John Swinburn

More than a week ago, I stopped bothering to write my usual morning posts. For each of the four days before abandoning my morning routine, I wrote something, but the output was nothing more than wasted energy. During that time, I have made two trips to seek medical treatment. A five-day antibiotic regimen was prescribed the first time; I was directed to follow a seven-day regimen of a different antibiotic the second trip. My energy level is next to nil. My sleep has ranged from 14 to 20 hours each night/day. I am to return to my doctor’s office next week for a follow-up; sooner if the symptoms do not begin to disappear. Though whatever I have is not contagious by this point, it does not seem to be disappearing. Mi novia, fortunately, seems to be emerging from her 12+ day illness (with different symptoms). I read the news and experience waves of depression and hopelessness. What the hell is wrong with humankind? Though I hope my illness passes soon, I am not sure just what will take its place. Exhaustion cannot be understood until one experiences it day after day after day. It’s eight o’clock. I will go back to bed. What else can I do?

Our respective illnesses are growing incredibly tiresome. We both are tired; fed up. I have never slept so much, nor felt so perpetually achy and…just sick. That is probably not true, but it is close. Yesterday’s high body temperature was 103.2°F, but it did not last. I record this crap for what reason? I have no idea. Just to have something to type. I will not continue this exercise in boredom. I will try to be seen at the walk-in clinic early this morning. Maybe a miracle…

Simultaneous sickness is not conducive to anything positive. Mi novia got absolutely no sleep last night and most of the past several nights. I, on the other hand, have done almost nothing but sleep or vegetate in bed for the last several days. Three days ago, we ordered a pizza for delivery because neither of us had the energy to make anything to eat. Under normal conditions, we would have consumed the whole thing within hours of delivery. Today, the remaining three pieces sit in the fridge. Our appetites have disappeared into the ether. While that has some appeal, the way it is taking place is completely unacceptable.

Last night, my temperature was 102.9°F. I felt like my hair was on fire. But the drugs calm the flames, albeit only mildly. I have one more hour before I can take another two acetaminophen tablets; they take at least an hour (usually more) to ease my splitting headache and then lose their potency after another three hours. So, I can take tablets every six hours for, at best, four hours of moderate relief. Cripe! I do not have the strength to see a doctor today. If I don’t feel even moderately better tomorrow, I will give the office a call and beg for something that works better than the tablets I’ve been taking; morphine might do the trick.

Enough of this. Back to bed and, I hope, quickly to sleep so I can forget the headache until it’s time to take another dose.

These monster ailments affecting us have led us to conclude making our trip to St. Paul is not wise. As much as I long for a road trip and as much as I’d like to see Peter Mayer again, and even if our symptoms disappear in the next few days, we think it best not to risk a relapse on the road. Both of us have been sleeping a lot (or in mi novia’s case, trying to sleep), but sleep’s usual healing powers have had essentially no impact on us. If conditions haven’t improved by tomorrow, she will return to her doctor’s office and I will try to get an appointment. In the  meantime, we will stay home and hibernate. No church today. No mah-jongg for her tomorrow. Blah.

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I’ve expended all my available energy writing the paragraph above. So, I’m finished for now.

Headache. Chills. Fever, perhaps. Aching muscles and joints. Extremely tired. Whatever it is, this cluster of symptoms is terribly uncomfortable. I napped yesterday from around noon to nearly six, I think. And then I got in bed shortly after six and stayed there, except for a couple of trips to the bathroom, until around three. Up for half an hour, then back to bed, but not to sleep, until five-thirty. The aches—some of them—may be attributable to all that time in bed, but the rest of the symptoms must be caused by something else. Acetaminophen and allergy pills have had no appreciable impact on how I feel. My symptoms are very different from mi novia’s symptoms and they started long after hers began to abate slightly, so we are suffering from different ailments. Some of her symptoms have improved, but others stubbornly continue. Her sore throat seems to have gotten significantly better, but she continues to cough and her sinuses are giving her all manner of grief. If asked how I feel, I might respond by saying I feel like hammered puppy poo (as if I knew how that might feel). Rotten, in other words. Ideally, the Village’s restaurants—at least some of them—would have prepacked meals available for delivery. There’s plenty of food in the refrigerator and freezer, but the energy required to prepare it has slipped away into the nearby forest. But it takes almost as much energy to eat a simple meal as it does to prepare it, so my complaint just represents whining. I bought a watermelon and a cantaloupe a few days ago, which sounds like a marvelous breakfast; slice them and carve out a few chunks and, voilà, a meal appears. That’s far easier than having to dress to be presentable to the delivery person. That notwithstanding, some day I hope the Village has multiple meal delivery options. There was a time when I might have considered starting such a business. No more.

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Good news seems sparse, weak, and flimsy in comparison to unpleasant news. Looking for good news is rather pointless in the face of an intentional government shutdown, courtesy of a group of right-wing members of the House of Representatives. And good news is overshadowed by the floods in and around New York City, the healthcare strike, the auto workers strike, the existence of a man named Donald Trump, and the Mississippi River’s prospects for being fed enough water to keep the waterway vibrant and operational.

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I saw a post on Facebook this morning that gripped my imagination in ways that few post do. It was posted by a group labeled English Literature. It included a quotation from Maya Angelou’s book, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now and an image of an Andrew Wyeth painting.

Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future. Jobs, family, employers, and friends can exist one day without any one of us, and if our egos permit us to confess, they could exist eternally in our absence. Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us.

~ Maya Angelou ~

And now I will continue dealing with my discomfort.

I am attempting to make an appointment to see a counselor; someone who might help slash the reeds of anxiety or depression that sometimes seem to withhold fresh air from my lungs and my life—even though nothing in particular seems intent on suffocating me. Little things—and not-so-little things—work together in a way that makes me feel like I am wading through mud at the edge of a marsh. A step in the wrong direction could find me sinking in a pool of muck from which escape is difficult, though not impossible.  I await the bill for repair to the rental car whose tire burst when I ran it into a high concrete curb. Replacing a tire, alone, is expensive; a wheel is more costly and any damage to the steering mechanism and other parts of the undercarriage would be even more. Money is not the issue, really. It is the fact that apparently I could not see that I was about the smash into the curb until I had done it. The fact that my diminished lung capacity contributes to a lack of stamina—and breathlessness—also makes me feel more than a little inadequate, especially in comparison to how I was a few years ago. Increasing age—and illness and physical decay—emphasize the reality that I am not the same person I once was. I read an old blog post this morning, from another of my blogs that is now dormant, “celebrating” the fact that I had just reached my 58th birthday. Almost twelve years ago. Too much water can flow under the bridge in twelve years, deeply carving the channel’s walls and making the banks above them dangerous and unstable. About that counselor; finding one who can accept Medicare and who has openings for new patients is proving quite difficult. Another reality to face: large numbers of people in and around the area in which I live need help as much as or, more likely, more than I. Fortunately for me, my oncologist’s office is trying to identify qualified people who would accept me. Ach! The population is confronting a crumbling wall that may not withstand the pressure of people trying to climb it.

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I hate to write paragraphs like the one above, because it looks like an effort to entice readers to pity me. That is not my intent. While I do not like writing this sort of thing, I think it may help me identify and measure my challenges. It is quite odd, feeling the way I do, after spending ten days away, including seven days in what amounts to paradise. Coolish weather, lush and absolutely beautiful flora, extremely pleasant people, lovely restaurants…the vacation should fuel my anxiety-free and depression-free experiences for weeks or months to come. Maybe the contrast between where I was and where I am is influencing my mood. Or maybe I am just having trouble adapting to the real world again.

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I took Phaedra (the cat) to day-care yesterday and again this morning to keep her from being underfoot while solar tubes (to provide sunlight illumination) are being installed. We are investing in our house to make it even more livable. This morning’s cool weather (it is only 69°F at the moment) should boost my mood. And maybe it does.

Enough of this. I’ve been trying to clear my mind ever since I awoke, at 3 a.m. I slept, off and on, after that, but not enough to completely eliminate my headache. I went to bed quite early last night, which probably contributed to my insomnia. Little things. I think I’ll have a meal of acetaminophen.

I am not complaining, just musing with my fingers.

The sky is just beginning to show signs of light. The sound of crickets fill the morning air. Sitting outside, on the deck, the cool temperature (63º) does not feel as comfortable as I expected, thanks to the absolute stillness of the air. If I weren’t so lazy, I would go inside and flip the switch on the fan. Mi novia is sitting nearby, trying to feel better but failing; she slept very little last night, due to a nagging viral infection that refuses to go away. The doctor’s office told her to give it time. Bah! There should be drugs to completely alleviate her symptoms.

My one-finger blogging is not going anywhere. So I shall stop trying.

Today is my mother’s birthday. She has been gone for many, many years…considerably more than half my life. It seems odd that both my parents were not too many years older when they died than I am now.

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Prolonged periods of stress—even low-level, seemingly insignificant stress—can wear a person down to the point of catastrophic collapse. The stress can be as inconsequential as a wart on one’s toe or the annoying music drifting in—night after night—from parties on the beach, eight blocks or eight miles away. When stress goes on day after day after day, a person’s defenses against it can suddenly shatter. Some people suddenly retreat into themselves, blocking off all human contact long enough for the pressure to subside. Others explode, as if a powerful mental grenade suddenly sends shards of white-hot rage in every direction, ripping into everyone and everything in their proximity. Still others simply cope, though their coping mechanisms may be unable to adequately handle the catastrophic collapse of their mental stability. If we could accurately predict who will react how, we might be able to avert personal meltdowns and/or disasters affecting people unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity of the overly-stressed person. But we cannot, at least not with any degree of precision. We can guess, but we cannot know. The worst eruptions, such as situations in which the white-hot rage pairs with semi-automatic weapons and endless access to ammunition, often bring out the armchair quarterbacks in people who say, “I just knew he was a ticking time bomb.” If they knew, of course, they should have done…something. But what do you do when you have only an inkling that someone is capable of inflicting mass casualties on innocent bystanders…or co-workers or employers or others who the bad actor identifies as the cause of his stress? “The authorities” cannot legitimately act on a “hunch.” Perhaps the only realistic action one can take is to avoid the potential ticking bomb and to advise others to do the same. Yet that simply shifts the potential damage to more unsuspecting innocents. This is on my mind because I see so much evidence of extreme stress in people who have diametrically opposed political opinions and who fear that their philosophical opponents may overwhelm them. Even people who seem to have relatively low-level stresses could be hiding mental brittleness that could easily snap at the slightest provocation. Paranoia is everywhere. One might read what I have written and assume the writer is paranoid about the potential for stress-related rage. I would like to think that is not the case, but we cannot always understand our own levels of stress, nor how we might react if that stress becomes unmanageable. We have reason to fear everyone. 😉 Now THAT is paranoia.

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I woke at 3 this morning, but stayed in bed until after 5. During those two hours, I closed my eyes and attempted to sleep, but I do not think I was entirely successful. Phaedra’s yowling periodically interrupted my attempts to return to a comfortable sleep state—I slept soundly from 10 to 3, though disturbing dreams punctuated those hours of sleep. Six hours usually is enough for me, though lately I have been getting more; especially when I nap in the afternoon. I used to disdain napping. No longer. I cannot with certainty say why I once loathed the idea of napping, but I think it is related to the reason I hate waking up after sunrise; I feel like I’m missing a part of the day that could spell the difference between success and failure. Hmm. That attitude may be in need of adjustment.

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I have tried to make amends with someone I upset when I reacted in anger to something this person said that offended and upset me. My apology and subsequent efforts to repair the relationship failed. There was a time when I would have let that failure gnaw at me, allowing myself to think the failure was somehow my fault. But I no longer assign blame to myself for another person’s failure to forgive, especially when I have long since forgiven the behavior that triggered my reaction. I know that allowing others’ emotional shortcomings to invade my attempts at achieving serenity is wasteful. So I moved on. Yet I realize my reaction to the very offensive slight was unnecessary; I should not have let my anger shape my response. Lesson learned, I hope.

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Mi novia is recovering from a sore throat, caused by a virus of some sort (not flu or Covid, her doctor’s office says). Illness, even a mild illness, can disrupt one’s life for a bit. She has responded well to the disruption, though; far better than I do when I am sick. I admire her ability to take it in stride. I tend to whine, I think, and pity myself when I am ill.

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By now, I should have arranged to get groceries, having been away for ten days and more. But I put it off. This morning, it shall be my mission. We should eat a diet healthier than pizza and BLTs.  So, I’m off to make a grocery list.

Enjoying Ahi Tuna Tacos and Brewpub Beer at Corazὀn de Malta

Until I spent a week drinking my espresso every morning at my brother’s house in Mexico, I was satisfied with my French roast coffee. This morning, the difference between the two is so obvious and the flavor of the espresso is so enormously better, I do not know whether I will ever again be satisfied with my comparatively weak French roast. Vacations are fine, but they can expose us to circumstances that cannot be satisfactorily replicated in the “real world.” The incredibly lush, brilliantly colorful, vibrant flora on the terrace is stunning. Enormous volumes of lemons, limes, and kumquats hang from trees all around the house. Stalks of bananas, which must weigh fifty pounds or more, put a strain on their parent trees. Morning breakfasts of fresh papaya, cantaloupe, mango, and watermelon  suggest this place is, indeed, paradise. And the much cooler, more comfortable, and far less humid weather is far better suited to my body than the intense heat and fierce humidity of the Arkansas summer. The absence of chiggers around Lake Chapala is a gift of enormous proportions. (But the tiny bo-bos that fly in enormous swarms, even though they do not bite, are annoying in the extreme and mosquitos seem to have taken up residence in areas previously mosquito-free.) Everyplace has its negatives, of course. But the positives outweigh negatives in so very many ways. Already, I miss my morning espresso on the terrace. And I miss having drinks on the terrace in the evening. And the brew-pub quite close by, Corazón de Malta, could easily become a place I might hang out every afternoon, after a delightful lunch. Ach… Well, my brother and his wife have extended an open invitation to us to visit whenever we like; I will have to control my urge to make a monthly habit of invading their home.

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So much has happened in the last ten days. One day soon I will make a record of our joys and sorrows during that period. But for now, we are back home, where we will have to adjust to the world around us. Friends, I hope, will help in that endeavor.

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I have to immerse myself back into daily life—but slowly—so I can adjust to a different pace and a radically different environment. I fully understand why people retire to the areas around Lake Chapala. In spite of the challenges of sometimes unreliable electricity or internet and regardless of the need to adjust one’s expectations, the place emphasizes how a slower pace and a less intense approach to day-to-day living can leave one soaked in happiness. Acceptance, tolerance, and appreciation of the vagaries of life are among the results of being in such a delightful place.

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Already 8:30 here in Hot Springs Village. I will spend the day at home. Mi novia will visit her doctor’s office in the hope of getting relief from a new sore throat; fortunately, it happened after getting home, though a sore throat is never good fortune. I think I may need more sleep to adapt to the faster pace of life here.  But not yet. Napping should be reserved for the afternoon, unless one opts for a nap at any other time of day. Where is home? Home, I think, is where one feels most comfortable.

A high-speed taxi in the early morning darkness of a large, frenzied city waking as if fueled by high-test caffeine is a scary place to be. The car’s destination, an airport jammed with agitated pre-dawn travelers, shreds serenity with the sharp claws of urgency; checking bags, securing paper boarding passes in case the phone app jams, trudging—shoeless—through security checkpoints, chaotic clots of people wanting fast-serve breakfast, despite its astronomic prices. The frenzy doesn’t stop there. When the plane boards, assuming it does, thoughts will turn to the tight connection to the next flight. High anxiety is the price of air travel. High, high, high anxiety.

When we reach the destination, an agenda to complete and distribute, an article to write, a cat to retrieve from boarding, clothes to wash. The price of a week in a peaceful paradise and a weekend of gathering and bittersweet recollections.

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Three nights in a spectacularly comfortable motel bed softened the experience. I want that bed.

Recent days have taught me more than I might want to know, but any knowledge—welcome or not—is fuel for both intellectual and emotional development. When I have time to process what I have recently learned, I will make an effort to document the lessons learned. In the meantime, I will attempt to understand what has taken place in the sea of thought in which I swim.

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As I sat at a boarding gate in the Guadalajara airport recently, I watched a patchwork of people waiting to travel. Young, old, and in between, each had unique reasons to fly. The mixture of languages they spoke—mostly Spanish with an assortment of English, Croation, Dutch, and various others—blurred into an unintelligible hum. Yet that cacophony was precise in its meaning: the unintelligible noise was the expression of thoughts that mattered to them.

Several hours later, in the darkness of a confusing San Antonio night,  the abrupt, jarring stop of a rented automobile as it slammed into a concrete curb—unleashed fear, anger, embarrassment, and a thousand regrets. The rubber of the destroyed tire and the metal of the undercarriage grated against the pavement as I manuevered the car to the parking lot next door—the intended, but obviously missed, target. The next morning, my rage at myself tempered just a bit, I allowed happiness to drown some of the sorrow as a gathering of family began to unfold. The reality that none of us are are ever fully in control began to sink in, as I learned of others’ unavoidable obstacles that prevented well-laid plans from unfolding as expected.

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When new expectations took an unexpected twist, the intersection of joy and sadness revealed, again, the impossibility of real control over events, time, and context. The world will turn as it will, regardless of plans…which always fail to take into account the randomness that intercedes on behalf of chaos. But chaos is not bad, only unpredictable. Some chaotic circumstances hide beauty beneath a translucent veil. The rest of these chaotic circumstances have yet to play out. Until then, we keep planning and forging ahead, hoping for the best, which sometimes comes and sometimes redefine goodness and sorrow.

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If the universe cooperates, I will continue to document our experiences, in due time, but in more coherent fashion. I have my reasons for overlaying experience with a thick blanket of confusion; confusion has been a guiding principle for awhile.

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Today is Sunday. At least that’s what we call it. For now.

Powerful reasons exist for vacations lasting at least two weeks. Fourteen days, at a minimum, are necessary to sufficiently clear one’s head to enable recovery from even the modest pressures of the daily grind. Limiting vacations to less than two weeks is like stopping a two-month course of chemotherapy after 28 days; the benefits achieved may be beneficial in the short term,  but inadequate to conquer the disease.

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The sounds of a bubbling fountain can soothe the mind. Rain on the roof, wind in the trees, and the gentle notes of a wind chime can do the same. Meditation, perhaps, is a purposeful means of accomplishing the same result. The object, the aim, is to become familiar with serenity…to feel the calmness that accompanies that familiarity. But then, suddenly, a barking dog insists that serenity is an illusion, a retreat from reality. Yet a dog’s expression of angst provides the contrast necessary to understand the nature of serenity. An exploding fire-cracker, the sounds of construction machinery, and a million other noises or vibrations can do the same. If we consider them in that context, we may come to appreciate them for the lessons they teach. Maybe.

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Our bodies were never meant to last a thousand years. Actually, there is no meaning…not legitimate, anyway…inherent in the time our bodies survive the cycles of life. What is, is. That is hard for many people to accept. That is too bad; coming to grips with the concept that all life is fundamentally meaningless is helpful when faced with the pain of meaningless…or senseless…loss.

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Happiness and sadness are woven into the fabric of life. The fabric looks and feels differently, depending on the looseness of the weave, the threads used, and the kind of loom emplyed in the process.

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I write drivel, sometimes, just to explore how my brain functions. Other times, the drivel is a natural byproduct of what’s up there in that cloudy grey matter.

Across the wide lake, the homes and businesses are almost too far away to see. But they are there. Barely visible, the places where people live and work exist in secret…oh, they do not intentionally hide their day-by-day existence, but distance conceals details that might offer clues to the lives of strangers. Distance is not the only veil. The houses up the street or even next door are full of secrets. What do the occupants do to make a living? Are they retired? Are they key members of a violent cartel, hiding in plain sight under the cover of legitimate businesses? We know almost nothing of the strangers across the lake. We know little more of next door neighbors. They could be retired instruments of foreign governments, having set aside espionage in favor of gardening and book clubs and meeting with other retirees, once a week, for coffee. But those people across the lake…or across national borders or across oceans…we rarely give them a thought. We know nothing of their personal challenges…their poverty or the diseases that wreck their lives and stress their friends and families to the breaking point. If we think about their lives, realizing they are just people like us, condemned to the rules of the societies in which they live, perhaps we will become more compassionate, despite our inability to influence the way the world treats them. Do any of those people think of us in the same way? Does their compassion extend to us? We can answer by looking within.

Art can be spectacularly beautiful, but even the most skilled, talented, visionary artist who specializes in realism cannot replicate the beauty of nature. Slivers of orange and pink and silver and grey woven among cottony white billows in the sky are not static. They transform as slowly as time and just as quickly. Watching the shapes in the sky morph from crisp, immaculately defined images into shadows that hide the secrets above them is a mesmerizing experience.

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Lush. Verdant. Brilliantly colorful. Words are inadequate to describe what the eyes behold. Watching the day unfold is a pleasure that makes me immensely grateful for my eyesight.

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Permitting oneself to appreciate the gifts of living is a far greater pleasure than refining complaints into sharp daggers of disappointment.

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So many secrets to share with someone willing to be amazed by the complex simplicity of raw, incomplete perfection…even with its flaws and the cracks in its deep, deep veneer.

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I don’t want to call myself a perfectionist because perfection is imperfection.

~ Ne-Yo ~

Cryptic messages filter through my mind, challenging me to interpret them. Every interpretation is right, but only in certain situations. If I wish the interpretations to be valid, I must insert myself into the correspondingly correct situations. This process is like a life-puzzle, complete with hourglass timer that cannot run out before the puzzle is solved, lest the game be eternally lost. Frightening, but untrue, of course. Games are the work of the devil, I sometimes think, except I do not believe in such nonsense as devils and their ilk. But I believe in bats. I matched wits with a bat last night. I finally won, but I wonder…does the bat feel the same? It is free now, after all, but so am I. Perhaps the game ended in a happy draw. You may think I am crazy, but so are you. We belong to the same tribe, bat enthusiasts and believers in the power of the embrace, the solution to every difficulty confronting us. Monday. The bells ring in the day and urge me to stop my one-finger diatribe. I consent to the request.

Paradise has different meanings for different people. For some, slot machines and the never-ending shrieks of the newly wealthy constitutes paradise. For others, it is white sand beaches littered with bikini-clad women. Others find paradise in ski resorts covered in new powder, with cozy, fire-warmed lodges providing refuge from the cold. Paradise has as many meanings as there are people who dream of it. For me, paradise is contextual, depending on my moods, the circumstances in which I find myself, and the people in my emotional sphere. A cool, lush, semi-tropical environment with a private refuge in which I can relax, unwind, and forget the rest of the world might be paradise–in the company of people I love…that can be paradise for me. Good wine, strong espresso, an occasional shot of mescal, fresh fruit, and excellent food amplify the sense of paradise in that setting. Beautiful flowers, colorful birds that sing songs I have not heard in a long time…the elements of paradise join together to define that special experience.

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Today is Sunday. A cool morning promises a beautiful day. Beauty can exist when skies are clear, when clouds and rain blot out most of the sun’s light, and every other meteorological state. Life is good when one sits at the doorstep of paradise.

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Onward to capture the magic of paradise.

Forgiveness struggles to survive in an environment in which anger is more highly valued than understanding.  Still, it survives, even growing stronger. Anger, though, withers into rancid dust, eventually lost to the winds of time.

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November 18. 2023 will mark the 140th anniversary of time zones in the U.S. Before that date in 1883, there were roughly 144 local time zones in the USA. Even today, though, universal agreement about time eludes us.

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Enough for now.

My foray into good news this morning led me, first, to a story of a 15-year-old lion returned to his natural habitat after being abandoned in a private zoo in Armenia for five years.  I then read about a way to reuse decommissioned wind turbine blades, rather than incinerating them or putting them in a landfill. From there, I renewed my long-lost acquaintance with the concept of brocken spectres, thanks to a fascinating article about a UK photo contest. As I explored brocken spectres, I wandered off to explore glories. My wandering did not end there, but I’ll leave the rest to another time when I have no demands on my time. This kind of exercise is akin to a treasure hunt in which each find leads to another search for yet another find. It feeds my need to accommodate my occasionally VERY short attention span—I get bored or disillusioned easily. But when I enter a rabbit warren with so many interconnected passages and rooms and options to follow, I can get lost for hours, exploring topics that are completely or only tangentially unrelated. The result? Temporary enthusiasm about information that has little or no practical value to me, but that causes interest and excitement for a time. I’ll probably check in with the largely negative news  services in a while, but for now I am satisfied to start the morning on an upbeat note.

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The upbeat mood does not diminish yet, even though I just learned that a prolific writer of mysteries—a man who encouraged others to write—and who matter-of-factly proclaimed his atheism to me when I first attended the Unitarian Universalist Village Church, has died. John Achor retired at the rank of Lt. Colonel after twenty years as an Air Force pilot, accumulating more than 4,000 flying hours. I knew John for only a few years, but I grew to like and admire him soon after we met. After he and his wife moved to Nebraska, we kept in touch occasionally. I followed his writing of mystery novels, including One Two Kill a Few, Three Four Kill Some More, Five Six Deadly Mix, Assault on the President, and Assault on Reason. There were more, I think. RIP, John Achor. John was 89. He lived a long and interesting life.

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A recent accidental discovery sparked my interest in an utterly useless pursuit—making huge soap bubbles. I watched a video of a teacher showing his students how to make enormous soap bubbles, using sticks and string dipped into very soapy water. The teacher and his students created what I call bubble-launching devices that, when held up on a windy day, caused monstrous soap bubbles to form. Some of the bubbles broke free of their launching devices, giant bubbles three times the size of the people creating them, sailing into the air. It is child’s play. I would rather play with sticks and strings and bubbles than toy guns. In fact, I’d rather do that than a lot of other things. When we return from our upcoming travels, I might give it a try. But I may have to wait until Spring, which I consider the best season to make giant bubbles and marvel at their size.

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Depending on a variety of factors, I may take a fairly lengthy—several-days-long—break from this blog during an upcoming trip. Or I may not. Time will tell, as it always does.

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Hmm. Seems I forgot to post this after I wrote that last bit. It’s a minute after 7 now, time for my shower and shave.

Despite my frequent admonition to myself to steer clear of the “news” every morning, I find myself indulging that bad habit almost every day. Today, as I began scanning the headlines, I felt my blood pressure rise, my jaws tighten, and my gut churn. That depressing daily routine hit me especially hard this morning. Instead of accepting the emotional punches as usual, though, I closed the tabs for CNN, AP, NPR, and the rest. I opened Google and typed in “I just want some good news.” Among the numerous hits: positive.news. For a while, at least, the hideousness of life on planet Earth morphed into something hopeful, positive, energizing…an anecdote to the poison most media outlets feed me—with my willing consent—almost every day. In a report entitled “This city turns sewage into drinking water in 24 hours. The concept is catching on,” I learned about the remarkable experience of Windhoek, the capital of Namibia. Since the late 1960s, the city has employed direct potable reuse (DPR), a process by which completely safe drinking water is produced directly from sewage. Another article describes the “Closed for Maintenance” program of the Faroe Islands, when the islands are closed to “normal” tourism, allowing only those willing to be involved in “repairing paths, building cairns, making signs, gates and ladders and creating easier and safer ways to navigate between towns and villages.” The program is so popular that only 3 percent of those who apply to participate are accepted. Other places around the globe have begun to implement similar programs, using tourism itself to help rebuild and maintain tourist attractions.  In another report, dated September 7, I learned that “2,000 captive southern white rhinos are to be released into the wild after conservationists snapped up the world’s largest private rhino farm.” These represent just a tiny sample of the interesting, uplifting, positive news stories I found this morning—but only after intentionally seeking them out. Obviously, they do not negate the ugly and depressing news that dominates the media most of us consume regularly, but they gave me a little respite from that emotionally damaging informational landscape. For a while, at least.

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I spent something like a combined four hours yesterday and the day before, watching and listening to an AARP safe driving program aimed at doddering geezers…or, to put a more positive spin on it, older drivers. My participation in the online program came about because, when I received the receipt for my monthly auto insurance premium, I noticed it has increased rather significantly, thanks at least in part to the expiration of the discount I earned from participating in a similar online program a few years ago. Though most—maybe all—of the program was identical to the one in which I participated before, it included some tidbits that were either new or that I had forgotten. No doubt about it, the four hours was generally boring in the extreme and delivered at a pace designed for people very slow on the uptake of information. Despite that, though, it offered several bits of information and advice that I think will have a positive impact on the way I drive and/or react to situations when I am behind the wheel. Though I wish it had been delivered in a quarter of the time and I could have done without the sometimes patronizing tone of delivery, I think it was worth the $20.21 I spent on it. I will save far more than that on my insurance premiums…I think.

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I recently overheard someone talk about participating in online guided meditation. My interest in meditation, right now this morning, revolves around my desire to loosen the extreme tightness and pain in my neck and shoulders. A firm but gentle massage might accomplish the same thing. Maybe a heating pad would do the trick. Or a hot shower, water beating down on me for several minutes. Or morphine. Last night, we watched Hacksaw Ridge; morphine provided instant relief to severely injured soldiers whose bodies had been badly mangled by bullets or grenades or bayonets. The film was gritty and bloody in the extreme, but quite well done. It was based on the true story of Desmond Doss, a conscientious objector who saved something like 75 soldiers’ lives on the battlefield through his remarkable bravery and unwavering dedication as a medic.

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Okay. I am ready to return to the real world. Perhaps.

A week or two ago I spent about 20 minutes watching the beginning of a Netflix documentary entitled, Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones. Those introductory 20 minutes fascinated me, and I promised myself I would  continue watching, but as often is the case, my promise to myself has thus far remained unfulfilled. This morning, as I skimmed the NPR website, I stopped at a piece that focused on the film. Though I did not listen to the accompanying audio, I read the article with interest. I have no illusions that I will live to be 100, nor is that an especially appealing possibility, but the idea of living a simpler, healthier, more fulfilling life is more than a little attractive. The attractiveness of the possibility was enhanced by those 20 minutes of watching the documentary (produced by Dan Buettner, who also has published a companion book), as well as the NPR piece by Allison Aubrey. As I read the article, and considered Aubrey’s “ways to swap old habits for new ones, based on the blue zone revelations,” I found myself joining her in thinking about the people who live in those “blue zones” and, as she puts it, “pining for their way of life.” My 20 minute introduction to Buettner’s documentary, by the way, took place while walking on my treadmill. That fact is awash in competing symbolism. As I approach my seventieth birthday, I wonder whether the symbols are metaphors for scales, and whether they are balanced, or tipping one way or the other.

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In this country—and others where materialism is akin to the fervor of fanatic religious worship—we are trained to equate happiness with possessions and instant gratification. Belief that money, luxury, and immediate & perpetual access to leisure are ingrained in us. Media, manipulated and managed by commercial interests whose worth is measured entirely in money and control, teach us to hunger for what we do not have. We are inculcated with the promise that attaining more and more and more will bring about happiness, success, and eternal joy. And we are taught to believe what we get—when we put our hands on those shiny somethings—is, indeed, happiness. I am certain that is not happiness. Instead, it is in fact a deadened emptiness in which despair is controlled by the emotional equivalent of morphine. Even the material evidence of human relationships—sentimental objects that connect us to the memories of people we have loved and lost, for example—constitute anesthetic replacements for something missing in our lives. Not so much the relationships that are no longer possible, but the possibilities we overlooked or disregarded when there was still time to embrace moments that truly mattered. I do not know how to undo the damage done by a society so deeply flawed that gratitude for one another is eclipsed by a craving for what merchants tell us we should want. I am angry and sad; despondent that so much time and so many lives have been and continue to be wasted.  What is gone is gone forever. What we never knew we could have is too far away to reach, now, and getting further and further away.

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This morning I understand why mi novia says I sometimes exhibit signs of depression. This morning, I feel those signs smothering me. Trying to stop me from breathing. An incomparable sadness that springs from nothing in particular, but literally everything in and around me. It will dissipate; it always does. But it always returns, sometimes with no warning and with no trigger and without regard to what is or is not happening in my life. Just a mysterious predator of some sort that hides in plain sight and slams me into a metaphorical wall. I think I cause it myself. There is a song that includes a lyric, “you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.” That is true, I think. Without realizing it, that bizarre addiction can take hold. But as I write these words, the gloom has already begun to lift. The morning is no longer a would-be assassin. It comes and goes with amazing speed. Except when it arrives and departs with the speed of cold molasses.

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The upside of a grey day is the water that may come with it. There’s always something light on the other side of dark.

Soft, smooth, silky rope binding one’s body to a cozy chair—despite a sensation of luxury—is like a prison, albeit a momentarily pleasant prison. But prisons, even those resembling spas, restrict freedom. Living a life of luxury, with every desire but one—freedom—readily satisfied cannot disguise the realities of confinement. The most comfortable cage is still a cage. The most painful cages are those we construct around ourselves, preventing us from free movement. We think we always will retain the keys to those self-built cages until, one day, we realize the keys have disappeared and the locks have been welded; permanently sealed. Some of us find ourselves imprisoned early. Others remain free well into old age, before willingly locking themselves away. A few sprint away before the cell slams shut. The sprinters sometimes try to warn the rest of us, but we are too enamored of silk to pay heed. We hear the key turn in the lock’s cylinder, but pretend the sound is music, rather than an emergency siren urging us to get out while we still can.

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Mortgages regularly are sold. Both buyers and sellers tend to say the sale of mortgages amounts to the mortgage being “serviced” by a different institution. That is, your mortgage payment will go to someone else. Our mortgage recently has been acquired by a different institution. Nothing will change, the notification said; your automatic payment will simply be paid to a different bank. Except, I noticed a few days ago, the payment taken out by the new mortgage holder is well more than $200 greater than before. Today, I will attempt to contact the new mortgage holder to find out what gives. I suspect I will be told the escrow has been adjusted to reflect actual costs. In which case I will insist on evidence to support the contention. And I will ask why I was not notified in advance of the larger withdrawal. Fortunately, the money was available to be withdrawn; but I suspect many people live considerably closer to the financial edge. I prefer outright ownership, without a mortgage holder. I realize, of course, mortgages offer considerable financial flexibility, even if one is able to pay cash for one’s home. But, still…life as a recluse, without engagement with heartless institutions, holds substantial appeal.

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Imagine life, two hundred years ago. When night falls, the cloudless sky is dark, except for millions of tiny white dots. The only sounds are the rustling of leaves in the trees, an occasional bird call…the distant howl of a wolf or coyote. And, perhaps, the crackle of the fire as logs transform into heat and smoke and ashes. Darkness signals time for sleep. Needed rest after a day’s work; work necessary to survive another day. Survival was not an abstract concept; it was, instead, a precise, defined objective.

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I am ready to turn away from this blog for now. I cannot express thoughts that have no associated words. Gibberish is inadequate. Language does not tell the full story.

If the opposite of heat was eleven and papaya was a synonym for alligator, the rest of our words might be equally carnivorous. Clocks and California could be used interchangeably. I once saw an episode of an old black & white television series in which a man was confounded when everyone around him began using gibberish words in sentences. Dinosaur was used in place of lunch; a boy asked the man where the boy could take his girlfriend for dinosaur. The man got angry at the boy. But then the man’s wife began substituting nonsense for meaningful words. And then everyone in his sphere did the same. But they all understood the language. The man did not. He lost his mind. I may have done the same. Shall we go out for gangster after today’s calcium service?

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If the reports from Statcounter are correct and reliable, someone (likely bots) based in China regularly visits this blog, usually but not exclusively during late night and early morning hours. The visits appear to be launched from China Unicom, a Chinese state-owned telecommunications operator, the third-largest wireless network operator in China. Recently, these Chinese visits—which have no referring link, suggesting to me they probably are bots—have not had, on  Statcounter, a live hyperlink to a specific post. They indicate which post was visited, but there is no live link to that post. That is a change from previous Chinese visits (of which there are many, many, many). I wish I knew why visits to this blog by Chinese bots are so common. But I do not know. So I will stop rambling on about it. For now.

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Nuclear weapons have long constituted tragic reality. To date, that tragedy has played out on relatively rare occasions. The bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki killed an estimated 110,000 to 210,000 people. A 1986 paper copyrighted by the National Academy of Sciences, entitled Casualties Due to the Blast, Heat, and Radioactive Fallout from Various Hypothetical Nuclear Attacks on the United States, offers estimates of the numbers of deaths and other casualties under various scenarios. One table included in the paper estimates that deaths would range between 3 million and 56 million. The authors of the paper “examined three different hypothetical ‘limited‘ nuclear attacks on the United States, each involving a 1-megaton (Mt) airburst over approximately 100 targets of three different types.” The three types of targets the authors examined were: 1) the city centers of the 100 largest U.S. urban areas; 2) 101 industries rated as the highest-priority targets for an attack on U.S. military-industrial capability; and 3) 99 key strategic nuclear targets.  The authors, in the conclusion of their paper, suggested a ‘limited’ attack on the USA (or by the USA on what was then the Soviet Union) probably would escalate considerably. Mutual (and global) assured annihilation, one might assume, would be the outcome. Tragic reality, indeed. The mere idea that nuclear weaponry, in an environment when multiple opposing superpowers possess nuclear capabilities, could ever be a deterrent is madness. Madness is not impossible, of course. We see it live, online and in on television news broadcasts, every day.

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The temperature outside, as of 6:29 a.m., is 57°F. That is dangerously close to cold! How in the hell did that happen? Just days ago the daytime high was in the 90s; even higher, I think. Suddenly, the temperature plunged into the 50s! If the meteorologists responsible for predicting the future are right, the temperature will climb by almost 30 degrees before it reaches today’s peak.  I will not complain about the cold. I will not complain about the warmth. Not today, anyway.

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Smiling is very important. If we are not able to smile, then the world will not have peace. It is not by going out for a demonstration against nuclear missiles that we can bring about peace. It is with our capacity of smiling, breathing, and being peace that we can make peace.

~ Thich Nhat Hanh ~

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Calcium. It’s what’s for dinosaur.

Planet Earth is in full-scale revolt. A deadly earthquake in Morocco. A category 5 hurricane roaring through the Atlantic toward the North American coastline. A pair (at least) of smaller earthquakes off the coast of Jalisco in Mexico. Temperatures raging near or past the century mark around the globe. Wildfires devastating enormous swaths of forests and fields around the world. Floods and mudslides drowning and burying towns and villages here, there, and yon. And then there is the purely human element: politics, greed, and unchecked hunger for power, the consequences thereof be damned. All of existence leaves me somewhat disappointed this morning.

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Until this morning, I had not heard of RoseAnn V. Shawiak, nor of the poem she wrote, Intense Serenity. The two-word phrase came to mind as I contemplated what I frequently seek when I am alone, especially during the wee hours inching toward dawn. Before deciding to proclaim the phrase was mine, I searched for it online. Shawiak’s poem was not the only occurrence of the phrase. The words were used in a song title. They were used to describe a filmmaker. Artwork attached to a canvas was so named. And a natural healing business in St. George, Utah goes by that name. Regardless of its commonality with so many disparate applications, I still maintain the phrase as uniquely mine. No one else feels exactly as I feel; no other words describe the state of mind I seek to enter. Others’ uses of the words are perfectly fine; but they do not correlate with the unparalleled, perfect merger between emotion and intellect, that nearly unattainable state of supreme understanding of a single moment that comes and goes at precisely the same instant. I seek that understanding, when I am alone in the pre-dawn darkness. I attempt to capture what it means to feel and fully absorb the explosive stillness that surrounds that incredibly fleeting moment when tranquility overwhelms and encompasses…and tames…ferocity. That flash of time during which a black hole and a supernova are one and the same. It is and will always be an unsuccessful pursuit. I know that. Yet unless I continue to try to catch it and experience it, I cannot know with certainty whether it exists. I confuse myself, though, because I cannot decide whether it is a moment I am after or it is the experience within that moment. Or, perhaps, both. The phrase, by the way, is not mine in the generic sense; it is mine only in the sense of my understanding of what it may mean.

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Wretched dream! I somehow stepped out of a small room and onto the top open shelf of the kitchen of long-ago acquaintances. I carefully avoided knocking dishes and dishtowels off the shelf and attempted to step down onto the white tile countertop, but the counter kept moving just enough that I could not keep my balance without grabbing at cups and saucers next to me. My acquaintances seemed to ignore my plight, focusing their attention instead on some unknown party’s interference with scheduling a course. That is all there was to the dream, but it seemed to go on and on and on, as if it were replaying; but it was not replaying, it was simply extending itself over a very long time. Achh!

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Today is Saturday. The only thing on my calendar is “thaw something for dinner.” So much excitement. Intense serenity does not compare to that.

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Today is my late brother’s birthday. He would have turned 75 today. Soon, we will spread his ashes where he wanted them to be spread.

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Nine years ago today, I posted the following as part of my “thoughts for the day” ritual:

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

Dōgen Zenji,
13th Century Japanese Zen Buddhist Teacher/Master

Thunder! Like a series of distant explosions, their immediate bursts of sound followed by hollow echoes and low groans. I imagine thunder as the menacing snarls and growls of angry clouds, threatening to rip the firmament to shreds. If the early morning sky were not so dark, I might see the dark grey clouds as an enormous face, its arched eyebrows, pinched nose, and slightly open mouth—with bared teeth—glaring at me, poised to strike.  The forecast calls for a bit of rain this morning, followed by a sunny afternoon with a high temperature of about 90°F. Daytime highs will drop as the week progresses, with a predicted high of only 70°F on Thursday.

Ah, there goes the thunder again, this time rolling on and on and on. Rain drops have begun to hit the window panes, signaling the arrival of a bit of a squall. I love to hear evidence of weather, even though I am indoors and cannot feel the rain nor the wind nor the slight drop in temperature as the wind picks up. Something inside me gets a boost of energy from the sound. A glossy magazine sitting on my desk reflects flashes of lightning. The power of those fierce bolts of raw electricity is awe-inspiring.  Weather is a beautiful pattern of inconsistency. Wet weather, dry weather, dark weather, light weather, windy weather, calm weather, hot weather, cold weather. Riveting opposites that insist on telling us stories of beautiful smiles and hideous scowls. I cannot adequately express how I am so completely enamored of the full spectrum of weather. Ach! A powerful flash of lightning and a loud crack of thunder at almost the same time! If I had been asleep, it would have jolted me awake.

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In June 1982, British Airways Flight 009, a Boeing 747-200, experienced the failure of all four engines as its pilots unknowingly steered it into a cloud of volcanic ash from Mount Galunggung, roughly 110 miles southeast of Jakarta. I read about the incident (the plane landed safely in Jakarta after a harrowing, record-breaking glide toward the airport) as I was following links to read about the phenomenon call St. Elmo’s Fire, also called witchfire or witch’s fire. St. Elmo’s Fire is “a weather phenomenon in which luminous plasma is created by a corona discharge from a rod-like object such as a mast, spire, chimney, or animal horn.” So says Wikipedia. It is a little embarrassing to rely on Wikipedia to quickly learn the basics of almost any topic because it feels a little like reading the CliffNotes summary of War and Peace instead of reading the actual book. By the way, the flight crew of British Airways Flight 009 saw the St. Elmo’s Fire effect on the windscreen; twice, if I remember correctly.

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Suddenly, early this morning, my sleep was interrupted. Phaedra’s feet on my back jarred me awake. She ran down my leg and jumped off the bed onto the floor. I looked at the clock. It was 4:15. Pretty normal. She, too, is an early-riser. Although, that description may be misleading. She sleeps so much during the day, between burst of energy that propel her throughout the house like a ball slammed hard by a professional squash player, that she might better be described as a night-owl. Whatever she is called, she is consistent in her early morning insistence on being fed, even when her bowl has plenty of dry food. She prefers canned; filets or strips, and NOT paté. But, back to my point: she woke me from a relatively light sleep. I was about ready to get up, anyway.

Speaking of Phaedra, around 5:40 and she was yowling to be released from her temporary prison, the laundry/dining room (for her)/bedroom (for her). I had no intention of letting her out right then, because she would have run at full speed through the house, slamming against walls, swatting at her toys, leaping onto kitchen cabinets, and otherwise attempting to playfully terrorize the other occupants of the house who are not cats. I could hold out until her yowling stopped. I thought.

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With a cup of coffee in me, I was adequately fueled for a while. My brain was functioning at 23%, a full 3% greater than normal. I once reached 27%, but that lasted only a few hours after I reached my twenty-seventh birthday. Since then, I slipped back down to an average of 20%, just enough to keep me docile and out of prison.  The higher my brain functioning goes, the more dangerous I become; anyone with even a fraction of a brain knows the only acceptable use for politicians is as fertilizer for heirloom tomatoes and acts accordingly. So it’s better for the politicians, at least, to keep my brain functioning in the lower range. Otherwise…prison, you know. No, not really. I don’t think I would do anything so brutal and horrible and so completely illegal, unless I had absolutely rock-solid assurances I would not be caught and prosecuted. Dammit, Phaedra! Her yowling was getting far too loud. She would wake mi novia if she kept it up. I could not have that. I needed my early morning solitude. But Phaedra already plundered that, with her incessant howls—noisy complaints suggesting I was a monster for keeping her in a four by ten foot room with nothing but food, water, a comfortable bed, and toys to keep her content. All right! I let her out. But I warned you, didn’t I, that her energy would transform the house into a feline squash court? The warning may not have been explicit, but I assumed it was sufficient to make the point without stating it; my implicit warnings may be a little too nuanced. I’ll work on that.

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Even unrestrained by incarceration, Phaedra expresses herself with plaintive meows. She is free to wander the house, yet she complains that is not enough; she wants attention. Not the kind involving gentle petting; no, she wants to play games in which she pretends to want to be picked up but, instead, sprints away before I can accommodate what I thought was her desire for human contact. And, then, she swats at colorful little balls whose internal bells ring as they roll on the floor, with her in hot pursuit. Is this how it goes with me? All Phaedra, all the time? It’s like parents and grandparents who cannot talk about anything but their little darlings. And like pet owners who think others are as completely taken by their furry little companions as they are. Aaaarrrgghh! I could stand it! I will not become one of them! Enough about Phaedra! Let me turn my attention to something else; something more interesting and less saccharine.

I’m re-ordering the paragraphs I’ve written. Disregard any out-of-sequence comments, please.

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Today is my SIL’s birthday. A significant milestone. One I will reach shortly, as well. And it’s the birthday of a high-school acquaintance, as well. And a friend from Dallas is celebrating her birthday, too. So is a friend from church. September 8 is a popular birth date, though probably not any more popular than any other dates. I just happen to have more birthday connections today than on the average day. Tomorrow would have been my late brother’s 75th birthday. In the coming weeks, mi novia and I will join other members of my family to scatter his ashes, long after his death early last year, in a place he loved. That sad gathering will represent the closest we have had to a family reunion in a very long time. As time slips from our fingers, we begin to realize it is possible that certain events may be the last one’s we will experience together. History has proven that to be true, of course. But only after feeling the lessons of history in one’s bones do those lessons become so thoroughly personal.

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It’s a tad after 7. I could go on forever, but I won’t. Nothing I write is of any real consequence, not even to me. It is just a record of how my mind was working at a single moment in time. Everything we experience is temporary. Every single thing. Nothing lasts forever. Even the remnants of history—ancient ruins with broken columns and evidence of the art that pleased our ancestral gatherings—will disappear, in spite of our efforts to preserve them. Careers, jobs, physical or intellectual accomplishments. They all dissolve, some sooner than others. We put so much meaning into life, yet life leaves us; empty, used up, and ultimately forgotten.

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Time for me to watch dim, grey light fill the sky and to listen to thunder speak to me. Another day.

I am weary. Not so much physically tired, but mentally exhausted, as if my brain can no longer deal with a tangled mass of pressures, obligations, expectations, commitments, responsibilities, and more. Drained, like a battery left in a device whose on-off switch was left in the on position for too long. At some point, the loss of charge can be so great the battery cannot be recharged; that is the danger of failing to replenish the energy supply while there is still enough power left for recovery. Weariness does not necessarily arise from a few intense intellectually or emotionally draining engagements; a substantial—seemingly endless—number of less taxing burdens can lead to bone-deep weariness, as well. “Time away” is meant to relieve the stresses of day-to-day life by placing those strains on hold for a time, but sometimes the preparations for and execution of that withdrawal from one’s hum-drum daily life can, instead, amplify the number and intensity of the burdens. Even after the burst of those preparatory stresses diminishes, the return to the obligations of day-to-day life can rekindle the flames that made the “time away” so inviting. Returning to work from a vacation can be like stepping from a cool stream into a pot of boiling water. Today, the activities and obligations associated with day-to-day life and retirement are stand-ins for work. An extended period of days-long restorative sleep, absent the arthritic pain that accompanies waking from hours of motionless rest, could be the solution. Awakening from a medically-induced coma might erase the weariness. But every solution comes with potential problems of its own. Perfection does not exist in anything. Every aspect of existence is flawed in one way or another. Perhaps the flaws may provide the contrasts we need to appreciate experiences in which flaws are at least temporarily eliminated. “Pleasure with pain for leaven.” Or something like that.

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How long, I wonder, might it take to cure addictions to news, social media, email, text messages, telephone calls, and other forms of communication in which our brains are bombarded with data? How many days before the longing for “input” would decline enough to make its absence tolerable? How much longer before that craving to completely disappear? That appetite for data probably contributes to mental weariness; more likely, satisfying that appetite probably exacerbates fatigue and exhaustion.

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Lonesome. Lonesome. I know what it means. Here all by my lonesome, dreaming empty dreams. Weary. Weary at the close of day, wondering if tomorrow brings me joy or sorrow.

~ Leon Redbone ~

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When I woke this morning, I had planned to join a group of men from church for our regular Thursday morning breakfast. But almost immediately upon waking, my intent weakened. I am not sure, now, whether I will go or not. I am leaning toward staying home. I stayed home all day yesterday. Today, though, I may stay home and practice intentional relaxation. Not meditation, necessarily, but simple rest. Enjoyable conversation, avoiding the troublesome news that floods the airways, and pleasant engagement. That would be nice. Smiles. Laughter. Nothing hard or taxing or bitter or otherwise stressful.  Wishful thinking.

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I’ll see what the day brings.