John Swinburn

Thanksgiving dinner. It would be better freshly-baked, but Domino’s Pizza is not open on Thanksgiving Day, so we ordered the pizzas last night. One for Thanksgiving Eve dinner, one for the actual Day’s celebratory meal. Re-heated Thanksgiving Day pizza is a delicacy available to only a few.

Many people are unaware that Thanksgiving Eve is a thing. Well, it is. Or it can be. Every day can be a holiday. It’s simply a matter of manipulating one’s perception of the calendar. You just have to believe. If you put enough faith in the Thanksgiving Fairy, he will visit the night before the actual Day. And he will come bearing culinary gifts. Two supreme pizzas, to be specific. He will be chatty, explaining that it took a little longer than usual to make the delivery because he had several other Thanksgiving Eve deliveries to make.

I hope it is not too early to start talking about Christmas. Whether it is or not, I will do just that. I have chosen to believe, again this year, in Santa’s Stand-In, too, an elf who lived just down the street from me when I was a wee child. Santa’s Stand-In was born Julio Ensueño in Matamoros, Tamaulipas, Mexico. An inadequate diet and environmental deficiencies left him with a rather stunted body; only four feet, two inches tall at maturity. But he overcame those challenges to become one of Santa’s favorite elves. One of my fondest childhood memories involves visits by Julio Ensueño, AKA Santa’s Stand-In, who came to our house every Christmas Eve. We left bowls full of carne guisada for him and he, in turn, left several dozen pork & jalapeño tamales, along with chile con queso and a six-pack or two of cerveza Doz Equis for us. It was obvious from the several empty bottles he left behind that he enjoyed beer with his meal.  Thanks to my bodily decay, I can no longer enjoy the cerveza Doz Equis but I can break the rules a bit and eat a few tamales and chile con queso. I’ll be satisfied if he will bring only the tamales. I can make the chile con queso (I prefer mine to his, actually). But making tamales is too much work without several co-conspirators. I sincerely hope Julio makes his way to the Village this year.

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The bone is not broken. It’s simply that the clavicle is attached to tendons and ligaments that are equal to its age. And what’s left of the cartilage between bones and other skeletal tissue is just as old and not as capable of performing its functions as it was when it was young and strong. A course of steroids, which begins with six temporally-spaced pills today and tapers down over several days, may provide temporary relief; so said the nurse. She told me a severe shortage of rheumatologists is the reason getting appointments scheduled is such a lengthy process. While I do not doubt there is a shortage of rheumatologists, I seriously doubt that fact makes writing in a name on a scheduling calendar is especially time-consuming. They expect me to accept irrational excuses. Actually, I have little choice but to accept any excuse they give me. I hope the steroids work, especially in light of the nurse’s admonition to take care not to take too many Motrin, which could damage my kidneys.

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The forecast calls for rain. Heavy rain, tapering off to a constant but lighter downpour later in the day. I do not know whether to believe them. It’s not that I think they lie, it’s just that weather is such an incredibly complex phenomenon that predicting its every move is almost like reading tea leaves or constructing nuclear refrigerators. I hold meteorologists in high regard; not all of them, mind you, but some of them. They communicate with Zeus and Neptune and various other officials of the natural world; I am not sure whether they give instructions to the gods or just take orders, but whatever they do, it’s damn near magical. One thing I know for certain meteorologists do is this: they create every single individual snowflake that falls. They design them, manufacture them, and distribute them globally. It’s true. I’ve watched them throughout the process. If you’re extremely nice to me, I’ll bring you along to witness the spectacle. Just don’t mention this to anyone else. It could get out of hand.

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The actual Day has begun. See?

My reflection in the window surprised me. For an instant, I thought what I saw in front of me, just outside the window of my study, was a deer. But it was only a hazy mirror image of my hand bringing a cup of coffee to my lips. The vision was just a translucent visual echo, as if it were a hologram, tricking my eyes into believing a story created by my gullible mind. The trickery did not end with that unexpected reflection. Even after I realized I had been deceived by my own eyes, conspiring to mislead me, another image startled me; this one purely a fantasy created by my imagination. This illusion did not involve eyesight. It took place entirely in my head, relying only on my recollection of an incident that took place quite some time ago.

In this illusion, I sat at a table inside a tiny restaurant next to a woman with whom I share certain interests. We had agreed to meet at the little place for lunch to discuss one of our common interests. I was nervous, as if there was more to our meeting than a simple discussion. The tension I felt was akin to the feeling of “butterflies” I remember feeling during a first date while I was in high school. That was why I felt nervous. I found the woman attractive and I was worried that my attraction to her would be obvious and unwelcome. There was no need to worry, I decided later, because I was adept at hiding my emotion. Even when I told her I enjoyed our conversation and suggested we meet again, my discomfort was obvious only to me. Although the fact we only met for lunch that one time might suggest either that she hid her displeasure at my attraction or that I avoided subsequent engagements to protect myself from further discomfort.

Why that fantasy came to mind on the heels of seeing the reflection of my coffee cup is beyond me. It is not uncommon for thoughts unrelated to my experiences in the moment to emerge. I cannot explain, for example, why memories of fishing on the Intracoastal Canal occasionally pop up at times when fishing is the furtherest thing from my mind. The mind is a mystery.

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I have an appointment at the “urgent care” clinic this morning, where I hope the nurse I am to see will quickly and easily determine what has been causing the pain I feel in and around my right clavicle (and in my shoulders and various other joints). I had hoped my primary care physician’s office could arrange for an x-ray (which I want because I think it may be possible that my right clavicle might have a hairline fracture, though I do not know how that might have happened). I could not get an appointment there right away, though, so they suggested I go the urgent care clinic. We shall see what, if anything, the urgent care clinic can do to relieve my pain. Probably nothing. I am not much of an optimist this morning.

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We may order a pizza this evening in lieu of a Thanksgiving dinner. If we do, we’ll re-heat the pizza tomorrow, which will serve in place of a more traditional Thanksgiving feast. Neither of us are interested in investing the time and energy in making a “normal” feast. It’s one thing to prepare a big, special meal for several family members or friends, but quite another when it’s just the two of us. I am used to non-traditional holiday meals. For most of my adult life, I have been far away from my family. Friends are busy with their own families or their own traditions, which is perfectly fine with me. I rather like being free to relax and enjoy being deeply lazy on holidays.

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Mi novia went out yesterday and bought a “pencil” Christmas tree, an artificial tree that’s tall and thin and easily stored when the season is over. It will be available for future Christmas celebrations, as will the Santa Claus pillow and the holiday decorations. Holidays in general are no longer especially appealing to me. There is little “special” about them. I do miss that sense of holiday cheer that I remember feeling as a kid (if, indeed, my memories are my own). But I can do without it.

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Time to have some avocado toast and launch into the day.

Guilt is among the most troubling and torturous emotions. It attaches itself to one’s personality and refuses to release its death grip. Guilt grows from the assignment of blame; not by someone else, but by oneself. It insinuates itself into one’s every breath, refusing to allow even a moment’s respite. Guilt chips away at one’s sense of self-worth, leaving only an ugly shadow of the person who once inhabited his mind and body. No matter how emphatically a person is told to discard the sense of guilt, no matter how hard others try to wash that emotion away, it leaves a permanent mark. A blemish that cannot be completely erased, regardless of how thoroughly one’s psyche is subjected to cleansing through counseling or medications or time. Guilt settles into one’s brain for a reason; “if only I had behaved differently…” History cannot be revised.

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If I am not mistaken, today is the fifty-ninth anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.  That event stunned the world. The world has changed dramatically since then. The innocence underlying our shock and horror fifty-nine years ago is absent today. Humankind has become hardened, jaded, calloused to the horrors of which too many are capable. Fifty-nine years have transformed innocence and trauma into treachery and rage. Only by acknowledging the degradation of human decency can we be begin to overcome that decay; rebuilding civility and dignity and respect for human life. I suspect it will take far longer to retrieve innocence than it took to snatch it away from us. Perhaps we will never again be innocent, but maybe there is a chance we will become civilized and kind.

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Let wickedness escape as it may at the bar, it never fails of doing justice to itself; for every guilty person is his own hangman.

~ Seneca ~

When I awoke, just a few minutes before 5, the word volcano came to mind. It was not just the word, of course. The rumbling of the ground beneath my feet, as I stood at the edge of the caldera left from its last eruption, coursed through my body. Vibrations that seemed to send messages to me; alerting me to prepare for an explosive announcement of the power of the Earth. I smelled the sulfur in the air. I felt sweat drip from my brow as the warm—almost hot—humid air wrap around me. A new eruption was imminent. There was no question: when it occurred, I would be incinerated, my ashes buried beneath millions of tons of molten rock. No one would know what happened to me because no one knew I had gone to the rim surrounding the volcano’s basin. I should have let someone know, so they could at least guess what happened to me.

Obviously, I was not entirely awake. Even though I arose from bed and went through my morning routine of peeing and dressing and going into the kitchen to make coffee, my consciousness drifted slowly between wakefulness and a dream state. My imagination held me in its grip, even while the coffee sputtered from the machine, slowly filling my cup. The scenes surrounding my presence on the edge of the volcano were not vivid. They were almost transparent. Holograms overlaid atop my morning routine, not dense and sharp enough to hide reality, but sufficiently intense to make me question whether I was really awake.

By the time I got to my study, the vapor of the dream state had disappeared, leaving me fully awake and slightly confused about my half-asleep experience. As I write these words, a book I read many, many years ago comes to mind: Under the Volcano, by Malcolm Lowry. I remember almost nothing of the book, but I remember hearing my creative writing professor (who recommended the book) talk about how Lowry revised various drafts of his work. A character who, in one draft, might be the protagonist’s daughter would become his wife or lover or sister (or all three) in later drafts. That revelation has stuck with me all these years later, perhaps because I tend to do that, as well. Women in the life of one of my characters, James Kneeblood, take on very different roles in different iterations of my stories. His daughters, in an early draft, are his lovers in later versions, for example. Unlike Malcolm Lowry, though, I have not been disciplined in keeping various drafts of my writing; in many cases, I simply delete files, simply to clear out rubbish that could confuse me.

Dreams that doggedly remain active even after waking may be signs of mental decay. I may be “in decline,” to use a euphemism for an irrevocable mental meltdown. But, then again, maybe not. Perhaps I am simply suffering the symptoms of intellectual exhaustion; nothing that three weeks on a nearly deserted desert island in the South Pacific could not cure.

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Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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Liberals and progressives (who may be one and the same) seem to cling to the belief that, if only we could provide safety and comfort and adequate food and water to everyone on the planet, wars and other forms of inexcusable violence would cease. Greed and the lust for power negate that gullible position. Perhaps violence of all kinds would diminish slightly, but it would not disappear. The belief that it would evaporate is based on the mistaken impression that humans are “just another animal.” If we were like dogs or tigers or sharks or eagles, meeting our needs for food and shelter might eliminate violent behaviors. But we are different from other creatures. We belong to a species that thrives on violence, gluttony, and control.

Conservatives, on the other hand, live in fear that violence, gluttony, and the hunger for power will overpower humanity. Decency and altruism, in the conservative mindset, do not exist; they are artificial attributes that conceal deceit and treachery.

Realists are universally hated by everyone.

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The appeal of a long, strong embrace is powerful. Hunger for that embrace is what drives us. We want to be protected by the love spoken through the language of embrace. “Free hugs” are teases. They give just an artificial taste of what a real embrace can do. An embrace can carry us through the reeds of anxiety and depression and loss and grief and guilt.

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We can forget people who hurt us. That is a good thing. But we also can forget people who are good to us; kind people who deserve to be remembered, but who get lost in the chaos of life’s evolution. I want to go back and say kind things to good people I have forgotten, but I do not know who or where they are. Most of them probably are dead. But some of them are alive and probably would be receptive to expressions of appreciation and thanks. if only I knew how to remember them and, then, how to find them and how to put into words a set of emotions I do not fully understand.

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The volcano has settled down a bit. Eventually, it will erupt. But not today.

Sitting at my desk, gazing out the window, I get the sense that I am looking at a photograph or a painting. The branches and leaves are absolutely still, as if frozen in a moment in time. Only when I see a bird or a ground squirrel streak across my field of vision is it apparent that my view is live. Except for those occasional movements, my view captures a still life; an image like a photograph taken one hundred years ago. When I contemplate what this same view might have looked like one hundred years ago, though, I see a completely different landscape. The forest was more dense then, I imagine. Animals that today avoid the prying eyes of humans probably would not have been so shy back then because they would have had fewer human encounters.

Wind is invisible, but its effects are plain to see in the forest. The invisible air that surrounds my view of the still life remains invisible when the wind blows. Though I understand that changes in air pressure causes the molecules of air to push against everything in their path, the concepts of wind and air pressure still amaze me. How can I see nothing pushing against the leaves, when I know there’s something out there causing the leaves to dance? And the leaves have, indeed, begun to dance, albeit only modestly. An occasional gust disturbs the quiet and stationary. Do the molecules of air that press against the leaves move to other parts of the forest, or do they simply stop moving and allow the forest to return to its statuesque state? These are the questions of a child, someone who has not yet been introduced to mundane explanations involving an understanding of science. My questions ignore my vague knowledge of atmospheric physics. Innocence and awe should not dissolve as we age. We should try to hold onto them for as long as we can; for a lifetime, if possible.

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I listened to an intriguing program, The Splendid Table, on NPR yesterday afternoon. One of the guests on yesterday’s program, Priya Parker, is author of a book entitled The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters. Parker acknowledges the importance of hosts and hosting, but she spoke in greater depth about the value and importance of being a good guest, or “guesting.” She gave an example of how good “guesting” can make enormously important contributions to gatherings. She talked about a guest at a house-warming party who, with permission of the host, asked each of the guests to talk to the group about an aspect of the host’s new house that they found especially appealing. Parker explained that the conversation could only have been triggered successfully by a guest, not the host. And she noted that the guest’s prompt ensured that all guests were drawn into positive conversations. Finally, the positive comments about the new home helped confirm to the hosts that the guests appreciated the experience.

At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.

~ Plato ~

When I lived in Dallas, I listened to The Splendid Table regularly. Its creator, Lynne Rosetto Kasper, was a superb host whose conversations about food and the culture surrounding food were, in my opinion, absolutely captivating. When we moved to Hot Springs Village, though, I lost track of the program. As far as I knew at the time, the local NPR station, KUAR, did not carry the program. And I did not bother seeking out the podcast; something made listening to the program in the car seem the only appropriate way to listen. Within the past few weeks, though, I’ve stumbled upon The Splendid Table—with a new host—Francis Lam, who replaced Lynne Rosetto Kasper—on KUAR. I am glad I did. The program is far more than a recipe-sharing program. It delves into the complexities and rewards of sharing at every stage of meals and food-related entertainment. From shopping to preparation to recipe histories to presentation to conversations and every other element relating to food and meals and social gathering. Though it has been a while since I was a regular listener, I think I will try to get back into the habit. I hope I enjoy the new host as much as I did the original one.

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One of the definitions of platonic—the definition I believe is most commonly assumed when the word is used in conversation—is “purely spiritual; free from sensual desire, especially in a relationship between two persons of different sexes.” The antonym specified in Roget’s 21st Century Thesaurus, Third Edition, is “physical.” I would have assumed “romantic” also would have been an antonym (possibly a better one), but I suppose Roget is better equipped than I to offer “official” information about the English language. At any rate, taken together, Roget allows one to confidently state that a platonic relationship is both free of sensual desire and is non-physical. But if one or both participants in a platonic relationship harbors hidden sensual desires for the other, does that negate the application of the term “platonic” to the relationship? What term might apply to a relationship that conceals, beneath the surface, sensual or romantic attraction? Last night, while watching The Crown, I wondered about the relationships between various members of the royal family and others. They might be platonic—the behavior of people involved seem to suggest platonic relationships—but glimpses into the emotions hidden from public view suggest otherwise. Then, again, I may be misreading the characters’ emotions. They may not harbor romantic or sensual feelings toward people who are “just friends.” If I were more attuned to the history of the royal family from the 1940s to the present, I might be sufficiently knowledgeable to understand what goes on between members of the royal family and those around them.  We’re only on season two of five and I may be getting tired of The Crown. But I may stick it out to the end, if for no other reason than to better understand the fictionalized royal family.

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Church calls this morning. Time to shower, shave, and put on clothes I’d rather not wear. I have grown increasingly enamored of comfortable clothes; sweat pants, a sweat shirt, flip flops. That attire keeps me warm. Though it may not be as appealing, visually, as less casual attire, it is a wardrobe I treasure far more than black leather shoes, slacks, a button-down shirt, and a sports jacket. Fashion is equivalent to a torture chamber in a prison cell. I do not always feel this way, but it has become far more common in recent years. I long to escape the cell. If I can’t be naked, I’d rather wear soft, comfortable clothes. It matters not that the clothes may be stained with paint and/or worn thin from over-use. When I see others wearing the kind of clothes I like, I immediately take a liking to the people wearing them. We are, in one way or another, soul mates. Our taste in life and living is impeccable. Ach! I mentioned church. And so I shall move on to the next stage of the day.

Attempting meditation, my mind sometimes refuses to leave me to my serenity, insisting instead that my thoughts focus on a discussion I wish had taken a different direction than it actually took. Or my mind may stubbornly cling to an image of a person’s face. Or I revise and replay conversations in my head, my imagination altering the words spoken or the expressions on speakers’ faces. Wants. Desires. Hopes. Those are the culprits that interfere with my attempts to attain tranquility—assuming tranquility is what I am after. But that may not be the real object of my efforts. Fantasies invade my head, filling the emptiness left by my attempts at meditation. Memories from years ago—and from last week or yesterday or prospective memories of tomorrow—become crisp and clear, as if I were in the midst of experiences long since gone and forgotten. I have visions representing experiences I want to have, on one hand; on the other, my mind works hard to erase memories of experiences I want to forget. All of this takes place in the space of a nano-second. And it could then be done, except that those nano-seconds repeat themselves, piling upon one another until minutes or hours have passed. Without any successful attempts at meditation. But I then plan to try again tomorrow or the next day or day-upon-day thereafter. Meditation requires a willing mind, one that accepts the value of emptiness and that willingly discards cluttered space.

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A few minutes ago, I opened the folder that contains drafts of blog posts—unfinished writings that I found unsatisfactory as I wrote them. Among those drafts were the paragraphs that follow. Because meditation has eluded me and creativity refuses to emerge from the cave in my head where it hides, I decided to retrieve one of those unfinished pieces and let it—a piece of the past—stand in for today’s musings.

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Not long ago, I read that the Milky Way galaxy is comprised of between 200 billion to 400 billion stars. In addition to the Milky Way, the vast expanse of space is home to billions of galaxies. And the distance between each galaxy is 31 million light years. The distance between earth and the most distant galaxy must be billions of quintillions of light years.

My mind is incapable of conceiving of the number of stars in the universe. I cannot fathom the distances between stars and galaxies. I cannot comprehend the distance between the edge of the universe and its center—is that perhaps because the universe might be wrapped around itself in a perpetual, infinitesimal loop? Even that “simple” explanation describes distance and time and space in ways impossible for me to fully process. If I were looking for answers in the stars, my search would be limitlessly hopeless. The one star that might contain the answer could be hidden behind one billion quintillion stars, all perfectly aligned with one another, in galaxies separated by distances too vast for mathematics to measure, much less articulate.

As I contemplate the numbers I have just attempted to grasp, the chaotic complexity that might have described my brain smooths into a perfectly flat simplicity. No longer is my mind plagued with questions about the scope of the universe. Nor about my mind’s ability to understand the concept of time in the absence of space. Nor about anything else as imperfect and ragged as existence itself. I am unconcerned about life and death, because both simply are pinpricks in an impossibly large, impossibly thick, and utterly impermeable curtain that shields us from knowledge we are incapable of processing.

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Enough. More than enough.

I consider myself a “has been” lately, in the context of deciding whether I really am a writer. I used to write fiction. Every day. My blog was my outlet for fiction vignettes. I rarely finished a story, but I wrote literally dozens—more likely hundreds—of scenes that I could readily adapt and incorporate into longer pieces of fiction. But I haven’t done it, despite my intentions to do exactly that.

I think everything changed when I was diagnosed with lung cancer about four years ago. Since then, most of what I’ve written has been the equivalent of a stream-of-consciousness journal. My late wife’s illness and death commanded much of my attention thereafter; still does. Those experiences seem to have altered my thinking about writing. Prior to the intrusion of my cancer and my wife’s death into my life, the fiction I wrote was important to me. I wanted to consolidate what I had written into one or more novels. But, now, the products of the time I spend writing are no longer especially important. While I still feel compelled to write, I don’t consider my writing important. Not in the least. I suppose I realize now that it never was important. I allowed myself to think the quality of my writing was good. Good enough to create a novel worthy of publication. This morning, though, I realize I deluded myself. I wanted or needed something that would verify my value and I latched onto writing as that something.

I was a writer. I felt like a writer. I said I was a writer. I intended to publish my work, offering evidence that my claims were legitimate. But I am not sufficiently interested in that any longer. I miss having an objective. A target to pursue. Something to strive for. If I were much younger, I might return to school in pursuit of something meaningful to me. Architecture. Law. Advanced sociology that could lead to research and teaching.  Hell, burnishing my limited skills at welding and improving on them could capture my interest. There are dozens of subjects and/or activities that could keep me interested. But only if I were much younger. There comes a time when almost everything seems out of reach or a waste of time. Why bother learning something new or improving one’s skills when the likelihood that one will be unable to put them to productive use grows by the day? Thinking about this is not productive, either. Why torture myself by focusing on the desirable but unattainable? It’s pointless.

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I have never been to The Old Church in Portland, Oregon or McCabes in Santa Monica, California or Freight & Salvage Coffee House in Berkeley, California. Despite my lack of experience with those places, I suspect they are the kinds of spots I would enjoy live music. I base my guess solely on the fact that Suzzy Roche and Lucy Wainwright Roche played those venues during their tour; the one that wrapped up several months ago. I may be wrong, but I suspect those venues are small, intimate, and conducive to music that will fill a room without shattering the eardrums of listeners. And that suspicion is based on yet another assumption; that performers in those venues and their audiences do not like music so loud it hurts. I have never been a fan of music capable of rendering deaf its listeners. Even when I was a teenager who cranked up the volume, I had personal limits. Unlike some friends who seemed to consider listening at excessive volume a measure of teen rebelliousness. I suspect those friends, with whom I lost touch the moment I left home for college, are now deaf and quite possibly brain-damaged, victims of monstrously loud noises that left each of them with a broken malleus, incus, and stapes. Deeper in their skulls, portions of their brains were liquified by the vibrations of sound waves powerful enough to transform solid granite into a wet, dust-laden slurry. My assessment of inexcusably loud music is not the predictable complaint of an old man who once enjoyed dangerous noise. Mine is the assessment of a man who always has intensely disliked over-loud music. Music that transforms one’s inner serenity into bitter, murderous anger is to be avoided at all costs because it interrupts the enjoyment of important conversations.  It drowns out important conversations and wrecks otherwise intimate communications in small places. 

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What makes old age so sad is not that our joys but our hopes cease.

~ Jean Paul ~

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David Tennant plays a vicar in the television series Inside Man, which I have been watching off and on of late.  I’m still mulling over what I think of the show. In his real life, Tennant is a 51-year-old Scottish actor who is father to five children. He often plays characters who allow the whiskers on the neck to grow unchecked. Unruly neck whiskers, ignored and allowed to grow with no attention to grooming, are hideous, in my opinion. People who permit untrimmed neck beards to sprout without any controls placed on them look awfully unkempt. When I see such people, I immediately assume they are homeless, impoverished, and quite possibly mentally deranged. Otherwise, why would they allow their appearances to look so ragged? I wonder whether David Tennant allows his neck whiskers to grow so wild when he is not playing a part? The more I see his acting, the more I wonder about his personal hygiene. The fact that he is tall and extremely thin contributes to my assessment of him. But, then, I begin to think he may have some kind of skin disease that makes shaving his neck either painful or potentially dangerous. Yet my first reaction is to judge him.

Tennant played the tenth and the fourteenth incarnations of Dr. Who in the British science fiction series. My introduction to him, though, was through his role as DI Alec Hardy in the British crime drama series, Broadchurch. That same series introduced me to Olivia Colman, who I have seen several times since in various other British television productions. I learned this morning that she was born Sarah Caroline Colman. She has to adopt a different name when she began acting professionally because Equity (the UK actors’ union) already had an actress named Sarah Colman. She kept her maiden name but adopted Olivia as her first name; one of her best friends was named Olivia and she was quite fond of the name. When she married, she became Sarah Caroline Sinclair, but she maintained the stage name, Olivia Colman.

I will not remember much about either David Tennant or Olivia Colman; I tend not to know much about actors, but what I learn about their personal lives I tend to forget quite rapidly. I suppose it would be different if I were to become friends with actors, but I cannot imagine circumstances that would lead me to befriend either Tennant or Colman. Or vice versa.

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Intimacy—closeness that fits like a tailored glove—protects us from decay. It offers us purpose and hope. But intimacy is hard to find. Intimacy requires letting one’s guard down and opening oneself to inspection. The flaws as well as the precious stones must be acknowledged. The recipient of that kind of openness must reciprocate if intimacy is to be achieved. People tend to be unwilling to expose themselves so completely, so deeply. That is a shame; but it is what it is.

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This day has potential, if only I can uncover it and expose it to air and light.

“She seemed to be such a happy person.” I have read that refrain, or something like it, so many times following a suicide.  Or conversely, the decedent may have been labeled a “sad person,” suggesting his own life was almost expected. Regardless of whether we say a person is “happy” or “sad,” what criteria do we use to make those judgments about people we probably do not know? For that matter, how do we classify ourselves, and on what basis?

Happiness and sadness are subjective attributes, though objective measures of their markings can be made. Yet having a smile or a frown on one’s face or having furrowed or smooth brows does not assure correct assumptions about a person’s state of mind. But we tend to collect behavioral clues and make subjective judgments based on them. I doubt we make those judgments solely on the basis of those behavioral clues, though. We blend those clues with our perspectives, which have been shaped through experience, leading to our judgments. A different set of experiences blended with those behavioral clues might have led to a completely different judgment. In both cases, the judgment amounts to a biased guess that we might dress up by calling it something else: “an empirically solid assessment,” perhaps.

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I woke up this morning with a rather assertive backache from my mid-back to the bottom of my spine. This often happens when I sleep on my back. I always start on my side, but apparently during the night I toss and turn a bit. Frequently, I turn onto my back and stay that way for far too long. The pain may not be entirely my fault. It may be that the mattress is too soft. Or is it too hard? With a different mattress, would I tend not to roll over onto my back? Or, if I did, would I not develop aches and pains? Rather than invest in another mattress, though, perhaps I should invest in a good massage. Starting from the base of my skull and moving all the way down to the tip of my spine, a deep massage might erase the pain, turning that ache into its antithesis…whatever that might be. I would gladly pay for such a massage, delivered by someone whose strong hands and thorough knowledge of massage would deliver me from discomfort. And I just might.

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Every human voice may not be unique, but most are sufficiently different that we can identify a speaker solely from the sound of her voice. I wonder whether individuals of other species can assign specific individual identities to the intra-species sounds they hear? Does a goat hear the bleat of another goat and say to itself, “Oh, that’s the bleat of Gloria Goat?” My curiosity about whether other creatures can identify friends and family by sound was triggered this morning when I heard a rather complex, elaborate bird call. An experienced naturalist might be able to say, oh, that’s a Carolina Wren (or whatever), but he cannot identify the specific bird making the noise. But can birds differentiate between individual calls/songs? I could ask them, but they will not answer. At least not in a language I understand.

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I sometimes begin writing about something on my mind but, as I think about it, I decide to delete what I have written. I pick something else, something completely unrelated to what I had first begun to write. The reason is that I realize readers might assume the topic I had written was relevant in some way to me when, in fact, it is not. And for whatever reason, I find it easier to just avoid the topic than to attempt to explain why, given its irrelevance, I am writing about it. Odd, these little personal foibles that are damn near impossible to explain, much less defend.

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I’ve allowed too much time to pass during the last hour and a half. I’m putting on the brakes.

Only vague scenes from my dream remain. In one, I am attempting to sweep up balls of lint from the carpeted floor of the community hall of my church, but the broom leaves most of the stuff on the floor, no matter how much I sweep. This frustrates me because an event is scheduled to take place in the room and the floor is covered with lint balls. Another scene involves people from church, but it takes place about half-way down a steep water-slide. A woman is a few feet in front of me and another one is a few feet behind me. We’re all sliding down quite fast and I am concerned that, when we reach the bottom, I will crush the one in front of me and I will be crushed by the one behind me. There’s more to the memory, but it is so smoky I cannot quite understand it. There is absolutely no “meaning” to the dreams scenes, I am sure; they are just random collections of nerve synapses responding to random triggers.

+++

We finally began watching The Crown a couple of nights ago. I was skeptical, unsure the story could capture my attention. After two episodes, I was convinced I will appreciate the series. It will keep us occupied on chilly nights. When we’re not watching The Crown, I might sneak in some viewing of Inside Man. Or some of the other programs I’ve sampled of late: The Trial; Loving Adults; The Lørenskog Disappearance; Good Morning, Verônica; Into the Night. There are more, I’m sure. I seem to relay on a 65-inch screen for the majority of my entertainment, these days.

+++

If civilization is to survive, we must cultivate the science of human relationships – the ability of all peoples, of all kinds, to live together, in the same world at peace.

~ Franklin D. Roosevelt ~

+++

At what point does the potential danger posed by someone’s mental disorder override that person’s right to enjoy the same freedoms as everyone else? Individual freedoms notwithstanding, when does that individual’s behaviors become sufficiently disruptive to merit labeling her unwelcome—persona non grata? Dealing with behavioral expressions of mental illness tests the degrees to which individuals’ and organizations’ are tolerant of behaviors that do not conform to subjective standards. In most environments, troublesome “abnormal” behaviors are relative rare and, therefore, addressing them may be awkward or embarrassing. And because such behaviors may be relatively unknown in a given situation, responses to them might tend to mimic responses to other unknowns: fear. The fight or flight response prompted by fear may be precisely the wrong way to address abnormal behaviors associated with mental illness. Yet condescension, a fairly common paternal response to “bad behavior” is unlikely to be any better. For example, an adult suffering from mental illness may understandably be offended if she is treated as if she has not developed beyond childhood. Respect can go a long way toward making difficult experiences more tolerable. Like so many other situations, the “right” way to deal with troublesome behaviors depends on the circumstances. Context matters.

I can only imagine how teachers, faced with a classroom full of kids of all shapes and sizes, have to dance on the head of a needle when delivering “custom” education to an exceptionally diverse student body. How does a teacher tailor his responses to a range of kids, from intellectually advanced to emotionally stunted? A student suffering from a mental disorder may need special attention, but providing that special attention may distract the teacher from paying adequate attention to other kids in a classroom. I can empathize, but I would be unwilling (and unable) to trade places.

+++

The pain I feel all along my right clavicle is sufficiently intrusive that I began to think I somehow may have cracked one or more bones. Unhappy joints could be responsible, I suppose. Google gives me reason to think my pain is not a broken clavicle, though. A broken or cracked clavicle, according to Johns Hopkins’ online resources, probably would be more painful and might even be visible. Though my pain can be pretty severe, it is not as intense as Johns Hopkins describes collar bone breaks. Pain can arise from causes other than major bone breaks: osteomyelitis (bone infection); compressed nerves; joint dislocation; distal clavicular osteolysis (cracks or breaks at the end of the bone). It just gets more complex from there, suggesting to me that self-diagnosis is definitely not the way to go.

+++

A brief interruption to join mi novia in watching two deer wander close to the house, enjoying a meal of grass. I like living in the forest, isolated except for the forest creatures and lots and lots of leaves.

Life is a series of dramatic acts that collectively attempt to explain the inexplicable. The purpose of every scene is to make tolerable the unbearable.

Ah, I think that description—ascribing motive and purpose to life—tips the scales toward melodrama. It answers the question of “Why are we here?” with an unsophisticated “Yes,” and follows on with, “You’ll understand better when you’re older.” Well, here I am—older—and I remain in the dark. I would have thought I might have reached my age of enlightenment by now.

Ruminating about the question—why are we here?—invariably requires confronting the question of who or what is sufficiently knowledgeable and/or wise to answer it. And if life has purpose, a being or power or entity of some kind must have imputed the reason for the existence of life. Especially human life. But perhaps there is another explanation. That life creates its own purpose. That life itself is divine; is its own deity. Which negates much of the value we assign to religion.

+++

Often, it is the mundane that fills in the empty spaces between meaningful. If every moment were bursting with deep intrinsic significance, we perpetually would be exhausted from our attempts at understanding the meaning of everything. Fortunately, most of life is mundane. Trimming one’s nails. Showering. Shaving. Wiping dust from windowsills. Thumbing through magazines. Reading the day’s news. Doing laundry. Washing dishes. Deciding between cereal and yoghurt for breakfast. The list could go on until the edge of eternity.

While all of these endeavors is mundane, a careful examination of each one would reveal complexity hidden in plain view. Consider one’s nails, for example. According to an article on Healthline.com, fingernails grow at a rate of about 3.47 millimeters per month, which translates into roughly 1.64 inches per year. That did not seem very long to me until I held a ruler up to my fingernails. Untrimmed nails that survived unbroken for a year would look like claws. The rate of growth is not the only matter relating to fingernails that calls into question the “mundane” aspect of one’s nails.  The nails (primarily composed of keratin), as well as the hairs on our body, are made of skins cells. Structures made of skin cells are called skin appendages.

Every aspect of our experience of life is ripe with opportunities to transform the mundane into the spectacularly complex and incredibly interesting. We simply must adjust the way we think in order to make those transformations. As I glance around my desk, I see a coffee cup and a receptible for pens and a lamp and a mouse pad and various other very mundane items. But if I look at that coffee cup and imagine its transformation from raw clay—to leather hard—to greenware—to bisque—to glazed and finished cup, its simplicity dissolves into complexity. While simplicity is beautiful, beauty also resides in the complexity that undergirds it. If I go beyond simply noticing the containers of pens on my desk, examining every aspect of each container and its contents, I could spend hours in thoughtful contemplation: how the pen was assembled, the origins of its metal and plastic parts, the composition and viscosity of the ink in the pen’s barrel, the thought processes behind the decisions about the colors chosen for the pen’s shell…and on and on and on. The same is true of the lamp and the mouse pad and every other element on my desk. And I could explore the same degree of complexity behind the simplicity of the shirt I am wearing; the weave pattern, its color and softness, etc. “Mundane” hides not only the intriguing aspects of items and ideas all around us, it affords the opportunity to be lazy; to avoid delving into the intricacies of matters we lazily call “mundane.”

+++

I want. Uttering the pairing of those two words is equivalent to saying “greed.”  Because greed places desire ahead of need. Taming greed demands energy and a commitment to rejecting constant messages from marketers. Marketers try to convince people that desire is necessity; want, they insist, equates to need. The skills exercised by good marketers demonstrate the sophistication that leads to sales. On one hand, I hold good marketers in high regard for their remarkable creativity and their success in persuading people that their wants actually are needs. On the other hand, though, I detest the dishonesty and dismissal of attention to individuals’ circumstances exhibited by good marketers. How can the marketer—who convinces a person living in poverty to spend money on luxuries instead of necessities—live with himself?

+++

Another medical visit today, this one to have a growth on my neck examined. Sometime soon, I expect to visit a rheumatologist. And, of course, I have to see my primary care physician (or his staff) before long. And a delayed routine dental visit is coming soon. There are more. If the universe were a fair place, my decaying physical form could be replaced in its entirety with a freshly-minted life-like substitute into which my brain was implanted. But while I’m fantasizing, I’d like that brain to be tweaked before implantation. I want to be considerably smarter; and quick-witted. Of course, the substitute body would not require the consumption of dozens of pills and capsule every day. That, alone, would make the replacement quite desirable.

+++

I just heard the owl again. It sounds like it is just outside my window, but I can seen nothing because it’s still dark at a quarter after 6 in the morning. I’ve been up since 4:30; this is the first time I’ve heard the owl in almost two hours. There’s something about hearing an owl’s call that causes me to appreciate, deeply, living in a forest.

+++

My cup is almost empty. The half-inch remaining in the cup is cold and unfriendly. I will discard it; replace it with another cup of hot, French roast coffee. An apple fritter would taste so incredibly good with that new cup of coffee. I’d settle for a croissant. Or a scone. Or a piece of sour dough toast smeared with roasted garlic and drizzled with butter. Or a bowl of pork congee, flavored with fresh ginger and soy sauce and sambal oelek.  I may have to settle for something that does not rise to the gloriousness of my desired options.

+++

The terms “masculinity” and “femininity” are thrown around with abandon, yet I remain unable to define, precisely, what those terms mean. What is masculinity? Is it toughness? Strength? Resolve? And what about femininity? Fragility? Compassion? Nurturing? I suppose the terms refer to a single attribute that exists along a spectrum. At one end. we attach the label, “masculinity” and at the other, “femininity.” Along that spectrum are various traits that are more or less visible, depending where one looks along its length. For some reason, I’ve always envisioned masculinity in a context in which a cartoon character with his knuckles dragging the ground is in play; a rather negative perspective, I’d say. But that’s not the only vision. Positive markers, like gallantry and chivalry. Yet those two qualities can also be viewed as evidence of a sense of superiority, something I find extremely offensive. The definitions of masculinity and femininity flex and bend as society evolves, I think. Ultimately, I think society may arrive at acceptable definitions of the two terms, increasingly defined as levels of contrast, in both directions, with androgyny.

+++

It’s now almost 7, time for me to stop assaulting the keyboard. I’ll launch into the day, now.

There are days that I ache to engage in long philosophical conversations with someone whose sensitivities parallel mine, but whose perspectives on life may deviate from mine. Someone whose life experiences may have shaped a different world-view. I want to have discussions that take unexpected twists and turns; conversations that can provide both insights and entertainment for hours at a time. The conversations may be intense, but not dead-serious. We tend to take ourselves too seriously; I want these discussions to be serious, but willing to stray into humor. Slapstick humor, on rare occasion. And these conversations might be capped off with celebratory toasts; I with a glass of sparkling water, my conversationalist partner with wine or whiskey or coffee or a shot of tequila. Or a few draws from a vape pen. Or whatever. The point is to “toast” the enjoyment of thought and conversation. The outcome of these discussions may have no intrinsic value; no value to humanity in the larger sense. Except, of course, helping participants realize the immeasurable value of human engagement.

Despite my desire to engage, the strength of my desire to disengage can be just as great. The craving for distance, privacy, isolation, seclusion—that powerful urge to be utterly alone—competes head-to-head with the more social need. Sometimes, one is stronger than the other. Sometimes they balance one another.

I understand the conflicting emotions that cause me to vacillate between the desire for communication and the longing to be alone with my thoughts. But I wonder whether others share the way my thoughts and my wishes tendency to cling to a pendulum of interests and emotions? The idea of getting into others’ minds intrigues me. I wish I could experience the way other people think. The way they experience the world around them. Every time I think of “getting into someone else’s head,” I think of a film I saw many years ago on PBS. I’ve written about it more than once before. Here’s what I said about it, roughly ten years ago:

“…I was enamored of a film called Overdrawn at the Memory Bank, which starred Raúl Julia in the character of Aram Fingal, a programmer for NoviCorp, a global corporation that shared control of the dystopian society that had taken control of the world. Fingal, who had broken the corporate rules by watching a film (Casa Blanca; the arts had been banned), was punished and rehabilitated by having his mind transferred (“doppeled”) to an aging ape for a time. The plot line is long and somewhat convoluted (and I don’t recall it entirely), but this one element of the film, doppeling, intrigued me.”

The idea of doppeling into the mind of other people appeals to me. I would like to see and analyze the world through the eyes and minds of people who are close to me. And I have a similar interest in knowing, first-hand, how people who I find offensive see the world. Getting into another person’s mind has the potential to be embarrassing, though. What if, for example, I discovered while inside a woman friend’s head that she had romantic feelings for me? Or, to the contrary, what if I found that someone I thought was a friend considered me a deadly dull bore…or worse, loathed me intensely? It could be even worse: I could stumble upon a person’s memories of—or plans for—committing a crime.

In spite of my interest and willingness to get inside someone else’s head, I would mightily resist someone else getting inside mine. There’s too much up there I do not want others to know. Indiscriminate exposure of my thoughts might put me at risk for arrest by the Thought Police. I cannot justify keeping my thoughts private if I insist on getting into others’ heads, so I suppose I should let the fantasy of doppeling just quietly disappear into the ether.

+++

The 5:00 a.m. temperature outdoors was a brisk 28°F in Hot Springs Village; it is expected to climb to 46°F. Reykjavik, Iceland is considerably warmer at the moment, at 45°F. The high for the day in that far-off fantasy-land will reach 48°F, if the Weather Network forecast is correct.

Only a few years ago, I would have been unable to check local temperatures from the comfort of my desk. And I would not have had easy and immediate access to weather data and predictions for cities around the globe. The degree to which people have adjusted—and are adjusting—to the lightning speed of technological change varies, but the rapidity of adjustment correlates closely with age. I think there is a close relationship between the speed with which people learn a new language and the speed with which they learn to understand and apply new technologies. But my thinking may be wrong.  I suspect I could rather quickly either verify or debunk my theory if I were inclined to do the research. At the moment, though, the payoff for doing the research is not sufficiently high to merit the expenditure of my energy.

Maybe that concept applies to the levels of success I (and others) experience in learning language and technology, too. For young people, learning languages and technologies can be assumed to have a much longer pay-out than do those acquisitions for much older people. The older one gets, the shorter the time-frame available to put new knowledge and/or abilities to use. The investments of time and energy (which generally increase with age) required to learn new languages and new technologies provides ample pay-back to young people because they can apply those new abilities over a longer period of time than can older people. Whether we acknowledge it or not, perhaps older people instinctively restrict the expenditure of effort to learn new things in order to balance the investment with the return they expect from it.

Consider that a 20-year-old may need to spend two intense years to become semi-fluent in German and a 60-year-old must spend three intense years to achieve the same result. If the 20-year-old lives to age 80, his two-year investment equates to three percent of his total life-span. if the 60-year-old lives to age 80, his three year investment equates to fifteen percent of his remaining life span. What does this tell us? It tells me nothing I can easily explain or express. Mathematics, an utterly objective endeavor, may not provide the best measure of subjective emotional value; assuming, of course, one considers the value of life experience a subjective matter.

+++

My right shoulder aches. When I move my arm in certain ways, the ache intensifies into a sharper, more intense pain. The pain diminishes within a minute or so after I return my shoulder to a better position. Motrin has become a daily thing, along with what seems like a thousand other pills and capsules. I detest having to take so damn many medications. I am tempted to simply stop taking them to see whether my life experience changes in any measurable way. I sometimes question the legitimacy of prescriptions in response to medical complaints. Drugs are too easy. Changes in one’s lifestyle are more difficult, though arguably much more effective. I can talk a good game, but I tend not to practice what I preach. I, who wish I could receive an injection that would cure me of all my ills, rather than adjust my habits in pursuit of the same outcome.

+++

I’ve written too much and said too little. I will stop now. It’s time.

The replacement of the old, non-working gas logs with a new set came just in time, right before the first significant cold front of the season arrived. We seasoned the new gas logs with five hours of burning at the highest setting. Those few hours made the living room quite toasty and comfortable, while providing mesmerizing entertainment; I can spend hours just watching flames lick the air.

Watching fire is not really entertainment, is it? Flames do not entertain me—they captivate me. They capture my imagination.  They hypnotize me. They transport me to another place and another time when I am a different person. Someone brimming with self-confidence and certainty. Someone strong-willed but gentle. But, as I imagine this other me, I realize he would no longer be me; he would be someone else, an artificial replacement for the real thing. So, perhaps I should retain my identity, as flawed and worn and scarred as it is. Odd, isn’t it, that the installation of a set of gas logs should cause intense introspection? I suspect my introspection is always ready to burst through the surface; it does not—did not —need to be triggered by flames.

Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.

~ Leonardo da Vinci ~

+++

Thanksgiving is inching closer. The closer it gets, the more committed I become to making the day’s meal(s) casual and simple. Hours-long preparation and rigid attention to details no longer hold any appeal for me. At least not at the moment. I suppose it’s a matter of mood. I treasure memories of traditional Thanksgiving meals, but the non-traditional culinary experiences of years past are equally appealing. Which ones are most attractive at any given time depends on how I feel at the moment. Mood-switching makes planning a bit of a challenge. Spontaneity appeals to me, but it tends to create chaos when, suddenly, it requires ingredients impossible to find on short notice.

+++

Ever since we moved into the house in which we live, the refrigerator from my former home has been in the garage. We have been planning to move it into the laundry room when we have access to sufficient young, strong, and willing people. But, this morning, I wonder whether I should sell it, instead. Unlike the role of the garage refrigerator at the old house, this one does not perform a major overflow function. We store only a few items in the garage refrigerator now; nothing we could not adjust to if the refrigerator were no longer available. I do not know whether this is a temporary idea or something to which I might become committed. At the moment, though, I am leaning toward satisfying my desire for minimalism. Things that are “nice to have” but rarely used are luxuries, pure and simple. Indulging oneself with such luxuries is a bit embarrassing. But I might change my mind about that. From time to time, I can be a little wishy-washy. I suppose that is an indication that I tend to avoid making firm, unwavering decisions. But that does not describe me. At least it does not describe me all the time. Uh-oh. I feel my thoughts about the garage refrigerator morphing into an assessment of myself. It is like a stream of consciousness, which has been held back by a dam, has been freed, creating a set of rapids comprising fleeting ideas. Those ideas flood against the banks of rational thought that manage their flow, carving away at reason. Bits and pieces of reason and fancy, swirling together in the flow, transform into unrelated thoughts. Magic. Or witchcraft.

+++

Democrats retained control of the Senate. Unfortunately, the Democrat majority is tiny, which illustrates the depth of the political divide in the U.S.; as does the growing likelihood that Republicans will gain a House majority. In both cases, though, the degree of control is slim. While on one hand I wish progressive philosophies controlled both houses of Congress, complete control assures only that compromise is unlikely. When control is fragile, compromise is the only way for both sides to reach at least some of their objectives. In my opinion, the best option available to both is a formal public exploration, by leaders of both parties in both houses, of opportunities to reach mutual agreement on critical matters. An open admission that politics can be successful ONLY when the players are willing to compromise. But the hunger for power in recent years has overwhelmed the desire for progress. That same hunger has morphed into an appetite for confrontation. And the objective of preventing the other side from making any headway, at any cost, has taken control of political interactions. If I were supreme emperor, I would identify all the politicians who stand in the way of reaching agreements and I might issue the command: “Off with their heads!” But we do not live in a  monarchy over which I have absolute control. That is unfortunate. We’ll have to wait and see what happens in the next session of Congress.

+++

Be content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.

~ Lao Tzu ~

+++

Burning desire generally does not involve possessions. Longing for the vague and ephemeral is a curse that cannot be undone by collecting possessions, nor by practicing asceticism. Happiness is transitory, but cyclical and eternal.

And with that, I bid you a good day.

A twenty-minute embrace. That’s what is on my mind this morning. Not too terribly long ago, I read something that suggested complete strangers who embrace one another for as little as twenty minutes can fall in love with one another. Actually, it was not just an embrace. It was a long embrace, followed by conversation. During the conversation, each of the strangers were required to look into the other stranger’s eyes. By the end of twenty minutes, the strangers had become completely enamored with their partners in the study. Whether this is a real memory or is just a fantasy I have concocted to justify my thinking, I do not know. But I am certain the outcome of spending twenty minutes looking into the eyes of a stranger was the topic of a psychological study I read when I was in college. I think. Could it be that “not too terribly long ago” was actually almost fifty years ago?

The idea that looking into a person’s eyes and embracing the person for an extended period could lead to falling in love is intriguing. In an authoritarian society, I can imagine the use of forced intimacy through physical embracing and visual engagement; people could be paired in service to the State. A psychological study of this type probably would be judged unethical. One does not manipulate a subject’s emotions in a way that could be permanent; it is just wrong. And the ethics of such an endeavor would grow even murkier and more sinister if the subjects in the study were in committed relationships to other people. But how can we learn about ourselves as humans without putting ourselves into such circumstances?  It’s a dilemma.

+++

If I knew how many times in a day my friends and family think about me, I think I would be either deeply flattered or deeply depressed. As I consider this matter, I realize that I think about many people during the course of a day; sometimes, I think about specific people dozens of times in that timeframe. Many times, in fact. If I close my eyes, I realize that I see those people not dozens of times, but hundreds. Thoughts of a given person, thoughts that seem to last minutes, might last only a fraction of a second, but the recollections and new experiences that race through my brain during that instant may involve months or years.

+++

Listening to Professor Pragya Agarwal’s video presentation, in which she discussed the topic of How Women are Penalised for their Emotions, prompted me to consider that most people in our culture identify emotions as either masculine or feminine. We judge people when we witness them expressing emotions outside what we consider the correct sphere. Whether our tendency to equate emotions with either masculinity or femininity is trained into us or is hard-wired in our DNA is not absolutely clear. Regardless of its genesis, we can “train” that bias out of us, individually. Yet most people tend to maintain their natural bigotry, making judgments even in the full knowledge that judgments are based on illegitimate stereotypes. We can try to be non-judgmental; but those attempts often fail.

The brain is like a muscle. When it is in use we feel very good. Understanding is joyous.

~ Carl Sagan ~

Looking inward, we realize how nearly-impossible it is to re-wire our psyches. Despite the fact that I know men are expected to temper their emotions—and to avoid certain feminine emotions altogether, I cannot seem to adhere to the rules. I rarely am successful in either tempering or avoiding entirely the expression of gender-inappropriate emotions. And that inability to suppress or hide those emotions creates anxiety. In spite of the fact that I receive comforting reassurances that the display of certain emotions in men is perfectly natural, I try to curb them. I agree that stoicism is a recipe for mental trouble. I agree that it is perfectly normal for men to express feminine emotions. But, apparently, I do not possess sufficient self-confidence to do so openly. I talk a good game. But when it comes to defending the legitimacy of expressing the full range of emotions, I inch away from the front lines. I backtrack a few steps at a time and then sprint away in search of a protective cave where I can conceal myself from prying eyes and ears. On one hand, I want to be able to express emotions without worrying that I will be judged for doing so. On the other, I want to have the discipline and masculine wherewithal to conceal those emotions completely. Competing ideas and thoughts. Hypocrisy. Fear. It’s not enough to wrestle with concealing emotions; I seem to want to conceal and express them at the same time. The grey matter in my skull is uncomfortable; it wants to shift to a more pleasant experience.

+++

The vocal owls remain. We heard again them last night and I heard the sound again this morning. The sound is loud, but it seems distant. At the same time, though, I have the idea that the bird is perched in a tree very near to me; my sense that it is distant may be the result of the sound echoing off the forest of trees.

Listening to the owls and all the other creatures in the forest makes me think: how can I be satisfied to know only the sound? How can I go about my day-to-day life without dedicating myself to getting closer to the sounds? Closer to the creatures that make them? Knowing all about their lives and how they go about living  them? How can I become more knowledgeable about the critters and their sounds?

Those questions arise in virtually every other aspect of my life. The fact that I harbor so many questions—each of which hides ten thousand more—suggests that my knowledge of the world around me is deeply superficial. I know so very little about so very much. That phrase describes my assessment of myself. I skim knowledge, barely breaking the surface so I can get a glimpse of all I do not know. We acknowledge the vastness of our ignorance of life beneath the sea, but we overlook the fact that we are equally ignorant of what goes on outside the periphery of our lives.

I know virtually nothing about the structure and functions of grain elevators. The knowledge required to plant and harvest hundreds of acres of corn or cotton or wheat is outside my realm of experience. My ignorance about wastewater management, brain surgery, modern internal combustion engines, and millions of other aspects of life on earth offers anecdotal evidence that I have been shielded, for my entire life, from knowing more. I have never understood the delivery of electricity to our homes; I consider it proof that magic takes place under our noses. My knowledge of what is involved in launching satellites into orbit. And my understanding of the process of extracting petroleum from the earth and refining it into products that have become vital to our daily lives and, indeed, our survival. I wonder, is it possible to flood our brains with knowledge in a way that will enable us to retrieve that knowledge instantaneously? I’ve been told, in years past, that we use only a fraction of our brains. But more recently, that assertion of fact has been challenged as myth. Researchers have reported that MRI imaging shows that there is no dormant part of the brain. The brain makes up only 3-5% of the body’s weight, but it uses up roughly 20% of the body’s resources, in terms of oxygen and glucose. If only I knew more. If only my knowledge were deeper than wide. Understanding requires depth; breadth  equates only to exposure, not to insight.

+++

The day is speeding by already. I will attempt to capture it and slow it down. Time is racing by of late, a signal that insists I pay attention to mortality. And so I shall.

Warrior, a Scandinavian television series, is worth watching. I’ve noticed that one of the actors, Dar Salim, plays in many Scandi political and police thrillers. Born in Baghdad, Iraq, he moved with his family to Denmark, where he was reared. I won’t go into the plot; plots often are somewhat irrelevant, the underlying themes more important to the story.

+++

I woke hungry. Ravenous. I am trying to control my desire for food, though. If I relent, I will empty the refrigerator and the pantry and then will go to a grocery store, where I will leave the aisles and the freezer cases barren. The cause of my hunger is a mystery to me. Most days, I am perfectly happy to wait for a few hours after I get up and before I eat. Today, though, I want to satisfy my hunger immediately. Waiting will just cause the flames of desire to grow higher and more intense. But wait I will. And when the time to eat finally comes, I will tear through the meal like a captive wolf that hasn’t been fed in several days.  Or maybe not. Though I have not been especially careful about my diet, ever since my short stay in the hospital in late July I have been more conscious of what I consume. And that should continue. A benefit of being more aware of what I am eating has been weight loss. Since late July, I have lost roughly 17 pounds. If I lose another 70, I will have reached a weight more closely identified as my “ideal” weight. Maybe it will happen. Maybe not. Time will tell.

+++

Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: We taste only sacredness.

~ Rumi ~

+++

Even with all the doors and windows shut and various common house-noises filling the empty space, the sounds of two owls calling to one another last night were unmistakable. Though darkness and tree branches shielded the birds from our view, there was no question: those sounds were from owls. According to the Merlin app on my phone, the sounds were made by barred owls.

That was last night. This morning, I woke for the second or third time—around 5:30—to the same sounds. The “hoots” continued for roughly fifteen minutes, then stopped. I’ve waited for at least ten minutes, hoping the calls would start again, but those forest creatures are silent for now.

+++

Humans’ senses are so feeble, in comparison to virtually all the creatures around us. Our senses of smell, taste, touch, sight, and sound are inferior; because, I suppose, our evolution focused on necessary attributes and not so much on the ones I think would be nice to have. Like extraordinary night vision. And daytime vision dozens of times sharper than my vision at its youthful peak. Oh, and the ability to fly; more like swallows than pelicans. And the nose of a bloodhound. I could go on and on, but indulging the fantasy is pointless. Secretly, though, I do it anyway. I indulge my fantasies as a means of keeping me sane. Or preventing me from sliding further into the madness of twenty-first century humanity.

+++

Today is Veteran’s Day, a day meant to honor veterans who served in wars the U.S. has fought. Originally, it was Armistice Day, an event first celebrated in 1919 to honor the day World War I ended a year earlier. In 1938, Congress recognized the day as an official holiday. Then, in 1954, the name was changed to Veterans’ Day to honor veterans of all the wars in which the U.S. has fought. After seesawing between dates, the day is once again acknowledged on November 11, the day the first World War ended. Unlike Memorial Day, this day is not meant strictly to honor war dead; its purpose is to honor all those who served in the military during wartime. I suspect the limitation on honoring those who served during wartime has been abandoned, whether officially or unofficially. Today, the day seems to honor anyone who has worn a military uniform, regardless of when they served. Someone, I hope, will either verify or correct what I say here.

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And a good day to you.

Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Lopez. Jennifer Garner. Jennifer Hudson. Jennifer Lawrence. Jennifer Love-Hewitt. The entertainment world is awash in people whose names reflect an era in which the name, Jennifer, was a parental favorite. It’s not just the entertainment world, either, and the “era of Jennifer” is not a new moment in history. I went to high school with someone named Jennifer; we’re now friends on Facebook. And I have another Facebook friend, someone I’ve never met and to whom I’ve never spoken, whose name is Jennifer, but who sometimes refers to herself as Jenny. There are others, I think, but my head is not sufficiently clear at the moment to remember them with any precision.

According to a website called MomLovesBest.com:

Meaning: Jennifer may come from the Proto-Celtic word “windo-seibrā,” meaning “fair one.”
Gender: Jennifer is traditionally a female’s name. However, it can be used by any gender.
Origin: The name Jennifer is believed to be of Cornish origin. It was adapted from the name “Guinevere,” of Arthurian legend.

The reason I am fixated on Jennifer this morning is this: I noticed as I scanned the web this morning that CNN saw fit to include “news” about Jennifer Lopez and Jennifer Garner and Jennifer Aniston on the home page of its website this morning. And those three “news” items triggered thoughts of other Jennifers I have known. It just mushroomed into a Jennifrenzy, as it were. I began to ask myself whether there is an inexplicable connection between Jennifer and me. Despite my rejection of such a “woo-woo” concept, the idea provides mindless entertainment. But in the real world, I am not in contact with these Jennifers except on very rare occasion; commenting on a Facebook post, for example, or reading a once-or-twice-a-year message from the Jennifer from my high school days.

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If the universe were fair to those of us who inhabit it, a pair of strong hands would be giving me a massage right now. From the base of my skull, along both shoulders, down the middle of my back and back up along both sides, those hands would release the tightness of those muscles. With disciplined fingers and a firm grip, a trained masseuse would cause the aches and pains to disappear into the ether, replaced by muscular appreciation.

When I wake up, my lower back complains bitterly about what I must have done to it during the night. My shoulders, stiff and uncooperative, scream at me in a voice only I can hear; cursing my choice of sleeping positions. I blame the extra two and one half hours of sleep I got, but did not want nor need nor agree to. That extra time in bed was an accidental experience, one that should not have occurred. I awoke to pee at four, only to return to bed; getting back in bed was a mistake, as I could not stay awake. And, so, I gave my muscles and joints even more time to petrify. Curses and maledictions. Big damns and little damns. Perhaps resting comfortably in a hot tub for a few hours is what I need. I’ll settle for a massage. Actually, I suppose I’ll have to settle for an unfulfilled fantasy; a pair of imaginary hands performing their magic on me.

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This morning, a handyman will install a television wall-mount. And he will install an electrical outlet behind the television, thereby eliminating the unsightly dangles of power cords dripping from behind the wall-mounted entertainment portal. There was a time when I would have undertaken both projects; a very long time, in fact. My bones and joints and muscles were more limber during those years. During those years, I could contort my arms and legs and torso in ways that, today, seem impossibly dangerous and painful. Time has taken its toll on my capabilities; joints that once were as malleable as a rubber band sometimes become inflexible, almost brittle. When those symptoms of decrepitude disappear, as they often do, I feel young and vibrant and ready to take on the world. But when the symptoms are in full swing, I feel old and feeble and angry at myself for deferring my enjoyment of life for so long. Youth tricks us into thinking we are invincible. Old age imbues us with the wisdom that—had we only possessed it—would have made our youth so much more valuable in preparing us for our later years.

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My high school graduating class was big. I think more than 600 seniors crossed the stage to collect their diplomas on that celebratory evening roughly fifty years ago. In recent months, I have been following a Facebook group dedicated to my high school graduating class. Though I have not stayed in touch with anyone from my class (I was approximately as introspective and reserved then as I am now), I have reconnected with some people. And when I read updates about someone I once knew, it sparks the resurrection of tiny fragments of memory of my high school experience. Lately, many of the updates on the group page are devoted to death announcements. It should come as no surprise to me that the number of deaths of former classmates is increasing. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. We’re all aging at the same rate. There’s a strong correlation between old age and death; but the definition of old age varies, depending on a number of factors. On the one hand, I remain young; some might say I am immature for a man of my age. On the other, my body proclaims—loudly at times—that I am too old to behave the way I did in my twenties or thirties or forties or fifties. Had I taken better care of my body during its first half-century, I suspect the physical evidence of my geezerhood would not be nearly as obvious and restrictive. C’est la vie. No point in crying over spilt milk.

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I once started writing a fantasy short-story about a man who barely heard the almost imperceptible sound of a tiny bell whenever someone else thought about him. He, alone, could hear the bell. Though he knew it signaled someone was thinking about him, it gave him no indication as to whose thoughts included him. But the volume of the sound increased when someone’s thoughts about him were especially vivid. And he noticed that the increased volume seemed to coincide with his own thoughts of three different women. Finally, one day, he mustered the courage to mention his odd affliction to one of the three women.

“I hear you think about me,” he said. “I do not know what you’re thinking, I know only that I am on your mind. Is that crazy?”

The woman’s head bowed slightly, as if reacting in embarrassment to the man’s words. “Not crazy. I hear those bells when you’re thinking about me, too.”

“Bells? You hear bells?”

“Yes,” the woman said, “and I’m not alone in hearing them. At least two other women hear them, as well. And we talk about what it may mean.”

The story, which remains unfinished, was to explore the complications of three competing romantic relationships. I’ve since decided that would be too formulaic. For a while, I thought the story might morph into one about a menage a quatre, but I decided I should probably stay away from writing soft porn…or hard porn, for that matter.

I am not sure what prompted me to think about that short story. Such stuff just comes to me on occasion; as if there’s a message…meant for me to unlock its meaning. But I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no mysterious message. Just one’s own fantasy attempting to justify itself. I was a bit younger then, too. But youth holds no copyright to delusional thinking.

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Time to launch into an appreciation of Thursday.

Yesterday morning, on a whim, we drove to Lake Village, AR, located about 125 miles southeast of Little Rock. Because we got something of a late start, we spent only a short time there; enough time to know we want to return when we can spend more time exploring the village. Lake Village is on Lake Chicot, which is on the Great River Road National Scenic Byway. Lake Chicot, an oxbow lake, was created by the Mississippi River during a period of meandering. The lake is the largest natural lake in Arkansas and the largest oxbow lake in North America.

Our first stop in Lake Village was at Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales and Pies. The place looks worn beyond recovery, as if every scrap of wood and every drop of paint has lived well past its useful life. Yet the “open” sign said it was not yet ready to be razed and replaced by something made of glass and stainless steel and polished granite. The decrepit little place invited us inside.

We each opted for one of the day’s soul food specials. My plate consisted of fried chicken, beans, boiled cabbage with flavored with strips of pork, macaroni & cheese, and a piece of cornbread. Miss Rhoda Adams, the founder and owner of the place, sat with her husband at one of the few tables in the tiny place. Mi novia got into a conversation with her and with the woman at the counter, who is Miss Rhoda’s daughter (one of ten or eleven children). As a child, Miss Rhoda had a similar number of siblings in her home. Intriguing place; we definitely want to go back for tamales.

After lunch, we drove along the Great River Road to Lake Chicot State Park. The drive along the river road revealed an interesting layout. The road is very near the lake’s shore. On the opposite side of the road from the river, some nice homes with very large yards afford views of the lake, across the road. Behind those houses, though, is a sea of decaying mobile homes and a few stick-built houses that appear to be on their last legs. The poverty on display one street back from the imposing waterfront homes is stunning.

We plan to spend more time wandering Lake Village and places nearby, including the World War II Japanese American Internment Museum in McGehee, Arkansas, roughly twenty miles north of Lake Village. We’ll put Lake Village on our list of places to go when we have more than a few hours to spend. Yesterday’s whirlwind day trip ended when we got back to the house as darkness fell.

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My adventurous friend, who recently cruised the Norwegian coast in pursuit of adventure and a sustained opportunity to see the “Northern Lights,” is now in Iceland. Having viewed, and captured on film, the aurora borealis, she is shivering in the cold beauty of Iceland. Iceland is one of those countries that holds a special appeal for me. I am sure the appeal is based in significant part on how I perceive Iceland as much as the reality of Iceland. My understanding of Iceland is based not on personal experience; it is based on superficial exposure to my interpretation of living vicariously through others’ experiences. And, of course, Icelandic television series. One of my many unfinished stories (short stories, books, etc.) is set, in part, on a flight from Paris to Reykjavik. The story begins with my protagonist leaving money and a note for a Parisian prostitute when he departs his hotel room for Charles De Galle Airport, where he catches a flight to New York, which has one stop in Reykjavik. During the flight, he becomes acquainted with an Iceland woman who lives in Paris but who is returning to Iceland for her ex-husband’s funeral. Despite having assured his girlfriend in New York, before beginning his trip, that he misses her deeply, my protagonist is extremely attracted to the Icelandic woman, who he learns is a writer. Rather than simply laying over in Reykjavik, as he had intended, my guy decides to spend a few days in Iceland, where he skillfully maneuvers between multiple romantic relationships of convenience.

I’ve done it again. I’ve allowed my attention to my adventurous friend to veer off in another direction, embracing and incorporating another target of my imagination. My brain surprises me when unexpectedly charges off course in hot pursuit of shreds of an overactive imagination. My imagination is fueled by the kind of passion usually reserved for people whose special skills are so advanced they require expression to maintain them at peak performance. But my imagination is not especially advanced; but it is constantly in action, providing me with enough artificial experience to falsely suggest otherwise.

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A couple of nights ago, we began watching The Watcher. Two episodes. If we do not watch any more of the program, I will not weep at the loss of entertainment. Last night, we watched a movie entitled The Good Nurse, which is based on a true story about a nurse who is a serial killer. As we sat down to watch…something, anything…we mentioned to one another how much we want to pick something that satisfies as much as How to Get Away with Murder, with Viola Davis. That series kept our rapt attention over ninety episodes spread out over six seasons. Of course we binge-watched, thanks to the series’ availability on Netflix. I’ll just have to keep looking for the next riveting, long-running series.

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As I write this, the results continue trickling in from yesterday’s votes. Not surprising to me, but sickening nonetheless, is the fact that Sarah Huckabee Sanders won the governorship of the State of Arkansas. And Greg Abbot retained his death grip on the State of Texas. We probably won’t know all the results for several days, possibly longer, but I think I know enough to say the Republicans had a good night. Perhaps not quite as good as they might have hoped, but enough to cause me enormous concern about the near-term future of this country. Still, the votes were not entirely one-sided. Close to half of the voting electorate chose moderate and left-of-moderate candidates in many places, tempering the “mandate” the Republicans will claim they received from the election. As the final results come in, I may change my assessment; but until then, I will remain moody and unhappy with a political system that allows—perhaps even encourages—right-wing zealots to hold public office.

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Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful you find coexistence; it breaks walls down.

~ Mahmoud Darwish ~

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Although I have a very long list of things to do  around the house, I needed yesterday’s pure freedom. And I may need another day of it. Today’s calendar is absolutely empty. I could fill it with hundreds of nagging chores, but I feel like that will not happen. I may be in the mood, again, to get away from the mundane and explore something new and exciting. Or, at least, new and different. For now, I will try to smooth my rough surfaces and sooth my anxious mind by thinking pleasant thoughts and envisioning beauty. This, I hope, will free me from rigid routines and thrust me into a pleasurable dream-state. We shall see; we always do.

Some days, I sit at my desk, skimming the latest data that claims to be news and contemplating the day ahead. And, then, when the world around me becomes too toxic to allow into my thoughts, I sometimes turn to poetry, because the language of poetry is clean and direct. It strips away unnecessary clutter, leaving only pure ideas and thoughts. But there are circumstances when poetry strips away too much, leaving only the remnants of a barren skeleton. Yet even in those spare experiences, poetry suggests those missing words or phrases or ideas. Poetry, whether one’s own words or the words of someone else, cleanses the mind. Poetry, when read aloud and alone, can transport a person from a mundane existence to a place where thoughts and emotions are rewarded equally.

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Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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Today is election day. I will not go to the polls, though, because I voted early. I withheld my vote from a few self-proclaimed Democrats because they have done or said or supported things I find reprehensible. There was a time I would have voted a straight Democratic ticket, but no more. Republicans do not have a monopoly on corruption, nor does the mere fact that someone calls herself a Democrat equate to honor. Far too often, the decision about who should get my vote is based on a judgment about who will do the least harm. Despite my distaste in doing so, though, I always will cast my vote; voting gives me an opportunity to support incremental improvements in the political structure within which we live.

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There’s a fine line between indignation and rage.

~ John Swinburn ~

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This morning’s coffee is unusual. Its flavor is midway between bitter and metallic, leaning more toward bitter. And it feels thin in my mouth, as if some of its attributes have been stripped away, leaving only a brittle, foul-tasting skeleton in its place. This situation—in which the normally delightful flavor of coffee that welcomes me to the day is replaced by a nasty-flavored imposter—is rare, but not unique. I have never been able to determine what causes this hideous aberration in my morning routine. I just have to accept that “it is what it is” and move on.

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Exactly four years ago, I was almost as embarrassed to be human as I am today:

There’s “talk” among the other species about whether pine forests and tallgrass prairies should rise up against us. Most of the colonies of ants and the libraries of lichens argue against it, saying humans as entertainment demand they be kept as pets, if for no other reason. But, during a recent interspecies thinkalong, an exaltation of larks and a pride of lions spoke in favor extinction. Various kingdoms and phyla took positions simply for the enjoyment of argumentation. All of this right under our noses, as it were.

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Generally speaking, I think women are more highly evolved than are men. Men trail behind women in terms of emotional freedom—and the rewards that freedom offers. An open mind is like a door;  ideas flow, like foot traffic, in both directions. Women tend to be more open-minded than men, I think; more receptive to unfamiliar ideas than men, who behave as if they are afraid of new ideas. Of course, there are plenty of closed-minded women whose stubborn insistence on clinging to fear-based lies slows progress to a crawl. I suppose my attitudes toward men could be called misanthropic. But it’s not so much the men themselves that I find offensive; it’s their unsophisticated simplicity and their dull limitations. Naturally, only a portion of the men on the planet qualify for my cynicism; I find most of the rest to be more or less tolerable. Uninspired, perhaps, but relatively decent. The same tendency I have to lump all men in the same basket (and, then, to backtrack and place them in separate places based on their individual attributes) is in play with regard to women. But I tend to view women, as a population, with undeserved favor. I must identify those relative few who merit my admiration and appreciation; leaving the rest as…ornaments, I suppose. The bottom line is that I find it easier to engage in conversation with women than with men; although I am not much of a conversationalist until I have become extremely comfortable in a person’s presence. Or in the presence of several people with whom I am quite comfortable. I watch. I listen. I observe. Whether that is just my style or is evidence of my fear of social engagement is open to debate.

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Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.

~ Benjamin Disraeli ~

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Finally, the gas log insert was installed in the fireplace yesterday, giving us access to the beauty of warming flames. But the logs need to be “broken in,” which will involve burning the logs at full blast for five hours. We’ll wait until it’s considerably cooler, when we will light the gas logs, open the windows, and watch the clock for five hours. I do look forward to sitting in front of the fire, staring in mesmerized silence as I let the flames transport me to another dimension.

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All right, then. Time for me to work on Wordle.

Why is the idea of paying for access to television news channels so absurd? And why is the practice of subscribing to newspapers shrinking, dissolving into a tiny replica of its former self? Our concept of “news” is changing. We allow ourselves to be fed so-called news around the clock, but by admitting that flood of information, a method of validating it becomes ever more critical. Except too many of us fail to insist on validation, opting instead to believe even fictional reports, so long as they coincide with our philosophies and perspectives on the world around us. Ideally, only news with the potential to directly and measurably impact our lives would reach us. If that were the case, I suspect the volume of our exposure to so-called news would decline precipitously.

How can we determine whether new is relevant to our lives? Would it be possible to sort the wheat from the chaff, leaving us only with news containing highly personalized, vital intellectual nutrients? My skepticism is on full display this morning, as I consider my strong belief that purveyors of “news” have gotten increasingly good at convincing us of the relevance of all news. They insist that only through constant, heavy exposure to news can the average citizen protect himself against the dangers of ignorance. But I assert that news avoidance may well be the only way to achieve a modicum of serenity. Yet I do not avoid news. I may not be as thoroughly inundated with it as some, but even skimming the headlines is enough to keep my mind in a state of perpetual chaos. I can do nothing to influence processes and outcomes, yet I allow my head to be filled with suggestions that I MUST do something to change the world. In response, I sit in paralyzed frustration at my inability to alter the course of history.

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Too many thoughts compete for my attention this morning. I cannot narrow the field.  Everything merits attention. But nothing has sufficient magnetism to warrant completing my thoughts. They stretch across one another as if intentionally strewn in front of competing ideas. I’m thinking of Norway and Mexico and Canada. And I’m thinking of people with connections to each country. I contemplate Canadian news outlets and wonder how they compare to their Icelandic brethren. I consider Mexico’s affinity for folk art and reverence, musing about the differences between Mexican and Icelandic and Nordic world-views. I think about the series we have been watching, Jack Ryan, and wonder why, despite its appeal to me, it is not even remotely as appealing as Entrapped or Occcupied.  I fantasize about taking a road trip to Michigan or climbing into the basket of a hot air balloon and floating as far as burning gas and the wind will take me. Memories of places I have never been flood my head, leaving me dazed and confused by an artificial past. My history competes with a present that may be the expression of a dream, spun from thin threads of imagined experience. Chaotic, yet simultaneously beautiful. Like a kaleidoscope consisting of fragments of colorful broken glass whose chaotic relationships with one another produce stunning abstract images.

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As my interest in people grows, I realize how very little I know about them. We have casual conversations about topics of mutual interest, but I know virtually nothing else of consequence. Where they were born, where they have lived, what kinds of books and films they enjoy, their food preferences, their religious beliefs or lack thereof. So many aspects of a person that go unexplored in the early days of getting to know him or her. I think it could be great fun to spend twenty-four hours with a casual acquaintance; asking probing questions and responding to equally penetrating queries. A “forced” intimacy that might reveal aspects of a person that would not otherwise be exposed; at least not until the relationship had matured and unfolded over a period of years. I imagine some of the questions might embarrass or shame or otherwise create considerable mental discomfort. But if both parties to such an exploration ask and answer probing, potentially embarrassing, questions, the realization both have made shocking admissions probably would minimize the discomfort both feel. Maybe.

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Fog has descended upon the forest outside my window. The day appears bleak, with the trunks of trees barely showing themselves. Fog tends to dull one’s vision, at least one’s vision of objects at a distance. The leaves on the trees outside my window are absolutely still. Not a whisper of a breeze; not  a single leaf is moving. The image outside my window is perfectly still, as if it had been painted and left to dry. Hmm. How can it be that air is not moving, not even a fraction of an inch. The atmosphere fascinates me. The way you think intrigues me. Everything compels me to look more carefully and more deeply than I am used to; I should attempt to remember every ridge in every leaf and every inch of skin on the faces of people I find interesting. Observation is too often left to chance; it should be given its appropriate due. And now I leave this thought for another one; but this next one will remain private, though I might share it with you when the time is just right.

A pain in the neck. Literally. I must have been in an awkward position while I slept. The moment I began to wake, the pain in left side of my neck grabbed my attention. Hard. Like a grip powered by heavy-duty hydraulics. And my lower back—the knots of muscle at the base, on both sides—are brutally tender. The twenty-five minutes since I climbed out of bed have delivered no reduction in the pain. I suppose I should tiptoe back into the bedroom, sneak into the bathroom, and take a couple of Motrin tablets. Over-the-counter painkillers will, I hope, interrupt the discomfort, but I would rather take much stronger, faster-acting prescription pain medications. I am keeping those, though, for that time (which, I hope, will be far, far into the misty future) when I may need assistance in going gentle into that good night. In the meantime, I will slide through the bedroom into the bathroom, swallow two tablets, and wait for the painkillers to kick in. I should have taken the analgesic the minute I woke up, but I suppose I was in a daze. Analgesic? Why did I select that word, when simpler ones would do? To massage and exercise my stiffening brain, I suppose.

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Even though I continue to write about food from time to time…and even though I express deep appreciation for foods’ flavors and textures, my passion seems to be fading. “Fading” does not adequately describe the speed and extent of the decline in my affection for food. I still enjoy many foods, but the pleasure they deliver is not as intense as it once was. I no longer start to crave certain foods the moment I think about or hear about or see them. It’s not just the dramatic reduction in my passion for consuming foods; my interest in preparing them has plummeted, like a heavy stone dropped into a still pond. Perhaps my lust for all manner of exotic foods will return. Perhaps the disappearance of my gastronomic zeal will right itself in the near-term. Or, maybe, something in my brain triggered a permanent change in me. Maybe I have become one of those people I have labeled “boring” (when I’m being charitable) because they do not seem to understand the thrill of experiencing new flavors and the joy of savoring the taste of old reliable stand-by dishes.

This decline in interest, though not really precipitous, is surprising and a little alarming. Foods and flavors have been among my core passions for as long as I remember. I can imagine only a few experiences that could, conceivably, fill the gap. Only rarely have I had sensations could rival the ones I felt when enjoying particularly tasty foods with especially satisfying tastes and textures. This reduction in appreciation is leaving an emptiness that feels cold and unfriendly. I do not like it.

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I did not turn clocks back one hour last night, despite numerous admonitions to do so. My notebook computer and my smart phone adjusted the time, without any help from me. The bedside clock and the clocks on the oven and the microwave remain in another dimension of time. I think both devices were manufactured shortly after the advent of the sundial. I suspect there are other clocks in the house that might need assistance in making the transition to a new timeframe. Perhaps the cars, too, require intervention to become consistent with the new reality we created by modifying time in the wee hours of the morning. Eventually, all the clocks will have found their new equilibrium. Yet in roughly six months, we’ll put them through the same troubling exercise.

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I read an article about how language impacts a person’s thinking about time and space. Because it’s a rather long and involved article, I will not attempt to summarize it here. Instead, I’ll just provide this link and encourage interested readers to click on it to pursue a truly interested read.

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It’s nearing 6:00 a.m. in this new incarnation of time. The earlier approach of dawn will take some getting used to. But I will get used to it. And all will be right with the world.

We enjoyed dinner last night with two other couples. Each pair contributed to the feast, which included pulled pork, slaw, beans, and macaroni & cheese, followed by dessert. The weather forecast—which mentioned the possibility of fierce storms—and strong winds that seemed to support the forecast sent us home relatively early. Once we got home, the NOAA weather radio screeched several times, warning of dangerous weather and advising precautions against it. We heard the rain pound against the window. Lightning strikes and the resulting cracks of thunder shook the house, but the power did not fail, so we were able to continue watching the Icelandic crime drama,  Entrapped,  We are now on season 3 of the series, the first two seasons of which were entitled Trapped. Same location, same characters, same riveting storylines and, in my view, excellent acting. Once I get involved in Scandinavian mystery thrillers, I can watch them for hours and hours, nonstop. According to a website devoted to television and film (The Cinemaholic), the series was “filmed entirely in Iceland, specifically in Siglufjörður, Hafnarfjörður, Seyðisfjörður, Egilsstaðir, and Reykjavík.” Oh, how I wish I were fluent in multiple languages. Including Icelandic. Just so I could pronounce the names of those cities, towns, and villages. And the names of the characters. Like Andri’s daughter, Þorhildur.

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Finally, now that daytime temperatures have climbed back into the seventies, our gas-log fireplace insert is scheduled for installation on Monday. The inner workings of the logs in the fireplace when we bought the house were broken and unrepairable, so we bought a replacement set. We continue pouring money into the place and, I suppose, will continue to do so for quite some time to come. I continue working on my attitude about that reality, telling myself every investment or expense is improving the place; making home a little better and more comfortable day by day. And that’s true. We’ve decided to spend a rather considerable amount of money to create an oasis under the trees next to the house; grading the area to be a bit more level, adding huge flagstones to the area, and various other improvements. If the weather cooperates, the work will commence just before Christmas, assuming the planned schedule stays on track. In the meantime, I keep wrestling with the idea of buying a gas-powered leaf blower so I can keep up with the massive leaf-fall that already has begun. It’s either that or pay someone unrealistically high rates to do the work. In my opinion, the yard-maintenance guys seem to value their “skills” and time on par with cardiovascular surgeons, aeronautical engineers, and royalty. Such is life. The work continues. Every improvement, every item from the “to-do” list that’s completed, every cosmetic upgrade…they’re all making life more gratifying.

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I have developed an inexplicable interest in Michigan. I want to taste the cheeses made in Pinconning. I want to sit at a bar in an old tavern in a small town on the shores of Lake Huron and chew on blind robins. I want to listen to small-town conversations between life-long residents, as the participants eat smoked whitefish sausage. I want to watch the loading and unloading of ships in the ports of Cheboygan and Ludington and Calcite. So many other places…to watch and experience and about which to ruminate and wonder. My interest in Traverse City and Marquette grows with every passing day. My curiosity might be fully satisfied with just one trip to Michigan. Or it might require dozens of visits and hundreds of days and nights before I reach saturation. I think it’s too late in the year to consider making a long, meandering trip through Michigan; that sort of exploration should be undertaken in the spring or summer or very early fall. Not just days or weeks before frigid conditions might happen overnight, thereby upsetting the enjoyment of a road trip. Perhaps I should plan a meandering trip around the periphery of Arkansas, instead. And, of course, we must go north to Ohio within the next several months; I’ve been promising my nephew and his wife (and, now, my brother) I will visit. And I will. But not quite yet. Yet the road calls to me year-round. It beckons me. Lures me with the promise of excitement and exhilaration.

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If I were a woman, I believe I would take a firm stand against brassières. I would refuse to wear a garment that, based on complaints I have heard my entire life, is so damn confining and uncomfortable. Especially a garment that apparently was designed to disguise and/or hide a uniquely feminine attribute. I understand the concept of a woman wishing to stabilize her breasts when her body is in motion (like when she is jogging), but I do not understand the concept of other people expecting the woman to cage or otherwise constrain them. This is not my battle to wage, of course, but I am opinionated and, so, I speak my mind even when the matter at hand is none of my business. And there you are.

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I am ready to burst into the day, taking full advantage of the fact that I am alive. And I shall.

Until an epiphany a few minutes ago, my appreciation of and trust in the Associated Press (AP) was enormous. And they may remain so, but I’ll have to mull over my flash of insight before I reach any conclusions. As I skimmed the AP headlines, it suddenly occurred to me that the volume of sports stories on the AP website seemed at least equal to, if not greater than, the volume of pure “news” stories. From that realization emerged dark disappointment; how could an ostensibly legitimate news source give as much coverage, or more, to something so frivolous as the World Series or FIFA politics or an Eagles versus Texans football match? Just as quickly, though, my budding anger fizzled, replaced by yet another epiphany: the media have a responsibility to provide ways to escape the dreadful realities of the news they report. For some—many—people, sports provides that escape. Sports provides a pressure-relief valve to mitigate the stresses and horrors of current events. News about entertainment and science and technology, along with other news focusing on unnecessary diversions also provide outlets to relieve the pressures of life in modern times. BBC.com, another news resource to which I frequently turn, is just as frivolous, “reporting” on lifestyle matters, adventure travel, cooking and gastronomy in general, and other  topics that, I suddenly realize, are simply my diversions of choice. Just like sports are the diversions of choice for millions of others. My disdain for spectator sports (except the occasional baseball game, viewed from open-air stands, and some soccer matches, among others) is being replaced by embarrassment. Embarrassment that I have a tendency to mock sports fans for their mindless adoration of adults playing children’s games. Embarrassment that, until moments ago, I have not recognized the resemblance between my appreciation of “how to” or food-related news and others’ love of sports. I doubt this epiphany will translate into a dramatic increase in my respect for sports mania, but at least it gives me cause to ponder and reflect.

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Until yesterday, I had not given much thought to this year’s Thanksgiving day meal. But a friend’s mention of the possibility of a gathering on that day caused me to reflect on what I have done on Thanksgivings in the past. Before we moved to Chicago, we tended to celebrate with my parents and any of my siblings who happened to be nearby. Those family meals were the kind one would find in a Norman Rockwell painting. Later on, my late wife and I sometimes followed our national traditions, with turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce (whole berry for me, jellied stuff from a can for her), etc., etc. But our more frequent “traditional” meals were traditions of our own, just the two of us. We sought out celebratory meals from various other cultures. Thai, Indian, Russian, Spanish, Chinese, and various other “foreign” foods. Those celebratory meals were easier to come by when we lived in Chicago and Dallas. I think we had a Thanksgiving meal at a now-defunct Indian restaurant in Hot Springs a few short years ago, but otherwise our meals here have tended toward the broader traditions of the culture in which we live.

My life has changed in fundamental ways since those days of intense culinary adventure. But I miss those deliberate departures from American tradition almost every year, even though I continue to value the traditions I remember from the days when several members of my original family gathered. I suspect mi novia and I will develop our own unique traditions which may involve gathering with friends who, like us, are distant from our extended families. It’s interesting to me how the traditions of Thanksgiving and Christmas, especially, seem to revolve around food as much as the “meaning” of the holidays. Yet I use the occasions of those and some other holidays to reflect, privately, on matters of gratitude and loss and hope. Food provides both a physical and an intellectual setting for contemplating such important issues and ideas.

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My friend who is cruising north along the coast of Norway has achieved her dream of seeing the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights.  Viewing the photos of the phenomenon she posted on Facebook, I can imagine her excitement when, in the crisp, cold air on the ship’s deck, she first saw the green and gold and yellow atmospheric glow, the lights quivering like a thin, sheer curtain dancing in a light breeze. Whether my imagination reflects reality—whether my mind’s eye mirrors the way the lights appear—I do not know. Regardless of the accuracy of my imagination, I think I would stare in grateful appreciation if I were to see the Aurora Borealis myself.

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No sight is more provocative of awe than is the night sky.

~ Llewelyn Powys ~

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Open-minded. Broad-minded. Receptive to new ideas. Receptive to conflicting opinions. I like to think those words and phrases describe me, but too often I find myself firmly ensconced in an unwavering position informed only by my deeply opinionated beliefs. That intractability bothers me. It runs counter to my fantasy about who I am. When I am forced to admit my obstinance, I curse myself for allowing belief to crowd out reality without conducting adequate investigations into the facts of a matter. I suppose I have always known about these flaws in my personality, but I have attempted to ignore them. I have wanted to be better than to allow myself to give more weight to my opinions and beliefs than to verifiable facts. Perhaps by recognizing imperfections I can take steps to overcome them. Of course I can. But will I? I like to think I am malleable, adaptable, open to adjustment when exposed to different perspectives. Time will tell if that self-congratulatory attitude has merit.

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The scene behind my house, as viewed from the base of the stairs leading from the deck to the ground below. The place where serenity awaits.

True poetry is the linguistic expression of inspiration. Too often, though, language is manipulated into artificial poetry, a poorly disguised attempt at the real thing. The difference is the passion that drives true poetry. Obvious passion, sometimes, but at other times passion hidden beneath layers of stoic calm. Superficial poetry, on the other hand, is shallow stuff that attempts to disguise its emptiness by covering it with emotional bluster. I have written both kinds. When the real thing erupts, controlling it is impossible; it flows like a fast-moving stream through rapids or like an unstoppable river of magma, its heat impossible to quench. The fake pretender? It splashes aimlessly in an ocean just an inch deep and a foot across. With practice, one’s eyes can differentiate between the two, but only after being fooled a few times.

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All people are creative. Unfortunately, some of them do not understand or appreciate their creativity. Recognize it or not, though, they are creative. It’s just a matter of allowing it to express itself. Perhaps through painting. Or sculpture. Or cooking. Or carving wood. Or sewing comforters. Or writing. Or dreaming. Or in a thousand other ways. Coaxing crops out of the field. Nurturing ornamental plants. Raising livestock safely from fragile creatures into monstrous, powerful beasts. Designing buildings. Transforming ideas for buildings into structures that withstand time and weather. Capturing images through a camera lens. The possibilities are endless.

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My first job in association management began more than forty years ago. The organization that introduced me to then hitherto profession has undergone at least two transformations of its name since. Last night, I read that the association I knew as the National Association of Corrosion Engineers is now called the Association for Materials Protection and Performance, having merged with another organization, the Steel Structures Painting Council, SSPC. I remember my frustration when, a four or five years into my six years of employment there, I urged the volunteer leadership to explore the possibility of absorbing SSPC. It made such good sense, I thought, in that the two organizations seemed to duplicate one another’s efforts. But my urging was, at the time, a pipe dream. Such things take time. Obviously, they can take decades. The organization resulting from the merger is far larger and more sophisticated than the one I worked for. It has multiple offices around the world now. But its evolution was far too slow for my taste. I would have been bored to tears waiting forty years for progress to occur. And, as I learned over the course of my career, no matter how much energy and effort I might have put into the advancement of the organization and its members, I would never have been one of them. Like the staff of most associations, I always would have remained “hired help,” inferior and dispensable.

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Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.

~ T. S. Eliot ~

Finally, in a short while, I will return to the barber shop. I had my most recent haircut around the middle of August. I had scheduled a return visit for September 14, but I cancelled that date when our travel plans interfered. I could have rescheduled upon our return from our road trip, but I allowed myself to procrastinate. So, a month and a half beyond my “monthly” trim, I return. Today’s “trim” will be more than a trim. It will be more like a remodel. A revision to my appearance. My appearance will change more dramatically than I it would have, had I returned to the barbershop earlier. I wonder: will I ever stick with a regular schedule of barber visits? Or should I simply allow my hair to grow, unfettered, again?

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I am unprepared to write much. No matter that November, the month for writing books, has begun. I am unable to spur creativity. It remains dormant. Asleep and unwilling to awaken.  Today feels dreary, thus far. As if the world is awash in grey dust and fog.

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Ten years ago today, on her birthday, I wrote a short piece remembering my late sister, Mary Eleanor, or Melnor as we called her, who had died three years earlier. Eight months ago, on January 29, I wrote that my brother, Tom, had died that morning. And just six days before Christmas two years ago, Janine, my wife of almost 41 years, died after spending about five months between hospitals and so-called rehabilitation facilities. As I remember these people I loved, these missing pieces of my life, it occurs to me that grief is ever-present. We cannot avoid it. Though we know it stalks us, we try to outrun it. We try to outwit it. We try to cope with it. Coping with grief is impossible. We must simply let it wrap itself around us, squeezing us until all the tears have been wrung out of our bodies. Yet tears always return, perpetual reminders that loss cannot be outrun. Loss cannot be reasoned out of existence. We simply face it. Either we weather it or we don’t.

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Although the new big-screen television is dramatically larger than the one it replaced, I can imagine it will seem inadequate after viewing even larger screens. Two years hence, I suspect asserting the need for an 85-inch screen will occur; Scandinavian crime shows deserve to show themselves in all their enormous glory. Yet I can imagine living in a tiny house, instead, in which a 36-inch screen might seem monstrous. That little house, set far from the madding crowd, might seem like a luxurious refuge from a world spiraling into conspiracy-theory-propelled madness. If so, then I crave luxury. But I crave ascetic deprivation, too. And I seek meditative cures to mental maladies; I want to think my way out of a grey ball that resembles depression, but really  may be  unsatisfied greed. Greed need not be a thirst for material things. Greed may be a hunger for knowledge or understanding or acceptance of an imperfect world. What might the experience be like, sitting in a room with nothing to do but think and stare at four blank walls? Would boredom set in, or would one’s mind adjust to the lack of external stimuli by experiencing a lively inner world of its own creation? Or would one escape from the deprivation by forcing oneself to sleep? Odd, how acquisition of an enormous magnet for one’s attention can cause the mind to shrink back and into itself.

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My mind this morning wanders between contemplation and meditation. Between reflection and reverie. I can imagine spending the entire day sitting beneath a tree, listening to Plato’s teachings. Or dreaming of sitting, alone, on the deck of an abandoned ferry drifting in the frigid waters of the northern Atlantic off the coast of Iceland.  But I have obligations today. First, I have a doctor’s appointment. Later, I will help fellow church-goers by picking up and disposing of their recycling. And during the course of the day, I must deal with the intricacies of calculating and processing requests for required minimum distributions (RMDs) for the year.

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People who privately and quietly create or simply find beautiful, serene places in which to enjoy life have every reason to restrict access to their hidden retreats, because the rest of us hunger for placid places. And our appetites puts those hidden oases at risk. We want the benefits of their creators’ or discoverers’ visions, so we invade their sanctuaries. Our search for asylum transforms the peacefulness of those sanctums into frenzied replicas of the places we leave behind.  Whether quiet little towns, pristine natural wonders, or purpose-built, restricted-access communities, tension exists between “founders” and “intruders.”  The tension is understandable. Founders deserve to quietly enjoy the fruits of their creation or their discovery. But exclusivity is anathema to equality; we seem to insist that everyone should be free to experience all the wonders of existence on the planet. Yet we somehow manage to chisel out restrictions that satisfy almost everyone; our homes are our castles, open only to those we invite in. And we agree to share, otherwise. Public streets and public places are open to all. Some places, though, are subject to fierce disagreement and debate. Those places—home to the fortunate few, in many cases—always are in flux.  Ski resorts, for example, often are carved out of pristine near-wilderness. The lives of the people who live there, who may value the isolation, are disrupted when the area is invaded by people who want recreation, luxury accommodations, and all the amenities of a high-end resort. The same area, though, may be discovered by other groups, though, who want only the privacy and isolation that founders enjoy. Tension from three directions. Who, if anyone, should be given precedence?

These matters are on my mind this morning because I wish I could find that beautiful, private, serene, undisturbed place. But if I found it, I might ruin the quiet a “founder” might have discovered or created. And even if I took care to ensure the continuing privacy and quiet enjoyed by the founder, I can imagine fighting tooth and nail to keep others from invading my new-found private retreat. Where is the fairness in all this? It is not strictly about public property versus private property; it is about access to and enjoyment of both. The dilemma may be just another aspect of the Tragedy of the Commons, adapted to modern desires for the private enjoyment of…everything.

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The first person, who, having inclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, battles and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes would not that man have saved mankind, who should have pulled up the stakes, or filled up the ditch, crying out to his fellows, “Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and that the earth itself belongs to nobody.”

~Jean-Jacques Rousseau ~

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Light filters through the trees, calling on me to complete my finger exercises and retreat to the kitchen in search for a suitable breakfast. And so I shall.

Shortly after I awoke this morning, I viewed a friend’s Facebook posts. She is cruising the coastline of Norway, absorbing the sights and sounds of a magical Scandinavian adventure. A few photos from her journey triggered a resurgence of my longing to visit places like Bergen and Stavanger and Trondheim and Oslo and Bodø and Lofoten and Geilo.  Though some of the places are only place-names to me, nothing more, they represent exposure to cultural experiences that fill me with excitement. I am not quite sure why I am so intrigued by the Norwegian experience; whatever stokes that interest, though, is quite strong. One of her dreams has been to view the aurora borealis, a dream I share. And I was glad to see she finally saw that spectacular phenomenon. Her cruise is taking her north, far beyond the Arctic Circle. That is a part of the world I think I would like to visit. I suggested to my friend that she pack me in her suitcase for the trip, but she rejected the idea for various reasons, including her legitimate belief I would cause her luggage to exceed weight restrictions. Known as Spitzbergen or Svalbard, that part of Scandinavia is among the world’s northernmost inhabited areas, where rugged tundra is home to Svalbard reindeer, Arctic foxes, and polar bears. The coastal area further south is home to one of my fictional characters, Kolbjørn Landvik, who I have incorporated into a few incomplete short stories. Kolbjørn is a man made of the same cloth as another of my characters, variously named Springer Kneeblood, James Kneeblood, and Calypso Kneeblood. That character may, in fact, be multiple characters who are related to one another by blood. One day, I may complete some of the stories about Kolbjørn that I have begun. When my friend returns from her trip, I hope to lure her to spend time with me and regale me with tales of her experiences so I can fantasize vicariously through her stories. Perhaps her experiences will find their way into my tales about Kolbjørn. Time will tell.

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Night before last, we went to a Halloween party organized by and at my church. In preparation for the event, mi novia bought several bags of candy she planned to take to the party. After we entered the building, I asked her if she had brought the candy inside with her. That’s when she realized we had left it at the house. Unprepared to return home in the driving rain to retrieve the candy, we left it where it sat on the kitchen counter. Ever since, we have allowed ourselves to consume far more candy than is healthy. I am not especially fond of sweets, but when sweets are within easy reach, I consume them. So it has been with the Halloween candy. Based on the amount of candy I have eaten since we returned from the party, I suspect I have gained a good five or ten pounds and elevated my levels of blood glucose by a factor of five…or more. As they say, though, you only live once. So, I have thrown caution to the wind and probably will continue to do so until the candy is removed from the house and delivered somewhere else, where it will contribute to others’ sugar highs. Where the hell has my discipline gone?

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Yesterday morning, instead of attending church, we spent time with a couple of landscapers we invited to view an area adjacent to the house where we hope to create an outdoor retreat. The idea is to transform the rather rough, uneven area into an oasis of sorts where we can place a fire pit and have seating. I envision an area with large flagstones set in a bed of gravel. Strings of lights would provide lighting and atmosphere suited to casual conversation and laughter. Except for the fact that I have been told to stay away from alcohol because of an episode of acute pancreatitis, I would imagine that I would sit in this outdoor oasis and drink wine. Damn health issues! It’s patently unfair that I cannot enjoy something I so appreciate without risk of spurring bodily outrage and the potential for a painful demise.  I think I’ll insist on doctors evaluating anew the diagnosis of acute pancreatitis. I suppose I can get used to the idea of trying non-alcoholic wine. I’ve gone three months without drinking alcohol, without withdrawal or other difficulty, so I suppose I can get used to the idea of abstinence for the rest of my life. Especially if I can consume medical cannibis  to assuage the pain as I sit among the trees. Somehow, though, the investment in creating an outdoor oasis is no longer quite as appealing as it once was. Perhaps I could get used to the idea of using the oasis as a place for my morning coffee; a place to sit outdoors and soak in nature. We shall see, we shall.

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Speaking of Scandinavian influences on my life experiences, we continue to watch Trapped, the first two seasons of which represent a prelude to the third season, which was released with a new title, Entrapped. I am absolutely enthralled with the Icelandic thriller. I find it interesting that the Icelandic characters easily shift from speaking Icelandic (pronounced ist.l̥ɛn.ska) to speaking English when non-natives enter their domains. According to Wikipedia, about 314,000 people speak the language, the vast majority of whom live in Iceland, where it is the official national language. But the language is not what I find so enthralling about the series. Much of the appeal of the series, for me, is the engaging storyline, coupled with the easy integration between the very modern Icelandic culture of places like Rekjavik and the semi-rural and rather isolated lifestyle of Siglufjörður, a fishing village in northern Iceland. As brutal as one assumes the weather in Iceland to be, it does not seem to me to be awful. In Rekjavik, for example, the highs year-round range from 36°F to 57°F and the lows range from 28°F to 49°F. The range in Siglufjörður is not much different. The film, though, shows periods when brutal snowstorms with fierce winds drive virtually everyone indoors. I assume the film depicts actual conditions in the village. And, I assume, the brutality of winters in Iceland is not due so much to temperatures as to wind and driven snow. Hmm. Worth exploring further.  Yet the weather is not the main story, either. The main story revolves around crimes, including murders, dismemberment, human trafficking, drugs, and the like…you know, the same sorts of things that make life in Arkansas so much like life in the rest of the United States. 😉

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Bad weather always looks worse through a window.

~ Tom Lehrer ~

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Without inner peace, outer peace is impossible. We all wish for world peace, but world peace will never be achieved unless we first establish peace within our own minds. We can send so-called ‘peacekeeping forces’ into areas of conflict, but peace cannot be opposed from the outside with guns. Only by creating peace within our own mind and helping others to do the same can we hope to achieve peace in this world.

~ Geshe Kelsang Gyatso ~