John Swinburn

Presented with an unlabeled globe or map of the world, what percentage of Americans would be able to correctly pinpoint more than fifty percent of the following locations: Somalia; Cameroon; Burkina Faso; Sudan; Chad; Democratic Republic of Congo; Gabon; Rwanda; Djibouti; Malawi; Liberia? Though I consider myself modestly knowledgeable about world geography and world events, I doubt I would be able to correctly place any of them. I might correctly point to the general area where several of them are located…but, then again, I might not.

Television and newspaper reports about Kinshasa are not rare, but I am not sure I could point to it on a map. Could I identify the country of which it is the capital? Could I recite any information about it? Until I saw the information online this morning, would I have had even an inkling that the city—the capital of the DRC—is the third largest city in Africa, behind Cairo and Lagos? Would I have been able to correctly guess the city’s population is between 13 and 15 million? I am embarrassed to say my knowledge of world geography and world affairs is sorely lacking. And I doubt I am in the minority. Whether I am conscious of it or not, I suspect my attitude toward most of the world is one of only mild curiosity, rather than intense interest. Unless I sense an immediate and significant impact on my interests or on the interests of governments that might have an impact on my interests, I probably pay scant attention to the world around me. Though I am troubled by Americans’ ignorance of world affairs and even world geography, I tend to identify “Americans” in that context as those others who do not measure up to my high standards. But if I look in the mirror, I see myself buried in the middle of that enormous, ignorant mass. If I am going to be hard on my fellow citizens for their inexcusable ignorance, I must be at least as hard on myself. My next question to myself: will I do anything to correct that embarrassing failing?

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One’s deficiencies change during the course of one’s maturation. Some respond well to curative efforts. Some solidify into a permanent state of modest imperfection. Still others worsen, blooming into extraordinary flaws, as if propagated from long-dormant seeds suddenly exposed to water, super-nutrients, and sunlight. Regardless of their origins or their evolutions, and no matter how we try, we cannot eliminate all of our faults. Some will die natural deaths, but many more will take root, defining who we are. Those that linger tend to establish themselves like tattoos…or scars burned into our personalities like brands on cattle.

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Who reads the blather I produce every day? I know a few friends and family members have trained themselves to wade through my voluminous ramblings—out of love, I suspect, rather than real interest. Rarely do I know their true reactions to my unnecessary outpourings, though. Perhaps it is best I do not know. And perhaps it’s best I do not know who follows what I write. And how few do. I have always said people should avoid unnecessary immersion in vats of hydrochloric acid. Yes, I’ve always said that. Over and over and over again. It’s a mantra. But, still, I keep fiddling with the plugs on those vats, trying to pry them open with screwdrivers or crowbars or to puncture them with sharpened metal stakes. This recurrent theme of fearful curiosity is tiresome.

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Finally, after delaying twice or three times my regular routine of getting my teeth cleaned, I have an appointment today just before noon. A new hygienist will perform the work because the one I’ve gone to for years either retired or quit or otherwise left her position. I’ll miss her pitter-patter, with which she revealed all sorts of things about her family, her likes and dislikes, her history, her health, and her relationship with her husband and college-aged son.

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Somehow, the clock tells me it is nearing 7:30, more than two hours since I got up this morning. I’ve had only one cup of coffee thus far. The rest of the time has been spent reading and writing. Those two activities make time seem like it is passing at supersonic speed. Onward to the remainder of the day.

Yesterday’s long periods involving very heavy rain have stretched into a new day. Brilliant blue skies look at me through a trio of large windows. The monitor of my new computer, a  27-inch beast, blocks part of the view, but I can see the outside world just fine if I tilt my body the left and lower my head and neck just right. Options like that are abundant in my life. I have the remarkable good fortune of being able to select from multiple choices, in crafting my experience, from moment to moment. Millions, and perhaps billions, of people do not live with the luxuries and the choices available to me. Though I did not personally, deliberately, or willingly ensure the deprivation of those millions or billions, I feel more than a tinge of guilt. What did I do to deserve my unnecessary mental and physical comfort? Why do I merit freedom from the horrors that I could have faced? Pure luck. Unearned good fortune. A shameless willingness to accept comforts, even with the knowledge that my comfort may contrast with their starvation; their agony; their ceaseless, overwhelming challenges?

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I read an article this morning about hypnic jerks. I knew of hypnic jerks thanks to a piece I heard, several years ago, on National Pubic Radio (NPR). My late wife and I were travelling toward Houston on I-45 when the term was mentioned on the car radio. The program may have broadcast a snippet from a TED Talk; I used to listen to what memory tells me was called the TED Radio Hour. At any rate, I remember hearing a discussion of hypnic jerks, a phenomenon about which I was intimately familiar, but for which I had no term to describe. Hearing that program, though, gave me a term for the phenomenon I knew quite well from personal experience. A search of my blog posts this morning revealed that I have used the term in two posts; this post makes three. The piece I read this morning, on CNN.com, used another term, as well: sleep starts. Whatever one calls them, they are sudden, jerky motions of parts of one’s body that may take place as a person is falling asleep; the motions can be strong enough to rouse a person from the process of falling asleep.

Odd, methinks, that an experience from at least ten or fifteen years ago—one that lasted no more than a few minutes—has somehow been imprinted in my brain. The brain’s ability to either recall or recreate such insignificant memories amazes me. I was in a conversation yesterday during which we both marveled at the mind’s ability to both create mental experiences and to recall their substance in the form of dreams. Do all our dreams already exist—hyper-condensed into tiny fragments of highly-specialized nerve impulses—or do we actually manufacture them on the fly during sleep? If the latter, how does our brain create artificial experiences that include such remarkably intricate details? There are various scientific explanations for dreams (and for hypnic jerks); but regardless of reliable scientific descriptions of such processes, I laud and applaud the magic inherent in science. Awe. Wonder. Amazement. When I ponder about the incredible capabilities of the human brain, I experience those emotions…assuming they are emotions, and not just the visual representations of emotions. If not the actual emotions, though, what are they? Another thing to ponder.

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Time to scramble; get dressed and drive to my Thursday morning coffee with a clot of geezers like me.

On occasion, thin slices of almost-lost memories struggle to the surface of consciousness. When that occurs, the mind sometimes attempts to resurrect those forgotten moments. Most of those long-abandoned recollections quickly fade. But some of them, after they spring up, remain embedded in the conscious part of the brain, as if insisting on issuing reminders of circumstances from which we should have learned lessons. In those cases, the natural response is to mine the memories for messages. The brain is not satisfied with sudden, unexplained recall. So it keeps scraping at veins that might lead to answers. But it is not uncommon for the mining operation to yield no valuable ore. So the brain compensates by manufacturing experiences—creating memories where none exist. Artificial images depicting events and experiences that existed only in the recesses of mind. Those images might be realistic—though not real—or they may be obviously embellished counterfeits. In either case, they arise not from true reality but from a false reality that has no basis in the physical or the spiritual world.  Recognizing the fact that the mind can conjure “memories” that have no basis in fact, one tends to become skeptical about one’s own thought processes—mistrustful of almost every memory, even vivid ones. If one is not careful, that mistrust might lead to an assumption that every memory, real or imagined, is fictitious, suggesting that one’s very existence is only a figment of a disembodied imagination. Odd, that.

Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.

~ Paul Tournier ~

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I sometimes feel inexplicably uncomfortable with telephone conversations (yet is that feeling truly inexplicable?). Regardless, there is no doubt in my mind that written communications—especially email and text interactions—fail to deliver emotional content and context as accurately as does voice. Though face-to-face engagement is superior in its capacity for nuance, dialogue by telephone outshines the written word in terms of personal exchange.  Tone, speed of delivery, meaningful/ informational pauses, and the volume of one’s voice cannot be adequately communicated in written form. Only through engagements between mouth, ears, and eyes can intended meaning be conveyed with reasonable precision. But in the absence of visible evidence of their emotional framework, words uttered during telephone conversations far surpass written exchanges. So, despite my distaste for communicating by telephone, I much prefer it to text or email when I desire or need to more fully understand the emotional underpinnings of personal exchange. When presented with a choice, though, I usually will opt for speaking in person than for either talking on the telephone or writing.

Except, of course, when I need the distance and privacy afforded by thinking through my fingers. I am, at my core, a rather private person whose fragile self-confidence is always at risk in face-to-face interactions. Consequently, I can better express myself through a keyboard than with my voice. I am talking to myself, though. Maybe I should simply speak, aloud, I could save my eyes and brain the effort of transferring thoughts to my fingers. I could then read what I had to say without the additional steps.

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At last count, the death toll from the monstrous earthquake that struck Syria and Turkey (now properly known as Türkiye) exceeds eleven thousand. That number, in the context of attempting to understand the impact of the disaster, is hard to comprehend. Envisioning eleven thousand bodies is far more chilling and upsetting than imagining the number of buildings that collapsed into rubble as a result of the earthquake and its many aftershocks. Nearly six thousand buildings were leveled in Türkiye, alone. The numbers are staggering. But while news of the cataclysmic event and its aftermath is shocking, the jolt for people not directly impacted by the catastrophe is temporary. Shooting down a Chinese weather/spy/civilian research balloon in our own corner of the world commands more long-lasting attention. So does the President’s State of the Union speech. As does the uncivil behavior of members of Congress in their reactions to that speech. And, of course, as do the Russian war against Ukraine and the unfolding understanding of how many police officers and other first-responders were involved in the beating and ultimate death of Tyre Nichols.

So much bad news. No wonder I had a strong urge to stay in bed and go back to sleep this morning. But hiding from world events is no solution to the problems confronting humankind. Though most of us can do very little to ameliorate the horrors that confront us and the planet on which we live, we can do something. We can donate, financially, to efforts to respond to the needs of people affected by the earthquake. We can collectively demand police reform, in an effort to minimize or eliminate police brutality. We can offer moral and financial and political support to the people of Ukraine in their fight for victory against their Russian oppressors. We can write to members of Congress to express dismay at their immaturity and their unwillingness to compromise to do the work voters sent them to do. And we can seek out and celebrate “good news” that reinforces our capacity to do good, even in the dismal face of  human and natural disasters. Maintaining a positive outlook is very, very hard. But if we do not try, we will let ourselves down. And we will condemn future generations to undeserved physical and emotional hardships. The choice is ours to make. Individually.

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Moderately heavy rain has been falling for hours. Though I suspect it stopped during the night last night, it began falling while we were watching the first four episodes of The Chestnut Man., a grisly Danish crime mini-series. We did not know it was raining while watching the program, but a cool, bleak, rain-drenched night is an appropriate context for such a program. Drizzle and fog, beneath thick clouds, lend themselves to dark moods and deeply introspective journeys. The dull, pale grey sky announced daybreak quite some time ago, but the early morning brightening stopped before the trees in the forest became clearly visible. Trees in my line of vision are muted, jagged lines of dark greys and browns, hiding behind a curtain of air too humid to retain even one more drop of moisture. I have mixed feelings about such scenes. On one hand, they are conducive to introspective pathways. On the other, they look too much like grim and grisly settings in Danish woods to permit comfort; they sneer at me and dare me to venture into the forest. I will not do it. Not yet, anyway.

Squirrels’ movements are rapid and abrupt. The ways in which their bodies move—with an on-again, off-again jerkiness—suggest a staccato, high-speed replay of stop action video. When the creatures display their odd—but altogether natural—behavior, I sense they may be on high-dose methamphetamines. Perhaps acorns and pine nuts, two of their favorites foods, are flush with the ingredients of illicit drugs. Or, maybe they belong to a large society of addicted animals whose dealers regularly supply them with hallucinogenic substances. That society of addicts apparently includes very small birds, like sparrows and Carolina wrens. They are among numerous types of birds whose motions mimic squirrels’ frenetic, quivering energy.

If a squirrel—or a bird—were writing about its observations of humans, the description might offer the possibility that people tend to be slow, lethargic, and deliberate. They could suggest that humans behave as if they had consumed large quantities of narcotics; opium, heroin, codeine, oxycontin.

I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.

~ Socrates ~

It may not be merely a matter of perspective. It could be a matter of platform, as well. While different species share many similarities, their differences overwhelm their commonalities. Most humans seem to firmly believe in our superior intellects; people rule from far atop the animal kingdom, we think. But our perspective of perceived superiority may be an outgrowth of our cerebral blindness to what constitutes thought and deliberate actions. While we tend to assume instinct explains animal behaviors, we simply may be intellectually unable to comprehend extraordinary complexities that may underlie them. Perhaps the equivalent of deliberate “thoughts” take place in the brains of squirrels and birds and speckled trout. Or maybe our limited mental capacity precludes us from understanding that “thoughts” are not necessarily the sole province of brains. The tissues surrounding bones and joints and organs in the bodies of members of the other elements of the animal kingdom may function in ways reminiscent of the roles of the human brain. And, for that matter, members of the plant kingdom—skilled practitioners of photosynthesis—may be far more intellectually sophisticated than humans can ever hope to be. Humans’ slow, dull, severely limited capacity to truly understand natural magic quite possibly limits our attainment of parity with other animals and with plants. While we view ourselves as the highest level masters of the universe, the creatures with whom we share the space may well consider us malicious, troublesome parasites.

To be forgotten, is to die a little.

~ Aung San Suu Kyi ~

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Today is special in ways only the remembered know. The forgotten struggle to crawl out of an urn that matters to no one. Tomorrow, though, may be bathed in the embrace of memories.

Desire is an interesting emotion. Desire seems to be dramatically more forceful than mere want. Yet desire is less powerful than need.  Or is it? Are the two inextricably combined? Desire may not be articulated openly; unlike need, desire often is expressed through hints. Want or need usually is either obvious or readily identified and broadcast to an audience that might meet the want. Desire, though, may be deniably implied, as if overt expression might be dangerous or, worse, viewed as unwelcome or inappropriate. If the object of desire does not possess a reciprocal emotion, it is either inanimate or unattainable. Philosophies and hypotheticals. The eternal “what-ifs” toy with the mind.

Among the reasons the relationship between desire and need is on my mind was last night’s viewing of a bit more of the series, The Crown. I saw desire and need—both expressed and implied. Watching the program, I sensed the characters’ emotional desires in some contexts and their psychological needs in others. And, sometimes, both emotions competed within the same context. The flames of desire can be quenched through rejection, while needs are not vulnerable to extinguishment  until they are met.  I think my cryptic consideration of this matter is far too esoteric to be understood by most people who might come across this post; so, I shall abandon my meandering ponderings for the moment.

Love is simply the name for the desire and the pursuit of the whole.

~ Aristophanes ~

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Arguments could be made that the Colorado State University students—who chanted “Russia” toward a Ukrainian junior guard for Utah State during a game day before yesterday in Fort Collins, Colorado—are simply immature. Some might argue that a strong reprimand might teach the students a lesson. Is it possible, though, to teach basic human decency to people who have reached college age? If it is, would a strong reprimand accomplish the objective? I doubt it. Compassion arises from emotional connections with others; repeatedly putting oneself in another’s shoes solidifies those connections. The people who chanted “Russia” as the Ukrainian student went to the free throw line obviously did not put themselves in his shoes. In my view, a reprimand—no matter its strength—is unlikely to imbue them with compassion. While the kids are not irredeemable, their behavior has demonstrated their appalling cruelty and malicious spitefulness. That level of malevolence merits more than a reprimand. If the chanters can be identified, I would be in favor of a three-pronged response: 1) nullifying any college credits they may have earned to date; 2) requiring a full semester of sensitivity training, ending with a pass-fail exam that measures emotional and psychological fitness to participate in society; and 3) subjecting them to public shaming and ridicule. Perhaps that reaction is too severe. Perhaps the response would be viewed as vengeance, rather than correction. So be it. Flagrant cruelty, demonstrating the lack of compassion, makes my blood boil and causes my own compassion to dissolve into a mist of rage and retribution. If I were to reveal how I really feel about the students who taunted the Ukrainian basketball player, I would write about how I feel they deserve public flogging and torturous imprisonment. Hypocritical thinking erupts in me when a desire for retaliation replaces compassion. I am glad I took my blood pressure this morning before reading about the game night incident.

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My wish for quiet solitude and my hope for peaceful enjoyment of this early morning has gone to hell. I recognize my hypocrisy in wanting peace, on one hand, and retributive justice, on the other. I understand the disconnect between my worship of compassion and my embrace of mercilessness. Intellectually, I can view my attitudes and my behaviors from the perspective of detachment and impartial assessment. But emotionally, flames of rage and almost uncontrollable anger almost consume me. And the white heat of those emotions threatens to overwhelm my feelings of compassion. No, it is far beyond a threat; I have absolutely no compassion for people who demonstrate an utter lack of compassion. In some circumstances, compassion necessarily requires forgiveness. When I find myself unwilling or unable to forgive, I realize I have deconstructed the passion of compassion. It is then I allow punishment and/or revenge to become more desirable than redemption. And, then, I wonder whether I am truly compassionate or I am simply playing along, masking my true self—showing my similarities to those bastards who taunted the Ukrainian player.

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I had a dream last night in which I was attempting to make a phone call to my mother. I was given a desk phone that would reach her number, regardless of which of several area code prefixes I used. In the same dream, I think, I walked into a Home Depot to buy something, but realized after I entered that I had in my pockets some unopened items I had bought at another Home Depot; but no receipts. I worried that I might be accused of attempting to shoplift those items in my pocket. There was more, of course. But the rest, as blurry as it is, seemed to be just as meaningless and troubling. No matter how certain I am, at times, that dreams have no intrinsic “meaning,” I often wonder whether they convey messages I simply am not sufficiently intelligent to understand.

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Today, I have a follow-up visit with my primary care doctor’s APN, who will make a determination as to how well I am doing in my efforts to control what was diagnosed as Type 2 diabetes. I think I am doing a bang-up job of it, the proof of which is my ongoing deprivation of foods I crave. And, of course, my blood glucose numbers. But my assessment is based on a two-dimensional understanding of the affliction. Hers is more comprehensive; it is a three-dimensional understanding based on far greater knowledge of the body’s intricacies than I will ever have. We shall see.

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Speaking of food, I feel famished, despite the fact that we had a very nice meal last night, consisting of a petite filet mignon and a nice salad for each of us.  Dinner would have been even better if a nice glass of malbec or sauvignon blanc had accompanied it. Instead, we drank water with our meals. My pride in eating sensibly is eclipsed by my wish that I could eat and drink anything I desire, without worry that the food could damage my health. Yet I cling to that eclipsed pride, a consolation prize that must be allowed to stand in for the unavailable gastronomic trophy.

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And, now, I’m off to conquer the day.

A few years ago, while dabbling in reality, my mind ricocheted between darkness and whimsy at lightning speed. In a post entitled, Hiding Behind Rainbows with a Machete in Hand, the dichotomy was glaringly evident. Bouncing between delight and desperation in that post was deliberate, but it may have been symptomatic of a touch of creative madness, too. Creativity, though, can hide behind incompetence. I know this from personal experience. Lackluster creativity is simply a failed effort at expressing one’s ingenuity in the absence of…one’s ingenuity. When one’s mind is in a state of maladroit dullness, even the most intense effort at creativity is destined to struggle and, ultimately, fall flat. Attempts at cleverness become sad expressions of ineptitude. In such situations, even self-deprecating humor trips over itself, leaving one’s knees and ego bruised and bloody. Depending on the force of the knees’ collision with rock-bottom, one’s kneecaps and sense of self-worth can shatter into a dozen irreparable pieces. An example of near-slapstick “wit” from the “Hiding…Rainbows” post, pretending to be humor, tells the tale:

“…some of the characters in my head tend to be so dark that I have to leave them alone and lock them away for a time while I visit with unicorns, leprechauns, and English-speaking bulldogs.”

I blame sleeping late, among other things, for the dive into the uninspired and unimaginative. The ugly cesspool of improperly processed ideas backs up into one’s brain and then seeps down into the hands—the evidence of which is found in tepid thoughts delivered through crippled fingers.

Pure, pre-dawn darkness, the kind one experiences after arising before 5:30 in the morning, frequently washes away the dullness of creativity that has been imprisoned inside one’s head. Somehow, solitude and the absence of sunlight combine, becoming cleansing and restorative. But sleeping late robs one of that restoration, replacing it with creative channels clogged with hideously common dullness. Even if I have to go to bed at 8 o’clock, I will, by God, retrieve at least a smidgen of my oft-restored (but subsequently ruined) creativity. Maybe.

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Yesterday was a full day. We attended a symposium about the Elaine, Arkansas massacre (and land-theft) of 1919. The murderous event left hundreds of Black men, women, and children dead. As part of the symposium, a documentary about the event, entitled We Have Just Begun, was shown. The entire program was interesting and thought-provoking.

Then, last night, we attended a Chinese New Year celebration at church. Food was catered by a local Chinese restaurant. I learned, as I was serving myself food, that almost all the food on the buffet line included enormous amounts of sugar and all manner of carbohydrates, both of which I should consume in very small amounts. Even though I tried to be judicious by selecting mostly vegetables, I ate a lot of the two “enemies” of my body. My blood glucose number this morning, while not horrible, was still higher than I wished.  Regardless, I enjoyed sitting and visiting with friends. One of these days, I will throw caution to the wind and will eat food with abandon and have wine or a cocktail or two. But that will be a long time coming. I have avoided alcohol since the last week in July; more than six months. I intend to rely on the same discipline to continue eating a healthy diet. Yet all work and no play makes John a cranky old man, so I will take care to avoid chronic crankiness.

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Mi novia and I have been tapped to say a few words while lighting the chalice at the beginning of this morning’s service at church. Time to shave, shower, and read through the chalice-lighting message. And, so, I will stop this effort to squeeze creativity out of a dull, rough rock.

The last several days, during which meteorologists and local “authorities” urged people to stay home in response to an expected series of ice storms, failed to meet expectations. Though there was some freezing rain, some sleet, and a touch of snow, the warnings about widespread black ice failed to accurately predict real-world experience. I am not complaining about the absence of fierce winter weather. But I wish I had not felt compelled to remain locked away in the house in anticipation of a potentially cataclysmic event that never came. I do not know what I might have done, had I ventured out, but I know I would have enjoyed the freedom more than I enjoyed the captivity. Yet I did venture out, if only a little. I went to the grocery store. I drove around the Village a bit. I walked outside in the absence of precipitation when arborists removed a large tree and felled a few dead ones. But I did not venture far; when I did, not for long. I think the knowledge that I should stay inside when I want to go out and about is enough to drive me stir-crazy. It’s the sense of being denied something; the denial makes it that much more attractive.

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Documentarians probably do not embark on projects with the idea that their efforts will disclose the “truth” about events. Instead, I would argue that their projects are conceived as efforts to uncover and chronicle facts that support the filmmakers’ perspectives on the events about which their films are made. I recognize my viewpoint represents a generalization; I am sure my characterization of documentarians does not necessarily apply to all of them. But I would bet I am right. And, if I am right, documentarians are not simply historians who practice their trade on film; rather, they are activists who market their points of view by sculpting the manner in which history is revealed. While my attitude may seem  harshly judgmental, it is not necessarily so. It is simply an observation, colored by what I would call a logical assessment of motive. I do not fault documentarians for having opinions and for expressing their opinions—their beliefs—in the way they present facts. But I would caution consumers of the work of documentarians to be cautious in accepting as gospel the meaning of those facts as presented. Because facts can support radically different perspectives, depending on the manner in which they are “slanted.” I would issue that caution regardless of the extent to which I either agree or disagree with documentarians’ interpretation of facts. Put simply, caveat emptor.

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I can feel depression, but I cannot describe what it feels like. I just sense it. It soaks into me. Not like water; more like syrup. It slows my ability to think. Nothing is appealing or exciting. And I want to retreat into an impenetrable shell. But there are breaks in it. Like when I feel trapped inside because of the weather; I want out, then. But I wonder whether that is yet another symptom. It doesn’t matter, really. I don’t care. Until I look back on that sense of soaking in syrup and realize I do not want to go through it again. It will return, though, as it always does. And so does the appeal of leaving it behind when it slips back under its rocks. Ach! I write about depression as if I know that’s what I experience. It does not look or feel exactly like what I read about it. But I do not know what else it might be. It’s not especially frequent, nor is it terribly deep. It is annoying, though, in hindsight. Whatever it is.

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It is well beyond time for breakfast. And I still need to shave and shower and get dressed. Get a move on, sir. Leave this keyboard and venture into the real world.

When one writes as regularly as I do, he tends to reveal secrets about himself without overtly admitting to them. He wants to express himself honestly and openly, but to do so might mimic lighting a match in a room full of hydrogen gas. But it is a small room; one that probably will accommodate no more than four people. A catastrophic explosion that only the people in the shattered room can hear or see or feel. So, to avoid the tiny cataclysmic event, he never reveals all his secrets to the world. He keeps them hidden, but he may drop hints in private settings; those settings may be real or fictional, depending on his mood and the extent to which he believes a secret might make its way to the intended ear. It’s all very complex and confusing. But ask me and I may explain it to you. Only on the condition of absolute privacy and confidentiality, mind you.

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Much, perhaps most, of the ice that coated tree branches and pine needles has either melted or fallen to the ground. For a while, the forest appeared otherworldly, the icy coating on the trees looking like an imaginary winter wonderland from storybooks. I still see a few patches here and there, but the sight is not like yesterday, when the forest glistened. What was once an extraordinary, almost magical, visual experience is now almost drab in its ordinariness. Odd, that. The forest was beautiful before being coated with ice; yet, in the aftermath of that coating, its beauty seems to have departed. It’s all a matter of comparisons and context. Someone might consider my appearance acceptable in the absence of comparisons, but when standing next to Brad Pitt, that acceptability might transform into grotesqueness. I refer to that sort of situation as comparing apples to alligators.

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Spain and Morocco are only about nine miles apart at the closest point. Europe and Africa almost touch one another at the Strait of Gibraltar. Spain claims sovereignty over the enclaves Ceuta and Melilla, which are located on territory that, on a map, looks like Morocco. The political and economic ramifications of the tensions and the trade between Spain and Morocco are fascinating. And those relationships influence other relationships, like Spain’s trade relationship with Algeria. Algeria’s trade with Italy seems to be improving as an indirect result of Algeria’s displeasure with Spain’s evolving relationship with Morocco. Geopolitical intrigue is real. The reason political thrillers often are so riveting, I think, is that their premises seem based in realistic potential. But I do not know enough about such stuff to write about it and I am not prepared to invest the time and energy to learn.

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When misfortune of consequence befalls a person, predictable offers of support and assistance follow: “If there is anything I can do—anything at all—just let me know.” Some of those overtures are genuine. I suspect more of them, though, are automatic responses that have been trained into the person making the offer. And that person does not expect to be asked to make good on his expression of compassion. It is unfortunate that “good manners” in such circumstances seem to require such insincere offers. Life would be simpler—and navigating hard times would be more manageable—if declarations of support were made only when they were valid; with no contingencies.

But maybe I am too skeptical. Maybe the overtures are, by and large, genuine. Perhaps the reason they seem hollow is that the person needing support is hesitant to ask for it. Maybe he fears the offer is just window-dressing; a vacant attempt to show empathy, sympathy, kindness. If that were the case, the failure to follow-up on the offer might illustrate another form of automatic response; a person trained by experience to assume the compassion is artificial.

I do not know why this unpleasantness is on my mind this morning. It is not in response to a specific event or experience, at least as far as my consciousness reveals to me. It just popped into my head and refused to leave until I documented its presence. Though I have done that, it still refuses to leave.

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I learned from my late sister’s example to make offers of assistance only when fully committed to following through on them. When I say “anything,” that includes driving a person to Baton Rouge or cleaning her oven or doing grocery shopping or showing up at three in the morning with money to make his bail. Given my sense of obligation to follow through on commitments, I tend to be judicious in making them. Sometimes, when following through on a commitment is extremely inconvenient, I wish I had not made it. But then I feel guilty for allowing my inconvenience to make me regret making the commitment. Catch-22 again.

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The computer continues to rebel against me. Though I woke at 4:45, I have been unable to finish this post because the computer either drops the WiFi signal or freezes as if its primal secret is about to be revealed. I have to stop. Otherwise, the machine will drive me mad and I will burst into a million stars, each of which contains fragments of me. And you.

The human brain is incredible. Somewhere among the multiple layers of tissue and discrete clusters of specialty cells are answers to every question ever asked and more that have yet to be posed. The brain is an intricate, elaborate, impossibly complex factory where magic takes place. It is the equivalent to a piece of meat; but one in which there exists an impossibly large storage cavern where all knowledge, thought, experience, and memory resides.  Despite the fact that large bands of my memory have hidden themselves behind opaque walls in my head, I am confident the memories remain. Occasionally, a long-hidden recollection will free itself of the cables that lash it down to forgotten thoughts and experiences. That snippet of memory, though a surprise, is evidence that everything I have ever experienced has been recorded in some fashion. Perhaps, though, the processes that recorded experiences did not begin to fully function until I reached a certain young age. Maybe that is why I do not recall emerging from my mother’s womb, Perhaps that explains the fact that I do not remember the trip home from the hospital where I was born.

The brain consists of 60% fat. The remaining 40% consists of water, protein, carbohydrates, and salts. The organ contains blood vessels and nerves, including neurons and glial cells. Glial cells provide physical and chemical support to neurons. Some people refer to glial cells as the glue of the nervous system, the matter that holds it all together.  More important than the brain’s makeup is the vast array of its functions. And as important as its role in breathing, blood flow, and hundreds of other functions vital to life, its magical ability to record actions, images, odors, and emotions, among other aspects of the life experience is what captivates me. I am convinced that, with the right prompts, my brain could reproduce for me that “aha!” moment when I understood the concept of translating precisely-ordered letters of the alphabet into words. And words into sentences. And sentences into ideas. And ideas into understanding. I would like to know how the brain processes vision so that, when looking at a two-dimensional image of a cheetah, I know what that image is supposed to represent and I know something about the feline’s ability to run fast and about its carnivorous habits and diet and about the strength of its jaws and its claws. Magic. The impossible or utterly illogical taking place in a reality not designed to translate illusion into the mundane.  Hmm. I cannot keep trying to understand all this, lest my head explode. Not this morning, anyway.

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Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to explore thoughts and wishes and dreams. Twenty minutes to search for that illusive understanding, that knowledge that produces satisfaction. Twenty minutes to express emotions previously shielded from the wider world. Twenty minutes to overcome inhibitions forced into one’s psyche by a culture that disapproves of the ability to experience unfettered emotional freedom. Twenty minutes of unrestrained openness. Ecstasy that transcends the intellectual or emotional or physical, melding all three into a pulsating sphere of energy and light. Just twenty minutes dedicated to exploring reality, unencumbered by petty constraints imposed by rules, judgments, or fear. Completely blocking external influence or observation for twenty minutes could yield experience and understanding far beyond that tiny investment of time. Meditation. Daydreaming. Exploration. A covert, invisible, parallel universe that cannot be shared more widely; it is a secret, an everlasting private mystery.

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The weather forecasters were wrong. I doubt the streets are as treacherous as they predicted. I do not see thick coatings of ice on the street. I see no evidence that a monstrous ice storm swept through the Village overnight, holding us captive for the duration of the thaw. But what I see is hyper-local. Maybe I am unaware of massive sheets of slick ice that make travel an exercise in insanity. Perhaps the danger is hidden from me; intentionally protecting me from an overactive imagination. Or maybe not. Maybe it was all a big buildup to a complete dud. I do not know. But one day I will know. And, then, I will be glad I know.

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The coffee cup is long since empty. I must go now. I must find a way to replace the dark, dark liquid that coaxed me into thinking thoughts that make me seem thoroughly out of my mind. Experiencing early morning madness is a good way to entertain oneself. I know this first hand.

As I try to think cogent thoughts this morning, I encounter obstacles. Nothing is pertinent. Nothing is believable or relevant. Everything is imaginary. All of the customs of the culture are artificial. Jobs, social institutions like religions and governments—even families that once formed the core of modern home life—are the results of deceit, trickery, and and bald-faced lies. Packaged, of course, in such a way as to permanently hide their origins and the fundamental purposes to which they are being put. If all existence is simply a joke, though, who or what told it? We can’t blame God, because the tale was told even before the idea of God was born.

While the preceding paragraph was written for the sole purpose of asserting ideas contrary to what little we know about reality, arguments could be made for the rectitude of its content. And arguments against. And dismissive waves of the hands, as if to say, “I can’t be bothered by such meaningless drivel.” That’s the way my hands talk. Abrupt and insensitive. Downright rude and offensive, I’d say.  This is what happens when one’s mind is as close to a piece of damp cardboard as possible. One cannot think when one’s mind is buried under a foot of silt, muck, and disillusionment.

The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.

~ Plato ~

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Why is it, I sometimes wonder, that twenty-first century readers and writers…and others, I suppose…regularly quote Plato, his teacher (Socrates), and his student (Aristotle)? Is it because their wisdom transcends time? Or is it because they reportedly made wise statements that correspond to today’s wisdom? Or, perhaps, another reason? Regardless of the reasons, I admire their perspectives on humanity and the world in which they lived. Their words reveal ancient wisdom. Modern understanding echoes their expressions. Centuries after they first wrote or spoke about the concepts in their Greek language, we earnestly embrace the English translations.

Based on my limited knowledge of Socrates and Plato and Aristotle (and others), I believe they must have been, intellectually, quite sophisticated. Many of their ideas remain complex even today. Politically and philosophically, (and mathematically, it seems), Plato and his crowd were refined. Plato was born more than four hundred years before a well-known religious philosopher is said to have spent time in and around Bethlehem. The descriptive information to which I have been exposed suggests Jesus lived in a much more primitive environment than did Plato. Or is that perception a product of my imagination? It might be interesting to see a head-to-head comparison between those two environments; graphic form might be more impactful.

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I surrender. For now, at least. I admit defeat. I fell in defeat to a weak enemy. Who is, for now, me. Battling oneself for supremacy is guaranteed to lead to an unsatisfactory outcome. Yet we do it every day. Or, I should say, I seem to position myself at odds with myself when both of us are equally powerless. It’s like punching at an empty, wet piñata that’s just out of reach—it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing inside but paper towels soaked in water.

Perhaps the day will improve with age. Or maybe I will.

Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~ Dylan Thomas ~

For a while after I awoke at around 4 this morning, and for several minutes after I swallowed numerous medications prescribed to keep me either alive or comfortable, I felt proud of myself. My weight continues to drift downward, a direction I value. But, then, I discovered my blood sugar was higher than it was yesterday. I cannot imagine it was because of what I ate…but maybe it was. This new lifestyle of restricted consumption and regular exercise has not yet become second nature to me. It must. Or else I will need to find a source of powerful painkillers to consume when my decline reaches the critical point of no return. I prefer for the routine to become second nature. I will rage against the dying of the light.

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I miss one-on-one philosophical conversations with like-minded individuals; a close friend, for example. Debates between people who espouse opposing points of view are fine, as they tend to sharpen one’s wits. But the presence or absence of mutually supportive dialogues can be the difference between happiness and depression. Perhaps philosophy has little to do with it, though; maybe it’s all about feeling safe and loved. And, maybe, it’s the unique sense of connection that is possible only between two individuals; threesomes or more may seriously dilute the sense of emotional bonding.

Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.

~ Jonathan Swift ~

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A couple of years ago, an acquaintance offered the following observation to me: …diversity becomes easier with age, especially if one is well educated, retired, white, and not in need of food stamps. I have wrestled with that statement ever since, wondering whether “diversity” is code for “tolerance.” And I have wondered, instead, whether “diversity” might be a synonym for “a sense of superiority?” Does the statement suggest that diversity or tolerance or a sense of superiority are luxuries available only to well educated, retired, white, financially comfortable people getting along in age?” When I force myself to think deeply about such matters, I believe I can see the same images as those seen through the eyes of people on the far-right fringes of political and social conservatism. And through the eyes of African Americans who view their white “allies” who pat themselves on the back for their paternal “defense” of people of color.

Conflicts between warnings issued by the National Weather Service in text form differ significantly from predictions displayed on interactive weather maps. While Hot Springs Village is located in an area for which the maps identify as within an “ice storm warning” area, the animation on the maps forecasts sleet and/or freezing rain south and east of he Village, but not in or immediately adjacent to the Village itself. Because it’s still relatively early—not yet 6:30 as I write this—it’s too dark outside for me to see whether last night’s precipitation clings to the environment surrounding me. I will have to wait until dawn to illuminate the world around me. Until then, I can only guess what I will see through the windows in my study.

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Ridding oneself of the tendency to make snap judgments about people requires commitment and practice. The propensity to categorize or classify another on the basis of a single observation or interaction is a hard habit to break. Yet, if one allows oneself even a moment to wonder why another person behaves in a certain way, that bad habit begins to weaken.

Seldom is a person’s one-off behavior reliably indicative of his core personality. More often, that behavior is triggered by exposure to an external stimulus. His core personality may be especially susceptible to exhibiting out-of-character behaviors when exposed to environmental triggers. But most of the time he is apt to be even-tempered and generally pleasant.  That explanation notwithstanding, exposure to a single instance of such out-of-character behavior often has the effect of negatively labeling the actor. That effect can interfere with a desire to understand a person at her core. Instead, offensive behavior or troubling words can provide the opportunity to justify one’s condemnation of the “guilty” party.

This little detour responds to my penchant for becoming witness and judge after observing certain behaviors. I ask myself why, if I do not like that component of my personality, I nourish it? For as long as I remember, I have believed people should be given at least one second chance; preferably several. Well, that’s hypocrisy on the hoof; that’s how I would label the shameful proclivity to harshly judge on the basis of a single experience.

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Maybe the appeal of live music concerts is rooted in the energy of the audience. Or the novelty of seeing performers display their talents. Or both. Or a combination of those facets, coupled with the merger of sounds of voices and musical instruments. I am speculating here; live music concerts hold very little appeal to me. Large venues and large crowds, especially, do not captivate me. In fact, I find dense crowds and their attendant noise and their intrusive consumption of space unappealing in the extreme. Even attending events in small venues can be distracting and troublesome and anxiety-producing for me. And while I truly enjoy music, I like the comfort and control afforded through technology, distance, relative isolation, and comfortable seating.

The foregoing to the contrary notwithstanding—and because yesterday was the fifth Sunday of the month, in lieu of a traditional worship service—Music on Barcelona was held. The event offers an hour of music in the sanctuary. I was enthralled by Maria Richardson’s performance at the Unitarian Universal Village church yesterday. Seven of the nine jazz-based pieces she sang (accompanied on piano by Clyde Pound) were the music of Melody Gardot, a songwriter and singer of quiet jazz. In a word, Richardson’s performance was superb; in another word, it was outstanding; and in another, it was delightful. I am not much of a fan of vocal jazz, but yesterday’s experience might suggest otherwise. It just has to be the right jazz and the right jazz singer.

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Only yesterday, thanks to a photograph posted on a Facebook group called A View from My Window, I learned that Kibera, in Kenya, is Africa’s largest urban slum. This morning, I read another reference to Kibera in an Associated Press (or has its name been officially shortened to AP?) article. The Athi River crosses Kibera, a poverty-stricken neighborhood of Nairobi, Kenya. The news I read this morning, in an article of the same name, explored the question of “Is there hope for a dying river in Kenya’s growing capital?”

Compassion is the basis of morality.

~ Arthur Schopenhauer ~

I am deeply concerned about natural waterways the world over. After skimming the article, I am even more intensely concerned about the Athi River. But my exploration this morning drifted away from the river and focused my attention on Kibera. Estimates of the population of Kibera run between a figure of 170,170 (from the 2009 Kenya Population and Housing Census) to well over 1 or 2 million. Whatever its size, seeing photographs of the slum and reading about the searing poverty experienced by its residents rends my heart in two. I simply cannot fathom why world governments do not band together in common cause to extract residents of such excruciatingly unlivable places and provide them with at least minimal necessities and comfort. Oh, yes I can. Politics. Stubborn adherence to inhumane concepts of responsibility and blame. The absence of compassion. Constituents who are more interested in minimizing the effects of taxation on their prized luxuries than in exercising compassion for their fellow human beings.

But we, the taxpayers, often express pity for the less fortunate. And we attempt to assuage our guilt about what might be our partial responsibility for their plight by making “significant” donations to good causes. As I think about the concepts of charity and compassion, I suspect many people tend to contribute to such causes only after they have been gently reminded. And only after their own consciences—and concerns about others’ potential judgments in the absence of expressions of overt and significant displays of compassion—shame them into participating in an anemic effort to “solve the problem.” When I said “they,” I should have said “we.” If I were truly committed to putting forth efforts to approach a solution, I would insist on paying more taxes or otherwise committing as much as I possibly could to the cause.

My attitude may be seen as an argument for “all or nothing.” While that is not the case, my statements are too “back and white,” implying there is a “right” proportion of an individual’s wealth that should be dedicated to collective efforts to solve social ills. In fact, there is an enormous grey area along the spectrum of caring. One finds maximum altruism on one end and maximum selfishness on the other end of the spectrum. Somewhere along that spectrum is a sub-spectrum, both ends of which are vague and ill-defined. If humans could collectively strive to place themselves within that sub-spectrum and act accordingly, I suspect most of our social ills could be solved. But I am a pessimist in that regard. A defeatist who sees no realist possibility of ever reaching that state of nirvana.

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From almost the first time I read his work, the writings of liberal Christian pastor, blogger, and author, John Pavlovitz impressed me. Even though I did not and do not share his expressed belief in God, I share the definitions of justice and goodwill about which he writes. But over time—three years or more—my esteem for him has declined. The more I read his strident statements about social and political issues, the less I believe in his commitment to liberal causes. Oh, he may well believe in them, but I get the distinct sense he is using his persuasive skills to position himself to be the willing recipient of generosity. Though he may not have reached the heights of “successful” right-wing evangelical ministers, I strongly suspect he writes to an audience who, he believes, will convert their support for his words into money in his pocket.

Why has my opinion changed? I can refer to nothing more than a gut feel. His words seem, to me, increasingly inauthentic. Nowadays, when I read what he writes, I recoil in distaste that approaches disgust. If my suspicions are correct, he is a skilled deceiver and practiced opportunist. But I may be wrong. He may well be as committed to his left-leaning (and sometimes far left) positions as he purports to be. If I can be persuaded to reverse my current perception about him, I will hang my head in shame for condemning him. But, until then, I will avoid reading his blog and his other work, lest my blood pressure get out of control in response.

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I have mixed feelings about tipping. On one hand, I believe businesses should pay their employees a living wage; enough that the employee would not have to rely on tips to make ends meet. It irritates me to think that I am expected to overtly express generosity in the form of extra spending, whether or not I am financially able. On the other hand, I think some service workers deserve the extra recognition and financial reward that comes from tipping. But I wonder whether the size of the financial reward sometimes gets out of hand. Lately, the number of news items about extraordinarily large tips has grown enormously. Reading about a waitperson being recognized with a $100 or $1000 tip can be heart-warming. But is it even remotely realistic? And does it inadvertently send a message suggesting, even obliquely, that larger tips should become routine entitlements?

Wisdom, compassion, and courage are the three universally recognized moral qualities of men.

~ Confucius ~

Admittedly, I have felt good—even a little giddy—leaving an especially large tip. For example, I have on occasion left a $10 bill in payment for a $3 cup of coffee or a $20 bill for a $7 sandwich. I felt good about surprising the server and, from what I could tell, the server was at least minimally appreciative of an unexpected windfall. I think my sense of the unfairness of tipping may be responsible for my generosity in such cases, though.

Servers who work in high-end establishments, where checks for lunch might exceed $50 per person, might receive $10 to $20 in tips for the meal. Servers at a diner, where the average check is $10, might receive $2 or $3 in tips. I cannot imagine that the better compensated servers are worth the differential. And, in my view, tradespeople who set their own rates of compensation do not merit tips unless they go far “over and above” the expected levels of provision or performance. Yet I do not know whether the respective servers are compensated by their employers in ways that might level their financial positions; perhaps the server who does not receive big tips is paid considerably more than his counterpart in the expensive place. But I doubt it. And the tradespeople might under-price themselves in response to pressure to keep their rates low or risk losing business. I think I can tell if that’s the case, though.

My most significant problem with tipping, though, is the fact that it is so often expected. It is rarely viewed today as a reward for superior service. I favor the European model, in which tipping is relatively rare and, when done, is in recognition for superior service that the tipper values more than the amount she is charged.

Give me a week or a month and I might argue against everything I have written here about tipping. I would like to be certain, but I sometimes see too many perspectives to permit certainty to get its grip on me.

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Today’s agenda: get a haircut and see a rheumatologist. And perhaps visit Costco. And fill my gas tank? Hmm. I remember yesterday being told that in yesterday’s blog post I wrote “due point” instead of “dew point.” I know the difference, but apparently I was distracted when I wrote it. I corrected the mistake, but I was embarrassed I had made it. Ach. When I am concerned about such mistakes, I wonder who I am writing this for?

It is nearing 7, so I had better shave and shower in preparation to embrace the day. And off I go.

Fog partially conceals trees in the distance, coloring the space between them with an atmosphere of light blue-grey. Looking skyward, I see that the fog is low. Filtered sunlight through the cloud cover is strong enough to make the blue sky above the clouds barely visible. The weather app on my phone reports the dew point: 50°F. The temperature, according to an app on my computer: 51°F. That explains the dampness I sense on everything within my view that is the still-life outside my windows. Outside, there is not even a breath of breeze. I could be looking at an image captured by a camera. No motion. None. Utter stillness. From the looks of it, the day could be in mourning. The view suggests solemn images of meticulously staged graveyard scenes in movies. Everything about those scenes—and this one—seems designed to evoke disconsolate loss. But Nature is not sentient; one’s mental setting is molded by one’s state of mind.

The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.

~ Marcus Aurelius ~

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One year ago today, shortly after midnight, my brother who was closest in age to me of my other siblings died. He had been hospitalized for several weeks and had undergone all manner of medical procedures that he, and the rest of us, hoped would ease his pain, improve his quality of life, and prolong his life. But a planned surgical procedure he had hoped and believed would accomplish all of that was cancelled by doctors who determined it would likely fail and would take his life in the process. Just a short while—only hours or less—after he had been transferred from a hospital to an in-patient hospice facility, he died. His death was not a surprise, but it was a jolt, nonetheless. He and I were not especially close—and the strength of our relationship had ebbed and flowed most of our lives—yet I think of him frequently, as I did while he was alive. Sometimes, my thoughts are mired in guilt because I recall times when our conversations were mutually unkind. Sometimes, my memories are more gentle and pleasant when I think of times when our brotherly love was both apparent and mutually valued. Mortality. It is irrevocable.

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My dissatisfaction with the writing component of my morning routine continues, though it travels over hills and through valleys. This morning, I arose much later than normal; I got out of bed around 7, after a night of fitful sleep. I blame the damned bipap machine, or at least its cumbersome mask, for my inability to remain in a deep sleep for long last night. Maybe the machine is similarly responsible for my displeasure about my efforts to write. Ach, it’s probably just a temporary phase that will slip into history in short order. In the interim, I will silently complain. But is a complaint silent when, without vocalizing it, it is broadcast worldwide through the internet? A question worthy of consideration, if not one that has any intrinsic value. Enough of this. I will now attempt to get on with this grey day.

I will have the house to myself today while mi novia trots off to a day-long reiki course. My deep skepticism about the legitimacy of such approaches to healing has been tempered. In particular, this approach, which is based on ancient Tibetan Buddhist teachings, seems to have a degree of validity. Both my limited personal experience and the recognition by the Cleveland Clinic that the practice has merit have mitigated my doubts. The Cleveland Clinic, in discussing the potential benefits of reiki, refers to several studies summarized on the National Library of Medicine’s website. From a personal standpoint, during a brief demonstration in which I was a recipient of the practice, I felt the energy/heat from a practitioner’s hands as she gently touched my shoulders. While the energy may well have been simply the body heat of her hands, its intensity surprised me. It felt soothing; I liked it quite a lot. According to the Cleveland Clinic’s website, “Mikao Usui developed reiki in the early 1900s, deriving the term from the Japanese words rei, meaning ‘universal,’ and ki, which refers to the vital life force energy that flows through all living things.” The Cleveland Clinic calls reiki “an energy healing technique that promotes relaxation, reduces stress and anxiety through gentle touch.”  While I have been an adamant disbeliever in things I call woo-woo practices my entire life, I am slowly coming to the conclusion that my lack of understanding of the mechanisms of such mysterious processes does not necessarily negate their potential value. Though I am by no means an ardent proponent of reiki (yet), my mind is now far more open to such stuff than it has been heretofore. If a reiki practitioner can, through touch, dramatically reduce my shoulder pain, I just might enthusiastically embrace the practice. With that result, I would happily discard my core skepticism. If nothing else, I like being touched. That does not make me a deviant…a pervert…a degenerate freak…does it?

At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.

~ Plato ~

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Finally, this morning, I awoke at a reasonable hour. I was up by 4:30 and had my first cup of coffee in hand by 4:40. During the ten minutes between getting out of bed and heading to my study, I weighed myself, got dressed in my morning attire, stabbed my finger for the fifteenth consecutive morning, and swallowed a handful of prescription drugs. In the two weeks since I began the morning bloodletting—to check my blood sugar—my early-morning blood sugar level has dropped dramatically into the “normal” range. And my weight has slid a bit. These changes are due in part to diet, exercise, and (I suppose) the introduction of a new drug to my already extensive list of pharmaceutical “nourishment.” The fact that I call my drugs “nourishment” is based only half-jokingly on my sense that the volume of medications I take seems damn near equal to my intake of food. I hope my lifestyle regimen will lead to a significant reduction in the number and type of medications my doctors expect me to consume. My skepticism be damned: If I thought it would reduce my contribution to the pharmaceutical industry’s enormous misfortune-based wealth, I might be willing to give myself over to witchcraft or faith healing.

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The second definition of orgy—after the one referring to revelries involving sex with multiple participants—which cites actions or proceedings marked by unbridled indulgence of passions—appeals to me. Though I do not recall engaging in such actions or proceedings in the past, I think I might enjoy them, provided the passions were not of the sort involving dangerous and hurtful passions like blind rage or fierce hatred. Though the definition does not explicitly say so, I envision that an orgy involves groups of people. Letting loose one’s passions as part of a passionate mass of humanity seems like it might be a way to conquer stress. Karaoke might be such a group expression of unbridled passion, indulging a fervor for singing and music and the energy of crowds invested with similar interests. Successful karaoke, I have reason to believe, often involves the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol. Drinking alcohol tends to cause people to shed many of their inhibitions, thus making singing in public less intimidating and fare more interesting. I suspect alcohol similarly is a key lubricant for revelries associated with the primary definition of orgy, as well. I doubt I would ever be a participant in the public sharing of multiple sex partners, regardless of the amount of alcohol I consumed. But I might be willing to reveal myself as very bad singer. Sadly, I can no longer consume alcohol, thanks to an uncooperative pancreas, so my very bad voice will remain acoustically hidden. But I might watch and listen.

The thought process that brought the matter of orgies to mind originated with a question in my mind about what causes groups of people to unleash their passions, whatever those passions are, publicly. And I wondered whether only extroverts are likely to display their passions in such public ways or whether introverts might. As I think back over the years, I realize I have done so. Years ago, while attending a client association’s conference, I was lured to a karaoke bar by two women who owned a company that belonged to the association. They plied me with liquor (that’s the way I tell it, anyway) and bullied me into joining them in singing Under the Boardwalk. It was just as painful as I could have imagined it to be. Singing in public was not then and is not now my passion, yet I did it. The two women, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the raucous environment and the part they played in creating it.  Hmm. I think I have drifted away from what caused me to explore the topic of orgies. I am sure I will come back to it one day.

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I rarely have more than two cups of coffee in the morning. This morning is no exception. I am on my second cup now; if my history is any indication of what is to come, I will not finish it before it becomes to cold to drink enjoyably. Sometimes, I wonder whether simply having a warm cup nearby is all I need to comfort me; to protect me from the harshness of the onslaught of brutal daylight. I prefer early the darkness of the wee hours and the dimness of daybreak to the brilliance of blazing sunlight. As I look outside now, I cannot yet tell whether the clouds hiding the blue sky are thick or simply translucent and temporary. I will keep watching until I know.

I wonder how many skills, recipes, and processes common in the 1600s have long since been lost to modern society? The same question applies to more recent timelines: the 1700s and 1800s and early, mid, and late 1900s; even since the beginning of the first quarter of the twenty-first century? Incidentally, by recipes I do not mean instructions for making a cake or a casserole, though those guidelines are encompassed by my query. When I contemplate how people in the seventeenth century must have lived, their stamina and their ingenuity amaze me. Without the aid of modern equipment and technology, they were able to mine for lead and tin. They must have had methods of developing reliable sources of water. They preserved food without the benefit of modern canning equipment. Artistic painters, or the people who supplied the materials used in their work, knew how to create paint that would stand up to the ravages of wide variations in temperature and humidity and that could survive exposure to sunlight and soot from candles and fires for heating the places where they lived and worked. Of course many of the recipes and processes no longer in common use have been memorialized of late on the internet, so we assume they have not been “lost.”

Progress, unfortunately, is not necessarily additive.

But have we truly preserved them? If, God forbid, the internet were utterly destroyed to the point of being irretrievably unusable, how many among us would be able to resurrect the lost information? I suspect modern humans have, over time, lost enormous volumes of knowledge and skills, much of which we do not even know we once knew of or could master. Progress, unfortunately, is not necessarily additive; it tends to replace the old with the new, leaving what was to wither and die. Who among the living, today, could successfully orchestrate the duplication of the great pyramids of Egypt without using any modern tools or processes? The skills required for such a feat probably no longer exist; even if they did, who could translate those skills into an identical outcome?

I have no particular reason for writing about this subject today; it just happens to be a topic about which I have been curious for many years. And my curiosity and back-of-mind concern remains.

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My bizarre dream, the one in which I was immersed when I awoke this morning, is too complex and convoluted for me to attempt to document here. But it worries me a little; somehow, my subconscious seems to have fractured into sharp pieces. I am concerned that those fragments might slice into my consciousness. I suspect that mental bloodletting serves as evidence of either madness or desire or fear blossoming into panic. Okay, that last sentence could be a smidge over-dramatic.

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My mornings are too short. I wake later than I want. I think and write slower than I would like. Once again, I threaten myself with setting an alarm clock if this tendency to stay in bed too long lingers. As for the viscous thought processes, I am not sure how to cure that affliction. Perhaps I could find a safe stand-in for amphetamines; something that would unlock my capacity to think clearly at high speed? I do not know what that alternative could be, though. I may investigate and act accordingly. But in the meantime I will launch into another cold, clear Friday morning.

Until it doesn’t, life goes on. That is the message I get as a “watcher.”

By the way, I had planned on using another word for “watcher” but, fortunately, I learned early enough the error of my belief that the other word was not exclusively a synonym for scopophiliac. I thought an alternative definition of the word voyeur was “secretive watcher.” Apparently not, according to the dictionary I consulted. The only definition of voyeur in that source is “a person who engages in voyeurism.” And the definition of voyeurism is “the practice of obtaining sexual gratification by looking at sexual objects or acts, especially secretively.” Though scopophiliac is among the synonyms for voyeur, its definition is not exactly the same: “the obtaining of sexual pleasure by looking at nude bodies, erotic photographs, etc.” Close enough. Watcher is a more appropriate choice. Certainly safer. Labeling myself a voyeur could create all manner of turmoil. So I’ll call myself a watcher. Better choice. Back to the matter at hand.

No matter the experiences of war, mass murder, genocide, global climatic catastrophe, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and dozens of other horrors, we humans continue plugging along. Even as we watch reality crush our dreams…as our loved ones die…as careers get derailed…as addictions claim our friends or ourselves…even then, life goes on. In the midst of all this excruciatingly painful chaos, we continue to strive for some kind of sanity-saving normalcy. We do our best to counter the negative aspects of human existence—agonizing interactions with matters from hyper-local to global and even beyond—with what some might call trivial or insignificant. But the insignificant can become crucial to our survival, or at least to our ability to tolerate our life experiences with a modicum of comfort.

A local example of a sanity-saving endeavor that some people may consider irrelevant in the face of human suffering is the Hot Springs Village Animal Welfare League–an organization dedicated to humane treatment, prevention of cruelty, and relief of suffering among animals; the organization trades in compassion. Another example, combining whimsy with intellectual pursuits and interests, is the Bureau of Linguistical Reality (BLR),created for the purpose of creating a new vocabulary for the Anthropocene. The BLR and its mission are intriguing. I can imagine getting deeply involved in its mission.

Millions of other examples exist: golf, sewing, practicing tai chi, genealogical research, painting, amateur meteorology, bridge, poker…the list of such endeavors is endless. As I watch people immerse themselves in these activities and more, it is evident to me that they are distractions from the more serious matters like war, mass murder, genocide, global climatic catastrophe, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, etc. In the absence of the capability, individually, to bring these horrors to an end, people must continue to live their lives. They must attempt to bring as much normalcy to existence as possible until they cease to exist. These endeavors—distractions or whatever one might call them—take our time until our time comes to an end. Life goes on, until it doesn’t.

It occurs to me that voyeurism and scopophilia might be among the distractions some people use as tools to maintain their sanity. Those tools may not be suited for the job, but who am I to judge? Maybe there are better options than watching, too, but I am satisfied with it, more or less. I expect to keep it up until I am no more.

Our way of life is threated both by mass shootings and by clandestine efforts by foreign governments to accelerate the collapse of western coalition governments and/or  our civil cohesion.

I used the word “accelerate” instead of “cause” for a reason.

The ready availability of assault style weapons helps fuel mass shootings, though such attacks can depend on more traditional weaponry. Calls for “gun control,” despite the solid logic behind those pleas, tend to unify vocal extremist proponents of their interpretation of the Second Amendment. These gun-loving groups fear that efforts to limit access to military-style weapons are the first steps toward prohibition and confiscation. The shrillness of entreaties to limit availability of certain weapons and the demands to control access to guns in general amplify the concerns of gun advocates. There appears to be no middle ground between those who wish to control availability and ownership of guns and those who demand unfettered access. The two sides seem poised to pounce on the other at every opportunity.

News of high level Russian defections and reports of covert Russian attempts to find and neutralize the defectors is, I suspect, the tip of the iceberg. Defections are not limited to Russians, of course. A search on Google reveals a list of eighteen U.S. defectors. A more recent U.S. “defection” challenges the usual definition of the word. Edward Snowden, who leaked highly classified information from the National Security Agency, fled to Russia to avoid capture and punishment by the U.S. government; his crime was ostensibly prompted by his disillusionment with U.S. intelligence practices.

Most clandestine operations—outright spying and secret efforts to obtain intelligence on foreign governments’ plans and activities—remain hidden from the public. Our knowledge of such activities is extremely limited. But we can make realistic assumptions about such actions and programs by paying attention. It seems to me, for example, that our government’s early warning that Russia was planning to invade Ukraine must have been based on intelligence obtained through clandestine efforts. And the sheer volume of books and films about spying and other clandestine operations, while mostly fiction but likely based at least loosely on reality, is telling.

Neither mass shootings nor spying by foreign governments cause the deterioration of the prosperity and comforts we enjoy. They are symptoms. Symptoms of intense social stresses that reveal the dissolution of equality and social cohesion, in the case of mass shootings. And symptomatic of competitions between political and social philosophies between governments. The decay in our way of life is not caused by mass shootings and political intrigue. The causes are far more complex and more deeply ingrained in our society. The cohesion that we remember may not have been cohesion at all; it may have been collective concerns or fears. Do we actually “remember” a time when we were a more cohesive society? Or is our imagination tricking us into believing that our wishes had been granted?

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I am tired of writing. I have spent far too long on what I have written thus far; I remain dissatisfied with it. My thoughts are not as precise and clear as I had hoped they would be. I have not been able to satisfactorily express my ideas. These words are inadequate and misleading. Time to quit while I am behind. I have strong opinions, but they may change. They often do. I see too many sides of the same issue; I understand and agree with all the competing arguments. I wish I could clutch certainty in my hands for long enough to be confident that I really believe in something. Ach! I will go have breakfast now and wonder what’s next. A haircut this afternoon. Perhaps that will clear my head.

Certain circumstances exist in which, given a choice between the two, a person might opt to experience physical pain rather than emotional pain. It depends, of course, on the causes of the pain. Like chronic physical pain, chronic emotional pain can become so overwhelmingly burdensome as to cause a person to willingly submit to almost anything to make it stop—or, at least, to reduce its intensity to more tolerable levels. The types and magnitudes of pain—physical or emotional—dictate a person’s response and the choice between the two.

These thoughts are abstract. Concrete hypothetical and personal examples could quickly illustrate circumstances in which a person might choose to experience physical pain in place of emotional pain. But offering any such examples might open the floodgates to emotions too intense to tolerate. So, instead, I turn to experts to provide a hypothetical example. The Mayo Clinic has this to say:

Nonsuicidal self-injury, often simply called self-injury, is the act of harming your own body on purpose, such as by cutting or burning yourself. It’s usually not meant as a suicide attempt. This type of self-injury is a harmful way to cope with emotional pain, sadness, anger and stress.

Even though the Mayo Clinic’s example, which facilitates the understanding of the concept, is straightforward, the idea remains impersonal and distant. I suspect that until one experiences extraordinarily acute emotional pain, the notion of choosing to experience physical over emotional pain is speculative or theoretical. Maybe understanding the notion becomes clearer if one considers that choosing physical pain is a desperate attempt to dull the ferocity of the anguish one feels: anguish that often accompanies the death of a loved one. A person might be able to cope with that anguish for a relative short while. But when it lingers and its intensity remains high or even grows deeper and more fierce, a person might attempt to mute or distract from it through the introduction of physical pain.

I am by no means an expert in the psychology of exchanging emotional for physical pain. However, even though I have never experienced it, I understand the idea. I understand that emotional pain can become so fierce a person might attempt to overcome it through physical pain. Emotional pain usually is relatively easy to hide, whereas physical pain is far more difficult to conceal. Mysterious or inexplicable physical pain may be evidence of  fierce, but hidden, emotional anguish.

Where does all this lead? What answers are offered through this reflection? Nowhere and none. Just another topic rattling around in my head, needing to escape through my fingers.

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Nothing great is created suddenly, any more than a bunch of grapes or a fig. If you tell me that you desire a fig, I answer you that there must be time. Let it first blossom, then bear fruit, then ripen.

~ Epictetus ~

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The instant a moment passes, it is gone. Time sheds itself like a snake sheds its skin. But the snake leaves physical evidence. The only evidence of moments is memory, an imaginary experience. There may be physical evidence of events that took place during a moment in time, but the moment itself is gone, never to be resurrected. Time is not like an event captured on a video recording. Time cannot be recorded and replayed. The idea that it may be possible to “go back in time” is ludicrous. Moments in time are vaporous; they disappear into the ether of existence. If memory serves me correctly, chaos theory suggests the movement of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon can cause disturbances in the atmosphere in China…or something like that. It is part of the idea of deterministic chaos. Once the wing moves, it disrupts the molecules of air around it, which in turn disrupt them molecules of air around those molecules, infinitum. It is impossible to reverse the effect, even by returning the butterfly’s wings to the precise position they were in before their effects were felt. The extended effects of the butterfly’s wing movement have already taken place. There is no “going back” to the moment its wings had not yet moved. And there is no “going back” to a moment before a bullet left the barrel of a gun; to think otherwise is delusional. Fundamentally flawed and irrational. Yet for all the evidence to the contrary, many of us—perhaps most of us—occasionally wish we could go back; to a gentler or happier or more peaceful time. To a time before the butterfly or the bullet had irrevocably altered the universe. We know that time is gone forever, yet still we long for it. We search through the evidence, sifting through the memories in our brains in the hope of finding and replaying it. Though we knew going in that the search was pointless and would fail, we tried anyway. We encountered and experienced our expected disappointment. We told ourselves we would not allow ourselves to again be tricked into believing in hope. Yet, buried beneath the ashes of wishes and layers of past disappointments, we will search again, only to fail again. A perpetual cycle of wishes and dashed dreams. Just part of life.

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How different our lives would be if we insisted on surrounding ourselves only with the few practical tools we need to survive. No colorful clothes, no simple conveniences, no clocks, no music, etc. I prefer a world in which color and art and leisure and convenience exist alongside the mentally or physically taxing obligations that plague us. I think I am spoiled. As are many of the other people who occupy this planet. Would that everyone had the same opportunities to live in unnecessary luxury, as thin and weak as it is.

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Off into another day. A day in which a clot of meteorologists is forecasting a wintry mix. We shall see, as we always do.

We sometimes assume we know ourselves, but in fact we know only how we appear from a limited perspective. One cannot know oneself until he looks at himself through both a prism and a magnifying glass. Even then, we cannot see ourselves through others’ eyes. Our self-knowledge, then, is based on an incomplete and distorted perspective. Am I the person I see in the mirror and whose brain harbors every thought that crosses my mind? Or am I the man seen through another’s eyes and who reacts to the world around him in response to how I think I look to someone else? Can I accurately predict how I might react to a situation in which a stranger flashes a gun and begins shooting indiscriminately at people all around me? Can I accurately predict how I might react to the same situation but, instead of a stranger, the person with the weapon is someone I know well? So many questions, the answers to which cannot be known until after the fact. Even then, though, predicting what we will do in specific circumstances, based on how well we know ourselves, is a crapshoot. We do not necessarily know ourselves as well as we may think. We are unpredictable. That can be an attractive attribute. Or it can be terrifying.

I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?

~ Zhuangzi ~

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The reason stars and planets are spherical, according to my limited understanding of physics, is that an object’s gravitational pull draws toward the center of its mass. If sufficiently large—like stars and planets—objects exert gravity strong enough to cause it to reach hydrostatic equilibrium. That is the point at which gravity is balanced by a pressure-gradient force—that state in which an object’s tendency to expand is restricted by its own gravitational pull. My knowledge of hydrostatic equilibrium did not exist when I went to bed last night, nor when I awoke this morning; it came to inhabit my brain only after I consulted reliable—I hope—online sources. I did not need to know why celestial bodies (and the planet on which I live) are spherical. But for some reason, not long after I woke, I suddenly was consumed by a strong curiosity about the matter. I suspect the reason had something to do with stumbling upon an image of innumerable white dots against a black background—an artist’s rendering of the glow of stars and planets against the darkness of space.

As I think about my curiosity this morning, it occurs to me that the thirst for answers competes with the sense of wonder that goes hand in hand with the appreciation of mystery. Looking into a clear, dark night sky, untainted by humans’ light pollution, engenders awe at the sheer beauty and vastness of the universe. Even absent that crystal clear view, a look skyward launches an immeasurable sense of both curiosity and humility. Billions of humans have had the experience of wonder at the immensity of the universe. As unique as the experience feels, it is common; not unique at all. But it feels intensely private, as if no one else could possibly feel the almost overwhelming sense of awe that accompanies a long, deep look into the dark sky. The pursuit of understanding—and the reliance on the laws of physics as a means of achieving it—need not diminish the emotional experience of awe. But keeping understanding and awe in separate compartments in one’s brain just might allow both experiences to reach their fullest potentials. However, as I consider how young children of 5 or 7 or 9 years of age seem to demonstrate both, simultaneously, I wonder whether adults simply lose the ability to reconcile competing experiences. I will continue to wonder, inasmuch as I hold out no hope that I will ever know the answer.

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The benefits of youth are sometimes under-appreciated until they suddenly are snatched away. Yet those benefits could have been so much more enriching and fulfilling, had they existed earlier—in concert with the wisdom attainable only through sufficient experience which comes only with advancing age. What, exactly, is fairness? It depends on one’s perspective. One thing about fairness is clear, though: it is not a birthright.

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I have few obligations today that cannot be adjusted. I will use that flexibility to imagine a twenty minute experience. A flight of fancy. An imaginary trip through a delightful future.  Ah, yes. I can see it now.

In a few weeks, if anyone signs up for the program, I will facilitate a five-session “course” about Articulating Your Unitarian Universalist Faith.

Faith. The definition that applies to the word in the context of the course is “belief in God or in the doctrines or teachings of religion.” Inasmuch as I do not subscribe to the idea that a supernatural being or force or entity exists, my focus will be on the fundamental premises of Unitarian Universalism (UU). I may be among the least likely people to facilitate such a program, given my innate skepticism. Even some of the aspects of foundational UU philosophies challenge me to some extent, so my belief in the “doctrines or teaching of” UU may be subject to question. But, as I think about the core ideas that appeal to me about UU, expressing one’s doubts in the course of searching for answers that may never be found might be precisely what merits contemplation. The idea for the program is to enable participants to explain, in a 30-second “elevator speech,” the foundations of their adherence to UU. We’ll see how that goes.

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My recollection of the Eugene O’Neill’s play, Mourning Becomes Electra, is almost nonexistent. I read it in high school or college—maybe both—but as I tried to recall the story this morning, it eluded me. Only after exploring it online did the fact that the play was a retelling of the Oresteia, the Greek trilogy. I remember learning, only vaguely, that the characters in O’Neill’s play were based on the original play by Aeschylus, the Greek tragedian. Some of the characters from the Aeschylus play, such as Clytemnestra and Agamemnon, are familiar to me, though I am not sure whether that familiarity comes from studying O’Neill’s play or, instead, from learning about Greek tragedies. Regardless, I have retained next to nothing from whatever early exposure I had to either. Until I came across references to the length of the modern play, my foray this morning into O’Neill’s  literary masterpiece tempted me to consider reading it again. But the time involved in reading it, must less grasping the relationship between O’Neill’s story and the original Greek tragedy, would be extraordinary. I am not sufficiently interested to invest that much of my diminishing time in something that might well leave me no more enlightened than I am this morning. And my enlightenment this morning is nothing to cheer about. I do not know what prompted me to explore Mourning Becomes Electra shortly after I awoke today. It was a fluke. A meaningless oddity that led nowhere. And that is where it ended. I will depart nowhere now, in search of somewhere…more interesting or intriguing.

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The time has come for me to take a shower and get dressed for church. Some Sunday mornings, like this one, I have absolutely no interest in going to church. I would rather isolate myself from people and simply think. Or meditate. Or otherwise insulate myself against the intrusion of thoughts that interfere with my hermit-like behavior. Usually, though, I manage to at least tolerate engagement with others; and that tolerance more often than not morphs into interest. Whether that adaptation is just a self-defense mechanism or is a real transition in my attitude is unclear. I may never know.

A couple of days ago, I wrote about the ways in which secretaries free their colleagues to be more productive. I lamented not having a secretary at the moment I wrote those words because of my study’s disorder. This morning, it occurs to me that my years of being secretary-free after having had secretaries earlier in my career might have been to my benefit. In the absence of secretarial support, I typed my own letters, reports, articles, etc., etc. The more I typed, the more confident and faster I became. Not that I have blazing fingers on the keyboard, but I can get by more than comfortably. I have long since not needed to look at the keyboard while I type, except when needing to find with my fingers characters my fingers rarely need to find. So, in hindsight, while secretarial support might have made me more productive, it might have stunted my keyboard skills. Every issue has at least two sides.

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Morning sunlight is leaking into the sky to the north-northwest. Above and behind the trees, the atmosphere is dim but slowly brightening. Soon, the sun will illuminate the sky at a faster and faster pace until the morning is in full bloom. Once the sun begins to peek over the horizon, the day has begun in earnest—it cannot be held back. No matter how much one might wish to freeze time, or to return to an earlier period, it cannot be done.

Not yet, anyway. Not in the reality we have come to believe is the only reality. But the reality upon which we rely to make sense of the world may simply be the equivalent of the substance of a digital video. One day, scientists and searchers may discover that everything within our perception is an editable record of potential experience, captured among the protons and electrons and neutrons that densely pack the space we think we occupy. And if that were to occur, the discovery could lead to an ability to replay instances from the past. And the future. I am not referring to science fiction here, but to something else, something we have yet to name. This is as real as real can be in the context of an imaginary existence.

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I have nothing intensely personal to share today. Sharing some of one’s innermost thoughts can make a person extremely vulnerable. It leads to emotional dissolution; that is, emotions become dry, withered wisps that blow away in the slightest breeze. In their place, dense, thick lengths of protective, unemotional rope encircle one’s psyche and tie him to an anchor of indifference. But that might be an overstatement, if not a lie.

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For some reason, I am distracted this morning. My thoughts skip from one thing to another, never long enough to develop fully. The idea from the preceding sentence made me think of a dull aluminum structure, like the skeleton of a small building. And from there my mind’s eye sees a pond in the middle of a Nebraska prairie and in that pond are hundreds of sandhill cranes. Then, it’s a big kitchen with an enormous island, filled with appliances—mixers and the like—that will be used in making sausage kolaches. Next, I wonder how humans ever came to believe that love should be exclusive. Valentine’s Day springs from that thought, which leads to hearts and arrows and indigenous people trekking across barren landscapes in search of food. I had better stop or I’ll have to recommend a 72-hour psychiatric hold.

Even on days like today, when my calendar is empty and I generally am free of obligations, I can feel trapped; cornered, as if my choices are limited and none of them are good. I suspect this troublesome attitude can be traced to my anticipation of current and future commitments—knowing this brief reprieve from real or imagined constraints on my time will not last. Of course, when I examine my obligations carefully, I discover that most are not cast in stone. I have freedom of choice, in most instances. Often, though, the ramifications of exercising choices by dismissing obligations argue against doing so. I realize, of course, that most of those so-called “obligations” are so minor as to be unworthy of concern. Their irrelevance notwithstanding, too often I allow them to control me by artificially limiting my choices. I do not need a calendar to box me in. My brain does that on its own, without relying on tools. I curtail my freedom by interpreting others’ and my own expectations. I tend to give too much weight to what others will think of me if I abandon commitments. I ignore the fact that others probably will not think of me, regardless of whether I do or do not fulfill what I think of as a commitment. Rarely do I consciously evaluate whether valid expectations exist anywhere but my head. One would think all of this philosophical detritus would have been swept out of my head long, long ago. But, no, it remains today just as it was during my teenage years and all through the maturation process that has led me to today. If I had a shiny, sharp psychological scalpel, I would excise damaged remnants from my psyche. Ach! My attitude this morning suggests the best course of action would be to sleep through the day and let my sour mood morph into something more palatable. We shall see.

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I dreamed last night that my late wife and I were searching for a cardiologist who held some sort of key to information we wanted. The information was not necessarily related to coronary matters, but I do not recall what we were seeking. I cannot describe the visual scenes I saw in the dream, because they remain quite fuzzy in my head. I woke from the dream around 5:30. It is past 7 now and I still am trying to remember more of it. The more I think about it, though, the more difficult it is to remember the dream. It becomes more blurry with each passing minute.

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Perhaps my unpleasant mood can be linked to the restrictions on my diet, in response to the diagnosis of diabetes. Or, possibly it is not diet. Maybe it is the mere fact that I can track my physical decay by looking at a calendar timeline on which injuries and illnesses and diseases are displayed. On the left side of the timeline, depicting the earliest moments of my life, my healthy young face is displayed. As the eyes move to the right, following the evolution from youth to old age, the face loses its pink freshness, giving way to an increasingly dry, grey, gaunt, and wrinkled countenance. I can see it in my mind’s eye; a sight not at all pleasing to me.

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Last night’s post-documentary-viewing dinner at the church consisted of chili. With beans. The documentary was interesting and informative. The chili tasted very good. But my blood glucose level this morning jumped up a bit from the day before. I think that increase was in response to the ingredients in the chili. It is amazing to me how quickly food can affect the content of the blood. As fascinating as that is, though, I am not happy about it.

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Time to respond to the morning sky.

Many years ago, I had secretaries. I relied on them to perform functions that I could have done myself, but that I would not have done as well. Their contributions enabled me to be far more productive than I would have been without them. Over time, though, employing secretaries—in my line of work—came to be viewed as elitist and (because most of them were women) sexist. So, rather than dictating letters and reports, I typed them myself. And I made my own travel arrangements. And I created my own spreadsheets. And I screened my own calls. And I created and employed my own files and filing systems. And I developed my own PowerPoint presentations. And I performed the myriad other tasks and functions that once had been handled by secretaries (or administrative assistants, a title that came to be more palatable). Though I was reasonably good at handling those duties, I never became as proficient as people whose roles were dedicated exclusively to handling such functions. During the transition to handling my own “secretarial” duties and long, long afterward, I bought into the idea that having a secretary was more of a matter of status than an efficient way of doing business.

This morning, as I looked around my study—especially my desk—I thought back to the time I had secretaries. The really good ones were extraordinarily well-organized and efficient. They would never have allowed my desk to be so cluttered and in such disarray. They freed me to focus on the core functions of my work, too, rather than attempt to do for myself what they did so much more effectively than I could have done. A look around my desk this morning made me finally realize how unproductive it was to stop relying on secretaries. And, this morning, as I think back to all the years of doing without secretaries or, at least, employing minimal secretarial support, I wonder how much more effective I would have been, had I not subscribed to the idea that having secretaries/administrative assistants was more about status than about productivity.  This morning, I wish I had a secretary who would swoop in and organize my study, freeing me from trying (and failing) to get and stay organized. Oh, how I wish it were so.

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The popular intuitive assessment that coffee pods are among the most environmentally damaging ways of making coffee may be off the mark. An article on the BBC.com website reports that a Canadian study by the University of Quebec challenges that assessment. Additional information on the study is available on The Conversation’s website. The study suggests that making coffee using pods is less environmentally damaging than making coffee with traditional coffee makers. Evaluating the life-cycle of coffee, the researchers found that by far the largest contributor to carbon dioxide emissions is the harvesting and production of coffee beans. Traditional coffee makers contribute more CO₂ than do pods, according to the study authors. An author of the study, Luciano Rodrigues Viana, is quoted as saying, “I don’t think that capsules are a miracle solution. But it is a good example that illustrates our cognitive biases.” The upshot of the research is that wasting coffee and water in the process of making a cup of coffee with traditional coffee makers has a larger carbon footprint than using coffee capsules. Apparently, we tend to make assumptions without considering all the facts. Based on my reading of the Canadian study and some other relevant information, it seems an investment in reducing the environmental impact of coffee harvesting and production would have the largest impact on the reduction of  CO₂. Perhaps dramatically cutting coffee consumption is the answer. Of course, that would have negative repercussions on coffee growers and the people whose lives are dependent on coffee production. Solutions are never simple, are they?

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A formal diagnosis of diabetes leads to paying close attention to the potential impact of one’s habits on his health. I spent part of the afternoon yesterday with two diabetes educators, re-learning about some of the intricacies of the ways in which diet affects the body. This was not new, of course, but the relevance of the information was far clearer to me than it had been before. Prior to learning that my A1C blood test results confirmed the diagnosis, consideration of the impact of diet was a purely academic exercise. Now, though, it is more immediate and personal. As luck would have it, the effects of the condition have thus far been negligible. If they are to remain that way, though, I have to change my eating and exercise habits in important ways. I should have done so long, long ago. My invincibility is again called into question. Live and learn.

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The news of Jacinda Ardern’s decision to step down as New Zealand’s prime minister surprised me this morning. Though I have not closely followed news about her of late, I have been deeply impressed by her since her election in 2017.  Her principled leadership— along with her energy, and vitality—are models of the possibilities toward which national politicians may strive when they put the interests of their countries and their constituents above their own personal desires. Unfortunately, she has suffered what many politicians encounter after serving their constituencies well for an extended period: what once was appreciated for its better-than-expected performance morphs into an attitude of “what have you done for me lately?” Though her reasons for leaving her post are reported to be personal, I would not be surprised to learn that the significant dip in her popularity contributed to her decision. I wish her well. And I hope her successors will be as successful in leading New Zealand as she has been.

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It is still early, not yet 6:15, but I am ready to put today’s post to bed. And I am hungry, but I will wait to eat until I meet with several other guys from my church for the weekly gathering at a breakfast spot in the Village. I will have to be careful in making my choice of breakfast to ensure that it fits into my new dietary regime. Adaptation. That’s what every day is about.

Something is afoot. Pardon the pun, but…atmospheric changes are in the air. Meteorological precipitation maps show the onslaught. At this moment, if one believes those illustrations, Fayetteville is experiencing torrential rain. The direction of motion of rainstorms to the north and west suggests the Village will receive its share of                           water from the sky during the course of the day today. Zeus is at work. Or perhaps the coming weather reveals he is, rather, at play. One rarely, if ever, thinks of Zeus in his playful mood, but even the ruler, protector, and father of all gods has to let off steam from time to time.  Among the ways in which he does so is by frolicking through the sky, squeezing the trigger of his squirt gun and laughing hysterically as umbrellas spring open below him like little black flowers.

That image—of black umbrellas popping open in response to rain showers—causes me to wonder: why are most umbrellas black? I realize, of course, that more colorful umbrellas have grown more prevalent in recent years, but the majority of them are, still, black. At least the ones intended to protect against rain. Umbrellas meant to shelter one’s head from the sun’s heat tend to be more colorful, but most of the ones designed exclusively to shed water from the sky are black. That, by the way, is based only on my perception. I have no empirical data upon which to base my assertion. But anecdotal evidence suggests black in the old standby. Naturally, my curiosity led me to inquire whether others might have had the same question. And, of course, I am not unique. Mother Google revealed to me that many others have posed the same question. The answers (none of which are accompanied by evidence) about why black is the preferred color for most umbrellas are: 1) black fabrics absorb heat and, therefore, dry more quickly than brighter colored fabrics; 2) black is of extraordinary significance to people in general; and 3) black umbrellas tend to provide better insulation than colorful ones. I have my doubts about the veracity of those answers. But, for now, they will have to do, because I am not interested in investing my time in pursuing the truth about the reasons for ubiquitous umbrellas blackness. [N.B. My secret belief is that, long ago, Zeus threw a thunderbolt down at a bright yellow umbrella, burning its surface and turning it black. Ever since, people have assumed that was Zeus’ way of revealing his preference for black umbrellas and have responded accordingly. Just my opinion, of course.]

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Illusion is needed to disguise the emptiness within.

~ Arthur Erickson ~

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Once again, I have allowed myself to overcommit. I have filled blank spots on the calendar with obligations, thereby eliminating the possibility of spontaneity. Impromptu road trips have become increasingly unlikely because I have things to do or places to be or promises to fulfill. Either I am punishing myself for reasons I have yet to understand or I am filling my time out of fear I might discover I have no value in the absence of obligation. There could be other reasons, as well. Whatever the rationale, the fact is my calendar is awash in duties. Every time I recognize I have done this to myself, I consider making a break from the agreements I have made; just backing away from them and saying, “I’m done! I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have agreed to tie myself down. Consider my promise broken—shattered in a thousand pieces!” But I cannot do that. I could not live with myself. It is hard enough knowing how much I wish I could. It would be impossibly hard if I actually did it. Ach!

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The rain has come. If the weather were warmer, I would think of going outside—without an umbrella—to stand in the rain, letting the water gently cleanse me of the grit of daily life. The idea of giving myself over to Nature has enormous appeal. Leaving the clutter and smudges behind, letting whatever purity there is blossom in an environment free of contaminants and abrasive intrusions. Delusion. Simple delusion.

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My computer suddenly announced it had detected a location change and had changed my clock to Eastern Standard Time. What the hell?? Another sign that my purchase of a new computer, soon to arrive, was made at the right moment. Either that, or I have been magically transported to a place far, far away from the center of Arkansas. No matter which time zone I am in, it is time for me to stop writing this morning. It is time for me to turn to something else. Something more productive. Something less dangerous than imagining myself in another world.

There is a significant difference in value between doing and watching—between actively participating and observing.  Involvement sometimes occurs at the expense of awareness. That is because, in the midst of taking part in an activity, one can overlook elements that influence it. The big picture fades into a blurry backdrop when the lens aims exclusively on bringing the details into precise, high-resolution focus.  “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” Observation frequently equates to understanding. At what point in our maturation does that lesson finally find its way into our consciousness? For some, the lesson is lost. For others, it is the key to unlocking the ability to truly see all aspects of the environment in which we live.

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The foundation of National Public Radio (NPR), I have come to believe, is kindness. Whether intentionally or not, NPR teaches kindness and compassion. That fact was brought home to me this morning as I listened to a couple of audio clips. The first, from a regular feature called My Unsung Hero, told about a man whose kindness essentially saved a couple who had been left stranded along an Alaskan highway. The second was a segment of Story Corps from last July, which related the story of the kindness shown through a doctor’s letter of condolences to the family of an 11-year-old child who had died of leukemia. Of course Story Corps seems designed to elicit tears from listeners, but those tears often are in response to stories that demonstrate the overwhelming power of kindness.

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You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

I wonder whether, if you were to look just beneath the stoical surface of men (and some women) who seem unfazed by facts and stories that would cause me to melt into puddles of tears, there is a powder keg of emotions just a spark away from exploding? Or are they as unmoved by tragedy and joy as they seem? How, I wonder, can such apparent indifference be taught? More importantly, why is it taught? Why does masculinity seem to be measured by the ability to demonstrate immunity to the effects of emotional firestorms? No answers. Just questions.

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Daylight is beginning to make its way through the windows, a sign that my early quiet and solitude are coming to their daily pause. They will return again tomorrow. And I will be here to greet them.