concept not as an expression of appreciation TO an invisible entity, but as an internal reminder that I should be mindful of/recognize the immeasurable importance to me of…everything and everyone. That is a big ask, I  know. And I know there is a danger of a daily ritual becoming so routine that its meaning is lost in its endless repetition. Recognizing and regularly acknowledging that danger, though, can help in avoiding it.

I came across the following “contemplations” that are recited, in some form or another, by various Buddhist communities. These five contemplations could easily be adapted to encompass every aspect of our daily lives. I would add a sixth contemplation, as I write below, in an effort to minimize the possibility of gratitude losing its importance.

The Five Contemplations, recited before each meal, as adopted by the Still Water Community:

• • This food is the gift of the whole universe – the earth, the sky, and much hard work.
  • May we eat in mindfulness so as to nourish our gratitude.  
  • May we transform our unskillful states of mind and learn to eat with moderation.
  • May we take only foods that nourish us and prevent illness.
  • We accept this food to realize the path of understanding, love, and joy.

I might add a sixth contemplation, something along the lines of: May we remember the importance of avoiding the invisible allure of allowing these contemplations to become so routine as to lose their meaning.

+++

The plan for today includes a trip to Little Rock to pick up a semi-custom shirt that was not quite right when I went to pick it up a few weeks ago…it was too big for my shrinking frame. (I was delighted to discover, when I weighed myself this morning, that I am down by a shade over 40 pounds from my peak less than a year ago. But I still have a long way to go before I reach my “ideal.”) Assuming the modifications to the shirt are right this time, I may order another one, in the hope they can duplicate the “fit” exactly with another fabric (or, perhaps, the same fabric with a different pattern/design). And what is a trip to Little Rock without a trip to Costco? I only hope we can exercise some restraint and buy only what we really need and/or will use before its “expiration date.” Sometimes, in the presence of attractive things, it seems my innate greed is unleashed—with a vengeance. That is a personality flaw—one of many—that warrants dedicated corrective attention. We shall see, shan’t we?

+++

I had a series of dreams last night and early this morning. In one, I was in the driver’s seat of a car, with several passengers, on a ferry and was attempting to find a path off the boat right before it was to depart its dock. In the confusion of near-darkness, I finally found a way off the vessel by going the wrong way on an entry ramp. But as I was leaving, I realized the car’s headlights would not stay on; I worried that, invisible to to other cars in the heavy traffic, I would get into an accident. The dream disappears from my mind at that point. Another one popped up. I was with someone else in a very loud, crowded restaurant at an airport. We were in a rush to leave because we were trying to change flights to get one earlier…or something like that. We left the restaurant and went to a kiosk just outside. As we attempted to change our flights (as the kiosk kept spitting out torn boarding passes), a waitress ran out of the restaurant, holding my American Express card, and said “we do not accept American Express.” I gave her another card and she disappeared. (Apparently, in my dream, it did not seem odd that I would have left my credit card.) We kept trying to get the tickets changed, to no avail. And the dream goes away.

+++

And it’s time for breakfast! I may have an egg, a baked tomato, and a little slice of ham. And I will be grateful for it and for my breakfast companion.

Once again, another new Spanish Netflix offering, The Innocent (el inocente), was on tap last night. And, once again, its cast included José Coronado, who we’ve seen in several Netflix offerings. His acting credits, which are extensive, include this small sample we have seen: El inocente, Vivir sin permiso, Entrevías, and La chica de nieve. Mi novia and I tend to call him Nemo (from Vivir…) or Tirso (from Entrevías), because those two are among our favorite of his character portrayals.

Watching foreign-language flicks causes regrets to well up inside me—regrets that I have not had either the discipline or sufficient desire to learn multiple languages when learning them would have been far easier. I admire parents who insist on teaching their children (or having their children taught) to speak more than one language. Europeans, in general, are far more advanced in that regard than are most Americans. We tend to be insular, arrogant, and lazy when it comes to such worldly matters. And, even when we recognize the value in fluency in multiple languages, the process of learning and maintaining language skills tends to be convoluted and complex in the USA. One day, perhaps in the not-too-distant future, I suspect our descendants will find fluency in at least two or three languages necessary for success and, possibly, survival. If I were a betting man, I would put my money on Spanish, Mandarin Chinese, Hindi, and Arabic. In fact, I’ll wager $1,000,000 that virtually the entire population of what is now the USA will speak at least two of those languages (in addition to English) by the year 2099. I’ll come back to collect.

+++

This morning, I will read aloud at my church a poem I consider poorly-written, badly-conceived, and decidedly boring. I wrote the poem, spending no more than twenty minutes, in response to a request that I participate in a poetry reading for today’s “insight” service. I should have taken the request more seriously; yet even if I had, I  doubt I could have done much better. I have to be in the right mood to write poetry that I consider even modestly tolerable. For some reason, I have not been in that mood for quite some time. And, truth be told, I have never written poetry that I consider “good.” It might be marginally better than the poetic output of someone who has never written poetry before, but comparing a badly bruised apple to a rotten one does not make either of them appetizing.  After listening to the poems read by other participants yesterday, my unfavorable assessment of my own contribution was affirmed.

+++

Some people take great comfort in the belief that, after death, people “go on” to another dimension or experience or whatever. Though I think I understand the desire to believe such stuff, I do not share it. My admittedly unproveable belief is that, once life ends, that’s it. No soul, no transformation…nada. Our bodies decay and eventually merge with their surroundings, I think, but I have no reason to believe they (or their accompanying “soul” or what have you) make a “transition” to another reality or dimension or experience. Our time on Earth is the only time we have, at least the only time we have with consciousness or awareness. Like every other form of life, when ours ends, it ends. Permanently. No afterlife, no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, no “next step,” nothing. And that does not bother me in the least. In my mind, that is simply part of the natural order. I do not look forward to death (there’s nothing to “look forward to” as far as I know), but I do not fear it, either. Getting there may be unpleasant, of course, but once it’s done…emptiness… nothingness…just gone.  I am not sure why that’s on my mind this morning. It just is. Sort of like life. It just is. That is not to say that life is not spectacular. Every form of life is nothing short of magical. But that amazing, wonderful, stunning reality is a prelude to lifelessness. Our remains may well be dispersed into the universe over time and “pieces” of us become components of plants or animals or other life forms unknown, but I resolutely doubt any part of our consciousness remains during that process. Hmm.

+++

Last night, after dinner, I drank a gin and tonic—the first alcoholic drink I consumed since early July last year. Oh, I’ve had an occasional little taste of wine and a sip of mi novia‘s G&T, but nothing more. But since my recent visit with my primary care doctor, when he said an occasional drink would likely not do me any harm, I decided I would enjoy a very rare glass of wine or beer or mixed drink. Saturday evenings seem to be ideally suited to the one drink each week I will permit myself to consume. Last night’s G&T tasted wonderful. I could have gulped it down quickly—it tasted so good—but I sipped it slowly, making it last an hour or more. I have learned I can be disciplined in some aspects of my life. In others, though, I can barely contain myself; I would allow myself to pursue certain passions with wild abandon if not restrained in some way or another. Self-control is an interesting concept to study…from a distance.

+++

I tolerated the excruciating experience last night of watching a few minutes (eight, I think) of the basketball game between the Sacramento Kings and the Golden State Warriors. Thanks to the absurdity of “time-outs,” those eight minutes lasted something like twenty minutes. Mi novia was interested in watching the end of the game after we watched el inocente. I think I could “enjoy” watching basketball games if they lasted only as long as they are claimed to last. But they last much, much longer, thanks to the game clock stopping for minutes at a time while free-throws are made or fouls are assessed, etc. I was surprised and annoyed when, with 2.9 seconds left in the game, a free-throw was made while the clock remained stuck on that 2.9 seconds. Apparently, that part of the game is not really part of the game; or, at least, it does not count toward the time allotted for play. The idiotic complexity of professional sports tends to make me angry. And THAT is a silly thing to be angry about. But there you are.

+++

It is time for me to shave, shower, and dress. So, off I go to prepare to engage with the day.

Emotions, both positive and negative, probably take a toll on both the body and the mind. The mental peaks and valleys emotions carve into one’s life experiences leave behind a kind of rubble that cannot be left behind or discarded. That rubble stays with a person, as if it were an enormous bag of rocks; “baggage” that seems to grow heavier over time. All the while, the strength of the body and the mind dwindle, a natural response to the cycle of life. We may not recognize that our growing weariness is the result of years of emotional turmoil; but the evidence is there, just waiting for a clear-eyed assessment.

Sometimes I wonder whether the highs and lows of joy and sorrow are worth the subsequent experience of weariness and physical decay and mental deterioration. What if, I wonder, we could abandon emotion entirely? Would the result be greater physical strength and stamina? Would we experience greater and longer-lasting mental acuity? The arguments against erasing emotions, of course, would point to the dullness of existence in the absence of the highs and lows of emotion. But those arguments, themselves, are emotional reactions to circumstances few people have ever experienced.

I suppose the idea of erasing emotions is the natural outcome of emotional pain; the wish for it to end. Reality, though, tells us that emotions cannot be abandoned. They can only be appreciated or endured. They can end for us only at the end of our lives because emotions and inextricably intertwined with life. Life itself is wearying.

+++

Optimism. Realism. Pessimism. Three points on the worldview spectrum, perhaps. Or, they may be three conditions that arise in response to specific sets of circumstances. Dictionaries attempt to “quantify,” with words, ideas that may be properly understood only through experience. “Hot,” “cold,” and “happy” can be defined/quantified by relying on other, more descriptive, words—but only by experiencing the conditions they are intended to describe does a person truly understand their meaning.

+++

When I was younger, I had far more confidence than my abilities warranted. That confidence was never more evident than during job interviews or “pitches” I made to secure clients. Whether I had experience in an area of inquiry or not, I claimed capability; my rationale was based on my confidence that I could learn/do anything to which I dedicated myself. And that was, by and large, true. I knew my limits, of course. If I had been asked whether I could perform a heart transplant, I would have admitted that I could not—at least not immediately, until I had the opportunity to learn and practice. I was far more confident in my capabilities in those days. Maybe my confidence was an expression of arrogance; whatever it was, when I said I could do something, I felt certain I could do it, whether or not I had any experience whatsoever. That confidence/arrogance was largely responsible for my success in getting jobs and securing clients. Once I got the job, or when the client signed the contract, I dedicated myself to learning what I needed to learn or doing what I needed to do to perform as promised. My now-rusty knowledge of how to prepare and how to interpret not-for-profit financial statements came from one such incidence. During the interview process for a job, I claimed I had the necessary abilities to manage sophisticated finances and create/interpret relatively complex financial statements. Immediately after I was hired, I spent my evenings teaching myself the nuts and bolts of not-for-profit financial management. My success in learning and then doing it served me well later, when I had to use that knowledge on a daily basis to manage client finances.

Today, my confidence in myself is not as great. But the level of confidence I have in myself is contagious; it was when I was highly self-confident and it is now. Now, though, even when I feel confident in my ability to do or learn something, those around me do not always share my confidence. I suspect that is because I unintentionally send signals that suggest I am not certain of my abilities. Or, perhaps, it is because others may see something I do not. When these thoughts arise about my abilities, my confidence, and the possible discrepancies between them, I think about the point at which elderly people must relinquish their car keys. They may be absolutely confident in their ability to safely drive their cars; those around them, though, may recognize the diminution of the elderly person’s reaction time, depth perception, etc. At what point, if ever, do we “know” we are no longer the person we once were?

+++

In roughly two and one half hours, I will step inside my church for a “run-through” of tomorrow’s insight service, which will involve several people (including me) reading poetry. When I compare the poem I wrote for tomorrow’s program to the poems I have written in the past, I wonder whether certain of my “talents” have begun, in earnest, to decay. Like the aging driver, I may be at the point of needed to relinquish my poetic license. It does not matter. I will read the new poem, regardless, and I will try to enjoy the experience. In the meantime, I will make another cup of coffee and read something uplifting, if I can find something that fits the bill.

Today and tomorrow should be delightful, in terms of temperature—in the mid to upper seventies. But Sunday the high barely will reach into the sixties. I suppose deviations in either direction in temperature and other weather-related matters help us appreciate the complexity—the simplicity, too— and the beauty of climate.

+++

The scales of reckoning with mortality are never evenly weighted, alas, and thus it is on the shoulders of the living that the burden of justice must continue to rest.

~Wole Soyinka ~

+++

I can barely keep my eyes open. Occasionally, when I pause between sentences or between paragraphs, I fall asleep. Only when my 20 second nap ends do I realize that my fingers have been resting on the keyboard, filling my computer screen with line after line after line of repeated letters or figures…like this:

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

But the 20 second nap obviously was not enough. I sleep again, first taking care to remove my fingers from the keyboard. Yet somehow they find their way back, where they fall asleep on letters suitable for exponential replication. Is that a “thing?” Does exponential replication actually mean something, or did I just make it up?

+++

Until recently, I rarely gave much thought to prescription medications’ effects on my body. I just took the pills, etc. as directed by doctors and their professional colleagues. For a variety of reasons, though, I lately have been trying to determine the extent to which pharmaceutical interventions impact my body.  Though my observations are quite rudimentary—and are not adequately “controlled” to permit absolute confidence in determinations of causation—they offer clues about what happens to my body when I start taking prescriptions and what happens when I stop. Medications are not alone in causing changes in the way one’s body performs various of its functions. Foods, too, impact the body’s functions; I have monitored foods’ effects on me, too, along with pills and such.

My tendency toward elevated blood pressure has been under control for quite some time with two prescription drugs. But weight loss and changes in diet apparently resulted in the amplification of the effects of those drugs; instead of high blood pressure, I had very low blood pressure. Eliminating those prescriptions eliminated the problem of low blood pressure; but in the absence of the prescriptions’ control mechanisms, my blood pressure has risen (as of this morning) beyond the “ideal” range. So, in accordance with doctors’ instructions, I will take one of the blood pressure medications, though at a much-reduced dosage.

Various other recent experiences have illustrated the effects of starting or stopping other prescription medications. But the outcome of starting or stopping prescriptions does not illustrate the how; only the what. As I contemplate my consumption of pharmaceuticals, I wonder just how the drugs result in lower blood pressure and how, following their absence, blood pressure begins to spike. And I wonder whether the apparent “cure” afforded by some prescriptions might come at an unknown cost? For example, might a drug that slows the heart rate have the side-effect of minimizing the amount of blood-borne oxygen that keeps the lungs healthy? Though I am curious about such matters, I am not sufficiently intrigued to return, happily, to crowded civilization, where the answers may await.

+++

Another blood-letting this morning; a follow-up to enable my doctor’s APN to see the changes, or lack thereof, in my blood chemistry. I have no interest in the blood-letting, but it is an obligation, more or less. Ostensibly, the tests serve my own self-interest. So, I shall continue to follow the doctors’ and nurses’ orders. Until such time as I decide to ignore them.

+++

With some good fortune, today I will find a scanning device to make PDFs of about 20 pages worth of “stuff” the lawyers require  who will (I hope) address a change in title for some Texas properties.

+++

My thoughts, again, are scattered. I cannot focus, at least not for long, on anything, especially matters that matter. To hell with this. I need more sleep. There’s no doubt. The doubt comes in, though, when the question is “will I get more sleep?” The answer is impossible to know until after the fact.

Melancholy. That word fits my mood like a glove. When nearly all of one’s memories seem bitter-sweet, melancholy assuredly is either the cause or the result. I suppose logic would tell me melancholy emerges from bitter-sweet memories. Yet that same logic would say bitter-sweet memories are cultivated and drawn out by melancholy moods. Regardless of whether causation is involved or it is mere association, a distinct relationship exists between bittersweet memories and melancholy moods.

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Writing, in a style intended to be comedic, about melancholy apparently does not lessen the greyness of the mood. Nor does peering intently at a clear blue sky through the leaves and branches of a forest of trees. That eternal faith healer, Time, may be the only reliable treatment for melancholy—though “reliable” may not be quite right. Actually, Time is reliable only to the extent that “eventually” Time heals all wounds. Therefore, melancholy may last a lifetime but, eventually, it will be bested by Time. In the event that is the case, it might be advisable to get comfortable with melancholy. Today, my late wife and I would have celebrated our 43rd anniversary.

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I woke extremely late again this morning, a deviation from my routine I will not long tolerate. When I get up late, I feel anxious and out of sorts, as if a crucial element of the day is missing. And, of course, it is. The early, pre-dawn opportunity to ease, slowly, into conscious darkness and to coax full readiness for the day from my brain escapes me when I sleep late. I am thrown into the day like a Christian cast into an arena with a hungry lion. At that point, attempting to cope with the abrupt start to the day is the only option. I try not to consider how many Christians triumphed over the lions.

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In just a short while, I have to drive to town to visit with my cardiologist’s APN. It’s just a check-up, but it’s a check-up that interrupts my serenity (such as it is). I have other obligations throughout the day today and continuing on tomorrow. I am in one of those rare states of mind in which I think I would truly enjoy a month-long vacation to the Bahamas, where I would stay at a secluded resort and spend every hour of every day sitting on the beach, just soaking in the sun. At the end of each day, I would rinse out all of my clothes—a single swim-suits—and hang it to dry overnight. The next morning, I would go to the beach, get comfortable, and daydream all day until the time comes to repeat the process.

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I can wait no longer. It is time to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and head in to town. My enthusiasm for the day is, I hope, at a low ebb. Perhaps some time in rural traffic will boost my mood.

Using standard, generally agreed measures, Time is consistent. It passes at the same rate from moment to moment and from millennia to millennia. So, if it is not Time that changes, what causes our (my, at least) experience of Time to vary so dramatically? Why does summer seem to speed along, while winter crawls like molasses? Why do the few hours before daybreak race by, yet the hours after sunrise can seem so plodding?

Though the number of possible reasons is enormous, from my perspective, only a few explanations seem likely. First, I think positive experiences must cause biochemical reactions in our bodies; akin to flooding our brains with dopamine, perhaps. Our bodies’ responses to those biochemical floods are brief; joy is a fleeting emotion. But negative experiences trigger biochemical floods of a different sort—and those are like waves of physical or mental pain, or both, that unfold in slow motion. Depressive misery lingers. These explanations are pure supposition. I have no evidential basis for the theory. But there is no question that SOMETHING alters a person’s experience of Time. Is that “something” external to us or is it internal? Perhaps it is both, but I attribute the bulk of the variation to our individual psyches. But, wait. Is it possible that I, alone, experience these vastly different situations with respect to Time? Are my sensations indicative of a certain kind of mental deviation from the norm? I doubt it. But anything is possible. Anything. Even that which seems impossible can be accomplished. With enough energy  and effort—or treachery—magic can replace reality.

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One person’s joy can be another’s tragedy or trauma. That fact, alone, expresses the incomprehensible complexity of human experience. For example, consider two un-married (to each other) people involved in an extramarital affair with one another, who find joy in the relationship. But their respective spouses, when the affair is revealed, might feel as though tragedy had befallen them. The experience that triggers the competing emotions is the same; but the ways in which the people affected by the experience differ enormously. Taking examples to a different level, consider the person who commands a drone to fire a missile at an enemy target; she may react joyously as the missile successfully finds its target. But the survivors of the missile strike, bloodied and broken and surrounded by dead victims, see the experience through different eyes.  These are extreme exceptions to routine experience, of course, but the exceptions best illustrate how deviations from “normal” can be experienced in such different ways.

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I wonder…at what point does the friendship between two people become so close that either or both friends would share almost all their secrets? Is that closeness reserved for long-time life-mates…spouses or domestic partners/romantic pairs? Or does that level of trust grow between platonic friends, as well? Or is that level of closeness and trust an illusion? Trust, I think, is the key to the answer; if, indeed, there is a single answer. Perhaps the answer is far more complex than the question, which in itself is far more complex than it might appear. Thinking about such things may be a pointless exercise, but…pointlessness has its utility.

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People have different kinds of curiosity. Perhaps not different kinds of curiosity…different objects of curiosity. And the degree to which one is curios differs from person to person. Scientific researchers who explore life in the deepest part of the world’s oceans, for example, probably are far more curious about deep-sea life than I, but I believe I am extremely curious about ocean life. Yet my “extreme” curiosity pales in comparison to people whose ever working/waking hour is dedicated to satisfying their curiosity. Those researchers, though, may be curious about human emotions, but my curiosity about emotions might be orders of magnitude stronger. Curious, eh?

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I spent a while this morning scanning articles in The Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, and a few other online newspapers. Though reading non-USA publications does not necessarily make me more aware of important international matters than if I limited my reading to domestic news sources, I do learn stuff I might otherwise not know. For example, I was delighted to learn that the world’s first second-hand-store-in-an-airport has opened at the Helsinki-Vantaa airport. Yet my attempts to learn such stuff sometimes get derailed. For example, when I tried to learn more about the Mississauga city council’s plan to reconsider a ban on cannabis retail stores, I was stopped short; if I wanted to know more, I would have had to pay for the privilege. And it would have been a privilege; but I am unwilling to pay for that particular privilege.

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Yesterday afternoon was lovely. I would like to replicate it regularly. Perhaps this morning is not too soon.

Tupperware is in danger of going out of business. The company is one of many that once seemed to me to have been permanent fixtures in the commercial landscape. But that permanence was illusory. Dozens of retail establishments I once assumed would be around forever have either died or are dying. K-Mart, Fry’s Electronics, Lord & Taylor, ToysRUs, Filene’s Basement, Borders Books, Waldenbooks, Sears, Woolworth, etc., etc., etc. Like the rest of the world around me, the retail world is in a constant state of flux. The demise of the businesses often is attributed to management’s failure to be flexible; refusal to reinvent the business in response to a changing retail environment. While that may well contribute to the death of businesses, I doubt blame can be placed entirely on managerial failures. Some businesses simply may not be suited to the rapid adaptations required to remain going concerns in a business environment that changes with increasing speed and scope. The same may be true of some people. They simply may be unable to change their world views quickly enough to remain attuned to the society around them. And so they become inconsequential; their outmoded thinking sentences them to irrelevance. “Some people,” indeed. More likely, all of us. Whether physically or mentally or both, we cannot keep up with what is required to stay vibrant and necessary. In the natural order, we eventually die. That may well be true of businesses, as well. Businesses that “have always been here” fade into oblivion. No matter how many times they may reinvent themselves, there will come a time when the energy required to adapt simply is insufficient.

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Obligations are anchors; they tie us to one place or one experience, unable to move. And, like anchors, obligations can pull us down, drowning us in a sea of responsibilities. That is not to say that all obligations are dangerous or deadly; but without at least occasional respite, they can tighten around us like boa constrictors, making every breath an almost overwhelming challenge. Freedom is the antidote to unchecked obligations. Freedom can be dangerous, of course, but with proper precautions and adequate understanding of its limits, freedom can loosen the chains of obligation.

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I saw my doctor yesterday. He was pleasantly surprised at the dramatic change in my A1C measurement: 6.1% compared to 9.3% three months ago. And he said an occasional alcoholic drink would be perfectly safe and acceptable; very little danger of causing pancreatic problems. But he warned me that the caloric intake of more frequent imbibing could counteract the weight loss I have experienced over the past several months. I knew that, of course, so I will continue to refrain from all but the very occasional consumption of alcohol. But, if I were diagnosed with an incurable, fatal condition of some sort, I probably would swill liquor with abandon, whenever the mood struck me. I am disciplined to some extent; but, when conditions are right, I am equally capable of undisciplined debauchery.

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Yesterday’s lunch at Pho Hoang My, otherwise know as the Pho House, was wonderful. But the consumption of a rather significant amount of vermicelli in my grilled pork and shrimp bun bowl had the effect of boosting this morning’s blood glucose measure, though not unhealthily so. We had errands to run in town yesterday, which coincided nicely with lunchtime.

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Phaedra is in my lap again. Having interrupted my blogging several times this morning, I think she is now insisting I stop typing. I shall heed her command. For now.

I moved to Hot Springs Village in 2014, assuming the house we bought would be the last place I would live. But that assumption has since changed; the change manifested itself in the sale of the house my late wife and I bought when we moved here and the purchase of another one in the Village last year. Seven years after moving here, my interest in moving someplace else began in earnest. Certainly, some of the impetus for the desire to move on was attributable to my wife’s death. But her death was not fully responsible for the urge to explore new places and new experiences. I am sure I have written before: I have tended to become dissatisfied with my environment every seven years or so. It is as if I give new circumstances a few years to change me in some fundamental ways; when those changes either have not taken place or have not been the changes I might have desired, I long to try something else. I realize, of course, the place probably is not the root cause of my appetite for something different; more likely, my psyche’s reaction to my circumstances (which includes, of course, where I am) is responsible. “Perhaps,” I might think unconsciously, “a new environment will sufficiently change me to leave me satisfied with who I am.” Of course, a new place—surrounded by new strangers and new acquaintances—will do nothing to change who I am. But I continue to cling to that fantasy. Maybe if I knew who I am and who I want to be, at my core, I would better understand my nomadic desires. In the meantime, I continue to feel the urge to move on. Despite my desire to explore new experiences, I have a few ties to the Village. But none of them hold enough future promise of satisfaction with myself to ensure that I will remain here. My dream of working a few isolated acres of land is dead, killed by my increasing age and decreasing strength and stamina. I say it is “dead,” but that is not true; it is comatose but aware of the impossibility of achieving the dream. Such is life.

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Some days I feel like the world would be a better place if skilled arsonists armed with thousands of gallons of gasoline, heavy chains, and impregnable padlocks  would play their trades in “appropriate” places. State houses, haunts of local politicians, and other places where amoral and immoral politically-motivated monsters congregate. But after thinking such sinister thoughts, I reach the unpleasant conclusion that the same kind of parasites would emerge, like a Phoenix, from the ashes. As long as the monsters maintain their tightening grips on the decaying society in which we live, happiness will be unable to overcome the deep, dark, anger that rests in my chest.

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I recommend several Spanish-language (with English subtitles) films and series on Netflix: The Substitute, Victim Number 8, Infiesto, Unauthorized Living, and Wrong Side of the Tracks. Apparently, the Netflix algorithm pays heed to the language spoken in programs one rates positively. When watching Scandinavian programs, the service recommended the appropriate Icelandic, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, and Dutch, etc. shows. The same was true with shows in which the characters spoke Hindi; recommendations that followed assumed a deep appreciation for Indian films. Netflix-produced programming seems to rely quite heavily on a relatively limited stable of actors for these foreign language flicks; we have come to know and appreciate several Scandinavian and Spanish actors, especially, based on their frequent appearances in Netflix film products.

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Here I am, back at my blog. Late, again. I have not consumed much news this morning. I would rather consume something more palatable and more capable of injecting a little joy into a world that seems to be experiencing a deficit of joy. Yet another fantasy.

Time to crawl into the day, which may involve a drive into HS, an afternoon visit with my doctor, and a period of reflection.

More than half the day has disappeared, leaving only fragments behind—indistinct voices sharing indecipherable  secrets, smiles directed at unknown individuals who are hidden from view, barely disguised fantasies behind imaginary faces. There are many more remnants of the dwindling day, but none as visible as the foggy grey sky, melting into white. In the absence of connections with relevant ideas, the pieces of the day drift apart, finding their own ways into the wind and its ability to send them far, far away.

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When the day begins late, long after the sun eclipses the night, all of the simple routines and rituals that should have been part of the day-breaking process go to hell in a handbasket. Every thought, action, and reaction seems out of kilter, as though Earth has shifted on its axis. Yet I remain situated as I was before, bent and at an awkward angle with my world. The coming hours will teach me to adapt to the world and simultaneously will insist that the world adapt to me. During the course of only a few hours, we will align with one another—Earth with me and me with Earth. But the several hours before realignment are uncomfortable and, in a sense, unbelievable. Therefore, I must wade through questionable thoughts and actions until reality sets in again. After it does, I do my best to accept it—reality, as brutal as it can be, sometimes is far preferable to the terror of the imagination.

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Touch. Taste. Smell. Hearing. Sight. Those five senses were the only ones, when I was a child. Or so I thought. Since then, I have learned that there are two others: vestibular sense (involving movement and balance, allowing us to sense where our body is in space) and proprioception (body awareness sense, which helps us understand where our body parts are in relation to each other). I question the legitimacy of the idea that there are two “new” senses. While I comprehend the experiences to which the so-called “senses” refer, I think they are expressions of our sense of touch, rather than separate senses on their own. What I think, though, probably does not matter to scientists and others who have given the matter far more thought than I have or probably ever will. I am relatively confident that I could be persuaded to change my perspective and, therefore, my opinion.  That flexibility is necessary if one is to avoid being unreasonably obdurate.

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Vulnerable. “Susceptible to being emotionally hurt or injured.” Another definition: “Willing to show emotion or to permit one’s weaknesses to be observed or understood.” Though the word describes a state of mind or being, it can be used, derogatorily, to mock a person, especially a male, who is seen as too easily hurt or too obviously weak. Probably, it is that derogatory usage that causes many males to attempt to hide their emotions and concomitant perceived weaknesses, especially those that support certain labels: Fragile. Overly feminine. Wimp. Crybaby. But it is not just the overt expressions of mockery that cause males to attempt stoicism in the face of emotionality. The barely-hidden smirks and the sometimes over-the-top appreciation of that emotionality may be equally embarrassing to the unfortunate male who cannot easily control his tears, whether of happiness or anguish. Though he might recognize and understand—from his intellectual perspective—the value and benefits of expressing his emotions, expressing those very emotions also can trigger humiliation or shame. Emotionality or vulnerability, whichever suits the circumstance—and the inability to shield them from view—is a double-edged sword. Either edge of the blade can carve away bravado, but that slice can reveal either one’s humanity or one’s artificial  masculinity. But there must be something else at play here. Ask a thousand people and get a thousand opinions of what, exactly, that might be.

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Once again, creativity slipped out of my brain and under a nearby rock. I will simply wait it out. If I last that long. 😉

When I wake early, I usually relish the quiet. I enmesh myself in the peace of early morning darkness. I try to control my environment by focusing on the serenity of solitude. I am not completely successful with every attempt, but most of the time when I devote my full energy to beginning a calm day, it materializes. Today, though, I woke from a disturbing dream. The dream, along with the vestiges of last night’s PBS Newshour, left me brittle, frustrated, and angry. Anger is draining. It drinks up one’s positive energy, leaving only a dull negativity in its wake. I think I would rather not wake up, if this kind of morning awaits me.

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As I see political appointees misuse their positions to further their personal “moral” agendas, I realize the fragility of our freedoms. Yesterday’s decision by U.S. District Judge Matthew Kacsmaryk, ordering a hold on federal approval of the abortion medication, mifepristone, surprised me. Given the massive efforts by conservatives to criminalize abortion, regardless of the process employed, I should have expected such a move. The ruling, in response to a lawsuit filed by the ironically-named Alliance Defending Freedom, provides another example of judicial overreach; this time, a single judge decided he was better-suited to deciding the legitimacy of a drug than was the Food and Drug Administration. The ironically-named Alliance Defending Freedom, which also was involved in arguing to overturn Roe vs. Wade, petitioned the court to strip medical professionals of their freedom to prescribe, and patients of the freedom to use, a drug that passed the FDA’s approval process more than twenty years ago. If allowed to stand, Kacsmaryk’s decision will offer evidence that freedom in the United States of America is a privilege given to the politically powerful, not a right guaranteed by the Constitution.

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While complaining about the illusion of freedom, another example of the abuse of power was on full display in Tennessee when the Republican House of Representatives expelled two young Black lawmakers for breaching decorum by leading a protest against the chamber’s refusal to consider measures to control access to guns.  Interestingly, a third member of the House, a sixty-year-old White woman, was not expelled; does that not speak volumes of the racism in the House and its intolerance to views contrary to its hyper-conservative majority? If I  had absolute power, I would imprison for ninety days every House member who voted in favor of expulsion; during that time, I would prohibit providing them with food and water. I wonder whether my action would be labeled “murder by omission?” Bastards!

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I will try to sleep some more. There is no point in being awake when consciousness is as grueling as it is right now.

Once again, I wrote and wrote and pondered and pondered, only to decide I was embroiled in a meaningless exercise with absolutely no value. So, instead, I will re-post something I wrote ten years ago:

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Confusion, Perhaps

It begins as a whisper, faint and indistinct.  But it grows incrementally, almost imperceptibly, louder with the passage of time.  The amount of time varies with each whisper and every ear.  Eventually, though, the whisper becomes a voice and the voice becomes a scream and the scream becomes an obsession.

And the obsession becomes a passion.  And the passion becomes a regret.

That having been said, here’s what Kierkegaard had to say about something else entirely:

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.
~ Søren Kierkegaard

I am not a follower; I just like some of the quotes attributed to him, including this one. And the one following:

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
~ Søren Kierkegaard

Several hundred words spilled from my fingers this morning, but after reading them to myself and thinking how they might be received by anyone happening upon them, I deleted them. Sometimes, words are inadequate to express emotions too complex to fit into a page, much less a paragraph or a single word. “Love,” “hate,” “longing,” “desire,” “loathing,” and many more are utterly useless. They require multiple layers of adjectives, qualifiers that may apply with just hints or with blatant attributions of expressions that scream. I decided, after flooding my draft with hundreds of words, that my emotions would require hundreds more to truly express and for the reader to truly understand. Given that some readers may have enormous reserves of patience, but most probably do not, I decided that the opinions formed during the first few paragraphs would stick with the impatient, providing them with the wrong impression of my emotional state. Those impatient many probably would misunderstand; they might decide to judge me on the basis of a few words. I could tolerate that misjudgment from many people, but being misjudged by others would be painful; nearly intolerable. So the best route was to erase entire pages worth of words that flooded from my fingers. Sometimes, it is best not to try to explain one’s thoughts to the world, but to just a few people, people who have the patience to listen—not to read—for extended periods. People willing to listen and capable of understanding are few and far between.

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A few days ago, I wrote about my hope that Finnish Prime Minister Sanna Marin would prevail in that day’s elections. She did not. The election revealed a shift to the right in Finnish political circles, which was a disappointment to me. Having no legitimate interest in Finland’s politics, though, there’s not much I can do or say. The electorate made their choice. Now, I can only watch to see what sorts of collaborative arrangements will be made between the major parties in Finland and what effects those arrangements will have. Despite that disappointment, Finland is now a new member of NATO, so all is not lost. Hmm.

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My enthusiasm about our trip to Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, notwithstanding, we stayed home. Not long after I posted yesterday’s blog, I felt compelled to recheck my already low blood pressure. It had dropped even more. Subsequent checks revealed a continued trend. Mi novia persuaded me to call my primary care doctor’s office about the situation. Thanks to someone else’s cancellation, I was slotted into a 9:00 a.m. appointment, where my low blood pressure was confirmed as “quite concerning.” I was hooked up to an IV and, after emptying the bag into my arm, sent home with instructions to rest…rest…rest. I was advised to immediately contact my cardiologist for an appointment, as well. Before I could call her office, they called me in response to my doctor’s APN calling them; one of my prescriptions was halved, with the proviso that I should not take it at all if either number of my BP measurements were below specified levels (both of which have been below those numbers for quite some time). And I am now scheduled to see her next week. I am nearly certain the issue is purely a factor of my weight loss reducing the need for BP medications. But I’ll let the doctors reach that conclusion on their own. In the meantime, I will curse my body for interrupting our plans to enjoy a trip to Bentonville with friends. I look forward to hearing about their experience when they return.

The consequences of our trip cancellation including cancelling our hotel reservations and our cat-boarding reservations. We already had put our mail on hold, so we will not need to check the mailbox until Monday. Even casual mini-vacation trips introduce complexities into one’s day-to-day life.

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Today is Thursday. I will pretend it is another day. I will behave accordingly.

I just crawled out of a rabbit hole…the one I crawled into about half an hour ago. I am fairly easily distracted, evidence of which appears here most days. This morning’s distraction led me first to an Americanized version of the website belonging to a major British newspaper. Curious about the original version, intended for a British audience, compared to the one I saw on my screen, I went searching.  I found the original UK version pretty easily; however the internet occasionally behaves as if it will, by God, decide what I view. But I found it. Success! That little adventure prompted me to begin another one, looking at other foreign media outlets to determine whether they were “white-washed” for  an American audience. That foray into the deep, dark unknown led me down a path, where I tripped and found myself searching for news about specific villages which, in turn, transformed into an investigation of the degree to which beef consumption has declined (or risen) in the last ten years. I did not finish that “work,” because I realized I was  on the cusp of a mental adventure that could take weeks to play out. Through sheer force of will,  I managed to extract myself, and from there I landed in a  cloud of immeasurable allure. And here I am.

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I am not completely satisfied with my progress out of the world of obesity. On the one hand, my loss of 40 pounds (6 of which dropped in the last month) in the course of roughly nine months is no small feat. On the other, a more focused and reliable ritual would have accomplished so much more! I do not believe I am so very different from other people, at least with respect to satisfaction with the mediocre. It is common for me to see [and experience myself]  instances of settling for “average” or below. If the problem is not simply slothfulness, perhaps it reflects a sense that the return on investments of energy, talent, training, or what have you is woefully inadequate. Rather than expend resources on an obsolete equipment, many of us just hold on, waiting for more attractive opportunities. Jeez! I lost my train of thought before it left the station.

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It’s nearing six o’clock, time for me to get up, shave, shower, and pack for a short trip to visit Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. One of the special presentations, in particular, entitled Diego Rivera’s America, should be very interesting.  We’re joining another couple on this quick, miniature road trip. I can imagine myself continuing on after visiting the museum and sampling some of Bentonville’s best restaurants. And then…who knows? My restlessness is inexplicable but strong.

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I may or may not blog from “the road.” Time will tell, as she always does.

We drove to Little Rock yesterday to pick up a semi-custom shirt; it was not quite right, so it will be modified and available to me in two weeks. As we drove down Chenal Parkway, we were stunned by the massive damage to buildings and trees. Especially surprising was the view of an apartment complex a few blocks north, on a hill overlooking the roadway. The top floor of the buildings had been shredded by the recent tornado. The roof of the building was missing, as was much of the framing beneath it. Broken pieces of lumber were visible everywhere. I have seen photographs of the damage, but seeing it for myself was sobering. All along Chenal, severe damage was evident. Power remained out in parts of the area, including at a cross-street where traffic had been, before the storm, controlled by a traffic light. Temporary stop signs had been placed at the intersection to control traffic. Massive trees, uprooted by the wind, had been blown down, breaking the sidewalk under the trees’ huge root balls and lifting them several feet above their original location. Ach! Lines of cars at a church, where water and food was being given away,  illustrated the human costs of the tornado; people who may not have had a place to sleep were, at least, given sustenance to get them through what must be an excruciating experience.  The dollar cost of the storm must be enormous; it is incomprehensibly huge. The emotional costs must, also, be incalculable.

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An online piece on BBC.com/worklife struck a chord with me. As I read it, my disappointment and regret at my decision, in 1998, to start my own company suddenly seemed less a lonely mistake. Other entrepreneurs, too, look back with remorse at “going it alone.” They, too, recognize that their dreams of being in control—and operating in an environment in which their income would be limited only by their own ambition—were fantasies. Though I was able to retire early with enough of a retirement nest egg to allow me to live a modestly middle-class lifestyle, I could have earned far more (and would have had greater autonomy and control) had I continued on the executive track, reporting to a single board of directors. Though my business was moderately successful, dealing with multiple boards of directors of multiple clients was far more stressful than working for a single board. And my decision to “run my own show” was far less lucrative than the environment I left. If I had it to do over again, I might make the same decision, but I would make it with eyes wide open to the realities of making payroll, even when a client  experienced financial struggles. Friends who continued to work as “staff” usually were viewed by boards as part of a team; my staff and I, on the other hand, were considered “hired hands.” My company’s fees, unlike “captive staff” salaries, were targets for minimization. “Captive staff” salaries were more likely to be viewed as opportunities to reward members of the “team” for a job well-done. When I was a “captive” CEO, I had to justify salary budgets to a generally appreciative board. But when I was an entrepreneur/ “contractor,” I had to work much harder to persuade boards that the fees paid to my company (the majority of which went to my staff) were justified. Unlike some other entrepreneurial ventures, it was virtually impossible to imagine transforming the company into a revenue-generating powerhouse. By 2011, thirteen years into my entrepreneurial experiment, I was beyond tired. I had come to loathe working with some of my client associations and their boards. When I announced what was to have been a one-year sabbatical and offered to help my clients find new management firms, their boards expressed little to no disappointment at my departure or any serious appreciation for my work. In spite of leaving every client in far better shape—financially and operationally—than when they became clients, they took the news of my departure without expressing any regret. Nor any appreciation for improving their positions.

I do not often think about my years as an entrepreneur. And when I do, I try to recall the more appealing aspects of that period of my career. I try to avoid being resentful and bitter with myself for having willingly replaced opportunities for a rather “cushy” experience for a monstrous challenge. Perhaps I should have taken my own hint when I named my company: Challenge Management, Inc. Bygones are bygones. No, I would not do it over again. I might, instead, accumulate as much money as possible, as early as possible, and retire even earlier. At one point in my life, I announced that I wanted to retire at 50. I missed the target by eight years. Not bad, actually. If I had continued with my business for another seven years, I would have pushed myself into an early grave. So, as I consider my work history, what I actually did may have been the best course of action. I should celebrate, instead of wading through fields of regret. And so I shall.

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We are imperfect beings. We behave in ways contrary to maintaining our honor. We long for material goods we do not need. We lust after experiences we openly condemn in others. Our desires may overcome our decency. We know we should not murder or steal or covet our neighbors’ wives, but we still we may wish to kill or purloin or seduce. There it is again: the spectrum of “sins,” alongside measures of tolerance or intolerance. Is the desire to kill just as bad as taking action on that desire? Ach! Too much brain-twisting!

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Another grey morning. Weather forecasters are calling for a high today of 79°F. I have to admit it: I look forward to the warmth. Lately, much of the time my hands of feet have been horribly cold. Yesterday, I walked out of my frigid office, opened the front door of the house, and went outside. The warmth outside was much, much, much greater than inside. I felt like sleeping on a recliner with the sun beating down on me. Instead, I worked on minimizing the weed-cover in the big rocky area in front of the house. It was absolutely LOUSY with weeds. I expect them to come back with some regularity. Makes me think a concrete pad over the rocks might be just the ticket. Not really. Probably.

I am grateful that today does not have many demands on me. I can choose whether to work around the house (which I should) or to loll about in slothful indolence (which I probably should not).  I appreciate the choice, though,

A dim, foggy morning laid waste to the solitude of predawn darkness. When I forced myself back to sleep in the early hours—despite wanting to get out of bed—I took an unnecessary risk. During the subsequent sleep, the currency of that risk purchased the pain of an incoherent nightmare. My late brother was in prison, awaiting execution for a crime about which I knew nothing. I was with two people…friends? relatives?…on the way to visit him. A car belonging to one of the two, a woman, would not start. The woman hotwired a nearby car, its front right tire in shreds, and drove us slowly—while the damaged tire delivered a loud, bumpy ride—to the entrance to the prison, which appeared to be inside a mall. And then I woke.

I thought I succeeded in sneaking out of the bedroom without waking Phaedra. But in the kitchen she interrupted my morning blood glucose bloodletting with a loud yowl, protesting what she apparently believed was my attempt to starve her. It took two abnormally large helpings of what looked and smelled like post-digested-chicken-puree-from-a-can to silence her. Finally, though, Phaedra decided to cease flooding my eardrums with her relentless sound-based tools of torture, allowing me a modicum of peace with which I could scan the morning’s so-called news. I did very little scanning; “news” is an unpleasant experience when one is attempting to slide into the day without encountering rusted razor blades judiciously positioned to slice into one’s tender parts.

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I hope to get some advice today, from a title company lawyer, related to replacing a quit claim deed with a general warranty deed. If that advice is not forthcoming, I will have to pursue other sources of expertise, possible waiting as long as next week. Property ownership is an unnatural imposition of undeserved control over a component of the natural environment. Indigenous people seem to have understood that reality, but modern humankind fails to grasp the ludicrous nature of “ownership.” We attempt to make our temporary stewardship of the natural environment into a permanent state of control; we have found that the transition into perpetuity comes with a high cost of labyrinthine complexity designed to “trick” the natural order into accepting slavery as a byproduct of humanity. I fight with myself over these matters and, invariably, I lose the fight.

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My creativity has, once again, remained beneath the comforter on the bed. I must retrieve it before tomorrow morning; I am to submit a poem by then for inclusion in an upcoming church insight service. I fear my poem, if it has been written by tomorrow morning, will be flat, dull, and emotionless. That’s all right, though, because one’s writing should reflect one’s true self. Ach.

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The fog remains thick and dreary, as the time approaches 8:30. The “work-week” is beginning the way so many of them began in years past. That is a shame. A real shame.

Phaedra, dressed in her protective post-surgery suit, walks with slow, plodding, doddering steps—punctuated with long pauses to recover the strength spent in moving just a few feet at a time.  Her movements suggest feline inebriation, but in fact the dual traumas of her abortion and her hysterectomy are responsible for her feebleness. But she is improving.

Last night, she managed to jump onto the storage chest at the foot of the bed. From there, she hopped onto the bed. And then she climbed aboard mi novia, who Phaedra must  have decided provided a comfortable spot for a long cat nap. Sometime during the wee hours, between 2:30 and 3, Phaedra decided I, too, offered a nice place of repose. I had been unable to sleep for a while, but I decided to stay put for a bit, hoping Phaedra might get a bit more rest. Finally, though, I had to get up. So, I slipped out of bed around 3:30. Phaedra woke when I gently moved her off of my hip, but she seemed to relax back into the blanket when I got up.  As far as I know, she is sleeping soundly now. She did not rush into the kitchen when I commenced my far-earlier-than-normal morning routine of blood-letting, pill-swilling, and coffee making; I take that as a good sign.

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US District Judge Robert Pitman ruled on Thursday that at several books removed from public library shelves in Llano County, Texas were to have been placed back onto shelves within 24 hours. Whether that has happened, I do not know. Reading about the book banning, which his ruling addressed, sparked anger in me. And fear. The recent spate of book banning frightens me because it is attempting to normalize an ugly form of censorship based on raw bigotry. The banned books in Llano include titles banned because they deal with race, sexual orientation, and other matters labeled inappropriate, pornographic, and called “filth” by at least one library board member. This is not new. But its resurgence is upsetting.  And it is especially upsetting in light of the revelation that the new “library advisory board” required all new books to “be presented to and approved” by them before purchase. Staff librarians were said to have been banned from attending the advisory board’s meetings. If I were King, I would incarcerate members of the library advisory board who voted to require board action before book purchase…or who voted to ban any title.

But wait. At some point, there must be a line which must not be crossed…mustn’t there? Would we want a library full of anarchist treatises, replete with bomb-making instructions and arguments in favor of political assassinations? Okay, perhaps step-by-step instructions leading to violent revolutions should be kept out of the library…or should they? At what point do we, as a society, decide to prohibit the dissemination of ideas? That is a dicey issue. On one hand, I abhor the imposition (or prohibition) of beliefs and philosophies through censorship. But on the other hand, I believe we (the collective, as if “we” were of one mind) have an obligation to protect ourselves and one another from unnecessary danger.

When any government, or any church for that matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, This you may not read, this you must not see, this you are forbidden to know, the end result is tyranny and oppression no matter how holy the motives.

~ Robert A. Heinlein ~

For the moment, though, let’s leave potential violence out of the equation. Is there a point at which moral indignation should play a part if library policy? Should we, for example, prohibit our libraries from shelving books that promote bestiality? Where should we draw the line? Or should we draw no lines at all? Should we leave it up to the consumer to decide what is appropriate to read? If I try to view the world from the perspective of a fundamentalist Christian who has been indoctrinated with the belief that any discussion of LGBTQ matters is a danger to the social order, I might understand why some books “should be banned.” But, try as I might, I cannot see the world from that jaundiced outlook. Yet I can understand how it might evolve; especially in a rural setting in which rabid fundamentalism is the rule, rather than the exception.

I think most proponents of book banning tend to be rabid nationalists, too; people who claim undying devotion to the U.S. Constitution. Yet these same people seem not to grasp the disconnect between book banning and the First Amendment:

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

No matter how persuasively I might argue, either for or against, the matter of book banning, I likely will not change anyone’s mind. Logic plays less of a role in the issue than does emotion. Even logical arguments are fueled by white-hot emotion on both sides of the issue. Ultimately, I suppose it comes down to which “side” will hold more positions on local library boards and in similar institutions. And who, once on those boards, will be willing to file lawsuits or to defend against them. Some days—most days—I wish I lived in a society whose values more closely mirrored my own. Today is one of those days. Now, which society(ies) might be suitable for me? I wish I knew.

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I eagerly await the results of the elections in Finland. Like much of the world, right-wing populism has been growing in Finland of late, which is reflected in Finnish polls. The prime minister’s (Sanna Marin) Social Democrats are facing challenges from the conservative National Coalition Party and the populist Finns Party. Sanna Marin still has high poll numbers, but according to news reports, her numbers are not high enough to ensure victory. By the end of the day today, the results of the election should be known, but regardless of the winner, it will take time to form a government (which, as I understand it, will certainly be a coalition government, regardless of the winner). My political leanings clearly are aligned with Sanna Marin and her Social Democrats. I hope the majority of voters in Finland share my position on matters politic.

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It is about a quarter after 5, far too early to call or text anyone, though I would like to. Sometimes at this hour (or earlier or later), I want to sit with a friend and talk. Not about anything in particular. Just to chat. Relax. Chill. Engage.  But I know, even if the time were four hours later, I would not make a call or send a text. I know very few people well enough to feel comfortable intruding on their day without warning. It would be different, I suspect, if I were far more of a social creature who stayed in frequent and regular contact with friends throughout the week. But I am not that social creature. I sometimes want to be, but I am not suited to it. My need for solitude might be mistaken for abruptness or rudeness if I were to suddenly shift from extrovert to introvert in mid-sentence. Perhaps it’s not quite that abrupt, but it can be a rather rapid change. I suppose I could train myself to behave differently; I know enough about Pavlov’s classical conditioning to give it a shot. But, then, I would have to train a few others, too. I doubt anyone wants me to ‘train’ them. I would have to hide the message behind something misleading. Nothing overt. Ach.

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We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.

~ François Rabelais ~

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We are nearing the end of the series, Unauthorized Living. The more we watch, the better I like it. It is far more complex than I expected it to be, but the complexities are not unnecessary; they contribute to the plot and to the psychological underpinnings of the story.  Despite a significant number of badly botched English subtitles and not infrequent evidence that some of the script writers might have had no training, the series is extremely entertaining and exciting. I recommend it.

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Once again, I let time slip by. It is nearing 6 in the morning. The sky remains dark, though, so my conversation with myself is in a satisfactory place. I shall now endeavor to shave and take a shower.