John Swinburn

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.

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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.

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

~ Leonard Cohen ~

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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?

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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.

Brilliant blue flashes of light and growling, rolling, ground-shaking concussions from cracks of thunder woke me from a dream. With no coverings over the windowpanes, every flash of lightning illuminated the room, filling it with an otherworldly fluorescent blue cast. The dream. I do not recall the dream, except that I woke shouting, in fear I was about the fall. From what? Into what? I do not know. I know only that my sense of fear—or the fierce cracks of thunder and blue light—was en0ugh to provoke a shout as I woke.

These ferocious thunderstorms augur a dramatic change in temperatures. So say the weather prognosticators. When I awoke this morning, the outdoor temperature was 68°F; only an hour and a quarter later, it is 59°F. Temperatures are expected to drop quickly, bringing the high for the rest of the day down to 52°F. Yesterday’s high—76°F in Little Rock and 74°F in Hot Springs Village—felt wonderful to me. Showers and 52°F, clearing a bit to partly-cloudy (but still 52°F) is not an appealing experience.

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If I were a Finnish barber attempting to schedule a client’s next haircut, I might offer a specific date to the client and then say “Katso päivämäärä aikataulustasi,” which translates into English as “Look at the date on your schedule.” Fortunately for me, I am not a Finnish barber. Because if I were, I would be unable to utter those Finnish words. I probably would not have any clients, thanks to my inability to speak or understand their language.  (And my lack of tonsorial arts might present a problem.) As I contemplate the problems I would face with such simple communication, it occurs to me that refugees and immigrants who do not speak English but who wind up in the United States must have a terribly hard time adjusting. It is hard enough during one or two day (or week) visits to a place to be unable to communicate in the local language. Attempting to establish oneself for the long term would amplify the difficulty; I think it would be nothing less than excruciating.

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A pair of Finnish police detectives—one of whom is an uncontrollable renegade and the other slightly more controllable—in the series we have been watching, Deadwind, regularly stop at the espresso machine while discussing a case. I rarely drink espresso, but when I have occasion to drink an especially dark, rich, flavorful demitasse of the stuff, the experience makes me think about getting another espresso machine. I used to own an espresso machine, a rather inexpensive one (by quality espresso machine standards). But I did not use it much; not because it produced a bad cup of espresso or was difficult to use or time consuming…none of those are true…but because I rarely had access to the right beans. And the grinder I used was incapable of grinding beans as finely as excellent espresso requires. On extremely rare occasion, I had the opportunity to lay my hands on a vacuum-sealed brick of an Italian brand of espresso-grind coffee. Even in my low-pressure little machine, the beans produced spectacular espresso. And when my source for the beans, an Italian guy who owned a premium, high-end espresso maker, used them in his machine, the resulting cups of espresso were marvelous. Incomparable. Energizing. Life-changing. Alas, I have lost touch with the guy. And I do not recall the name brand of the brick of espresso-grind beans. I doubt I could buy them, anyway. My source used to buy several bricks when he traveled to see family and friends in Toronto, where an importer friend of his supplied him with the stuff. My source shared only two bricks with me, I think, but they produced among the finest cups of espresso I have ever had—from my machine.

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How’s this for a fantasy? New, highly charismatic leaders have emerged, almost simultaneously, in the U.S., China, Russia, and the two Koreas. Each of them are friendly with the leaders of several other major countries. The primary five leaders collectively have enormously persuasive political power. The five leaders convene a “world leaders” meeting, during which the assembled group concocts a bold plan: to merge once desperate enemies into an enormous single entity whose sole objective is to achieve equality and parity among the citizens of the planet. The single most difficult obstacle, they reason, is inefficient and ineffective communication. So, they set about creating a new global language. And a plan for all geographic areas to adopt the new language. And to require its citizens to become fluent in the new language, while maintaining their own (and teaching both languages to their children and other under-age dependents).

Though the plan is ludicrously ambitious, it is implemented and its requirements strictly enforced. The semi-autocratic cabal of world leaders gently but firmly insist on collective efforts to unify the citizens of the world and to ensure that the citizens can communicate across what once were borders. Over a period of several years—and several new generations of leaders who are carefully and closely coached by the original five—the plan for global unity is well on its way to being achieved. Suddenly, though, a threat to the planet challenges leaders to make decisions that will save almost half the planet’s population and sacrifice the others. An asteroid the size of Earth’s moon is heading toward the planet. It’s present trajectory will destroy all of North, Central, and South America, along with people on island nations near them. Technologies have been developed which could be used to divert the asteroid’s path just enough to change where it will strike Earth. The leaders must collectively decide who lives and who dies. Should the trajectory be left alone? Or should it be changed so the asteroid will instead destroy most of Asia and/or Africa? Once they decide, the leaders are obligated to inform the world’s population of their unanimous decision and the reasons for it.

And I am not really a fan of science fiction or disaster epics. But there you go.

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Today is Thursday, the day a clot of UUVC men gather at a local breakfast gathering place (I would call it a coffee shop but that would be something of an insult to coffee) to check in with one another while breaking bread. Let me amplify; the coffee is not awful, but it is not especially good, either. Our group of men might be more closely acquainted if we had access to superb coffee, which would give all of us a common experience about which to converse. As it stands, I suspect the conversation today will veer into discussions about the Super Bowl. I know the Kansas City Chiefs won over the Philadelphia Eagles. I know because I just looked it up to verify that I was right. And I was. But I was not sure of the words that came after the city names. I got the score right, though; 38 to 35.  My conversation might take the path of “medical adventures of old men;” I could relay my experiences yesterday, when I had two MRIs: one of my right shoulder, one of my neck. The online portal that ostensibly keeps records of all of my medical interactions with the “clinic” has nothing new this morning; no results. I suppose I will have to wait until next week, when I return on Monday for a visit with the rheumatologist. I suspect she will tell me there is nothing of consequence I can do but to take pills to moderate the pain. If the pain remains as it is today, I can live with that. I do not like the idea of relying on yet another pill (that she already has prescribed and which seems to be working fairly well), but I am willing to accept reality.

But I slipped right off the path of telling about the men’s breakfast, didn’t I? I am wont to do that sort of thing. My mind wanders. Sometimes it wanders off without telling me and is gone for days at a time. When it returns, it leaves me cryptic clues about where it has been, but I try not to follow them for fear of encountering something inappropriate it did while traveling in search of adventure. Wait! It’s after 7, so I have to begin the slow, laborious process of changing from my morning leisurewear to my more socially acceptable jeans and sneakers and sweatshirt (the temperatures are falling, as I said). And it’s off to breakfast!

The question arises in me periodically—or, maybe, it always crouches in the back of my mind: Where, or what, is “home?” In a mobile society, the concept that home is the place in which one was born applies to fewer and fewer of us. Even if we spent our formative years in one place, the likelihood that family members and friends will remain there after we reach adulthood diminishes by the day. And, even if we abandon the idea of home as a place and, instead, consider it a tight-knit web of  people close to us, home tends to dissolve into vapor. The cluster of people who once defined what we called home disappears as its members grow apart—emotional bonds shred or family and friends become physically distant from one another. Or both.

No matter that one might “permanently” settle in a new place and establish a new cluster of friends. No matter that a new family grows to supplant the closeness of the distant original. That original home, for most, is a memory at best. The idea that home is and will always remain either a place or a clot of people (or both) to which we will always have ready access is a fantasy. Close emotional bonds stretch until, finally, they break. Efforts to repair the damaged connections can never replicate the original. Many reasons may explain the impossibility of reconnection. Sometimes, links to the past feel like manacles. Or the substances of which the bonds were made have become extinct. Or time and experience have so altered them that the attachments are no longer sufficiently strong to keep them together.

Whatever the reason for the inability to revisit home, that loss leaves a person feeling a hollow sense of homelessness. Nothing can replace the sense of intrinsic belonging, once it is gone. We can lie to ourselves, claiming we have found a new place to dwell; a comfortable physical place in which our emotional connections with people who matter equal or exceed the original home. But there always will be an emptiness—a fragile cavern that can be neither filled nor extracted—to remind us that our home is irretrievably unreachable. Thomas Wolfe understood that reality, I think. He expressed that truth, in the form of his posthumously published book, You Can’t Go Home Again. 

You can force yourself to try forget the loss of home. But no matter how hard you try, the inescapable truth of its loss occasionally comes to visit. When it does, you recognize you do not really belong anywhere, because the place you once belonged no longer exists. You realize you are no longer tethered to people or place. You float in a void. You have no means to steer yourself, nor any way to land someplace to which you can be permanently affixed. You always will be subject to being dislodged and sent aimlessly back into space, hoping to find another connection which can, at least for a time, become a surrogate for home.

+++

When I woke this morning, I saw that I had received, sometime after midnight, a text message from a friend. She and her husband may be passing through Hot Springs Village next week, on their way to places beyond, and wondered whether I might be available to visit with them. I have not seen her since I retired in 2011. I saw her husband (also a friend) once, just a year or two after I closed my business, when he treated my late wife and her sister and me to dinner during a visit to Boston. I hope their visit comes to fruition. I would love to see them and learn about how their lives have progressed in the twelve years since I saw her. In light of my contemplation about home this morning, I wonder whether changes in them and in me might have changed the complexion of our casual friendship. Both of them were members of an association I once managed. We saw once another only occasionally, a few times a year at most, in those days. I will not let my overly-contemplative mood this morning spoil my enthusiasm for seeing them, though. I will groom my excitement, instead.

+++

Yesterday morning’s heavy rain turned into clear, blue skies in the afternoon. High winds swept the rain away, scrubbing the sky and leaving a pristine atmosphere. This morning, a thick fog has reclaimed control. According to the weather prognosticators, the temperature might reach 74°F today, before sliding back down to the mid-60s with rain late this evening. My drive to and from Little Rock (where I will undergo two MRIs) today should be reasonably clear and comfortable. The MRIs are intended to disclose, if possible, the causes of some extremely annoying pains in various joints (especially my right clavicle and right shoulder). I am not putting any money on the likelihood that the resulting images will reveal anything definitive.

+++

Appointments with doctors and other healthcare professionals are taking too much of my time lately. They interfere with my desire for freedom to spontaneously decide to take day trips or otherwise behave as if I had no claims to my time. Aging, though, brings with it the begrudging wisdom to permit infringements on one’s freedom, if those intrusions have the potential of keeping one healthy (or returning one to health). If I had realized, as a younger person, just how valuable one’s healthy body really was, I might have taken better care of it But probably not. Because I was invincible and could not be persuaded that I was not.

+++

Enough musing for now. I will abandon this mental spillage for something more interesting and engaging.

Today is Valentine’s Day. Like so many other holidays, it has been appropriated by money-hungry merchants and their philosophical kin, eager to transform a celebration into an opportunity to extract money from celebrants. I read an article this morning that suggested the occasion has “dark origins.” Though financial gain may not have played a part in its origins, lust and power apparently did. If one examines today’s celebration of the event with a critical eye, I think lust and power—along with avarice hardly concealed behind a transparent veil—continue to serve as its driving forces. Love ostensibly is the reason for the day, but in my cynicism, I have my doubts. Happy Valentine’s Day. I will happily lavish you with heart-shaped chocolates in return for unfettered access to your kisses and your nakedness and…

+++

I feel the urge to embark on day trips. Or week trips. Or month trips. Road trips of one duration or another. When I feel these urges, which seem to arise with increasing frequency, I find myself perusing advertisements for Class B recreational vehicles—expensive mini-houses (more like upscale tents, I guess) on wheels. Though designed for two, they seem to me to be somewhat better-suited to solo travel. But I think they would work just fine for two, provided they have retractable awnings and room to store comfortable chairs designed for outdoor use. I’ve been advised to rent one before buying, if I were to decide to buy, but the cost to rent them seems obscenely high to me. I’d rather borrow one from a good friend and repay the favor with something of equal non-monetary value. Among the problems with that idea, though, is that I do not have friends who both own such vehicles and have sufficient trust in me to feel comfortable with the arrangement. I do not blame anyone for that. Letting someone borrow something as expensive as a quality Class B RV requires more than trust—it requires requires unshakable faith, the kind that grows over the course of a lifetime of closeness. Maybe I’ll buy one, anyway. It’s just money, right? With that level of expenditure, though, I might feel obligated to spend most of the year on the road, in order to justify the investment. “Investment.” One does not “invest” in something guaranteed to shrink in monetary value over time. It’s an expense, pure and simple. But isn’t retirement an opportunity to incur expenses without regard to ROI? Still, I have not yet convinced myself. I may be incapable of changing a mind so firmly ensconced in frugality and risk aversion.  Hmmm.

+++

MSU.

Again. And again. And again and again and again. Obviously, the time has long since passed when steps could have been taken to prevent the carnage. Actions now might lessen the number, but we have squandered our chances to reduce the number to near zero. Access to guns of all types is too readily available. Prospective mass shooters have seen and heard about too many role models to dam the flood of ideas that wash over them, triggering warped ideas of empowered hatred or revenge or control. Fanatical adherents to warped ideas about the intent of the Second Amendment are too numerous to make possible the collection and destruction of assault rifles and other weaponry unnecessarily available to virtually everyone. More aggressive mental health programs might make a dent in the problem, but the epidemic has become too widespread for the disease to be eradicated by treating its symptoms. I hold out no hope that mass shootings can be prevented. Or even that their numbers might be reduced. We now face the reality of being forced to live—and die—with them.

I wish my pessimism were unfounded. But I am afraid it is not. It is only a matter of time before a local grocery store or senior center or high school or bath house become a scene for a killing spree.

+++

Despite what I have written this morning, I am not an inveterate curmudgeon. I am more of a happy-go-lucky guy who is struggling to untie the ropes that have heretofore bound him to tentativeness. I am ready for more coffee and a reasonable breakfast; nothing tentative about that.

Discipline. When one thinks about the discipline required for successful dieting or exercising, one’s thoughts center on the self-control necessary to train oneself to follow a specific regimen. But when the subject involves correcting a child who has behaved badly, discipline adds punishment as an aspect of training. And when one refers to an area of special knowledge, discipline takes on an entirely different aspect; though it, too, relates to the ordered acquisition of information or ability. Language is fascinating. Words are fascinating. My fascination with words centers on the only language I use: English. As I consider how many languages I do not know, my interest in how words can have such different, but related, meanings grows exponentially. But that interest is based on assumptions,  not knowledge. Once again, I fantasize about acquiring the ability to speak multiple languages without effort; I wish I could get an injection or an electric shock or some other form of brain cell manipulation that would enable me to acquire fluency in a new language. I would willingly shoot-up at least once a day until I could communicate with ease in every language. But would those injections be legal? Would language acquisition by way of a syringe filled with a magic liquid be viewed in the same way society views the acquisition of mental ecstasy by way of a syringe filled with heroin? I can imagine society, with its voracious appetite for obedience to norms, intervening. Though I do not condone the use of heroin, for many reasons, there are similarities between its artificial means of achieving ecstasy and the ecstasy I might feel in acquiring proficiency in multiple languages. Something for me to think about; as if I needed anything else to clutter my brain.

+++

For some reason, over the course of many years, a line from a song/comedy skit presented during an old Smothers Brothers television program occasionally pops into my mind: “I fell in a vat of chocolate.” That line, and Tom Smothers’ report of his reaction to the absurd dilemma always struck me as funny. His reaction? He yelled “Fire!” Because, as he said, “No one would save me if I yelled ‘Chocolate!'” This silliness is on my mind right now because of the first line of a story I encountered on the NPR website this morning:

Federal workplace safety authorities have fined a central Pennsylvania confectionary factory more than $14,500 following an accident last year in which two workers fell into a vat of chocolate.

A representative of Mars Wrigley, the company fined for the accident at its M&M/Mars factory, told reporters, “As always, we appreciate OSHA’s collaborative approach to working with us to conduct the after-action review.”

I wonder whether the Smothers Brothers know of the incident? And I wonder whether the unfortunate workers were rescued after they yelled “Fire!”?

+++

Mi novia and I have been watching Deadwind lately, a Finnish crime drama series set primarily in and around Helsinki. During the course of watching the first season and part of the second, it has become apparent to me that I have seen it before. But that has not dissuaded me, yet, from watching it again. It’s still interesting and, except for a few scenes that are so etched into my memory that I cannot help but recall that I’ve seen them before, seems new to me. Despite the fact that the series is entertaining, a number of conflicts and discrepancies in the storyline plague the series. But even those mistakes do not sufficiently taint the series to make watching it a second time an unsatisfying experience. That having been said, now that we are an episode or two into the second season, I may want to abandon it in favor of something I have not seen before.

Despite my affinity for foreign flicks, watching and listening to English language films and series from time to time can be a refreshing change of pace. Listening to Finnish or German or Swedish or Hindi dialogue while reading English subtitles is not hard. But it takes an intensity of focused attention not required for English language programs.  So, in a sense, watching English language films or television programs is more relaxing and “easier.” But, generally speaking, English language products are not as interesting to me. I assume the appeal of foreign flicks rests with the style of acting and directing, but that’s just a guess. I am not sufficiently knowledgeable about the differences.

+++

We may make our way to Little Rock today to pick up a jacket I bought a few weeks ago (that’s been altered for fit) and a semi-custom shirt. While there, a visit to Costco will be in order. And some aimless driving—unstructured sightseeing—sounds appealing to me this morning. First step, though, is a healthy breakfast, produced with disciplined eating in mind. Later in the day, disciplined walking will be in order. And off I go.

I read, with some regularity, NPR’s blog, Goats and Soda: Stories of Life in a Changing World [the story of the blog’s name is interesting, by the way]. This morning, I read a fascinating and entertaining story about “glam makeovers of Pakistan’s tractors.” Though the blog’s name seems (and is) whimsical, its content always intrigues and educates me. It exposes me to ideas and experiences I probably would otherwise never encounter. I love its freshness and its willingness to explore matters ranging from sensitive regional issues to topics that, at first blush, seem absurd or nonsensical. When I daydream about various disparate occupations I might have pursued had I been more courageous in my youth, journalism sometimes emerges from the smoke. Immersing myself in unique cultural experiences and then writing about them could have been exhilarating and fulfilling, I think. Reading pieces written by journalists who do precisely that reminds me of one of my millions of occupational fantasies. I can imagine being part of a team of journalists who feed and encourage one another intellectually. Perhaps one day I will write a fictional autobiography in which my time as a globe-hopping, culture-sampling journalist will feature prominently. Sigh…

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery—always buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What’s this passion for?

~ Virginia Woolf ~

+++

The top of the news today includes reports about a spate of incursions into U.S. and Canadian airspace. Most recently, a cylindrical object flying at roughly 40,000 feet was shot down by U.S. jets over Canada’s Yukon Territory. Though I have not explored any so-called “news” sources that double as conspiracy factories, I suspect conspiracy theorists are having a field day with this flurry of easily-manipulated media attention. Are these objects dedicated to research on weather phenomena? Spying? Information-gathering for extra-terrestrial alien civilizations? Government-produced phenomena aimed at distracting citizens during the coming imposition of global dictatorships? Intricate public relations elements of  new corporate product launches? Jesus Christ’s rebirth and return in a different, more modern, form? Or what?

More to my liking was a news story about an anonymous Pakistani who walked into the Turkish embassy in the U.S. and donated $30 million to victims of the recent earthquake that struck Turkey and Syria. That story, lacking in even skeletal details, sparked my curiosity. Did the donor have cash in hand? Did his or her donation take the form of a check? A money order? A cashier’s check? A plastic debit card? Or, perhaps, was this act a cleverly-disguised mechanism used to launder money derived from drug or arms trading?

+++

The thirteenth anniversary of my sister’s death is approaching; a week and a day hence. I do not mark the date on my calendar and I never seem to remember the precise date. Yet every year about this time memories of her flood my mind. And when that happens, invariably I check to see the actual date of her death: February 19. I suppose my subconscious keeps better track of time than does my conscious brain. At any rate, she is on my mind at this moment. When I think about her death, I think about her siblings and niece and nephew and me gathering in the shallow water where the Gulf of Mexico meets Galveston Island to disperse her ashes, per her wishes. I wrote a poem entitled Into Salt about that experience. Some days I feel too close to mortality. And I feel both anger and appreciation; anger at loss, appreciation for the cessation of suffering.

+++

Once again, I got up reasonably early this morning. But not quite early enough. I got up about 5:45. And I’ve been surfing web news sites and writing ever since. An hour and fifteen minutes into the day and it’s already daylight and I’m just finishing my blog post for the day. I want to accomplish more while the sky is dark; I’ll just have to start setting my alarm. A good time to awaken, in my mind, is 4:30. That will be an objective I will strive to meet more frequently. For now, though, I’ll simply experience Sunday.

If I could start over—from the very beginning—and had the ability to make the choice, I think I might choose to be Finnish or Estonian or Dutch. Many years ago, I spent a day in Helsinki, so the choice of Finland is based not only on information I have gleaned from the internet. And, if memory serves, I spent two or three days—again, years ago—in Amsterdam, so I have first-hand knowledge of the Netherlands. Though I have never set foot in Estonia, I know enough about the country to feel confident that choosing Estonian nationality would be a good choice, if it were mine to make.

Obviously, spending just a few hours in any place is not sufficient to justify a decision to remake one’s life. But the more I learn about these three countries, as well as a few others, the more confident I become in the legitimacy of my impossible wishes. None of these three countries sprang into my dream world overnight; I have for years imagined what life might have been like had I been born into a culture I perceive as—what is the right ways to describe it?—cleaner and simpler and more pristine and more fundamentally humane than the one in which I was born and matured.

I do not condemn American culture; it has been good to me in many ways I probably do not deserve. But I do not admire its overwhelming attachment to capitalism and the thirst for material objects and wealth that capitalism breeds. And I detest the adoration of individualism and its accompanying passion for guns that have metastasized so thoroughly that they seem to have nearly erased the sense of social responsibility. Power and control seem vested in those who have the most selfish, loudest, and most strident voices…and who have ready access to weaponry.  Maybe I do condemn many aspects of American culture…but that condemnation is not responsible for my appreciation of other cultures. No, the appeal of other cultures rests with the cultures themselves, not specifically in how radically different they are from the one to which I am bound.

Had I been more courageous as a young man, I might have fled from a culture in which patriotism and nationalism have become synonymous. I might have taken the risks necessary to explore other cultures through immersion, rather than simply hunger for them as I viewed them from afar. Had I been born in Finland or Estonia or the Netherlands, I probably would be multi-lingual. And probably I would be less risk-averse. But I might be dead. Or languishing in a Finnish prison. Or bitter about living in poverty, compared to the “average” American lifestyle, as I scraped by on my meager income as an Estonian farmer.

There is no point in wishing for the impossible, of course. Except to exercise the imagination. And to prompt one’s curiosity about circumstances markedly different from one’s own. While daydreams can be exciting, they can darken one’s day-to-day experiences with artificial obstacles made of imaginary clouds. Fantasies that cannot come true can trigger bitterness, if you let them. That’s a battle best avoided. Dreams should be tempered with gratitude for reality. Sometimes, appreciation is difficult to achieve, but worth the effort.

No culture can live if it attempts to be exclusive.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

+++

Today, mi novia and I will attend a meeting of the local chapter/branch of NAACP. I do not delude myself into thinking I will ever be able to fully understand what life as a Black person is like. But I want to be as open as possible to being supportive of change, to the extent that the color of one’s skin or the cultural milieu in which one lives/lived is not an impediment to the safe enjoyment of one’s life. Perhaps immersing myself, on occasion, in conversations surrounding the fight for true equality will help me better understand how I can be supportive. And how I can change myself so that whatever vestiges of racism remain embedded in my psyche can be extracted and discarded. I wonder whether that is even possible? I shall see.

+++

The day has begun. Unless it is halted in its tracks, it will continue on until is morphs into night.

+++

To the European, it is a characteristic of the American culture that, again and again, one is commanded and ordered to ‘be happy.’ But happiness cannot be pursued; it must ensue. One must have a reason to ‘be happy.’

~ Viktor E. Frankl ~

Presented with an unlabeled globe or map of the world, what percentage of Americans would be able to correctly pinpoint more than fifty percent of the following locations: Somalia; Cameroon; Burkina Faso; Sudan; Chad; Democratic Republic of Congo; Gabon; Rwanda; Djibouti; Malawi; Liberia? Though I consider myself modestly knowledgeable about world geography and world events, I doubt I would be able to correctly place any of them. I might correctly point to the general area where several of them are located…but, then again, I might not.

Television and newspaper reports about Kinshasa are not rare, but I am not sure I could point to it on a map. Could I identify the country of which it is the capital? Could I recite any information about it? Until I saw the information online this morning, would I have had even an inkling that the city—the capital of the DRC—is the third largest city in Africa, behind Cairo and Lagos? Would I have been able to correctly guess the city’s population is between 13 and 15 million? I am embarrassed to say my knowledge of world geography and world affairs is sorely lacking. And I doubt I am in the minority. Whether I am conscious of it or not, I suspect my attitude toward most of the world is one of only mild curiosity, rather than intense interest. Unless I sense an immediate and significant impact on my interests or on the interests of governments that might have an impact on my interests, I probably pay scant attention to the world around me. Though I am troubled by Americans’ ignorance of world affairs and even world geography, I tend to identify “Americans” in that context as those others who do not measure up to my high standards. But if I look in the mirror, I see myself buried in the middle of that enormous, ignorant mass. If I am going to be hard on my fellow citizens for their inexcusable ignorance, I must be at least as hard on myself. My next question to myself: will I do anything to correct that embarrassing failing?

+++

One’s deficiencies change during the course of one’s maturation. Some respond well to curative efforts. Some solidify into a permanent state of modest imperfection. Still others worsen, blooming into extraordinary flaws, as if propagated from long-dormant seeds suddenly exposed to water, super-nutrients, and sunlight. Regardless of their origins or their evolutions, and no matter how we try, we cannot eliminate all of our faults. Some will die natural deaths, but many more will take root, defining who we are. Those that linger tend to establish themselves like tattoos…or scars burned into our personalities like brands on cattle.

+++

Who reads the blather I produce every day? I know a few friends and family members have trained themselves to wade through my voluminous ramblings—out of love, I suspect, rather than real interest. Rarely do I know their true reactions to my unnecessary outpourings, though. Perhaps it is best I do not know. And perhaps it’s best I do not know who follows what I write. And how few do. I have always said people should avoid unnecessary immersion in vats of hydrochloric acid. Yes, I’ve always said that. Over and over and over again. It’s a mantra. But, still, I keep fiddling with the plugs on those vats, trying to pry them open with screwdrivers or crowbars or to puncture them with sharpened metal stakes. This recurrent theme of fearful curiosity is tiresome.

+++

Finally, after delaying twice or three times my regular routine of getting my teeth cleaned, I have an appointment today just before noon. A new hygienist will perform the work because the one I’ve gone to for years either retired or quit or otherwise left her position. I’ll miss her pitter-patter, with which she revealed all sorts of things about her family, her likes and dislikes, her history, her health, and her relationship with her husband and college-aged son.

+++

Somehow, the clock tells me it is nearing 7:30, more than two hours since I got up this morning. I’ve had only one cup of coffee thus far. The rest of the time has been spent reading and writing. Those two activities make time seem like it is passing at supersonic speed. Onward to the remainder of the day.

Yesterday’s long periods involving very heavy rain have stretched into a new day. Brilliant blue skies look at me through a trio of large windows. The monitor of my new computer, a  27-inch beast, blocks part of the view, but I can see the outside world just fine if I tilt my body the left and lower my head and neck just right. Options like that are abundant in my life. I have the remarkable good fortune of being able to select from multiple choices, in crafting my experience, from moment to moment. Millions, and perhaps billions, of people do not live with the luxuries and the choices available to me. Though I did not personally, deliberately, or willingly ensure the deprivation of those millions or billions, I feel more than a tinge of guilt. What did I do to deserve my unnecessary mental and physical comfort? Why do I merit freedom from the horrors that I could have faced? Pure luck. Unearned good fortune. A shameless willingness to accept comforts, even with the knowledge that my comfort may contrast with their starvation; their agony; their ceaseless, overwhelming challenges?

+++

I read an article this morning about hypnic jerks. I knew of hypnic jerks thanks to a piece I heard, several years ago, on National Pubic Radio (NPR). My late wife and I were travelling toward Houston on I-45 when the term was mentioned on the car radio. The program may have broadcast a snippet from a TED Talk; I used to listen to what memory tells me was called the TED Radio Hour. At any rate, I remember hearing a discussion of hypnic jerks, a phenomenon about which I was intimately familiar, but for which I had no term to describe. Hearing that program, though, gave me a term for the phenomenon I knew quite well from personal experience. A search of my blog posts this morning revealed that I have used the term in two posts; this post makes three. The piece I read this morning, on CNN.com, used another term, as well: sleep starts. Whatever one calls them, they are sudden, jerky motions of parts of one’s body that may take place as a person is falling asleep; the motions can be strong enough to rouse a person from the process of falling asleep.

Odd, methinks, that an experience from at least ten or fifteen years ago—one that lasted no more than a few minutes—has somehow been imprinted in my brain. The brain’s ability to either recall or recreate such insignificant memories amazes me. I was in a conversation yesterday during which we both marveled at the mind’s ability to both create mental experiences and to recall their substance in the form of dreams. Do all our dreams already exist—hyper-condensed into tiny fragments of highly-specialized nerve impulses—or do we actually manufacture them on the fly during sleep? If the latter, how does our brain create artificial experiences that include such remarkably intricate details? There are various scientific explanations for dreams (and for hypnic jerks); but regardless of reliable scientific descriptions of such processes, I laud and applaud the magic inherent in science. Awe. Wonder. Amazement. When I ponder about the incredible capabilities of the human brain, I experience those emotions…assuming they are emotions, and not just the visual representations of emotions. If not the actual emotions, though, what are they? Another thing to ponder.

+++

Time to scramble; get dressed and drive to my Thursday morning coffee with a clot of geezers like me.

On occasion, thin slices of almost-lost memories struggle to the surface of consciousness. When that occurs, the mind sometimes attempts to resurrect those forgotten moments. Most of those long-abandoned recollections quickly fade. But some of them, after they spring up, remain embedded in the conscious part of the brain, as if insisting on issuing reminders of circumstances from which we should have learned lessons. In those cases, the natural response is to mine the memories for messages. The brain is not satisfied with sudden, unexplained recall. So it keeps scraping at veins that might lead to answers. But it is not uncommon for the mining operation to yield no valuable ore. So the brain compensates by manufacturing experiences—creating memories where none exist. Artificial images depicting events and experiences that existed only in the recesses of mind. Those images might be realistic—though not real—or they may be obviously embellished counterfeits. In either case, they arise not from true reality but from a false reality that has no basis in the physical or the spiritual world.  Recognizing the fact that the mind can conjure “memories” that have no basis in fact, one tends to become skeptical about one’s own thought processes—mistrustful of almost every memory, even vivid ones. If one is not careful, that mistrust might lead to an assumption that every memory, real or imagined, is fictitious, suggesting that one’s very existence is only a figment of a disembodied imagination. Odd, that.

Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets.

~ Paul Tournier ~

+++

I sometimes feel inexplicably uncomfortable with telephone conversations (yet is that feeling truly inexplicable?). Regardless, there is no doubt in my mind that written communications—especially email and text interactions—fail to deliver emotional content and context as accurately as does voice. Though face-to-face engagement is superior in its capacity for nuance, dialogue by telephone outshines the written word in terms of personal exchange.  Tone, speed of delivery, meaningful/ informational pauses, and the volume of one’s voice cannot be adequately communicated in written form. Only through engagements between mouth, ears, and eyes can intended meaning be conveyed with reasonable precision. But in the absence of visible evidence of their emotional framework, words uttered during telephone conversations far surpass written exchanges. So, despite my distaste for communicating by telephone, I much prefer it to text or email when I desire or need to more fully understand the emotional underpinnings of personal exchange. When presented with a choice, though, I usually will opt for speaking in person than for either talking on the telephone or writing.

Except, of course, when I need the distance and privacy afforded by thinking through my fingers. I am, at my core, a rather private person whose fragile self-confidence is always at risk in face-to-face interactions. Consequently, I can better express myself through a keyboard than with my voice. I am talking to myself, though. Maybe I should simply speak, aloud, I could save my eyes and brain the effort of transferring thoughts to my fingers. I could then read what I had to say without the additional steps.

+++

At last count, the death toll from the monstrous earthquake that struck Syria and Turkey (now properly known as Türkiye) exceeds eleven thousand. That number, in the context of attempting to understand the impact of the disaster, is hard to comprehend. Envisioning eleven thousand bodies is far more chilling and upsetting than imagining the number of buildings that collapsed into rubble as a result of the earthquake and its many aftershocks. Nearly six thousand buildings were leveled in Türkiye, alone. The numbers are staggering. But while news of the cataclysmic event and its aftermath is shocking, the jolt for people not directly impacted by the catastrophe is temporary. Shooting down a Chinese weather/spy/civilian research balloon in our own corner of the world commands more long-lasting attention. So does the President’s State of the Union speech. As does the uncivil behavior of members of Congress in their reactions to that speech. And, of course, as do the Russian war against Ukraine and the unfolding understanding of how many police officers and other first-responders were involved in the beating and ultimate death of Tyre Nichols.

So much bad news. No wonder I had a strong urge to stay in bed and go back to sleep this morning. But hiding from world events is no solution to the problems confronting humankind. Though most of us can do very little to ameliorate the horrors that confront us and the planet on which we live, we can do something. We can donate, financially, to efforts to respond to the needs of people affected by the earthquake. We can collectively demand police reform, in an effort to minimize or eliminate police brutality. We can offer moral and financial and political support to the people of Ukraine in their fight for victory against their Russian oppressors. We can write to members of Congress to express dismay at their immaturity and their unwillingness to compromise to do the work voters sent them to do. And we can seek out and celebrate “good news” that reinforces our capacity to do good, even in the dismal face of  human and natural disasters. Maintaining a positive outlook is very, very hard. But if we do not try, we will let ourselves down. And we will condemn future generations to undeserved physical and emotional hardships. The choice is ours to make. Individually.

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Moderately heavy rain has been falling for hours. Though I suspect it stopped during the night last night, it began falling while we were watching the first four episodes of The Chestnut Man., a grisly Danish crime mini-series. We did not know it was raining while watching the program, but a cool, bleak, rain-drenched night is an appropriate context for such a program. Drizzle and fog, beneath thick clouds, lend themselves to dark moods and deeply introspective journeys. The dull, pale grey sky announced daybreak quite some time ago, but the early morning brightening stopped before the trees in the forest became clearly visible. Trees in my line of vision are muted, jagged lines of dark greys and browns, hiding behind a curtain of air too humid to retain even one more drop of moisture. I have mixed feelings about such scenes. On one hand, they are conducive to introspective pathways. On the other, they look too much like grim and grisly settings in Danish woods to permit comfort; they sneer at me and dare me to venture into the forest. I will not do it. Not yet, anyway.

Squirrels’ movements are rapid and abrupt. The ways in which their bodies move—with an on-again, off-again jerkiness—suggest a staccato, high-speed replay of stop action video. When the creatures display their odd—but altogether natural—behavior, I sense they may be on high-dose methamphetamines. Perhaps acorns and pine nuts, two of their favorites foods, are flush with the ingredients of illicit drugs. Or, maybe they belong to a large society of addicted animals whose dealers regularly supply them with hallucinogenic substances. That society of addicts apparently includes very small birds, like sparrows and Carolina wrens. They are among numerous types of birds whose motions mimic squirrels’ frenetic, quivering energy.

If a squirrel—or a bird—were writing about its observations of humans, the description might offer the possibility that people tend to be slow, lethargic, and deliberate. They could suggest that humans behave as if they had consumed large quantities of narcotics; opium, heroin, codeine, oxycontin.

I know that I am intelligent, because I know that I know nothing.

~ Socrates ~

It may not be merely a matter of perspective. It could be a matter of platform, as well. While different species share many similarities, their differences overwhelm their commonalities. Most humans seem to firmly believe in our superior intellects; people rule from far atop the animal kingdom, we think. But our perspective of perceived superiority may be an outgrowth of our cerebral blindness to what constitutes thought and deliberate actions. While we tend to assume instinct explains animal behaviors, we simply may be intellectually unable to comprehend extraordinary complexities that may underlie them. Perhaps the equivalent of deliberate “thoughts” take place in the brains of squirrels and birds and speckled trout. Or maybe our limited mental capacity precludes us from understanding that “thoughts” are not necessarily the sole province of brains. The tissues surrounding bones and joints and organs in the bodies of members of the other elements of the animal kingdom may function in ways reminiscent of the roles of the human brain. And, for that matter, members of the plant kingdom—skilled practitioners of photosynthesis—may be far more intellectually sophisticated than humans can ever hope to be. Humans’ slow, dull, severely limited capacity to truly understand natural magic quite possibly limits our attainment of parity with other animals and with plants. While we view ourselves as the highest level masters of the universe, the creatures with whom we share the space may well consider us malicious, troublesome parasites.

To be forgotten, is to die a little.

~ Aung San Suu Kyi ~

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Today is special in ways only the remembered know. The forgotten struggle to crawl out of an urn that matters to no one. Tomorrow, though, may be bathed in the embrace of memories.

Desire is an interesting emotion. Desire seems to be dramatically more forceful than mere want. Yet desire is less powerful than need.  Or is it? Are the two inextricably combined? Desire may not be articulated openly; unlike need, desire often is expressed through hints. Want or need usually is either obvious or readily identified and broadcast to an audience that might meet the want. Desire, though, may be deniably implied, as if overt expression might be dangerous or, worse, viewed as unwelcome or inappropriate. If the object of desire does not possess a reciprocal emotion, it is either inanimate or unattainable. Philosophies and hypotheticals. The eternal “what-ifs” toy with the mind.

Among the reasons the relationship between desire and need is on my mind was last night’s viewing of a bit more of the series, The Crown. I saw desire and need—both expressed and implied. Watching the program, I sensed the characters’ emotional desires in some contexts and their psychological needs in others. And, sometimes, both emotions competed within the same context. The flames of desire can be quenched through rejection, while needs are not vulnerable to extinguishment  until they are met.  I think my cryptic consideration of this matter is far too esoteric to be understood by most people who might come across this post; so, I shall abandon my meandering ponderings for the moment.

Love is simply the name for the desire and the pursuit of the whole.

~ Aristophanes ~

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Arguments could be made that the Colorado State University students—who chanted “Russia” toward a Ukrainian junior guard for Utah State during a game day before yesterday in Fort Collins, Colorado—are simply immature. Some might argue that a strong reprimand might teach the students a lesson. Is it possible, though, to teach basic human decency to people who have reached college age? If it is, would a strong reprimand accomplish the objective? I doubt it. Compassion arises from emotional connections with others; repeatedly putting oneself in another’s shoes solidifies those connections. The people who chanted “Russia” as the Ukrainian student went to the free throw line obviously did not put themselves in his shoes. In my view, a reprimand—no matter its strength—is unlikely to imbue them with compassion. While the kids are not irredeemable, their behavior has demonstrated their appalling cruelty and malicious spitefulness. That level of malevolence merits more than a reprimand. If the chanters can be identified, I would be in favor of a three-pronged response: 1) nullifying any college credits they may have earned to date; 2) requiring a full semester of sensitivity training, ending with a pass-fail exam that measures emotional and psychological fitness to participate in society; and 3) subjecting them to public shaming and ridicule. Perhaps that reaction is too severe. Perhaps the response would be viewed as vengeance, rather than correction. So be it. Flagrant cruelty, demonstrating the lack of compassion, makes my blood boil and causes my own compassion to dissolve into a mist of rage and retribution. If I were to reveal how I really feel about the students who taunted the Ukrainian basketball player, I would write about how I feel they deserve public flogging and torturous imprisonment. Hypocritical thinking erupts in me when a desire for retaliation replaces compassion. I am glad I took my blood pressure this morning before reading about the game night incident.

+++

My wish for quiet solitude and my hope for peaceful enjoyment of this early morning has gone to hell. I recognize my hypocrisy in wanting peace, on one hand, and retributive justice, on the other. I understand the disconnect between my worship of compassion and my embrace of mercilessness. Intellectually, I can view my attitudes and my behaviors from the perspective of detachment and impartial assessment. But emotionally, flames of rage and almost uncontrollable anger almost consume me. And the white heat of those emotions threatens to overwhelm my feelings of compassion. No, it is far beyond a threat; I have absolutely no compassion for people who demonstrate an utter lack of compassion. In some circumstances, compassion necessarily requires forgiveness. When I find myself unwilling or unable to forgive, I realize I have deconstructed the passion of compassion. It is then I allow punishment and/or revenge to become more desirable than redemption. And, then, I wonder whether I am truly compassionate or I am simply playing along, masking my true self—showing my similarities to those bastards who taunted the Ukrainian player.

+++

I had a dream last night in which I was attempting to make a phone call to my mother. I was given a desk phone that would reach her number, regardless of which of several area code prefixes I used. In the same dream, I think, I walked into a Home Depot to buy something, but realized after I entered that I had in my pockets some unopened items I had bought at another Home Depot; but no receipts. I worried that I might be accused of attempting to shoplift those items in my pocket. There was more, of course. But the rest, as blurry as it is, seemed to be just as meaningless and troubling. No matter how certain I am, at times, that dreams have no intrinsic “meaning,” I often wonder whether they convey messages I simply am not sufficiently intelligent to understand.

+++

Today, I have a follow-up visit with my primary care doctor’s APN, who will make a determination as to how well I am doing in my efforts to control what was diagnosed as Type 2 diabetes. I think I am doing a bang-up job of it, the proof of which is my ongoing deprivation of foods I crave. And, of course, my blood glucose numbers. But my assessment is based on a two-dimensional understanding of the affliction. Hers is more comprehensive; it is a three-dimensional understanding based on far greater knowledge of the body’s intricacies than I will ever have. We shall see.

+++

Speaking of food, I feel famished, despite the fact that we had a very nice meal last night, consisting of a petite filet mignon and a nice salad for each of us.  Dinner would have been even better if a nice glass of malbec or sauvignon blanc had accompanied it. Instead, we drank water with our meals. My pride in eating sensibly is eclipsed by my wish that I could eat and drink anything I desire, without worry that the food could damage my health. Yet I cling to that eclipsed pride, a consolation prize that must be allowed to stand in for the unavailable gastronomic trophy.

+++

And, now, I’m off to conquer the day.

A few years ago, while dabbling in reality, my mind ricocheted between darkness and whimsy at lightning speed. In a post entitled, Hiding Behind Rainbows with a Machete in Hand, the dichotomy was glaringly evident. Bouncing between delight and desperation in that post was deliberate, but it may have been symptomatic of a touch of creative madness, too. Creativity, though, can hide behind incompetence. I know this from personal experience. Lackluster creativity is simply a failed effort at expressing one’s ingenuity in the absence of…one’s ingenuity. When one’s mind is in a state of maladroit dullness, even the most intense effort at creativity is destined to struggle and, ultimately, fall flat. Attempts at cleverness become sad expressions of ineptitude. In such situations, even self-deprecating humor trips over itself, leaving one’s knees and ego bruised and bloody. Depending on the force of the knees’ collision with rock-bottom, one’s kneecaps and sense of self-worth can shatter into a dozen irreparable pieces. An example of near-slapstick “wit” from the “Hiding…Rainbows” post, pretending to be humor, tells the tale:

“…some of the characters in my head tend to be so dark that I have to leave them alone and lock them away for a time while I visit with unicorns, leprechauns, and English-speaking bulldogs.”

I blame sleeping late, among other things, for the dive into the uninspired and unimaginative. The ugly cesspool of improperly processed ideas backs up into one’s brain and then seeps down into the hands—the evidence of which is found in tepid thoughts delivered through crippled fingers.

Pure, pre-dawn darkness, the kind one experiences after arising before 5:30 in the morning, frequently washes away the dullness of creativity that has been imprisoned inside one’s head. Somehow, solitude and the absence of sunlight combine, becoming cleansing and restorative. But sleeping late robs one of that restoration, replacing it with creative channels clogged with hideously common dullness. Even if I have to go to bed at 8 o’clock, I will, by God, retrieve at least a smidgen of my oft-restored (but subsequently ruined) creativity. Maybe.

+++

Yesterday was a full day. We attended a symposium about the Elaine, Arkansas massacre (and land-theft) of 1919. The murderous event left hundreds of Black men, women, and children dead. As part of the symposium, a documentary about the event, entitled We Have Just Begun, was shown. The entire program was interesting and thought-provoking.

Then, last night, we attended a Chinese New Year celebration at church. Food was catered by a local Chinese restaurant. I learned, as I was serving myself food, that almost all the food on the buffet line included enormous amounts of sugar and all manner of carbohydrates, both of which I should consume in very small amounts. Even though I tried to be judicious by selecting mostly vegetables, I ate a lot of the two “enemies” of my body. My blood glucose number this morning, while not horrible, was still higher than I wished.  Regardless, I enjoyed sitting and visiting with friends. One of these days, I will throw caution to the wind and will eat food with abandon and have wine or a cocktail or two. But that will be a long time coming. I have avoided alcohol since the last week in July; more than six months. I intend to rely on the same discipline to continue eating a healthy diet. Yet all work and no play makes John a cranky old man, so I will take care to avoid chronic crankiness.

+++

Mi novia and I have been tapped to say a few words while lighting the chalice at the beginning of this morning’s service at church. Time to shave, shower, and read through the chalice-lighting message. And, so, I will stop this effort to squeeze creativity out of a dull, rough rock.

The last several days, during which meteorologists and local “authorities” urged people to stay home in response to an expected series of ice storms, failed to meet expectations. Though there was some freezing rain, some sleet, and a touch of snow, the warnings about widespread black ice failed to accurately predict real-world experience. I am not complaining about the absence of fierce winter weather. But I wish I had not felt compelled to remain locked away in the house in anticipation of a potentially cataclysmic event that never came. I do not know what I might have done, had I ventured out, but I know I would have enjoyed the freedom more than I enjoyed the captivity. Yet I did venture out, if only a little. I went to the grocery store. I drove around the Village a bit. I walked outside in the absence of precipitation when arborists removed a large tree and felled a few dead ones. But I did not venture far; when I did, not for long. I think the knowledge that I should stay inside when I want to go out and about is enough to drive me stir-crazy. It’s the sense of being denied something; the denial makes it that much more attractive.

+++

Documentarians probably do not embark on projects with the idea that their efforts will disclose the “truth” about events. Instead, I would argue that their projects are conceived as efforts to uncover and chronicle facts that support the filmmakers’ perspectives on the events about which their films are made. I recognize my viewpoint represents a generalization; I am sure my characterization of documentarians does not necessarily apply to all of them. But I would bet I am right. And, if I am right, documentarians are not simply historians who practice their trade on film; rather, they are activists who market their points of view by sculpting the manner in which history is revealed. While my attitude may seem  harshly judgmental, it is not necessarily so. It is simply an observation, colored by what I would call a logical assessment of motive. I do not fault documentarians for having opinions and for expressing their opinions—their beliefs—in the way they present facts. But I would caution consumers of the work of documentarians to be cautious in accepting as gospel the meaning of those facts as presented. Because facts can support radically different perspectives, depending on the manner in which they are “slanted.” I would issue that caution regardless of the extent to which I either agree or disagree with documentarians’ interpretation of facts. Put simply, caveat emptor.

+++

I can feel depression, but I cannot describe what it feels like. I just sense it. It soaks into me. Not like water; more like syrup. It slows my ability to think. Nothing is appealing or exciting. And I want to retreat into an impenetrable shell. But there are breaks in it. Like when I feel trapped inside because of the weather; I want out, then. But I wonder whether that is yet another symptom. It doesn’t matter, really. I don’t care. Until I look back on that sense of soaking in syrup and realize I do not want to go through it again. It will return, though, as it always does. And so does the appeal of leaving it behind when it slips back under its rocks. Ach! I write about depression as if I know that’s what I experience. It does not look or feel exactly like what I read about it. But I do not know what else it might be. It’s not especially frequent, nor is it terribly deep. It is annoying, though, in hindsight. Whatever it is.

+++

It is well beyond time for breakfast. And I still need to shave and shower and get dressed. Get a move on, sir. Leave this keyboard and venture into the real world.

When one writes as regularly as I do, he tends to reveal secrets about himself without overtly admitting to them. He wants to express himself honestly and openly, but to do so might mimic lighting a match in a room full of hydrogen gas. But it is a small room; one that probably will accommodate no more than four people. A catastrophic explosion that only the people in the shattered room can hear or see or feel. So, to avoid the tiny cataclysmic event, he never reveals all his secrets to the world. He keeps them hidden, but he may drop hints in private settings; those settings may be real or fictional, depending on his mood and the extent to which he believes a secret might make its way to the intended ear. It’s all very complex and confusing. But ask me and I may explain it to you. Only on the condition of absolute privacy and confidentiality, mind you.

+++

Much, perhaps most, of the ice that coated tree branches and pine needles has either melted or fallen to the ground. For a while, the forest appeared otherworldly, the icy coating on the trees looking like an imaginary winter wonderland from storybooks. I still see a few patches here and there, but the sight is not like yesterday, when the forest glistened. What was once an extraordinary, almost magical, visual experience is now almost drab in its ordinariness. Odd, that. The forest was beautiful before being coated with ice; yet, in the aftermath of that coating, its beauty seems to have departed. It’s all a matter of comparisons and context. Someone might consider my appearance acceptable in the absence of comparisons, but when standing next to Brad Pitt, that acceptability might transform into grotesqueness. I refer to that sort of situation as comparing apples to alligators.

+++

Spain and Morocco are only about nine miles apart at the closest point. Europe and Africa almost touch one another at the Strait of Gibraltar. Spain claims sovereignty over the enclaves Ceuta and Melilla, which are located on territory that, on a map, looks like Morocco. The political and economic ramifications of the tensions and the trade between Spain and Morocco are fascinating. And those relationships influence other relationships, like Spain’s trade relationship with Algeria. Algeria’s trade with Italy seems to be improving as an indirect result of Algeria’s displeasure with Spain’s evolving relationship with Morocco. Geopolitical intrigue is real. The reason political thrillers often are so riveting, I think, is that their premises seem based in realistic potential. But I do not know enough about such stuff to write about it and I am not prepared to invest the time and energy to learn.

+++

When misfortune of consequence befalls a person, predictable offers of support and assistance follow: “If there is anything I can do—anything at all—just let me know.” Some of those overtures are genuine. I suspect more of them, though, are automatic responses that have been trained into the person making the offer. And that person does not expect to be asked to make good on his expression of compassion. It is unfortunate that “good manners” in such circumstances seem to require such insincere offers. Life would be simpler—and navigating hard times would be more manageable—if declarations of support were made only when they were valid; with no contingencies.

But maybe I am too skeptical. Maybe the overtures are, by and large, genuine. Perhaps the reason they seem hollow is that the person needing support is hesitant to ask for it. Maybe he fears the offer is just window-dressing; a vacant attempt to show empathy, sympathy, kindness. If that were the case, the failure to follow-up on the offer might illustrate another form of automatic response; a person trained by experience to assume the compassion is artificial.

I do not know why this unpleasantness is on my mind this morning. It is not in response to a specific event or experience, at least as far as my consciousness reveals to me. It just popped into my head and refused to leave until I documented its presence. Though I have done that, it still refuses to leave.

+++

I learned from my late sister’s example to make offers of assistance only when fully committed to following through on them. When I say “anything,” that includes driving a person to Baton Rouge or cleaning her oven or doing grocery shopping or showing up at three in the morning with money to make his bail. Given my sense of obligation to follow through on commitments, I tend to be judicious in making them. Sometimes, when following through on a commitment is extremely inconvenient, I wish I had not made it. But then I feel guilty for allowing my inconvenience to make me regret making the commitment. Catch-22 again.

+++

The computer continues to rebel against me. Though I woke at 4:45, I have been unable to finish this post because the computer either drops the WiFi signal or freezes as if its primal secret is about to be revealed. I have to stop. Otherwise, the machine will drive me mad and I will burst into a million stars, each of which contains fragments of me. And you.

The human brain is incredible. Somewhere among the multiple layers of tissue and discrete clusters of specialty cells are answers to every question ever asked and more that have yet to be posed. The brain is an intricate, elaborate, impossibly complex factory where magic takes place. It is the equivalent to a piece of meat; but one in which there exists an impossibly large storage cavern where all knowledge, thought, experience, and memory resides.  Despite the fact that large bands of my memory have hidden themselves behind opaque walls in my head, I am confident the memories remain. Occasionally, a long-hidden recollection will free itself of the cables that lash it down to forgotten thoughts and experiences. That snippet of memory, though a surprise, is evidence that everything I have ever experienced has been recorded in some fashion. Perhaps, though, the processes that recorded experiences did not begin to fully function until I reached a certain young age. Maybe that is why I do not recall emerging from my mother’s womb, Perhaps that explains the fact that I do not remember the trip home from the hospital where I was born.

The brain consists of 60% fat. The remaining 40% consists of water, protein, carbohydrates, and salts. The organ contains blood vessels and nerves, including neurons and glial cells. Glial cells provide physical and chemical support to neurons. Some people refer to glial cells as the glue of the nervous system, the matter that holds it all together.  More important than the brain’s makeup is the vast array of its functions. And as important as its role in breathing, blood flow, and hundreds of other functions vital to life, its magical ability to record actions, images, odors, and emotions, among other aspects of the life experience is what captivates me. I am convinced that, with the right prompts, my brain could reproduce for me that “aha!” moment when I understood the concept of translating precisely-ordered letters of the alphabet into words. And words into sentences. And sentences into ideas. And ideas into understanding. I would like to know how the brain processes vision so that, when looking at a two-dimensional image of a cheetah, I know what that image is supposed to represent and I know something about the feline’s ability to run fast and about its carnivorous habits and diet and about the strength of its jaws and its claws. Magic. The impossible or utterly illogical taking place in a reality not designed to translate illusion into the mundane.  Hmm. I cannot keep trying to understand all this, lest my head explode. Not this morning, anyway.

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Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to explore thoughts and wishes and dreams. Twenty minutes to search for that illusive understanding, that knowledge that produces satisfaction. Twenty minutes to express emotions previously shielded from the wider world. Twenty minutes to overcome inhibitions forced into one’s psyche by a culture that disapproves of the ability to experience unfettered emotional freedom. Twenty minutes of unrestrained openness. Ecstasy that transcends the intellectual or emotional or physical, melding all three into a pulsating sphere of energy and light. Just twenty minutes dedicated to exploring reality, unencumbered by petty constraints imposed by rules, judgments, or fear. Completely blocking external influence or observation for twenty minutes could yield experience and understanding far beyond that tiny investment of time. Meditation. Daydreaming. Exploration. A covert, invisible, parallel universe that cannot be shared more widely; it is a secret, an everlasting private mystery.

+++

The weather forecasters were wrong. I doubt the streets are as treacherous as they predicted. I do not see thick coatings of ice on the street. I see no evidence that a monstrous ice storm swept through the Village overnight, holding us captive for the duration of the thaw. But what I see is hyper-local. Maybe I am unaware of massive sheets of slick ice that make travel an exercise in insanity. Perhaps the danger is hidden from me; intentionally protecting me from an overactive imagination. Or maybe not. Maybe it was all a big buildup to a complete dud. I do not know. But one day I will know. And, then, I will be glad I know.

+++

The coffee cup is long since empty. I must go now. I must find a way to replace the dark, dark liquid that coaxed me into thinking thoughts that make me seem thoroughly out of my mind. Experiencing early morning madness is a good way to entertain oneself. I know this first hand.

As I try to think cogent thoughts this morning, I encounter obstacles. Nothing is pertinent. Nothing is believable or relevant. Everything is imaginary. All of the customs of the culture are artificial. Jobs, social institutions like religions and governments—even families that once formed the core of modern home life—are the results of deceit, trickery, and and bald-faced lies. Packaged, of course, in such a way as to permanently hide their origins and the fundamental purposes to which they are being put. If all existence is simply a joke, though, who or what told it? We can’t blame God, because the tale was told even before the idea of God was born.

While the preceding paragraph was written for the sole purpose of asserting ideas contrary to what little we know about reality, arguments could be made for the rectitude of its content. And arguments against. And dismissive waves of the hands, as if to say, “I can’t be bothered by such meaningless drivel.” That’s the way my hands talk. Abrupt and insensitive. Downright rude and offensive, I’d say.  This is what happens when one’s mind is as close to a piece of damp cardboard as possible. One cannot think when one’s mind is buried under a foot of silt, muck, and disillusionment.

The price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.

~ Plato ~

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Why is it, I sometimes wonder, that twenty-first century readers and writers…and others, I suppose…regularly quote Plato, his teacher (Socrates), and his student (Aristotle)? Is it because their wisdom transcends time? Or is it because they reportedly made wise statements that correspond to today’s wisdom? Or, perhaps, another reason? Regardless of the reasons, I admire their perspectives on humanity and the world in which they lived. Their words reveal ancient wisdom. Modern understanding echoes their expressions. Centuries after they first wrote or spoke about the concepts in their Greek language, we earnestly embrace the English translations.

Based on my limited knowledge of Socrates and Plato and Aristotle (and others), I believe they must have been, intellectually, quite sophisticated. Many of their ideas remain complex even today. Politically and philosophically, (and mathematically, it seems), Plato and his crowd were refined. Plato was born more than four hundred years before a well-known religious philosopher is said to have spent time in and around Bethlehem. The descriptive information to which I have been exposed suggests Jesus lived in a much more primitive environment than did Plato. Or is that perception a product of my imagination? It might be interesting to see a head-to-head comparison between those two environments; graphic form might be more impactful.

+++

I surrender. For now, at least. I admit defeat. I fell in defeat to a weak enemy. Who is, for now, me. Battling oneself for supremacy is guaranteed to lead to an unsatisfactory outcome. Yet we do it every day. Or, I should say, I seem to position myself at odds with myself when both of us are equally powerless. It’s like punching at an empty, wet piñata that’s just out of reach—it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing inside but paper towels soaked in water.

Perhaps the day will improve with age. Or maybe I will.

Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~ Dylan Thomas ~

For a while after I awoke at around 4 this morning, and for several minutes after I swallowed numerous medications prescribed to keep me either alive or comfortable, I felt proud of myself. My weight continues to drift downward, a direction I value. But, then, I discovered my blood sugar was higher than it was yesterday. I cannot imagine it was because of what I ate…but maybe it was. This new lifestyle of restricted consumption and regular exercise has not yet become second nature to me. It must. Or else I will need to find a source of powerful painkillers to consume when my decline reaches the critical point of no return. I prefer for the routine to become second nature. I will rage against the dying of the light.

+++

I miss one-on-one philosophical conversations with like-minded individuals; a close friend, for example. Debates between people who espouse opposing points of view are fine, as they tend to sharpen one’s wits. But the presence or absence of mutually supportive dialogues can be the difference between happiness and depression. Perhaps philosophy has little to do with it, though; maybe it’s all about feeling safe and loved. And, maybe, it’s the unique sense of connection that is possible only between two individuals; threesomes or more may seriously dilute the sense of emotional bonding.

Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.

~ Jonathan Swift ~

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A couple of years ago, an acquaintance offered the following observation to me: …diversity becomes easier with age, especially if one is well educated, retired, white, and not in need of food stamps. I have wrestled with that statement ever since, wondering whether “diversity” is code for “tolerance.” And I have wondered, instead, whether “diversity” might be a synonym for “a sense of superiority?” Does the statement suggest that diversity or tolerance or a sense of superiority are luxuries available only to well educated, retired, white, financially comfortable people getting along in age?” When I force myself to think deeply about such matters, I believe I can see the same images as those seen through the eyes of people on the far-right fringes of political and social conservatism. And through the eyes of African Americans who view their white “allies” who pat themselves on the back for their paternal “defense” of people of color.

Conflicts between warnings issued by the National Weather Service in text form differ significantly from predictions displayed on interactive weather maps. While Hot Springs Village is located in an area for which the maps identify as within an “ice storm warning” area, the animation on the maps forecasts sleet and/or freezing rain south and east of he Village, but not in or immediately adjacent to the Village itself. Because it’s still relatively early—not yet 6:30 as I write this—it’s too dark outside for me to see whether last night’s precipitation clings to the environment surrounding me. I will have to wait until dawn to illuminate the world around me. Until then, I can only guess what I will see through the windows in my study.

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Ridding oneself of the tendency to make snap judgments about people requires commitment and practice. The propensity to categorize or classify another on the basis of a single observation or interaction is a hard habit to break. Yet, if one allows oneself even a moment to wonder why another person behaves in a certain way, that bad habit begins to weaken.

Seldom is a person’s one-off behavior reliably indicative of his core personality. More often, that behavior is triggered by exposure to an external stimulus. His core personality may be especially susceptible to exhibiting out-of-character behaviors when exposed to environmental triggers. But most of the time he is apt to be even-tempered and generally pleasant.  That explanation notwithstanding, exposure to a single instance of such out-of-character behavior often has the effect of negatively labeling the actor. That effect can interfere with a desire to understand a person at her core. Instead, offensive behavior or troubling words can provide the opportunity to justify one’s condemnation of the “guilty” party.

This little detour responds to my penchant for becoming witness and judge after observing certain behaviors. I ask myself why, if I do not like that component of my personality, I nourish it? For as long as I remember, I have believed people should be given at least one second chance; preferably several. Well, that’s hypocrisy on the hoof; that’s how I would label the shameful proclivity to harshly judge on the basis of a single experience.

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Maybe the appeal of live music concerts is rooted in the energy of the audience. Or the novelty of seeing performers display their talents. Or both. Or a combination of those facets, coupled with the merger of sounds of voices and musical instruments. I am speculating here; live music concerts hold very little appeal to me. Large venues and large crowds, especially, do not captivate me. In fact, I find dense crowds and their attendant noise and their intrusive consumption of space unappealing in the extreme. Even attending events in small venues can be distracting and troublesome and anxiety-producing for me. And while I truly enjoy music, I like the comfort and control afforded through technology, distance, relative isolation, and comfortable seating.

The foregoing to the contrary notwithstanding—and because yesterday was the fifth Sunday of the month, in lieu of a traditional worship service—Music on Barcelona was held. The event offers an hour of music in the sanctuary. I was enthralled by Maria Richardson’s performance at the Unitarian Universal Village church yesterday. Seven of the nine jazz-based pieces she sang (accompanied on piano by Clyde Pound) were the music of Melody Gardot, a songwriter and singer of quiet jazz. In a word, Richardson’s performance was superb; in another word, it was outstanding; and in another, it was delightful. I am not much of a fan of vocal jazz, but yesterday’s experience might suggest otherwise. It just has to be the right jazz and the right jazz singer.

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Only yesterday, thanks to a photograph posted on a Facebook group called A View from My Window, I learned that Kibera, in Kenya, is Africa’s largest urban slum. This morning, I read another reference to Kibera in an Associated Press (or has its name been officially shortened to AP?) article. The Athi River crosses Kibera, a poverty-stricken neighborhood of Nairobi, Kenya. The news I read this morning, in an article of the same name, explored the question of “Is there hope for a dying river in Kenya’s growing capital?”

Compassion is the basis of morality.

~ Arthur Schopenhauer ~

I am deeply concerned about natural waterways the world over. After skimming the article, I am even more intensely concerned about the Athi River. But my exploration this morning drifted away from the river and focused my attention on Kibera. Estimates of the population of Kibera run between a figure of 170,170 (from the 2009 Kenya Population and Housing Census) to well over 1 or 2 million. Whatever its size, seeing photographs of the slum and reading about the searing poverty experienced by its residents rends my heart in two. I simply cannot fathom why world governments do not band together in common cause to extract residents of such excruciatingly unlivable places and provide them with at least minimal necessities and comfort. Oh, yes I can. Politics. Stubborn adherence to inhumane concepts of responsibility and blame. The absence of compassion. Constituents who are more interested in minimizing the effects of taxation on their prized luxuries than in exercising compassion for their fellow human beings.

But we, the taxpayers, often express pity for the less fortunate. And we attempt to assuage our guilt about what might be our partial responsibility for their plight by making “significant” donations to good causes. As I think about the concepts of charity and compassion, I suspect many people tend to contribute to such causes only after they have been gently reminded. And only after their own consciences—and concerns about others’ potential judgments in the absence of expressions of overt and significant displays of compassion—shame them into participating in an anemic effort to “solve the problem.” When I said “they,” I should have said “we.” If I were truly committed to putting forth efforts to approach a solution, I would insist on paying more taxes or otherwise committing as much as I possibly could to the cause.

My attitude may be seen as an argument for “all or nothing.” While that is not the case, my statements are too “back and white,” implying there is a “right” proportion of an individual’s wealth that should be dedicated to collective efforts to solve social ills. In fact, there is an enormous grey area along the spectrum of caring. One finds maximum altruism on one end and maximum selfishness on the other end of the spectrum. Somewhere along that spectrum is a sub-spectrum, both ends of which are vague and ill-defined. If humans could collectively strive to place themselves within that sub-spectrum and act accordingly, I suspect most of our social ills could be solved. But I am a pessimist in that regard. A defeatist who sees no realist possibility of ever reaching that state of nirvana.

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From almost the first time I read his work, the writings of liberal Christian pastor, blogger, and author, John Pavlovitz impressed me. Even though I did not and do not share his expressed belief in God, I share the definitions of justice and goodwill about which he writes. But over time—three years or more—my esteem for him has declined. The more I read his strident statements about social and political issues, the less I believe in his commitment to liberal causes. Oh, he may well believe in them, but I get the distinct sense he is using his persuasive skills to position himself to be the willing recipient of generosity. Though he may not have reached the heights of “successful” right-wing evangelical ministers, I strongly suspect he writes to an audience who, he believes, will convert their support for his words into money in his pocket.

Why has my opinion changed? I can refer to nothing more than a gut feel. His words seem, to me, increasingly inauthentic. Nowadays, when I read what he writes, I recoil in distaste that approaches disgust. If my suspicions are correct, he is a skilled deceiver and practiced opportunist. But I may be wrong. He may well be as committed to his left-leaning (and sometimes far left) positions as he purports to be. If I can be persuaded to reverse my current perception about him, I will hang my head in shame for condemning him. But, until then, I will avoid reading his blog and his other work, lest my blood pressure get out of control in response.

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I have mixed feelings about tipping. On one hand, I believe businesses should pay their employees a living wage; enough that the employee would not have to rely on tips to make ends meet. It irritates me to think that I am expected to overtly express generosity in the form of extra spending, whether or not I am financially able. On the other hand, I think some service workers deserve the extra recognition and financial reward that comes from tipping. But I wonder whether the size of the financial reward sometimes gets out of hand. Lately, the number of news items about extraordinarily large tips has grown enormously. Reading about a waitperson being recognized with a $100 or $1000 tip can be heart-warming. But is it even remotely realistic? And does it inadvertently send a message suggesting, even obliquely, that larger tips should become routine entitlements?

Wisdom, compassion, and courage are the three universally recognized moral qualities of men.

~ Confucius ~

Admittedly, I have felt good—even a little giddy—leaving an especially large tip. For example, I have on occasion left a $10 bill in payment for a $3 cup of coffee or a $20 bill for a $7 sandwich. I felt good about surprising the server and, from what I could tell, the server was at least minimally appreciative of an unexpected windfall. I think my sense of the unfairness of tipping may be responsible for my generosity in such cases, though.

Servers who work in high-end establishments, where checks for lunch might exceed $50 per person, might receive $10 to $20 in tips for the meal. Servers at a diner, where the average check is $10, might receive $2 or $3 in tips. I cannot imagine that the better compensated servers are worth the differential. And, in my view, tradespeople who set their own rates of compensation do not merit tips unless they go far “over and above” the expected levels of provision or performance. Yet I do not know whether the respective servers are compensated by their employers in ways that might level their financial positions; perhaps the server who does not receive big tips is paid considerably more than his counterpart in the expensive place. But I doubt it. And the tradespeople might under-price themselves in response to pressure to keep their rates low or risk losing business. I think I can tell if that’s the case, though.

My most significant problem with tipping, though, is the fact that it is so often expected. It is rarely viewed today as a reward for superior service. I favor the European model, in which tipping is relatively rare and, when done, is in recognition for superior service that the tipper values more than the amount she is charged.

Give me a week or a month and I might argue against everything I have written here about tipping. I would like to be certain, but I sometimes see too many perspectives to permit certainty to get its grip on me.

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Today’s agenda: get a haircut and see a rheumatologist. And perhaps visit Costco. And fill my gas tank? Hmm. I remember yesterday being told that in yesterday’s blog post I wrote “due point” instead of “dew point.” I know the difference, but apparently I was distracted when I wrote it. I corrected the mistake, but I was embarrassed I had made it. Ach. When I am concerned about such mistakes, I wonder who I am writing this for?

It is nearing 7, so I had better shave and shower in preparation to embrace the day. And off I go.