John Swinburn

This is published post number 4401. For some reason, the frenzied excitement I expected to feel with this post—or the previous one—did not materialize. Perhaps my sedate reaction to the milestone of yesterday’s post can be explained by its content; yesterday’s post and the one before were exceptionally short (especially compared to some of my other recent posts) and dull in the extreme. My brain simply would not willingly get in synch with anything but its own slow, irrelevant, molasses-like drip, drip, drip of creativity. It felt for all the world like it had been harnessed by a steady stream of barbiturates, despite the fact that no barbiturates were consumed in the writing of those posts. That is to say, my thought processes have been horribly, horrendously, awfully, unacceptably, monstrously, amazingly slow. Bah!

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My attempt to infuse the morning with good cheer, hope, a sprinkling of elation, and a touch of pure happiness has floundered.  Record high temperature records in Phoenix, state-sponsored terrorism in and near the Rio Grande in Texas (courtesy of Greg Abbott), the broiling of Europe, devastating floods in the northeastern U.S., and a string of similar blasts of bad news chased joy out the front door and into the forest. Joy is hiding behind towering pine and oak trees in the distance. I would go after it, but I am afraid I might be overcome by heat exhaustion. Or a copperhead snake could inject venom into my foot or calf or hand. Or I might simply trip on a vine, plunging into poison ivy  so thick and lush it could cover me from head to toe in an instant.

The pleasure delivered by the events of the last few days has melted, leaving only its dried and brittle remains as evidence of the euphoria that enveloped the weekend. But, though it’s gone, the memory remains. The challenge is to retain that memory; to keep it polished and gleaming so it will serve as a reminder that bliss has a place on the planet. Quite the challenge, given the circumstances that swallow us as if we were a snack and the circumstances a ravenous python. On we go, though.

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One’s interpretation of the world in which he lives depends, in large part, on his perspective. Where is he in relation to what he sees? He sees reality, but reality is shaped by context, as the image demonstrates. Every “shadow” is a legitimate expression of reality, yet every one is dramatically different. This image captivates me because it shows so clearly how different contexts can dramatically change the way one sees the world. The three dark shadows offer unique perspectives about the shape that is casting those shadows, yet the shape itself is an amalgamation of each of the shapes illustrated by the shadows, as well as a completely different shape of its own. Life is far more complex than the image. Image, for example, how the view might seem from behind each of the shadows, assuming the shadow was translucent or transparent. And how would the view appear if one looked at the image from the “corner” of the shadow box; an entirely different set of images, all appearing very different from anything we see in the view as presented. A lot like reality, in other words.

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A dry spell. Or, rather, a drought that leaves the air and the ground as dry and parched as Death Valley. I refer not to the soil, but to my creativity. I feel the same emptiness I have felt for the last two days. Nothing of consequence to write about; nothing of consequence to think; nothing that has the potential for triggering even a slight uptick in my mood. This barren, dry, dehydrated, dusty emptiness leaves me angry at myself for allowing my creativity to wither. Anger is not really it, though. It’s disappointment. Humiliation. Embarrassed acknowledgement that I am not in control of my own internal emotional environment. It is odd that a person can be on such an extraordinary “high,” only to take a single step off a cliff into an almost bottomless canyon. Manic depression. Naturally, that word pair prompts me to think about Jim Hendrix and his music. All Along the Watchtower. The Wind Cries Mary. Hey Joe. Purple Haze.  If nothing else, remembering those tunes and the lyrics I used to sing under my breath is beginning to suffocate the dreariness.  After all the jacks are in their boxes.  I remember how I was struck by the cleverness of that phrase.

After all the jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness
Staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers
“Mary”
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces
Of yesterday’s life
Somewhere, a queen is weeping
Somewhere
A king has no wife
And the wind, it cries
“Mary“

And thus ends the worst of the mood’s downward swing. I think I need to upgrade my computer’s sound, though. Listening to Jimi Hendix over lousy speakers does not have anything like the impact as hearing the same music through a perfect, rich, balanced, WONDERFUL amplifier and speakers designed to maximize the experience.

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Spencer Tunick, the American photographer known for his photographs of crowds of nudes, recently engaged hundreds of Finnish volunteers in a series of nude shots. According to an article in the Helsinki Times, “as the clock struck 3:00 am on Saturday, nearly a thousand naked participants flocked to the designated locations” to be photographed by Tunick. The human form, with all its beauty and its flaws, fascinates me. And what fascinates me more than the form itself is the fact that the shock of nudity disappears when individual nudity is multiplied many times over. It fascinates me that there is nothing titillating about naked crowds, yet if each person from a crowd shot were extracted from the photo and presented individually, one’s emotions would tend to change. Nudity is absolutely natural. But we treat it as an aberration; something unnatural and, to far too many, immoral. And—something that causes me to get deeply irritated—too many people express disgust or disapproval if the nude body they see is not “ideal.” Too old, too fat, too blemished by experience or lifestyle or too different from that very unusual “perfect” body presented by marketers as that shape and size we all should strive to achieve.

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Perhaps I haven’t fallen entirely into a deep pit in which creativity does not exist. Maybe I am here, just looking at it from a different angle.  Look at things from my perspective, won’t you?

Once again, I slept late, thanks in no small part to regular meows and tail-chasings. That is to say, I was awake far too much and slept too little. And too late. Such is life. The day commences at its own pace, regardless of how I might feel about it.

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The weekend just ended was nothing short of spectacular. Saturday began with a brunch with Peter Mayer, our church minister, the immediate past president of our church (who sponsored Mayer), and me. Then, an outstanding concert performance by Peter. That evening, a group of church leaders and hosts went to dinner with Peter. Sunday morning, the pairing of Peter’s music with the minister’s delivery produced deeply meaningful messages. After the morning program, a group of church friends took Peter to lunch. And then, more personal, mi novia and my sister-in-law sat on the back deck, enjoying the forest, even in the heat and humidity.  It’s rare that an emotional “high” lasts as long as it did…has…but I wish for more frequent long-lasting euphoria.

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Jumbled thoughts do not make for coherent writing. Competing emotions, intellectual uncertainty, and a frothy mixture of resignation, exhilaration, fear, and jubilation suggest, strongly, that I should give up attempting to write this morning. And I will, for the second time in a rare doubling, listen to what I have to say to myself.

Daylight fills the forest outside. Here and there, branches and leaves highlighted by the sun’s rays appear to have sunlight aimed directly at them, accentuating a thousand different shades of bright yellows and greens and golds and browns. The surrounding, almost identical, foliage seems dull in comparison. But, ignoring the illuminated contrasts, the comparatively drab leaves are, themselves, bright. The forest is a study in contrasts that, unless one forces his attention on the full spectrum of hues and shades, appears a uniformly mottled green.

Looking intently at the world outside my windows—and giving my undivided attention to every image before my eyes—causes a deep sense of appreciation to build inside me. If I look at the forest long enough and think deeply enough about how fortunate I am to see what is before me, I understand, viscerally, what “awe-inspiring” means. Wonder washes over me like a wave.

The experience of deep, life-altering sorrow can enable a person to develop a capability of providing solace to others who suffer emotional wounds of the same level. But that capability does not arise in everyone who goes through grief of similar magnitude. Whether the capacity to offer solace after experiencing one’s own anguish can be learned or is tied to one’s innate personality is not clear to me, but I tend to think the latter is more likely. While learning to be compassionate probably is possible, I suspect compassion is more easily developed—and comes more naturally—to people born with certain mental attributes. And those not born with those attributes (or who do not develop them in early infancy), while perhaps able to learn compassion, do not seem to be as comfortable with the trait.  Psychological literature probably is rife with arguments for and against my “gut feel” on the topic. To my knowledge, though, no one has been able to measure or demonstrate, with near-certainty, the original source of compassion. But I have witnessed people who seem moderately compassionate develop extraordinary compassion after they experience the wrenching pain of irrevocable loss. And I have seen people who seem unmoved by suffering in others, even after experiencing, themselves, horrendous loss. Perhaps there is no correlation; maybe it have been a matter of simple coincidence. But I think not. I believe there’s something innate, or that evolves very early in childhood, that corresponds to later compassion; or something like disregard for suffering.

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This afternoon, a well-known (at least in certain circles) singer/songwriter will perform during a special concert in our church. I have been asked to introduce him and to explain how his performance came to be arranged. His presence today was not my doing; I had no part in making the arrangements. But I did see and hear him perform a few months ago and I was extremely impressed. I look forward to his performance today. I’m a tad nervous about introducing him, though, because it seems I will not be standing behind a lectern as usual, where I can keep notes hidden from the audience’s view. Instead, I will be in full view of the audience. My reliance on notes will be obvious. I wish I had the ability to ad lib or memorize my intended lines. It’s a bit late for either, though, so I will just have to stumble my way through it. With a bit of good fortune, I will not bungle it. As mi novia says, though, I am not expected to be a professional speaker; I am just some guy who’s responsible for making a few introductory comments. The audience will be there to see and hear him, not me. Unless I make serious missteps, no one will remember my words. But, still, I would like to give the performer a smooth, seamless, unobtrusive introduction. Before the concert, I will join the performer (Peter Mayer) and a few other people from church for brunch. Then, after his performance, a small group of church leaders will take him to dinner this evening. Assuming my introduction is not a massive, memorable, and embarrassing failure, dinner should be enjoyable. Time will tell, as always.

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I was spurred to write about compassion this morning by happening upon something I wrote a year or so ago. I had mentioned, in my blog, a book entitled The Solace of Open Spaces by Gretel Ehrlich. Solace and compassion go hand in hand, in my mind. I knew very little about Ehrlich. The fact that she had been married to the late Neil Conan may have been nestled somewhere deep in my memory, but if so, it was buried quite deep. When I read that he had been her husband, I was surprised. And when I then read that Neil Conan earlier had been married to Liane Hansen, I was even more surprised. It occurred to me that literary and NPR “types” tend to have relatively tight circles. And that’s what I have to say about that.

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The older I get, the more nervous and anxiety-ridden I get. I don’t know how to fix that.

~ Vince Gilligan ~

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When Phaedra enters my study, she stops, looks up at me, and meows. I wish I understood what she is saying to me. Or maybe I don’t. She could be expressing unmitigated loathing for me. Well, some days the feeling is mutual; when I see her clawing a white leather sofa, I tend to get cranky in the extreme.

An experiment: Place a freshly-sawn two-hundred-pound piece of an oak tree trunk on the granite floor of a well-constructed stone building. Place a newly-dead corpse of a two-hundred-pound human next to the hunk of wood. Finally, place a two-hundred-pound sack of new-cut grass next to the other items. Seal the room—tightly—and leave it for two hundred years. Upon re-entering the room two hundred years later, which of the three items would most closely resemble the appearance it had when left in the room? I do not know with certainty, but my guess is that the hunk of oak would remain largely as it was when it was left. The other two? I suspect the human body would have deteriorated considerably, its store of water largely absorbed into the room’s air. The sack of grass clippings leaves me stumped. Perhaps they would have withered, but would the blades of grass retain their shape, albeit with considerably less volume? I don’t know. And I do not have the time to find out. But my curiosity remains. If I am right about the varying degrees of decline and decay, today’s forests are poised to outlast today’s human population; assuming humans do not burn them, pave over them, or otherwise decimate the natural world in which we live. But we know we already are doing just that. Any prediction as to what the world will look like in two hundred years is no more than vapor, changeable at the whim of nature or the destructive tendencies of humankind. Still, if we were to leave everything to decompose at its own pace, without external influence, how would the world look? It’s too bad we cannot come back and have a look. All we can do is imagine and wonder.

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I have never understood why some people are so thoroughly fascinated by jewelry. The appearance of cut diamonds of varying carets are interesting to me—briefly—but they do not hold me in rapt awe at their overwhelming beauty. Because their beauty does not overwhelm me. I prefer to look at oil paintings created by people who possess extraordinary talents. I would rather spend my time gazing at sunsets and mountains and valleys etched deep into solid rock by the flow of water over millions of years. My interests, though, are not “correct.” They are simply mine. And people who love the look of diamonds have their own unique and—to my way of looking at the world—somewhat deranged perspectives. There was a time when I found the intense fondness for jewelry a bit annoying; I do not know why. Now, though, it does not bother me; it just perplexes me. That having been said, I have been won over by certain pieces of jewelry. For reasons I cannot understand, I find certain pieces of jewelry quite beautiful or, at least, extremely interesting and attractive. But diamonds? Meh, pretty much. Except for the occasional diamond whose sparkles captivate me. I would not wear it on my finger or dangling from my ear, though. Probably.

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The rumble of thunder is not what woke me this morning. It was the meowing of Phaedra. If I am not up before 5:30 (I usually am), she announces my lethargy to anyone who will listen. Her point is not to shame me, I am sure, but to encourage me to get up and serve her breakfast. This morning, she roused me from a rather horrid dream in which I was lost in a filthy slum-like environment. I was trying to find my way out, but I had no idea where I was trying to go. And it was pitch-dark; the only lights came from cars’ headlights, which shone only briefly before leaving me blind and feeling my way around. I was surrounded by people who either did not or would not speak a language I could understand. Many of the people in my proximity threatened me. Or, at least, I felt threatened by them, whether they intended to threaten me or not. I was glad to wake up. Three hours earlier, I was awake for at least half an hour and probably closer to an hour. Then, I wanted desperately to get back to sleep. But sleep, when it came, was ugly and stressful. I suspect I will find a reason to drift off to sleep sometime during the day today. Or early this evening. Thunder can lull me to sleep. I might consider allowing it to do just that, right now. Probably not, though.

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If you could read my mind this morning…I would urge that you maintain my thoughts in absolute secrecy. They would have to be kept in the most strict confidence, just between you and me…

The commencement of the Anthropocene epoch, the third epoch of Quaternary Period, coincided roughly with my birth, though I take no credit for starting this new era. That having been said, I join eight billion other humans in taking responsibility for this new geological period, which marks the end of the Holocene epoch. The location of the Global Boundary Stratotype Section and Point that is proposed to mark the new epoch with a golden spike is in sediment cored from the bed of Crawford Lake—in Ontario, Canada—that reveals the geochemical traces of nuclear bomb tests, specifically plutonium—the radioactive element detected worldwide in coral reefs, ice cores, peat bogs, etc. The Anthropocene epoch is, for now, a proposal; I have no clear sense of how an “official” decision comes about as to the termination of the Holocene and the commencement of the Anthropocene. Regardless, though, I feel responsible in part for an epoch that quite possibly marks the end of the natural purity of our planet. We all can take credit, if that’s the right word, for the decay of natural evolution and its replacement by something yet to be named.

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According to an article in the Helsinki Times, a survey conducted by the Finnish Breweries Association and the Beverage Industry Association concluded that beer is considered the best summertime brewery beverage in Finland, with light lager being the top choice for a summer beer. Mineral water takes second place as the best summer drink, with the popularity of the third place choice, hard seltzers, rapidly growing. Yesterday, I drank most of a glass of a draft beer, Bubba Brew’s Brewing Company Skull Crusher IPA, which I ordered to accompany my hamburger at the Copper Penny Pub. I was surprised that the beer, which I once regularly enjoyed when it was available, seemed too strong and bitter for my taste. The strength and bitterness, coupled with its distinct flavor, were the main attractions of the beer; but not last night. And maybe not now and not tomorrow. Perhaps I have joined the throngs of beer-drinking Finns who prefer a light lager, especially in the heat of summer. I realized, as I was drinking the beer (which I did not finish because it was not especially to my liking) that I have not had beer in quite a long time; many, many months, at least, and possibly a year or two or even more. Even at this advanced age, my taste may be changing. Perhaps I am beginning my second early-twenties period, when I drank copious amounts of light lagers. But I doubt it. I am not sure I want to drink much light lager, either. My tastes have matured. Give me gin & tonic or a martini or let me sip a shot of single malt Scotch or a nice bit of whisky. Or various other flavorful adult beverages.

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The price of tomatoes in India has gotten out of hand. They are so expensive that many cooks and chefs are modifying dishes that require tomatoes. But while various ingredients often can be substituted for one another, nothing can replace tomatoes. The problem in India, as I understand it, is that weather extremes (primarily flooding) has decimated the tomato crops, dramatically reducing the supply of the culinary staple. I do not know whether climate change due to global warming can legitimately be blamed for the weather, but I’m willing to bet it plays a large part in the situation. Damn it. I can only imagine what life might be like without tomatoes; I hope I never find out whether my imagination is actually attuned to that ugly reality.

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I almost bought an ironing board yesterday. Fortunately, mi novia showed me that we do, indeed, have an ironing board, so I did not need to buy one. I do not really want an ironing board. Instead, I’d rather have shirts that are wrinkle-free; no need to iron them. And shorts, too, made of fabrics created to shed wrinkles like trees shed leaves in autumn. I have a few shirts that do not require ironing. They do not look quite as crisp and sharp as freshly-starched and ironed shirts, but their softness appeals to me more than the rigidity of 100% cotton made perfectly flat by Faultless brand spray starch. I wish I did not mind wearing shirts that look like they just came out of five days wadded in the clothes dryer. But I do. It’s just a matter of vanity. We are taught to be vain. We are coached to believe that shirts should look freshly-pressed. Our minds are guided to join in the group-think that lauds the absence of wrinkles and condemns their abundance. Society. We are part of it, no matter how much we might wish we were not.

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I hear the howling meows of a cat. Phaedra has been fed and watered. She has been given free access to most areas of the house (excluding certain closets). Why is she not happy? But maybe she is. Perhaps the meows are saying something unrelated to feline happiness. I am not a cat whisperer. Not in the least. If I could be fluent in the feline language, I would be. But I cannot. So I have to continue attempting to understand the perpetually misunderstood.  And, now, I need more coffee. And I must get dressed to attend the men’s group breakfast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

~ Langston Hughes ~

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.

~ Marcus Aurelius ~

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

~~ Jack Kornfield ~

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

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

+++

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

+++

Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.

    ~ Hippocrates ~

---

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

    ~ Robert Redford ~

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One should eat to live, not live to eat.

    ~ Moliere ~

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

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

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

~ Chief Joseph ~

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

~ Paramahansa Yogananda ~

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

~ Washington Irving ~

+++

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

+++

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

~ Aristotle ~

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

+++

Time to prepare for the day. And stop dawdling.

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

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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