Finally, after months of wishing and hoping my treadmill would disappear, it happened. We presented it to the guy who maintains our HVAC system…and whose wife visits us regularly to do the housework we are either incapable of doing or unwilling to do. I justify my avoidance of sweeping, mopping, dusting, and otherwise making the house look and feel livable by looking at the scrawny, elderly man who peers at me from the mirror. I also defend the choice of hiring a housekeeper by arguing that we may have more reliable financial resources than she and her husband have. But when I see him park what appears to be his expensive, luxurious, and fully-equipped extended-cab pickup in front of my house, I conclude that my meager fixed-income probably represents considerably less  than his potentially limitless financial resources. And, then, I envision their flush bank accounts, overflowing with massive stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and their safe deposit boxes crammed with giant bars of gold bullion and countless ten-inch layers of of ten-carat diamond rings. I imagine them driving into the Rolls-Royce dealership at the beginning of each month, trading their pre-owned Rolls-Royce Phantom for another one…one newer and cleaner and oozing prestige. But…maybe not the top of the line Rolls-Royce Droptail; after all, they’re working people, too, like the rest of us. Hmmm.  I think I’ve seen each of the two of them sporting Vacheron Constantin and Audemars Piguet watches, snatched from hand-crafted watch-cabinets made of pure-heart sycamore and ebony wood.

+++

It’s hard to say whether the chemo was responsible for the way I felt yesterday. Whatever it was and—to a slightly lesser extent—remains seems to have put the brakes on me again yesterday. My naps were shorter than “normal,” but they encroached on my day considerably more than would be ideal. When I woke sometime before 5 this morning,  I knew immediately I would miss today’s Music on Barcelona event at church this morning. And I knew I would miss the meeting of the Council of Past Presidents’ Meeting this afternoon. Though I doubt I could contribute anything of substance to the meeting, I feel like I again dropped the ball on one of my only truly visible church functions of the year. Wednesday, I will ask my oncologist to try to determine the reason the latest chemo treatment apparently is giving me grief. Or, if it’s not the chemo, what is responsible for delivering pain and fatigue and other unpleasantries so early in this phase of the seemingly endless regimen?

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Peppercorn. That is an odd name to affix to a noise that ostensibly describes little black balls. I would say the same thing about a noise used to describe an aperture belonging to a lagomorph with two pairs of incisors…that is, a rabbit. Purity is a different word, entirely. Who would use that noise as a meaning for tainted coal? No one, in my opinion. Humor is just one simple step away from insanity. But simplicity is not quite as simple as we’d like it to be. Simplicity is complexity hidden in a different framework…a framework incapable of supporting the superstructure of a gigantic concrete and steel bridge.

This page has remained empty until just now, roughly five hours after I awoke—when I began my day with espresso, a banana, and the protein drink I usually mis-label as Essence, instead of calling it by its proper name, Ensure. I had intended to blog during those wee hours, but instead I skimmed depressing news, read posts I had written in another blog at around the time I was closing my business, and otherwise piddled unproductively. Phaedra suggested she was not yet ready for breakfast at such an early hour. But I insisted. After I scooped her up in my arms and deposited her in front of a full bowl of delicious cat food on the laundry room floor, she got the message. My interest in writing has waned in the last five hours, so I think I will take advantage of the situation by taking another stab at sleeping.

I watched the frequency of reader visits to this blog decline. The stories that rattled around in my head echoed against empty spaces. They were not really “stories,” either. They dissolved into ideas; then, fleeting thoughts. Finally, incomplete prophesies that no longer met the definition of predictions…not even constituting words any more. Just shattered syllables. Unintelligible noises…incoherent sounds, incapable of conveying meaning. Gibberish. Blather. Damaged decibels. Fractured silence. Broken contemplations. Lunacy in the form of quiescent, loud, peacefulness. Bellowing silence.

I cannot blame yesterday’s chemo treatment—because the pain began before the treatment started. And I seriously doubt I can legitimately attribute the pain to a previous treatment, the most recent of which took place many weeks ago. In fact, I wonder whether the tenderness, the stabbing torment, or the other manifestations of the aches and agony are related to my cancer or its treatment? Theories abound, of course. Doctors and nurses and other people who have experienced—or know others who have experienced—such pain posit a broad range of possibilities. But most of those ideas assume a relationship to cancer. None of them have drifted into the deeply unlikely, though…no one has yet proffered damage from dog bites or an allergy to water or a measles variant. Some ideas, though, seem (to me) plausible, but not sufficiently so in the eyes of medically trained observers to merit focused attention on matters that might demand expensive, insurance-reimbursed tests. And, of course, I have no idea what those tests might be. I’ve begun to think I’m willingly giving consideration to utterly absurd possibilities—bypassing perfectly realistic ideas that should be explored first.  While enduring my chemo yesterday, I overheard an old man telling another patient that he’s never had COVID, thanks to the wonders of ivermectin. Under her breath, one of the nurses in the treatment room said something to the effect that the drug “seems to work wonders on sick horses.”

+++

Clothing designed as penance-wear might conjure solutions that can solve my dilemma. Perhaps I should wear a hair shirt…clothing stitched from fabrics capable of imposing on me the appropriate punishment, suffering, sacrifice, and penance for whatever “sins” I may have committed. Something that can be translated into a penitential “reward” that forgives me for drifting into the realm of “sin.” It sounds quasi-religious, doesn’t it? Fortunately, I do not buy any of it. I refuse to be shuttled from hell-hole to demonic hell-hole. But do I have the ability to overcome the hellacious climatic conditions of eternity? I’m taking bets on it.

+++

The magic light switch that wirelessly controls the lamp in my study has stopped working. Should I take that as a sign? If so, what sign should I assume the switch is delivering? Do Not Enter? No Trespassing?  You Break It, You Buy It? Keep Off the Grass? No Smoking? ID Required for Entry?

+++

My mind is bouncing off the windows…hitting them so hard I’m afraid one or more of them may break at any moment.

Hoarding cash and precious metals is an act of impotent desperation. Neither symbol of worth fulfills the promise of safety. Neither delivers on assurances of survival. Neither possesses intrinsic value. Their significance comprises false hopes, cobbled together with shreds of self-deception—fired by unearned egotism. They represent counterfeit expectations of a future that is neither promised nor necessarily desirable. Even the richest among us eventually die; memories of them fade and disappear into wretched history. And some of the poorest live on, their words and actions overshadowing their poverty and the suffering they endure at the hands of unprincipled upper-class thieves and swindlers. And, then, there is the vast middle; who often feel shame for their longing for riches. But not enough embarrassment to erase their lust for pecuniary gain. In the end, what does it all matter? Very few of us care enough about the world to change it. We simply muddle through, watching from the sidelines as pernicious power-mongers desperately fight to accumulate empty promises made of their wishes and dreams and our futures.

+++

Today is another consecutive day when my mind scurries unsuccessfully to find something to think about. Something to which my brain is able to devote both observation and analyses. When was the last time I felt sufficiently intelligent to make any sense of experience? Have I ever felt I possessed adequate understanding to interpret the world around me? To attach any plausible meaning to humanity’s circular psychoses that just swirl around what appears to be a drain? Almost a year ago, during one of the many periods when I tend to question life’s meaning or value or purpose or…whatever…I turned to two philosophers whose ideas seem to be at odds with one another. But, in reality, the concepts are not mutually exclusive; they simply present views from different angles.

+++

My chemo begins anew today, with a reduced dose of only one drug and the elimination of another. My oncologist (and I and others) hope the chemo does not lead to another lengthy hospital stay. Two weeks in the hospital was approximately miserable. I had a PET scan yesterday morning, the narrative results of which were viewable online yesterday afternoon after the physical therapist left, following his weekly visit. The results seem to be a mixed bag; several comments seemed to offer a ray of sunshine (indicating a reduction in size of some cancerous spots), but others indicated new or worsening concerns. I will inquire of my doctor today. Later this afternoon, a home-visit nurse will come by to check my vitals and harangue me about my apparent inability to drink enough water. Ach. I should not complain, yet I do. It gives me a modicum of purpose.

+++

Mi novia went to Lowe’s while I was having my PET scan yesterday. She ordered a new oven, microwave, and dishwasher. I kick myself for waiting so long to do it. If we had done it when we bought the house about three years ago, I would have had more time to enjoy them. I tend to procrastinate on things that will improve our environment. At least we’re not doing it as a precursor to selling the house. But things change. They always do.

+++

I ate a burger and fries for lunch yesterday, loading myself up with protein in advance of my visit with the oncologist. That wasn’t the motive, but it seemed like it might have been. I don’t know the difference between motive and desire anymore. What, exactly, is the difference?

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TIme to leave. Ach.

There are two ways to live your life.

One is as though nothing is a miracle.

The other is as though everything

is a miracle.

~ Albert Einstein ~

There are no mundane things outside of Buddhism,

and there is

no Buddhism outside of mundane things.

~ Yuan Wu ~

Acts of war committed by my country’s military, at the direction of the country’s political leaders, tend to interfere with my ability to sleep at night. That is not to say that acts of war in which my country plays no part do not disturb my slumber.  Direct involvement, though, causes feelings of trepidation, rage, dread, and disgust—among other unpleasant emotions—to well up inside me to a much greater extent. Acts of war initiated by egotists whose cult followers equate a “tough guy” persona with power and political value are especially troublesome and unpredictably dangerous. When one or more of those egotists have ready access to—and control over—thermonuclear weapons potentially capable of eradicating life on Earth, the stakes are enormously high. Even if total nuclear destruction is removed from the possible outcomes, war on any scale has the capacity to result in massive loss of life, immeasurable human physical and mental suffering, wrecked economies, enormous waste of resources, and much, much more. It is hard—or, perhaps, impossible—to understand the flawed logic that supports war.

+++

The throbbing pounding in my head is more than a simple headache. It reverberates through my body, causing the blood vessels just beneath the skin on my hands and arms to visibly quiver. I can feel the veins in my feet tremble in unison with the convulsive palpitations of my heart, too.  Oddly enough, I do not feel pain in my head. The temples on the sides of my head do not hurt; instead, they simply call my attention to them and they keep time with the beating of my heart. Maybe that precisely-timed vibration is what kept me awake for so much of the time I spent in bed last night. Is it anger that caused my body to express itself so distinctly? Fear? Or is it just a byproduct of emotional tension; nerves stretched taut so that even an involuntary sigh causes them to vibrate like a banjo string?

+++

It’s happening again. As I sit here, musing about what to type next, the weight of my fingers depresses a few keys on the keyboard. My head nods forward and my eyelids close. Halfway between consciousness and sleep, something causes my eyes to snap open and see dozens of lines of text…all the same letter…on the screen beneath what I just finished typing. Am I losing consciousness, I wonder, or is my body attempting to shut down in response to the confusion of a world gone mad? I’ve been out of bed for more than two hours; awake for more than four…probably closer to five.

+++

I thought I saw swirls of dark grey clouds attempting to blot out the sky, but that must have been my imagination. The sky is light blue…almost white…and empty. I feel like it is watching me; not with attention but with detached disinterest. A bullet could suddenly pierce my forehead and the indifferent, expressionless atmosphere would not let on that it had just witnessed a murder. Or something even more sinister.

This is one of those relatively rare mornings when I am at a loss for thought. Ideas and images drift through my mind; they are not driven by consciousness. That is, I do not create them; nor do I actively observe them. I barely notice them, as if they belong to strangers with whom I have no more than coincidental connections. Or no connections at all. Any connection I may have with them, though, is stronger than the brittle ties I might have with myself. If I were to look into a mirror, I would see no reflection; only a vast, uncharted emptiness. Nothing sinister—just a placeholder for something ill-defined and innocuous.

The passage of time coincides with the addition of significant amounts of information to humans’ already enormous collective knowledge base. The volume and speed of those additions arguably have grown exponentially over the course of many hundreds of years. Limits on the capacities of human brains to absorb such mountains of information must exist, though that assertion may not have been proven. Assuming that is true, though, it follows that memories and knowledge are naturally limited. Teachers (and/or society at large) must make decisions, then, on what to teach children as they progress through formal education systems. One way of making those decisions might be to assign priorities to the elements of the information base that are available for students to learn. At various points in the education process, high priority new information must replace older information or, at a minimum, reduce the priority of older information. Over time, information once deemed critical to the “educated” mind is no longer taught—replaced by facts/knowledge judged more relevant to the times. In a world undamaged by bias, bigotry, and prejudice, such a system might be acceptable. But in today’s world, the most powerful—regardless of the “honor” or honesty of their motives and beliefs—make decisions on the basis of the extent to which those decisions reinforce their stilted beliefs and attitudes. Hence, the knowledge base upon which we rely to inform our morality decays over time, replaced by lies, insinuations, and broken logic. An argument could be made that our species is less well-informed about the real world around us today than was the case a thousand years ago. Opinions morph into “facts” and reality degrades into fiction. Its all more complex than that, of course, but that argument may contain the native seeds of truth, wrestling against invasive versions of genetically modified ideas that grow quickly in a landscape fertilized for that purpose.

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Today is unique in that the day is the year’s longest and the night is the year’s shortest…depending on which source delivers the information. At least a few claim tomorrow is the day; most seem to agree that today is the summer solstice in the Northern Hemisphere. Regardless of how we refer to the day, today will usher in a dramatic rise in temperatures over much of the U.S., thanks to a large area of high pressure in the upper atmosphere traps heat. That causes temperatures and humidity beneath the “heat dome” to spike and remain high for a relatively extended period. We are under a heat advisory today, with temperatures peaking at around 88°F today and 90°F for the next two days. Beyond that, I haven’t bothered to look…we may melt into sticky asphalt roadways or get trapped by rivers of melted plastic.

+++

I watched a short documentary last night about Rob Ford, the now-deceased right-wing former mayor of Toronto. The film was entitled Trainwreck: Mayor of Mayhem. Ford was a very popular politician, even after finally admitting videos showing him smoking crack cocaine were real. The film was interesting and entertaining and certainly informative; at less than an hour long, it was just the right length to keep my attention for just long enough. But it was short enough to enable me to watch another film…too bd.

The other film I watched last night, Plane, was an adventure movie involving a jet that went down in a storm, carrying only 14 passengers, barely surviving a rough landing on an island overrun by criminals. I forced myself to watch to the end. That was all the punishment I could take. It was a junk film; garbage that I am embarrassed to have watched.

+++

The brilliant blue skies outside my window look innocuous; even pleasant and comforting. But the heat they will bring in the hours and days to come will reveal their sinister side. As long as the air conditioning in the house holds out, all will be well.

Guilt is the price of behavior for which atonement is impossible.

+++

Yesterday, a Facebook post sponsored by The Atlantic finally convinced me to subscribe to the magazine. I’ve wanted to subscribe for quite some time, thanks to frequently coming upon articles I have found extremely interesting, well-written, and thought-provoking. Nothing has stopped me from subscribing, except for the cost: $79 per year for an online subscription. But yesterday, I began to read an article that Facebook promised would reveal details about the disappearance of Malaysia Airlines Flight MH 370…details I had not read before. By the time the article had me firmly in its clutches, it permitted me to go no further without subscribing. I could find a copy of the July 2019 issue (where the piece was published) in the library, I am sure, but I feel a need for unfettered access, 24/7. Though I dislike the tactic that was used to prompt me to subscribe, I have to admit it can work very well. I’ve talked about subscribing for far too long; now, it’s time for action.

+++

My chemotherapy will resume next week. Because the doctors think the combination of two new (to me) drugs during the most recent chemo treatment may have been responsible for my two-week stay in the hospital, only one of the two drugs will be administered. If they can schedule it, I will have a PET scan before next Wednesday’s session; its results could change the plan.  During these last few weeks without chemo, I have felt progressively better; especially in the last week or so. Perhaps a less aggressive approach with the upcoming treatments will enable me to hold on to that.  We shall see.

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[REMOVED PARAGRAPH FROM THIS SPACE.]

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The first few episodes of the Danish series on Netflix, Familier som vores (Families like Ours in English) have been quite interesting. Because it is based on the premise that Denmark’s government has ordered a permanent evacuation of its residents in response to rising sea levels, one might assume it is a climate disaster action film. Unless it changes dramatically in upcoming episodes, that premise is important but not the driving force behind it. Rather, it is about human emotions—and the ways external circumstances and questionable choices can  put relationships to almost impossible tests.  I look forward to watching the remaining episodes; they might change my perspective completely. Oh, one aspect of what I’ve seen so far that I really like: the evacuation is ordered over a period of months…not just due to climate change, but in reply to countries’ inability to cope, economically, with those inevitable changes.

+++

I do not remember nursery rhymes. Nor do they remember me.

There is a stark difference between being passionate about one’s principles and exhibiting behavior that suggests such passion. The former flows uncontrollably through one’s veins. The latter may conceal apathy or dishonesty or complex, self-serving motives. The former tends to engender trust among open-minded observers. The latter tends to create wariness and suspicion in skeptics—especially skeptics who have a history of being misled by slick fabulists. Between those two sets of witnesses, though, lies an almost boundless “middle;” people whose innate uncertainty makes them indecisive until something sways them one way or another. That something can be as random as a coin flip or as precise as an encounter with incontrovertible evidence. But evidence—even hard evidence—can be staged; it’s done all the time.

+++

My computer monitor, upon “waking,” displays a random Nature photograph from around the globe—frequently beautiful, always interesting. Each photo is identified by unobtrusive text explanations in the upper right corner of the screen. This morning, the monitor woke to display a beautiful photograph of a flock of pink long-legged birds standing, against  a backdrop of distant mountains, in a shallow expanse of water. It was labeled Flamingos in the Republic of Türkiye. The description immediately struck me as hilariously funny…as if the caption referenced the nationality of those birds. Would the creatures look appreciably different, I wondered, if they were instead identified by geographic political affiliation…such as Republican Flamingos in Southern Texas? What if the photo had been captioned Sunni Muslim Flamingos in Predominantly Shia Area of  Iraq? I may be the only human being on the planet who finds the photo caption funny. Unique? Crazy?

+++

I’ve been up for an hour, hearing peals of thunder and listening to rain drops pelt the window panes. Those sounds are like lullabies, coaxing me to sleep. I just woke, in my chair, to find my screen covered with the letter “d.” Like this: dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd…but a much, much longer string of letters.

Last night’s entertainment: The Room Next Door, a Spanish film (directed by Pedro Almodóvar, in his English-language film debut), starring Julianne Moore and Tilda Swinton, with a small supporting cast including John Turturro. In spite of a few questionable structural issues (and an errant European electric socket in a scene in a house supposedly near Woodstock, New York), I thought the film was well-done. Swinton plays a war correspondent journalist who has terminal cancer and Moore, a published author, plays Swinton’s close friend from their youth. The story is about how the two of them deal with Swinton’s decision to commit suicide, rather than let cancer run its course…and how they deal with Swinton’s request that Moore be in “the room next door” when it happens. The film was thought-provoking and, given my situation, quite relevant. Swinton’s character revealed emotional considerations about which I am just now beginning to be aware. I thought I had easily come to grips with what lies ahead; hmm, not entirely, I realize. It is the sort of film that is best watched when the viewer’s mood is on the somber side.

+++

Who is to blame for unrestrained tourism? Tourists, of course. But tourism promoters and cruise ship operators and many others profit from unbridled pleasure travel. They facilitate excessive numbers of tourist visits and otherwise  exacerbate the problems “locals” face when money-laden visitors invade…and then leave and take their wealth with them. The physical and emotional damage tourists spread in their wake seems to be growing, judging from the increasing numbers of reports of “locals” fighting to maintain the beauty and serenity of their homes. During my second trip to Dubrovnik, Croatia, I learned that local residents were active and vocal in their opposition to the increase in cruise ships disgorging waves of passengers into the city’s streets. Seven years ago, the mayor implemented measures to limit the number of daily cruise ship dockings to two and the number of their passengers allowed into the “old city” to five thousand. The reason: to curb over-tourism and preserve the city’s UNESCO World Heritage status. The degree to which that solution—and others tried in the intervening years—worked may be measured by over-tourism protests across Europe in the past several weeks.

Residents of Barcelona, in recent days, expressed their displeasure with excessive tourism by spraying tourists with water guns, setting off smoke bombs, and blocking hotel entrances, among other measures. Just in the last day or two, similar protests have taken place in Italy and Portugal and France. The Louvre has shut its doors (presumably a temporary measure) in response to a staff strike called in protest of overwhelming crowds. My own non-business visits to other countries’ tourism sites were limited, but I saw the massive crowds flood those sites when cruise ship passengers arrived en masse. Even the “small group” tours in which I have participated contributed to crowding, thanks to the sheer number of such tours.

On one hand, I strongly support travel and the ways in which it can open travelers’ eyes to other cultures. On the other, though, a massive influx of visitors can ruin the quality of life for local residents and otherwise change the character and the appeal of the culture to which tourists are exposed. The obvious solution is to…I do not know, of course. I wish I did. Freedom to do as we desire can place shackles on others; an elixir comprised of self-control and compassion might melt the chains.

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Finally, after going months and months and months without a professional haircut, I got one yesterday. Granted, during several of those months I had no hair to cut, but even when my hair began growing back it grew slowly and haphazardly. I self-trimmed it on occasion, but in hindsight I think I probably made it look worse, rather than better. Now, though, for at least a moment, my head of hair looks reasonably well-groomed…ignoring the inconsistencies of texture, color, and coverage. I drove myself to the barber shop, thereby launching into a foray into automotive freedom. If I had a convertible, I could have driven with the top down, the wind in my grey stubble, after the haircut.

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Time is relevant only when it can be experienced by objects within its sphere. “When” is a component of time. Wrapping one’s mind around time, whether relevant or not, tends to lead to uncertainty and a secret fear that time is just a replication of itself…like an endless array of mirrors reflecting on another in which there is no beginning and no end.

Valentina Tereshkova was about sixteen years my senior when she became the first female space traveler. I was roughly six months shy of my tenth birthday when she made history on June 16, 1963 with her 71-hour flight. She circled the Earth 48 times during her space flight on the Soviet Union’s Volstok 6 spacecraft. I wish this information had resided in my head as a memory; it did not. I learned about her and her feat from a snippet of Today in History, published online this morning by the Associated Press (AP). A Google search returned an impressive volume of background material about her. I wonder whether her accomplishment was widely publicized in the US at the time? I have no idea. Not that it matters a great deal to most of us, but she is alive today, having outlived two spouses. In Russian, her name is written (and presumably pronounced) as Валентина Терешкова; for the record. Why do these tidbits of information intrigue me? I have no idea. Perhaps it’s the fact that they are new…to me, anyway. Maybe it is because they spark my curiosity just enough to explore a little deeper. It could be that my brain yearns for something different—something other than staring out the window or rethinking old, worn dreams and fantasies. Or, maybe, it is simply coincidental; becoming aware of an empty space in my head at precisely the same moment I encounter a plug of questionable substance to fill that gap.

+++

Song lyrics stick with us for many different reasons. And they adhere to our psyches for different amounts of time. Part of the opening verse of a song written by Townes Van Zandt more than 50 years ago have stayed with me for what seems like an eternity. The song, Waitin’ Around to Die, muses about “the emptiness of external solutions to inner turmoil,” according to americansongwriter.com. That subject may explain my appreciation of the lyrics. Or it may be something else. Here is the first verse, the one that sticks with me:

Sometimes I don’t know where
This dirty road is taking me
Sometimes I can’t eve know the reason why
So I guess I keep a-gamblin’
Lots of booze and lots of ramblin’
It’s easier than just waitin’ around to die

Yesterday, while tinkering with playing music from Pandora through our television, I listened to a few other sets of song lyrics that I find engrossing. Among them, several by Greg Brown, one of my favorite folksingers-songwriters:

• • Dream Café
  • Spring Wind
  • Rexroth’s Daughter
  • Laughing River

Of course, I wandered through a bunch of other favorites, stopping finally after I listened to John Prine’s All the Best several times. Almost all of my favorite music is tinged with sadness and/or regret. My brain may be hard-wired to respond to words and music combined in precisely the right way to evoke powerful emotions.

+++

The morning is, again, grey and listless. The thin fog dulls the trees’ images as it drifts in and out of the branches. I can almost see the air outside, heavy with humidity. I expect visits by a home health nurse, probably today, and a physical therapist, probably Wednesday. I would like to tell them not to come see me. But it’s hard to convince the nurse to stay away because the patient is “not feeling up to it;” that only puts her motives in overdrive. And lying to a physical therapist by claiming to have “twisted a muscle” has the same impact on him. I’m just not in the mood to be “evaluated” and pressured to do more, move more, breathe deeper, and hydrate, hydrate, hydrate. I know what I should do…and I will…but I get resentful when strangers enter my home and demand that I meet their expectations. This week, I may bare my teeth and growl gutturally as I greet them at the door. Ach! It’s raining again. I don’t mind, though, because I am inside, looking out. It would be a different kettle of fish if the situation were reversed.

+++

Time to reflect on the variations in weather. No reason, really. It’s just time.

Eyesight is remarkable. If you think deeply about it, you have no choice but to come to the conclusion that your eyesight is nothing short of magic. And if you consider the amazing variations of eyesight among other creatures—eagles and lizards and horses and so forth—the concept of eyesight become more than simple magic. It is the embodiment of an impossible-to-understand occult integration between the self and the external world. We can only imagine what it’s like to have eyes on the sides of our head. We have to wonder whether beasts with such optical configurations see in stereoscopic vision…which causes us (me, anyway) to wonder if that’s how I see the world. Do I see in stereoscopic vision? And if I had only one eye, would I see the world in two dimensions instead of three? I can answer that question, of course, because I have the ability to close one eye. Some animals are said to see only in shades of black, white, and grey; dolphins, seals, and bats, for example. That “fact,” though, assumes we “know” that cones have the same function in those animals as they have in humans.  I have to acknowledge, of course, that medical professionals and other scientists know quite a lot about vision. So eyesight is not exclusively a part the realm of magic and the occult. Yet it bridges the divide between them. Consider that we sleep with our eyes closed, yet we “see” in our dreams. There is so much we do not know and so much more we do not know we do not know.

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A few minutes after 5 yesterday afternoon, just moments after the NOAA weather radio screeched a thunderstorm warning, I think my heart stopped. A booming crack of thunder as loud as any I have ever heard or felt shook the house, then instantly echoed as if bouncing off every cloud in the sky. Simultaneously, all the lights in the house dimmed. They recovered for a second or two, then went dark. Through a series of text exchanges, we learned that a tree in front of mi novia‘s ex-husband’s house was struck by lightning at roughly the same time my heart stopped pumping. Despite multiple attempts to report the outage to Entergy, our electricity provider, its online system did not acknowledge the power failure. Finally, I was able to report it to a telephonic automaton; the tone of its voice when it assured me the problem would be explored and resolved, was unconvincing. And, then, we waited. Sometime in the deep of night while I slept, many hours later, the power returned. This morning feels like another “normal” morning. But I hear growling echoes of thunder, reminding me that the power of Nature, unharnessed, dominates the trappings of control with which humans attempt to manipulate our world. Rain is falling again this morning, Nature’s attempt to wash away memories of yesterday’s and last night’s show of force. Even Nature, though, cannot erase such an experience. Only Time can do that. But Time only hides such ordeals; experiences etched into the fabric of the mind remain forever accessible. A little overdramatic, perhaps…but my creative fibers feel a little arthritic this morning, so a little stretching may be in order.

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The pains, usually in the upper right quadrant of my torso, once were extremely brief and infrequent. But they have been lingering longer when they occur, which is becoming more often. And they tend to be more intense lately. Despite all the X-rays, CT scans, ultrasounds, etc., doctors have been unable to determine their cause. The guesses have included pleural effusion, abscess, and various other possibilities, all of which apparently have been ruled out. The discomfort they deliver is not intolerable; the pain is not excruciating. So there’s no real urgency to know the source, at least not to alleviate unbearable pain. But, still, I suspect knowing the root cause might be beneficial in other ways to the doctors treating me for whatever ails me. If the only way to find out, though, were to spend time in the hospital, I would say it’s not worth the time and effort. Medicine has not come as far as I would have hoped at this stage of human evolution. Drat.

+++

Are all cannibals strict carnivores? If the Sun had puppies, would they be hot dogs? Are moments in the Future properly called post-historic times? Oh, only if the moments are after we’ve stopped keeping written records.

Emptiness. The fuel that drives missiles and bullets. Dark, sinister emptiness. It propels knives through tender skin. Bones shatter in the presence of emptiness. Emptiness triggers explosions and ignites fuses that transform oil storage tanks into fiery cauldrons of liquid diamonds. Emptiness, as thick and fiercely hot as molten steel.  So monstrously hot that the sun is ice in comparison. Entire galaxies dissolve into steamy mists in its presence. Emptiness fills a dangerous void, converting space and time and mass and volume and distance into everything…and nothing that remains.

+++

I am too old to be the leader of the free world…whether in fact or merely in my own mind. That role belongs to someone old enough to have shed the vanity and arrogance of youth and young enough to maintain a firm grip on the wisdom of age and experience. Age, though, and its tendency to correlate with (or not) such characteristics is just one qualifying or disqualifying attribute. Intelligence is another—I’m not bright enough to qualify, either. Charisma has a role to play, too, but only when paired with trustworthiness, compassion, honesty, altruism, and an sense of moral obligation cast in stone. Given that candidates who possess the requisite criteria exist only in my imagination, the ongoing search for someone to fill the role is an exercise in futility.

+++

It has long been my belief that reading English language versions of newspapers based in other countries can enable readers to understand perspectives not documented in domestic news sources. Reading articles written in native languages probably would be eve more enlightening, but are impossible with my language limitations. This morning, I read an article—obviously an opinion piece—in the English language Turkish newspaper, Yeni Şafak. Whether or not the opinions expressed by the writer, İhsan Aktaş, are based on defensible facts, the positions he takes clearly express both deeply-held beliefs and long-standing frustrations. True or not, the “facts” as he sees them color his world-view and are sufficient to allow him to feel justified in his perspectives. To give oneself the opportunity to learn from such articles, one occasionally must overlook “inflammatory” or “triggering” language. This particular article to which I refer is entitled Will the Stench of Colonialism Be Cleansed from Africa’s Scorched Lands? Another paper that can help readers appreciate perspectives other than the ones usually presented to Western readers is the Tehran Times, (which, by the way, published an interesting op-ed piece (dated May 18, 2025) entitled President Trump and the Name Persian Gulf). I suspect radically differing perspectives will be available in the coming days to people who read both Israeli and Iranian papers. I am confident reality exists somewhere in the tangle between the biased motives that drive the papers to publish their unique viewpoints on “truth.”

+++

I woke to the sound of wire shears snapping barbed wire.  I lay awake for several minutes, listening to the wire being stripped off the fence and rolled into loops. Soon, after the air became quiet, I heard the soft padding of footsteps on the wooden slats of the porch floor. And, then, a new sound. Razor wire being released from a tightly-wound roll makes a sharper sound than barbed wire being collected into loops. A higher pitch, almost like the reverberations of a coiled spring freed from tension. When I peeked out the window, I saw that the thieves had placed the roles of barbed wire on the bed of a pickup. And I saw razor wire wrapped tightly around my cabin. Strips of razor wire spread only a couple of inches apart at every window and every door.  If I tried to escape, I would be cut to pieces. But when I smelled sulfur matches and gasoline and smoke and saw the flames all around the cabin, I realized I had no choice. They had spilled the contents of all my petrol cans along the base of the outer walls and lit it with kitchen matches. I  had no choice; I had to through the roof. Fortunately, reacting to a recent horoscope in Sunday’s paper, I had installed a hydraulic-powered roof when I built the helicopter. Romeo and Gretel were waiting for me in the copter cab; Hansel and Juliet had lashed themselves to the rear rotor. I was disappointed in Hansel and Juliet, who had lost their son, Chris, when they ran over his legs with a propeller attached to a powerful Evinrude motor on their new boat. I would have thought they would have learned a little something about propeller safety from that snafu, but apparently not. I had no time, though, so I started the chopper motor and watched Hansel get decapitated and Juliet lose her right arm as the rotor spun. With luck, though, we all got away before the cabin exploded into a fireball. Ben Casey, M.D. happened to be nearby and he managed to save H & J. But they were subsequently lost in a freak desert snowstorm in the Ouachita Mountains.

Last night’s dinner provided a rare opportunity for social engagement for me. I am advised by medical pros to avoid much contact with people, considering risks to my immune system. But the evening turned into more than a simple social event. It put on display the possibilities of maintaining and even strengthening family ties after difficult circumstances could otherwise have caused those ties to fray or come undone. Dinner was hosted at mi novia’s ex-husband’s house, with whom she maintains cordial, friendly ties. Visiting from out of state, their daughter provided captivating humor, making everyone feel comfortable. My late wife’s sister, now a very close friend of mi novia‘s and a friend of mi novia‘s ex-husband (and, naturally, still a good friend of mine), joined the gathering.  And, of course, mi novia and I were there. The interactions between all of us were more than communications between friends. They were the words and facial expressions and welcoming openness between family members. The atmosphere was one in which everyone seemed to fit together quite well…like a strangely abstract but immensely appealing jigsaw puzzle. I would call it an intriguing sociological study in overcoming frictions and unavoidable life-span events. But it was much more than that.

+++

The morning split into fragments, beginning at 3 when I got up to pee. I decided to go back to bed then, rather than start the day. An hour later, I woke again, but was not ready to abandon sleep, so I returned to the comfort of unconsciousness. Yet an hour later, it happened again; again, I decided to get some more sleep. At 7:30, I woke, got up, and put on my morning attired…only to return to bed to get a few more minutes of sleep, at the urging of mi novia. Finally, at 9:30, I woke again, but stayed in bed until 10:30 before I forced myself to get out of bed. Each of those fragments of morning provided me with either dreams or delusions, every one different. I cannot decide, with any certainty, whether these different mental visions offer evidence of a vivid imagination or psychoses spinning out of control.

+++

In some fashion, Time (as a noun) is defined as involving a sequential relationship between any event to any other event.  None of the roughly three dozen generally accepted definitions of Time involve the possibility that Time has mass. The idea—that the concept we rely on to fuel our clocks—is dismissed as ludicrous, if it is acknowledged at all. The reason for treating Time as a mass-less concept is that we do not properly define mass. We assume mass exists only in “things” we can see or cause to be seen. But there is evidence that Time is recognized by some astute physicists as having mass. For example, the phrase “Time is money” implies that Time must have mass, if indeed it is equivalent to money, which virtually everyone would agree has mass. If you will agree that “yesterday” refers to much more than a single day, that is, an amount of time far greater than “today,” I hope you will acknowledge that “yesterday” has far more mass than “today.”  If you will not give me that, then surely you will admit that the center of a tree trunk is older than the surrounding bark, which is why the core of a tree is heavier than its protective shell. I then challenge you (whoever you are) to consider the weight and mass of a tree trunk in the context of Time. If you can wrap your head around that correlation, your chances of understanding the true nature of Time are greater today than yesterday.

+++

The past cannot be cured.

Elizabeth I

Observing myself from the perspective of a moderately curious watcher, I see what once was a robust generator of power; a complex, dynamic engine. Its strength, though, has declined with time and a lack of maintenance. The thousands of miles of tiny wires—almost microscopic in size—beneath its surface now carry barely enough current from its weak battery to power its remaining electro-mechanical gears. The rest either are locked frozen or  broken and decayed, hidden from the casual observer. Other onlookers might see a “working” device, but I see a fragile, paper-thin metallic skeleton that, with the slightest tremor, could break into a tangled mass of wire fragments and shattered gears. I dredge my memory for recollections of the moment when my inattention and the passage of time joined forces to set the course for irreversible decline. No matter how hard I try, I cannot pinpoint a single critical threshold. Any one of the matchsticks or dominoes or toothpicks I used to construct the generator that became my lifetime—or every one of them—could be the one to finally give way. But perhaps there was no design flaw. Maybe the tipping point was, instead, an explosive suggestion triggered by an age-related timer. Or a container of flammable ideas set alight by fiery rhetoric. I wonder, though, whether anything causes the arc to bend and plummet in a downward spiral? Is it simply a natural cycle, one for which we celebrate the beginning, but not the end?

+++

Life would be so much less stressful if all human beings were to agree that bacon, eggs, and pancakes for breakfast is the universal cure for ennui…and that menu were readily available to (and desired by) all the people. I would be satisfied with an alternative menu…maybe congee or miso soup or papaya, for example…if everyone else would agree to it.

+++

My oncologist’s nurse told us yesterday that the oncologist (who we did not speak with yesterday) had mentioned to her that she thinks I might be thinking about stopping all chemo treatments. Maybe I inadvertently suggested that to her? I’m curious about the oncologist’s take on that course of action…how might that change things for me? Until such a possibility begins to seem like an actual option, decisions about the future feel like fantasy fiction. But, then, such decisions take on an entirely different dimension; irreversible reality. Flippancy no longer flows quite as easily.

+++

Today is the birthday of one of my brothers…the second birthday among my siblings this month. And this month follows on a month (May) in which another family member (a nephew) had a birthday. And, of course, mi novia had a birthday just days ago. I’m changing my attitude about birthdays, I think; we should celebrate them with vigor! The more I think about birthdays, the more I appreciate how much they mean to those who have them and to those who know others that have them.

+++

It’s late. I think I’ll have a piece of watermelon to celebrate, thanks to someone special.

Sight is imaginary. We only imagine the night sky. Proof of that assertion is readily available in the form of brilliantly colored photographs of distant celestial objects. We see the brilliant colors in those photos only by manipulating light—filtering out one kind or color, allowing film to capture only one kind or color…we see the imaginary…the “what if” that hides behind unfettered revelation. This concept leads to a question but not to an answer: what would we see without any interference…without even a hint of external influence? Would the world and all the objects in it be transparent? Or would we see anything at all? Might we be like blind moles, feeling our way through an invisible world? Would our inability to see…anything…convince us that everything is simply an illusion? Would we come to conclude that we, ourselves, are just fantasies of imaginary beings? Our curiosity might spawn more and more questions until our emptiness is full; no more room to wonder.

+++

My admiration of Nordic noir television crime series took root when I watched what was billed as the Department Q trilogy several years ago:

• • The Keeper of Lost Causes
  • The Absent One
  • A Conspiracy of Faith

The series, based on books by the prolific Danish writer Jussi Adler-Olsen, led to another TV crime series, Department Q, released just last month. I was prepared to be disappointed by this one, a British English-language offering created by Scott Frank and Chandni Lakhani. My preparedness was unnecessary. Having watched six of nine episodes of season 1, I am thoroughly entranced by the show. I won’t bother describing the series (neither the original nor the new). I’ll leave it here: both are captivating, entertaining, and well worth the time invested in watching them.

+++

Only by viewing spiral galaxies from incomprehensibly long distances do their waving arms come into focus. Absent the benefit of vast distances, our eyes would be unable to see the patterns on display by the swirls of stars. Without powerful telescopes and amplified light, coupled with distances measured in light years, spiral galaxies would appear as mere dots in the dark night sky. Distance, though, adds dimension to the flat blackness of eternal space. Distance lifts the veil from our eyes, permitting us to see—but not to understand—that proximity blinds us to the beauty surrounding us.

+++

Another visit to the oncologist today. Lab work. And more magnesium dripped into my bloodstream. I wonder whether my body will ever have sufficient magnesium without having it drip-drip-dripped into me? Probably no answers. Better no answers, though, than answers I would rather not hear. Although I’d rather hear answers than have them withheld. That’s not a worry. At least I think not. I’m free to think about distance and vision and light and emptiness; without interference.

+++

I do not recall whether I ever actually wrote a story that included a character named Satanica or whether that character has simply been waiting in the wings for me to incorporate her into a story. That’s one of the problems with creating countless new names for characters that pop into my head; sometimes they get lost in the crevices and hidden caves in my brain. It is entirely possible that entire families of the lost live in there; perhaps even villages full of people have gone missing—stumbling into tunnels that are subsequently blocked by falling mental debris that obstructs the exits.

+++

Most of my time is spent indoors, in this house where I sit writing most mornings. The air conditioning works quite well; often better than I’d like. When I venture outside (a rarity), I relish feeling the wave of heat wash over me. If I had the right lounge chair/outdoor recliner, I could go right to sleep in that luscious heat. A few minutes is all it would take, though. In no time, I would feel as if the sun had moved much closer to me, starting fire to my cheeks by licking my face with its flaming surface. The planet needs a thermostat; one over which I have control. Maybe the planet doesn’t need one; maybe it’s just me who wants to have that power.

+++

Reasons must exist for my sometimes sour mood when I wake, but I cannot put my finger on them. I can only guess at the causes of my unpleasant attitude and its accompanying surliness. Perhaps general bodily discomfort is at fault. Or maybe it’s a low-grade headache that refuses to go away. It could be my innate sense of self cracking my fragile shell. Resentment about cancer might do it, but I think I’m over that. I am sure there are other explanations; whether they can be held accountable is an open question. If I were to describe myself on mornings like this, I would call myself cynical, skeptical, derisive, contemptuous, misanthropic…just open the Thesaurus and let the acidic descriptions fly. It’s probably best for me to get back in bed and hibernate for the remainder of the day, I think, than to try to overcome my moodiness. The latter might simply exacerbate my unpleasant frame of mind. But if I go back to bed, I might resurrect some dreams I’d rather leave dormant. Yet if I stay awake, I may spend my day thinking about dreams I barely remember, trying to determine whether they are responsible for my mood. Ach.

+++

When a home health nurse visited yesterday, she inadvertently revealed that she is supposed to spend thirty minutes with me. I think the time is longer than necessary, in that she completed checking my vital signs and repeated the questions she asked last week…at least twice…and still had time to kill. I learned a little about her current husband, during that half-hour period, and that she is in her second marriage. She divulged a tendency to disregard formal English grammar by using “ain’t” at least twice, among other notable terms demonstrative of language butchery. None of these points warrant poking fun at her or otherwise demeaning her background, but there are times when I need to justify my contemptible behavior. I did not let on to my attitude, though, so she left with her dignity intact and I remained behind, soaking in shame, when she left.

+++

One of the weaker synonyms for “euthanasia” is the phrase describing the act as “putting [a living being] out of misery;” That is, causing the humane death of someone who is suffering. Another expression has been suggested to describe an act that shifts concern from an individual enduring undeserved suffering to one or more individuals who cause suffering in others. The articulation of the act uses the language of genealogy as clarification: euthanasia, once removed. Some people refer to the act as extreme vigilanteism. The terminology attached to it is irrelevant, though; it is one of the few concepts for which words do not matter. Only the concepts and the carry-through matter. Euthanasia, once removed can be executed (pardon the pun) in several ways, including assassination, mid-summer abandonment in inaccessible deserts, desertion by sailing away while the subject of the act is in a body of water sixty miles from shore, and various others.

+++

I wonder whether I’ll learn anything new when I visit my oncologist tomorrow? It always comes back to that. Argh! Mi novia could use a break from the unflinching attention I pay to my physical condition. My curiosity and interest get depressingly older by the day. Or the hour. That does it. A nap is in order.

Today is my sister’s birthday. If she were close by, we’d celebrate the occasion with appropriate local shindiggery. But we have to be satisfied with a long-distance electronic “wave” to one another, inasmuch as she lives roughly 2000 mile away. Fortunately, though, she dropped in for a visit a few weeks ago. Unfortunately (and coincidentally), when she dropped in, I was in the hospital. It all worked out, except my plans to spend time giving her the grand tour of modern day Hot Springs Village and environs went to hell in a handbasket. Such is life. Happy Birthday, sister sibling!

A tendency toward familial distance is one of the lamentable aspects of modern mobile society. On the other hand, mobility can provide modern humanity with insulation from our parochial past and opportunities to explore the wider world. I can only imagine the discomfort of still living in the environment of enforced bigotry of modern-day Texas… well, no, I am afraid I can do more than imagine it… But that is enough reflective reality for now.

+++

Several years ago, my late wife and I accompanied my very same birthday sister on a Road Scholar tour of Provence, followed by using a villa she rented outside of Avignon as a base from which to explore. My oldest brother and his wife, along with the next-oldest brother, joined us at the villa. Not long ago, I came across photos I took during the adventures. Cheese shops. Streetside seafood markets. Mountain villages. Ranch and seaside scenes from the Camargue. It was an extraordinary experience. Gazing at a photo of a huge cooking container (that looked like a wok) full of shrimp paella made me hungry. And an image of a monstrous pot of fresh mussels did the same. My health…or lack thereof…won’t allow me such adventures nowadays. Quite the shame.

+++

A thousand years hence, giraffes will have evolved to become tree-climbers. During their evolution, the long-necked creatures will have migrated to what is now called northern California, where they will spend most of their days foraging in the tops of giant redwoods. When humans ruled the Earth, before the giraffes adapted to a radically-changed environment, human experimentation with inter-species genetics led to breeding of hybrid creatures which combined the least appealing characteristics of pigeons and hippopotami. That god-awful mistake will have led to unspeakable scenes of public parks awash with foul-smelling statues drenched in slippery goo. In that future time, animals and a few trees will not be the sole examples of mutation, though. Venus flytraps will have grown in size to compete with redwoods and their carnivorous appetites will have become absolutely ravenous. It will not be uncommon to see Venus flytraps clamp their jaws shut around ten-thousand pound cattle and to hear the plants’ digestive juices convert the animals to rivers of liquid fertilizer…nutrition for the forest floor. In this distant future, children will be fed a diet of sugar-coated isosceles triangles for breakfast, thereby eliminating time-worn questions about the value of geometry. All other humans will subsist on beet borscht and brontosaurus jerky. It’s all true. Just ask Alice.

A fiction writer’s stories reveal more about the writer than about the characters who appear in his fiction. That assertion is laced with assumptions, of course. It implies and assumes the contention is based on facts. It assumes knowledge about the motives and mindsets of fiction writers. And it assumes (if only through grammar-fueled implication) writers are male. Strip away the assumptions and there’s almost nothing of substance left. Just wasted clusters of emptiness bound together by unreliable scraps of indefensible claims. Words, when used as offensive weapons, slice through sinew as if through rendered fat. Another example. Again, a foundation for both truth and lies—an argument made as if a claim of veracity, rather than simply an attempt to set the stage for preemptive mental combat.

+++

My dreams seem to be growing more clear and more troubling with every new episode of unconsciousness. Dream settings range from shark-infested lakes to Mexican villages drenched in ostentatious wealth. One of the nightmarish experiences began in the middle of a large lake in which the shoreline was too far away and too far above water to allow me to climb onto dry land. In another, I tried unsuccessfully to keep up with a wealthy young couple who were running between check-out counters in an expensive Mexican shopping mall, spending obscene amounts of cash on leather and jewelry and lavish men’s designer suits. The reason for the hurry, I surmised from listening to the sales clerks, was that the mall would close at the impending sunset and fill with bats. Oddly, the circumstances did not seem even remotely like a horror story; just a naturally unpleasant transition I wanted to avoid. Many more memories of strange dreams in my brain await resurrection. But I want to expunge them from my recollection and sleep in peace.

+++

I suspect it was a chigger that bit me behind my left knee a day or two ago. The itching sensation it left for me (that’s still present) is reason enough for the little bastard to die a horrible death. I feel the same about cancer, but I want to be careful about what I wish for…you know, I don’t want to get things confused so that I die a horrible death, rather than the cancer. I know that should be understood, but I want to be quite clear about it.

+++

Though I’ve already had my regular breakfast (banana, espresso, and Ensure), I’m still a bit hungry. I’m in the mood for coffee-flavored ice cream. Then, I’d like to go back to sleep. Last night, a power outage began around 11:10 pm and lasted until 12:40 am. Even that brief interruption to the night’s opportunity to sleep was sufficiently disruptive to revive an overwhelming sense of fatigue.

When I sleep, a sandy crust forms between my upper and lower eyelids and at the corners of my eyes. I wake to the sensation that my eyes—glued shut by sleep-devils while I rested—were targets for permanent closure. This is not a lifelong experience. It has taken place for only a year or two, coinciding, I think, with the time I have been at war with my body. So, it could be attributable to chemo drugs. Or I might have accidentally stumbled into vapor emitted by an angry witch…isn’t that stuff supposed to cause optical crustaceans? Hmm. The sense when I wake is a bit like having barnacles clinging to my skin. Whatever it is, it really doesn’t matter. There’s always some new malady attracting my attention, trying to distract me from my chief complaint. The other annoying affliction I find particularly disturbing at the moment is the intermittent feeling that a steel spear dipped in lemon juice remains lodged in my middle-right chest; but I’m getting used to it. No, it’s not really that bad. I just tend to over-dramatize. But the sandy eyes…that’s real…and annoying.

+++

The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities.

     Sophocles

It’s a sad man my friend who’s livin’ in his own skin and can’t stand the company.

     Bruce Springsteen

+++

Except for the nightmares (night terrors, some call them), sleep is a fabulous refuge from unpleasant intensity. From stress. From perpetual assured mental strain. From irreversible discomfort. Properly prepared, though, one can enter a sleep state with the knowledge that it will accompany a pleasant fantasy. Once there, though, that state can go haywire, becoming what seems to be an eternal circle of Hell. Or so I’ve heard…been told…seen.

+++

Speaking of sleep, it’s time for another nap.

After yesterday’s afternoon visit with the oncologist’s staff for another blood draw and infusion of IV fluid, we took advantage of the time (well after the lunch hour, when the restaurant was almost empty) to stop for a late lunch at The Pho House. I’d like to visit the place more often…for the food, of course, but there’s an attitude about the place that draws me to it. The table where we sat is at a window that looks out on the pictured lilly pond. The summary description resulting from a Google search reads as follows: The Pho House is emotional, experiential cooking. Dishes that carry memory, pain, joy, and reflection. I look forward to visiting its sister restaurant/coffee shop/whatever that’s not yet open (its strip-center location is undergoing a slow, loving, pre-opening construction process): East Remedy. When I read the owner’s posts and ruminations on Facebook, I find myself interested in learning more about his perspectives and what drove him to create restaurants that seem to have foundations in Eastern philosophies.

+++

I’ve had an odd fantasy in recent days, borne I’m sure of my health-related challenges during the past many months. In the fantasy, I am on a table surrounded by a team of medical specialists who are preparing me for a planned five-year medically-induced coma. The purpose of the coma is to give the doctors and their teams plenty of time to repair all my many physical flaws and to allow them to fully heal. When I am brought fully out of the coma, if all goes according to plan, my body will be that of a 40-year-old man. Before sedation, the doctors review the repairs to be made:

• replace length of intestines removed during 1990 surgery with strong, durable, and perfectly functional artificial version;
• return heart to its healthiest condition before bypass surgery;
• implant a “seed” that will grow to replace the lower right lung lobe removed when a cancerous tumor was extracted;
• “scrape” internal veins, vessels, tubes, etc. to return them to pre-blockage condition;
• remove all alien cells and growths (e.g., cancer, polyps, tumors, etc.) and “immunize” my body against future invasions;
• rebuild the configuration of my teeth…remove the diastema, straighten both uppers and lowers, whiten all teeth, bring gums into perfect, healthy condition;
• examine and repair, as necessary, all internal organs;
• return my head of hair to the condition and density it was in when I was 55;
• repair the deviated septum in my nose/sinus cavity;
• repair or replace the ingrown toenail on my left foot;
• remove unattractive and unnecessary fat from my body;
• using electrical stimuli, etc. (or whatever works) that replicate the actions of strenuous exercise, build and shape muscles throughout my body (achieving a 40-year-old’s body) so it is in prime condition upon awakening;
• upgrade my hearing so it is the very best humanly possible;
• repair or replace my eyes so my vision is the very best humanly possible;
• using electrochemical techniques to manipulate my brain and muscles, upgrade my mental abilities so that I can speak fluently in multiple languages;
• using the same techniques (or whatever works), implant knowledge at least equivalent to the World Book Encyclopedia and/or Google in my brain; and
• repair any other flaws noticed during the renovation process.

I can only assume all the repairs, replacements, adjustments, and other improvements will “take,” so I will have—at the conclusion of the lengthy process—become a “more perfect version of a perpetually imperfect creature.” Some of this is vanity, of course, but I think much of it has arisen from my realization that I did not appreciate my better functionality and my greater comfort when my body was in considerably better shape. I’d like to be able to pay close attention to the experience of being quite healthy. As it has been, I’ve not given it the notice nor the appreciation it deserved; without this renovation, I will not be able to capture it for future happy memories. Ach! The 1988 song by Cinderella,  Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone) was dead-on. You’d think that, with all these repairs and replacements, etc., I must have been incredibly attractive before the ravages of time washed over me. You’d be wrong, as you’d come to realize when the renovation is completed. Such is life. I can live with that…as I have for many, many years. But the health part…oh well.

+++

Another bizarre dream last night. I fired my largest client and my entire staff (some of whom I had never met), leaving my company with an almost nonexistent revenue stream and no one to take care of the company’s obligations to other clients. After firing my client, I got into a physical struggle with one of its past elected leaders and I choked a staff member before I asked him to stay just long enough to get through managing a conference. The dream ended with me arriving very late to a meeting with a potential client, where my former staff were seated around a conference table, enjoying friendly, casual conversation with the client board of directors. I wanted to disappear, but the door locked behind me.

Life is not what you expect: it is made up of the most unexpected twists and turns.

      Ilaiyaraaja

Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.

Carl Sandburg

People who know me well are few and far between. But those who are reasonably close to me often know my passion for many things and ideas and practices Canadian and British….and other cultures outside the U.S. I’m sure I’ve written about my admiration for appealing matters unique to Iceland and Germany and Finland and Mexico and Croatia on and on and on. Scandinavia, as a region, belongs on that list. Had I spent more time in more places, I am confident I would add many other countries and regions to my “favorites” list. But physically visiting a place is not required for me to including it on my list; I’ve never been to Iceland, but I’ve read enough about it to feel comfortable adding it to my list. And my limited time in Croatia, especially Dubrovnik, merits that country’s inclusion. My experience in and around all of these places is limited, though. I base my appreciation on opinions formed by quite restricted exposure to minimal engagement; I realize my assumptions and attitudes are biased by what may be (and probably are) prejudiced snapshots. In most cases, I can defend my appreciation for places—even with their shortcomings—and acknowledge my biases and explain my limits of acceptance. That is true of my appreciation for the U.S. (declining, though it is). This country has far more unpleasant eccentricities than I’d like, but I still find it sufficiently appealing to live here…much of the time. I wish raving U.S. nationalists would adopt my perspective on this country and others. My assumption is that every place on the planet has something that could be attracting or appealing if we’d only allow ourselves to dismiss our animosity toward it. It’s not just “us,” of course. Many other cultures that are taught to despise our country and our culture could stand more than a little a bit of deprogramming. Damn; this topic has drifted east, west, south, and down. Such is the way I think.

+++

The sounds of birds in the trees might change from calls and songs to growls and barks. And dogs, expressing their animosity toward strangers at the gate, could call their discomfort, singing songs of warning. And we would be surprised to hear cows signaling their hunger with honking and ducks raising a ruckus with incessant mooing, while geese flying overhead quack their way on their journey south or north.

How odd would those unexpected changes be? Would we be as deeply surprised if we deplaned at the Tokyo airport and heard almost everyone speaking Spanish? Or if we arrived on a cruise ship at the port in Anchorage to find everyone speaking Greek? What would our reaction be on our arrival through the Chunnel to Calais, to be met by people who exclusively spoke Mandarin Chinese? Would that reaction be something like the one we would have upon hearing only Russian spoken at the to Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport? Naturally, we might expect a mix of multiple language at each place; but to be met with universal monolingualism of the “wrong” language?

Considering the surprising experiences we would encounter if our world’s were suddenly changed in fundamental (but not necessarily earth-shattering) ways, is an interesting exercise in how we might deal with bias. What if the tastes (and experiences) of consuming soy sauce and wasabi were reversed? How about being served thinly-sliced raw chicken when you ordered carpaccio? Would an order of steamed bay lemon-meringue pied delivered to your plate surprise you when you asked for spinach?

+++

I’ve heard this is true, but I’ve not experienced it first-hand.  🙂

There is nothing that compares to an unexpected round of applause.

Lynn Abbey

Sherwood, a two-season British crime drama we’re watching on Britbox, holds my rapt attention (so far, at least) with every episode. I rate it very highly and would recommend it to anyone who enjoys British crime dramas as a genre. The storyline differs considerably from the actual story, but its parallels are clear. The experiences that triggered the series involved two murders in Nottinghamshire in a community that still suffers from the rifts created from the 1984-1985 miners’ strike.

The brief on-screen reference to the situation upon which the story is based prompted me to explore just a bit of the history that led to the series. The real circumstances that inspired it make an equally (if not more) riveting story. After we finish the second season (and, perhaps, a third season said to have been announced), I plan to do a bit of research into what prompted the original murders and led to one of the biggest (if not largest) manhunts in UK history. I have no plans to “use” the results of my inquiry, other than to feed my interest…but it will give me something to do with my significant amount of free time. My search for information will begin here.

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I find it a bit hard to come to grips with the knowledge that I have a terminal disease but no idea how long I might have to live; it could be several years, though more likely (I think) it is several…or a few…months. It’s considerably less likely that it could be just weeks or days. The side-effects of treatment so far have not been nearly as hard on me as they are on some people, but they are sufficiently intrusive and disruptive that I’d rather not have to deal with them. But, so far, I can cope. Even with events like my most recent hospital stay: two weeks, including several days in intensive care. I think back to my diagnosis of cancer’s recurrence, December 2023, and count too many visits to the emergency room and admissions to the hospital. I find myself frequently searching the internet for more information that might give me a clearer idea of what to expect in the coming weeks and months…or longer. By now, of course, I realize I probably am wasting my time. But, still, I want to know, so on the chance I might stumble upon something useful, I keep looking. The fact is that no one has an answer; the closest thing to an answer is a guess—the value of which is questionable because of all the constantly-adjusting variables. In an ideal world, I’d wake up and discover that all this cancer crap and all the hospitalizations and so forth have been just unpleasant dreams. But I know better than to put any stock into the idea of an ideal world.

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Distractions lead to consequences we should anticipate but—because of the distractions—don’t. Following a news story or reading an email, for example, instead of paying attention to the pavement in front of us might result in stepping off the subway platform onto the tracks, in front of a speeding train. But our lack of attention may result in taking a step that puts us just one step away from a car bumper as it whizzes by, thus saving us from a leg amputation or worse. Some people, commenting on both, might say “it’s the will of God.” Others might explain the events simply as “random occurrences.” Still others, expressing certainty in words and tone, would assert, “they’re both the luck of the draw.” And a few might claim the situations arose in response to the “kind of person” involved in the events: “dimwit,” for example, in one instance, or “a good guy getting repaid for a good deed,” in the other. The main differences in the explanations, though, amount to this: some are judgmental, some are not. Some people who are affected by distractions are given the benefit of the doubt; others are viewed as beneficiaries (or deserving victims).

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Pets are kept for many reasons, each reason unique and personal. Among the motives are companionship, stress reduction, fear/protection, status/prestige, control/power, etc. Understanding the motives for keeping dogs is simple: they generally offer companionship and can offer protection. Domestic cats…hard to fathom, but companionship is claimed to be a driving force in cat-keeping. Some people view tigers, lions, and other such exotic felines as conveyors of status/prestige to the owner/keeper. Horses; I’ll have to ask around about them. But what about snakes? Who wants to keep snakes and why? Maybe it’s similar to the motive for exotic big cats. Perhaps it’s some sort of demented connection to the creatures’ potential deadly bites…power, control…something a little weird, I would guess. Why is this issue on my mind at the moment? No clue; probably an accident. Or it’s someone else’s interest that got misdirected by time and damaged energy fields and then landed in my brain.