John Swinburn

Today and tomorrow should be delightful, in terms of temperature—in the mid to upper seventies. But Sunday the high barely will reach into the sixties. I suppose deviations in either direction in temperature and other weather-related matters help us appreciate the complexity—the simplicity, too— and the beauty of climate.

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The scales of reckoning with mortality are never evenly weighted, alas, and thus it is on the shoulders of the living that the burden of justice must continue to rest.

~Wole Soyinka ~

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I can barely keep my eyes open. Occasionally, when I pause between sentences or between paragraphs, I fall asleep. Only when my 20 second nap ends do I realize that my fingers have been resting on the keyboard, filling my computer screen with line after line after line of repeated letters or figures…like this:

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But the 20 second nap obviously was not enough. I sleep again, first taking care to remove my fingers from the keyboard. Yet somehow they find their way back, where they fall asleep on letters suitable for exponential replication. Is that a “thing?” Does exponential replication actually mean something, or did I just make it up?

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Until recently, I rarely gave much thought to prescription medications’ effects on my body. I just took the pills, etc. as directed by doctors and their professional colleagues. For a variety of reasons, though, I lately have been trying to determine the extent to which pharmaceutical interventions impact my body.  Though my observations are quite rudimentary—and are not adequately “controlled” to permit absolute confidence in determinations of causation—they offer clues about what happens to my body when I start taking prescriptions and what happens when I stop. Medications are not alone in causing changes in the way one’s body performs various of its functions. Foods, too, impact the body’s functions; I have monitored foods’ effects on me, too, along with pills and such.

My tendency toward elevated blood pressure has been under control for quite some time with two prescription drugs. But weight loss and changes in diet apparently resulted in the amplification of the effects of those drugs; instead of high blood pressure, I had very low blood pressure. Eliminating those prescriptions eliminated the problem of low blood pressure; but in the absence of the prescriptions’ control mechanisms, my blood pressure has risen (as of this morning) beyond the “ideal” range. So, in accordance with doctors’ instructions, I will take one of the blood pressure medications, though at a much-reduced dosage.

Various other recent experiences have illustrated the effects of starting or stopping other prescription medications. But the outcome of starting or stopping prescriptions does not illustrate the how; only the what. As I contemplate my consumption of pharmaceuticals, I wonder just how the drugs result in lower blood pressure and how, following their absence, blood pressure begins to spike. And I wonder whether the apparent “cure” afforded by some prescriptions might come at an unknown cost? For example, might a drug that slows the heart rate have the side-effect of minimizing the amount of blood-borne oxygen that keeps the lungs healthy? Though I am curious about such matters, I am not sufficiently intrigued to return, happily, to crowded civilization, where the answers may await.

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Another blood-letting this morning; a follow-up to enable my doctor’s APN to see the changes, or lack thereof, in my blood chemistry. I have no interest in the blood-letting, but it is an obligation, more or less. Ostensibly, the tests serve my own self-interest. So, I shall continue to follow the doctors’ and nurses’ orders. Until such time as I decide to ignore them.

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With some good fortune, today I will find a scanning device to make PDFs of about 20 pages worth of “stuff” the lawyers require  who will (I hope) address a change in title for some Texas properties.

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My thoughts, again, are scattered. I cannot focus, at least not for long, on anything, especially matters that matter. To hell with this. I need more sleep. There’s no doubt. The doubt comes in, though, when the question is “will I get more sleep?” The answer is impossible to know until after the fact.

Melancholy. That word fits my mood like a glove. When nearly all of one’s memories seem bitter-sweet, melancholy assuredly is either the cause or the result. I suppose logic would tell me melancholy emerges from bitter-sweet memories. Yet that same logic would say bitter-sweet memories are cultivated and drawn out by melancholy moods. Regardless of whether causation is involved or it is mere association, a distinct relationship exists between bittersweet memories and melancholy moods.

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Writing, in a style intended to be comedic, about melancholy apparently does not lessen the greyness of the mood. Nor does peering intently at a clear blue sky through the leaves and branches of a forest of trees. That eternal faith healer, Time, may be the only reliable treatment for melancholy—though “reliable” may not be quite right. Actually, Time is reliable only to the extent that “eventually” Time heals all wounds. Therefore, melancholy may last a lifetime but, eventually, it will be bested by Time. In the event that is the case, it might be advisable to get comfortable with melancholy. Today, my late wife and I would have celebrated our 43rd anniversary.

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I woke extremely late again this morning, a deviation from my routine I will not long tolerate. When I get up late, I feel anxious and out of sorts, as if a crucial element of the day is missing. And, of course, it is. The early, pre-dawn opportunity to ease, slowly, into conscious darkness and to coax full readiness for the day from my brain escapes me when I sleep late. I am thrown into the day like a Christian cast into an arena with a hungry lion. At that point, attempting to cope with the abrupt start to the day is the only option. I try not to consider how many Christians triumphed over the lions.

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In just a short while, I have to drive to town to visit with my cardiologist’s APN. It’s just a check-up, but it’s a check-up that interrupts my serenity (such as it is). I have other obligations throughout the day today and continuing on tomorrow. I am in one of those rare states of mind in which I think I would truly enjoy a month-long vacation to the Bahamas, where I would stay at a secluded resort and spend every hour of every day sitting on the beach, just soaking in the sun. At the end of each day, I would rinse out all of my clothes—a single swim-suits—and hang it to dry overnight. The next morning, I would go to the beach, get comfortable, and daydream all day until the time comes to repeat the process.

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I can wait no longer. It is time to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and head in to town. My enthusiasm for the day is, I hope, at a low ebb. Perhaps some time in rural traffic will boost my mood.

Using standard, generally agreed measures, Time is consistent. It passes at the same rate from moment to moment and from millennia to millennia. So, if it is not Time that changes, what causes our (my, at least) experience of Time to vary so dramatically? Why does summer seem to speed along, while winter crawls like molasses? Why do the few hours before daybreak race by, yet the hours after sunrise can seem so plodding?

Though the number of possible reasons is enormous, from my perspective, only a few explanations seem likely. First, I think positive experiences must cause biochemical reactions in our bodies; akin to flooding our brains with dopamine, perhaps. Our bodies’ responses to those biochemical floods are brief; joy is a fleeting emotion. But negative experiences trigger biochemical floods of a different sort—and those are like waves of physical or mental pain, or both, that unfold in slow motion. Depressive misery lingers. These explanations are pure supposition. I have no evidential basis for the theory. But there is no question that SOMETHING alters a person’s experience of Time. Is that “something” external to us or is it internal? Perhaps it is both, but I attribute the bulk of the variation to our individual psyches. But, wait. Is it possible that I, alone, experience these vastly different situations with respect to Time? Are my sensations indicative of a certain kind of mental deviation from the norm? I doubt it. But anything is possible. Anything. Even that which seems impossible can be accomplished. With enough energy  and effort—or treachery—magic can replace reality.

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One person’s joy can be another’s tragedy or trauma. That fact, alone, expresses the incomprehensible complexity of human experience. For example, consider two un-married (to each other) people involved in an extramarital affair with one another, who find joy in the relationship. But their respective spouses, when the affair is revealed, might feel as though tragedy had befallen them. The experience that triggers the competing emotions is the same; but the ways in which the people affected by the experience differ enormously. Taking examples to a different level, consider the person who commands a drone to fire a missile at an enemy target; she may react joyously as the missile successfully finds its target. But the survivors of the missile strike, bloodied and broken and surrounded by dead victims, see the experience through different eyes.  These are extreme exceptions to routine experience, of course, but the exceptions best illustrate how deviations from “normal” can be experienced in such different ways.

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I wonder…at what point does the friendship between two people become so close that either or both friends would share almost all their secrets? Is that closeness reserved for long-time life-mates…spouses or domestic partners/romantic pairs? Or does that level of trust grow between platonic friends, as well? Or is that level of closeness and trust an illusion? Trust, I think, is the key to the answer; if, indeed, there is a single answer. Perhaps the answer is far more complex than the question, which in itself is far more complex than it might appear. Thinking about such things may be a pointless exercise, but…pointlessness has its utility.

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People have different kinds of curiosity. Perhaps not different kinds of curiosity…different objects of curiosity. And the degree to which one is curios differs from person to person. Scientific researchers who explore life in the deepest part of the world’s oceans, for example, probably are far more curious about deep-sea life than I, but I believe I am extremely curious about ocean life. Yet my “extreme” curiosity pales in comparison to people whose ever working/waking hour is dedicated to satisfying their curiosity. Those researchers, though, may be curious about human emotions, but my curiosity about emotions might be orders of magnitude stronger. Curious, eh?

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I spent a while this morning scanning articles in The Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, and a few other online newspapers. Though reading non-USA publications does not necessarily make me more aware of important international matters than if I limited my reading to domestic news sources, I do learn stuff I might otherwise not know. For example, I was delighted to learn that the world’s first second-hand-store-in-an-airport has opened at the Helsinki-Vantaa airport. Yet my attempts to learn such stuff sometimes get derailed. For example, when I tried to learn more about the Mississauga city council’s plan to reconsider a ban on cannabis retail stores, I was stopped short; if I wanted to know more, I would have had to pay for the privilege. And it would have been a privilege; but I am unwilling to pay for that particular privilege.

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Yesterday afternoon was lovely. I would like to replicate it regularly. Perhaps this morning is not too soon.

Tupperware is in danger of going out of business. The company is one of many that once seemed to me to have been permanent fixtures in the commercial landscape. But that permanence was illusory. Dozens of retail establishments I once assumed would be around forever have either died or are dying. K-Mart, Fry’s Electronics, Lord & Taylor, ToysRUs, Filene’s Basement, Borders Books, Waldenbooks, Sears, Woolworth, etc., etc., etc. Like the rest of the world around me, the retail world is in a constant state of flux. The demise of the businesses often is attributed to management’s failure to be flexible; refusal to reinvent the business in response to a changing retail environment. While that may well contribute to the death of businesses, I doubt blame can be placed entirely on managerial failures. Some businesses simply may not be suited to the rapid adaptations required to remain going concerns in a business environment that changes with increasing speed and scope. The same may be true of some people. They simply may be unable to change their world views quickly enough to remain attuned to the society around them. And so they become inconsequential; their outmoded thinking sentences them to irrelevance. “Some people,” indeed. More likely, all of us. Whether physically or mentally or both, we cannot keep up with what is required to stay vibrant and necessary. In the natural order, we eventually die. That may well be true of businesses, as well. Businesses that “have always been here” fade into oblivion. No matter how many times they may reinvent themselves, there will come a time when the energy required to adapt simply is insufficient.

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Obligations are anchors; they tie us to one place or one experience, unable to move. And, like anchors, obligations can pull us down, drowning us in a sea of responsibilities. That is not to say that all obligations are dangerous or deadly; but without at least occasional respite, they can tighten around us like boa constrictors, making every breath an almost overwhelming challenge. Freedom is the antidote to unchecked obligations. Freedom can be dangerous, of course, but with proper precautions and adequate understanding of its limits, freedom can loosen the chains of obligation.

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I saw my doctor yesterday. He was pleasantly surprised at the dramatic change in my A1C measurement: 6.1% compared to 9.3% three months ago. And he said an occasional alcoholic drink would be perfectly safe and acceptable; very little danger of causing pancreatic problems. But he warned me that the caloric intake of more frequent imbibing could counteract the weight loss I have experienced over the past several months. I knew that, of course, so I will continue to refrain from all but the very occasional consumption of alcohol. But, if I were diagnosed with an incurable, fatal condition of some sort, I probably would swill liquor with abandon, whenever the mood struck me. I am disciplined to some extent; but, when conditions are right, I am equally capable of undisciplined debauchery.

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Yesterday’s lunch at Pho Hoang My, otherwise know as the Pho House, was wonderful. But the consumption of a rather significant amount of vermicelli in my grilled pork and shrimp bun bowl had the effect of boosting this morning’s blood glucose measure, though not unhealthily so. We had errands to run in town yesterday, which coincided nicely with lunchtime.

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Phaedra is in my lap again. Having interrupted my blogging several times this morning, I think she is now insisting I stop typing. I shall heed her command. For now.

I moved to Hot Springs Village in 2014, assuming the house we bought would be the last place I would live. But that assumption has since changed; the change manifested itself in the sale of the house my late wife and I bought when we moved here and the purchase of another one in the Village last year. Seven years after moving here, my interest in moving someplace else began in earnest. Certainly, some of the impetus for the desire to move on was attributable to my wife’s death. But her death was not fully responsible for the urge to explore new places and new experiences. I am sure I have written before: I have tended to become dissatisfied with my environment every seven years or so. It is as if I give new circumstances a few years to change me in some fundamental ways; when those changes either have not taken place or have not been the changes I might have desired, I long to try something else. I realize, of course, the place probably is not the root cause of my appetite for something different; more likely, my psyche’s reaction to my circumstances (which includes, of course, where I am) is responsible. “Perhaps,” I might think unconsciously, “a new environment will sufficiently change me to leave me satisfied with who I am.” Of course, a new place—surrounded by new strangers and new acquaintances—will do nothing to change who I am. But I continue to cling to that fantasy. Maybe if I knew who I am and who I want to be, at my core, I would better understand my nomadic desires. In the meantime, I continue to feel the urge to move on. Despite my desire to explore new experiences, I have a few ties to the Village. But none of them hold enough future promise of satisfaction with myself to ensure that I will remain here. My dream of working a few isolated acres of land is dead, killed by my increasing age and decreasing strength and stamina. I say it is “dead,” but that is not true; it is comatose but aware of the impossibility of achieving the dream. Such is life.

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Some days I feel like the world would be a better place if skilled arsonists armed with thousands of gallons of gasoline, heavy chains, and impregnable padlocks  would play their trades in “appropriate” places. State houses, haunts of local politicians, and other places where amoral and immoral politically-motivated monsters congregate. But after thinking such sinister thoughts, I reach the unpleasant conclusion that the same kind of parasites would emerge, like a Phoenix, from the ashes. As long as the monsters maintain their tightening grips on the decaying society in which we live, happiness will be unable to overcome the deep, dark, anger that rests in my chest.

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I recommend several Spanish-language (with English subtitles) films and series on Netflix: The Substitute, Victim Number 8, Infiesto, Unauthorized Living, and Wrong Side of the Tracks. Apparently, the Netflix algorithm pays heed to the language spoken in programs one rates positively. When watching Scandinavian programs, the service recommended the appropriate Icelandic, Swedish, Danish, Norwegian, and Dutch, etc. shows. The same was true with shows in which the characters spoke Hindi; recommendations that followed assumed a deep appreciation for Indian films. Netflix-produced programming seems to rely quite heavily on a relatively limited stable of actors for these foreign language flicks; we have come to know and appreciate several Scandinavian and Spanish actors, especially, based on their frequent appearances in Netflix film products.

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Here I am, back at my blog. Late, again. I have not consumed much news this morning. I would rather consume something more palatable and more capable of injecting a little joy into a world that seems to be experiencing a deficit of joy. Yet another fantasy.

Time to crawl into the day, which may involve a drive into HS, an afternoon visit with my doctor, and a period of reflection.

More than half the day has disappeared, leaving only fragments behind—indistinct voices sharing indecipherable  secrets, smiles directed at unknown individuals who are hidden from view, barely disguised fantasies behind imaginary faces. There are many more remnants of the dwindling day, but none as visible as the foggy grey sky, melting into white. In the absence of connections with relevant ideas, the pieces of the day drift apart, finding their own ways into the wind and its ability to send them far, far away.

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When the day begins late, long after the sun eclipses the night, all of the simple routines and rituals that should have been part of the day-breaking process go to hell in a handbasket. Every thought, action, and reaction seems out of kilter, as though Earth has shifted on its axis. Yet I remain situated as I was before, bent and at an awkward angle with my world. The coming hours will teach me to adapt to the world and simultaneously will insist that the world adapt to me. During the course of only a few hours, we will align with one another—Earth with me and me with Earth. But the several hours before realignment are uncomfortable and, in a sense, unbelievable. Therefore, I must wade through questionable thoughts and actions until reality sets in again. After it does, I do my best to accept it—reality, as brutal as it can be, sometimes is far preferable to the terror of the imagination.

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Touch. Taste. Smell. Hearing. Sight. Those five senses were the only ones, when I was a child. Or so I thought. Since then, I have learned that there are two others: vestibular sense (involving movement and balance, allowing us to sense where our body is in space) and proprioception (body awareness sense, which helps us understand where our body parts are in relation to each other). I question the legitimacy of the idea that there are two “new” senses. While I comprehend the experiences to which the so-called “senses” refer, I think they are expressions of our sense of touch, rather than separate senses on their own. What I think, though, probably does not matter to scientists and others who have given the matter far more thought than I have or probably ever will. I am relatively confident that I could be persuaded to change my perspective and, therefore, my opinion.  That flexibility is necessary if one is to avoid being unreasonably obdurate.

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Vulnerable. “Susceptible to being emotionally hurt or injured.” Another definition: “Willing to show emotion or to permit one’s weaknesses to be observed or understood.” Though the word describes a state of mind or being, it can be used, derogatorily, to mock a person, especially a male, who is seen as too easily hurt or too obviously weak. Probably, it is that derogatory usage that causes many males to attempt to hide their emotions and concomitant perceived weaknesses, especially those that support certain labels: Fragile. Overly feminine. Wimp. Crybaby. But it is not just the overt expressions of mockery that cause males to attempt stoicism in the face of emotionality. The barely-hidden smirks and the sometimes over-the-top appreciation of that emotionality may be equally embarrassing to the unfortunate male who cannot easily control his tears, whether of happiness or anguish. Though he might recognize and understand—from his intellectual perspective—the value and benefits of expressing his emotions, expressing those very emotions also can trigger humiliation or shame. Emotionality or vulnerability, whichever suits the circumstance—and the inability to shield them from view—is a double-edged sword. Either edge of the blade can carve away bravado, but that slice can reveal either one’s humanity or one’s artificial  masculinity. But there must be something else at play here. Ask a thousand people and get a thousand opinions of what, exactly, that might be.

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Once again, creativity slipped out of my brain and under a nearby rock. I will simply wait it out. If I last that long. 😉

When I wake early, I usually relish the quiet. I enmesh myself in the peace of early morning darkness. I try to control my environment by focusing on the serenity of solitude. I am not completely successful with every attempt, but most of the time when I devote my full energy to beginning a calm day, it materializes. Today, though, I woke from a disturbing dream. The dream, along with the vestiges of last night’s PBS Newshour, left me brittle, frustrated, and angry. Anger is draining. It drinks up one’s positive energy, leaving only a dull negativity in its wake. I think I would rather not wake up, if this kind of morning awaits me.

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As I see political appointees misuse their positions to further their personal “moral” agendas, I realize the fragility of our freedoms. Yesterday’s decision by U.S. District Judge Matthew Kacsmaryk, ordering a hold on federal approval of the abortion medication, mifepristone, surprised me. Given the massive efforts by conservatives to criminalize abortion, regardless of the process employed, I should have expected such a move. The ruling, in response to a lawsuit filed by the ironically-named Alliance Defending Freedom, provides another example of judicial overreach; this time, a single judge decided he was better-suited to deciding the legitimacy of a drug than was the Food and Drug Administration. The ironically-named Alliance Defending Freedom, which also was involved in arguing to overturn Roe vs. Wade, petitioned the court to strip medical professionals of their freedom to prescribe, and patients of the freedom to use, a drug that passed the FDA’s approval process more than twenty years ago. If allowed to stand, Kacsmaryk’s decision will offer evidence that freedom in the United States of America is a privilege given to the politically powerful, not a right guaranteed by the Constitution.

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While complaining about the illusion of freedom, another example of the abuse of power was on full display in Tennessee when the Republican House of Representatives expelled two young Black lawmakers for breaching decorum by leading a protest against the chamber’s refusal to consider measures to control access to guns.  Interestingly, a third member of the House, a sixty-year-old White woman, was not expelled; does that not speak volumes of the racism in the House and its intolerance to views contrary to its hyper-conservative majority? If I  had absolute power, I would imprison for ninety days every House member who voted in favor of expulsion; during that time, I would prohibit providing them with food and water. I wonder whether my action would be labeled “murder by omission?” Bastards!

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I will try to sleep some more. There is no point in being awake when consciousness is as grueling as it is right now.

Once again, I wrote and wrote and pondered and pondered, only to decide I was embroiled in a meaningless exercise with absolutely no value. So, instead, I will re-post something I wrote ten years ago:

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Confusion, Perhaps

It begins as a whisper, faint and indistinct.  But it grows incrementally, almost imperceptibly, louder with the passage of time.  The amount of time varies with each whisper and every ear.  Eventually, though, the whisper becomes a voice and the voice becomes a scream and the scream becomes an obsession.

And the obsession becomes a passion.  And the passion becomes a regret.

That having been said, here’s what Kierkegaard had to say about something else entirely:

The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.
~ Søren Kierkegaard

I am not a follower; I just like some of the quotes attributed to him, including this one. And the one following:

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.
~ Søren Kierkegaard

Several hundred words spilled from my fingers this morning, but after reading them to myself and thinking how they might be received by anyone happening upon them, I deleted them. Sometimes, words are inadequate to express emotions too complex to fit into a page, much less a paragraph or a single word. “Love,” “hate,” “longing,” “desire,” “loathing,” and many more are utterly useless. They require multiple layers of adjectives, qualifiers that may apply with just hints or with blatant attributions of expressions that scream. I decided, after flooding my draft with hundreds of words, that my emotions would require hundreds more to truly express and for the reader to truly understand. Given that some readers may have enormous reserves of patience, but most probably do not, I decided that the opinions formed during the first few paragraphs would stick with the impatient, providing them with the wrong impression of my emotional state. Those impatient many probably would misunderstand; they might decide to judge me on the basis of a few words. I could tolerate that misjudgment from many people, but being misjudged by others would be painful; nearly intolerable. So the best route was to erase entire pages worth of words that flooded from my fingers. Sometimes, it is best not to try to explain one’s thoughts to the world, but to just a few people, people who have the patience to listen—not to read—for extended periods. People willing to listen and capable of understanding are few and far between.

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A few days ago, I wrote about my hope that Finnish Prime Minister Sanna Marin would prevail in that day’s elections. She did not. The election revealed a shift to the right in Finnish political circles, which was a disappointment to me. Having no legitimate interest in Finland’s politics, though, there’s not much I can do or say. The electorate made their choice. Now, I can only watch to see what sorts of collaborative arrangements will be made between the major parties in Finland and what effects those arrangements will have. Despite that disappointment, Finland is now a new member of NATO, so all is not lost. Hmm.

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My enthusiasm about our trip to Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, notwithstanding, we stayed home. Not long after I posted yesterday’s blog, I felt compelled to recheck my already low blood pressure. It had dropped even more. Subsequent checks revealed a continued trend. Mi novia persuaded me to call my primary care doctor’s office about the situation. Thanks to someone else’s cancellation, I was slotted into a 9:00 a.m. appointment, where my low blood pressure was confirmed as “quite concerning.” I was hooked up to an IV and, after emptying the bag into my arm, sent home with instructions to rest…rest…rest. I was advised to immediately contact my cardiologist for an appointment, as well. Before I could call her office, they called me in response to my doctor’s APN calling them; one of my prescriptions was halved, with the proviso that I should not take it at all if either number of my BP measurements were below specified levels (both of which have been below those numbers for quite some time). And I am now scheduled to see her next week. I am nearly certain the issue is purely a factor of my weight loss reducing the need for BP medications. But I’ll let the doctors reach that conclusion on their own. In the meantime, I will curse my body for interrupting our plans to enjoy a trip to Bentonville with friends. I look forward to hearing about their experience when they return.

The consequences of our trip cancellation including cancelling our hotel reservations and our cat-boarding reservations. We already had put our mail on hold, so we will not need to check the mailbox until Monday. Even casual mini-vacation trips introduce complexities into one’s day-to-day life.

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Today is Thursday. I will pretend it is another day. I will behave accordingly.

I just crawled out of a rabbit hole…the one I crawled into about half an hour ago. I am fairly easily distracted, evidence of which appears here most days. This morning’s distraction led me first to an Americanized version of the website belonging to a major British newspaper. Curious about the original version, intended for a British audience, compared to the one I saw on my screen, I went searching.  I found the original UK version pretty easily; however the internet occasionally behaves as if it will, by God, decide what I view. But I found it. Success! That little adventure prompted me to begin another one, looking at other foreign media outlets to determine whether they were “white-washed” for  an American audience. That foray into the deep, dark unknown led me down a path, where I tripped and found myself searching for news about specific villages which, in turn, transformed into an investigation of the degree to which beef consumption has declined (or risen) in the last ten years. I did not finish that “work,” because I realized I was  on the cusp of a mental adventure that could take weeks to play out. Through sheer force of will,  I managed to extract myself, and from there I landed in a  cloud of immeasurable allure. And here I am.

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I am not completely satisfied with my progress out of the world of obesity. On the one hand, my loss of 40 pounds (6 of which dropped in the last month) in the course of roughly nine months is no small feat. On the other, a more focused and reliable ritual would have accomplished so much more! I do not believe I am so very different from other people, at least with respect to satisfaction with the mediocre. It is common for me to see [and experience myself]  instances of settling for “average” or below. If the problem is not simply slothfulness, perhaps it reflects a sense that the return on investments of energy, talent, training, or what have you is woefully inadequate. Rather than expend resources on an obsolete equipment, many of us just hold on, waiting for more attractive opportunities. Jeez! I lost my train of thought before it left the station.

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It’s nearing six o’clock, time for me to get up, shave, shower, and pack for a short trip to visit Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville, Arkansas. One of the special presentations, in particular, entitled Diego Rivera’s America, should be very interesting.  We’re joining another couple on this quick, miniature road trip. I can imagine myself continuing on after visiting the museum and sampling some of Bentonville’s best restaurants. And then…who knows? My restlessness is inexplicable but strong.

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I may or may not blog from “the road.” Time will tell, as she always does.

We drove to Little Rock yesterday to pick up a semi-custom shirt; it was not quite right, so it will be modified and available to me in two weeks. As we drove down Chenal Parkway, we were stunned by the massive damage to buildings and trees. Especially surprising was the view of an apartment complex a few blocks north, on a hill overlooking the roadway. The top floor of the buildings had been shredded by the recent tornado. The roof of the building was missing, as was much of the framing beneath it. Broken pieces of lumber were visible everywhere. I have seen photographs of the damage, but seeing it for myself was sobering. All along Chenal, severe damage was evident. Power remained out in parts of the area, including at a cross-street where traffic had been, before the storm, controlled by a traffic light. Temporary stop signs had been placed at the intersection to control traffic. Massive trees, uprooted by the wind, had been blown down, breaking the sidewalk under the trees’ huge root balls and lifting them several feet above their original location. Ach! Lines of cars at a church, where water and food was being given away,  illustrated the human costs of the tornado; people who may not have had a place to sleep were, at least, given sustenance to get them through what must be an excruciating experience.  The dollar cost of the storm must be enormous; it is incomprehensibly huge. The emotional costs must, also, be incalculable.

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An online piece on BBC.com/worklife struck a chord with me. As I read it, my disappointment and regret at my decision, in 1998, to start my own company suddenly seemed less a lonely mistake. Other entrepreneurs, too, look back with remorse at “going it alone.” They, too, recognize that their dreams of being in control—and operating in an environment in which their income would be limited only by their own ambition—were fantasies. Though I was able to retire early with enough of a retirement nest egg to allow me to live a modestly middle-class lifestyle, I could have earned far more (and would have had greater autonomy and control) had I continued on the executive track, reporting to a single board of directors. Though my business was moderately successful, dealing with multiple boards of directors of multiple clients was far more stressful than working for a single board. And my decision to “run my own show” was far less lucrative than the environment I left. If I had it to do over again, I might make the same decision, but I would make it with eyes wide open to the realities of making payroll, even when a client  experienced financial struggles. Friends who continued to work as “staff” usually were viewed by boards as part of a team; my staff and I, on the other hand, were considered “hired hands.” My company’s fees, unlike “captive staff” salaries, were targets for minimization. “Captive staff” salaries were more likely to be viewed as opportunities to reward members of the “team” for a job well-done. When I was a “captive” CEO, I had to justify salary budgets to a generally appreciative board. But when I was an entrepreneur/ “contractor,” I had to work much harder to persuade boards that the fees paid to my company (the majority of which went to my staff) were justified. Unlike some other entrepreneurial ventures, it was virtually impossible to imagine transforming the company into a revenue-generating powerhouse. By 2011, thirteen years into my entrepreneurial experiment, I was beyond tired. I had come to loathe working with some of my client associations and their boards. When I announced what was to have been a one-year sabbatical and offered to help my clients find new management firms, their boards expressed little to no disappointment at my departure or any serious appreciation for my work. In spite of leaving every client in far better shape—financially and operationally—than when they became clients, they took the news of my departure without expressing any regret. Nor any appreciation for improving their positions.

I do not often think about my years as an entrepreneur. And when I do, I try to recall the more appealing aspects of that period of my career. I try to avoid being resentful and bitter with myself for having willingly replaced opportunities for a rather “cushy” experience for a monstrous challenge. Perhaps I should have taken my own hint when I named my company: Challenge Management, Inc. Bygones are bygones. No, I would not do it over again. I might, instead, accumulate as much money as possible, as early as possible, and retire even earlier. At one point in my life, I announced that I wanted to retire at 50. I missed the target by eight years. Not bad, actually. If I had continued with my business for another seven years, I would have pushed myself into an early grave. So, as I consider my work history, what I actually did may have been the best course of action. I should celebrate, instead of wading through fields of regret. And so I shall.

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We are imperfect beings. We behave in ways contrary to maintaining our honor. We long for material goods we do not need. We lust after experiences we openly condemn in others. Our desires may overcome our decency. We know we should not murder or steal or covet our neighbors’ wives, but we still we may wish to kill or purloin or seduce. There it is again: the spectrum of “sins,” alongside measures of tolerance or intolerance. Is the desire to kill just as bad as taking action on that desire? Ach! Too much brain-twisting!

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Another grey morning. Weather forecasters are calling for a high today of 79°F. I have to admit it: I look forward to the warmth. Lately, much of the time my hands of feet have been horribly cold. Yesterday, I walked out of my frigid office, opened the front door of the house, and went outside. The warmth outside was much, much, much greater than inside. I felt like sleeping on a recliner with the sun beating down on me. Instead, I worked on minimizing the weed-cover in the big rocky area in front of the house. It was absolutely LOUSY with weeds. I expect them to come back with some regularity. Makes me think a concrete pad over the rocks might be just the ticket. Not really. Probably.

I am grateful that today does not have many demands on me. I can choose whether to work around the house (which I should) or to loll about in slothful indolence (which I probably should not).  I appreciate the choice, though,

A dim, foggy morning laid waste to the solitude of predawn darkness. When I forced myself back to sleep in the early hours—despite wanting to get out of bed—I took an unnecessary risk. During the subsequent sleep, the currency of that risk purchased the pain of an incoherent nightmare. My late brother was in prison, awaiting execution for a crime about which I knew nothing. I was with two people…friends? relatives?…on the way to visit him. A car belonging to one of the two, a woman, would not start. The woman hotwired a nearby car, its front right tire in shreds, and drove us slowly—while the damaged tire delivered a loud, bumpy ride—to the entrance to the prison, which appeared to be inside a mall. And then I woke.

I thought I succeeded in sneaking out of the bedroom without waking Phaedra. But in the kitchen she interrupted my morning blood glucose bloodletting with a loud yowl, protesting what she apparently believed was my attempt to starve her. It took two abnormally large helpings of what looked and smelled like post-digested-chicken-puree-from-a-can to silence her. Finally, though, Phaedra decided to cease flooding my eardrums with her relentless sound-based tools of torture, allowing me a modicum of peace with which I could scan the morning’s so-called news. I did very little scanning; “news” is an unpleasant experience when one is attempting to slide into the day without encountering rusted razor blades judiciously positioned to slice into one’s tender parts.

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I hope to get some advice today, from a title company lawyer, related to replacing a quit claim deed with a general warranty deed. If that advice is not forthcoming, I will have to pursue other sources of expertise, possible waiting as long as next week. Property ownership is an unnatural imposition of undeserved control over a component of the natural environment. Indigenous people seem to have understood that reality, but modern humankind fails to grasp the ludicrous nature of “ownership.” We attempt to make our temporary stewardship of the natural environment into a permanent state of control; we have found that the transition into perpetuity comes with a high cost of labyrinthine complexity designed to “trick” the natural order into accepting slavery as a byproduct of humanity. I fight with myself over these matters and, invariably, I lose the fight.

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My creativity has, once again, remained beneath the comforter on the bed. I must retrieve it before tomorrow morning; I am to submit a poem by then for inclusion in an upcoming church insight service. I fear my poem, if it has been written by tomorrow morning, will be flat, dull, and emotionless. That’s all right, though, because one’s writing should reflect one’s true self. Ach.

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The fog remains thick and dreary, as the time approaches 8:30. The “work-week” is beginning the way so many of them began in years past. That is a shame. A real shame.

Phaedra, dressed in her protective post-surgery suit, walks with slow, plodding, doddering steps—punctuated with long pauses to recover the strength spent in moving just a few feet at a time.  Her movements suggest feline inebriation, but in fact the dual traumas of her abortion and her hysterectomy are responsible for her feebleness. But she is improving.

Last night, she managed to jump onto the storage chest at the foot of the bed. From there, she hopped onto the bed. And then she climbed aboard mi novia, who Phaedra must  have decided provided a comfortable spot for a long cat nap. Sometime during the wee hours, between 2:30 and 3, Phaedra decided I, too, offered a nice place of repose. I had been unable to sleep for a while, but I decided to stay put for a bit, hoping Phaedra might get a bit more rest. Finally, though, I had to get up. So, I slipped out of bed around 3:30. Phaedra woke when I gently moved her off of my hip, but she seemed to relax back into the blanket when I got up.  As far as I know, she is sleeping soundly now. She did not rush into the kitchen when I commenced my far-earlier-than-normal morning routine of blood-letting, pill-swilling, and coffee making; I take that as a good sign.

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US District Judge Robert Pitman ruled on Thursday that at several books removed from public library shelves in Llano County, Texas were to have been placed back onto shelves within 24 hours. Whether that has happened, I do not know. Reading about the book banning, which his ruling addressed, sparked anger in me. And fear. The recent spate of book banning frightens me because it is attempting to normalize an ugly form of censorship based on raw bigotry. The banned books in Llano include titles banned because they deal with race, sexual orientation, and other matters labeled inappropriate, pornographic, and called “filth” by at least one library board member. This is not new. But its resurgence is upsetting.  And it is especially upsetting in light of the revelation that the new “library advisory board” required all new books to “be presented to and approved” by them before purchase. Staff librarians were said to have been banned from attending the advisory board’s meetings. If I were King, I would incarcerate members of the library advisory board who voted to require board action before book purchase…or who voted to ban any title.

But wait. At some point, there must be a line which must not be crossed…mustn’t there? Would we want a library full of anarchist treatises, replete with bomb-making instructions and arguments in favor of political assassinations? Okay, perhaps step-by-step instructions leading to violent revolutions should be kept out of the library…or should they? At what point do we, as a society, decide to prohibit the dissemination of ideas? That is a dicey issue. On one hand, I abhor the imposition (or prohibition) of beliefs and philosophies through censorship. But on the other hand, I believe we (the collective, as if “we” were of one mind) have an obligation to protect ourselves and one another from unnecessary danger.

When any government, or any church for that matter, undertakes to say to its subjects, This you may not read, this you must not see, this you are forbidden to know, the end result is tyranny and oppression no matter how holy the motives.

~ Robert A. Heinlein ~

For the moment, though, let’s leave potential violence out of the equation. Is there a point at which moral indignation should play a part if library policy? Should we, for example, prohibit our libraries from shelving books that promote bestiality? Where should we draw the line? Or should we draw no lines at all? Should we leave it up to the consumer to decide what is appropriate to read? If I try to view the world from the perspective of a fundamentalist Christian who has been indoctrinated with the belief that any discussion of LGBTQ matters is a danger to the social order, I might understand why some books “should be banned.” But, try as I might, I cannot see the world from that jaundiced outlook. Yet I can understand how it might evolve; especially in a rural setting in which rabid fundamentalism is the rule, rather than the exception.

I think most proponents of book banning tend to be rabid nationalists, too; people who claim undying devotion to the U.S. Constitution. Yet these same people seem not to grasp the disconnect between book banning and the First Amendment:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

No matter how persuasively I might argue, either for or against, the matter of book banning, I likely will not change anyone’s mind. Logic plays less of a role in the issue than does emotion. Even logical arguments are fueled by white-hot emotion on both sides of the issue. Ultimately, I suppose it comes down to which “side” will hold more positions on local library boards and in similar institutions. And who, once on those boards, will be willing to file lawsuits or to defend against them. Some days—most days—I wish I lived in a society whose values more closely mirrored my own. Today is one of those days. Now, which society(ies) might be suitable for me? I wish I knew.

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I eagerly await the results of the elections in Finland. Like much of the world, right-wing populism has been growing in Finland of late, which is reflected in Finnish polls. The prime minister’s (Sanna Marin) Social Democrats are facing challenges from the conservative National Coalition Party and the populist Finns Party. Sanna Marin still has high poll numbers, but according to news reports, her numbers are not high enough to ensure victory. By the end of the day today, the results of the election should be known, but regardless of the winner, it will take time to form a government (which, as I understand it, will certainly be a coalition government, regardless of the winner). My political leanings clearly are aligned with Sanna Marin and her Social Democrats. I hope the majority of voters in Finland share my position on matters politic.

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It is about a quarter after 5, far too early to call or text anyone, though I would like to. Sometimes at this hour (or earlier or later), I want to sit with a friend and talk. Not about anything in particular. Just to chat. Relax. Chill. Engage.  But I know, even if the time were four hours later, I would not make a call or send a text. I know very few people well enough to feel comfortable intruding on their day without warning. It would be different, I suspect, if I were far more of a social creature who stayed in frequent and regular contact with friends throughout the week. But I am not that social creature. I sometimes want to be, but I am not suited to it. My need for solitude might be mistaken for abruptness or rudeness if I were to suddenly shift from extrovert to introvert in mid-sentence. Perhaps it’s not quite that abrupt, but it can be a rather rapid change. I suppose I could train myself to behave differently; I know enough about Pavlov’s classical conditioning to give it a shot. But, then, I would have to train a few others, too. I doubt anyone wants me to ‘train’ them. I would have to hide the message behind something misleading. Nothing overt. Ach.

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We always long for the forbidden things, and desire what is denied us.

~ François Rabelais ~

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We are nearing the end of the series, Unauthorized Living. The more we watch, the better I like it. It is far more complex than I expected it to be, but the complexities are not unnecessary; they contribute to the plot and to the psychological underpinnings of the story.  Despite a significant number of badly botched English subtitles and not infrequent evidence that some of the script writers might have had no training, the series is extremely entertaining and exciting. I recommend it.

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Once again, I let time slip by. It is nearing 6 in the morning. The sky remains dark, though, so my conversation with myself is in a satisfactory place. I shall now endeavor to shave and take a shower.

Your days are numbered. Use them to throw open the windows of your soul to the sun. If you do not, the sun will soon set, and you with it.

~ Marcus Aurelius ~

I referenced these words, attributed to Marcus Aurelius, in late December, 2021, after my late brother decided to go into hospice care.  About a year earlier, my wife had died. And a little over a year and a month after that awful event, my brother died. That year of loss was the most wretched in my memory. But, in response to the words of Marcus Aurelius, I have tried to pry open those windows. Whether a person opts to wither in darkness or blossom in light, in the end he will return to the soil.

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Guilt coincides with the recognition of the impossibility of changing the past. But it persists as long as does the desire to accomplish the impossible. Perhaps, then, the solution to reducing the many burdens of guilt is to quell the desire to accomplish that which cannot be done. That is, to face reality and to acknowledge one’s own responsibility for fashioning the future from fresh experiences; not eliminating guilt, but burying it beneath multiple layers of innocence.

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Phaedra is back home from the veterinary clinic, no longer pregnant nor capable of  becoming pregnant ever again. The poor cat, wrapped in a surgery suit to prevent her from ripping open sutures, remains groggy and obviously achy. And, surprisingly (to me, at least), not very hungry. Perhaps that is a natural reaction to surgery. Despite my annoyance at her for doing damage by clawing at rugs, she is a cute cat; I hope I continue to think so as time marches on.

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Thanks to indulging in a gummy last night (to ease my arthritic pain), I slept very, very late this morning. I was in bed until after 7, an event so rare it merits placement in a world record book. I loathe getting up long after the sun has flooded the sky with light. There’s something about missing daybreak that is akin to getting kicked, hard, in the gut. But I will adjust, adapt, and move on. The sky is clear and blue, utterly unlike yesterday afternoon’s swirling gloom and ferocious rainstorms. Though we were under multiple tornado watches, thunderstorm watches and warnings, and tornado warnings, none of the storms materialized near us. Little Rock and environs in central Arkansas were badly ravaged by tornadoes. Numbers of injuries were reported in Little Rock hospitals; some of those suffering injury were in critical condition yesterday. The town of Wynne was effectively torn in two by tornadoes that reportedly killed four people there. My dissatisfaction with sleeping late pales—utterly, to the point of disappearance—in light of that awful reality.

As I have taken to saying with regularity, everything is contextual. Every emotion, every sensation, every idea, every reality…exists along a spectrum. And that spectrum is influenced by changes in the environment surrounding it. The emotional “tragedy” of a shattered family heirloom wine decanter shrinks to insignificance in circumstances in which emotional tragedy involves multiple losses of life.

The older I get, the more intrigued I become with different schools of philosophy. And, of course, I wish now I had become intrigued with them long, long ago. I would have had much more time to learn about them, think about them, and use them to mold and shape my own philosophies. As it is, my philosophy of life is an amalgamation of sometimes competing ideas. And, of course, my philosophy changes, depending on the context of my thoughts about it. Circumstantial morality might be a good name for my current philosophical bent. I could explain the concept in more detail, but that might rob the reader of the enjoyment of guessing what I might mean.

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I may not need a hug right now, but I certainly would welcome one. A hug to celebrate the way the sky looks right now. But there could be many other reasons, as well.

I must go…just got an instant message on my phone, warning me of an unusual “card not present” transaction on a credit card…must explore it!

Solitude is voluntary. Loneliness is not. But the two can become unintentionally intertwined. They can coalesce into one another from either direction. Intentional solitude can lead to unexpected loneliness. And loneliness can cause a person to isolate—to avoid contact with others as protection against revealing the pain brought on by loneliness. Not terribly long ago, I was introduced to Dunbar’s Number, a theoretical limit on the number of people with whom an individual can maintain social relationships. The theory is further clarified as the number of relationships a person has in which she knows each person in the social circle and how each individual relates to every other one. According to Robin Dunbar, the anthropologist who proposed the number, the concept can be explained informally as “the number of people you would not feel embarrassed about joining uninvited for a drink if you happened to bump into them in a bar.”

I doubt I am living evidence of the legitimacy of Dunbar’s Number. The actual number, variously proposed by others as between 100 and 250, with 150 being a fairly well-accepted middle range, seems quite high to me. Though I know well over 250 people, I seriously doubt I would feel comfortable joining them uninvited if I happened to run into them in a bar. As I contemplate the idea, in my mind the number dwindles rather quickly to the mid double digits; actually, it is probably considerably lower than that. That reality seems to set me apart from most other people—assuming, of course, Dunbar’s Number is a legitimate concept. If the reasonably close social sphere for other people is between 100 and 250 and if my number is closer to 15—or fewer—there must be some significance in that gulf of difference. What that significance might be, though, is beyond me. I suppose, though, having a larger sphere allows a person to maintain contact with “important” people, regardless of how many within a person’s sphere are out of touch—busy with family or other friends, out of town, engage with business commitments, etc., etc. I imagine a smaller sphere can quickly evaporate when members of that sphere have other obligations and commitments. In that case, the isolation associated with smaller numbers can transform into loneliness.

This is all supposition, of course. I know very little about Dunbar’s Number, really. The concept was advanced in the 1990s, long after my college career was over. And, besides, my college career was geared toward sociology, not anthropology, so I may be dealing with comparisons between apples and alligators here. I sometimes wonder why I explore things that are clearly beyond my experience and expertise and relevance. Perhaps it’s simply a way to avoid things that matter. Things that are more difficult to address that hypotheticals about which I have little to no exposure. Hmm. I should think more on that.

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I cannot think clearly this morning, for some reason. I should leave this attempted blog post and return to it…or another one…when my mind is more attuned to such matters.

Time. Though everyone is familiar with the word—whether in English or one of the roughly 6,500 other languages in use worldwide—most people infrequently give the concept of Time the deep and abiding attention it deserves. We measure it with clocks and calendars and changes in the physical world around us. And changes in ourselves. But the deeper mysteries of Time rarely command our attention and devoted exploration. We take Time for granted. Though we know the amount of Time available to each of us is limited, we hardly ever allow our thoughts to delve deeply into it. That infinitesimally tiny fraction available to us during our brief personal experience with its mystery is taken for granted, as if nothing we can do will change the way we experience Time. Yet, if we take the long view of Time, we can view parts of the past and the future with extraordinary clarity.

Looking backward, tracing our own genealogical links only a few generations, we can begin to understand how Time changed the world into which we were born. Examining evidence of how our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents lived can provide snapshots of reality in a Time experienced by our forebears not long ago. And if we imagine the world in which today’s newborns celebrate their eightieth birthdays, we realize those people are, today, inhabitants of the twenty-second century. Those eighty-year-olds will have witnessed the celebratory transition to a new century a few years before they became octogenarians. Some of their grandchildren could live to celebrate the twenty-third century.

Not long ago, the internet did not exist. Personal computers had not been invented. The idea of cell phones was a science fiction fantasy. Many people alive today remember cars without power brakes and power steering. Today’s eighty-three year old people were born the same year the first automatic transmissions were used in production models of Cadillac and Oldsmobile. Hundreds of thousands of products in common use today had not even been conceived before World War II. And many other products were invented, placed into common use, and retired when they became obsolete or, at the very least, rare—replaced by newer, better, more efficient products: Dictaphones^®, fax machines, Polaroid^® cameras, etc., etc. Allowing our fantasies free rein, we might imagine what technologies—almost unthinkable today—might exist one or two or three hundred years hence. By employing our imaginations in such a way, we experience Time as a vehicle of dreams…change…fancy…illusion.

I found a fascinating article on BBC.com that says the following;

How far do we have to go back to find the most recent common ancestor of all humans alive today? Again, estimates are remarkably short. Even taking account of distant isolation and local inbreeding, the quoted figures are 100 or so generations in the past: a mere 3,000 years ago.

And one can, of course, project this model into the future, too. The maths tells us that in 3,000 years someone alive today will be the common ancestor of all humanity.

Just 3,000 years ago, there may have been one person who is a common ancestor of everyone alive today. And someone today is—or will be—the common ancestor to everyone alive in the year 5023. Granted, the numbers are mind-boggling, but nonetheless they tell a fascinating story about genealogy. But more importantly, they clearly express the effects or the outcome or the byproducts…or whatever…of Time.

I am certain I am not the common ancestor of all the inhabitants of Planet Earth in 5023, but someone reading this post may be. Probably not…but it is possible. If one could ride along with Time as it trudges forward, the amount of knowledge to which that person could be exposed is vast. Incomprehensible. Or, if Time willingly carried that same person back three thousand years in an effort to find our common ancestor, the effects of the passage of Time would be, without a doubt, stunning.

Thus far in this post, I have treated Time as if it relies on the Earth’s circumnavigation around the Sun. But Time is relative. In a distant galaxy, the concept of Time could be radically different from the way we conceive it here. Rather than the rather parochial perspective of ancestral commonality based on the passage, in either direction, of 3,000 “years,” an interstellar perspective might be based on the formation and disintegration of stars or galaxies. Or of this and multiple other universes. Time is both infinitesimally small, as in fractions of a second, and immensely large, as in existentially vast, far beyond comprehension.

I thrive on the superficial exploration of the unknowable. What, for example, would…never mind…secrets are timeless. But I might share some of them. And I am a willing recipient of shared secrets, secrets that remain locked in my brain well beyond the end of Time. That trite phrase summons other unknowable questions that gnaw at me every moment of every day: does Time have an end? And did it have a beginning? Unlike many questions, Time will not tell. The answer to these—and so many other—questions will remain unanswered until…

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No experience, regardless of how painful or overwhelming, is the end of the world. Except, of course, those unfathomably horrible experiences that clearly and irrevocably foretell the end of the world.

I have always identified as a man. Never have I questioned that identity. That certainty notwithstanding, I also always have believed masculinity and femininity are not exclusively binary. But American society (and most others) equates certain attributes with “maleness” and others with “femaleness.” Our culture encourages males to embrace “male” attributes and females to embrace “female” attributes. Like so many other aspects of reality, though, the extent to which a person feels “male” or “female” differs from person to person. But “pure” males are, by and large, just caricatures. They are artificial expressions of “macho-ness.” Maybe, after extensive behavioral reinforcement, gender-related contrivances morph into a stilted reality—but I doubt instances of extreme “maleness” or extreme “femaleness” are natural.

An attribute that, in our culture, is associated with femininity is a tendency toward emotional release—crying, specifically. Men who tend to be unable to easily control their tears find themselves mocked in cinematic portrayals of the “weak,” “feminine” male character. And it is not just cinematic portrayals, of course—actors learn to mimic and amplify real-world behaviors.  The reverse is true, as well. Women who rarely “emote” through crying sometimes find they are judged as cold and unfeeling—”masculine,” in other words.

The matter of masculinity and femininity is on my mind this morning in response to an article I read on BBC.com yesterday. The piece addresses the ways in which members of “Gen-Z” view gender differently from the ways older people do. Gen-Z members seem to acknowledge the fluidity of gender. Rather than an “either-or” definition of maleness and femaleness, they seems to identify gender along a spectrum, according to the article. It is not that Gen-Z members no longer identify as cisgender or male or female. Instead, they are unwilling to accept that gender always is binary. This adjustment in attitudes did not occur suddenly with the emergence of Gen-Z; it was beginning to emerge in Baby Boomers and Millenials, but Gen-Z apparently is allowing the attitude to overwhelm the bigotry of earlier generations.

Though I remain somewhat mystified by the concept of non-binary gender, thanks to public explanations like that in the BBC.com article, I am beginning to better understand the complexities of gender. And as I better understand those complexities, I am beginning to recognize how masculinity and femininity are not attributes that exist on two separate planes but, rather, are simply ranges at opposite ends of a spectrum. Most people, I think, find our identities clustered toward one end or the other, but few of us are at the extremes. We lean in one direction or another, but we tend to exhibit a few—or many—attributes more common toward the other end. That may explain why some men seem more emotional than others and some women seem more stoic than many of their counterparts. And it might reveal the reason some men prefer wide-ranging, intellectual conversations to discussions about sports. Of course, those preferences may have nothing whatsoever to do with gender; their basis may be entirely in upbringing and/or the environments in which they spend most of their time.

I suspect society, by and large, has long and successfully discouraged expressions of gender than are non-binary. Only relatively lately have young people, especially, been willing to shatter the stereotypes. I wonder how that process will unfold in the coming fifty or one hundred years? I won’t be around to see it, but it might be interesting to incorporate ideas about it in fiction. Or not. We shall see. We always do.

Rolling Fork, Mississippi, mostly to the west of US Highway 61, is just beyond the northern edge of the Delta National Forest. The town is a few miles west of the Theodore Roosevelt National Wildlife Refuge. Until a few days ago, the town name and its nearby nationally designated preserves, were virtually unknown. But a devastating tornado suddenly focused a national—even global—spotlight on the place.

The same kind of unexpected and unwanted attention is bearing down on the Covenant School in Nashville, Tennessee. Though Nashville is widely known—famous, in fact—the Covenant School was not. Until another in a long string of murderous shootings trained the world’s attention on the small, 200-student school.

Until early 1993, Waco, Texas generally avoided the national spotlight. The city was, by and large, a small, conservative, religious, backwater sort of place. But, then, David Koresch and his Branch Davidian cult followers got sideways with Federal law enforcement, culminating in a hail of bullets and a firestorm of black smoke and explosions.

Tragedy regularly rears its head and draws our attention to people and places about whom and which we knew almost nothing. Following ages-old tradition, print and broadcast media know how to take advantage of disaster: if it bleeds, it leads. Who can fault the media, though? Media simply delivers what consumers want: the taste and smell and sight of fresh blood; something simultaneously stunning and frightening and chilling and exciting—something hideous that makes mundane lives seem a little less boring and a little more fortunate. But accompanying that sense of good fortune in the face of bad is the seed of anxiety. Spilled blood provides the necessary nutrients for gnawing anxiety to morph into full-grown, unending terror.

We have grown used to living in unrestrained fear.  Terror fits us like a custom-tailored suit. Over time, our constant sense of uneasiness has taken on the mantle of normalcy. Emotional relaxation would feel odd and uncomfortable—probably. We can only imagine what that dream-state would be like, because we have never actually experienced it. The world has become too dangerous, too predictably unpredictable, too treacherous for ease to set in. The constant state of semi-preparedness for horror makes real relaxation impossible. Newspapers and magazines and radio and television news keep us primed for catastrophe.

And off we go. Another Tuesday. Another day of anticipating the next mind-numbing tragedy.

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Is it any wonder that isolation appeals to me? Is it any wonder that seclusion, without access to news about the wider world, is deeply alluring? But reality steps in to remind me that external events, alone, cannot take credit for one’s constant sense of unease. Injury and disease can take place without notice and without prompts from the media. Living, by itself, can put a person in the cross-hairs of cataclysmic events. Symptoms that call for anti-anxiety medications and anti-depression pills argue against requiring prescriptions; they are sufficiently common to warrant over-the-counter availability. But if prescriptions are required for them, one can turn to alcohol, the timeless cure for the challenges of living. Except when its consumption is prohibited, thanks to overly-protective doctors who have never experienced the underside of life.

+++

I could go on for days with this litany of life’s offenses. But what value would such an undertaking have? Undertaking. That’s an interesting perspective on the matter.

Disputes about Daylight Savings time are making the news. Lebanese Prime Minister Najib Mikati decreed that clocks would not be move forward by an hour until April 20; in response, the Maronite Church said it would disregard the decision and would set clocks forward by an hour on Saturday evening as had been long-planned. Efforts to control Time continue to rumble about elsewhere, too. Residents of Greenland have moved their clocks forward, into Daylight Savings Time, for the last time (if action by the country’s parliament, the Inatsisartu, remains intact). Conversations and debates continue around the globe, exploring the pros and cons of adopting permanent structural changes to the ways in which humans experience Time. Humans have about as much chance altering Time as we do adjusting Gravity. No matter how extensive our efforts to adjust scales to account for gravitational aberrations, gravity will respond only to universal forces far more powerful than anything humans can bring to bear. The same is true with time. Humans can pretend to exercise control over time by changing the ways we respond to the position of the sun or the moon or whatever else we might choose. But make no mistake about it: we are not changing Time; we change only the ways in which we react to its passage. We cannot adequately define precisely what constitutes Time; we have  less than a snowball’s chance in Hell of bending Time to suit us. In fact, if we examine ourselves from sufficient distance, we will see that Time changes us. Not the other way around. But, still, we assert our superiority over elements of the universe whose powers clearly are superior to our own. The idea, obviously, is to convince enough of the gullible and easily-led to believe they have control over the machinery of existence that controls them. It is funny and pathetic, except for the fact that it is inconceivably sad—yet, still, pathetic.

Time and Gravity really are the same as time and gravity; the only difference is cosmetic. For some reason, capital letters seem to carry with them a certain degree of gravitas,  unavailable to their lower-case cousins. The same inexplicable cosmetic variations exist for Life and life, as well as for Death and death. As for Eternity and eternity, the jury is still out. If I were a betting Man/man, I would put my money on capital letters, if only because Capitalism seems to have considerably more “oomph” than mere capitalism. Discussions of Capitalism almost always lead, eventually, to conversations about Greed. Indeed, the relationships between Capitalism and Greed seem far closer, at times, than the relationships between either Capitalism and capitalism or Greed and greed.

Humans chip away at the foundations of language every hour of every day. Language cannot remain intact for long because humans insist on “improving” it by adding or subtracting syllables or words. People transform beautifully complex linguistic expressions into cheap, tawdry, simple abbreviations. LOL. For God’s sake! Is nothing sacred? How can people brutalize spectacularly sculptural declarations, in the form of incomprehensibly beautiful paragraphs, by tearing away crucial pieces and replacing them with tacky, incoherent utterances?

+++

I write too much. And what I write often is insufficiently interesting to merit a reader’s attention from beginning to end. Essentially, that coincides with a judgment that my writing is meaningless bullshit. And, in fact, it can be just that. But buried beneath the layers of linguistic dung are, I believe, shreds of worthy ideas. Even the nonsense carries with it a few strings of meritorious thought; tiny seeds of ideas that, given adequate nutrition and enough water, can transform random weeds into lush carpets of kudzu. Kudzu signals the erasure of Western civilization, supplanted by Eastern philosophy adapted to new landscapes. Neither Eastern nor Western philosophy is sufficient; nor is either complete. That is because both schools of thought are hemispheric. That is, both capture only fractional components of reality and both pieces of the larger whole are seen through prismatic fragments; the result is partial blindness to Truth and Beauty. Knowledge, untainted by Interpretation, can be attained only by experiencing true Spherical philosophies—ways of considering, seeing, and understanding reality that encompass all perspectives. And those perspectives must be experienced in the context of their interactions with each and all of the other perspectives within and beyond the sphere. It sounds complex, but actually it is simplicity in its most honest and obvious form.

+++

Characters from some of my past writing are stirring. Their attempts to crawl out of their cryogenic chambers into the light and heat of a new season are getting my attention. Lugubria, Inebria, Phaelaysho, Rumour, and countless others are shouting at me, insisting it is time to get to know them better. They urge me to remove the nails that keep the doors shut to the Fourth Estate Tavern and Scrawl and Cobra. Calypso Kneeblood and Garcia, too, urge me to release them from the tombs I constructed inside my head. Concubinia, a newer addition to the cast of characters, leaves me hints that I should embark on a voyage of writing, too, that might lead me to enlightenment. I have left the hypothetical town of Struggles, Arkansas in limbo for too long. It is high time I should work to rebuild some of its crumbling infrastructure and to revive some of the crumbling lives of some of its poverty-stricken residents. That little town boasts an overflowing reservoir of intellectual expression, unlike any other town in Arkansas. Or, for that matter, anywhere else. Calypso Kneeblood lives inside my head, by the way. He has constructed an unimposing A-frame at the intersection of my brain stem and cerebellum, with pathways leading from his front porch to the frontal lobe and the occipital lobe. Wait! It is after 9 a.m.! Horrors!

+++

My “regular” readers have probably left for the day, assuming my writing has finally dried up. Too bad. I was just thinking about them and was going to share with them some secrets that I share only with a few of the people with whom I am closest and value most. Such is life. I’m off to explore what breakfast and a shower can do for my state of mind.

Maybe it is the change of seasons—the fact that Winter is officially over and Spring is upon us (or, for those in the southern hemisphere, Summer just ended and Autumn has begun). I doubt the change of seasons in the southern hemisphere can be held to account, so if there’s a seasonal connection, it must be the version reserved for the northern hemisphere. While the seasons may play a part, I am certain they are not entirely responsible. It’s the wanderlust again. That’s what’s making me edgy—the urge to hit the highway, Route 66 style. That is, with no constraints imposed by a plan—because there would not be one. And no destination; just “go.” I long for that boundless road trip, but I like having my home base, too. In other words, I want opposites: dangerous safety; boring adventure; freezing heat; boiling ice; you get my drift. The impossible. But that is what drives fantasy, is it not? Impossible dreams. The unfolding of the world—and events in it—in magical fashion, free of life’s ugly flaws and traumatic disappointments. That, in itself, is a fantasy.

The sudden disappointment of a hope leaves a scar which the ultimate fulfillment of that hope never entirely removes.

~ Thomas Hardy ~

+++

My philosophy is fluid. Or, as I am wont to say, it is contextual.

Wait! THAT statement could be misinterpreted. Someone might interpret it to mean my core beliefs could be swayed by circumstances. It’s not the BELIEFS that could swayed; it’s the circumstances surrounding their application. For example, I oppose the euthanasia of animal rescue shelter guests after a certain period of time passes. On the other hand, I favor euthanizing animals, rather than leaving them to fend for themselves in a harsh environment.

It is hard to say how the paragraph above coincides with my philosophy about humanity, but, somehow, it does. Perhaps it is because it reveals that the addition of information to one’s understanding can alter not only one’s understanding but the way in which one reacts to it. A person who vacillates between opposing positions is not necessarily “wishy-washy” but, instead, may simply be highly discerning. He may be able to simultaneously see a set of circumstances from multiple perspectives. Depending on perspective, then, he may made very different decisions about what he experiences.

Logic tells me to bear such stuff in mind before making judgments about people. But emotion tells me to disregard logic and go strictly with my gut. Naturally, I sometimes find myself hating and loving a person at the same time. Fortunately, my ambivalence usually applies only to people I do not know well.

+++

We humans measure wisdom with antiquated tools. Rulers and balance scales cannot do an adequate job of determining the scope and size of an immeasurable characteristic. But we try to employ the tools we use to measure the physical world to measuring the philosophical world. Those two worlds are in different places. Different dimensions. Different purposes. Sometimes, they blend together effortlessly. But, often, they clash. They square off, passionately insistent that only one worldview really matters. They learn, though, the truth: one’s worldview is irrelevant. It’s one’s ability to adapt to radical change.

+++

I do not understand the “threats” posed by China. Though I see clear evidence of belligerence and hostility on the part of Russia, China does not seem especially bellicose. I sometimes get the sense that the USA is, as often as not, the one stirring the pot between us and them. Let me add this: if the “threats” include the natural byproducts of competitive commerce, I do see them. China seems fully prepared to take over the world from the standpoint of economic muscle and precision focus. In my opinion, that competition is not necessarily politically combative or contentious; it’s the nature of capitalism. Obviously, China is quite adept at capitalism, despite “our” claim to fame as the world’s preeminent capitalist society. We might once have legitimately held claim to that title, but no more. We rested on our laurels while China and various other Asian countries/economies perfected their strategies. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

+++

Talent. Is it an innate characteristic, or does it require planting and intense cultivation?

+++

The crows outside my window are loud. Obnoxiously loud. Annoyingly, irritatingly, offensively loud. I generally admire and appreciate sounds from the natural world. But these…these disgusting squawks that sound both artificial and demonic…they are right up there with chiggers and mosquitos, in terms of their repulsiveness. They give the natural world a bad name.

+++

The topics of intimate conversations can be dull. Deadly dull. But intimate conversations can save a person’s sanity. They can reinforce one’s sense that the world is not entirely chaotic; that there are fundamentally good aspects to a sometimes seemingly miserable cesspool of irredeemable losers. Intimate conversations are the discussions about anything and everything that take place between good friends; meaningless drivel and life-changing secrets, all kept in strictest confidence without need of a reminder about its confidentiality. Because intimate conversations are, by nature, limited. Never more than two people. Even in their drab overcoats, these dull, grey conversations can revive the irretrievably lost, bathing them in colorful garments invisible to everyone else.

+++

I am drifting in and out of vacancy. My mind wanders off and refuses to return without significant prodding. Enough. Maybe I should light some incense and tell my mind to chill.

One-fingered blogging. The only devices in the house with internet access are smartphones. With tiny keyboards designed for little-bitty people with itsy-bitzy fingers. The reason the usual internet devices are unavailable is that the loudest, most violent, damn-near-heart-stopping clap of thunder I have ever heard (and its accompanying lightning bolt) killed the modem. The only device in the house that was killed in the attack. Among the few sophisticated electronic devices that went unprotected against electrical spikes. The modem is totally dead. No lights. No noise. Nothing. Ach! But AT&T says a replacement will arrive by FedEx today. Good. In the absence of the internet last night, we watched a Pixar film, Cars, that mi novia has on DVD.

+++

I am ashamed of how addicted I am to the internet. Even though my smart-phone has a tiny keyboard and a tiny screen, I find myself checking the news, searching on Google, and otherwise indulging my addiction. Perhaps I should check myself in to a Buddhist monastery where the monks practice and enforce on visitors a vow of both silence and of technological abstinance.

+++

Mi novia is used to her Kindle, which she relies on to supply her with a steady stream of…mostly non-fiction books (I think). I sometimes am slow to adapt. Though in most circumstances I am quite comfortable with technology, I can be something of a Luddite when it comes to books. Magazines, newspapers, etc., etc. are no problem…but books? Still, I have a pretty new Kindle. I should shame myself into using it.

+++

Normally, after having been up for an hour (up at 4 again), I would have skimmed the news, played a word game or two, and just started on my blog post. My technological tragedy imposed a different routine on me. After feeding the yowling, gluttonous cat (Phaedra) and making coffee, I set right into writing this post. One-fingered typing imposes its own set of limits on blogging. Realizing that this blog post, like so many of my others, is just a diary reveals others. It has become just a daily journal. I hereby vow that, soon after I have internet access again, I will give thought to writing about more philosophical matters. And sometime thereafter, I will act on those thoughts. An utterly immeasureable objective! Hah!

+++

I have gotten this far, in fits and starts. But I will go no further. For now. An early breakfast might be just the ticket for laying the foundation for a day that’s beyond acceptable. 🙃

A 12-hour sickness. That is the only way I can think of to describe my experience yesterday afternoon. Not long after I returned home from a meeting at church, I quite suddenly started feeling ill. I developed a headache, my feet and hands felt ice-cold, I was feverish, and I shivered so much that my teeth chattered. Although the temperature in the house was about 75°F, I needed multiple blankets to warm me; only after spending an hour or so under those blankets did I stop shivering. Mi novia checked my temperature: though not high enough to be concerning, it was, at 100.5°F, about three degrees warmer than normal. I spent several hours reclining on a sofa, under three blankets, until I moved into the bedroom around 10:00 p.m. During those hours on the sofa, my gut growled relentlessly, though no pain accompanied the noisy racket. When I woke this morning around 4:00, I felt much better: no more shivers, only a mild headache, and no longer feverish. I do not feel like running a marathon, but I am much closer to “normal” than I was yesterday afternoon and evening. That having been said, my mind feels strangely “fuzzy” this morning, as if I were recovering from anesthesia. I should engage in follow-up from yesterday’s church board meeting, but I do not feel quite up to giving that chore adequate intellectual attention. Maybe later in the day. Oddly, though I had no dinner, I am not hungry this morning. I wish I knew what happened to make me feel so suddenly sick; and why I feel better this morning. I hope the improvement is not temporary.

+++

The CIA World Factbook offers a rather sterile, indifferent picture of the Faroe Islands. An “arts” piece on CNN.com presents a more human, rather emotional portrait of the nation from the perspective of a photographer,  Andrea Gjestvang, whose photographs capture the stark, unforgiving landscape and the islands’ male/female imbalance. The nation’s population is weighted toward men, with 107 men to every 100 women. After reading the CNN.com piece, I searched the internet for details about the country and, later, for photographs of its rugged landscape. The place is absolutely stunning in its beauty, though its harsh, mountainous character suggests it would be a hard place to live. The average high temperatures throughout the year range from the low 40s to the mid 50s; the average lows range from the mid 30s to the mid 40s.  And the island climate is marked by frequent cloud covers and high winds. A harsh, rough, demanding place of spectacular beauty. I think I might love to spend time there, but it seems like a place that does not treat aging, physically unfit, old men especially well. I suspect life on the Faroe Islands demands physical and mental and emotional strength. I probably would not find it easy to live on the Faroe Islands, simply because the prevalent language (Faroese) is not in my repertoire. According to the official site of the Faroe Islands: “Faroese is similar in grammar to Icelandic and Old Norse, but closer in pronunciation to Norwegian.”

+++

Though I have been up for nearly two hours, I suddenly feel very tired again. Here it is, a quarter to six, and I am feeling a bit weak and sleepy. Damn! Maybe a nap will revive my energy.

For the second consecutive night, I was awake well before 4. In fact, I was awake before 3. And by 2. But I stayed in bed until roughly 3:25, determined to get to sleep. By 3:25, though, I recognized the effort would be fruitless. So I got up. I hope to get to sleep again, perhaps by 5 or 6 or 7. Whether or not I am successful, I have decided to skip the men’s church breakfast this morning. There’s no point in trying to either speak or listen coherently after a night of insomnia. I wonder whether my writing in the next little while will be as incomprehensible as are my thoughts at the moment? When I look back on what I write, I will have the answer.

+++

Yesterday afternoon, during an aimless drive through the backstreets of Hot Springs, we listened to a fascinating All Things Considered segment on NPR. The short piece covered the results—and interpretation—of the sequencing of Ludwig van Beethoven’s genes. The segment covered far more ground that I am prepared to write about this morning, but the bottom line (as I remember it) is that Beethoven’s hearing loss and his severe gastrointestinal issues, along with suppositions about his consumption of alcohol, may well be explained as the results of the intersection between the composer’s genetics and his habits. His genes, by the way, were sequenced from samples of his hair. Apparently, there’s plenty of his hair from which to sequence genes.

I do not need to know what I learned from the ATC segment. But hearing such stuff is an incredibly delightful experience. It is a shame that so many über-conservative slugs are so hell-bent on reducing or eliminating funding for public radio programming. It’s as if the bastards are intent on dumbing-down their constituents—perhaps with the objective of bringing the voting population down to a level on par with the politicians.

+++

If my moods could be measured as electrical signals, represented on an oscilloscope, the patterns on the screen would form a regular sine wave, with peaks and valleys of equal strength, size, and distance. I know almost nothing about sine waves, so my description may be utterly meaningless; but at least I know what I mean, regardless of whether anyone else does. The peaks of the waves would represent feelings of hope and confidence. The valleys, despair and doubt. Over time, the peaks would diminish in size and strength. The valleys would dip lower and longer. At some point, the pattern would flatten to the point that there would be no discernible rise and fall; to use a term I hear bandied about occasionally on medical dramas, it would flat-line. Hopelessness. Capitulation to the powers that strive to paint everything dull gray. Not the vibrant grey I find so appealing; instead, the gray that drowns every streak of color in inescapably hideous drabness. When that gray attaches anchors to every affirmative emotion, the world becomes pointless. Life becomes an error that can be corrected only through erasure. God, I know how bleak that must seem. And it is. But that describes the low point on the oscilloscope. The valley that becomes the flat-line. With enough of a jolt, the pattern returns to its regular wave form, but there’s never any assurance that a jolt will have enough power to drive the line back to “normal.”

I will ignore this bleakness. It is the product of two nights of insomnia. And, probably, the outcome of inhaling a few fine hairs from a cat sitting on my forehead.

+++

I had a great idea yesterday: sell my car and use some of the proceeds to buy a cheaper, older one. I would use the balance of the money from the sale to have some work done on the house; new kitchen counters, perhaps, or painting some cabinetry, and/or some other desirable projects. But, after learning how much I might expect to get from my nearly-seven-year-old car and how much an even older car that lacks much of what I find appealing about my car would cost, I have abandoned the idea. It was not such a great idea, after all. My car would fetch less than I would have to spend on a car a few years older and far less “upscale.” I tend to tilt at windmills. I dream. I fantasize. I imagine a world that does not exist. Crap! It worked so well in my mind…

+++

It is just after 5 now. I think I will try again to sleep. Attempted slumber. It sounds like something for which I might be arrested and jailed. I hope not. I would not do well in a cell. Not well at all.

Thanks to Phaedra, I woke about 3:45 this morning…well, it wasn’t entirely Phaedra’s doing. Whistling from my BiPap mask caused me to awaken, but Phaedra took advantage of the situation by stepping on my head. I was ready to get up, anyway. In pre-Phaedra days, I would have gotten up and stealthily gone about my morning routine. But nowadays I must be conscious of her presence. Even when she allows me the solitude I seek, I remain aware that she could appear at the French doors to my study at any moment, staring at me through the glass panes and yowling to be admitted. In days gone by, the doors would have been open. No more. Because she might come in and take up residence on my desk, on top of my keyboard.

I think Phaedra is cute. She is, by and large, a pleasant presence. But she can be an intruder, as well. She can and does infringe on my relationship with the wee hours of the morning. Perhaps I will get used to sharing my solitude with a cat. I can only hope.

+++

Three Spanish-language series we have watched/are watching recently have at least one thing in common: Jose Coronado. And two of them have another commonality: Luis Zahera. Unauthorized Living (original title: Vivir sin permiso), Wrong Side of the Tracks (original title: Entrevías), and The Snow Girl (original title: La chica de nieve) quickly captured our interest, from the moment we began watching them. The two actors I mentioned, Coronado and Zahera, are ideal for the roles they play, though their roles are quite different between the series. If anyone who reads this post has watched any or all of the series, I would be interested to learn of others’ reactions to them.

+++

Some mornings—and this is one of them—I have a very strong desire for a breakfast that includes sausage patties laced with fiery spices, hash browns, and baked tomatoes. Two of the three are acceptable; the hash browns, not so much. Unfortunately, even if I accept that hash browns are off the menu, because I have no sausage in the house I cannot accommodate my desires. I could bake a Compari tomato or two, but even that would not fulfill my wishes. Baked tomatoes should use big, juicy slicing tomatoes. The bottom line is that my strong desire will have to wither over time, unfulfilled. Damn it. I may go out today and buy sausage and slicing tomatoes so I can accommodate at least some of my gluttonous lust tomorrow.  The reason I am so hungry this morning is that I did not have dinner last night. I did not have dinner because I had a big, inappropriate lunch yesterday: a restaurant meal of alambre.

+++

It is a fantasy. An imaginary existence. Something unlikely, but attractive in an odd sort of way. I dream about a scenario in which I take a long road trip; a journey to clear my head and sort out the confusion that has been building for ten years or more. What do I want to be when I grow up? Really. What vocation would I choose if I had it to do over again? That doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is this trip. This long, wandering, drifting search. I find myself several miles from Elkhart, Kansas, at the end of a gravel road. The house is old but well-kept. Set in the middle of forty acres, the house once was a farm house. But time has taken its toll on the farm; it hasn’t been used to grow crops in several years. Yet it did, once. And it was prolific. Everything planted there grew. Vegetables of every stripe and variety. And it could happen again. I see it, in my mind’s eye. Suddenly, I make a decision: I will buy this place. And I do. One hundred and ninety-four thousand, seven hundred dollars. It’s a steal. I pay cash for the place. And I move in. A year passes. The place is surrounded by lush plants. More tomatoes than I could ever count. Lettuce. Broccoli. All sorts of herbs. Squash. More squash. And more and more vegetables. I never really thought I would become “Farmer John,” but it has happened. My Kubota tractor is a trustworthy companion. I get it up and running every day just before sunrise. Quite the success. But I left something behind. I forgot to mention I might not return right away. Ach! Damn! I’ll never be forgiven. And then I realize; it’s just a fantasy. I do not own a tractor.

+++

I picked up my completed tax returns yesterday. Before I left the preparer’s office, I noticed a mistake: the IRS was instructed to send my tax refund to a bank where I no longer do business. That was easily fixed while I was in the office (the routing number was correct, but the bank name was not).  When I got home, on closer inspection I discovered the account number to which the refund should be deposited was incorrect. I had noted both corrections (with yellow highlighter) on materials I had supplied to the preparer when I submitted materials for completing the return. The lesson I learned, quite by accident: double check the work of tax preparers. Paid professionals make mistakes. We might wish they didn’t, but they do.

+++

Daybreak is about two hours away. For some reason, I cannot seem to summon creativity this morning. So, a few minutes before 5:30, I will stop trying to write anything of consequence. It’s just not in me for the moment.

Mi novia probably has investigated you. She probably knows more about you than you have shared with her; maybe more than you have shared with your family. One of her hobbies tends to keep her investigative skills finely honed; she explores the backgrounds of people she encounters or reads or hears about. It is an outgrowth of her career as a fraud investigator. I sometimes wonder how much she really knows about me. Certainly she knows more than I have told her. And she knows about my family. Not must my immediate family, but my family history. Where they came from. Who they married. What careers they chose…or were chosen for them. Not everything, of course. But considerably more than I know. And she may know how many marriages you have had and where you were married. Whether you have been arrested and, if so, why.

Actually, I am rather dramatically overstating her propensity to investigate everyone she encounters. In fact, she tends to limit her sleuthing to newsmakers, especially those who are in the news because of criminal accusations against them. So, you do not need to worry that your secrets will be exposed. Even if she uncovers them, she will not spread them like runaway viruses. Tranquilo.

+++

Dreams may be outlets for expressions of shame or embarrassment. That possibility occurs to me this morning because of two situations I recall from my dreams last night. In one, I was riding in an open-air train car through a crowded downtown area, on the way to a spot where I would rent an automobile. The shame came as I recognized that I was the only one smoking a cigarette and that the smoke could be bothersome to other riders. But I did not stop. Shame continued as I insisted to one of two companions, David Garcia, that—after I had rented the car—I knew exactly where I was going. Even though I had only vague recollections of the way to our destination (an enormous permanent festival that covered several dozen blocks in every direction), I assured him I knew the way. There was much more to the dream that than; but the only “message” I got out of it was its apparent relationship to expressing shame or embarrassment. Hmm.

Do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence you have not already tested.

~ Elizabeth I ~

+++

Several times during the night, as I shifted from one side to another or from my back to my side, the pain of arthritis woke me with a start. I have become a proponent of the search for either a cure or a reliable pain-killing treatment for the condition—something that would either eliminate the pain or mask it completely, without the mess of creams and such. A one-time injection or a single treatment consisting of swallowing a small, unobtrusive pill would be ideal. See what you can do, will you?

+++

The soothing, slightly warm waters of a swimming pool, hidden behind the high walls of my rural compound, would feel delightful right now. Outdoor “mood” lighting spaced around the base of the walls, behind lush vegetation would provide the only illumination, other than the moon and stars. I would swim and float in the nude; there would be no reason to wear a swimsuit, because there would be no need to conform to irrational social conventions (social “abnorms,” I sometimes call them). Guests, if I had them, would have to adapt to nudity in the pool. Once inside, though—and dry—I would don loose-fitting, extremely comfortable attire.

At one end of the pool, a hot tub equipped with powerful water jets could erase the aches and pains of daily life and the decay of advancing age. Depending on how I felt after a swim, I might let the water jets sooth my aching muscles. This morning, I might skip the pool and spend a few hours letting the jets chase the aches away.

My mind is rife with fantasies. Lately, I have discovered the appeal of clandestine foreign service, for example. If I could live my life over, I might devote more time and energy to my studies, with an eye toward a career in furtive observation and secret data collection, analysis, and application. Deterring foreign operatives from accomplishing their objectives, which would mirror mine, has some appeal. Of course, it is possible that the story I tell about my career history is simply a cover for the real thing. It is entirely possible that my multiple—but far-too-brief—trips to other countries were sponsored and funded by the U.S. State Department. What other legitimate reason could I have had to travel to Moscow, Beijing, London, Marseilles, Dhahran, Lisbon, Madrid, etc., etc.? I might well be a retired spy, in other words. But, probably not.

+++

As I wrap up this stream-of-consciousness blather, you might assume all of the “junk” that goes though my mind does not leave much room to think about you. But that is not the case. I think about you more than you think. And I think about others in your circle more than you think. It’s all part of my exploration into how we’re all connected in some form or fashion. We are. The threads of connection are both as thick as rope and as thin as a strand of a kitten’s fur. If you look at them closely, you will see how intertwined we are with everyone and everything.