The Leaving

Posted on January 11, 2016 by John Swinburn

You leave, hoping the leaving will provide answers you haven’t found where you are. You search, expecting to find clues on the open road or maybe down a side street in a forlorn town whose future, from the looks of it, is uncertain. But there are no clues outside yourself. And there are no answers beyond the tip of your nose. Your search is fruitless, a waste of waning emotional capital. You could have traveled a thousand miles or a hundred-thousand miles. It wouldn’t matter; the truth you seek isn’t there to be found. In fact, it’s not even buried deep in the recesses of your brain. The kind of truth you’re looking for doesn’t exist.

Don’t take it so hard. You’re not the only lonely hunter stalking an imaginary prey. There are millions of us, beating our heads against walls of our own making, trying to break out of the cages we’ve so carefully constructed. We built those cages to protect ourselves… from something…while we sought answers. Yet we stand here wondering how we could have made the mistake of locking ourselves inside, leaving the answers to roam free.

How is it,then, we can leave? How can we leave when we’ve locked ourselves in cages? Ah, the answer is simple. We take the cages with us. Or, perhaps, the cages take us where they want us to go.

 

Posted in Writing | 2 Comments

This I Believe

Posted on January 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

The weather is clear and cold, cold enough to dissuade me from my planned early-morning walk. I won’t allow it to keep me away from my task all day, though. Later, after church, I’ll find a suitable trail and commune with the universe around me, engaging in silent conversation with the remains of the stars just now entering our solar system.

Wait, did I just say “after church?” I surely did. Not to worry; it’s not what you might think. It’s just a visit to a UU service, at which a friend will be among several others reciting her poetry.

Last night, over dinner with friends, the conversation turned to religious beliefs and the lack thereof. In spite of my steadfast assumptions that we live in the absence of any sort of supreme being, I can’t dismiss others’ senses that there’s “something out there” that connects us. While I think the “something out there” is not a conscious force, others seem to believe there’s a physical and spiritual manifestation of such a force in us and around us. One of the arguments in favor of such a force, made last evening, is that “people are connected.” My perspective is that the same argument for the existence of such a force could be made by pointing out the connection between a car’s bumper and its engine, i.e., there’s an inherent logical fallacy in making the connection. But I could be wrong.

This morning’s homage to the South Beach Diet will be a breakfast of Poached Eggs Arrabiata. I rather doubt the dish will be sufficiently Italian, nor sufficiently reminiscent of the Penne Arrabiata I love so much that I will be fooled into thinking that’s what it is. But today’s dish will be an interesting one to make and, I hope, an enjoyable one to eat. Buen provecho, amigos!

And so, the depth of my beliefs is revealed in my attraction to food. I don’t know; is that shallow, or is that deeper than the deepest ocean? For, as we all know, we cannot live without food. So, perhaps, it is right and proper to worship and express adoration toward food, our creator and sustainer in a very real sense.

Posted in Just Thinking | 3 Comments

Millstone

Posted on January 10, 2016 by John Swinburn

But whoever shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

That—from Matthew 18:6 of the King James version of the bible, as I understand it—provided the genesis for the “millstone around my neck” idiom. Ah, what a pleasant thought, offering hope and succor for the less fortunate among us. Right. Oh, well.

But it’s that millstone, that unknown or unremembered offense against someone who apparently knows and remembers the offense that I don’t, that bedevils me.

At what point do we stop holding grudges against people for mistakes they do not even realize they made? When do we decide either to confront and discuss the offense head-on or simply let it fade, impotent to bother us, into the past? When, indeed?

Perhaps there is no when; perhaps, instead, the offense remains indelibly etched into the offended person’s psyche so that no amount of acknowledgement and no amount of regret can erase it. The offense, or the memory of what one believes to be an offense, becomes a millstone that sinks the relationship between individuals just as surely as drowning in the sea would do.

Worrying about a perceived degradation of a relationship—and assuming there is, in fact, such a deterioration—without taking proactive steps to inquire, explore, discover the reasons for the dissolution of a relationship is pointless, isn’t it? Indeed it is. But I think we all shy away from pulling at the scab of old wounds or, worse, pursuing what turns out to be an imaginary crack in the foundation of a marriage of the minds.

We’re all too thin-skinned, but at the same time we’re equally reckless with others’ feelings as we are protective of our own.

Posted in Emotion, Friendship, Philosophy | 4 Comments

On the Record

Posted on January 9, 2016 by John Swinburn

As of this morning, I’m down nine pounds since January 1. I wish I could go out walking so I can keep the momentum going (and I suppose I could, if I were willing to slog around in the rain, but I am a little too attuned to comfort to let that happen). No complaints, though. I am happy to finally be insisting that I do what I should have been doing all along; eating well and exercising. I’ve been doing guided meditation, as well, for a few days; I have plenty of room for progress in that realm.

When I created my hybrid South Beach menu program for the first week (beginning this past Monday), I was a little concerned that I might be attempting to keep my daily calorie count too low. I aimed for one thousand calories per day, with an upper limit of thirteen hundred. I’ve been pleasantly surprised, though, that the menus I developed have fallen considerably short of one thousand calories on most days, yet I have not had undue hunger. The daily calorie total was less than eight hundred a couple of days; three others amounted to a thousand or less. Only one day did the count approach thirteen hundred.  The way I’ve been able to be comfortable with that is to incorporate low-cal/low-carb munchies in the morning and afternoon and, after dinner, early evening.

I plan on two more weeks of very low-calorie intake, though next week while I am away at a writing retreat I may find it a challenge, since someone else is cooking evening meals. But I am confident of may ability to exercise restraint and be conscious of portion size. The week after I return, I’ll keep up the very low cal/low carb routine. Depending on how things go, I may extend it yet another week. At some point in the near-term, though, I’ll move on to Phase II of the South Beach diet. And, after that, I’ll simply adapt to a new lifestyle. I am unwilling to abandon my passion for experimenting with foods and my love for exploring ethnic cuisines, but I am confident I can do so within the parameters of good health and good sense.

I’m going to make a record, here, of some of my favorite low-carb/low-calorie snacks before I forget (these are one-off snacks; not the sort of thing you sit and eat one after another):

Radishes with goat cheese and toasted cumin seeds:
Cut radishes in half; smear a tiny bit of soft goat cheese on each half and sprinkle fresh-roasted cumin seeds on top. Excellent!

Cucumber spears sprinkled with Tajin:
No directions needed, eh?

Half-cup of low-fat cottage cheese, spiced to suit, with tomato wedges:
I like to put a few drops of habanero hot sauce on top of the cheese.

Ham & cheese roll-up:
I slice of packaged ham luncheon meat, smeared with 1/2 teaspoon of fat-free cream cheese. Put a dill pickle spear on top, sprinkle with fresh ground pepper, roll it up, and enjoy.

I’ve discovered quite a number of other “snack” types of foods that I’d like to try in the weeks ahead. Ideally, I’ll wean myself off of snacks entirely and be satisfied with regular meals. It’s  just a matter of training and discipline, both of which I’m planning to use to my full advantage.

Posted in Food, Health | 2 Comments

Broken Spell

Posted on January 9, 2016 by John Swinburn

Stegner sat in the only chair in the room, a swivel rocker covered in fabric. He stared intently at the armrest, the pale blue background of the threadbare cloth decorated with hideous brown and green dancing bears. It was something his grandmother might have liked, he thought, though he had never known his grandmother. But he knew enough about her to think she might have found the foul colors and fouler designs appealing.

The room was tiny, just large enough for the chair, a side table big enough to hold a drinking glass, a double bed, a small chest of drawers with a mirror, and barely enough space to move between the pieces of furniture. A sign on the door knob emphasized check-out time was 11:00 a.m. “No exceptions; late check-out will result in one additional night’s room rental.”

There was no telephone, no television, no radio; just a bed, a chair, and a dress. The bathroom consisted of a vanity, with a sink, across from the bed and, through a narrow door to the side, a toilet and bathtub.

“So, this is it, huh?” Stegner asked the question aloud, then waited, as if expecting an answer.

“Yes,” he continued, “this is it. You’ve pissed away every goddamned opportunity. You’ve ruined every life you’ve touched. Your wives either died or went missing or left you for something else, anything else. Your daughters hate you for good reason. You have no friends.  The frickin’ motel clerk won’t even smile at you!”

As he glanced in the dresser’s mirror, he cringed at his reflection. His pasty white face behind two-days’ growth of meager beard made him look ill and weak. Stegmer’s unkempt grey and light brown hair, coupled with his frail complexion and wet, bloodshot eyes contributed to what, the thought, looked like a scene from a hospice.

“Well, that’s sort of what this is, isn’t it?” Stegner uttered the words before he realized he was speaking. “Shit! I guess this is what happens when you’ve finally decided to pull the plug, as it were. Verbal hallucinations. Ah, well I have to settle down. This is not going to be the result of madness. It’s going to be the result of considered choice.”

Stegner stood and walked to the vanity, where he found a stack of four individually wrapped plastic drinking cups, hidden behind a beige plastic tray with a beige plastic ice bucket. He tore the wrapping from one of the cups, and walked back to the chair, where his bottle of Seagram’s Seven Crown whiskey awaited him. He poured an inch into the cup, sat in the chair, and held the whiskey to his lips for a moment.

“Yes, goddamn it, le jeu n’en vaut pas la chandelle. The game really isn’t worth the candle anymore, not for me, not for anyone. Maybe it never was.” Half the whiskey disappeared with the first swig, then the cup emptied with the second. Stegner filled the cup again, two inches this time.

“How is it that a man can reach his sixties without knowing why he’s such a bastard? How is it that a man who should have died in his thirties can live this long? Is it because he deserves the time to reflect on all the shit he’s caused? Is it retribution?”

“I’m not going to talk myself out of it again. I don’t deserve any more chances to make amends. This time, it’s time. This time, I have to do it. It’s the only gift I can give them, now. It’s the only apology that can have any meaning.”

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror again. This time, he saw his eyes awash in tears, just as they began to run down his cheek. But his face was the same. Hard, expressionless, and void of emotion, except for those eyes.

Stegner kicked off his boots and then took off his socks. He leaned back in the chair for a moment and sighed.

With his left arm, he reached over to the side-by-side double barrel shotgun in the center of the bed. He cracked open the barrels to check that both chambers were loaded, and then put the stock on the floor, with the barrels pointing toward his face. He lifted his right foot and reached for the trigger with his great toe.

TAP, TAP, TAP. “Housekeeping!”

Stegner shouted, “Not now! Come back in an hour!”

“Okay, so sorry,” came the reply from the other side of the door.

“Shit.” Stegner listened for the housekeeper’s cart, but heard nothing.

“I don’t believe in destiny…so…” Stegner hesitated. He looked down at the shotgun and tried to move his great toe toward the trigger. But the spell was broken, at least for the moment.

 

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

Stream of Walkishness

Posted on January 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

2016-01-08_1030I have a difficult time containing my urge to go from zero to eighty with no intervening speeds. I’m talking here of my recent revival of walking. I don’t like the idea of slowly getting back into it; instead, I’d prefer to return to the level of stamina and capacity I had reached when I became an indolent sloth. But if I tried to do that, I would almost certainly hit a brick wall, crashing headlong into disappointment. So, I am taking it slow, attempting to increase my stamina a little bit at a time.

At the same time, I am attempting to gain some of the flexibility in my joints that I lost (if I ever had it) in my late teens. Yesterday, thanks to the rain and fog, I opted not to do my walk. Instead, I used my new exercise mat and followed an online tutorial for stretching exercises. It was excruciating, but I did as much as I could. The flexibility in my knees and shoulders is remarkable for its absence. Today, I awoke to find that something (and I blame yesterday’s attempt to replicate stretching exercises meant for agile teens) put a horrific kink in my right neck and shoulder; I wish I had a masseuse on call. Another argument to take things slow.

Today, after meeting someone who wanted to discuss ideas for a couple of books over coffee, I decided to go for a walk on a trail. Originally, I intended to make the full 3.4 mile loop. But though I felt good, even after a couple of jaunts up some steep trail offshoots, I decided to follow my own advice; take it slow. So, I turned around and walked back to the trail head instead of following the loop, making my walk 2.23 miles at a relatively good clip. Still, it’s a slight increase over days past. I’ve decided not to challenge myself too much; I do not want to get discouraged and find myself loathing the idea of going for a walk.

For some odd reason, I find myself wishing I would encounter no one on my walks. It’s not that I feel compelling to engage in conversation with people I meet on the trail or on the street (though I do acknowledge them and exchange pleasantries); I suppose it’s that I simply value my solitude. I feel obliged to exchange polite pleasantries when I encounter other people, but when I do, my train of thought gets momentarily derailed. It’s silly even to write about this utterly unimportant thing, except that I want to make note that I feel slight disturbances in my sense of serenity when I come across other people on my walks. As I reflect back on it, I’ve always felt that slight dislocation. I think my attempts to achieve some form of serenity began in earnest when I started walking, in earnest.

Ach. I really don’t seem to be able to write, even about walking, without rambling off in an unintended direction; it’s like I’m chasing my psyche through a crowded rabbit warren.

 

Posted in Walking | 1 Comment

A Personal Conundrum of the Full-Empty Glass

Posted on January 8, 2016 by John Swinburn

Some people believe I write from the perspective of a person whose glass is half empty, a negative viewpoint that paints the world with a dark brush. They would rather I write as if I view the world as a half-full glass. Neither perspective fits my view of the glass in my hand.

I write of the glass just fractions of a second before the shattering strike of a baseball bat; its volume in relation to its capacity is irrelevant. The impact of the bat will spray shards of sharp glass in all directions. Some people in the path of the glass will be sliced deeply by fragments of fused silica as sharp as a razor. Others—either through their good fortune or the bad fortune of others who act as shields—will walk away unscathed. Still others will survive modest damage to their skin and their souls.

Someone I once thought close to me listened to me read a poem I had written and, after I had finished, offered, “what the hell is wrong with you?” The poem dealt with cynicism, frustration with life, and the inability to achieve wishes and dreams. But its setting and its first-person presentation apparently convinced her the “speaker” was me and that the setting revealed an ugly rage deep inside me. Hell, maybe it did. But that wasn’t the perspective from which I was writing.

I suppose the doubt about the “meaning” of my writing could be construed to mean I am successful in presenting hard-to-grasp conflicting emotions. But maybe I’m just unable to articulate meaning or perhaps I’m unwilling to clearly say what I want to say because it’s so painful. Those are the motives often ascribed to writers whose work is a bit difficult to fathom. Of course, those are good, published, recognized writers. Maybe I’m trying to put myself in  rare company.

Ultimately, I think much of what I write, especially the hard-edged, darker stuff, may be symbolic of deeply private thoughts I wish I could share with someone, a friend closer than any I’ve ever had. There is no confidante, of course, with whom I’d be willing to share them; these may be be thoughts I am willing to share only with myself, and then with some trepidation.

Posted in Philosophy, Writing | 3 Comments

Headspace and Breather

Posted on January 7, 2016 by John Swinburn

I just completed my first “Headspace” session, one of ten introductory freebies offered to expose prospective clients to online guided meditation and related ‘stuff.’ A friend’s daughter-in-law recommended Headspace to me.

Though I’ve done a bit of meditation in the past (including a session yesterday), the introductory session this morning was surprising in how good I felt after just ten minutes. In most of the other introductory programs I’ve experienced, I saw evidence of the value of meditation, but it seemed to me that considerable time would be required to actually get lasting value from it. This morning’s session was unlike the others; two minutes in, I was still acutely aware of the external environment around me, but after five or six minutes, I was more relaxed than I expected to be and more focused on my body and my breathing and how I felt in my space. It was intriguing.

Pleased with that ten-minute experience, I returned to yesterday’s program, moving on to another ten-minute program, “Breather II,” which was far better than yesterday’s and on par with today’s ten-minute introductory program.  After twenty minutes of guided meditation, I feel relaxed and at ease. The fog and rain, which prompted me to decide not to walk this morning, don’t bother me.

My writing for public consumption, aside from this blog, is on holiday at present. I am writing, but for now it’s for my eyes only. I guess my writing, for the moment, is a different form of meditation.

 

 

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When Loss is Gain

Posted on January 7, 2016 by John Swinburn

The early stages of an exercise routine, coupled with a healthy change in eating habits, give quick results. The results I experienced during the first six days of 2016 are almost too good; if I were to expect the same pace to continue, I would reach my baseline target of losing 52 pounds by February 21.

But that is absolutely unreasonable (and probably unsafe), so I must keep my expectations in check; it would be absurd to abandon a goal because progress slows, as it naturally will.

Still, I’m pleased with losing six pounds so far. It’s impossible to see the difference, except by looking at the display on the scale, but it’s heartening, nonetheless.

I’m looking forward to seeing visible changes in my body, especially in my face. Why my face? Because I believe one’s face emerges from shadows when the body sheds excess pounds. The wrinkles of a smile become more pronounced, the eyes come out of hiding, and the jaw gains definition, if only slightly. And, of course, the extra chins begin to recede into memory.

The most important hope I harbor about seeing changes in my face is that the changes in my body will coincide with changes in my mind, changes in the way I see the world, just as that transformation causes the world to see changes in me. It may be unfortunate, but in fact one’s self-image relies in part on what one sees in the mirror. And as I see changes in me, I expect to change my perception of myself. And as that perception of myself changes, I hope my view of the world will change; and that will become a positive feedback loop.

Ultimately, the loss of body mass and weight and physical body “baggage” can help one establish a better context for gaining an improved self-image and all the benefits that arise from that transformation. It’s not just the individual who gains, it’s the environment in which he lives, the people surrounding him. At least that’s how I see it this morning as I prepare to decide whether to venture out for a walk in the fog and rain.

Posted in Emotion, Happiness, Health | 3 Comments

Images and Meditations

Posted on January 6, 2016 by John Swinburn

If my creative juices refuse to flow this morning, at the very least I can put this blog to some practical use. So, I decided to make a permanent place for the records of my three minor morning strolls so far this week.

Today, after my little jaunt, I began doing some “starter” stretching exercises prompted by an app recommended by a friend. I got half way through and decided the exercises were designed for incredibly fit 18-year-olds.  After abandoning my stretching mid-way, I took up the app’s meditation exercise, “Breather 1,” a 5-minute introduction to meditation. It surprised me a little; I was actually able to relax. But when the voice—a pleasing, sensual woman’s voice—told me to find a way to appreciate myself, it had the opposite effect; it was an emotional response I didn’t expect, nor did I welcome. Maybe “Breather 2” will be better.

 

1/6/2014 Route

1/6/2014 Route

2016-01-05_0742

1/5/2014 Route

1/4/2016 Route

1/4/2016 Route

Posted in Health, Walking | Leave a comment

Too Cold to Think and Walk at the Same Time

Posted on January 6, 2016 by John Swinburn

This morning, as I sit before my computer, the images do not come. Words elude me. The creativity I had hoped would spur me to spill ideas and intriguing language through my fingers and onto the screen remains hidden under an impermeable blanket. Why am I unable to break the dull shackles this morning? Why are the words locked behind a wall with no apertures of entry? I am asking the wrong person, I’m afraid. I am asking myself, the same self who’s unable to light a creative spark this morning.

Perhaps my inventive thoughts are frozen; according to Weather Underground, it’s twenty-two degrees outside, cold enough to turn warm thoughts into frigid bricks. Maybe that’s it: I am the victim, this morning, of cryogenic creativity. When my creativity thaws, perhaps the screen will be awash in ingenuity.

But for now, I can only sit here, waiting for the sky to offer sufficient light for my walk. But is twenty-two degrees too cold for a walk? Someone I spoke to yesterday said I was crazy for walking in the cold; that may be true. Maybe I’ll wait until the temperature is a tad higher. Maybe not. Only time, and not much of it, will tell.

Posted in Just Thinking | 4 Comments

Chirping Chirping Chirping

Posted on January 5, 2016 by John Swinburn

The sound was faint. It was responsible for awakening me, but once I awoke, I heard it. A distant “chirp.” I swung my feet over the side of the bed, slipped on my flip-flops (my favorite indoor footwear, in spite of the cold), grabbed my morning lounging-around-the-house clothes, and ventured out to start my day.

Just as I closed the bedroom door behind me, I heard it again. The sound could have come from anywhere it the house. Sounding distant, it echoed off the wood floors and hard surfaces in our cavernous living area. But I knew it was closer than it sounded. Perhaps it’s the refrigerator, chirping to alert me that I left it ajar last night before I went to bed? No; as I stood next to the solidly closed refrigerator door, it seemed to come from across the room. Maybe it’s a low-battery warning from the CO2 detector? Two minutes with my ear to that potential source answered: “No.”

Could it be the doorbell? That seemed far-fetched, but worth exploring if I might rid the house of that damn chirping. My ear poised to catch the sound from the doorbell, I waited. Damn! It’s coming from someplace else!

I left the living area to the little hallway leading to the guest rooms and guest bath. I spied a smoke detector on the wall and listened. There it was! The chirping was coming from the smoke detector!

After fetching a step-stool, I climbed up and futzed with the cream-colored circle until I was able to disconnect it from its base on the wall just below the ceiling. As I pulled it away from the wall, I saw it was hard-wired. After a little tinkering, I was able to remove the plug from the back of the device and took it down from the wall. And then, to my surprise, I heard the damn chirping again; this time, it seemed to be coming from the wall, behind the wires I had just disconnected. That didn’t matter to me, though. I assumed the device must have a battery, as well, and a low battery must be the culprit. After trying, in vain, to read the instructions stamped into the decaying cream-colored plastic case, I finally found the battery cover and removed it. There, behind that creamy plank, was a 9-volt battery. I removed it and went to the kitchen to find a replacement (we keep extra batteries in the freezer; someone told me, years ago, that helps them hold their charge).

A few minutes later, after replacing the old battery with a new one, the device was again affixed to the wall. Those damned annoying birds were either dead or they left the nest!

Fire safety experts replacing the batteries in smoke detectors annually or bi-annually. Many suggest doing so each time the clock moves from daylight-savings-time and back. We have lived in this house since April 2014 and this is the first time I have replaced the batteries in that detector; I’m planning to follow the recommendations of fire safety experts from here on. I loathe that chirping-chirping-chirping sound.

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Abandoning Sloth

Posted on January 4, 2016 by John Swinburn

For the past four mornings, I have awakened before sunrise (as I always do) and waited until the sky was sufficiently lit by the pre-dawn sun to enable me to go for a walk without stumbling off a precipice in the dark.

The walks I’ve taken have been short, far shorter than I was used to taking back when I walked regularly. The first morning, I walked less than three-quarters of a mile, just down the street and back up. The walk down was easy; the walk back uphill was brutal.

The second morning, I boosted the distance and the time I walked just slightly, to around 1.2 miles. The next day, about the same. This morning, I upped it a tad to just under 1.4 miles, but at an appreciably faster clip.

For someone who used to walk, at a very fast pace, between four and nine miles almost every day, these little weeny-walks are nothing short of embarrassing. I tell myself that walking in Dallas, where a hill is defined as an increase in height of six inches over a distance of one hundred yards, was less taxing than walking in the Village, where we deal with some truly steep inclines. And that’s true. But the real reason I’m finding my short walks so taxing is that I’ve been indolent. I’ve been lazy, paying little heed to the need to get exercise. So, I’m forcing myself to expend the energy I must to achieve my objectives.

As I said to a friend on Facebook: “Rebuilding my stamina is the punishment I deserve for abandoning myself to sloth!”

And now, I am committed to abandoning sloth.

Posted in Just Thinking | 4 Comments

An Artist

Posted on January 4, 2016 by John Swinburn

She has the hands of an artist, hands that conjure
beauty from raw clay and molten glass.

She has the heart of an artist, a heart so fragile
it can be broken by the cries of a world in turmoil.

She has the mind of an artist, a mind that captures
concepts so deep they make the ocean seem shallow.

She lives in a world scarred by conflict and anger,
struggling to breathe in an atmosphere of rage.

She is like so many artists, wanting to be at peace yet
witnessing an age in which everyone seems at war.

She might be Carlota De Camargo Nascimento or the woman
next door, an artist and a poet you do not even know.

She may be Annie Weatherwax or a friend of a friend of
a friend, hoping to find an audience for her whimsy.

If we were all artists, for just one day, we could see
the beauty of black and white the way an artist sees color.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments

It Is What You Make It

Posted on January 3, 2016 by John Swinburn

Every day, a series of decisions you make upon waking shapes the way you start the day, which in turn tends to mold the remainder of the day. As the day unfolds, you choose how to respond to the consequences of your decisions. External factors can play an enormous part in your responses to the decisions you make, but the day generally becomes what you make it. Your moods and attitudes, whether positive or negative, arise from the way you react to internal and external stimuli.

What is true for a day is true for a week; it is what you make it.  And a month. And a season. And a year.

All of this is not to say that circumstances beyond your control cannot intrude upon your happiness (or lack thereof). Rather, the way you react to your own decisions (shall I smile or frown at this unpleasant person?) and to the world around you sets the tone for any given time frame; a day, a week, a month, a season, a year, a lifetime. It is what you make it.

Posted in Philosophy | 2 Comments

A Million Pieces

Posted on January 3, 2016 by John Swinburn
Now in a million pieces.

Now in a million pieces.

I’ve been in a bad mood for forty-two years, give or take a year or two. It might have set in when I was eighteen, but sometimes I think it was when I was closer to twenty. Yet when I think deeply back to the time I left home for college—literally the month after high school graduation—I have to say it probably began in June 1972. My then-best-friend, Mike, and I both went to Austin to start college in the summer session. We rented an apartment for the summer, but planned to move into a dorm and share a room in the Fall.

Within weeks after we moved to the apartment, I hated him and all of his childish, moronic friends from the Midland-Odessa area. See, he had moved to Corpus Christi just a few years before from Midland, and his friends from Midland moved en mass to Austin at the same time we did. They got loud and drunk every night, from day one. And one of them, his best buddy from the old days, essentially moved in with us and slept on the sofa. In short order, I suggested he sleep on the twin bed I slept on in the bedroom and I would sleep on the sofa, with the proviso that the two of them stay in the bedroom from eight in the evening until early the next morning. They thought it was funny that I found their drunken howling upsetting.

If I had done what I wanted to do, my bad mood might not ever  have begun. I might have enjoyed college and become a social creature. But, contrary to an almost overwhelming longing in my heart and every bone in my body, I did not slit their throats and drink greedily of their blood, giddy at the thought that the apartment might become a quiet refuge. Instead, I seethed. My blood pressure rose to boiling. The veins in my forehead and neck bulged and throbbed. My head ached. I was angry, but I kept that anger tightly sealed inside my head; ultimately, though, the anger exploded in a volcanic rage.

My rage, coupled with my declaration that I would sooner die than share a dorm room with that SOB, put an end to the friendship (though, in reality, it had died almost immediately after I realized my “friend” was utterly without compassion and completely self-absorbed).

The experience of bottling my anger up inside me and then—without warning or authorization, releasing it—became my way of dealing with frustrations. I’ve despised it ever since but have been mostly unsuccessful at changing it. But there are positive signs.

A few mornings ago, after hearing a loud “bang” and then discovering the mask pictured above broken into a million pieces on the floor, I was disappointed and frustrated, but I was surprisingly calm about it. I figured it was my fault; the epoxy I had applied (poorly) to the back of the mask to serve as an anchor for a wire hanger had failed. When I saw the broken shards of mask on the floor, I simply sighed. I thought I had finally come to accept frustration. Since then, I’ve proven to myself the switch had not simply been flipped, but I do see progress. There’s just more to be made. There are more pieces to the puzzle of how to be a more serene person. A million pieces.

Posted in Anger, Frustration | Leave a comment

Whispering

Posted on January 3, 2016 by John Swinburn

One can see whispers before one hears them. They are not conspicuous, but if attentive, they become visible.  They drift like thin smoke, creeping through the air—barely luminescent vapors concealing vague murmurs of hidden truths or innuendo.

A whisper conveys familiarity, a breathy sharing of heat and confidence and barely-masked affection. A whisper hints, perhaps, at a prelude to intimacy, like verbal foreplay couched in careful suggestions laden with double entendre.

Posted in Writing | 3 Comments

Resolutions: A Follow-Up

Posted on January 2, 2016 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, in my “Held Accountable” post, I wrote about New Year’s resolutions and argued for worthy commitments to change, suggesting others encourage and support the people who make such resolutions. I even set forth my own 2016 resolution.

Later in the day, I looked back to see what I had previously written about resolutions. On January 1, 2013, I wrote a post entitled Respect New Year Resolutions, suggesting my mockery of the practice ended earlier than I thought it did.  In 2014, I wrote I Resolve to Have a Happy New Year, actively discouraging the practice of mocking those who make resolutions. Last year, in 2015, I did not address resolutions on the first day of the year.

I remember, though, and it hasn’t been too many years ago, that I mocked the concept. Or did I? Did I mock the practice of making resolutions at the beginning of the year, or did I simply pretend to find the practice silly? I’m beginning to think I have always felt as I do now, that serious declarations of intent to change for the better should be not only announced, but supported. I think I may have simply bent to attitudes around me. Today, I think it makes sense to enlist others’ help in achieving resolutions.

But that’s where the problems arise. Some people, even people close to us, just aren’t supportive the way we might wish them to be. Instead of offering words of encouragement and moral support, they mock the tradition of New Year’s resolutions as silly and absurd.

The occasional encounter with a person who ridicules the practice of making resolutions would not be hard to overcome; but when the ridicule begins to trend on social media, it begins to take on the role of intended obstacle. That notwithstanding, I would recommend to the person making resolutions: ignore the tide of people simply going with the flow of uninformed opinion. Yesterday, I gave my reasons for supporting people who make resolutions. There’s not much more I can add here, except this: do not to be bowed.

 

Posted in Resolutions | 2 Comments

Good Deeds

Posted on January 2, 2016 by John Swinburn

Doing a “good deed” does not always leave one feeling warm and fuzzy. Several years ago, my wife and I drove to Llano, Texas, where we stopped at Cooper’s to have some Central Texas BBQ.  I don’t recall exactly when we were there, but it must have been between late October and January, as we commented to one another that we were in the midst of deer season.

A guy and his two teen aged kids were in front of us as we went through the line to pay and, when he got to the cashier, he pulled out his credit card to pay. The cashier said something to the effect that “the phone lines are down, we can’t accept credit cards today; cash only.”  He pulled the cash out of his wallet and found it to be far short of the cost of their meals. The price for the three of them amounted to something over $35. He asked if he could pay part now and part later when he could get more cash; the answer was ‘no.’ I had plenty of cash on me, so I offered to pay, saying “I’ve found myself in the same situation.” He said, “are you sure you want to do this?” then said he was very grateful and would repay me if I would give him my address.

When we both got through the line, I wrote my address on a piece of paper and gave it to him. He thanked me profusely, again, and we went our separate ways.

A couple of weeks later, I said to my wife, “I got scammed. If he was going to pay me back, he would have by now. What bothers me more than the money is the fact that I gave him my name and address; and I didn’t bother to get his information. He could be trying to open up bank accounts in my name!”

For the next week, I let myself imagine the guy using my name to get loans, buy cars, set up bank accounts…my paranoia went wild.

Then, the following week, an envelope arrived in the mail. Inside were four $10 bills and a note, apologizing for the delay (he had misplaced the note with my address) and expressing deep appreciation to God and Jesus for my help. The note went on to say the guy was a pastor  who had been taking his boys on a hunting trip. He said he used that experience, running out of money and being helped by a stranger, in a sermon. While I objected to being labeled an instrument of God, I did appreciate getting my money back. And it did feel good to know my assistance was appreciated. More than anything, though, the return of the money put my mind at ease; I assumed he had not tried to get a credit card in my name.

Posted in Just Thinking | 3 Comments

Held Accountable

Posted on January 1, 2016 by John Swinburn

I am among those who, in years past, dismissed the idea of New Year’s resolutions as exercises in futility. Why? Because I had made them and failed to accomplish what I had resolved to do. Furthermore, I didn’t feel at all comfortable with acknowledging my failures; so, what better way to avoid acknowledging a failure to meet a commitment than to keep the commitment private? Have I changed my mind? Yes. And I’ll explain why.

First, let me be clear. I’m not limiting myself to New Year’s resolutions. I’m referring to any personal resolution to do better, be better, or live better (and the thousands of related personal commitments we might make to ourselves) at any time of year.

Recently, I spent a few hours with a group of romance writers who, each year, arrange to collectively orchestrate a writing retreat. They explained to me that, prior to the retreat, each participant commits to specific performance objectives she intends to reach during the retreat. They announce to one another their objectives. The objectives are individually-driven, not driven by the group. But the measurement of those objectives, the accountability for reaching them, involves the group. That is, they hold one another accountable for what each individual states as her objective. The announcement of the objectives to the group gives added impetus to each participant to strive hard to reach those objectives.

I now view New Year’s (and any other) resolutions the same way. Individuals decide what objectives they want to reach: adopt a dog, paint the house, lose weight, stop smoking, stop drinking, write a book…whatever. By making the commitment to achieving that resolution, the individual articulates his aim. But by publicly announcing it (to friends, family, etc.), he puts added emphasis on the need to achieve it. Disappointing oneself is painful, but it’s less painful and less tolerable than disappointing others who matter in one’s life.

A few years ago, I publicly announced that I intended to walk one thousand miles between April 1 and December 31.  That amounted to an average of a bit more than three miles per day. At the time, I was working and traveling for work a bit, so that limited my ability to get out from time to time. In addition, the weather sometimes did not cooperate. But I tracked how far I was away from my goal and how much time I had left to reach it. And I announced my progress, publicly. My friends and family watched as I reported how far I had to go. They encouraged me. They were on my side, supporting me with kind words and congratulatory comments as I made my way toward the goal. I reached my goal, with only a day or so to spare. Getting there meant I had to make up for a lot of time lost to bad weather and the like; I walked 10 miles some days. I am thoroughly convinced I got to the goal because I was being held accountable by the people who were watching me strive to achieve it. Had I been the only one who knew of my goal, I might have quietly dismissed it. But I didn’t want to disappoint the people who wanted me to succeed.

I think it’s important that we not overwhelm ourselves with too many resolutions/goals. I believe it is wise to consider all the things one might want to do, then order them by priority.  In my own case, some of the things I want to do are: lose weight, assemble certain pieces of my writing into a coherent collection and publish it, take frequent road trips, and paint the interior and exterior of my house.  There are more. Many more. But I have to decide which is most important to me. That is where I will focus my attention and my energy. I won’t necessarily ignore other wishes, but my primary commitment will be to the thing that matters most to me. For me, the most important thing is to lose weight. I intend to end 2016 at least 52 pounds lighter than I am today; that’s losing an average of one pound per week. That’s not out of the realm of possibilities, provided I eat well and exercise.

Periodically, I will report here how I’m doing. I will do it to be held accountable.

Posted in Health, Resolutions | 3 Comments

Struggles in Wakefulness

Posted on January 1, 2016 by John Swinburn

I didn’t celebrate at midnight last night; I saw no compelling reason to stay awake for the new year. So, at eleven o’clock, I decided to go to bed.

At three-thirty, I got up. It’s now approaching four-thirty. I’ve been trying to decide whether to go back to bed to attempt to get some sleep I desperately need, or to give in to wakefulness and make a cup of coffee.

For once, I think I’ll accept that my body needs sleep more than it needs coffee, at least for the moment.  I do so hope I can sleep, because I have to be awake and alert when the yard guy comes in just a few hours.

This is the year I’ll take charge of my sleeping habits.

Posted in Insomnia | 3 Comments

My Final Post

Posted on December 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

This is the very last post I will make on my blog for the year 2015. The year just ending was not bad, not bad at all, but certain aspects of this fragment of time could have been better. I could have made better use of my time. I could have contributed more to the happiness of people who matter to me. I could have accepted the impossibility of some of my wishes and dreams and simply moved on.

The forgoing notwithstanding, I would consider 2015 as close to the best year yet as there’s ever been. Before that, 2014 was probably number one. And before that, 2013. Do you think there’s a pattern there? The older I get, the more I appreciate each year; they really do seem to just get better. Sure, certain elements associated with the passage of time are brutal bastards, indeed. But, all in all, age improves my perspectives on life, or whatever is left of it.

I haven’t decided yet what I will do with this blog during 2016. The requirements I imposed on myself that I must post at least twice every day don’t seem to have improved my writing, nor my outlook. I am who I am.

I have discovered there are folks who don’t like the person behind my face and would like him to be more like them. Well, forgive me for saying it, but fuck that. I am me. I am willing to adjust myself up to a point for people who truly matter to me if I can make their lives better by doing so; others should expect nothing of the sort.

This last post will, I hope, be the last rant I post on this blog. I rant too much for my own good and far too much for anyone else’s. Henceforth, I intend to post more measured, less inflammatory statements than some of the worst I’ve posted here this year and in years past.

For that tiny group of people who read what I write almost every day, please know that your presence here matters deeply to me. You are one of a very small cadre of people who read this; even my wife reads what I write on extremely rare occasion. I don’t know who’s a regular visitor except for the fact that a small number make the occasional comment; I interpret the comments to mean they read more than rarely.

2016 will be different for this blog and for the people who read it. I hope that’s good news.

Posted in Just Thinking | 4 Comments

I Broke the Dishes, Setting the Stage for 2016

Posted on December 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

 

My coffee this morning leaves something to be desired. That something is the customary mug from which I drink. I broke that mug this morning, along with an elderly soup bowl and a small porcelain bowl; the three of them waited in the kitchen sink for their turn in the dishwasher, which ran before dinner last night. As I rinsed the mug, its handle broke off, its body slamming down hard on the dishes below.

I’ve been thinking about the possibility of replacing the remaining soup bowls. They are part of a set, several members of which have succumbed to eating accidents and the like over the years. But I was not planning to replace my mug, nor the porcelain bowl that, in the right circumstances, is unmatched in its ability to accommodate and display wasabi awash in soy sauce.

Normally, I do not subscribe to the philosophy that certain circumstances were “meant to be.” However, I cannot help but think, on this last day of the year, the demise of those dishes may have been destiny. The time may have been right to cast those dishes into the dustbin of history, paving the way for a new set of dishes to ring in the new year.

As I consider this possibility, I cannot help but think of all the cheap t-shirts I have ruined over the past year by allowing stains to set, impossible to remove in spite of every effort. Perhaps, like the dishes, those ruinous stains were trying to tell me something: “For the love of God, man, buy better quality t-shirts!” Or, perhaps, they were saying, “T-shirts do not suit you, stud, it’s time to dress like an adult; get a stain-resistant shirt with buttons.”

Yet, it took those dishes, sacrificing their futures as they did, to finally set the stage for a new year, replete with unfamiliar bowls. And, if the soup bowls must be replaced, what about the other, smaller, bowls? That single porcelain bowl, what about it? Where will the wasabi and soy sauce go, after the destruction of their perfect setting?

The new year calls out for so many new things; new soup bowls, new cereal bowls, new porcelain wasabi and soy sauce bowl, and a new me. Would that I could simply go out and buy the latter, rather than re-mold it from the remnants of the old one.

 

Posted in Just Thinking | 1 Comment

Three Hundred Sixty-Five

Posted on December 31, 2015 by John Swinburn

In our rush to the next event, the next activity, the next interaction, we sometimes fail to appreciate those precious moments, the moments time snatches away from us as it marches inexorably along. We fail to recognize that, perhaps, a repeat of those precious moments isn’t guaranteed.

I wonder whether I appreciated enough of those moments during the year ending today. I wonder whether I paid sufficient heed to my admonition to myself with the very first ‘rumination’ I posted this year:

Make peace with the past. Make love with the present. Make plans with the future.

By and large, I believe I did. I worked to uncoil myself, a tightly wound spring; though not entirely successful, I made progress. That qualifies both as making peace with the past and making love with the present. I’ve tried, these past twelve months, to make love with the present by accepting what comes my way. I stumbled along, but never fell. And I have plans for 2016.

To all those I love—and I truly hope they know who they are—I wish them a very happy, healthy, and fulfilling year ahead.

Posted in Ruminations | 2 Comments

Old Man on the Mountain

Posted on December 30, 2015 by John Swinburn

He sat alone in the tiny, rustic one-room cabin near the crest of the mountain, looking out toward the higher snow-capped peaks across the valley below. It won’t be long, he thought, until winter takes hold.

Had there been a pane of glass in the opening in the wall, he would have been looking through a window. But his view wasn’t marred by even a smudge; his window was just an opening in the side of the cabin. Most days, rough boards—held in place by cross-members fitted into slots in the surrounding frame—filled the space. On those days, darkness permeated the cabin; the only light came from the small stone fire pit he built in one corner.

The old man hadn’t any experience building houses. Neither did he have experience felling trees, nor ripping logs into timbers. But he had learned on his own, through trial and error, to cut down trees, split logs with an ax, and fit logs and timbers together. He had built the place entirely by himself, with his own hands. The only concessions he made to modernity—save for the ax and hammer and a few other hand tools—were the heavy oil cloths he brought with him up the mountain. He lashed them on top of long, thin strips made from pine seedlings, the patchwork of uneven wood that formed the roof. The oil cloth helped protect the inside of the cabin from the rain and melting snow, though it was an imperfect solution.

He told no one where he went when he made those treks up the mountain to build the cabin. There was no one to tell, really. His wife had left him when she learned of his brain tumor. Their marriage had been a shell for years, anyway. She had lost interest in him. And he had grown to love another woman, someone close, albeit from a distance. The target of his affections never knew he longed for her.

His wife told him she was unwilling to be saddled with caring for an old man she no longer loved. When she left, their mutual acquaintances followed her out of his life, including the woman who did not know he longed for her. He had no close friends. The friends he had lived far away from him; he had told none of them of his diagnosis.

The tumors, the doctors had said, were the slow-growing variety, but had grown before detection to such a size and location in the brain that they were inoperable. The old man had ruled out radiation and chemotherapy from the start. The prognosis with or without radiation was poor, they said, but in either event it would be a moderately long-term progression.

So, two years earlier, he had begun his treks to the mountain. He had long wanted a place in the country, a place to work the land and grow crops. He had dreamed of buying a hundred acres and a tractor, but his wife dissuaded him from pursuing that dream. Instead, he lived in the city until retirement, when they moved to the mountains. That, he gathered, had been her unspoken dream. Though living in a semi-rural area near mountains had never been his goal, he had grown to love the desolation they offered to a man willing to hike.

During many of those expeditions to build his cabin, he had exhibited no symptoms. But in recent months, the seizures had begun, making some of the work on the cabin difficult. In spite of the growing frequency and severity of the seizures, he had finished the rustic structure. He was proud of the skills he had mastered, proud to have learned them on his own.

As he sat on the rough bench, gazing at the valley below, he came to a decision. He had made his last trek down the mountain. He would stay in his hand-made cabin as long as the store of food he’d stockpiled over the course of two years held out. If the food ran out before winter got him, he decided, he would find sources of food on the mountain or starve.

One way or the other, he decided, he would die in his cabin, his one friend, the friend he built by hand.

Time ratified his decision. Early the following spring, a hiker found his cabin and his body. The old man had written a letter to the woman he had secretly loved. But the letter did not name her. She would never know of his love, for the old man on the mountain took answers with him, answers to questions never asked.

 

 

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 1 Comment