John Swinburn

The National Library of Medicine (NLM) says this (among other things), about physiological changes associated with emotion:

The most obvious signs of emotional arousal involve changes in the activity of the visceral motor (autonomic) system. Thus, increases or decreases in heart rate, cutaneous blood flow (blushing or turning pale), piloerection [JS note: aka “goose bumps], sweating, and gastrointestinal motility can all accompany various emotions.

The NLM goes on to explain that “These responses are brought about by changes in activity in the sympathetic, parasympathetic, and enteric components of the visceral motor system, which govern smooth muscle, cardiac muscle, and glands throughout the body.”

When musing about the body’s response to certain emotional triggers, blushing and tears (crying) came immediately to mind. As I considered the contents of the NLM article, which I only skimmed, I began to appreciate the complexity of the relationship between the mental and physical components of consciousness. And a quote in the article, attributed to American physiologist Walter Cannon  (1871-1945), helped me more fully understand that various emotions and the body’s responses to them take precedence over others: “The desire for food and drink, the relish of taking them, all the pleasures of the table are naught in the presence of anger or great anxiety.” One of my favorite concepts, the idea that context plays an enormous role in virtually all of our experiences, comes into even sharper focus as I think about Cannon’s observation. A story I recall writing quite a while ago illustrates this point. The response by a male character to the behavior of another character, a woman, differs dramatically between two situations. In the first, in which the two characters are in a social setting, the woman touches the man’s arm during their conversation. The man does not react, physically, but thanks to the omniscient narrator, we know he is, emotionally, extremely excited by her innocent touch.  In the second situation, in which the two of them are alone, her touch on his arm prompts him to pull her close and kiss her passionately. [As it turns out, he misinterpreted her touch as an overture, which, we learn, it was not. His deep embarrassment about his misreading prompted him to disappear, permanently. The story is too long and involved to continue explaining here…]

As is often the case, I do not know why the body’s physical responses to emotional incitements was on my mind. But, as usual, I allowed that random thought to guide my curiosity this morning.  It’s interesting, what a persons sometimes finds, when curiosity is allowed freedom to pursue answers.

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I had a strange dream early this morning. I returned to my house from being away for a week or more, to find that children from across the street had dug a deep hole in my back yard, uncovering some sort of electric-powered pump that seemed to have a role in my swimming pool (which was never visible in the dream). Through a series of interchanges with the kids and, then, the tall and imposing father of one of them, I became highly agitated. I expressed outrage that the kids had the gall to dig up the pump without my knowledge or consent. The father dismissed my anger as an overreaction. The interchange escalated. I demanded that the hole be filled, returning my yard to the state it was in before my departure. Next, some men from the “water department” were in my yard. The tall neighbor had called them. He had accused them of being idiots when they told him they were going to fill the hole and charge him for it. That aspect of the dream seems to dissolve at that point, replaced by a friend from my youth (who looked the same as he did in high school) who wanted my help in staging his furniture on his screened front porch (he had just moved in from out of state). Among the things he wanted: to borrow some of my furniture from my front porch; to have me help him put his couch on my roof so he could have a better “view.” I suggested that putting the couch on my roof would require some construction adjustments; otherwise, the couch would slide off…and I did not want to invest in construction that could cause my roof to leak. The dream seems to have ended about then. Both aspects of the dream worried me (the unconscious me, not the conscious, cognizant, fully aware me). I was afraid of being physically attacked by the tall neighbor. I was afraid of upsetting my high school friend who was just moving in. Odd. Truly odd.

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I have developed a bit of a crush on Laura Ramos, a Cuban actress who plays Gladys, Nelson’s mother, in Wrong Side of the Tracks. No, not really. It’s not a crush. I just find her character quite attractive. Vivacious. Energetic. Physically alluring. Her smile is beautiful. And her teeth… There’s something about her teeth that I find fascinating. At 44 years old, she is a veteran actress, having acted in television, film, and theatre since she was 21. Already, in her youth, has had a 23 year acting career. Ramos is not the only appealing actor in Wrong Side of the Tracks. José Coronado, Luis Zahera, Nona Sobo (a Spanish-born actress of Thai ethnicity) , Maria de Nati, and others do nice jobs of engaging viewers in the show’s plot. The show is two seasons long, with 24 episodes. We have quite a few left to watch. I like having interesting programs awaiting my focused viewing.

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Today, I shall spend most of the day paying some attention to the smoker. It will be jammed with future meals for at least six hours. When it’s all done, I will be able to freeze quite a few protein-rich main courses, making the preparation of dinners in the coming weeks an easy, satisfying undertaking. For now, though, I will have something simple for breakfast.

As I skimmed the news this morning, one story affected my emotions more than any other.

More than news about the obscenely high cost of housing in Hong Kong—and the financial distance between the richest and the poorest in that city.

More than my fury at the Norfolk Southern CEO’s refusal to commit to compensating residents of East Palestine, Ohio for the damage done to their property values as a result of the recent, catastrophic train derailment.

More than the relative absence in Big Media of news about Russia’s assault on Ukraine—have media executives decided that audiences have grown weary of news about the war?

More than stories about the heart-wrenching impact on California of the “atmospheric river” dumping unprecedented amounts of rain and snow on large parts of the already water-logged state.

The news that crushed me was the story about the death of Kiska, the last killer whale—orca—in captivity in Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. Kiska was roughly 47 years old. She spent the last 43 years of her life in captivity, swimming in circles in what was described as a cramped tank, alone. The Whale Sanctuary Project described her as “the loneliest whale in the world.” According to the Whale Sanctuary Project, describing Kiska’s behavior in the tank in which she was held captive:

Video footage and eyewitness accounts depict Kiska’s behavior as repetitive and lethargic. When not swimming in slow circles or bashing herself into the side of her tank, she often simply floats in place, staring at the emptiness that is the inside of her tank.

Reading about Kiska’s death, and a bit about her life in captivity and efforts to retire her to an ocean-based sanctuary, deepened my sorrow. Several years of legal battles, bureaucratic processes, and competing commercial and protective interests delayed Kiska’s transfer to a planned sanctuary in Port Hilford, Nova Scotia. Just last month, the mayor of Niagara Falls announced the possibility of a sale of Marineland, where Kiska was held captive; the mayor’s announcement (in which he committed to the safety and care of the facility’s animals) revived excitement that Kiska would finally be transferred to a sanctuary. But she died, reportedly of a bacterial infection, on or around March 10.

According to the Whale Sanctuary Project:

…Kiska gave birth, as a young adult (at Marineland), to five calves. All of them died young: Athena, Hudson, Nova, Kanuck and one who didn’t survive long enough to be named. Studies suggest that orcas’ capacity to feel deep, complex emotions rivals or even exceeds the emotional capacity possessed by humans. The bond between mother and calf is so deep that it is hard to imagine the grief and trauma of each of Kiska’s losses over the years.

News about the whale’s life and death did more than simply sadden me. It wrecked me for more than a little while. The reality that humans capture, confine, and put on display a creature as magnificent as an orca is stunning to me. I cannot fully fathom the absences of compassion that must be required to permit such an atrocity, much less to actively engage in it. But I will admit that my judgment of the people involved in the 44-year confinement of Kiska may be clouded by my emotions. Perhaps the people who confined her and looked after her and fed her felt they were caring for her in the best way they could. If so, my loathing for them could be reduced a notch. But, still, their confinement of the creature was, in my view, a despicable act. I am glad the Canadian Parliament, in June 2019, passed Bill S-203, the Ending the Captivity of Whales and Dolphins Act, which phases out the captivity of cetaceans in Canada. I am sorry the Act was not enacted many years earlier, though, which might have given Kiska at least a few years’ taste of freedom.

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More church today. I am not in the mood for church, but will attend anyway. Even after quite some time, now approaching five years, as a member of the church, I still do not like calling it church. I have come to accept that it is, indeed, a church but my bias against the idea of church—hardened by roughly 64 years of disdain—has not yet been worn down. I have no better name for it, though. “Fellowship” does not quite do it, nor does “Gathering.” I have not found a satisfactory word that erases my bias at the same time it adequately describes the way the institution helps fuel certain aspects of my psychological and other emotional life. Maybe I am just a stubborn curmudgeon, intent on defending my sometimes indefensible disdain for anything that calls itself—or is called by others—organized religion. Sometimes, I long to be more firmly committed to my bigotry. I wish, at times, that my prejudice were more fierce in its hold on me. If that were the case, I would not have to wrestle with recognizing possible flaws in my thoughts or beliefs. But I have a tendency to question myself and what I think I believe. That questioning puts up an almost insurmountable roadblock to certainty. Certainty would be so much more comfortable. Refusing to allow possibilities that call into question my perspectives would make my emotional life a smoother, less chaotic experience. Unless, of course, the refusal itself might run counter to everything that drives me. Ach!

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I ate some delicious cake last night, as well as two cookies. And I had some pasta and a wonderful soup that included potatoes. All of those edibles tasted incredibly good, but they contributed to a blood glucose measurement of 114, considerably higher than I want. No carbs for me today. At least not much. Only a VERY little amount, if any. I wish I did not have to refrain from alcohol and severely limit my intake of carbs, etc. This evening, I would like to enjoy a big helping of pasta arrabiata and a glass of dry red wine. And, after dinner, I would like to sip on a gin & tonic and munch on some highly caloric, carb-rich snack crackers. Almost eight months have passed since I had a drink of alcohol (though I have had a sip of mi novia’s gin & tonic or her wine, from time to time). And during the last two months I have dramatically reduced my intake of carbohydrates and cut back on my consumption of food, in general. The only obvious benefit of those changes in my habits is the loss of about 34 pounds since last July, 14 of which have dropped since the beginning of the year. Weighing the benefits between gustatory freedom and greater physical flexibility, I would have to say the latter is of longer-lasting value. But the former is a joy I deeply miss. Ah, well. Such is life; life as a living, breathing, decaying organism.

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Speaking of food…I’m really not hungry. Maybe a glass of tomato juice will be enough…

Sleep visited me last night, but only during brief encounters. I waited for what seemed like hours before I fell asleep, only to awaken minutes after beginning to doze. Each subsequent course of sleep and waking followed a similar short cycle. Finally, around 4:45, I gave up on getting a “good night’s sleep.” I already regret that I was unable to get to sleep quickly and sleep soundly; later, when the day demands my energy, my regret may blossom into full-fledged bitterness. As I returned to the first paragraph of what I had written this morning, I realized my writing sprang forth from an unusual insomnia. If I had dreams last night, they have long since turned to vapor, leaving empty my memories of my sleep state. I could have been dead during the few hours of “sleep” I got last night. I might have unknowingly experienced what death will be like. Just dream-free unconsciousness that cannot be replaced by consciousness. Perpetual nothingness, unaware of the disintegration or incineration of the body and everything in it. The thought is not grisly or unpleasant; it is just interesting. Intriguing.

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Grave mistakes can be impossible to correct. Or, rather, they can be so painfully difficult to correct that they seem impossible to undo. And the consequences of reversing mistakes can be nearly as devastating as realizing, too late, the mistakes were made. Avoiding decisions that can carry with them enormous gravitas is probably the easiest and least painful route. But failing to make them leave lifelong “what if” questions unanswered. Those dangling questions, impossible to answer after the fact, exist whether or not the decisions or mistakes were made. Either way, one decision or another was left unmade; one can never know whether the decision made or the one left to dangle in perpetuity was the mistake. The outcome of either one can feel like the consequence of a mistake. There’s a phrase to describe that dilemma: “Damned if you do, damned if  you don’t.”

What if I had taken that job? Or what if I had rejected the job offer? What if I had asked her to marry me? What if I had turned down that promotion? What if I had embraced her overtures? What if I had completed graduate school? What if I hadn’t had the operation? What if I had dropped out of high school? What if I had been more diligent in my studies? What if I had pursued veterinary medicine? What if I had joined the Peace Corps? What if I had fled to Canada? What if I had joined the Air Force? What if I had burned my draft card? What if…?

Those questions are the tip of the iceberg; millions more follow endlessly on their heels. The consequences of actions not taken or decisions not made are impossible to know. Too many variables we cannot anticipate can intervene—or not—to make forecasting the future a reliable endeavor. But almost all of us do it. We worry, after the fact when it’s too late to change things, about actions taken or not taken. What if things had been different? What if???!!! You have no way of knowing, so worry is a waste of time. Such an easy admonition, but such a difficult notion to adopt as a component of one’s point of view.

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Between too much and too little is an amount that is “just right.” The concept applies to cream in one’s coffee, anger betrayed in one’s tone of voice, and honesty about one’s desires for a person married to someone else.  Wait! That last one sounds dangerous and contrary to the ethics/morals drilled into us from the time we were children. Explain, please. Just as any amount of cream in my coffee may be too much, so can even a sliver of extra-marital desire be unforgiveable. But, like so many other matters as we slide through life, judgments about even the most sensitive issues are contextual. Context can explain, and in some cases excuse, behaviors and/or thoughts outside the sphere of what we generally consider appropriate. Excessive levels of anger in one’s voice might be permissible in circumstances in which one’s offspring are found to be dealing in potentially lethal drugs. But even in the context of dealing dangerous drugs, anger might be entirely inappropriate if another aspects of the context also involves the child feeling neglected and potentially suicidal. And, back to that matter that tends to raise hackles, even a degree of lusting after someone else’s spouse can be “just right” if the object of desire is trapped in a deeply unsatisfactory marriage in which the partners have been separated for years. In all probability, there are probably dozens…maybe hundreds or more…of contextual factors that would readily excuse various levels of concupiscence, labelling them “just right” for the circumstances. This is hypothetical, of course. But, as I think back on people I have known over the years, it is not far from reality. Almost anything we label “too” something—whether too little or too much compassion or too little or too much sugar—is valid only in a specific set of contexts. Yet, rather than arbitrarily accepting or rejecting the appropriateness of labeling or mislabeling, we make micro-assessments about the conditions surrounding decisions. We take into account a person’s diabetes (or lack thereof) when making judgments about the amount of sugar in her tea that is “just right” for her. We make that judgment by taking into account, too, whether she has just eaten four glazed donuts or three stalks of celery. Our judgements may be wrong, but they are not random; we incorporate—often unconsciously—matters that factor into the appropriateness of her behaviors. My bottom line here is this: getting to what is the “right amount” of anything, whether behaviors or thoughts or combinations thereof, is complex and contextual. There is little or no black and white in judgments of what is right or wrong. At the very least, circumstances can excuse or, at the very least, explain decisions that might seem wrong on the surface. But maintaining the sense of fairness required to refrain from being judgmental is a monumental task. It is a task worth undertaking, though. In my opinion. If nothing else, the task exercises and strengthens one’s ability to feel and exhibit compassion.

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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

~ Thomas Gray ~

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I watch. I observe. I take in what goes on around me. I try to avoid immediacy in making decisions unless immediacy is absolutely required. I want time to think and assess situations. There are times, of course, in which immediate decisions or judgments must be made. More often, though, we allow ourselves to be bullied into accepting the need for immediacy when no such need exists; it is a matter of urgency only in the minds of people who have convinced themselves that a decision cannot wait. Too often, we blindly and without challenge accept the bullying behavior. We adopt it, too, as if failing to make instant decisions will yield catastrophic results. In reality, delaying decisions—until all the facts are in and have been given adequate consideration—rarely leads to cataclysmic outcomes. But perhaps I argue for deliberative decision-making not because it is rational, but because it is my preferred style. Maybe I am attempting to justify my preferences, as if they are the only logical ones. Is it possible, I ask myself, that “deliberative decision-making” is my excuse for wasting time? Because, perhaps, I may believe that delaying decisions reduces the likelihood that, once made, the decision will be a bad one?

Sometimes, I view the world through two lenses of a microscope; one view is massively enlarged and the other is dramatically reduced. The larger image give clarity, but to a much smaller section of the world. The smaller image encompasses a much broader section of the world, but not in such fine detail. I wonder, is there a midpoint that would reduce the need to examine the world from two different perspectives? And I answer: sometimes.

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Today is Saturday. NAACP meeting. Game night. A day to show off my new eyeglasses. A day to combine business with pleasure. Neither of which is what it pretends to be. Business is not. And pleasure is just a hologram; an imaginary image that looks markedly different from my definition of pleasure. But those are old images; pictures from my youth. Youth is such a malleable time. A time in which actual experiences are replaced by undeveloped imaginations.

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It’s a long title. And it may make no sense to anyone but me. And, possibly, not even to me.

Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do.

~ Voltaire ~

There is nothing special about today. It is not an anniversary of any kind, as far as I know. It is not a holiday. There is no special event to celebrate. At least no special event that means anything to anyone but me. But Microsoft photos insisted on reminding me of a carefree afternoon, several years ago, when my late wife and I stopped at Bubba’s Catfish-2-Go, a semi-permanent food trailer located on the far side of Hot Springs. Microsoft saved the photo I took that afternoon—my late wife smiling at me as she enjoyed fried catfish and shrimp and hush puppies—and decided to thrust it in front of me as I was writing my blog post for the day. That photo retrieved my happy memories of the experience of that warm, sunny afternoon. But it also caused the embers of absence to flare. Seeing the photo triggered something else: memories of the tune and lyrics of a song by Loudon Wainwright, entitled, “Missing You.” The entire song reflects the way I sometimes feel, but a single snippet from the third verse captures the effect: “And it’s hell on earth, Missing you.”

I do not want my memories to intrude on or trample my joyous present. But sometimes they are so strong that I have no control over them. They simply overwhelm me and drown me in emotion. Neither the present nor the past hold sway over the other, but they sometimes seem to compete with one another, as if they cannot—or should not—exist in the same mind. But, of course, they do. I need to find ways of coping with the sense of guilt or regret or whatever it is that occasionally slams me with a blow to the chest or a kick in the neck. And I will. Just a matter of time.

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Yesterday afternoon, a substantial number of members of the UUVC congregation watched Mission: Joy—Finding Happiness in Troubled Times. The film was the focus of a special event team, led by a past president of the congregation, along with another past president and one or two others. I should have (but will, belatedly) verified the identities of all who organized the showing and thanked them profusely. I was very glad I had the opportunity to see the film and to discuss it afterward. The documentary was based on a face-to-face conversation between His Holiness the Dalai Lama (leader of the Tibetan School of Buddhism) and Bishop Desmond Tutu (leader of the Anglican Church of South Africa), who became fast friends, though seeing one another only a very few times. Though the two religious leaders adhered to very different religious beliefs, their close friendship illustrated how mutual respect and a willingness to avoid taking oneself too seriously can open doors that otherwise could have been permanently sealed. Obviously, the two men had very different religious perspectives, yet they used those differences as tools to form bonds, rather than as artificial wedges to keep themselves separated. Neither man showed judgment of the other, nor of the other’s religious beliefs, though each teased the other about certain aspects of those beliefs. The teasing was the behavior of two very close friends who respected the other’s differences. That was, for me, among the most obvious lessons of the film. I found connecting that concept to the message contained in the film’s title to be straightforward;  “finding happiness in troubled times” does not require abandonment of one’s own beliefs or principles—it only requires respect for others’ beliefs and principles. Mutual respect—between individuals and between groups of people and between nations—dissolves wedges of mistrust or hatred or suspicion. In fact, mutual respect prevents the growth of those cancerous attitudes. The contents of the documentary carried many other valuable messages; that one, though, was the key message for me.

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Today’s plan includes a trip to Little Rock to pick up a sports jacket and tailored shirt…and to select the fabric for another tailored shirt. I had planned to look at desk chairs, as well, but I think I will put that off. There is no urgency to satisfying the desire for a more comfortable chair—the one in which I sit usually is just fine. Only when I sit in it too long does it really bother me. Beyond the objective to retrieve new clothes and order more, a stop at Costco or Sam’s or someplace like them is in order. There could be more. I want today to be as much about leisure as it is about accomplishment. Lately, too many days have revolved around calendar obligations. Today is no different. But I want to make it different. I want to be free to ignore the calendar if I wish; at least for a while.

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As I look back on my writing, I realize it might seem to readers that my mind focuses almost exclusively on myself. That may be the way my writing makes it appear, but that really is not the case. I do not know what other people in my sphere think; not really. None of us do. Rather than try to incorporate their perspectives, which I might misrepresent or misinterpret, I try to limit the jumbled assemblage to my own thoughts. At least I hope I am not selfish or entirely ego-driven. Yet that may be the way I appear from the outside looking in. Knowing I cannot think others’ thoughts, though, I try not to worry. I try only to limit my judgments to myself.  I am not always successful; I realize that, too. As the minister of the church often suggests, though, I am attempting to become a better version of myself. That should be easy, but it’s sometimes much more difficult than it might seem.

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Our recent television viewing has included a Nigerian crime thriller (Blood Sisters) and a Spanish drama/thriller (Wrong Side of the Tracks).  We started watching This is Where I Leave You, but it did not grab us, so we opted to leave it for a while; we may return to it when the right mood strikes. After Dehli Crime, nothing seems quite as interesting and gripping as we’d like. The acting in Dehli Crime was excellent; good enough to overcome its abysmally inadequate sound.

Tomorrow, we will again attend an NAACP board meeting, followed in the late afternoon by another “game night” at church. I enjoyed playing Sequence last time. I have no interest in most games, though. Especially games in which a complex strategy involving deeply bizarre knowledge about birds: their habits, habitats, their evolution, and other abstruse stuff. Games should, in my mind, be simple and relaxing. While I understand the appeal of games of strategy and intellectual challenge (e.g., bridge, chess, etc.), they do not appeal to me. I want leisure. Deep, comforting, mind-softening leisure.

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The trees are beginning to show signs of life. Leaves are peeking out from branches that appeared stiff and dead. Weeds are showing in rocky landscapes. Chiggers cannot be far behind. And snakes, slithering along roadsides and doing their best to sneak into unprotected garages. And mosquitoes certainly will begin foraging for human blood in the not-too-distant future. What a glorious time to be a parasite on the planet!  Enough happy talk. I need something for breakfast or I will wither away.

Words; as tender as the fur of a newborn kitten. Or as harsh as a cudgel crafted from the dried carcass of an elderly rhinoceros. From softness to coarseness, a spectrum of textures whose offerings range from comfort to cruelty. We learn the obvious, blatant differences early in life. The more subtle ones take time, awkward experience, and embarrassing memories of excruciating emotional pain. Yet imagination can mimic memory, persuading a person to recall events or experiences that never happened. Or, more commonly, imagination can overwrite memories, erasing the unbearable with the more mundane. Fantasies often rely on words. The look in a person’s eyes can be misleading. Words, though, can clarify emotions. Yet words intended to soften an emotional blow can muddy one’s understanding, manipulating it to the point that words’ intended message gets twisted around completely. Honesty, cleansed of words intended to lessen its harshness, is sometimes painfully embarrassing in its directness. But repetitive honesty becomes addictive, because it removes deceitful undergrowth. It carves a path of truth in a forest of tangled lies, making the way forward far easier to see, to understand, and to follow.

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Rain is falling again. Looking out my windows, I see fog and heavy rain. Together, they cause distance to dissolve into a grey, otherworldly experience. A place I want to avoid, both for its coldness and its callous disregard for its effects on my disposition. It is my understanding that the frequency and volume of rain will diminish later today. That promise is not sufficiently precise for me to know whether to look forward to the change or to dread it. Maybe both. Or neither.

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My willing obligations today include: breakfast with a clot of old men; participation in a committee meeting; and watching and facilitating post-experience conversation about a documentary film involving a conversation between the Dalai Lama and Bishop Desmond Tutu. I was planning to watch the video beforehand so I could give adequate thought to how I might want to structure the post-film discussion. But I changed my mind. I decided I wanted to challenge myself to watch it with enough intensity to enable me to facilitate conversation without preparation. I hope that decision does not wreck the experience for everyone. After the film and after the audience and I dissect it verbal scalpels, we will enjoy a baked potato bar. Some of us will, anyway. In an effort to achieve acceptable levels of glucose in my blood, I have sworn off most carbohydrate-rich foods, including potatoes. In lieu of the baked potato bar, I may partake of a lettuce, radish, cucumber, and tomato salad.  Or something equally inviting and exciting. I have not been as rigidly adherent, lately, to my own dietary plan as I hoped I would be. For a while, I stuck to it with a striking adhesive quality. But I have slipped a little. A bite of (and an entire) Atkins bar, ostensibly low in carbs but, in reality, an intensely carb-rich and obscenely addictive source of sugar. I would not be surprised to learn that the manufacturers of these candy-like “foods” incorporate cocaine or heroin or fentanyl in their recipes, making an innocent bite of someone else’s Atkins bar into a gateway to a powerful, almost unbeatable addiction. Probably not, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Stranger things have happened, as the old saw goes.

Somehow, I went off course in the last paragraph. This section of today’s blog post was hijacked by a lunatic who took it into a completely different direction from the one I intended. Unfortunately, my original intent has long since escaped my brain; it is wandering aimlessly through the house, trying to find unlocked doors or windows that will allow it to escape into wilderness freedom. That’s what original intent does, when accidentally released from its stainless steel ankle bracelets.

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I have things I want to say, but I cannot do that today. Speaking to someone face-to-face requires that person’s presence. And it can require bravery and the kind of honesty that can put one in danger of treachery or other unpleasant and untoward experiences. But honesty can uncover joy, as well. Until reaching the point at which it is impossible to “unexperience” the experience, it is impossible to know which. By then, of course, it is impossible to undo what has been done. To recapture that which has been released. To turn back time to a “safer” moment, when honesty did not thrust one into a limelight that looks suspiciously like a target. With crosshairs that meet directly in front of the heart. Or the head. Either way, a bullet following the target would succeed in an instant kill. But we’re not talking about death and hunting. We’re talking about something entirely different. And when I say “we,” I of course mean “I.” For you were not privy to this conversation until this very moment, were you? And, still, the discussion confuses you because its genesis was based on letters, syllables, words, sentences, and paragraphs cobbled together over unknown periods of time. It could have been mere seconds. It could have taken literally years. I’ll never know. Though “never” is an absolute; and I tend not to trifle with absolutes. Because absolutes refuse to admit an infusion of facts that might alter the outcome of one’s thought processes. Bang on! The upshot of that statement is this: nothing is certain. (Although, “nothing” implies an absolute trying to slip in through the back door. I must put a strong padlock on that door if I hope to keep riff-raff from sneaking in and having her way with me.) Perhaps I should have said “Uncertainty is highly likely.” Or, maybe, “Very little is certain.” Or “Certainty is elusive.” Or “Many things are uncertain.” Or, perhaps, I should just let my head explode in the chaos and confusion. If there is no answer, what’s the point of asking the question? Yet one does not know the absence of an answer until the question is asked. What a conundrum.

I do not appreciate being teased. Not in the least. In fact, if truth be known, I loathe being teased. When teased, I transform from a committed pacifist to a mercenary soldier with a taste for blood. When Spring first teased me with her gentleness and soft touch, I was taken in. I believed the implication of her warm embrace. But, suddenly, I recoiled from her grip, growing cool and uncomfortably moist, on my arm. I knew her too well! She was nothing short of severely hypocritical; as in, the extreme…like, psychotic. The moment she teased me with her allure, I knew. As I said, I loathe being teased. So you can imagine my reaction at the latest attempted seduction. That’s right, I slammed the door on her cold heart. She’ll probably make a couple of half-hearted attempts to trick me into believing her short-term redemption. But I won’t accept her teasing anymore. She must first see the light…convincingly. I want the embrace to feel unmistakenly warm; the kind of warm that permeates the air on a crystal clear day in late May.

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I have plenty to do around the house. And I want to do it. Or, at least, have it done. But I do not seem to have the mental energy to attack the tasks. I look at the undone tasks with dead eyes and weakness. That will change, though. When the weather is reliably comfortable. To me. I prefer a little more warmth, sometimes, than some other people. When it comes, I may turn into a whirlwind of energy. The possibility exists, of course, that I will continue as a mass of stagnant, humid, chilly air. That cannot go on forever, because/for ever has no end.

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We are used to globes. Spheres. Physical entities that makes it easy to understand the absences of a beginning and an end. At any one place on the globe, the “beginning” of a straight line encircling the sphere will return, becoming “end.” The cycle repeats infinitely. But how does one comprehend a similar conceptual issues—the universe having no beginning and no end. And even if that endless universe sprang from the “big bang,” what existed before the “big bang?” Nothing? Endless nothingness? I cannot wrap my shaggy little brain around that concept. Now if the universe were a sphere… No, there’s something outside of a sphere. Here, we’re talking about something that has no outside…because it encompasses outside…it is the endless everything.

In the overall scheme of things, human beings are as close as possible to infinitely small as things can get. And massively, monstrously, enormously irrelevant. But fundamentally harmless. Except to the planet and each other, the loss of neither of which would upset the balance of Nature. We are not necessary, but we think we are. We tell one another, humbly, that we are the most intelligent, most advanced, most powerful, most glorious creatures on the planet. Ask the ant colonies and colonists. To them, we are bungling beasts that recklessly and carelessly ruin entire bioscapes. Whole forests. Lakelands. We bulldoze mountains. And the ants are not the only ones. Cardinals and sparrows get a bird’s-eye view of our mindless attempts to take imperial control over Nature. Almost every other species watches in amusement, rage, or disgust as we attempt to sully the planet. Many of the watchers are not worried; the planet will recover in short order after the gluttonous, destructive parasites have left.

I suspect the timeframe will be considerably shorter going forward than it has been going back. It takes time and repeated mistakes to perfect imperfectability. Only after making multiple failures over an extended period of time does the premier failure take shape.

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Mocking another’s beliefs is almost guaranteed to have negative effect on changing the person’s ideology to mirror one’s own fantasies. None of us are privy to the Truth. We may have hunches about it. We may have “evidence” that supports a theory. But we do not have access to the Truth.  The Truth is too big and unwieldy and impossibly complex for us to comprehend its scope or size or purpose. We can touch on one end of it or another, but those ends are an unfathomably, exponentially large number of light years in the distant future or past. By the time one end of the Truth appears to be clear and absolute, another end has replaced that Truth with a newer and far more complex version, proving once and for all that Truth is contextual. We have been taught the opposite. If this is True, can situational ethics be far behind? Will morality begin to look different from one person to the next? Oh my God! I think it’s already happening! How will I know what is moral, then?

Thankfully, Child, I have the answer! For a limited time, autographed copies of Swinburn’s Guide to Situational Ethics, Moral Loopholes, and Other Forms of Illicit Pleasure are available for just $99⁹⁹, plus tax, title, and dealer prep. If you are not certain about what’s right and wrong, this book’s for you! With it, you will learn to defend your brazen attitudes as if they were legitimate philosophies. In no time, you will become the morally bankrupt creature you’ve always wanted to be!

I’m kidding. I do not have such a book. Please do not seek me out, wanting a copy of the book. Again, it is not real. Like so many things I write, it is a figment of my imagination. While some such fantasies reflect a person’s hidden desires, this one may not. Who knows? I certainly don’t.

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Off to engage with the day!

I am not brilliant; my intellect is insufficient to produce remarkable solutions to the hauntingly complex problems that have plagued humankind for millennia. But I think my intelligence is adequate for learning new information at relatively high speed. I do not need remedial instruction to understand the fundamentals of police work; detective work. But, then again, I suppose I would need some form of  instruction. And an age-lift. I would need those adjustments in order to qualify to get on the “fast track” to being a detective for a city police department. When it comes down to brass tacks, though, I am not sure I would be willing to suffer through the long slog of “learning the ropes.” I would much rather be thrown in to the chaos and left to my own devices. Screening in (or out) by virtue of OJT. I suspect I would survive the tests; assign to me a murder of two to solve and give me access to all the facts surrounding the case. Let me determine what more I need to know and how to obtain that knowledge. I would prove myself. Or some poor, innocent stiff would be accused of murder, thanks to my exemplary police work, while I insist that the evidence against him is irrefutable. That scenario is just one reason I long ago renounced my endorsement of the death penalty; I am capable of catastrophic mistakes that could, in the wrong circumstances, lead to irreparable harm. Execution of innocent people…that sort of thing. Despite the difficulties at this late stage, of finding my way onto a police force, I think I would enjoy the investigative work associated with being a police detective. But my romanticized vision of the role refuses to be constrained by bureaucracy.  No mindless paperwork for me. And no mind-numbingly annoying rules; I want and expect absolute freedom to pursue justice. Breaking a few rules here and there is a necessary accompaniment to good investigative work, according to my reality. But, to be clear about it, I am the only one permitted that freedom; all my colleagues will be expected to follow the straight and narrow. I need to be able to rely on their boundless supplies of consistency; investigative work unsullied by creative thoughts and actions. Just another fantasy. One of hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. Maybe millions. But just one of a small number I can reveal publicly and retain my reputation. My reputation? What, exactly, is that? Does everyone have a reputation, or do reputations attach only to people who sometimes color outside the lines?  You never hear a person described like this: “He had a reputation for being deadly dull.” That’s not a reputation; it’s a prelude to a meaningless obituary that describes the deceased person’s utter irrelevance. “He died after long being afflicted with a wretchedly monotonous, thoroughly forgettable, personality. He was tolerated, but not liked. Nor loathed. He was simply “there” as if being “there” was adequate reason for his existence. Hmm. Hmm, indeed.

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Yesterday’s visit at my oncologist’s office supplied me with the news I’ve grown accustomed to hearing: neither the blood tests nor the CT scan revealed anything of concern. Though I expected that message, hearing its confirmation was a nice sound. I am never worried about what I might learn during those visits, but I feel a little more relaxed and have a sense of relief when the “good news” visit concludes.

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My half-cup of coffee is cold. My back aches from sitting in a wretchedly uncomfortable desk chair. My attention span shows striking signs of exceptional impatience. I have things to do, obligations to fulfill, but no interest whatsoever in taking the steps necessary to complete them. I am in one of those periods in which I relish the idea of disappearing without a trace. No one would notice my absence because all memories of me would disappear. I would then be absolutely free. Free to become a practicing pacifist or a cold-blooded vigilante. Answering to no one; not even myself. Just wild. Untamed and unexplained. Dangerous in the extreme. But somehow attractive while exuding vibes of danger and excitement. More fantasies emerging from ill-defined dissatisfaction. A dissatisfaction rooted in contempt for the world; no single thing, but a flood of single things that twist around others, forming a thick, inescapable cage comprised of thick rope. Rope made from all those twisted single things. I have nothing to complain about; nothing legitimate, anyway. But I will complain, nonetheless. I will howl my complaints in the emptiness of the darkest nights. And the air will send back echoes; no meaning, just noise.

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If I am going to face the day, I better begin trying. Now.

After watching the second of only two seasons of Dehli Crime, I am deeply disappointed that a third season is unavailable (and, perhaps, has not been nor will be produced). The show portrays the Dehli police force as comprising mostly dedicated, but badly underfunded and unappreciated, public servants. Police behaviors in the program are reminiscent of a time in the U.S. when police beatings of suspects—in the station house—were condoned and, if not accepted, at least willingly tolerated. I wonder, though, whether the foundations of that statement are based on implicit assumptions about “a more practical time.” Or words to that effect. Was there ever such a time? Or has its “recollection” been cleverly planted in the public psyche by a master manipulator with an undecipherable master plan? Hey, don’t snort your dismissal of my comment!  It may be a valid expression of a wildly sophisticated and perfectly pristine strain of paranoia.

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Off to the oncologist this morning for what I hope and expect will be a routine review of the results of my recent CT scan, which (if all goes according to deep desire) reveals “no change.” This trip to see her follows two separate trips to prepare for today’s appointment. First, I had to go in for a routine blood-letting. And a few days after the blood draw,  I had the CT scan. I plan to take it moderately easy for the rest of the day. But not really.

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My mind this morning is on the distance between Tucson and Flagstaff, a tad more than 250 miles. Between them, the sprawling metropolis of Phoenix interrupts travel to and from. I have passed through both ends of that north-south journey and a bit of its middle ground. I like some aspects of both Tucson and Flagstaff for different reasons and for different seasons. But both places are at varying degrees of risk of a sudden and severe—possibly even catastrophic—loss of sources of water. Arizona is a harsh and beautiful country. So is New Mexico, my favorite of the two territories. And both are in perpetual danger of urban, suburban, and rural dehydration. Is the appeal worth the attraction? I think the answer changes from “no” to “yes” as a person ages and reasons that “the end” probably lies beyond an invisible horizon.

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My creativity and the stamina in my fingers apparently are out for coffee and a cinnamon roll this morning. They’re certainly nowhere to be found in or around my desk. The gaping white emptiness of my computer screen yawns at me, as if bored with my fingers’ expressions of mindless energy. And then that energy disappears…as if in a “puff” they become invisible; only its shadow can reveal where it went. I surrender, for the moment. I will be content to think and will not intrude by sharing those irrational thoughts with you. My irrational thought this morning may be a residue of a 20mg gummie I consumed last night. I slept in a bit this morning and seem to be in a modest fog. Hah! I laughed last night, thanks to the fact that my shoulder pain either disappeared or was hidden.

Pride is a response to oppression—not the only response, necessarily, but one response. And it is a powerful reaction, one that can overwhelm almost all the other replies to attempts to smother one’s sense of identify. I am not the source of that philosophy. It is the philosophy that undergirds the message delivered by a short BBC video. Or, I should say, it is my interpretation of the video’s underlying message. The video, which examines Jamaicans’ extreme pride in their identities, defends Jamaicans for what the producers of the film suggest in an almost universal characteristic of native Jamaicans. That universal characteristic that, not coincidentally, also is an attribute equivalent to one of the “deadly sins.” Interesting. But not sufficiently riveting for me to spend the rest of this Sunday exploring the concepts. Like many topics I encounter while searching the internet for ways to replace disinterest with passion, this one slips between rocks at the ocean’s edge and drowns. Too bad. If it had hit a bit—a lot—closer to home, I might have grabbed it and clutched it close to me in the hope it could rescue me from irrelevance. Despite my usual reverence for BBC videos, this one did not strike a nerve the way so many do. It is not bad—the message is thought-provoking and, for someone who is not me, very likely extremely interesting. But I was not moved by it. It was interesting. But it did not bring tears to my eyes nor a broad smile to my face. Sometimes, the absence of a strong reaction to something meant to evoke a powerful response can be as telling as the presence of that kind of response. The key, then, is to determine why it failed to move me; or why I failed to be moved by it. That is a topic for investigation another time. This morning merits a look at other elements of the reality surrounding me.

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The muffled noise—heard across an indeterminate distance and through sound-deadening walls, windows, and doors—sounded a little like raspy breaths being taken by a sleeper. Or a light, open-mouthed snore. But, yesterday, when I finally went to explore the noise, I decided it was the loud, rapid-fire “whack, whack, whack!” of a woodpecker in a tree behind the house. The moment I opened the back door, the muffled sound was amplified several-fold. I could not see the bird making the racket, but I had heard that noise before and had seen the culprit making it: a pileated woodpecker ripping into a tree with its powerful beak slamming into a tree trunk with the speed and power of a hydraulic air hammer. Try as I might, though, I could not see the creature. I saw a few other, much smaller, woodpeckers, but I knew they were not making the noise, as they flitted from tree to tree. But after a while, and after I encountered various other bits of evidence as to the bird(s) responsible for making the noise, I decided it was not a pileated woodpecker after all. No, it was one of the much smaller birds. Birds that looked too delicate to make such a monstrously loud noise. Yet their size hid the ability to mimic the sound made by heavy equipment. Their deadly beaks and powerful neck muscles combine to enable them to tear into pine trees and hardwood oak with a fierceness one tends not to associate with creatures so small and seemingly fragile. I wish I had actually seen the noisemaker; that would have sealed my certainty. But I am adequately sure that the sound was produced by one of those nondescript birds, smaller than robins but possessing beaks more powerful than the jaws of alligators. I recorded the sound on my phone. One day, I will record the sound and will capture an accompanying video of the actions of the source. And that will verify my suspicion, converting conjecture into certainty.

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I will smoke another couple of chunks of pork loin today. I may smoke some cream cheese at the same time. The idea for the cream cheese came to me from a post I saw on Facebook. I may buy some sausage and chicken and, perhaps, a few other smokeable tidbits that react well to being frozen and, later, thawed to make an easy main course for lazy-day meals. Maybe I should refrain from eating meat; my tiny contribution to making the planet more compassionate. At the same time, perhaps I should refuse to drive gasoline-powered vehicles, especially gas-guzzlers. No, I think it is better to avoid thinking in absolutes. Cut back on meat-eating: already in process. Rely on increasingly energy-efficient vehicles: already underway. Condemning others while engaging in the same behaviors for which one condemns them is known in the wider world as hypocrisy.

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I got up early and put a load of laundry in the washer. It is now in the drier. Soon, I will remove the dry clothes and hang them up. A good start to what promises to be a clear, cool day. And off I go to explore the universe.

My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain strikes me as an odd label for a radio program, but every time I hear an episode of the National Public Radio (NPR) show, my judgment of the title disappears. In its place, I have great appreciation for the people responsible for creating and continuing the series; and for the people who share their stories. The same gratitude wells up in me whenever I hear another NPR program, StoryCorps. Both programs tend to unearth a store of humanity buried beneath the grit of skepticism and suspicion—and uncertainty about the innate goodness of most people. They wash away enough of the grime of everyday  to reveal some of the compassion that seemed to blossom in me while I was a college student studying sociology.

For some reason, when I consider the seeds of my generally liberal perspectives on life in general, my thoughts often return to my time in college, especially to the exploration of sociology. Though I credit my upbringing—lessons from observing the way my parents and siblings interacted with the world around them—with forming the framework of my worldview, much of the “meat on the bones” of that structure grew from what I discovered in studying fundamental precepts of social institutions and social engagement. So, though I often dismiss the value of my “college education,” certain elements of the courses of study I pursued have had a profound effect on me. Those studies caused me to think critically about all sorts of human relations and their contexts. I developed a healthy skepticism about accepting as fact many of the “truths” the formed the bases of biases to which I was exposed. That healthy skepticism competed directly with the unhealthy skepticism I had about reasons for many group behaviors. I learned to apply critical thinking skills and to force myself to examine underlying, and erroneous, reasons for some of my more egregious biases. And to correct them for myself.

I’ve probably written all of this before. I suspect the reason I am writing it again now is simply to remind myself that there are legitimate reasons programs like My Unsung Hero from Hidden Brain and StoryCorps often tug at my heartstrings. It’s not that I am overly sensitive or insufficiently masculine; instead, it is because I learned to merge my critical thinking skills and compassion into a means of making sense of the world around me. At least that’s part of it. Or, at the very least, it’s an explanation I can accept and embrace.

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A chill in the air this morning (it’s 41°F now, at 6:15) will moderate as the day progresses, peaking at 63°F this afternoon, between 1 and 3. Meteorologists’ predictions happily forecast clear skies all weekend, with afternoon temperatures nearing 70°F tomorrow afternoon. I would welcome even warmer temperatures; I would not object to being surrounded by 80-degree air. That level of warmth might finally remove the chill I feel deep in my bones. My hands, which seem to be almost perpetually ice-cold, might finally warm to the point of real comfort. During the last several days, despite temperatures in the forties and fifties, the only way my hands could feel tolerably warm was to hold them over the open flames of the fireplace. There were times I almost wanted to douse myself in gasoline and set myself ablaze, just to feel a flash of comfort before being consumed by the excruciating pain of self-immolation. I did say “almost;” I am not completely out of my mind. Not that the act of self-immolation always is a symptom of extraordinary mental deviance. Sometimes, it is an act of exceptionally powerful religious belief. Or so I’ve been told. But never, I might add, by someone who has set themselves on fire. Hmm. I believe my thoughts have been diverted from weather to something far more complex. Although, in fact, weather represents an assortment of remarkably complex phenomena. But, then, so does fire. Combustion constitutes the visual transformation of physical matter to energy; perhaps it is more correct to say combustion represents the release of stored energy. I’m no physicist, though, so I would not take my blather as gospel.

+++

We finished watching season one of Delhi Crime, an Indian series. The first season is based on a real event, a brutal gang rape that took place in mid-December 2012. The program is, in my opinion, absolutely superb; excellent acting, superb direction, and great casting. My only complaint, and it is quite a significant one, involves sound quality. When the characters speak English (they constantly switch back and forth between English and Hindi), it is sometimes impossible to make out what they are saying. Only when the characters speak Hindi are subtitles displayed; yet their heavy accents, coupled with poor sound quality, leaves the viewer completely in the dark as to the actual dialogue when they speak in English. That major flaw notwithstanding, season one of the show is absolutely riveting.

After watching such an intense set of episodes in season one, we opted to take a breather; we did not begin watching season two (which focuses on an entirely different set of crimes). Instead, we began watching a 2014 comedy-drama entitled, This is Where I Leave You. Thus far, I have not been overly impressed, but at least watching the beginning of the film allowed me to decompress a bit from the heart-pounding intensity of Delhi Crime. Whether I continue watching This is Where I Leave You remains to be seen.

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My blood glucose dropped to 98 this morning, even though I did not take Metformin yesterday (nor will I today). The pause from my usual morning and evening “dosing” came in the form of instructions from yesterday’s CT scan; I was told to stop taking Metformin for 48 hours because the IV “contrast” used in connection with the scan could cause some kind of unhappy interaction with the Metformin. Speaking of the temporary hold on eating the big white pills, their absence apparently has made me hungry. I think I will address that sensation by swallowing breakfast. And off I go.

Evidence of a new season, masked by cold recollections and icy memories, struggles to assert itself. Early morning brightness might reveal clues about what is to come, but grey, wet skies hide the sun. Yellow daffodils scream their stories as they try to avoid death by drowning. A short road trip in the dim light might tell me more. But it may have nothing more to say than, “Wait.” And so I will go, but will impatiently wait.

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Thunder and lightning, remnants of fierce windstorms that overturned trucks and damaged homes five hours west, visited during the night hours. I hear mourning doves expressing grief and regret—the aftermath of a chilling, brutal night for creatures who rely on the safety of tree limbs for protection against storms. My mood this morning was scarred by the shrieking howls of weather radio warnings in the wee hours. That mood remains, a dislocation of what might otherwise have been a peaceful sleep. No matter. The drive to the imaging clinic will alter my mood. I will be unable to sleep—or breathe—on the CT scan table, but afterward I will treat myself to a handful of drugs, the reward for growing old. But coffee and a late breakfast might renew my energy. Time will tell. It always does.

As far as I know, last night’s threats of tornadoes in our immediate vicinity did not pan out. The forest surrounding the house remains standing. To my knowledge, the roof above my head in intact. While carnage and devastation may be widespread nearby, I cannot see it. So, all is right with the world. That is the way we sometimes see things. As long as we’re all right, we’re satisfied. No matter that blood may cover the highways and byways all around us; if it is not visible, it does not impinge on our ability to enjoy a carefree existence. Yet what good does it do to ferret out bad news? Especially if there is little or nothing we can do to lessen its impact? I have mixed feelings about that.
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Once again, the products of British curiosity have expanded my own interest in and knowledge about matters about which I knew very little. This time, the revelation surrounds a term for a dying language, Kouri-Vini. Kouri-Vini is a language—whose origins have beebn traced to Louisiana—the roots if which are based in the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Also known as Creole, the language, whose name (Kouri-Vini) comes from the Creole pronunciation of the French verbs “courir” (to run) and “venir” (to come). According to a article on the BBC.com website (part of a BBC series called Rediscovering America), along with some supporting materials, the language is spoken by fewer than 6,000 people. But the language is experiencing something of a resurgence as young people who live in, or have connections to, the the 22-parish region of south-west Louisiana known as Acadiana are making efforts to reclaim the language. Interest in recapturing the language is growing among both professional linguists and people whose heritage includes Creole culture. When I hear Kouri-Vini spoken, I hear the unique sounds of French, combined with “something else” I cannot quite put my finger on; it is at once pleasing to the ear and exotically “foreign.” Though I have hear bits and pieces of it all my life, and though I have known about “Creole” for about as long, it was only this morning that I encountered the term, Kouri-Vini. And that experience was thanks to the British Broadcasting Corporation, or BBC.

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The thing about democracy, beloveds, is that it is not neat, orderly, or quiet. It requires a certain relish for confusion.

~ Molly Ivins ~

In other news this morning, I read about a 40-year-old man, Mark Muffley, who checked bags at the Lehigh Valley International Airport for  an Orlando-bound flight. The bags contained explosives, hidden in the lining of a rolling suitcase. I suppose we will hear more about that situation—or not—as the investigations into the matter play out. And I skimmed an article about the case involving allegations against South Carolina attorney Alex Murdaugh, who is on trial for the murder  of his wife and son. The facts of the case seem ripe for incorporation into a crime novel and/or crime drama and/or crime documentary. But why the case is so prominent in national news stories when there are so many other stories which could have far greater potential effects on our society is a mystery to me. And Aljazeera reports that Turkey has launched a probe into 612 people in connection with the catastrophic building collapses caused by the recent earthquakes. I looked for positive, heart-warming stories—meaningful reports that would offer evidence of humankind’s generosity and goodness. Apparently, that section of the news has been censored for some reason. Or there’s an intrinsic lesson there, buried under layer upon layer of irrelevance.

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I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

~ Jack Kerouac ~

Self-control can protect one from danger or embarrassment or various other forms of unpleasantness. I have to exercise self-control on an ongoing basis, for those very reasons. But harnessing one’s immediate desires can prevent a person from experiencing delight, as well. The decision to control impulses can prevent one’s displeasure with an annoying driver from turning into deadly road rage. But that same level of self control that prevents exposing one’s desires can eliminate possibilities. I wanted to kiss Amy when I was about eight years old, but I knew it would be considered highly inappropriate. But what if I had given in to my passion? We might have married ten years later. That union might have guided me toward pursuing advanced degrees in psychology. And my education and enthusiasm could have propelled me to conduct research that would ultimately lead me to receiving a Nobel Prize. But giving in to my urge to kiss Amy might have led to a completely different set of circumstances. I could have been accused of assault. The time I subsequently spent in a youth rehabilitation facility might have hardened me, while simultaneously exposing me to people who would later teach me the finer points of engaging in criminal endeavors. When finally apprehended, I might have been charged with and convicted of murder while perpetrating a robbery of a heavily-guarded storage facility where obscenely rich people store their diamond jewelry and highly valuable original art. A sentence of life in prison might have followed. And I could have lost Amy in the process. But I might have fallen passionately in love with Julia, a married woman, during the course of my criminal career. We might have engaged in a secret relationship for years before my final conviction. The murder might not have had anything to do with the jewelry heist—I might have murdered Julia’s husband. And I might have decided my criminal career was well worth paying that horrible price. Who knows? I don’t.

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Last night, we went to see and hear a moderated conversation between former gubernatorial candidate Chris Jones, a physicist, and his wife Jerrilyn Jones, an emergency room physician. The event, hosted by the Virginia Clinton Kelley Democratic (VCK) Women’s Club and the Gateway Community Association (GCA). was organized as a fundraiser for the GCA, a mixed neighborhood comprised of residents, businesses, places of worship, the Hot Springs Convention and Civic Center, and several historical landmarks. After hearing the conversation between them, I wish more people like me had been active campaigners for Chris Jones’ campaign. If he had been able to personally deliver his message to all the people of Arkansas, perhaps the tragedy (the horror of the election of Sarah Huckabee Sanders as governor) that befell us could have been averted.

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Since my wife died, my love of cooking has diminished almost to the point that it no longer exists. Maybe I have just become exceptionally lazy. I am sure my recently imposed dietary restrictions—dramatically reducing the amount of carbohydrates I consume and otherwise limiting my freedom to eat unlimited volumes of everything—have reinforced the change in me. But that cannot take all the blame; the change occurred long before the imposition of “rules” that prohibit my exercise of the right to eat unrestricted amounts of anything reasonably safe to put in my mouth. No, the loss of my passion for preparing and/or consuming elaborate or exciting meals took place in concert with my late wife’s hospitalization and subsequent placement in “rehabilitation” centers. In hindsight, I guess the fire of my innate affection for culinary adventure…to remain ablaze…required the spark she provided. Even when I felt I did not have the energy or drive to spend time in the kitchen, she somehow infused me with the energy and inclination to do it. Now, though, the restrictions imposed on me in the form of warnings about my health—coupled with the absence of sufficient interest and energy—have essentially erased my inclination to conduct culinary experiments. Or even to follow elaborate recipes that might yield extraordinary results. I would rather spend five or ten minutes preparing a meal that requires little effort and virtually no imagination. I’ve lost a part of me impossible to recover, thanks to food’s role in disrupting my body’s ability to remain healthy. A “friend” once condemned me for my passion for food, effectively accusing me of “living to eat” when I should have adopted her philosophy, that a person should only “eat to live.” I might as well have adopted that philosophy; it has been forced on me by circumstances.

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I occasionally have to remind myself that, despite the minor challenges that face me on a daily basis, I live an incredibly lucky—almost enchanted—life. Obstacles to happiness, for me, do not take the form of war or insufficient supplies of food and water or environmental dangers that might expose me to painful or incurable diseases. I do not worry that marauding gangs will regularly visit me to steal from me or torture me or mi novia. I am remarkably fortunate in that when and where I live protect me from constant fear for my well-being or the well-being of my loved ones. Yet even in the absence of a litany of existential threats, I still sometimes feel suffocated by hopelessness. Sometimes. No, not really. That suggests some kind of regularity. No, that sense of hopelessness is infrequent. But when it comes, it can be intense. And it requires no discernable trigger; it just happens. When it does, all the magnificent good fortune that is mine shrinks into a tiny bubble, deep in an ocean of despair, struggling to survive an impossible trip up to the surface. Today, fortunately, is not one of those occasions. But it is best to consider them, I think, from a safely distant perspective, although I am not sure exactly what “considering” them will accomplish. It just seems like the responsible, “adult” thing to do. But “adulting” is not always a good thing. I’ve long been a proponent of expressing one’s inner child—the kid whose insatiable curiosity regularly got him into delightful, exhilarating, wildly energizing trouble. And I bounce between being in favor of—and, then, denouncing and avoiding—breaking rules of good behavior and proper, dignified decorum.

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Good morning. Even though I reveal a great deal of myself during my morning writing rituals, no one really knows me. We do not know one another as well as we would like. Because every one of us has secrets. Deep secrets. Secrets we might want to reveal, but for the fear of how people…or just one person…might react. What’s your secret? I won’t tell a soul.

We know nothing. We hold beliefs. We harbor suspicions. We think we know. But we do not know. We simply convince ourselves of the certainty of certain facts. We do that because, otherwise, we would live in a state of constant confusion. We would be in danger of drowning in sea of perpetual doubt. When I use the pronoun, “we,” I refer not to all members of our species; only to those of us who are confident that our knowledge of the world in which we live is reliable. There are those among us who recognize our confidence is misplaced. They acknowledge that the rest of us have capitulated; abandoning the reality of mystery and replacing it with the fantasy of what we blindly accept as fact.

The very idea that even science is a fabrication woven from enigmatic threads whose sources can never be known with absolute certainty is anathema to us. But the fallacy of science as the answer is trumped by religion. Yet we—some of us; perhaps most of us—place our faith in various forms of that magic. Faith. At least we admit the inscrutability of faith…but do we? No, faith is simply another fabrication; knowledge masquerading as truth, but without even flimsy facts to support it.

Do I really believe this? Yes. Well, at least in part. Science and the scientific method are as close as we come to measuring facts. But the differences between science and belief are stark. Scientific understanding readily accepts being debunked by contrary evidence. Faith? Not so much.

Back to the original premise, though. In my view, we truly do not know anything. I admire those who swim in that sea of perpetual doubt. They are closer to the truth than any of the rest of us. Though they may drown, at least they succumb in the awareness of the universality of impenetrable mystery. Sometimes, I feel like I am swimming with them. But, then, I am dragged back to shore, covered with salt and sand…and persuaded to rinse off enough of the layers of doubt to be presentable in public.

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Torment. As a noun, it is associated with a number of unpleasant synonyms: torture, affliction, agony, misery, suffering, and several more. As a verb, it is associated with an even longer list of ugly actions. No matter what a thesaurus says, I always associate torment with the experience of mental anguish. As a noun, those words define it. The verb form would be “to inflict mental anguish.” Both forms of the word call to mind psychological or mental pain. And the concept of torment always makes me think of something else; something related: being tormented by one’s demons. What, I often wonder, are those demons? I should know, because they are not infrequent visitors in my brain. They show up, unannounced, and make themselves at home. They take many forms, usually as painful memories or deep regrets that refuse to relinquish their grips on me. They seem to take pleasure in tormenting me. When I think of them, I envision small, translucent figures that take almost (but not quite) human form. They hold white-hot pitchforks in their vaporous hands, and they prod at me with the sharp points of those tools of torture. But I think of them in that form only in their absence. When they are prodding at me, opening old wounds and pouring salt and alcohol and acid in them, their physical representations in the form of beastly creatures disappear. What is left are the products of their work and, later, as the damage heals, the scars. I sometimes think I must be quite insane to conjure these images, knowing full well they are only products of my imagination. My “overactive imagination,” I should have said.

+++

Today, I continue to fulfill my obligation and promise by facilitating the third session of “Articulating Your UU Faith.” Once that obligation is met (with additional sessions), I have another one, which is to facilitate a post-viewing discussion of Mission: Joy—Finding Happiness in Troubled Times, a film exploring the friendship between Archbishop Desmond Tutu and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The latter event, scheduled for March 9, promises to be quite interesting; at least the film makes that promise. The quality of the discussion afterward will depend far more on audience comments than on my skills at facilitating the conversation. Though I willingly enter into these commitments, I often wish I could put all of them on “pause” for a month or two—no church business, no doctors’ appointments, no social obligations…no intrusions on my desire for solitude. A month or so of peace and serenity to simply relax and enjoy the pleasures of very limited company. During that time, I would want frequent visits by a very few friends, punctuated by periods of absolute seclusion. Moments—lasting for days at a time—in which I could comfortably wear my very casual “leisure” attire from the instant I wake in the morning until I go to bed at night. I suppose what I am describing is a desire for the comfort of deep, guilt-free laziness. I enjoy people. I really do. But I need sufficient time to recharge in solitude. I do not know what “sufficient time” is, really. I would like to find out. And I would like to know how to predict just when I reach the point of needing it; not “desperately” needing it, just needing it enough to warrant withdrawing from “normal” life for a while in order to maintain my sanity.

+++

It’s nearing 8, time to explore the options for breakfast and to have another cup of coffee. And time to prepare to deliver on my promises to fulfill my obligations. And off I go.

The internet ostensibly gives committed seekers of the “truth” ways to find it. Increasingly, though, those searchers discover “truth” is a painstakingly re-created replica of the Mona Lisa. These seekers do not find truth, but a counterfeit commissioned by “incorruptible sources” who hunger for control. The “incorruptible sources” have a thirst for power and access to unlimited funds to pay highly-skilled, but greedy and easily corruptible, artists. Deep skepticism often is the unfortunate byproduct when principled inquiries lead to cleverly concealed dishonesty in what appears to be rock-solid facts. Who are these “incorruptible sources?” Usually, I think, they are high-level government officials—and their underlings and people within their scope of control—people who willingly serve as well-paid puppets for nefarious characters for whom the revelation of actual facts would run contrary to their objectives.

While our “enemies,” people like Putin and his acolytes, immediately come to mind, I suspect armies of these manipulative bastards are far more common than are mere authoritarian dictators. I am afraid they occupy seats of power at every level of government and industry—and in church pulpits—right here at home. And worldwide. We are so completely surrounded by them that I often wonder whether they, or we, constitute the majority of the world’s population. (And I wonder who “we” are…do “we” even exist, and do the numbers of “friends” [versus “enemies] adequately qualify as “we?”) I realize, of course, I may sound like a paranoid conspiracy theorist. And my concerns run counter to my fragile belief in the fundamental decency of most human beings. I recognize and fret about those conflicts in my own head. I am not quite sure how to resolve them. But, for now at least, I will let those frictions fester. Deep skepticism may be the only available weapon available to us for self-defense.

Skepticism gets back to my point about seeking “truth.” Seekers must equip themselves with thick and strong shields skepticism as they go about their pursuits. They (we?) must use finely-adjusted filters to screen out fabrications or distortions of facts. And those facts that survive those filters must be subjected to even finer filters that permit only truly reliable answers to make their way through the tangle of lies and into our brains. And even though answers must then be critically analyzed, with the objective of catching and correcting misrepresentations and biases and erroneous interpretations. Seeking truth is a long, laborious, tedious, and sometimes dangerous process. Good, reliable journalists— whose numbers seem to be dwindling to the point of near invisibility—are among the few who have the stamina, skills, and integrity to withstand the stresses of the process of seeking the truth. Non-journalists who rely on the internet to uncover “truth” would be well-advised to identify and lean on good journalists; to be their supporters and allies. I wish I could find and offer a trustworthy tool to identify good journalists. I suspect the best way to do so is to look to journalists’ histories to find multiple instances of investigative work that uncovered truths that held up after repeated efforts by others to call them into question. Good luck.

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.

~ Galileo Galilei ~

+++

Marriage is an institution in which the partners are expected to trust one another. That is as it should be. But marriage is no guarantee of lifelong commitment. And marriage cannot assure that trust always will be warranted. People change. Love changes along with them. People who might once have been “ideal” mates may grow apart, despite their best efforts to remain in sync with one another. On one hand, efforts to remain committed to one another should guide partners’ behaviors. On the other, staying together sometimes can guarantee only distress and misery for one or both partners. Sometimes, the “right” person begins to seem not quite right, especially when another “right” person enters the picture. Whether the connection between marriage partners weakens on its own or is impaired with the presence of that other “right” person, the dissolution of a marriage is a painful process for both parties. I suspect it is hard to admit that the commitment to one’s marriage partner has irretrievably disappeared, but despite the difficulty, it is probably best to sever the damaged connection before its infection spreads.

The dissolution of a marriage should not precede, nor accompany, the dissolution of civility between marriage partners. People who allow themselves to become enemies with their current or former marriage partners do far more damage, to themselves and to others, than they realize. The infection they spread to one another spreads to others around them, including their children, if they have them. The message they send to their friends, family, and children is one that attempts to justify the infliction of pain on other people. It is a selfish message that damages their own self-image and the image they present to people close to them and to others in their sphere.

I write not from personal experience with a marriage break-up (mine lasted almost 41 years, until the death of my wife), but from my experience as an observer of a number of marriages that crashed like boats striking a rocky shore in heavy weather. I wish their boats had sailed into a calm harbor, where they could have disembarked as serenely as possible and gone their separate ways.  Even after a chaotic end to a marriage, one precipitated by inexcusable by one or both parties, though, adults can and should behave with compassion and civility toward one another. If not to bandage the wounds for themselves, then for those around them who suffered through the rupture and continue to suffer its aftermath.

+++

I will wait to find the “right” eyeglasses frames. Though I thought a pair I saw at Costco was the one I wanted, I decided after further consideration that it wasn’t quite what I was after. So, I will call the optical department and tell them to return the pair to the displays so someone else might buy them. I found a pair online that looked perfect; it was only $9.95. My skepticism tells me, though, that pair is probably flimsy and ill-suited to effectively hold and protect a pair of lenses that cost dozens of times as much. So I will continue my occasional quest. Even if I never find the “right” pair, I will survive. My vanity is not so great that I will hide my hideous visage when out in public, for fear my existing eyeglasses frames will be seen and ridiculed by others. No one pays enough attention to my appearance to ridicule it. Or, if they do, they do not matter to me anyway, so their scorn is ineffective. So there you go.

+++

After writing what I wrote this morning, I long for a proper hug. One that lasts a long time and overwhelms the many remnants of caution I feel about people and their behaviors. Sadness can wash over me like a wave when I recognize, for the umpteenth time, that I cannot have everything that would make me irrevocably happy. World peace. Universal love. That perpetual hug. A solid week without a single obligation. A slice of loaded pizza and a glass of excellent cabernet sauvignon.

Why is it, I wonder, that barren-leafed, fog-enshrouded forests seem simultaneously menacing and inviting? Why does being surrounded by a forest of hazy, blurry, naked trees—their trunks erect and tall—give me a sense that the indistinct distance is hiding both comfort and danger? Perhaps it is the use of such scenes, in television and film, that reinforces that inexplicable duality. Last night’s concluding episodes of Public Enemy (Ennemi public), like most of the rest of the three-season show, used the mysteries of dim forests to powerful effect. Several other European films and television series I have watched in the past few years incorporate that sort of scenery to convey both mystery and the threat of unknown, but lethal, danger. In my opinion, Scandinavian (and various other European filmmakers) cinematographers are much more skilled than most of their American counterparts at using low light, fog, and nondescript flora to establish those sinister moods.

But back to my own mind, and its readiness to bend to the will of filmmakers. It is not just the filmmakers, though. It is the very real environment right outside my window. It is the atmosphere that envelopes the house in which I live. My brain willingly sees the fog as deliberately hiding unknown, but fascinating, threats and dangers. In fact, I seem to thrive on the dim, distant recesses of the woodlands. The inexplicably chilling haze that hides…something…or nothing. I do not know what’s “out there.” Whatever it is, though, I am drawn to it, but more than a little cautious about approaching it. I hesitate to leave the safety of my house and venture into a place over which I have no control. Inside, I can control the lights and the temperature and the volume of sounds emanating from speakers. Outside, I have no such control; my experience is at the discretion of Nature or something else I can neither name nor whose form and power I cannot fully comprehend. Yet perhaps this emotion—fear or worry or a cousin of one or both—is blatantly absurd. Silly in the extreme. Superstition transformed into unfathomable uncertainty. That does it. I will stay inside until the day brightens.

+++

My morning ritual started quite late; after 6:30. We were up last night until nearly midnight, finishing up our marathon of watching Public Enemy. So, I began writing much later than normal. Then, Chubbs the pug and her doting human companion (my late wife’s sister) dropped by for coffee and conversation until it was time for us to leave for church. Today was an “Insight” Sunday, with an interesting speaker (Brian Rodgers) of the Mosaic Templars Cultural Center in Little Rock. He spoke on Black Business People in Arkansas from 1865 to 1920. I learned a great deal from his presentation and post-talk dialogue with those who stayed for the conversation. I am becoming increasingly intrigued to learn about the lives and contributions to society made by “everyday” people who lived in challenging times—especially people whose names may be unknown to me but whose impacts on history were/are enormously important.

+++

I am home now, and hungry. Despite having broken many dietary rules and ignored their oppressive restrictions, I ate three chocolate chip cookies and one Rice Krispie Treat at church, made by a very nice woman who apparently enjoys tempting me with irresistible edibles. Though I imagine my blood glucose measurement tomorrow morning will be monstrously high, I thoroughly enjoyed yielding to the diversion, as she laid the trap to seduce me into inappropriate but gloriously pleasurable gustatory behavior.

+++

Speaking of food, I will now enjoy a bit of roasted chicken, some compari tomatoes, and perhaps some cucumbers and/or pickles. That will have to hold me until dinner, when we will again eat smoked pork loin, cucumbers (probably), and tomatoes. I probably will have some sugar-free orange flavored Jello for dessert.

+++

Tomorrow, I’ll be off to Schwab and Costco. And I will consider cleaning my car and trying to reshuffle and organize the garage. Life is relatively easy, but not as energizing as it could be if I were to hit the road for a long and enjoyable road trip. First, though, lunch at home. Lunch is a good idea. Maybe a drive to Berlin will cure my wanderlust.

An inadvertent motion by an itchy “trigger” finger sent a raw, rough, utterly unfinished draft of the first few paragraphs of a prospective piece of short fiction onto the internet last night. Mi novia questioned why I used my WordPress account to write the draft, rather than writing it in Word. My response: Because that is the process I have grown accustomed to using. On rare occasion (like last night), my virtually automatic physical reaction when I decide to end my writing session—pushing the “publish” button—leaves me scrambling to correct a mistake. When that happens, I quickly change the status of the mistakenly published draft from “published” to “draft.” But that action does not undo what I did. When I hit “publish,” the file immediately is posted to my blog and notices of a newly-published post are emailed to my blog’s subscribers. I have no way of retracting the email messages. My only recourse is to explain, in a follow-up post, what happened. And to apologize—which is the purpose of this paragraph—for wasting subscribers’ time in notifying them of an erroneous and now-unavailable draft. I take this opportunity, as well, to apologize for my many other posts that waste readers’ time. Rarely do I write anything of actual value to anyone but me; and its value to me is questionable, sometimes in the extreme. Much of my writing can be justified as exercise for my fingers and nothing more. Well, perhaps reading it can provide opportunities for readers to exercise the muscles that move their eyes from left to right and back again. I struggle to find something of value—anything—that might merit the expenditure of readers’ time in absorbing what I share with this blog. There must be something that warrants regularly or periodically coming to this place, for the few human beings who do. Whatever it is, I appreciate the company, though I rarely get to know their reaction to what they read. Perhaps that is best. Withholding their opinions from me might, in fact, be acts of kindness from people who, if they expressed their thoughts, would crush my ego under the soles of their shoes.

+++

The concepts contained in a couple of conversations with my church’s minister got me thinking: attempting to change the entire world, especially as we grow older and approach the end of our lives, often is a fruitless endeavor. Therefore, rather than expending our energies tilting at windmills, we would better serve humanity and ourselves by directing a significant part of our efforts to more achievable goals of improving the worlds of people close to us. For example, rather than directing all of our time, energy, resources, and efforts to feeding the starving peoples of sub-Saharan Africa, a considerable portion of our efforts aimed at enabling people in our immediate sphere to feed themselves might have greater impact. Let me be clear: the minister did not say precisely that; for me, though, his words delivered that message. And his words were not aimed specifically at me. His musings, in my mind, addressed a general idea: our efforts are likely to be far more impactful and considerably more successful at changing the world for individuals, one person at a time. We cannot feed all of Africa; but we can nourish the ability of one person at a time to be self-sustaining. The minister might take issue with my interpretation of his message, of course. But any disagreement notwithstanding, my interpretation makes perfectly good sense to me. And it conforms to my way of thinking. It won’t stop me from writing letters, affirming a woman’s right to control her own body, to my Congressional representatives, but it reinforces my belief in supporting local resources like Planned Parenthood clinics.

+++

I had a horrible dream last night. I dreamt I was among a small group of people who decided, for a reason that is unclear to me now, we should kill a woman who had been a friend. We gathered at my house—which was in a nondescript lower-middle-class neighborhood—to implement a plan to murder her. The organizer of the planned killing was a woman who had conceived a process whereby she would kill the intended victim by striking her with a carpenter’s hammer. This woman, who would orchestrate the process, had thought everything through so that none of us would leave any traces; no one could find us guilty of the deed. But, after striking the victim in the head with a hammer, things went awry. The victim did not die. In fact, she was only dazed. So, the murderer put the muzzle of a gun to the victim’s head and pulled the trigger. But the bullet did not pierce the victim’s skull; it caused bleeding, but nothing more than the victim’s loud protestations that she had done nothing to deserve our ugly deed. Somehow, the process of protecting the rest of us from evidence of our guilt fell apart. Neighbors called the police because of the ruckus. The rest of us scrambled to hide evidence of our involvement and our guilt, but the police came and started investigating. For some reason, the victim was unsuccessful in convincing the police that we were the perpetrators. One of the “cover-ups” somehow involved an open outdoor faucet that flooded the yard around the house; water flowed into the street and the ground around the house was quite soggy, which stopped the police from investigating further. When the police left, others involved in the plot (who apparently had left) came back to gather up evidence of guilt, left in the scramble to get away. Part of the evidence seemed to be the victim, who was to be pushed into the trunk of a car. The rest of the dream dissolves into a fog; I cannot remember any more. And, of course, I do not recall many elements between the attempted murder and the police investigation. And the street that was flooded by the open water faucet. And more. I do not think I want to remember. I remain stunned that I was a willing participant in the murder plot, though I was deeply embarrassed and sorrowful for my participation.

I had another dream, quite different, in which the environment was a very old, terribly crowded, office building. It had hideously dirty unisex bathrooms with no doors. The bathrooms were outfitted with multiple wall-mounted urinals; no stalls nor regular toilets. Women using the bathroom straddled the urinals, backwards. A viewing area from a hallway in the building overlooked a massive field in which people who were obviously foreign, possibly Asian, were using scythes to cut and collect crops. I think the building was the headquarters of a company involved in petroleum in some fashion. The rest of the dream is a blur. Weird is the best word to describe it.

+++

I found a pair of tortoise-shell plastic eyeglass frames at Costco last week. They are on hold for me, through tomorrow. I may call Costco today to ask that they extend the hold through the early part of next week so that I can combine a planned trip to see a Charles Schwab representative with the purchase of the frames. If Costco will not extend the hold, I probably will not get those frames. Either way, the world will continue to spin. Wars will continue to be fought. People will continue to starve, while others will grow fat and undeservedly wealthy. Life will go on, provided the planet’s nuclear powers do not unleash their capabilities in unnecessary displays of inhumane horror on the species remaining after humans have had a hand in eliminating so many of them. And, of course, homo sapiens would be among those annihilated in the fury of nuclear holocaust. But if none of that awful stuff happens, the world will go on as usual, whether or not I buy a new set of frames and lenses to fill them.

+++

Yesterday’s visit to the Hot Springs RV and camping and fishing show was a washout. There was only one Class B recreational vehicle. On reflection, after the wasted visit to the convention center, I have decided I do not need nor really want an RV. The money I would spend on an RV would cover innumerable nights in decent hotels or motels. And the drive to those places would be less stressful in a smaller, more maneuverable vehicle. The downside, of course, is that motels and hotels usually prohibit campfires just outside the doors to their rooms. And the space between guests is much smaller in such lodging facilities than in campgrounds. But that is not enough to convince me, today, to buy an RV. The decision is made. And it will remain made, I think, unless I change my mind.

+++

For now, though, my objective is to have avocado toast with a sliced tomato chaser.

Whether the memory originated from a personal experience or from a story I read or heard about, it touched a nerve that remains raw more than more than thirty years later. Details of the memory have blurred over time, but its core remains firmly intact; an infected sore that won’t heal, no matter how much time passes.

Time—a surrogate, like an antibiotic salve applied to an excruciating emotional trauma—is said to heal all wounds. But some injuries are so grim and painful that they are burned into the psyche like brands on cattle. The passage of time cannot remove the scars. The disfigurement becomes a permanent reminder of the damage that created the disfigurement. New experiences may tamper with one’s recollection of the original injury, poking at the scab left behind. The new damage might poke at the original scar, causing it to crack and bleed again. No matter the cause, though, the original searing emotional damage resurfaces from time to time, crippling one’s ability to forget and forgive.

The original memory took root when I lived in Chicago, I think. In response to her husband’s diagnosis—cancer, I think—the woman announced that she was leaving him, saying something to the effect that, “When I married you, I didn’t sign up to ruin my life by spending all my remaining time caring for a sick, dying old man. You can pay someone to empty your bed pans and wipe your butt; I’m not about to do it.” I had never witnessed such monstrous abandonment. The level of selfishness…the absence of compassion…the utter lack of even a shred of love…was stunning. That a person could be so incredibly cruel and indifferent to the effect of her renunciation of what I assumed was an earlier lifelong commitment was stunning. It was unreal to me. Could a person who presumably had expressed love and a lifelong commitment really and truly and suddenly become so callous and unloving? The man’s trust in his wife—and in humankind—must have instantly degraded into…something…an emotion so unspeakably painful as to completely break not only his heart but the hearts of anyone within earshot.  His belief in love must have dissolved in an instant. Expressions of love, from that point forward, must have seemed to be noxious vapor escaping from the mouths of heartless beasts.

Ever since then, when I have heard someone say—even as a so-called “joke” meant to elicit a laugh or a groan—something reminiscent of the idea that “If you get sick, I’m not going to wipe your butt,” I cringe. To me, that kind of “joke” probably hides—very poorly—a very real sentiment. It tends to make me deeply skeptical of the speaker’s capacity for compassion. Immediately, my guard is raised. Any trust I might have had in the person is buried beneath a thick layer of suspicion. Any protestations that it was ‘just a joke” fall on not deaf, but deeply skeptical, ears. Trustworthy people do not openly display, even in jest, their willingness to abandon the trust placed in them, for a “laugh.” Whether or not they actually follow through on their “just joking” announced abandonment, I would always assume they would, at the very least, resent fulfilling obligations that would infringe on their selfishness. Notwithstanding any evidence to the contrary, I think I would forever assume any of their behaviors that conflict with their absence of compassion to be performances designed with their own benefits in mind. Does that make me an unforgiving skeptic who refuses to permit such people to ever earn his trust? Probably. And it probably makes me someone who tries to protect himself against the damage such people could cause for him. And it makes me someone suspicious of behaviors that even hint at such mercilessness. And, yes, it might make me merciless, too, and selfishly so. So how do I defend my own mercilessness while condemning it in others? That is a hard question. One for which I cannot seem to find an answer.

Another early start—even earlier than yesterday. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock read “3:43” when I got out of bed for the second time this morning. I mistook the time as “2:11” the first time, but I missed the initial “1.” A more focused look revealed the time actually was “12:11.” Too early to start a new day, so I returned to bed. But the second awakening at “3:43” was too close to “4:00” to return to bed. So I got up, weighed myself, and went about what has become my usual morning routines: measure my blood glucose, make coffee, and encourage my computer to inundate me with information.

Like most mornings, the information this morning was largely unpleasant. Shootings. Dangerous international political posturing. Venomous reactions to noxious environmental calamities. Updates about the horrors of the latest wars and precursors to war. Terrifying results of a global climate spiraling hopelessly toward our inevitable oblivion. The usual stuff. Why I subject myself to such ugliness is beyond comprehension; yet I do. And with some regularity. On those mornings when I bypass the “news,” though, I sometimes manage to avoid the choking, poisonous layer of grim, grey, toxins that sully the emotional atmosphere. I should sidestep that suffocating gas in favor of the atmosphere several thousand feet above me. Floating silently through space, taking in fresh oxygen that fills me with a serene sense of safety and protective distance. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Distancing myself from the labyrinth. The sticky web. The clot of thick, confining rope.

+++

I am more familiar with words that describe pain than with words that portray pleasure. That may be by choice, or it may be a function of the way my mind works. Regardless of which, certain aspects of the English language almost invisibly manipulate the way I—and all of us—view the world of which I am a part. Words mold the way we experience existence as much as, perhaps even more so than, the actual experience itself. “Pleasure” seems to have more negative connotations than does “pain.” “Pleasure” frequently is associated with acts or ideas considered coarse or vulgar. Even when those acts or ideas are neither coarse nor vulgar, but simply enjoyable or restorative or transformational. The pleasure one feels when leaping from an airplane, plummeting in free fall toward the earth below, is one such experience. There is nothing coarse or vulgar about that. Indeed, that experience can open one’s mind to a kind of joy rarely available to us as we trudge along the ground, our feet firmly affixed to the soil.

“Solitude” is a word that can summon a sense of unpleasant isolation, but it can just as easily set the stage for the euphoria of untethered freedom. Most often, though, “solitude” and “loneliness” occupy the same desolate places in the imagination. The beauty of pre-dawn solitude is majestic and awe-inspiring. But, realistically, it also can encompass the starkness of impenetrable isolation. Like everything in life, it can be slide from one end of a spectrum to the other; from darkness to light and back again.

Nothing is perfectly clear. Even transparent glass is an aberration of the idea of invisibility; it illustrates flaws in the concept of absolute “clarity.” Clear glass is at once invisible and apparent. So much of life’s experience is like that. It is “there,” but it cannot be successfully held in one’s hands. Air.  Water. Love. Happiness. Hatred. But transparent glass is different; I can hold it, yet I cannot really see it. Or can I? Do I see the glass, or do I see the effect of glass on light? Air is like that, too. So is crystal clear water. I do not see it, but I see how it transforms the way other materials behave: hair, cloth, skin. Love and happiness and hatred are invisible, too, but they change the appearance of the world around us. They either brighten or dim our perspectives. “Yellow” looks different when viewed through a lens of love, as opposed to a lens of hatred.

+++

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

~ Leonard Cohen ~

+++

I am more than 30 pounds lighter than I was at the peak of my obesity. But I am more than 30 pounds heavier than I was when, as a full-on adult, I weighed the least. That 60 pound range horrifies me. How could I allow myself to squander my health in that way? Assigning blame takes a judgmental approach to the way in which one’s emotions impact one’s actions, which in turn determine the shape and condition of one’s physical body. Accepting blame is not the same as accepting responsibility. Shame and guilt accompany blame. What accompanies responsibility? Opportunity?

+++

The time is nearing 6:30. I will shave and shower and ready myself to join a cadre of old (mostly) men for breakfast soon. I will have little to say. I will sit and listen.

Arising a few hours before sunrise can be a cleansing occurrence. I think getting up that early enables a person to discard some of the accumulated detritus from the preceding days and weeks—if, that is, the person wants an opportunity to freshen his engagement with the battles of daily life. As I contemplate the opportunity, it occurs to me that, lately, I have not arisen as early as I like. For that reason, among others, my cones of incense have remained hidden in my desk for many days. This morning, though, more than two hours after I awoke for the fourth time since going to bed last night, I lit some incense. I sense it now as it caresses me with its calming aroma. Its potentially calming aroma. Unless a person is ready to allow his frenzied mind to be sedated, the odor of incense—any unusual smell—can be more disruptive than soothing. Whether I am actually ready for my thoughts to be quieted, I want them to rest…calm…soften. I need to relax the stiffness that has gripped me during the last few days. Failing to address the brittleness, I might shatter into a million pieces, pieces so small and fragmented that putting them back together would be impossible. So I inhale the scent of patchouli smoke. I invite it to breathe elasticity into my porcelain brain. Perhaps I should have brewed hot tea this morning, rather than coffee. Maybe tea is a better sedative than coffee. I should stop distracting myself with thoughts like that. I should focus gently on the healing elements of aromatic smoke and rich, hot coffee. And, so, I do. At least I try. But regret and guilt pry at my serenity, creating cracks in my tranquility from which geysers of flammable fuel could erupt. Any little spark could ignite them. Peace should not be so fragile, nor so easily twisted into war.

It is getting late. The sky is weak with dim grey light; the dimness is receding, but it is not being replaced by brightness. Instead, the dimness is washing into emptiness, as if the sky wishes to reinforce the sullenness of the day. Stiff winds bend trees and limbs for a moment, then their movement suddenly stops, as if they have lost the ability to breathe. A modest hole appears in the dim grey cloud cover, allowing a pastel patch of orange and pink to peek through for a moment, only to be drowned a moment later by dull grey clouds. I wonder whether the day will continue this way; making efforts to emerge into light, only to be foiled by clouds that are both stronger and more certain of their strength than the distant sun.

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I wrote the following paragraphs before daylight. They belong at the end of this diatribe, because they have no other logical place. They are accidental links to a frenetic past. Or something like it.

Six episodes into the first season, I am thoroughly hooked on the French-language series Public Enemy (Ennemi public). The Belgian television series, available on Netflix, is three seasons long (I assume it has completed its production run, but I am not certain of it).  So far, my eyes have been glued to the screen in each one-hour episode, darting between the English subtitles and the action. Like so many foreign-language films/series I have seen in recent years, the subtitles are so well done that, in a matter of minutes from beginning to watch, I forget that I am not personally translating the dialogue. The plot begins with the release, after twenty years in prison, of a convicted child killer, who is given sanctuary in a monastery in a village in Belgium’s Ardennes forest. The villagers are livid at the presence of a child killer in their midst, so a young woman, a federal police inspector, is assigned to protect the man. Shortly after he arrives at the monastery, a little girl disappears. From there, the storyline grows increasingly tense and gripping. I read this morning that the plot was inspired by a similar set of circumstances involving a man named Marc Paul Alain Dutroux. The man’s case was so infamous that, according to a 1998 article by BBC News, “Over a third of Belgian citizens who have the same surname as the convicted paedophile Marc Dutroux have applied to have their names changed, France Info radio reported on Saturday, quoting the Belgian daily paper `La Derniere Heure’.”

Mi novia has grown nearly as addicted to foreign-language political and crime thrillers as I. Well, maybe not quite that addicted, but more than simply tolerant. As we scan available films and series, we both find ourselves drawn to foreign flicks, especially Scandinavian, and lately French-language programs. It’s not just a matter of language, either. It’s the cinematography and the greater “believability” of the stories and the actors’ portrayal of believable characters. Maybe there’s something else, too; but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

It is simply a distraction. But it works, for a while, to paint over the old, cracking, sun-dried topcoat. Maybe I should sit on the loveseat all day, watching television. That might be more soothing than smoking pork ribs. But probably not.

It’s nearly 7. More than three hours since I got out of bed for the third or fourth time last night and into the wee hours. I may need to sleep later in the day. But not now. I should have something for breakfast. Nothing “normal,” like cereal or fried eggs, though. Tomatoes and avocadoes, perhaps, with dabs of habanero salsa to liven the flavors. Like little knives jabbing at my tongue and taste buds, trying to instigate an fight. Or an insurrection.

I am beyond restless, hungry for a different environment. Anxious and thirsty for some kind of change. Edgy and agitated.  Anxious to abandon my predictable daily routines for a while. Maybe longer. I do not know the source of my sense of unsettled nervousness. I know, though, that it seems to be getting stronger and more urgent. Yet self-imposed obligations temper the urgency. Or, rather, they try to temper it. Instead, they tend to make me angry with myself for accepting commitments that constrain my freedom—freedom to respond favorably to sudden nomadic urges. If I could ignore my feeling that I have an unshakable obligation to fulfill commitments, once I make them, I might suddenly find myself accompanying the wind. Changing directions in an instant. Moving at dizzying speed and then suddenly coming to a stop, becoming absolutely still; as invisible as the wind itself. But I have willingly crafted thick links of chain—joined them together and affixed them to a band of hardened steel wrapped around my ankle. I did not grasp that my blacksmithing was connecting us to immovable anchors. But now I do. Breaking the bonds is possible, but regret and guilt would bubble forth from those links of chain as if they were tubes through which flows a perpetual stream of remorse. What, exactly, is freedom? It must be a state in which one’s efforts to build his own self-restricting prison are stymied. Life goes on, though. Restrictions, like webs surrounding one’s limbs, permit one to breathe but severely limit one’s movement.

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So. Situations change. Circumstances adapt and adjust to influences. The planned meeting yesterday with Lorri and John did not take place for good but regrettable reasons. The decision to forego the meeting arose, largely, from the fact that advancing age takes its toll on one’s energy and eyesight. I can while away the hours with shopping/sightseeing and I can drive at night; neither, though, are as enjoyable as they once were. And both tend to sap my dwindling supply of youthful energy.  The seven to nine hour delay between my doctor’s appointment and our planned meet-up seemed to me to be too much. So, I deferred our meeting until another time. Perhaps another road trip will take us to New England, where we can mold our respective schedules around a more relaxed and relaxing timeframe. So it goes.

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The original reason for the drive to Little Rock yesterday was to visit with the rheumatologist. She informed me that the MRI of my neck revealed no abnormalities. But the results for the right shoulder was another story. Significant age-related osteoarthritic degradation of the acromioclavicular joint is the culprit that has caused so much pain. And, unfortunately, it probably will only get worse over time. The only options to reduce or minimize the pain are drugs—meloxicam and/or acetaminophen—or surgery. The latter would be an option only if the former do not reduce pain to tolerable levels. The former, over time and depending on frequency and dosage, can cause a variety of side-effects ranging from mild to severe. While the diagnosis was not precisely what I had hoped for (an easy, permanent cure), it was far better than it could have been. My blood work revealed no evidence that I have or am in danger of having rheumatoid arthritis. No lupus. No mumps. No measles. No chronic, explosive diarrhea. No signs that I could suddenly become a vampire with an insatiable appetite for human blood. None of those deeply unpleasant things. Just a common condition in which bodily decay is accompanied by excruciating, but somewhat treatable, manageable pain. Hallelujah!

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To celebrate the absence of a more disturbing diagnosis, I bought another jacket and another semi-custom shirt. The first semi-custom shirt was not quite right, so it will be altered to be a better fit. And the semi-custom shirt I bought yesterday will be more precisely tailored to fit better. The sleeves of the jacket will be shortened; otherwise, it fits nicely. Though yesterday I spent far more than I ever thought I would on clothes, I am not hyperventilating. Once I force myself to buy one or two pair of slacks to go with the jackets, I will be in a position to dress in a way that will adequately conceal my natural bodily homeliness. Though the expense is obscenely exorbitant, it is cheaper than whole-body reconstructive plastic surgery.

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On the drive home, a stop at Costco further reduced the size of my bank account. While I was tempted to buy several whole Wagyu beef ribeye roasts, I controlled myself, opting instead to limit myself to pork ribs, which I will cook in my recently-acquired electric smoker. The smoker replaces an identical one I used until its demise. I plan to use the smoker with some regularity, preparing foods that can be frozen and subsequently thawed to provide quick and easy meals.

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My creativity is taking a breather. My mind seems to prefer a stultified atmosphere in which creative thought replaces oxygen.

A flurry of friends occupy my thoughts this morning. Yesterday, Jim and Vicki, good friends of mine since around 1997, made a little detour on their way from Alexandria, Virginia to Dallas to have lunch with us. This afternoon, if circumstances fall into place as I expect, we will meet John and Lorri for dinner or drinks as they make their way from Oklahoma City to Little Rock on a segment of their long, meandering trip back home to the east coast, a trip that has taken them from Boston to Sedona and places in between. And I am concerned about my good friends Lana and Melvin, who recently moved from Fort Smith to Memphis. Their historical responsiveness to communications has diminished of late, giving me cause for concern. And Patty and Terry are on my mind, as they camp in Big Bend and beyond, making their way west to Arizona during a month-long journey to unwind and visit family and friends. While friends are on my mind, I wonder how my Dallas friends, Steve and Ed, are getting along? This mental focus on friendships broadens—or is it that it narrows?—as I sit here. Ducky and Becky and Kim come to mind. People whose company I have grown to appreciate and regularly seek out. And there is a cluster of others to whom I’ve grown attached through church; they, too, enter my thoughts. Though I cannot claim to be extremely close to all of them, all of them matter to me. All of them add depth to my life’s experience. I call some of them soul-mates. I do not know whether that sense of intense, close connection is reciprocated, but I do not know whether that matters. Every person must determine for himself (or herself) who serves as part of a framework on which ones ego is supported.  And, of course, there is Colleen. A magnificently close friend and confidante and life-force and powerful source and recipient of love.

As my mind circles around the idea of friendships, its scope broadens to relationships in general. Connections to people whose presence is intertwined with my life in one way or another. Though I sometimes think of myself as something of a loner, in reality I value having connections with others. More than valuing them, I need them. Without human connections, I suspect my mind would shrivel like an apple left in the intense heat of unceasing sunlight. It would dry up and eventually turn to dust. Human interactions are the lubricants that keep our minds flexible and malleable and open to new ideas. If we close our minds to new ideas, we decay. I have seen it. I have experienced it from time to time. Certainty does that. It seals pathways to expansive thinking. Only when our minds are open to challenges to what and how we think are we able to grow and evolve and become more capable of surviving the onslaught of…something I cannot define. But it’s something that can ruin us if we let it. We must be willing to change. Become someone new.  Over and over and over again. I suppose that is how and why we make new friends. But the core of who we are is how and why we maintain and strengthen those powerful connections that take the form of long-time friendships.

Okay. I have expressed this odd philosophizing quite enough. I have to ready myself for a visit with a doctor in Little Rock. I hope she informs me that my two MRIs reveal something easily correctable; something that will enable her to magically make my shoulder and neck and joint pain disappear. I have learned to keep breathing. Not holding my breath. Not for a second.

I learned about the Sarco yesterday, however I only skimmed part of an article that described the device and its creator. The idea made enough of an impact on me, though, that I decided to explore it in a little more depth this morning. The Sarco is a “suicide capsule” that can be produced by a 3-D printer and can be used to end one’s own life without assistance by a doctor or other helper. Described as “a capsule that could produce a rapid decrease in oxygen level, while maintaining a low CO2 level, (the conditions for a peaceful, even euphoric death),” the concept emerged in response to a request from a man in the UK who desired a technological solution to ending his life. The man suffered from Locked-In Syndrome, a disorder of the nervous system in which a person is paralyzed except for muscles controlling eye movement.

According to materials on the Exit International website (note my skepticism about the organization, below), “the Sarco aims to provide a hypoxic (low oxygen), hypocapnic (low carbon dioxide) death.” Various safeguards associated with the device (restrictions on the availability of detailed specifications of the device and other controls, etc.) are meant to ensure that the Sarco is used only by people of sound mind who are committed to ending life in a peaceful, pleasant manner, without  intervention by doctors, the state, or other “intruders” on an individual’s pursuit of a serene, dignified death. By the way, the Sarco (and, I presume, the specific design for the device) was conceived by Philip Nitschke, the founder and director of Exit International. Nitschke was formerly a medical doctor in Australia; he opted to abandon his licensure when faced with demands that he abandon his very public support of the right to die movement in order to maintain his registration.

Though I support the concept that people should have the right to decide to end their lives when living becomes an irreparably excruciating experience or when one’s quality of life has degraded completely and is beyond recovery, the Sarco  may not be “the answer.” For one thing, the cost of creating  (3-D printing) the device is high: roughly $18,000 US, according to the Exit International website. For another, people who experience irreversible pain or otherwise have powerful, defensible reasons to take their own lives may not be in a position to arrange for production of a Sarco device. And, even if they could, they may be physically unable to put the device to use without assistance. The device can be controlled only by the user, once inside the pod; but the user may require significant help getting inside. That required assistance essentially negates the claim that using the Sarco is entirely in the control of the person who wishes to die.

My issues with the Sarco device notwithstanding, I subscribe to Exit International‘s published philosophy. But for several reasons, I am skeptical of the purity of the organization’s motives. Membership in Exit International costs $100 per year or $1000 for a lifetime subscription. Access to certain “member benefits” requires payment of additional fees. For example, access to the The Peaceful Pill eHandbook – Essentials Edition costs $85 for Exit International members and is said to be “sold only to those over 50 years of age, of sound mind or who are seriously ill.” While I fully understand why an organization might charge a fee sufficient to cover necessary costs, I am highly suspicious about the level of Exit International‘s charges. And I am more than a little cautious about the organization because its website seems a bit too commercial in tone, as if its primary but unannounced objective is to maximize its profitability.

Interestingly, Exit International is not listed among the 58 member organizations of the World Federation of Right to Die Societies (WFRDS). According to WFRDS, there are 80 such organizations worldwide, so several others have opted not to belong to WFRDS; but the majority do. Hmm.

Okay, I’ve drifted a bit. My interest in the Sarco device was piqued because of my strong belief in individuals’ right to decide to die when they experience unrelieved excruciating pain or when their quality of life has declined to the point of making living an irreversible exercise in anguish. In my view, the State has no business interfering with a person’s decision—in response to such circumstances—to end his or her life. Granted, the decision is irreversible and should be taken only after intense consideration. And, granted, suicide in the absence of irreversible circumstances should be discouraged in the strongest possible ways and fiercely guarded against. But the reality is that everyone dies. At some point, when the reasonably comfortable enjoyment of life is known to be permanently impossible, the individual should have the uncontested right to decide when to end it.

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They asked me what I thought about euthanasia. I said I’m more concerned about the adults.

~ Jay London ~

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I realize the content of this morning’s post is not as cheery as are my usual happy thoughts, but it is a topic that should not, in my view, be addressed in hushed tones. Death, as painful as it is to loved ones of those who die, is a normal conclusion to life. I think we should talk about it more openly and without feeling that we’re entering territory that is too “morbid.” Death is a difficult subject, sometimes, but it is one that warrants conversation.

I am curious about life experiences that have shaped the attitudes and beliefs of people I know; both people close to me and others with whom I know only casually. If the world were as accommodating as I would like, I would have the opportunity to sit with people, privately, and ask deeply personal, probing questions that might help me understand how these folks came to be who they are. It would not be enough to just ask the questions, though. The questions would have to be answered. Honestly. Openly. Thoroughly. I doubt I would feel comfortable asking many of the questions about which I might be deeply curious. We all have secrets of one kind or another that are so personal, so private, that we do not want to share them with anyone. Ever. Not even ourselves, I sometimes think. But it is precisely those deeply personal matters, the ones that may fuel some of our behaviors and attitudes that cannot otherwise be explained, that one must know in order to truly understand certain crucial aspects of a person’s personality. Getting at the answers to questions that might explain aspects of a person’s personality would require the “investigator” to be absolutely trustworthy. And the one asked to give the answers would have to firmly believe in and completely trust the questioner. That kind of trust—both earning it and giving it—is extraordinarily rare.

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After bouncing back and forth between various Scandinavian television series, I finally finished the final season of Borgen, a Danish political masterpiece, last night. Before that, evenings were consumed by three exceptional seasons of Deadwind, a Finnish crime series, much of which I had watched some time ago, but needed to revisit in order to fully grasp the entire riveting storyline. I suspect my adoration of Norwegian and Finnish and Swedish and Danish and related television and film is fed, in part, by my fascination with both the similarities and the stark differences between Scandinavian society and U.S. society. Not just the broader society; the characteristics and attributes of individuals in society. My life-long interest in certain vaguely appealing aspects of cultures that help define entire populations drives my interest, I suppose. Though I have a moderately deep and abiding interest in those aspects of cultures, my interest has never been sufficiently deep to fuel real passion. It seems I lose interest after a while, though my interest always returns. Perhaps my entire life can be explained by assuming I may have lived under the influence of undiagnosed ADHD. My experiences are rife with deep but brief plunges into topics of interest, after which I skitter near the surface of those topics and a thousand like them. My interests are broad but shallow, leading me to say about myself: “My interests are broad but shallow.” Or, “I know very little about so very many things.”

That’s a repetitive theme in this blog, isn’t it? One day (or one year or more), I will spend time with an astute therapist or other mental health professional who will help me delve into what makes me tick. I really would like to know why I do not seem to have the capacity to more thoroughly explore matters of interest to me before I lose that interest—at least temporarily—in them. It must be caused by psychological deviance of some sort. I am curious about it; just not curious enough to pursue it with enough vigor to find the answers.

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When I woke—much later than I would have liked—the temperature was 25°F. My computer claims it has now reached 29°F, on the way to 55°F. I am ready for temperatures in the mid-to-upper 70s. I want to feel thoroughly warm. Comfortable. But I’ll have to wait for several weeks, I suspect. Or months. On one hand, I want time to speed by. On the other, I want to pause the passage of time; even reverse it. I would reverse it if I could. Perhaps reverse only certain aspects of time, allowing me to reorder my experiences in some fashion. Weave multiple dimensions of time into a tapestry of experience that would wrap me in the kind of warmth that sunlight cannot offer. Ach. Daydreams. Fantasies. The sort of impossible dreams that bring tears to my eyes and sorrow to my soul. The kind of wishes that cannot overcome the brutal force of regret.

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It’s late. Almost 8:30. Time to abandon this expression of…whatever it is. Breakfast calls. Though I am not hungry for food, I need sustenance.

I woke early enough this morning. But, even so, I have no interest in doing anything. Not writing, not eating breakfast. Nothing at all. I want to go back to bed and sleep through the day and through the night and into tomorrow. It’s not that I am physically tired. Yet I feel mentally exhausted, as if every shred of energy that powered my interests and imagination is gone. I just want to crawl into a cocoon that shields me from the world around me. But I have obligations today I can’t ignore.  I have tried to ignite a spark of something inside me, but the fire flares for only an instant, then immediately burns itself out. I hope I can conceal my disinterest in life for long enough to get through two meetings.

It is pointless for me to be writing this. But I’ve done it, so I’ll call it my post for the day.