John Swinburn

Five years ago today. It was both yesterday and a thousand lifetimes ago. I suppose I was fortunate to have known my wife’s death was at hand, but I was not prepared for it when it came. How does one prepare for the impact such an event has on one’s life? The shock was far beyond my ability to have expected it. Suddenly, her life ended. How long is a “lifetime?” It is both elastic and inflexible. As I have learned, grief is never-ending, but it is survivable.

Earlier this week, I learned of another death. A man who, along with his wife, was active in our church died suddenly, without warning. I can only imagine the shock of such an utterly unexpected tragedy. My wife’s illness had already emptied me of the emotional “high” I had always associated with the Christmas season, but this man’s wife—a remarkably selfless person and a good friend of mi novia—had no warning that Christmas time probably will forevermore be a time of grief. Ach! No matter the certainty of death, it surprises us and takes our breath away. Goodbyes are never sweet sorrow, Shakespeare’s words notwithstanding.

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I awoke, soaked in sweat, from a disturbing dream sometime before midnight. My memory of the dream has all but disappeared, but I remember fragments. At some point, I was thrashing about in a huge body of water—possibly an ocean—trying to reach the visible but distant shore. The surface of the water was relatively smooth, but I expected sharks to surface and attack me at any moment. I was afraid, but not in a panic. I wondered how painful the attack would be. Another fragment: a vacationing neighbor couple had left some cable television equipment for me to pick up while they were gone. Just in case, I rang the doorbell before I entered. The door was answered by a Black woman who knew nothing of the agreement but did not question its legitimacy. She and her husband/ boyfriend offered to help me with the equipment, but none of us knew what I was to pick up. Yet another piece: I offered to give a couple a ride, but after we were in the car, I realized I had no idea where we were, nor where we were going. I could not make the maps on either of two old smart-phones work. We stopped at a bar to ask for directions to a car dealership where I had left an old sports car to be refurbished, but none of us knew which dealership. Our search then involved climbing steep cliffs and crossing railroad tracks. All the while, during all these dream segments, I was extremely worried about…something. The dream must have taken place in pieces; sometime during the night, I got up and put a towel down on the bed to insulate me from the cold, wet sheets. This has happened before.

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You are a product of my mind. You exist as I perceive you only because I perceive you. And I exist as a product of your mind. It’s not just you and me, though. It’s everyone. We’re all interpretations of someone else’s perceptions. For that reason, I think the possibility exists that none of us are real; we’re just expressions of the way we are imagined in the fictional minds of nonexistent beings. Vapor, in other words. Not even vapor, actually—vapor has considerably more substance. More weight. More mass. More…reality.  The same is true, by the way, of everything else. Bottles of pills. Boxes of Kleenex. Scissors. Coffee cups. Paper clips. Paper plates. Papier-mâché. Wall-paper. Trees. Yes, even trees. And their roots do not exist until we start digging around the base of their trunks, which also exist only in what I’ll call our “vaporous universe.” Perhaps we’re the products of the hallucinations of a tiny being; something smaller than one tenth the width of a proton. This miniscule being dreams big! Big, as in spaceships and planets. Ponder that.

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Given the size of the audience for this blog, it is reasonable to consider the words I record here as pieces of a long, disjointed soliloquy. I write to provide an insubstantial, almost fragile, structure for my thoughts. With or without that delicate framework, the ideas that spill from my fingers would bleed into one another. Thus, therefore, ergo…

Townes Van Zandt once was asked why all his songs were so sad. His response, I think, summarized his life experience:

I have a few that aren’t sad, they’re hopeless. About a totally hopeless situation. And the rest aren’t sad; they’re just the way it goes, kinda. I mean, you know, you don’t think life’s sad?

His song, Waitin’ Around to Die, is a sad tale of hopelessness, a story about a man’s hard life in which drug addiction, alcoholism, loneliness, abandonment, and abuse all seemed more appealing than simply “waitin’ around to die.” Most of the lyrics of his music I’ve listened to reflect a deeply melancholic take on life—understandable, given the monsters he faced in his life…alcoholism, drug addiction, emotional trauma, broken relationships, and the like.  While direct experience with personal demons is not required to suffer the consequences of seeing their impact on the world around us. Van Zandt was both a victim and, like so many lyricists who write and perform “sad” songs, an observer. Van Zandt died young, at age 52. He stopped “waitin’ around to die” when he welcomed the New Year with his own death. He died (officially of cardiac arrhythmia, though his addictions are said to have contributed heavily) on January 1, 1997, after being badly injured in a fall at his home…just a few days before Christmas the month before.

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Complaining that the night sky is too full of stars, or the ocean is too deep, is an exercise in futility. Many complaints fall into that category—a category most people would call pointless or absurd or wasteful of mental energy—yet the fact that such grievances are utterly trivial, does not stop them from being made. Too many among us frequently incur fruitless expenditures of limited emotional resources that could be more productive if invested more wisely.

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The morning sky is very light beige, with just a tiny hint of creamy violet creating a tint I rarely see in the sky. Is it that I rarely see the color, or that I simply fail to notice it? Conscious, thoughtful observation is necessary if we are to have any realistic hope of actually “seeing” the images that cross before our eyes. Unless we make a point of taking notice, our senses ignore opportunities to experience the world around us. The items sitting on one’s desktop go unrecognized, just as typographical errors often are missed when we scan the page of a book. We see what we expect to see, not what is put before us. While staring at my computer monitor, though, the sky expelled both the violet and the beige, replacing them with a gentle grey that I see as comforting; others might view it as dull or boring. Yet others may not give the color of the sky a thought; it might go unnoticed. Emotional context paints the sky with a different brush and a different color than does physical context. Context. Contrast. They are at once different; but, the same. Seasons behave in much the same way; early Spring gives us green tomatoes, while Summer colors them red. Or purple. Or a combination, reminiscent of a chaotic battlefield littered with yellow flowers that would be out of place somewhere else.

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Some memories belong in permanently sealed lead boxes, inaccessible for all time. I would pay to incinerate them, even if I had to accompany them into the flames.

History is within arm’s reach. That is to say, it’s much closer than we think. This morning, I was reminded of just how near we are to “the past” when I glanced online at an Associated Press (AP) regular feature entitled Today in History. The headline notes that the Wright Brothers’ first flight took place on this date, December 17, in 1903. What struck me was not how recently humans took to the skies. Rather, I was jolted by the fact that my father was roughly five months old at the time, having been born in July of that year. My father was considerably older when I was born, at fifty years of age, than most newborns’ fathers. It occurred to me the first flight took place just fifty years, minus a couple of months, before my birth. Time slips by, almost unnoticed, leaving breadcrumbs as evidence of its passing along the way: multiple wars, computers, space exploration, advanced telecommunications, television, and millions of other, less revolutionary, changes in our lives. When I consider time in the other direction, I wonder whether the past was a prelude to a positive future or just a preface to a grim epilogue.

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When voters elect leaders, are they abdicating their responsibilities to govern themselves? Are members of the electorate simply choosing rulers to make decisions they do not wish to make? Despite complex systems of check and balances that ostensibly are meant to protect populations from falling prey to authoritarians and dictators, the populace seems paralyzed when those systems fail to perform as expected. The U.S. Declaration of Independence asserts the Right of the People to act when governments fail them:

That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government…

Yet the people, guaranteed the right of revolution, very rarely exercise that right, even when faced with tyranny. At what point is the agony of despotism sufficiently painful to warrant the exercise of that right? At what point are the risks associated with revolution deemed worth taking?

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Another chemotherapy visit to the oncologist today, a probable precursor to several more days of fatigue and general ennui. What better to do at this very moment, then, than describe a couple of scenes that flash by as I watch through closed eyes:

Light, in liquid form, seeps into his cell, illuminating the stone floor on which he is sitting. After an hour, light has deepened enough to cover his boots. After a full day, it has risen to his chin. An hour after that, he can keep it out of his mouth only by tilting his head backward. Moments later, he begins to cough as the light enters his lungs and causes him to react by choking. Suddenly, though, he is illuminated from within; no untoward negative reactions from his body. He feels like he can breathe better than ever before, as if the blue glow has purified his environment and cleansed him of the filthy residue of a lifetime chained in the bowels of a dank coal mine. Then, in a moment that passes far faster than a single second, he is gone. As is the cell…not just empty, but gone. No walls, no stone floor, nothing. Empty space. But an eerie, barely audible, echo remains in the space where he was; a sound like a breath way off, in the immeasurable distance. Enlightenment. Not a guru’s mystical insinuation. Not a secret pathway to an unknown place. Actual enlightenment. The same enlightenment first experienced before time began, before the universe expressed itself from its invisible primordiality.

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Earsplitting silence, interrupted by sounds so soft the ground vibrates and rolls in waves, fills the emptiness like an orchestra of dead musicians. Leaves, clinging to the trees in a desperate attempt to avoid plunging to the forest floor, shake in anticipation of ferocious winds shredding the atmosphere and filling the air with swirling ribbons of menacing dust. Watching from the entrance to a cave, I watch deer and raccoons—their eyes wide with terror—bolt across a meadow, fleeing what must seem, to them, like the personification of Mother Nature’s irrational rage. I share their fear. And their pain. It courses through my veins like molten lava, searing every cell in my body. Escape is impossible, but surrender promises an experience a thousand times worse; and twice as unlikely as freedom. 

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I could write for days and end up with swill of equal quality, even after turning it all over to a team of professional editors. You can’t make a silk purse out of sour buttermilk sullied with the corpses of rotting flies.

I woke earlier today than I have been waking in recent months. The extra time of darkness and solitude could have given me an infusion of serenity if I had approached it properly. But I did not. I skimmed the news. I followed the same routine I almost always follow, despite my almost daily promises to myself that I would do this day differently. I allowed myself to engage the day as if it were an opponent; an enemy to conquer. An obstacle to overcome. So, instead of darkness behaving as if it were a soft, warm, soothing blanket, it seems more like a suffocating polyethylene bag over my head. My efforts to extricate myself have gone nowhere. I want to breathe slowly and think softly and embrace the coming light as a positive force. Instead, I permit national and international news—over which I have no control—to thrust my head under water, starving me of oxygen. I long for peace, but instead I cultivate rage. Some days, feeling fatigued—almost impossibly tired—I try to renew my energy by “napping” while listening to soft, soothing piano music. Maybe that is what I need to do today. Retreat to bed and let the music drown the rage.

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My oldest brother and his wife are celebrating their wedding anniversary today. At least I assume and hope they are, inasmuch as today is the day. Celebrations take many forms, from frenetic festivities to quiet contemplations and everything in between. Birthdays, too, are like that. The levels of excitement they generate varies from raucous, jubilant, public expressions of pure joy to private acknowledgements that, for all of us, they are limited. And there must be at least a thousand other ways to make note of birthdays. I tend to acknowledge my own birthdays in a very low-key sort of way. Almost two months ago, on my 72nd birthday, I wrote on my blog: By the way, today is my birthday. I can tell by looking at the calendar. Some people take milestones like anniversaries and birthdays extremely seriously; others not so much. I think the degree of importance we assign to such occasions is contextual; it depends on what else is going on in our lives. This coming Friday is another anniversary in my life; it will mark the fifth year since my wife died. Whether I will do or say or write anything publicly about it on that day has yet to be seen, but I am certain I will mark the sad occasion privately. Perhaps I am writing about it now, a few days beforehand, as a way to prepare myself for a resurgence of grief. Grief still surprises me. After all the billions of people who have lived and died on this planet, we still have not gotten used to the reality of death.

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More chemotherapy tomorrow. I still haven’t taken steps to recharge or replace my car’s dead battery. And I have not rescheduled the haircut I postponed last week. And I have done nothing else productive for what seems like an eternity. Despite my slothfulness, I was rewarded last night with a nice spaghetti and meatball dinner, prepared by mi novia’s ex-husband, who invited us to share it, along with my late wife’s sister. I feel guilty for accepting such generosities while I do nothing generous for others. My mood this morning is, thus far, rather dismal. I have only myself to blame, of course. But instead of “fixing” it, I just complain. The sun will rise in a while. Maybe the light will improve my attitude. For now, it’s good that I do not have the ability to take preemptive action against governments and idiotic cultists. But I think I would thoroughly enjoy causing the chaotic horrors I would rain down upon them.

Half an hour past noon today, half of the month of December will have slid past us, with the remaining half trying to decide whether the rest of the trip is worth the effort. If Time were a sentient creature, it would choose to bury itself beneath a thick protective layer of timelessness. Even at the risk of losing the opportunity to create the future, a sentient Time would recognize the hopelessness of trying to outlast the past. Depending on one’s perspective, that might be best for all involved: yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And all those in-between moments that do not seem to fit anywhere.

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Fantasy weighs just a fraction of the weight of reality. Sometimes even less. Magic, measured not in weight but in transparency, can stand in front of a set of scales and not be seen. Nor heard, for that matter. That double negative is what differentiates children from witchcraft. Or, at least, it differentiates children from good witchcraft. Bad children embrace witchcraft, which is where Krampus comes in.

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Monday arrives, a cudgel in its left hand and an automatic pistol in its right. Strapped to its waist is a pair of wire-cutters and a set of handcuffs. Monday leans against a barber’s pole, waiting impatiently for the barber to arrive. But the barber does not come; he is sitting at home, drinking a tumbler full of steaming hot Irish coffee. After waiting a full twenty-four hours, Monday slinks off into the darkness, where Tuesday has been waiting. Tuesday, wearing a pin-stripe suit and a fedora, strides in, dragging behind him a little red wagon overloaded with tiny, live, miniature giraffes nibbling on fresh mushrooms. The smallest of the giraffes, a necklace dangling from its minute neck, looks back at where Monday had stood. Tears flow from its precious little eyes as the little creature sobs. We’ll never know what caused the tears.

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The Lumineers, one of my current favorite alternative folk bands, has a song entitled Ophelia. Several of the verses of the song begin with “Oh Ophelia…” Mi novia and I both listen to the song and laugh, because when they sing those words, it sounds like they’re singing “Oh beady eyes…” I guess you have to be there.

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My level of discomfort does not equate to the mood of my writing this morning. Ambiguous is a word that comes roaring into my head, slamming into the back of my skull with the energy of a semi-truck traveling at 80 miles per hour. Naturally, the back of my head bursts open with a spray of blood and grey matter and torn connective tissue. I have an appetite for activities, like parachuting from hot air balloons, that require more energy than my body is capable of mustering. But sleep, too, holds some appeal. Perhaps I could be taken up in a hot air balloon and, after I fall asleep, thrown out into the cold, crisp air.

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Twenty degrees Fahrenheit. That’s a touch more brisk than I like. For that reason, among others, I will not wander outside, naked and shoeless, to water the lawn or pick strawberries. A Monday gummy might be in order, right before I climb back into my warm bed. A brilliant blue sky, like the one outside my window, is not appropriate on such a cold day. Where are the thick snow clouds I associate with winter weather?

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The soft light of artificial candles does not owe its existence to paraffin.

Hope and hopelessness do not belong in the same universe, do they? One is illumination, the other is darkness. One is a pathway to survival, the other a collapsing bridge over a bottomless abyss. Both, though, exist at opposite points on a single circle.  Each of them compete for dominance in the pursuit of the same objective: a point at which pain disappears. In answer to the question, then: they belong. They occupy the same space at different times; or different spaces at the same time. Opposites attract, but like a pair of magnets, they repel one another, as well. Collaboration and conflict emerge from different positions involving the same concepts, mirroring love and hate. Circles. Cycles. The physical laws governing what we know of the universe do not stand alone. They intersect in perfect harmonic discord with the ways emotions dictate the ways we respond to the world around us.

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I used to believe most of the one-off “hits” on this blog were individuals who simply “stumbled” upon it. I now think—with near certainty, supported by evidence too involved to share—that almost all the one-off “hits” are just “bots” that automatically visit websites to index them and for various other reasons unrelated to what I write. That being the case, my blog’s traffic is much, much smaller than I had thought. I had been under the impression that I had a small number of “followers,” but a large number of “accidental” visitors who could, conceivably, become followers. Based on site analytics, though, I now believe my regular visitors amount to fewer than fifteen. Only five or six  are frequent visitors; i.e., between daily and weekly. I am grateful for those frequent visitors, but on those rare occasions when I write something I would like to share with a larger audience, this blog is not the place to do it. So, I am considering taking the advice of a friend who suggested I consider creating a Substack site. Whether I do or not will depend on the strength of my interest in getting a larger audience for those occasional posts for which I would truly appreciate feedback. Inasmuch as I tend to be lazy, lethargic, and otherwise slothful, my consideration may take a while…a long, long while. Or not. I am, in many ways, unpredictable. Even to myself.

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A First Person Account of Events Leading to My Death

My disappearance went unnoticed for many weeks. Only after the third month of failing to receive my rent payment did the landlord make inquiries about me. She asked the postal worker whether I had been picking up my mail. The response was that my box had been overstuffed and my mail was being held at the post office. The next inquiry she made, to my bank, finally led her to learn (against the rules and entirely unofficially) that I had stopped my automatic deposits three months earlier. Another inquiry to her friends at the post office revealed to my landlord that the only mail being held seemed to be commercial “junk” mail. No bills, no magazines, no personal mail of any kind. Only after letting herself in to my apartment did it become clear to the landlord that I emptied the place and left.

I had intentionally withheld my landlord that I was moving out after seven years. I had never had a written rental agreement for the place in all that time, during which she had never said a cordial word to me. My secretive departure may have seemed petty, but it pleased me to cause her just a little bit of grief. She had done nothing else to deserve my wrath, but seven years without a smile or a kind word seemed, to me, to deserve a little unkind treatment.

Aside from my landlord, my bank, and a few creditors and magazine publishers, and the ever-intrusive state and national government, no one knew where I lived or where my income came from. I had long-since withdrawn from my already small social circle, so the only notices of my move were made to those few must-know commercial connections. But after my landlord went snooping, I took the next steps.

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Before my departure, I had withdrawn all but a couple of hundred dollars from my bank accounts. I paid to have new documents forged with a new identity; passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, and so on. Though it was quite risky, I paid an expert hacker to create false history records with my identity with the credit bureaus. And, then, the two-step move. First, an eight-month temporary relocation from Cedar Rapids, Iowa to Cleveland, Ohio. Then, a last-minute twenty-four-day seagoing voyage on a commercial cargo “tramp” freighter. My intended destination was Lisbon, Portugal, but I had to be flexible; my cruise ended in at the port of Tangier Med in Morocco. From there, I made my way to Lisbon, then Porto, Portugal, which is for now my new home.

During my travels, a badly-decomposed body was found on the north bank of the Mississippi River just outside Bettendorf, Iowa. It was identified as mine, thanks to the greed of an underpaid staff member in the county coroner’s office and her accomplice in the state medical examiner’s office. I was officially dead. In fact, the body had belonged to an unidentified homeless man who had drowned months earlier. May he rest in peace.

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My energy is on the rise, I think. When I let my imagination loose, I forget the reasons I want so badly to just go to sleep.

A quote attributed to Albert Einstein is phrased slightly differently, depending on the presenter of the attribution:

The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing. (from GoodReads.com)

The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. (from BrainyQuote.com)

While the difference in phrasing does not change the meaning in any significant way, it reminds me that information labeled as “factual” may be modified, incrementally, from its origin. Because the variations do not alter the meaning, we tend to dismiss them as immaterial. There is a danger in disregarding minor adjustments to “facts.” Over time, and through cumulative “minor’ editorial revisions, “facts” can decay into stories that change reality into fantasy; truth into lies. The sources from which the two internet presentations (shown above) were derived is unknown to me; the variations may well have been caused by simple mistake. Regardless, one (or both) of them is erroneous. In this example, the difference has no appreciable impact, but one can easily see how dangerous such minor differences can make. For example, modifications to original instructions on how to save a  choking person or disarm a nuclear device could be catastrophic.

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Yesterday, when trying to start the car to make the short trip to my oncologist’s office to get an injection, I discovered that the battery apparently had died. Fortunately, the other car was operable, so I made the appointment. Normally, I would have returned home and jumped the dead battery, but I remain weak. My low energy level does not permit me to easily do something so simple. Today, perhaps after the temperature reaches its expected peak of just over 60°F, I will give it a try. It would be more than a little embarrassing to call AAA for something so minor, but if it comes to that, so be it. Mi novia might insist on doing it herself, but I pay AAA for just this sort of inconvenience; my dues would be wasted if I fail to take advantage of the service. My ambivalence is frustrating.

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When I refuse to let my irrational paranoia take control of my thoughts, I believe Republicans and Democrats (AKA conservatives and progressives, respectively) generally seek very similar social objectives. The differences between them largely are found in the methods they want to use to accomplish those aims. Common ground between their two philosophical approaches can best be found in the following ways: First, refrain from referring to the “other side” as monsters, demons, murderers, etc. Second, using language that is as inoffensive as possible, articulate their objectives regarding each target without referring to the means by which they wish to achieve them. Third, where their ultimate objectives are closely aligned, express each aim as simply as possible. Fourth, evaluate each side’s preferred tactics for achieving their common or near-common goals. Fifth, debate tactics, with the intent of reaching compromise that will adequately satisfy the aims of each and will minimize points of disagreement. Easy-peasy. But, as the Ken Yates song says, Surviving is Easy (but living is hard).

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Music accompanying lyrics is more expressive than the words, alone. The third verse of a Jackson Browne tune (sung by Joan Baez in the video below) is a good example of that.

Now for you and me it may not be that hard to reach our dreams
But that magic feeling never seems to last
And while the future’s there for anyone to change
Still you know it seems
It would be easier sometimes to change the past

The hypocrisy of so-called Christians whose support of an utterly immoral regime that celebrates its thirst for cruelty and demonstrates its rejection of Christian values seems to confound the pundits. How is it, they wonder, that people who claim to be deeply religious are so public in their approval and endorsement of a government that behaves as if every act of inhumanity is a symbol of its strength? I, too, have been perplexed at such obvious duplicity. But I think the answer may be obvious: the two approaches to Christianity reflect belief in two very different deities. One is the generous, loving God that rewards compassion, empathy, and kindness. The other is the angry, vindictive God that practices and prizes vengeance. Ultimately, I think the beliefs in the different versions of God reflect the very different world-views of the believers. The two conflicting and competing sets of beliefs both are judgmental and, hence, can be dangerous. But one is much more likely to condone and reward behaviors that uninvolved bystanders would consider barbarous and perverse. If I were to have the ear of some all-powerful being, I would encourage the prohibition one of the religious viewpoints and strong discouragement of the other. If humans in general need religion, as seems to be the case for many, a peaceful, forgiving, benevolent one would be far more attractive than the alternative.

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When AI responses to questions posed on Google include links to sources like Quora and Reddit, I have to wonder about the reliability and legitimacy of the answers. I tend to give them about as much credence as I give to quotes, attributed to Abraham Lincoln, that refer to the internet. No matter the specified sources, though, I wonder whether there is any validity to the information I am being fed through the internet. There was a time when I routinely accepted the U.S. Government as a dependable source, when it was given attribution. No longer. And I do not feel absolutely confident even when sources I believe to be legitimate are given. A drunken Estonian prostitute and her wired, meth-head American boyfriend could have infiltrated Wikipedia, claiming to be the pair of Japanese nuclear scientists who published a paper on which I relied to be “factual.” The countries of origin of my hypothetical liars are irrelevant; let them all be Canadians or French citizens or residents of the moon, if you like.

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Starburst Collier and Cleopatra Nile had managed to slip past the exit checkpoint by clinging to the undercarriage of a delivery truck.  The strong odor of ripe oranges, just unloaded from the truck’s citrus cargo, overwhelmed the noses of the guards’ sniffer dogs. Still, additional obstacles ahead could ruin their escape attempt, so the pair hung onto the underside of the truck. The vehicle passed beneath the sweep of powerful search lights, as every bump in the road threatened to dislodge them, exposing them to the sharp eyes of roving patrols, all of whom wore night-vision goggles. Finally, though, the truck entered the highway, more than a mile from the detention center gates, where the rough, pothole-strewn road suddenly changed to a smooth asphalt surface. After ten miles on the highway, the truck pulled into a convenience store and gas station, the only commercial establishment for miles around. When the driver parked his truck at the pumps, Collins and Nile climbed out from underneath and sprinted, unseen, into the darkness behind the store.

“Now, we wait,” Collier whispered, as the two of them sat with their backs against the wall of the building. “The tanker should arrive just before 4:00 a.m. They won’t discover we’re gone until an hour after that.”

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The transformation of time into matter is, like so many other issues, far beyond my ability to comprehend. But I scanned an abstract earlier today that I hoped would lead me to some basic understanding. Here is an extract from that abstract (from The Matter of Time, by Arto Annila, Department of Physics, University of Helsinki, 00014 Helsinki, Finland):

About a century ago, in the spirit of ancient atomism, the quantum of light was renamed the photon to suggest that it is the fundamental element of everything. Since the photon carries energy in its period of time, a flux of photons inexorably embodies a flow of time. Thus, time comprises periods as a trek comprises legs. The flows of quanta naturally select optimal paths (i.e., geodesics) to level out energy differences in the least amount of time. The corresponding flow equations can be written, but they cannot be solved. 

As usual, my hopes were dashed. I feel like I am attempting to swim from the middle of an enormous pool of quick-drying concrete to its perimeter, while sinking into its depth at the same rate as I am moving toward its edge. The author’s abstract continues beyond what I have shown above, including an assertion that: Thus, the future remains unpredictable, and ultimately leads to this statement: Thus, time does not move forward either but circulates. I might as well be attempting to understand the infectious colors of the thoughts of a celestial seahorse.

That having been said, I believe my utter lack of anything remotely resembling a knowledge of time and physics and such gives me license to make any assertions I wish to make. In other words, my imagination is unrestrained by the restrictions of reality. If I choose, I can explain, in great detail, the process whereby time can be melted and then cooled, solidifying into space. By the same token, I can describe how space can be heated into its gaseous form, thereby becoming time. Without the limitations of reality, I am untethered to constraints that otherwise would inhibit my ability to experience the universe in ways I might never have dreamed of. And, I might add, I am not limited to experiencing the universe; I am perfectly capable of experiencing its unborn twin in an infinite set of dimensions well outside everything. I can, for example, look at everything as an infinitely small particle of an infinitely more massive…something. Freedom from the bonds of time and space and so many other chains that confine us to a miniscule speck of everything there is, was, or will be is remarkably refreshing. At least that’s my theory at the moment. Almost everything there is has no bearing on life, and vice versa. Yet we’re trained or indoctrinated into believing life is the most important thing. It’s enough to make one’s mind explode into a magical mist in which forest sprites become rulers of the planet.

The world as we know it today—a fragile, dangerous place that could erupt into an explosive, apocalyptic inferno at any moment—is very different from the world that could have been if humanity had prevailed over hatred. But we will never know what would have been; we can only look back in regret, unable to change history and unwilling, thus far, to force change in direction for the future.

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I read this morning about a 400,000-year old site in eastern Britain where archaeologists have found the earliest evidence to date that modern humans’ early neanderthal ancestors made fire. I still cannot make fire without a propane lighter or matches, though I have a vague recollection of being taught to (or trying to) make fire while participating in what I think was called the YMCA Indian Guides program. I couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7 years old. Today, I imagine that program is long dead, due to its misappropriation of elements of indigenous culture. From the tiny fragments of memory in my head, though, I think the program was truly reverential to the culture. We live and learn, though. Except I doubt I have retained enough of what I learned to enable me to make flames.

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With few exceptions, I visit my oncologist’s office once every week. The staff there have become almost more familiar than were the people at church, where I used to visit at least once every week. Unlike my experience with church, though, none of the cancer center staff have become friends, nor did I expect anything more than a cordial, professional relationship. Despite the reasons for visits to the cancer center, though, I find myself looking forward to those weekly appointments. Though I am not a “people person,” I sometimes enjoy engaging with the wider world. The imposition of restrictions demanded by cancer treatments has shrunken the size of my wider world. Sometimes, I miss participating in that larger wider world. Yesterday, I received holiday greetings from a couple of friends in Dallas, which reminded me that I have not initiated any of our rare conversations in far too long. My desire for more frequent interaction with people—especially with people who matter to me—is at odds with my tendency to wait for someone else to kindle such interactions.

+++

Speaking of my oncologist…I just got a call, asking me to return to her office today (and again tomorrow) for an injection to address a lower-than-desired white cell count. Sigh…

Time rushes to replace moments that should have been preserved. When fond experiences exist only in memories, we cling to lies we’ve been told: that now is better than then; that new is better than old. But familiarity fits like bespoke clothes, sewn from custom fabrics woven for us; every seam stitched with soft threads that conform to who we were and who we have become. The difference between being stuck in the past and living comfortably in the here and now involves the transition between them. Those among us who struggle to accept change treat it like replacing a wardrobe of old sweats with stiff, starched denim overalls. The rest of us treat change as if we were upgrading from sweats to soft, weather-worn jeans. Ach! A simile that attempts to equate one’s choice of clothing with one’s ability to adapt to fundamental change is profoundly superficial. That is especially true when trying to address an even more crucial matter: preservation of what matters in an environment in which adaptation to change honors the importance of the foundations upon which today’s environment was built.

+++

Mistakes that cannot be corrected can be treated as lessons or as wounds that will not heal. Or, as is often witnessed, they can dismissed as meaningless stumbles that should have no bearing on a person’s ability to fully enjoy life. Mistakes made without subsequently feeling regret for having made them tend to compound the damage caused by the original misstep.

+++

Another follow-up with my oncologist today. Lab work and IV fluids. A reminder of the fact that cancer remains a defining part of life. I would rather write a psycho-fictional essay-short-story that explores my thoughts about the experience of being human in an inhumane world—or about experiencing life as a sentient sub-sea member of the plant kingdom.  Or, absent pursuing those opportunities, I might prefer to sleep.

Pessimism, when countered by optimistic fantasy, can decay into hopeless avoidance. Realism, on the other hand, has the potential of sending ocean-going passenger vessels to the bottom of the sea. Optimism paints lifelike portraits that are a little too perfect; AI images that lack moles and chipped teeth and about 45 pounds of unnecessary and undesirable weight.

+++

I have proven the impossible. I have seen the invisible. I have remembered a future that has yet to take place. I have foreseen a history, watching it take form from the immeasurably distant future. I have arisen, alive, from the impenetrable dungeon of death. I have disobeyed the laws of Nature, while casting the ashes of certainty into a sea of doubt.  I have determined that all things are impossible, though accomplishments cannot be unmade. I have exposed an obvious secret—that time is forever hidden behind the face of a clock, where its fingers scratch at evidence that time is a fantasy. I have uncovered felonies hatched from unfertilized eggs. I have measured the strength of absolute weakness and the weakness at the peak of strength. I have imagined the unimaginable and claimed to have done the undoable. I have listened to sounds that cannot be heard and parroted noises that cannot be mimicked. I have escaped from inescapable conclusions and have been bound forever in a prison cell too large to hold me.

+++

Late last night, not long after mi novia got in bed, my phone’s “Hello?” alert (notifying me that I have received a text message) interrupted my effort to sleep. Because such late night alerts could be important, I looked at my phone. It was just a notification that a Freezing Fog Advisory had been issued. The advisory expired just a few minutes ago. As I glimpse outside, I see fog filling the woods. it is especially dense near the top of the trees, where I think I see a thin film of an icy coating on the pine needles. The garage roof, too, is white with frost. This paragraph would have been far more interesting if the advisory had alerted me to an impending invasion by a gang of weapons-toting water fowl that were suspected of carrying rabies in knapsacks on their backs.

+++

Water in a plastic cup on my desk is the only item in my study responding to vibrations I cannot feel. Nothing else in my study displays any movement; not even an echo of a sound that might have been made hours ago. Light reflecting from the water reveals miniscule waves on its surface; tiny ripples that would be invisible if the ceiling light above was moved by a hair’s width. My imagination offers dozens of explanations: vibrations from an earthquake thousands of miles distant, transmitting microscopic movements of the Earth’s crust directly to the surface of my cup of water; nearly undetectable sounds caused by a jet airplane’s engines, thousands of feet in the air above me; a heavy truck traveling over a nearby road, sending tremors through the asphalt and underlayment to and through the foundation of my house; the sliver quivering or bouncing of my leg on the floor below my desk, broadcast through the furniture; my breathing, sending air molecules slamming into one another, causing the commotion to reach the water’s surface; a tiny, almost invisible, insect moving its legs just enough to disturb the water, and many, many more. The core cause for the vibrations probably does not matter. But it could. Unless the vibrations grow in intensity, though, my attention will no doubt be drawn elsewhere, to yet another diversion…another distraction that makes little difference in the way I experience the world around me. That, of course, raises a question: how intrusive must a distraction be to capture enough of one’s attention to cause that attention to deviate from the thoughts or things that drew one’s attention previously? That question, if applied to every instance in which one’s attention left its earlier path, could rob a person of actionable focus. It could cause madness; a sort of mental explosion that might leave him incapable of other, more rational, though. Is this something we should carefully watch for? Should we ask friends and family to be on the lookout for evidence of psychological eruptions? If so, what might we advise them to do if they found such evidence?

+++

Just short of two weeks from now, the Northern Hemisphere will experience the Winter Solstice. The shortest day, the longest night, the beginning of winter. Drinking mulled wine, making gingerbread, lighting a Yule log, feasting, and several other rituals coincide with celebrations of the Winter Solstice. Several ancient traditions, as well as many significant modern cultural practices, are rooted in observances of the Winter Solstice. The alignment of stones in Stonehenge mark both Winter Solstice and Summer Solstice.  Many celebratory Winter Solstice traditions involve fire and light, welcoming the sun’s return to its realm and celebrating renewal and rebirth. From a particular heathen’s perspective, celebrations of the Winter Solstice are far more more natural—as well as more authentically human—than traditions involving Santa Clause and gift-laden reindeer and once-a-year moments of charity and compassion. Granted, the two styles of celebratory philanthropy, kindness, and human decency share many commonalities; but our modern versions are not very good at shielding their capitalistic foundations from public view. Regardless of one’s philosophies about the Winter Solstice “season,”  though, it seems to strike a chord across social and political and economic divides. As is the case with so many other aspects of human behavior, our emotional attachments to the Winter Solstice may be radically different, but give us the capacity to safely bridge the shark-infested waters between us. With that in mind, I hope I can follow my own advice and seek that protected pathway on December 21 and every day thereafter.

+++

Nothing can be so utterly destructive to trust in others as betraying it in oneself. That admonition seems so obviously correct that one would be foolish to question it. Yet it happens every day to incalculable numbers of people. A “little deception” may appear innocuous and easily tolerable, but it brings into question every assertion one makes. Every assurance one hears is compared to one’s own dependability. If I can dishonor commitments I make to myself, why should place my trust in others? A history of breaking commitments to myself—whether explicit or implied—is a warning to myself and to others. And, when one determines he cannot be trusted, one’s self-esteem must evaporate completely, leaving a bag of empty skin devoid of merit. I hope I can trust myself. To know otherwise would be absolutely intolerable. I wonder what people who cannot trust themselves feel about themselves? Such a dark, dark place; a point from which return must be next to impossible.

+++

Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

~ Khalil Gibran ~

+++

I think I may have exhausted my reservoir of tiredness. Though I felt completely spent when I went to bed early last night, I could not get to sleep. At most, I slept for fifteen minutes or thereabouts every hour for most of the night. I started trying to track my clock-watching just after 1:00 a.m. The amount of time I slept between 1 and 2 was negligible. At 2:00 a.m., I turned over to have another look at the clock. I did the same at 2:30, at 3, at 3:30, at 4, and at 4:15. I stayed in bed until almost 5, but finally decided I had used up my capacity to sleep. I am tired again, but I think lack of sleep (and not ongoing fatigue) may be the cause. That would be good. It would mean I may have gotten over the post-chemo stretch of my committed attachment to exhaustion. I hope that’s the case. As much as I’ve grown to appreciate excessive sleep, I’ve also grown tired of it. My energy may be making a post-chemo comeback. My timing is more than a little off-balance.

+++

If my hands get any thinner, I think I might be able to see light through them by holding them up to a bright light. That’s an exaggeration, by the way, but not by much. The bones and tendons, already easily visible beneath a web of blue veins and ribbons of connective tissue, seem to have less volume than I would have expected. My fingers, once short and stubby like miniature light tan cudgels, now look more like beefy beige pretzel sticks. But “stubby” and “beefy” suggest thickness that has long-since devolved into something without as much body as those words might imply. Though they are far from toothpick-thin, my fingers belong on the hands of a tall, lanky teenager—proportional to his angular gauntness. On the other hand, they might be fitting for an old man whose body is shrinking, revealing what happens when food no longer is as attractive as it was when the body belonged to a ravenously hungry boy-person. Though I once was a ravenously hungry boy-person, I never had the sleek, svelte body I assume such persons have. Instead, my body was clad with thick layers of protective coverings that simultaneously hid both evidence of skeletal structure beneath body-warming temperature regulating tissues and any suggestion that powerful muscles might reside there.

+++

It has happened again. My fingers are rebelling against forced employment as alphabetic laborers. For now, anyway. I may explore whether the bed is still as comfortable as I remember it once was.

The closest we come to truly experiencing the entire human life cycle requires conscious observation of—or participation in—several crucial moments. The very first involves the moment of conception. A little later, watching the fetus become a visible lump in a mother’s belly, is another critical event in the human life cycle. Later, still, viewing the emergence of the child from the mother’s womb is a vital piece of the cycle of life. From that point forward, witnessing the baby’s growth and development through each stage of the child’s life, through maturity and old age, contributes to our eternally incomplete experience of human life. People who cannot, or choose not to, rear children miss long periods of observation that must be experienced to even begin to understand our life cycle. Though we can witness others’ transition from life to death, simply watching it unfold does not equate to experiencing that transition—we can only watch and weep and wonder about that final departure; that irreversible transformation from life to death. In fact, the human life cycle is so complex and convoluted that we “experience” vast stretches of time we simply cannot remember. When periods of one’s life take place in the absence of conscious awareness or memory, we cannot claim to have truly experienced those moments of life. We miss relatively close to one-third of our lives, simply by sleeping. And we lose long segments due to fractured recollections or memories buried in a locked vault of time. We think we know so much about our own life cycles, but reality tells another story. And we cannot realistically hope to understand the ending. We pore over thousands of pages during our lifetimes, only to discover final chapter—the one that brings the entire story together in a riveting conclusion—is missing.

+++

Artificial Intelligence (AI) makes our senses irrelevant. Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. Smell. Once upon a time, they were real. Today, though, they are available only from sensory historians. And, like authors of history texts, AI manipulators deliver their biased interpretations of the sensations experienced through the sensory organs.

+++

Bubbles form in response to instructions provided by physicists. Or, at least, physics. I am not sure whether physicists provide instructions for the production of bubbles. If they did, though, I might not be the first to say they do.

+++

Where do internationally active political spies get their hands on suicide pills that are fast-acting and have no detectible side-effects (except death)? Such pills are sufficiently common in spy literature that I think they must be based on the real thing. And how does one deliver said pills, unnoticed, to psychopaths? Especially psychopaths surrounded by protective thugs? Just curious. Could be the basis of a short story.

Today—December 6, 2025—is the 108th anniversary of Finland’s independence. The celebration will include a review of troops and a ceremonial march. Many of the day’s events will be broadcast live on TV1, Radio Suomi, Yle.fi and Yle Areena. The president, Alexander Stubb, and his spouse, Suzanne Innes-Stubb, chose Missä muruseni on, a song written by Jenni Vartiainen and performed by her and the Guards Band as their first dance, which will take place this evening at the Presidential Palace, followed by an afterparty at Hotel Kämp. My only real connection to Finland is embedded in memories of our one-day visit to Helsinki. We arrived in Helsinki early in the morning, after an overnight cruise from Stockholm, across the Baltic Sea on a Silja Line cruiseferry. Following a day walking through Helsinki under an overcast sky, we boarded a cruiseferry for the overnight trip back to Stockholm. I took no photographs. I bought no trinkets to serve as memorabilia. My memories of Helsinki are cloudy, but I recall having a lunch of reindeer stew and beetroot soup at a small restaurant. That single day’s exposure to Finland sparked a deep appreciation in me of the country. I have already written about that one-day introduction to Finland (I believe my visit in 2004), so there’s no point in another post about it. Yet I was almost as enamored of my few days in Sweden during the same trip; another trip which I have mentioned before. Perhaps I am running out of happy memories, forcing me to recycle some of the best ones. Had my early life taken a few sharp turns in different directions, I might be living in Scandinavia now, or somewhere else in Europe; fluent in Swedish and Finnish and proud of my decision to escape the religious and racial and myriad other bigotries that have found a comfortable nest in the USA.

+++

Courage. Bravery. Fearless determination. Those characteristics—necessary to escape the uncomfortable bondage of claiming to have no choice but to submit to the invasive slavery of patriotism gone off the rails—never took root in me. I wanted to be strong, but I think the requisite attributes were smothered under a blanket of so-called socialization. Artificial bravado, a crucial part of the educational curriculum designed to inculcate obedience in moldable children, blocked the real thing from becoming part of me. Not just me, of course. Millions of others, herded into conformity with easily manipulatable norms, experienced the same pressure…not to question social conventions that buried the spirit of adventure beneath layer upon layer of conformity.

+++

I hope I emerge from this lethargy very soon. Within minutes, not hours. I felt tired and spent last night, so did not join my gathered family for dinner. Again, I slept. And slept. And slept. At the moment, I feel like I could easily drift back to sleep again. Whether this sense of listlessness is based on mental or physical reactions to chemotherapy on Wednesday, I do not know. Whatever it is, I want it gone. I want a fresh infusion of boundless energy. I want to break out of the doldrums.

+++

Fog makes the trees outside my window look…vague. As if they are trying to decide whether to reveal themselves fully. The only movements I detect outside are the chipmunks (or whatever) darting across the driveway. Everything else…the leaves on the trees, the fog, everything…is as still as a painting, long-since dried.  Perhaps I am vague, too. But not for long, right? Right?

Among the reasons scientists say water is necessary for life (as we know it) is that water is a solvent. But an article (entitled, Is Water Necessary for Life?) published in the July 2019 issue of Astronomy says this: “There are also plenty of opportunities for life to flourish based on solvents other than water.” The author, David J. Eicher, is reported to be “one of the most widely recognized astronomy enthusiasts in the world.” Whether that recognition, or his extensive history of authoring scientific books and papers, qualifies him as a reliable source of believable information about the connection between non-water solvents and life is a subject for debate—debate for which I am not qualified to moderate nor in which I am qualified to participate. But for as long as I can remember, I have questioned the assertion that water is absolutely necessary for life. A press release (entitled, Water is not an essential ingredient for Life, scientists now claim) published online on SpaceNews.com on November 26, 2004, approaches the matter differently. Subsequent scientific explorations may have found data that would argue against both positions. But I’ll leave it there, anyway. I am curious about the matter; I would like a definitive, inarguable answer. But I am resigned to the likelihood that I won’t get it; at least not one in which I have absolute faith. As in so many other circumstances, my curiosity is strong, but not strong enough to lead me on a “mission” to find an answer that probably exists (if it exists) far outside of humans’ ability to reach.

+++

Last night’s World Tour of Wines went on without me. Mi novia, though, came home with some plastic bento-boxes full of my food; already paid-for. She took with her to the dinner the bento boxes in which my oncologist sent home with me some Thanksgiving meals last week—so kind and thoughtful! I did not really feel bad; just drained of energy. I feel that way this morning, as well, though not quite as fatigued as I was yesterday, when I cancelled my haircut and my appointment with the podiatrist. I’m still not quite up to speed, so those appointments will have to wait until another time. Bah!

+++

We’ll have family with us this afternoon through Sunday, a welcome visit that will no doubt boost my energy and otherwise improve what looks like a grey, dreary day outside. The high temperature today is forecast to reach 45°F, only 9°F higher than right now. Fortunately, we will not spend time wandering around shivering and naked outdoors. We won’t spend time indoors in that state of discomfort, either. Instead, we will immerse ourselves in a temperate environment; inside, where we will be sheltered and warm and comfortable. Good people, good food, good conversation. Ideally, all family members would be here with us; that will take place another time. Patience and commitment are what that will take.

+++

I do not understand why I can get a reasonably good and consistent connection on Zoom with my family in Mexico, but not with telephone connections. Those connections typically are unreliable—static, dropped calls, and wide variations in the volumes of the voices on the other end of the line. The only downsides with Zoom are that they take a small (but still irritating) amount of planning. In addition to the aforementioned problems with phone calls, phone connections involving more than two locations amplify the difficulties. I can cope with troubling interference with communications, but I allow my impatience to dissuade me from making the effort. Perhaps I contribute more to the problem than do the technological connections. Ach.

+++

Early to bed last night and late to rise this morning; I should be fully rested. Yet my body insists I have not slept long enough. Apparently fourteen to sixteen hours (or more) is inadequate. I am not in intolerable pain, though, so I can handle a bit more sleep in lieu of unwelcome weariness.

+++

Somehow, our society seems to have determined that we must choose between white color careers and blue collar careers. If we choose the former, we are asked to accept that our education should be delivered in college; preferably through a four-year program or through a more intense path that leads to an advanced degree. If we choose the latter, we are expected to attend trade school or learn on-the-job. In making the choice, we are asked to accept that white collar careers should correlate with higher incomes, more prestige, and opportunities for greater social mobility. Blue collar work, on the other hand, should correspond to lower income, less prestige, and limitations in one’s ability to climb the social ladder. It’s either-or. One or the other. A blue collar worker is not expected to appreciate or understand sophisticated literature, complex scientific or engineering concepts, art, or mathematical theories. And white collar workers who also have an interest in working with their hands are viewed with suspicion, as if “manual labor” is embarrassingly “beneath their station.” Bullshit. I think lives which combine engagement with both worlds are far more likely to be fulfilling than are lives limited to one or the other. Who are the people whose lives are apt to be most enriched? Plumbers who enjoy philosophical discussions or reading the great works of literature. Doctors who spend their spare time doing landscaping. Carpenters who express themselves emotionally by writing poetry. Lawyers who immerse themselves turning wood or building furniture. Electricians who delve into the physics of astronomy. I believe people who venture outside the assigned “color” of their chosen career paths probably develop greater respect for and appreciation of those who have chosen different shirt collars; routes to job satisfaction and career  success.

+++

Yesterday’s chemotherapy session delivered two anti-cancer drugs, an escalation from recent treatments. I was infused with two medications (gemcitabine and navelbine), but “appropriately” reduced dosages (compared to…?), and given an injection of bone-strengthening medication. I have lost track of the chemo meds I have been given since my original diagnosis and even since the diagnosis of recurrence, two years ago. My oncologist explained that the “abstruse report on genomic & epigenetic biomarkers measured in a blood sample,” which I mentioned in a recent post, revealed “no actionable (genetic) mutations.” She will continue to periodically schedule the measurement (which she called a “liquid biopsy”) periodically, in the hope that any such mutations might offer additional options to stall or otherwise slow the development of my cancer. The latest information yields “good news,” but “good” might suggest a tad more optimism than the news deserves. When I hear her review the meaning of recent developments, I interpret her words as saying something like, “the good news is that your inevitable death due to cancer is unlikely to occur within the hour.” Just a touch of black humor.

+++

Shortly after I left the clinic after yesterday’s chemo treatment, I began to feel tired.  Or maybe it was a little more like empty or like I had suddenly been robbed of even a shred of energy. I took a nap when I got home. No long after I awoke from the nap, I was ready for bed. So, about 8:00 p.m. I called it a day. Usually, my energy seems to spike upward for a while after treatment; no so, yesterday. My calendar for today includes a follow-up visit with the podiatrist to complete the treatment of my onychocryptosis (ingrown toenail) by applying a chemical to thwart the nail from regrowing along the edge. And, later, I have an appointment for a haircut. And, this evening, we have reservations for a wines of the world dinner. Because my energy level remains quite low, I’ve decided to postpone the first two obligations. I hope to meet the third one, but that remains to be seen, depending on how I feel as the scheduled time approaches. Normally, I can count on at least a little boost right after chemo; I guess I should not count on that expectation.

+++

My treatment yesterday concluded with the administration of the bone-strengthening injection. I sat in a chair against a wall to get the injection (in my stomach). Just as the nurse plunged the needle into me, I heard an odd noise above the back of my head. And, then, I felt a strange sensation on top of my head. The nurse started laughing, which caused her to jiggle the needle, significantly amplifying the pain of the normally quite painful injection. Her laughter was triggered by the fact that the odd noise and physical sensation were caused by a wall-mounted hand-sanitizer, which began releasing its foam onto me because of the proximity of my head. No permanent damage; the stuff evaporates quickly. More humor; not sure of its hue.

+++

Back to work and life satisfaction: I sometimes wonder which career path I would have found more appealing: college professor or stone mason? I suspect I could have been comfortable in either role; but happier dabbling in both. I admire people who work with their hands; people who have gotten good at that work. Many kinds of blue collar work are far more artistic than most of their white collar counterparts. Which is likely to be more creative, an office administrator or a wood turner? A plumber or a wedding planner? A paid assassin or a volunteer doing the same work?

Frost on the roof and evergreen trees, visible from the windows of my study, suggests I would be more comfortable staying indoors today—my typical day—than venturing out. But chemotherapy is on the agenda, so I will just have to deal with the underabundance of warm temperatures. Even when we claim to have no choices, we are drowned in them. I could simply opt to cancel my chemo appointment, for example, or I could ask to be placed in a brief, medically-induced, coma while enroute to and from the cancer treatment center. I could postpone the treatment until we experience a period of reliably warm weather, but that might interfere with or counteract the progress made thus far in keeping the cancer from advancing as rapidly as it otherwise would. Choices, then, are not necessarily appealing, or even realistic, choices. Sometimes, they are unattractive or unpleasant options. Maybe options is not the right word; perhaps alternatives is a more descriptive fit. Options suggests, to me, alternatives that are at least modestly interesting. How is it that something so mundane as this can command so much of my time? I often wonder why I can burrow so deeply into such rabbit warrens.

+++

I am not the only person who has expressed curiosity about whether there is a maximum temperature—an opposite of absolute zero. Fourteen years ago, more or less, a query on reddit asked that very question. The few answers almost immediately assumed a knowledge of such esoterica as how logarithms work, Planck temperature, and other such excursions into quantum theories and physics that are beyond my comprehension. But what I got out of the responses is that absolute zero, the lowest possible temperature, is a theoretical limit that cannot be reached in practice. However, that unreachable limit is assigned specific theoretical temperatures: 0 Kelvin (K), -273.15 degrees Celsius (°C),  -459.67 degrees Fahrenheit (°F). But, at the log scale (according to one respondent), the lowest temperature would be equal to negative infinity. At the other end of the spectrum, there is no specific maximum…except positive infinity; except one respondent says quantum theory may predict a maximum temperature.  At this late stage in my life, there is no compelling reason for me to attempt to absorb a lifetime of understanding of and knowledge about physics. But, if that understanding and knowledge were obtainable by getting a simple injection, I would go for it. I loathe that I did not devote enough time and energy to learn this stuff…or that I am not sufficiently intelligent to achieve that knowledge and understanding.

+++

A high school classmate with whom I have been in occasional online contact in recent years sent me a message this morning, letting me know she and her son are in Hot Springs Village for a few days. She wondered whether we might be able to visit briefly. Thanks to my schedule and her limited time here, that is, unfortunately, not possible. I have not seen her in 53 years and, to the best of my recollection, we were at most casual acquaintances during our school years. It’s interesting how some faint and tentative connections can endure after such a long time. From what I know of her now, her philosophies are liberal and progressive, which might explain why we remember one another. Another matter to occupy my mind; how are people who otherwise have little in common drawn to maintain informal connections over the course of time?

+++

The howling cat is complaining bitterly that I will not permit her to leap onto my desktop and shed enough fur to weave into a heavy coat. She seems to crave attention, yet when I try to reach for her to pet her, she rejects my overtures and clearly expresses disdain for me. Yet she looks at me, from just beyond arm’s reach, and looks pleadingly at me. She cries pitifully, as if distraught that I am not paying enough attention to her emotional needs. Dogs are far more friendly. Dogs are kind. Cats are self-indulgent, emotionally empty creatures; feline versions of the Kardashians or the Trumps. Potatoes are friendlier than Phaedra.

+++

Desolate places are like magnets to me. That is one of many compelling arguments.

I spent most of the last hour poring over an abstruse report on genomic & epigenetic biomarkers measured in a blood sample taken during a visit with my oncologist a few weeks ago. Understanding the significance of the report requires far more knowledge of genetics and oncology than I possess, but with the help of Google’s AI Overview, I have become even more confused by the report’s contents. However, if the Google AI Overview did nothing else, it left me with an uneasy optimism about the potential negative effects on the progression of my cancer, as suggested by my genetics. My visit tomorrow at the cancer center, when the staff will administer more chemotherapy drugs, will, I hope, confirm my optimism about the meaning of the report. My optimism received a pre-abstruse-report boost yesterday afternoon when I received a summary of the morning’s PET-scan results and the doctor’s office called me to tell me she was quite pleased with them. Despite the good news, I need medications (though not as much) to manage pain. I can live with needing a little (rather than a great deal) pain control.

+++

Tiny icicles dangle from some leaves on the bush outside my window. The dense clusters of bright red berries seem to be encased in thin coatings of ice, as well. If the outdoor temperature is truly 34°F, as my computer monitor tells me, the ice should melt before long. The Weather Network, though, asserts that the temperature, at the moment, is two degrees colder than my computer claims, so I will not count my frozen chickens just yet. Inside the house, some rooms remain unpleasantly cold, even though the digital thermometer (part of the HVAC thermostat) says it’s a balmy 73°F in the house. My body insists the digital thermometer is wrong, at least here in my study—where I am confident temperatures are approaching absolute zero.

+++

Mi novia‘s grandson will play in the Arizona 5A State Championship (football) game later this week; Friday night. Thanks to her (and her daughter’s) infectious enthusiasm, it is impossible to maintain any semblance of disinterest. Mom’s and grandma’s levels of excitement are, literally, audible; the two of them during their phone conversations and grandma’s when she describes his latest accomplishment to anyone within earshot. Though I doubt I will ever develop sufficient interest in football to prompt me to watch the Superbowl, I am cheering him on, regardless of which team finishes the game with the highest score. The fact that he is maintaining a very high grade point average and is actively involved in other extracurricular activities adds to my appreciation for his accomplishments.

+++

The icicles are getting longer on the leaves outside my window. And the branches of pine trees, their needles coated with a white sheen, reveal the weight of accumulating ice. Temperature readings still insist the air is barely above—or at exactly the point of—freezing. I doubt the evidence of winter weather will remain visible for long today, which demonstrates my confidence in meteorologists’ ability to predict Mother Nature’s capriciousness.

+++

Yesterday afternoon, mi novia put up our Christmas tree and otherwise set about decorating the house for the season. Whether the tree will survive the presence of a surly, assertive, occasionally obnoxious, fur-shedding beast of a cat has yet to be determined. I enjoy seeing Christmas decorations—briefly in the month of December—but I have never been especially enamored of being involved in the doing the work of elves. Perhaps, if I had enough eggnog and/or medically-necessary gummies, I might be more inclined to contribute to the efforts. But, more likely, partaking of those seasonal nutritional supplements would simply amplify my enjoyment of the signs of the season.

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Somehow, I slipped into December almost without noticing the end of summer. My birthday in October should be a reminder that Thanksgiving will soon follow, and that Christmas (paired with another’s birthday 🙂 ) cannot be far behind. The speed with which time passes catches me increasingly off-guard, though. Before I know it, leprechauns will be spilling green dye into the Chicago River for St. Patrick’s Day and Buddha Purnima will follow on May 12 to celebrate Buddha’s birth, the latter just a week after Cinco de Mayo.

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Does anyone wonder whether Mona Lisa’s facial expression might have been a response to an episode of flatulence…or diarrhea? And, was it hers or Leonardo’s?

I have written a few paragraphs this morning, but their attempted flippancy has fallen flat. I am in no mood to be flip. Only after my PET-scan, scheduled to begin in 90 minutes, might the tensions I feel fall away. Only then might I try writing again. But maybe I’ll put it off until I get the results of the scan. With good fortune, the results will leave me in a more relaxed, comfortable mood. Time will tell. I have no interest in petting a cobra, by the way.

A few moments ago, I heard a disturbing noise, a loud banging on the wall outside my study. Or, perhaps, in the attic above me. At first, I assumed the sound was the work of a woodpecker attempting to burrow into the siding of the house. Maybe, I thought, the bird was instead trying to poke holes in the rain gutters, hoping to find food in the form of edible worms beneath the surface of the metal channels. But the volume of the racket was so high I wonder whether a raccoon might have been attempting to claw its way into the warmth and security of the vacant space above the ceiling. Even a large raccoon, though, might not be capable of causing such a commotion—a black bear might be seeking food and shelter on this very cool morning in the middle of the forest. Whatever it was, its noisy incursion into my tranquil headspace has ceased; replaced by the screams of crows, angry that no one has left peanuts for them. The usual place where they come looking for peanuts is a big stone, lacking evidence that breakfast has been left for them. This morning, the temperature sits at 32°F, too chilly for the peanut delivery service to function.

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Late yesterday afternoon, mi novia transformed our house into a wonderland of delicate, dancing lights. And she exposed evidence that we are approaching the winter season. A brightly colored metallic Nutcracker soldier, a colorful handmade wreath from her time as a young mother, and a scattering of candles of various shapes and sizes, among other signs that December is just hours away—clear indicators that Christmas is just around the corner…temporally. The early disappearance of sunlight was made even darker by turning off most of the lights illuminating the room. A string of white lights on the mantle above the fireplace—which provided both warmth and darting flames that mesmerized me—joined flickering candles to create an ambiance reminiscent of a cabin nestled deep in the snowy woods on Christmas eve.  When the living room got too warm, we extinguished the fire and moved into the entertainment room, where we watched a few episodes of Broadchurch. I had watched the series several years ago; but I had enjoyed it so much that I was quite happy to see it again.

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Reading comments on Facebook, written by right-wing bigots whose once-hidden despicable attitudes have become acceptable (thanks to the decay of decency ushered in by adherents of MAGA), is a miserable mistake. Seeing such disgusting drivel presents me with a challenge I often fail to meet; the challenge presented by the Unitarian Universalist church: to embrace a principle that calls on us to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person. Though I accept the principle, intellectually, my emotions refuse to allow me to recognize that it applies to enormous swaths of the population. Especially to people who spout such offensive ideas. These mammals are savage creatures who, in my mind, do not qualify as human beings…as “persons.” I do not know whether I would be upset to learn that all of them perished after jumping into the molten lava of a volcanic caldera. I might be willing to witness such mass madness, though; just to know whether it would be upsetting to me. Just considering such a possibility causes me to feel overwhelming guilt, tempered just a little by the accompanying glee.

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Years ago, I read a book written by my sister’s deceased friend, Dorothy Stroup. The novel, In the Autumn Wind, was a riveting fictional anti-nuclear treatment of the aftermath of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima. Ever since reading it so long ago, I have had in the back of my mind an idea for a book about events surrounding an assertive Japanese demand for an apology for Hiroshima and Nagasaki; a demand that still has not been met. The book would be an action/thriller with heavy overtones of conflicting concepts of morality. When Stroup died in 2013, she left behind an unpublished sequel dealing with Japanese POWs held by the Soviet Union. Her published novel was largely informed by her personal experience living in Japan for a time and her relationships with Hiroshima survivors. She researched background for the sequel by traveling to Siberia in 1993. Stroup’s background, summarized in an obituary published online at legacy.com, fascinates me. The comments accompanying the obituary, from students and friends, reveal an interesting personality. I wonder whether her unpublished sequel will ever be available for curious people to read?

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Today is crisp and clear, the kind of day worth watching from inside a warm house. When I lived in Chicago many years ago (36 years since I left!), I found the snow and frigid temperatures invigorating. Today, I think I would find the city delightful only during the warmth of summer and the warmer edges of spring and fall. While appropriate clothing can make a cold climate livable, winter has lost some of its appeal over the years.

Days and nights merge; the only difference between them is the amount of light I see at the windows—or the hours of darkness that hide the sun. Sleep, once the kingdom of the night, increasingly stakes its claim to daylight hours, its visits growing longer and more congenial. Nighttime dreams and daydreams collide as they invade one another’s domains, making it impossible to distinguish realities in another dimension from fantasies in this one.  I become an observer of both, but a participant in neither. I simply watch experiences, over which I have no control, unfold. Reality inserts itself into delusion and fantasy infringes the territories over which I expect facts to have domain. Dreams gone bad become nightmares, but the term for blighted fantasies escapes me. No matter; they switch places and roles at will…their own, not mine. As a watcher, though, I am sometimes drawn in to the confusion. Left wondering what is real and what is not, I cannot risk a response, only to discover I have intruded on an illusion.

All right. I will admit my descriptions may be somewhat enhanced. Exaggerated. Overblown. But more mundane expressions would be boring, revealing me as the originator of boredom; the perfector of tedium. But I will not leave the subject without saying this: think deeply enough about the differences between reality and fantasy—and between daytime and darkness—and you will question the legitimacy of your own perceptions. I will now attempt to close the hyperbolic chamber.

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An unexpected surprise yesterday afternoon supplied a burst of energy to offset my lethargy for a time. The surprise came in the form of pie; Dutch apple pie. Nectar of the gods. The kind of surprise that might reverse my weight loss. People who deliver pies— whether apple (especially) or pumpkin or pecan or cherry or…anything else—are nothing short of angelic. They know who they are. As do I; I can tell by their wings.

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Today is Saturday, I think. But it could be Monday or one of several other weekdays. And it could be the other weekend day, Sunday, but nothing about the day so far feels Sunday-ish. Days and nights, as I have already suggested, seem to switch places at will. Or they join together to form unfamiliar day-parts. The same is true of the 24-hour packets of time we identify by specific names, but they have the capacity to combine with others, creating new time-based experiences we have yet to name. We cannot legitimately claim the right to assign names to these new time-based experiences…any more than we can claim authority to rename existing packets of time. Yet we do (e.g., Humpday in lieu of Wednesday). We are judged by other sentient beings to be arrogant bastards for asserting what only WE perceive as our superiority. Just ask them. I have. They are universal in viewing us as contemptible creatures with a god complex. They see us as we see him; he, whose claims are so utterly absurd and who actions are so thoroughly despicable that we weep with every breath he takes. Hmm. That brief deviation from the direction of a carefully-planned narrative has now been corrected. Pardon the fact that the train went so abruptly off the rails.

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Speaking of trains. I do not recall a time when I was not fascinated by trains. Passenger trains, especially. I have ridden the rails on several occasions, promising myself each time I would do it again soon. But soon is an imprecise term; December is coming soon, but tomorrow is coming sooner. Long, leisurely, luxurious train travel remains on my bucket list. Though I am firmly committed to equality for all persons, I would make an exception for train travel. I want a private train; one with a private dining car, a private sleeping car, and a private car for conversation and entertainment. It goes without saying, of course, I want the locomotive to be dedicated exclusively to my train. And I want to own the rails, as well. Because there are places I’d like to go where train tracks have not yet been installed, I would expect to have a crew available to lay tracks at my direction. I would invite my family and friends to travel with me and to participate in sightseeing as well as in an ongoing orgy driven by fine food, fine wine, and a commitment to the pleasures of debauchery in all (or  most) of its forms.  I could probably live if I had to scale back my train-related fantasy; I would be willing to make do with an empty boxcar at the end of a freight train.

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Each time I am scheduled for a PET-scan, I feel my anxiety begin to spike. The closer I get to the time for the procedure, the more on edge I feel. Though I try to be confident that the results of the procedure will be good news, that is more difficult than I like. But, on the other hand, I try to anticipate how I would feel if the results show the cancer’s growth has accelerated dramatically. And I try to be  ready to simply accept the results, whatever they are. Last Wednesday, my oncologist told me she would call me next Monday afternoon to review the results with me, if possible. I told her I could wait until my regular chemotherapy appointment next Wednesday; I think she knew, though, I would prefer to know sooner than later. I don’t know why I tried to brush off the anxiety; though I know stoic is not a good look on me, I seem to keep trying to make it seem like a good fit. Very few people know I failed the college course in bravery due to excessive absences. I made up for the damage to my grade point average, though, with the A+ I got in the course on flippancy.

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Next week is packed with appointments. In addition to the PET-scan and the chemo session, I return to the podiatrist for a follow-up to prevent the return of an ingrown toenail…the day after chemo. And I have a haircut scheduled after the toe thing…and a wines of the world dinner that night. Whether I drink any wine that night will depend entirely on whether I expect the chemo to treat me well. I have grown so accustomed to nesting at home that these adventures will seem really edgy.

 

He’s a walkin’ contraceptive, partly broke and part defective
shoutin’ every wrong invective to the cloudy skies back home.

~ A twisted inspirational ~

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Anxiety; a sensation akin to fear, but without the accompanying dread—although dread may be more closely related to anxiety than to fear. Anxiety feels like walking on thin ice. Panic takes hold when the ice shatters beneath your feet and you plunge into the frigid water below. Panic triggers an instinct to fight for life. Anxiety is a motivator, too, but it sparks a desire to flee; to escape the uneasy feeling the world is about to come apart. Depression is an advanced version of anxiety from which escape seems impossible; the aftermath of realizing that one’s world is in the throes of its death rattle. Negative emotions all are connected. They swirl about in the mind that sees itself as separate and apart from almost everything and everyone—alone in a chaotic, unforgiving environment. That very detachment, though, may be the sole coupling that prevents a person from stumbling into an abyss from which an escape is virtually impossible.

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The death toll so far from the horrific fires in Hong Kong high-rise apartment blocks is, at 128, staggering, but officials of the local government say the number of deaths is likely to climb. Some 200 residents of the apartment blocks are still missing and media reports say 79 people were injured in the blazes. This catastrophe, along with the hundreds of thousands of other, smaller ones that take place worldwide every day, makes people acknowledge the inescapable reality that horror is an inevitable aspect of life.

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Except when you look in the mirror, you do not see a human face. All of the other faces you see are imaginary. The news anchors on television…the neighbors…the postal clerk…the crowds of people protesting the deportation of immigrants…the immigrants subject to deportation…your parents…your children…the restaurant waiter…the police officer…the priest…the president…everyone you think you see is a product of your imagination. And that goes for everything else you see, as well. The pens and pencils, the flatware of your dining table, the dining table, automobiles, airplanes, birds, trees, the coffee cup on the counter, the counter, everything. Nothing is real. It’s all a part of a cleverly-designed artificial reality, created by Danzu Petaluma, a celestial equestrian the size of the sharp point of a needle. Danzu created all of us and everything we perceive, using a discarded, badly-outdated version of a SimCity video game (also imaginary, by the way). Incidentally, the face you see in the mirror is an invisibly small  reflection; in reality, your face is less than 1/2 the size of a proton. Everything else within your line of sight is fake. So are the sounds you think you hear; yes, even the music. The canoe trip you took through the Suez Canal…nothing but an illusion. The entire universe—which you think is immeasurably enormous—is considerably smaller than a pea. Yet everything in that universe—all the people and places and things—is the product of Danzu Petaluma’s experimentation with SimCity while high on cannabis. Danzu created it all; even the banana you saw rotting on the sidewalk in front of Macy’s. Yes, even the sidewalk. Even Macy‘s. Danzu did it all. The next time you eat a grape, consider the fact that the same mind that created it also created all the contents of the nearest sewage treatment plant. Danzu has an extraordinarily active imagination, which he shared with you so you, too, can imagine all the thing you think you see or feel or hear or smell or taste. He created bamboo, as well. And cupcakes. And he painstakingly printed every letter of every word of every book ever written (or imagined). Even the Bible. And War and Peace. And Animal Farm. Elvis Presley and Johann Sebastian Bach were his creations, too. He coined the term “opposable thumbs,” as well.

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Once again, I woke near my “old” wake time; around 5:00 a.m. this morning. The chilly outdoor temperatures enhance the appeal of a warm bed, but I question the value of adding to my collection of sleep hours at this point in the morning. That is not to say that I will not return to bed; only that I will question the value of translating the thought into action.

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Gratitude is a duty which ought to be paid, but which none have a right to expect.

~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau ~

Thanksgiving celebrations are not exclusive to the USA. Several countries around the globe celebrate a holiday dedicated to gratitude, though dates devoted to the celebrations differ from country to country. The American Thanksgiving was not the first date given to gratitude. Canada’s Thanksgiving predates the US holiday by 40+ years, for example. Japan, Norfolk Island, Puerto Rico, and Germany are among others. Thanksgiving celebrations, based on my experience, seem to be on the decline, though my experience is colored by age differentials in my family and what I perceive as the small and shrinking size of both nuclear and extended families. People with more “normal” families (2-3 children born to relatively young parents whose own parents bore children at a young age…and the members of the extended family living within relatively close proximity to one another) may be apt to celebrate with more regularity and greater intensity. Even those whose appreciation of Thanksgiving is fairly limited, though, tend to follow at least some of the culinary customs that surround the holiday. Thanks to the generosity of friends and the great people of the cancer treatment center, within the last several days we have been given some foods that are traditionally consumed during this holiday: turkey, ham, stuffing, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, etc., etc. Today, we are kicking back at home; chilling and treating the day as an opportunity to rest and relax. I still need that “do nothing” time to preserve or restore my energy.

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At least twice last night, I realized that, although I had been in bed for quite some time, I had not slept. Strange questions that had been on my mind before I went to bed sprang to the surface of my consciousness those two times. My questions related to humans’ evolution and the points at which we might have made the transition from herbivore to omnivore or carnivore. Another question ran through my head: at what point (and how and why) did humans start cooking their food, either flora or fauna? During those periods of thought, I pictured in my head a series of colorful illustrated drawings on a poster; the drawings included timelines that showed when humans’ diets were mostly plants and when we got our sustenance primarily from animals. I could not read the timeframe descriptions  for each of the time periods; the type was too small and too far away and so blurry I could barely make it out as text. Perhaps I could read the text if I think it in closer proximity to my eyes.

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Eager astronomers hope to soon see the results of a celestial event of stunning proportion. The red supergiant star, Betelgeuse, in the constellation Orion, is the focus of attention, with expectations that its transition into a supernova will be visible from Earth. The real-time event, took place between 400 and 700 years (Earth years) ago as Betelgeuse exploded into a supernova. The light energy from the explosion is expected to reach our planet some time “relatively soon,” a euphemism for “maybe soon, maybe never.” Betelgeuse is more than 700 million miles in diameter and has a mass of ten to twenty times the size of the Sun. The supernova-in-the-making is one of the largest stars known. But, because of the distance in space and time, astronomers do not know precisely when the supernova will appear, if ever. We might be surprised to see that, in the intervening Earth years, the once-massive star has become a dense rock the size of a bowling ball, with a weight eclipsing that of the Sun (see what I did there? 😉 )

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Procrastination should not be given a regular place on the calendar. It should be required to force its way into one’s schedule; at gunpoint, if necessary.

Several years ago, shortly after moving to the Village, advice from a veteran bird-watcher added to my knowledge about the human physiology of aging. According to the advisor, changes in the retina and optic nerve diminishes the clarity of vision in low light. In addition, he said, one’s pupils may shrink and become slower to adjust to changes in the intensity of light. This education about reduced quality of vision associated with aging took place in connection with a session on selecting binoculars, part of a bird-watching workshop. The workshop was part of a days-long course on bird identification. I have forgotten most of what I learned about identifying birds; but the relationship between aging and the reduction in the quality and clarity of eyesight remains etched in my brain. Perhaps that revelation accompanied my real-world experience at the time—a noticeable reduction in the sharpness of my vision in low light. Recently, I have experienced another noticeable change in my vision; when reading text on my smart phone—in low light—the reduction in the quality of my vision remains, even after I introduce more light to my environment. Only after resting my eyes for a while does my vision return to “normal,” which is considerably “abnormal” compared to a few years ago. Reliable eyesight is one of many aspects of youth that may fall victim to battles with advancing age. Time brings with it the inevitable surrender to forces of decline and decay.

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Before it is exposed to the heat of flame, a cone of incense is dark and hard and solid. While it smolders, the smoke that rises from it forms pleasing shapes. The smoke quickly dissipates into shapeless vapor, filling the air with a pleasing scent. Once the source of the smoke from the ember is exhausted, the cone is no longer dark and hard and solid. Though its shape remains exactly the same as it was, its color is lighter. The cone has become nothing but fine, powdery ash, its strength and solidity transformed into a vaporous replica. The bulk of its substance has been dispersed into smoke that can never be reclaimed to re-create its previous form.

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Suspects
He had driven into the park, ignoring the “Park Closed for the Season” signs at the entrance. The chain across the road, blocking entry, did not dissuade him. Carlisle Carmichael’s bolt cutters dispensed with the obstacle in a matter of seconds. He continued to the highest observation point and parked at the edge of a cliff. Beyond the edge was space; four hundred feet empty air down to the base, where piles of huge boulders hid the sandy surface beneath. After an hour of searching, he found the entrance to a cave, hidden by a scattering of boulders and brush. He made his way back to the vehicle, reached in and slid its gear shift into neutral, and went to the back of the car. He pushed it forward, past the cliff’s edge. The sound of the car smashing into the rocks below was loud, but no one but Carmichael heard it. After returning to the cave he had found earlier, he crawled inside and made himself as comfortable as he could on a bare rock surface. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a plastic bag full of white tablets. In a bid to reclaim what little was left of his independence, Carlisle Carmichael swallowed a fistful of barbiturates, one tablet at a time.

Six months afterward, park rangers discovered the battered car. Two months later, a couple of spelunkers came across a decomposing body in the cave where Carmichael went to rest. Having already identified the car’s registered owner, rangers assumed the body was Carmichael’s. The county coroner quickly corrected their assumption. “This woman was in her early thirties,” she announced. “The garrote around her neck suggests her death was not accidental.” Suspicion immediately fell on the rangers who discovered the body. Within weeks, both of them vanished, only to resurface in Istanbul months later, carrying counterfeit passports; one of them belonging to Carlisle Carmichael.

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Soon, I will wander into the oncologist’s office, seeking treatment for whatever ails me.

History once told stories about tomorrows that have long since been swallowed by belligerent yesterdays.  Moments in time are woven into instances that evolved into epochs and eras. By closely following the filaments that connect tomorrow with the past, I am led inevitably through non-sequential pockets of time soaked in memories of a future that has yet to become the unauthorized autobiography of  the very first yesterday. I refuse to rely on second-hand information to inform my opinions. My beliefs emerge from seeds planted in the fertile fields of an active imaginary volcano.

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She has a Ph.D. in hatred
and a certificate of shame.
She belongs on a hangman’s scaffold
where she can’t escape the blame.

How can this prison hold her?
She’ll set this place aflame.
She killed a local soldier,
a foreigner, just the same.

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The functions of news media sometime seem unclear. Or contradictory. Perhaps, though, it’s not the functions that are so unclear or contradictory. Maybe, instead, it’s the intentions driving them that are so confounding. Yet those intentions frequently are so glaringly straightforward that misunderstanding them must be deliberate. And those obvious intentions are…? Clearly, the aim of news media is to deliver indisputable evidence of the innate savagery of our species. Only by televising State banquets featuring human vivisection and subsequent cannibalistic feasts could our monstrosity be any more apparent. But our savagery is called into question by certain print and broadcast offerings, such as today’s edition of NPR’s My Unsung Hero, described as “stories of people whose kindness left a lasting impression.” Which end of the spectrum more accurately describes humankind? 

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A drinking glass full of water left undisturbed on a kitchen counter will become an empty glass over time. The speed with which that transition occurs will be dictated in part by heat and humidity. No matter how closely watched, though, the conversion of visible liquid water in the glass to invisible vapor in the surrounding environment cannot be witnessed in real time. Inexplicable magic.

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There are times when nonsensical rambling is far more meaningful than carefully-scripted and well-conceived intellectual precision. Maybe.