John Swinburn

In a few weeks, if anyone signs up for the program, I will facilitate a five-session “course” about Articulating Your Unitarian Universalist Faith.

Faith. The definition that applies to the word in the context of the course is “belief in God or in the doctrines or teachings of religion.” Inasmuch as I do not subscribe to the idea that a supernatural being or force or entity exists, my focus will be on the fundamental premises of Unitarian Universalism (UU). I may be among the least likely people to facilitate such a program, given my innate skepticism. Even some of the aspects of foundational UU philosophies challenge me to some extent, so my belief in the “doctrines or teaching of” UU may be subject to question. But, as I think about the core ideas that appeal to me about UU, expressing one’s doubts in the course of searching for answers that may never be found might be precisely what merits contemplation. The idea for the program is to enable participants to explain, in a 30-second “elevator speech,” the foundations of their adherence to UU. We’ll see how that goes.

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My recollection of the Eugene O’Neill’s play, Mourning Becomes Electra, is almost nonexistent. I read it in high school or college—maybe both—but as I tried to recall the story this morning, it eluded me. Only after exploring it online did the fact that the play was a retelling of the Oresteia, the Greek trilogy. I remember learning, only vaguely, that the characters in O’Neill’s play were based on the original play by Aeschylus, the Greek tragedian. Some of the characters from the Aeschylus play, such as Clytemnestra and Agamemnon, are familiar to me, though I am not sure whether that familiarity comes from studying O’Neill’s play or, instead, from learning about Greek tragedies. Regardless, I have retained next to nothing from whatever early exposure I had to either. Until I came across references to the length of the modern play, my foray this morning into O’Neill’s  literary masterpiece tempted me to consider reading it again. But the time involved in reading it, must less grasping the relationship between O’Neill’s story and the original Greek tragedy, would be extraordinary. I am not sufficiently interested to invest that much of my diminishing time in something that might well leave me no more enlightened than I am this morning. And my enlightenment this morning is nothing to cheer about. I do not know what prompted me to explore Mourning Becomes Electra shortly after I awoke today. It was a fluke. A meaningless oddity that led nowhere. And that is where it ended. I will depart nowhere now, in search of somewhere…more interesting or intriguing.

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The time has come for me to take a shower and get dressed for church. Some Sunday mornings, like this one, I have absolutely no interest in going to church. I would rather isolate myself from people and simply think. Or meditate. Or otherwise insulate myself against the intrusion of thoughts that interfere with my hermit-like behavior. Usually, though, I manage to at least tolerate engagement with others; and that tolerance more often than not morphs into interest. Whether that adaptation is just a self-defense mechanism or is a real transition in my attitude is unclear. I may never know.

A couple of days ago, I wrote about the ways in which secretaries free their colleagues to be more productive. I lamented not having a secretary at the moment I wrote those words because of my study’s disorder. This morning, it occurs to me that my years of being secretary-free after having had secretaries earlier in my career might have been to my benefit. In the absence of secretarial support, I typed my own letters, reports, articles, etc., etc. The more I typed, the more confident and faster I became. Not that I have blazing fingers on the keyboard, but I can get by more than comfortably. I have long since not needed to look at the keyboard while I type, except when needing to find with my fingers characters my fingers rarely need to find. So, in hindsight, while secretarial support might have made me more productive, it might have stunted my keyboard skills. Every issue has at least two sides.

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Morning sunlight is leaking into the sky to the north-northwest. Above and behind the trees, the atmosphere is dim but slowly brightening. Soon, the sun will illuminate the sky at a faster and faster pace until the morning is in full bloom. Once the sun begins to peek over the horizon, the day has begun in earnest—it cannot be held back. No matter how much one might wish to freeze time, or to return to an earlier period, it cannot be done.

Not yet, anyway. Not in the reality we have come to believe is the only reality. But the reality upon which we rely to make sense of the world may simply be the equivalent of the substance of a digital video. One day, scientists and searchers may discover that everything within our perception is an editable record of potential experience, captured among the protons and electrons and neutrons that densely pack the space we think we occupy. And if that were to occur, the discovery could lead to an ability to replay instances from the past. And the future. I am not referring to science fiction here, but to something else, something we have yet to name. This is as real as real can be in the context of an imaginary existence.

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I have nothing intensely personal to share today. Sharing some of one’s innermost thoughts can make a person extremely vulnerable. It leads to emotional dissolution; that is, emotions become dry, withered wisps that blow away in the slightest breeze. In their place, dense, thick lengths of protective, unemotional rope encircle one’s psyche and tie him to an anchor of indifference. But that might be an overstatement, if not a lie.

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For some reason, I am distracted this morning. My thoughts skip from one thing to another, never long enough to develop fully. The idea from the preceding sentence made me think of a dull aluminum structure, like the skeleton of a small building. And from there my mind’s eye sees a pond in the middle of a Nebraska prairie and in that pond are hundreds of sandhill cranes. Then, it’s a big kitchen with an enormous island, filled with appliances—mixers and the like—that will be used in making sausage kolaches. Next, I wonder how humans ever came to believe that love should be exclusive. Valentine’s Day springs from that thought, which leads to hearts and arrows and indigenous people trekking across barren landscapes in search of food. I had better stop or I’ll have to recommend a 72-hour psychiatric hold.

Even on days like today, when my calendar is empty and I generally am free of obligations, I can feel trapped; cornered, as if my choices are limited and none of them are good. I suspect this troublesome attitude can be traced to my anticipation of current and future commitments—knowing this brief reprieve from real or imagined constraints on my time will not last. Of course, when I examine my obligations carefully, I discover that most are not cast in stone. I have freedom of choice, in most instances. Often, though, the ramifications of exercising choices by dismissing obligations argue against doing so. I realize, of course, that most of those so-called “obligations” are so minor as to be unworthy of concern. Their irrelevance notwithstanding, too often I allow them to control me by artificially limiting my choices. I do not need a calendar to box me in. My brain does that on its own, without relying on tools. I curtail my freedom by interpreting others’ and my own expectations. I tend to give too much weight to what others will think of me if I abandon commitments. I ignore the fact that others probably will not think of me, regardless of whether I do or do not fulfill what I think of as a commitment. Rarely do I consciously evaluate whether valid expectations exist anywhere but my head. One would think all of this philosophical detritus would have been swept out of my head long, long ago. But, no, it remains today just as it was during my teenage years and all through the maturation process that has led me to today. If I had a shiny, sharp psychological scalpel, I would excise damaged remnants from my psyche. Ach! My attitude this morning suggests the best course of action would be to sleep through the day and let my sour mood morph into something more palatable. We shall see.

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I dreamed last night that my late wife and I were searching for a cardiologist who held some sort of key to information we wanted. The information was not necessarily related to coronary matters, but I do not recall what we were seeking. I cannot describe the visual scenes I saw in the dream, because they remain quite fuzzy in my head. I woke from the dream around 5:30. It is past 7 now and I still am trying to remember more of it. The more I think about it, though, the more difficult it is to remember the dream. It becomes more blurry with each passing minute.

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Perhaps my unpleasant mood can be linked to the restrictions on my diet, in response to the diagnosis of diabetes. Or, possibly it is not diet. Maybe it is the mere fact that I can track my physical decay by looking at a calendar timeline on which injuries and illnesses and diseases are displayed. On the left side of the timeline, depicting the earliest moments of my life, my healthy young face is displayed. As the eyes move to the right, following the evolution from youth to old age, the face loses its pink freshness, giving way to an increasingly dry, grey, gaunt, and wrinkled countenance. I can see it in my mind’s eye; a sight not at all pleasing to me.

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Last night’s post-documentary-viewing dinner at the church consisted of chili. With beans. The documentary was interesting and informative. The chili tasted very good. But my blood glucose level this morning jumped up a bit from the day before. I think that increase was in response to the ingredients in the chili. It is amazing to me how quickly food can affect the content of the blood. As fascinating as that is, though, I am not happy about it.

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Time to respond to the morning sky.

Many years ago, I had secretaries. I relied on them to perform functions that I could have done myself, but that I would not have done as well. Their contributions enabled me to be far more productive than I would have been without them. Over time, though, employing secretaries—in my line of work—came to be viewed as elitist and (because most of them were women) sexist. So, rather than dictating letters and reports, I typed them myself. And I made my own travel arrangements. And I created my own spreadsheets. And I screened my own calls. And I created and employed my own files and filing systems. And I developed my own PowerPoint presentations. And I performed the myriad other tasks and functions that once had been handled by secretaries (or administrative assistants, a title that came to be more palatable). Though I was reasonably good at handling those duties, I never became as proficient as people whose roles were dedicated exclusively to handling such functions. During the transition to handling my own “secretarial” duties and long, long afterward, I bought into the idea that having a secretary was more of a matter of status than an efficient way of doing business.

This morning, as I looked around my study—especially my desk—I thought back to the time I had secretaries. The really good ones were extraordinarily well-organized and efficient. They would never have allowed my desk to be so cluttered and in such disarray. They freed me to focus on the core functions of my work, too, rather than attempt to do for myself what they did so much more effectively than I could have done. A look around my desk this morning made me finally realize how unproductive it was to stop relying on secretaries. And, this morning, as I think back to all the years of doing without secretaries or, at least, employing minimal secretarial support, I wonder how much more effective I would have been, had I not subscribed to the idea that having secretaries/administrative assistants was more about status than about productivity.  This morning, I wish I had a secretary who would swoop in and organize my study, freeing me from trying (and failing) to get and stay organized. Oh, how I wish it were so.

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The popular intuitive assessment that coffee pods are among the most environmentally damaging ways of making coffee may be off the mark. An article on the BBC.com website reports that a Canadian study by the University of Quebec challenges that assessment. Additional information on the study is available on The Conversation’s website. The study suggests that making coffee using pods is less environmentally damaging than making coffee with traditional coffee makers. Evaluating the life-cycle of coffee, the researchers found that by far the largest contributor to carbon dioxide emissions is the harvesting and production of coffee beans. Traditional coffee makers contribute more CO₂ than do pods, according to the study authors. An author of the study, Luciano Rodrigues Viana, is quoted as saying, “I don’t think that capsules are a miracle solution. But it is a good example that illustrates our cognitive biases.” The upshot of the research is that wasting coffee and water in the process of making a cup of coffee with traditional coffee makers has a larger carbon footprint than using coffee capsules. Apparently, we tend to make assumptions without considering all the facts. Based on my reading of the Canadian study and some other relevant information, it seems an investment in reducing the environmental impact of coffee harvesting and production would have the largest impact on the reduction of  CO₂. Perhaps dramatically cutting coffee consumption is the answer. Of course, that would have negative repercussions on coffee growers and the people whose lives are dependent on coffee production. Solutions are never simple, are they?

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A formal diagnosis of diabetes leads to paying close attention to the potential impact of one’s habits on his health. I spent part of the afternoon yesterday with two diabetes educators, re-learning about some of the intricacies of the ways in which diet affects the body. This was not new, of course, but the relevance of the information was far clearer to me than it had been before. Prior to learning that my A1C blood test results confirmed the diagnosis, consideration of the impact of diet was a purely academic exercise. Now, though, it is more immediate and personal. As luck would have it, the effects of the condition have thus far been negligible. If they are to remain that way, though, I have to change my eating and exercise habits in important ways. I should have done so long, long ago. My invincibility is again called into question. Live and learn.

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The news of Jacinda Ardern’s decision to step down as New Zealand’s prime minister surprised me this morning. Though I have not closely followed news about her of late, I have been deeply impressed by her since her election in 2017.  Her principled leadership— along with her energy, and vitality—are models of the possibilities toward which national politicians may strive when they put the interests of their countries and their constituents above their own personal desires. Unfortunately, she has suffered what many politicians encounter after serving their constituencies well for an extended period: what once was appreciated for its better-than-expected performance morphs into an attitude of “what have you done for me lately?” Though her reasons for leaving her post are reported to be personal, I would not be surprised to learn that the significant dip in her popularity contributed to her decision. I wish her well. And I hope her successors will be as successful in leading New Zealand as she has been.

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It is still early, not yet 6:15, but I am ready to put today’s post to bed. And I am hungry, but I will wait to eat until I meet with several other guys from my church for the weekly gathering at a breakfast spot in the Village. I will have to be careful in making my choice of breakfast to ensure that it fits into my new dietary regime. Adaptation. That’s what every day is about.

Something is afoot. Pardon the pun, but…atmospheric changes are in the air. Meteorological precipitation maps show the onslaught. At this moment, if one believes those illustrations, Fayetteville is experiencing torrential rain. The direction of motion of rainstorms to the north and west suggests the Village will receive its share of                           water from the sky during the course of the day today. Zeus is at work. Or perhaps the coming weather reveals he is, rather, at play. One rarely, if ever, thinks of Zeus in his playful mood, but even the ruler, protector, and father of all gods has to let off steam from time to time.  Among the ways in which he does so is by frolicking through the sky, squeezing the trigger of his squirt gun and laughing hysterically as umbrellas spring open below him like little black flowers.

That image—of black umbrellas popping open in response to rain showers—causes me to wonder: why are most umbrellas black? I realize, of course, that more colorful umbrellas have grown more prevalent in recent years, but the majority of them are, still, black. At least the ones intended to protect against rain. Umbrellas meant to shelter one’s head from the sun’s heat tend to be more colorful, but most of the ones designed exclusively to shed water from the sky are black. That, by the way, is based only on my perception. I have no empirical data upon which to base my assertion. But anecdotal evidence suggests black in the old standby. Naturally, my curiosity led me to inquire whether others might have had the same question. And, of course, I am not unique. Mother Google revealed to me that many others have posed the same question. The answers (none of which are accompanied by evidence) about why black is the preferred color for most umbrellas are: 1) black fabrics absorb heat and, therefore, dry more quickly than brighter colored fabrics; 2) black is of extraordinary significance to people in general; and 3) black umbrellas tend to provide better insulation than colorful ones. I have my doubts about the veracity of those answers. But, for now, they will have to do, because I am not interested in investing my time in pursuing the truth about the reasons for ubiquitous umbrellas blackness. [N.B. My secret belief is that, long ago, Zeus threw a thunderbolt down at a bright yellow umbrella, burning its surface and turning it black. Ever since, people have assumed that was Zeus’ way of revealing his preference for black umbrellas and have responded accordingly. Just my opinion, of course.]

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Illusion is needed to disguise the emptiness within.

~ Arthur Erickson ~

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Once again, I have allowed myself to overcommit. I have filled blank spots on the calendar with obligations, thereby eliminating the possibility of spontaneity. Impromptu road trips have become increasingly unlikely because I have things to do or places to be or promises to fulfill. Either I am punishing myself for reasons I have yet to understand or I am filling my time out of fear I might discover I have no value in the absence of obligation. There could be other reasons, as well. Whatever the rationale, the fact is my calendar is awash in duties. Every time I recognize I have done this to myself, I consider making a break from the agreements I have made; just backing away from them and saying, “I’m done! I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t have agreed to tie myself down. Consider my promise broken—shattered in a thousand pieces!” But I cannot do that. I could not live with myself. It is hard enough knowing how much I wish I could. It would be impossibly hard if I actually did it. Ach!

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The rain has come. If the weather were warmer, I would think of going outside—without an umbrella—to stand in the rain, letting the water gently cleanse me of the grit of daily life. The idea of giving myself over to Nature has enormous appeal. Leaving the clutter and smudges behind, letting whatever purity there is blossom in an environment free of contaminants and abrasive intrusions. Delusion. Simple delusion.

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My computer suddenly announced it had detected a location change and had changed my clock to Eastern Standard Time. What the hell?? Another sign that my purchase of a new computer, soon to arrive, was made at the right moment. Either that, or I have been magically transported to a place far, far away from the center of Arkansas. No matter which time zone I am in, it is time for me to stop writing this morning. It is time for me to turn to something else. Something more productive. Something less dangerous than imagining myself in another world.

There is a significant difference in value between doing and watching—between actively participating and observing.  Involvement sometimes occurs at the expense of awareness. That is because, in the midst of taking part in an activity, one can overlook elements that influence it. The big picture fades into a blurry backdrop when the lens aims exclusively on bringing the details into precise, high-resolution focus.  “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” Observation frequently equates to understanding. At what point in our maturation does that lesson finally find its way into our consciousness? For some, the lesson is lost. For others, it is the key to unlocking the ability to truly see all aspects of the environment in which we live.

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The foundation of National Public Radio (NPR), I have come to believe, is kindness. Whether intentionally or not, NPR teaches kindness and compassion. That fact was brought home to me this morning as I listened to a couple of audio clips. The first, from a regular feature called My Unsung Hero, told about a man whose kindness essentially saved a couple who had been left stranded along an Alaskan highway. The second was a segment of Story Corps from last July, which related the story of the kindness shown through a doctor’s letter of condolences to the family of an 11-year-old child who had died of leukemia. Of course Story Corps seems designed to elicit tears from listeners, but those tears often are in response to stories that demonstrate the overwhelming power of kindness.

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You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

I wonder whether, if you were to look just beneath the stoical surface of men (and some women) who seem unfazed by facts and stories that would cause me to melt into puddles of tears, there is a powder keg of emotions just a spark away from exploding? Or are they as unmoved by tragedy and joy as they seem? How, I wonder, can such apparent indifference be taught? More importantly, why is it taught? Why does masculinity seem to be measured by the ability to demonstrate immunity to the effects of emotional firestorms? No answers. Just questions.

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Daylight is beginning to make its way through the windows, a sign that my early quiet and solitude are coming to their daily pause. They will return again tomorrow. And I will be here to greet them.

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr. ~

Each time I read those words, or hear them spoken, they resonate with me. They capture, as well as any words can, the truth about the dangers of injustice, especially the perils that arise when we remain blind to or silent in the face of injustice. If we ignore injustice unless it affects us directly, we are complicit in its ravages; we pave the way for more injustice. Eventually, turning a blind eye to inequity or oppression robs us of the ability to successfully fight when we become targets.

Those words of Martin Luther King, Jr. were spoken during the NAACP prayer breakfast I attended on Saturday. I heard them again from the UUVC minister yesterday. And I read them again this morning, this holiday that recognizes Dr. King’s birthday. I think our world would be a better place if we spoke those words, in place of the Pledge of Allegiance, every time the Pledge is spoken. I would not object, in the least, if school children were asked to recite Dr. King’s insightful words every day before classes began—and then discuss their meaning. By the way, pledging allegiance to a flag, in my opinion, is an example of mindless obedience, in and of itself an affront to the concept of freedom. The addition of “and to the Republic, for which it stands” hardly excuses the forced indoctrination implicit in the recitation. Patriotism is one thing; nationalism is another.

Today (January 16) is the official Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, the Monday assigned as the annual placeholder for his actual birth date (January 15). The idea of adjusting holiday dates simply to give us three day weekends is, in my view, tasteless. While I suppose holiday is the right word to celebrate the birthday of figures whose actions transformed society in some way, I detest the use of the word to describe solemn occasions—occasions like Memorial Day. Memorial Day is not a holiday. It should be a day of mourning or reflection about the horrible price of war. Uh, yes, I deviated from my main point. But I was finished. For now.

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I am not “fast on my feet.” I wish I were. Unfortunately, I usually have to take time to mull matters over before I feel comfortable making a definitive statement about them. My vague recollections about my performance in classroom debates tells me I always have been slow to think things through. My brain just does not work at the speed of light. And, even after reflecting on issues under discussion, often I discover I have nothing of consequence to add to the conversation. This is not always true, of course. On occasion, I can be quick to react on matters that touch a nerve. Too often, though, reactive responses fail to consider all the relevant factors, making my response seem either irrelevant or unconsidered. During sixty some-odd years of making such mistakes, I have learned to remain silent much of the time. While staying silent while debate rages around me can make me appear stupid, reacting without adequate time to reflect can confirm that the appearance is spot-on. For these reasons and others, I far prefer to write than to speak. I think faster with my fingers than with my tongue.

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I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet, strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers.

~ Khalil Gibran ~

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What are people in my sphere really like? What does through their heads? I wish I could engage in long, one-on-one conversations with them, with their guards down and their inhibitions cast aside. Honest, deeply personal and absolutely confidential sharing of wishes and regrets and hopes and fears and a thousand other secrets. The trust inherent in such openness is hard to come by. One would have to be absolutely confident that shared secrets would be locked in two impenetrable vaults. Breaking that confidence would be fatal to the relationship. But having absolute confidence that the vault would remain locked would further cement and deepen the relationship. The problem, of course, is that such absolute trust requires both mutual interest and mutual willingness to invest in the relationship. Rare, indeed.

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I wonder what kind of child I was? And what sort of teenager? And I wonder how my mind worked—and what went through it—as a young man? How, I wonder, have I changed over the course of my life? If I could remember more of myself as I evolved, I might better understand who I became—who I am becoming. It is rare, I think, for individuals to recognize that they undergo constant, fundamental, changes for their entire lives. Events affect us; how we perceive the world around us and how our minds process our experiences. And our minds, reacting to the external world, flex and bend in ways we do not recognize until we reflect on who we once were…if we remember enough about that person. Even as I write this morning, I am a little surprised at how different I am today from who I was five years ago. The tightly-wound spring has relaxed quite a lot, And some of the righteous certainty has almost completely dissolved into regret for the failure to realize the fatal errors of my utterly unjustified self-confidence…and the damaging impact that over-confidence had on people around me. Yet on reflection I finally realize much bravado overcompensates for justified self-doubt.

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I bought a new computer yesterday. I won’t have it in hand and operating until later this month. I hope my sick and injured laptop survives long enough to see me through the inauguration of new technology. We shall see.

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Morning’s early grey light is upon us. I can see the outline of the trees as if the darkness of the night has remained there, but behind them the world is casting night off in favor of a dim but brightening light. What will today hold? I am not sure. Off we go.

Kolbjørn Landvik and Calypso Kneeblood and Lineoleum Price have suddenly come back into my life, returning after a years-long absence. They appeared at my figurative mental doorstep, looking thin, dirty, and bedraggled, their pleading eyes enough to make me open the door and let them in. These men were not the same ones who left without me. When they headed north, toward the Canadian wilderness, they were full of fierce bluster and bravado, convinced that living a demanding, isolated life far from the hypocrisy of modern society would cleanse their souls and let them relive their youths. When they returned, the look of defeat was in their eyes. Perhaps they would have had more success had they made their pilgrimage when they were young men. But storming off into the far reaches of places unknown—as each of them approached their seventieth birthday—was almost certain to be too much for them. They had to learn that sad truth for themselves, though. Only after trying and failing to recapture and relive youth could they begin to come to grips with an unfortunate reality. If a person misses his chance to pursue challenge and adventure in his youth, that chance is gone. For good. Though missing the idiocy of running with the bulls in Pamplona is no doubt good fortune, failing to take advantage of opportunities to experience life as a youthful vagabond closes doors that can never again be opened.

Kolbjørn and Calypso and Lineoleum, their faces frozen in perpetual sad frowns, came back as dejected old men. They regaled me with tales of what they wished they had done with their lives. But what they had done, in reality, was far less enthralling. They had followed a path that minimized risk at the expense of joy. Their mundane lives, hidden behind fictional stories of heart-stopping adventure, were like the lives of so many others: dull and predictable and embarrassingly pointless. When they left for the far reaches of northern Canada, the three of them hoped they could overcome the soul-crushing emptiness of lives lived far from the edge. They hoped they could atone for safe, predictable, uneventful lives.

Atonement cannot be had. There is but one chance to live each moment. Once that moment is gone, it cannot be retrieved. History devours every minute, every second. Life experiences cannot be snatched from the ravenous jaws of time. We can delude ourselves into believing otherwise, but even our delusions cannot hide the painful truth.

So, where does that leave me? Have I become the caregiver for Kolbjørn and Calypso and Lineoleum? Must I now attempt to ease their transition into old age and all the regret it brings with it? Must I endeavor to change their wished-for adventures into believable artificial memories, recreating lives never lived?

Perhaps it is I who is living a fantasy. Perhaps they have lived wildly full lives, experiencing all the madness and folly and ecstasy of life on the cutting edge of joy. Maybe their foray into the Canadian wilderness left them with memories of experiences more joyful than expected, even in their wildest dreams! Are their eyes really pleading, or am I projecting my emotions onto them?

Time will tell.

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I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations— one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it—you will regret both.

~ Søren Kierkegaard ~

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I awoke before 4 this morning and immediately went about my new routine. I may find it a bit tough to adjust to the new morning ritual. Challenging or not, though, I must get used to it. Or suffer the potential consequences somewhere down the road. Those consequences might take years to surface. Or they could occur almost immediately. So, unless I have a desire to experience, first-hand, a plunge into something unknown and unpleasant, I must adjust. And, so, I will. Dammit. There are so many things I wish I could change about the past. I wish I had never been a smoker. I wish I had taken better care of my physical and mental health over the years. I wish I had allowed/forced myself to more aggressively take risks. I wish I had done many of the things I wanted, but was too afraid, to do. I wish I had never been the inexcusably cruel bastard who lived inside my body for so long. I suppose I was angry with myself for being who I was, rather than who I wanted to be, and lashed out at the people around me rather than take it out on myself. Forgiveness for the unforgiveable is an unobtainable fantasy.

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I burned my last cone of incense this morning. A new supply should arrive this week. The aroma of incense does not sooth me. It is my reaction to the smell that sometimes causes me to relax. It is my imagination. I trick myself into believing the wafting scent has a calming effect on me. I see through that ploy, but I play along. Or maybe I don’t see through it. Maybe I tell myself I do because I do not want to be manipulated by a belief that has no foundation in fact. Either way, it does not matter. Such a small, insignificant issue does not deserve any attention at all. Yet I devote time and space on the computer screen to it. Why? Because that’s what I do. I fill my computer screen with words that convey ideas that do not matter. Some days, I feel like I should have joined Kolbjørn and Calypso and Lineoleum on their misguided journey in their search for meaning. But had I done so, I probably would have died, shivering in the frigid cold.

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Here it is, 6 a.m., and I am ready to call it a day. For the blog, at least. Time for me to plunge into the day in an effort to make it worth my waking. Breakfast is hours away. It’s a good thing I am not hungry. I am pleased I woke early today. It allowed me time to reflect and time to recover from that reflection. Onward toward dawn!

All that is really worth the doing is what we do for others.

~ Lewis Carroll ~

Today began when I was awakened by the obnoxious sound of my smart phone’s alarm, which I set last night before going to bed. In normal times (whatever they are), I would have been awake before the alarm sounded. But lately I have been unable to depend on my usual habit of arising very early, so I set the alarm for 5:30. I was sound asleep, deep in a dream (about which I remember absolutely nothing, other than the fact that I was dreaming), when the noise interrupted my slumbers. The fact that I woke briefly several times during the night might explain my sleeping-in this morning. Or maybe not.

After showering and shaving, I followed what will become a new morning routine: Weigh myself, swallow a handful of pills, jab myself to measure blood glucose, take my blood pressure and measure blood O² level, and record all the measurements. While my reaction to the new normal is not especially positive, I view it with some measure of gratitude; unlike millions the world over, I am able to invest the time and energy necessary to have a fighting chance of being healthy enough to live a reasonably comfortable life.

The reason I set the alarm, rather than simply waiting to get up when the mood struck me, was a commitment to attend a breakfast of the local branch of the NAACP. Recently, I wrote about joining NAACP and planning to attend the breakfast. The fact that the event was the 25th anniversary prayer breakfast for the branch did not register with me until a day or two ago. I have never attended a prayer breakfast, nor have I ever had the desire to do so, but we were committed, so we went. I have long since gotten over my overwhelming distaste of traditional religious ritual, having learned to tune out and tolerate when necessary, so I was prepared to ignore much of the program. Surprisingly (to me), the program was quite interesting and informative. Even the call and response interactions between speakers and audience were intriguing and entertaining. The speeches and entertainment, too, were engaging. I was pleasantly surprised to see the large ballroom of the convention center filled to compacity, too. I expected that my church group of 18 to 20 would be among the only White folks in the room, but I was happy to see quite a few other white faces supporting the positive work of the local NAACP branch. Live and learn.

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The new acacia wood dining table, along with the wool rug now beneath it, was delivered yesterday. On one hand, I am delighted with both of them; they look wonderful. On the other, I am disappointed in myself for succumbing, again, to unnecessary acquisitiveness. Though the purchases represented a net zero increase in home furnishings (we donated the antique oak dining table and the throw rug beneath it), my lust for “pretty things” seems not to have diminished in the least. At this rate, I will never be a minimalist. Not that the label has any real emotional meaning to me, but I do wish my desire for things I do not need could be more aggressively reined in. Buying things simply because they are visually appealing illustrates a personality flaw in me. And doing so even in light of the fact that I have told myself, repeatedly, that I think it best to save money than to spend it reveals an aberration in my thought processes. Regardless of all that, though, the table and rug are beautiful.

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It’s mid-afternoon. Not at all the time for me to be blogging. It does not feel right, so I will stop. For now.

The time is closing in on five o’clock as I begin writing. I have been up since just before four. My mind has been struggling, without success, to remember a perplexing dream. I recall only that the dream was intense and quite vivid. That monstrously vague recollection—more a feeling than a memory—of my dreamscape is frustrating. Maddening. I almost can feel my blood pressure spike. The muscles in my jaw and neck remain tight, even after deliberately trying to relax them. The dream is responsible for the tension, I think. But I can summon almost nothing about the dream experience, except for its intensity. That, and the anxiety the nocturnal mystery seems to have caused. Perhaps it was spillover from watching the short Belgian crime drama series, entitled The Twelve (original Flemish title De Twaalf), we watched the last couple of nights. The storyline revolves around the jury charged with making  a determination of the innocence or guilt of a woman accused of two murders, including that of her own child. Several characters in The Twelve were played by actors we had seen just a few nights ago, while watching another Belgian series, Under Fire (Onder Vuur). I find it intriguing that Netflix seems to have an algorithm that selects the service’s recommended offerings for me to view. The Netflix AI must have believed in recent weeks that I am either Belgian or French. In the past months and weeks, Netflix apparently decided I was Norwegian or Danish or Finnish or Icelandic. On those rare occasions lately when I have watched programs in which the characters speak English throughout, I have felt oddly out of place and deeply unsophisticated. I blame Netflix for my ennui, but it’s clearly an affliction for which my brain is responsible.

Life is not an easy matter… You cannot live through it without falling into frustration and cynicism unless you have before you a great idea which raises you above personal misery, above weakness, above all kinds of perfidy and baseness.

~ Leon Trotsky ~

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I tried to see a therapist or counselor several days ago, only to be told by the staff at the Ouachita Behavioral Health check-in desk that I could not be seen because, at present, none of the available counselors can accept Medicare patients. When I offered to pay out of pocket, I was told that is illegal. I was offered the option of being put on a waiting list, which was already sixty names deep, but that list seems never to grow any smaller, the woman told me. She sent me on my way with a list of referrals who might accept Medicare patients. Or who are legally able and willing to accept cash payments. The experience was beyond frustrating. When I have calmed sufficiently (it may take another week or two…), I will explore some of the referred counselors and therapists. And I may write a letter to someone (though I know not who) to complain about the stupidity of the Catch-22 bureaucratic obstacle to providing healthcare services.

The reason for my attempt to visit with a counselor/therapist is that I think I agree with mi novia and others who believe I am, and have been, depressed. Not all the time, mind you, nor especially deep. But, still, somewhat anxious and depressed; or just down. A reaction, possibly, to feelings of guilt and regret.

Lately I have become acutely aware of some of the failings of the healthcare system in this country (some of which I think can be directly linked to the mindless bureaucracy of Medicare). I have waited since the latter part of October for a rheumatologist to give me an appointment, after being referred by my primary care physician’s office. When, finally, I spoke to human by phone, I was told I could see the referred doctor in Hot Springs in late May. Or, I could get an earlier appointment if I were willing to go to Little Rock for the appointment. Another flaw in the system was revealed to me when I tried to fill a new prescription for a glucometer and test strips a week ago today. Medicare apparently requires a mass of paperwork before authorizing the Part B supplier to fill the prescription. Finally, late yesterday afternoon, I received a call telling me I could pick up the prescribed device and accompanying materials. There is more, but I must keep my blood pressure in check.

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It was an oversight. I had removed my shampoo from the shower the day before and forgot to return it to its normal spot. I was already in the shower when I discovered my blunder. But it was no big deal; I would simply use mi novia‘s shampoo. My ability to see close-up without glasses, though, is abysmal. So I had to strain to read the text on the container, but I was satisfied it read “shampoo.” I pushed on the top of the plastic bottle, releasing what appeared to be a beige gelatinous substance. I smeared the gel on my hair and rubbed my scalp furiously. After I rinsed my hair, my scalp felt rather oily. Not liking the way my hair felt, I decided to wash my hair again, this time using the suds from a bar of Dove soap to accomplish the task. The conversation that followed my shower, when I mentioned to her that I had used her shampoo, led mi novia to the realization that I had used her shaving gel. No wonder my hair felt strangely oily after applying it to my scalp.

That gaffe brought to mind a mistake my mother made when I was  living at home, perhaps when I was still in high school. Somehow, she managed to absent-mindedly pour from a bottle of lemon oil (the stuff used to polish wood furniture) rather than the bottle of vegetable oil when making an oil and vinegar salad dressing. Fortunately, the mistake was discovered before anyone ate the salad. My recollection of that misstep makes me wonder: was there a genetic component to my screw-up with the shampoo?

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What great idea might I be in a position to pursue at this point in my life? I suspect that pursuit would require my fatigue and mental exhaustion to be replaced by vigor and intellectual energy. The idea of exerting myself to conquer the emotional equivalents to surrender is almost too much to confront. Too much work. A struggle that requires too much effort. The thing is, I am relatively young compared to, say, a nonagenarian. I might have twenty more years to overcome the struggle, with a positive, attractive, appealing outcome. But that train may have left the station, thanks to our society’s worship of youth. When faced with a choice between wisdom and youth, wisdom usually is discarded without fanfare. The fanfare is reserved for youth. That is true in the world of work and the world of entertainment. And most other aspects of life. I read a report this morning that says aging can be reversed. The report, featuring the work of Professor David Sinclair (professor of genetics at Blavatnik Institute at Harvard Medical School and codirector of the Paul F. Glenn Center for Biology of Aging Research) and others, is intriguing. According to the article, Our bodies hold a backup copy of our youth that can be triggered to regenerate. If I could physically reboot and install that backup copy, I am relatively certain I would change a number of bad or unhealthy habits from my youth. And my middle age. And my golden years.

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The clocks soon will proclaim we have reached the six o’clock hour. Time for more coffee. And time to burn one of two remaining cones of patchouli incense as I reflect on matters meaningful and mundane. I entered an order yesterday to replenish my supply of patchouli cones. I should have done it sooner.

The grey sky, pale and cloudless, is visible behind swaying trees. Waves of sound—mimicking the cacophony of the ocean shore—keep time with the trees’ movement. In one instant, the entire forest seems to bend back and forth in response to strong gusts of wind. In the next, absolute stillness takes hold, as if the scene had been captured by a still camera. Watching and hearing those transitions between frenetic motion and cool tranquility, I get the sense that weather is a sentient being.

Weather. The word is an abbreviation for humans’ perception of a changing physical environment. The dictionary definition is the state of the atmosphere with respect to wind, temperature, cloudiness, moisture, pressure, etc. That seems so sterile and empty. Hurricanes and tornadoes and snow storms are not so antiseptic. Driving rain and floods are not so dull and impersonal. Weather is the natural world around us, in all its frantic moods and sleepy laziness.

Now, the wind is howling. The trees are lurching back and forth, as if they are trying to extract their roots that shackle them to the ground. The wind howls, a low, guttural noise laden with menace. But the wind has no intent. It simply exists. Humans sometimes attribute all manner of motives to the natural world, as if the world around us were as emotionally fragile as we so often are. Nature is not angry. The wind and the waves and the driving rain of powerful storms are not fierce. Ferocity implies savagery. Yet the natural world does not possess emotions nor intentions. Wind does not rage. But we insist on assigning human qualities to the natural world. That is absurd. Or is it? When we are not drowning in the flood of emotions, we dismiss the idea that weather—and the whole of the natural world—is conscious. We laugh at the idea that all living creatures, except us, can feel the same emotions that drive us. Oh, we acknowledge that animals can feel fear. But we refuse to accept that plants can communicate with one another. Or that tomato plants, for example, can feel agony when their fruit is ripped from their stems. What nonsense! Right? Yes, if one accepts that humans truly understand the nature of Nature. But No, if one accepts that humans cannot—at least not yet—fathom the possibility that pain and pleasure and a thousand other sensations we feel may be echoed in the natural world, but in ways we cannot appreciate because we lack the physical and chemical and biological structures that enable the natural world to experience itself.

It is late. I awoke very late today. I went to bed early last night. Something must be awry. Or I am evolving or devolving or otherwise changing. I should inquire of African violets; might they know more than I about what causes aberrations in patterns of sleep? Possibly. But the very idea of asking African violets to answer questions is preposterous. A sure sign of madness or, even worse, acceptance of one’s innate ignorance.

All right. I will stop for now. I will try to launch into a more reasonable form of consciousness than this mystical morass that has, thus far today, enveloped me.

Today, after a phone visit with a fellow church member to discuss a “workshop” I have agreed to facilitate, I will stop by another church member’s house to copy a video onto a flash drive. That is in preparation for facilitating discussion after the video has been shown to interested participants. Then, I will drive to Benton to run a few errands. And, then, I may go to Costco.  Or someplace else. Who knows? My brain is in a fog this morning; no reason, just the dullness associated with uncertainty.

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If there are precipitating factors, I do not know what they are. Whatever triggers the experience, certain memories—like wave upon wave of  white-hot metal strips touching delicate, sensitive skin—cause me to shrink from the world. When that happens, I seek ways to burrow into a protective nest, hidden from sight. Though I seek, I never find. Because there is no safe refuge. No place to escape the torment that comes in the form of remnants of shredded comfort…transformed from soft sheets of smooth cotton to rigid strips of petrified steel and sharp rocky outcroppings.

Those soft, protective passages keep me from dissolving into a withered lump of wet bone and clumsy fear. But they expose me to the harshness that resides within reflections of the eyes’ images. These are the kinds of delusional hallucinations that merit intense privacy. They warrant a conversation that includes petrified steel and diamond-hard stone in battle against soft, supple fabric. That is all the chaos I am prepared to share at the moment.

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An hour already has passed. In the blink of an eye, that river of time has dried up, revealing scorched banks. When I write, I tend to incorporate drama into the dullest of dull passages. No one else seems inclined to do that. But they willingly laugh when I retrieve overly-long words and phrases and sentences borrowed from pre-history to emphasize contempt. The laughs are derisive. They are not servile attempts to erase the derision.

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I will pause now. Until tomorrow? Today? Sometime.

Muscles in the back of the neck become tight. The shoulders and upper back stiffen, as well. The tension causes knots to form within long strips of rigid, contracted muscle. Ribbons of tendons, stretched almost to the point of snapping, surround and strangle sensitive tangles of snarled nerves.

Thus is the onset and expression of the kind of cramps caused by stress. Anxiety. Tension. When the worst of the cramps subside, the body remains poised to react to the slightest provocation. No significant loosening of the bindings. No relaxation. Just a moderate diminution of the hard-edged pain. A slight transformation, from cords of braided steel to braided cords of rock-hard, brittle rubber.

Those sensations are like old memories, pulled from deep within a morass of dusty recollections. Neither the sensations nor the memories are welcome. They bring back experiences I hoped would have dissolved—and did, for a while. But now they are rubber bands, stretched beyond the breaking point yet refusing to break.

Some of the more recent experiences were brought on by exposure to incredibly outlandish bureaucratic Catch-22 situations. And simple bureaucratic stupidity, baked into mindless bureaucratic interactions. Yesterday, for the first time in months, I felt like screaming, breaking glass, and roaring like a lion that had been poked one too many times.

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The wood from acacia trees is harvested, primarily, in Asia and Australia. It is said to be a sustainable source of wood, with wide-ranging uses including furniture, flooring, and wooden musical instruments (e.g, guitars). In my opinion, it is beautiful wood, with colors ranging from orange to yellow to red to deep, mahogany brown. I mention acacia wood because, when we were out shopping for a replacement for a rug beneath the table in the dining room, we bought a replacement for the table. The live edge acacia wood table has black metal legs, the live edge an angular base giving the table a distinctly modern look. Oh, we bought a rug, too. Both are to be delivered Friday.

We both were drawn to table when we first laid eyes on the wooden top. Perhaps it is the fact that the flooring in our house, composed of luxury vinyl planks, was manufactured to mimic the look of acacia. We had come to the conclusion that we could easily live with the antique oak table that belonged to mi novia’s abuela. But happenstance can change the course of a day in an instant.

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We had a superb, turmeric-laden lentil soup for dinner last night. My sister-in-law brought it over yesterday morning, as she is wont to do; when she makes a big batch of soup, she often shares it with us. And she makes excellent soup. Mi novia, while she liked the flavor quite a lot, was not as much a fan of the soup as am I. I am a huge fan of lentil-based dishes; she is not. She would have liked the soup even more if the lentils had, instead, been peas. I suspect I could enjoy a pea version, too, but in my view lentils belonged in that soup. It was spicy, but not overly spicy. While the soup was heating, I added some vegetable broth and a bunch of fresh spinach to the pot, as instructed by my SIL. Excellent flavor. Healthy. Comforting. Satisfying. I am a fan of soup. Not really an aficionado, but I could become one with just a little more exposure. This morning, for breakfast, I will finish off the tiny bit remaining. That will make me happy for a while.

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

~ Emil Cioran ~

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I vaguely remember the feeling. Bursting with excitement. Ecstatic, with a sense that I knew precisely what constituted happiness. Giddy. Alive! But I do not remember what caused me to feel those sensations. I know they were brought about by simple experiences, but I do not know exactly what. Could it have been the first time I caught sight of a glacier? Yes. Or could it have been watching a friend achieve and be recognized for achieving a long-time goal? Yes, that, too. Could it have been boarding a plane with my late wife, taking off for an adventure in Europe? Yes. So many things once sparked such overwhelming excitement. Today, though, the exuberant feeling that I have encountered the pinnacle of delight is less than scarce.  It is exceedingly rare. How does one get that back?

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Mornings are fast. They are speed-skaters on steep, smooth sheets of ice. Blink and they are gone. They are blurs that refuse to come into focus for even for a moment. It is not just time that races by. It is life. Always too late to do or say what should have been done or said.

A chance event can behave like a stick of dynamite that, when detonated, breaches the mental dam that holds back a flood of memories. After more than fifty years, long lost recollections can rush in, hydrating layer upon layer of forgotten experiences with freshly resurrected memories. When the dam breaks, dry, brittle sheets of experience that buried history for decades can wash away, revealing years of detritus left by the tides of time.

Recently, a friend from high school—someone with whom I have not been in touch for more than fifty years—contacted me, more or less by a fluke. He found my blog, then contacted me by email. And he wrote and mailed a letter to me, even before I responded to his email message. His messages unearthed memories I did not even realize were hidden deep in my brain and made me think of old friends who I have not seen since I graduated from high school in 1972. His mention of a group of guys, of which I was part, called the Schlitz Seven triggered recollections of good times when our carefree cadre of under-age friends drank beer, grilled ribeye steaks, and otherwise paid homage to the calls of banality and decadence that many guys in their late teens hear. I really did not know some of those memories were actually in my head, retrievable only by breaking the dam and unleashing the flood. I look forward to dredging up more of those memories, bringing them to the surface, cleaning them up, and drying them off. My memories of my youth are few and far between. Now, though, I know at least some of them have not disappeared. They are accessible by diving beneath the surface.

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As a rule, men worry more about what they can’t see than about what they can.

~ Julius Caesar ~

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Penny, if you read this, I want you to know I sent you an email. 🙂

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World events of late disturb me. Right-wing attacks on government institutions (Brazil), horrendous floods (Pakistan), the ravages of war (Ukraine), and the collapse of the environment (the disappearance of glaciers) play havoc with my serenity. I can do little to nothing about any of these world events so, according to logic and advice, I should not worry about them. That advice is easy to give, hard to live. As a human being sensitive to the plight of other human beings, it is hard to dismiss the horrors that surround us. Yet the advice (do not worry about things you cannot control) is crucial to maintaining one’s sanity (or, in my case, retaining what’s left of it). What is the tipping point between care and worry? I wish I knew.

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I joined the NAACP yesterday. I have intended for quite some time to lend my support to the organization, but lethargy and procrastination were in control until yesterday. Yesterday, during an “Insight” service at church, the young man who is president of the local NAACP (Marsalis Weatherspoon) spoke about the organization, what it is, and what it has been trying to achieve. That was the push I needed to take action. That, and mi novia‘s decision to do the same. I support the organization’s mission and I would like to further its ability to fulfill it. We are joining eighteen other church members at an NAACP breakfast next Saturday, held in conjunction with celebrations of the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr. Later in the month, we will attend a film screening of We Have Just Begun: The 1919 Elaine Massacre and Dispossession, a documentary about the Elaine, Arkansas massacre that left hundreds of African American men, women, and children dead.

Too many historical events, like the massacre in Elaine and the Tulsa, Oklahoma massacre that took place on and around Black Wall Street, have been shielded from public view for decades. The more people who are made aware of these atrocities in our history, the more people will come to realize that our country needs to hear apologies and to witness some way of making reparations to the descendants of such horrific events. And not only to direct descendants: an entire culture, Black and White, has been impacted by these hidden depravities. Ach! I sometimes am embarrassed to be human.

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My computer is failing me. It regularly shuts down Wi-Fi, requiring me to go through several steps to restore it. I have been talking about buying a new notebook for some time. This trouble with Wi-Fi, coupled with the fact that the beast is increasingly slow, slow, slow, has convinced me. But I am confounded by the millions of choices. And I am deterred by the fact that, whenever I buy a new one, I will have to go through hours of set-up to get the damn thing to work. I would gladly pay someone to experience the frustration on my behalf, but I do not know of anyone who does such stuff. Oh, well. That’s life.

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Enough of my rambling. I have to get on with the day. I hope you and I have a very good, productive, satisfying one.

Question everything. Believe nothing, least of all the stories you tell yourself. Your certainty scorches the thin layer of ice under your feet…your only protection from the boiling cauldron of misjudgment beneath you.

~ John Swinburn ~

Roughly three and one half years ago, with those words, I proclaimed the dangers of certainty.  Yet even in light of that proclamation, too often I stand on the icy edge of an active volcano’s caldera, behaving as if the risk of being swept into the bubbling magma is worth the thrill of invincible faith. Like both fire and ice, certainty is dangerous. Certainty forms an impenetrable seal around the mind, preventing doubt from entering. In the absence of doubt, one ignores challenges to his perspectives. He dismisses possibilities that threaten to undermine his convictions—convictions woven from threads so delicate a sideways glance could shatter them into a million pieces. Infallible knowledge—which constitutes the way in which we view certainty—is far more dangerous than doubt. Doubt, in fact, tethers us to multiple, often conflicting, possibilities. Possibilities that can keep us from falling headlong into the abyss. I am wary of certainty in other people; even more wary when it takes hold in myself.

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The problem with arguments against certainty, of course, is that nothing is assured. Absent certainty, we cannot trust anyone else. But it goes even deeper…we cannot trust ourselves. Without certainty, we must question everything—we cannot be sure of others’ motives, nor can we be sure of our own emotions, no matter how intense. Doubt can serve as armor against all sorts of ordnance, but it also can serve as an almost impervious wall.  A continuum between certainty and doubt must exist; we must move back and forth along its contradictory length, choosing the proper perspectives for every set of circumstances. Bouncing between certainty and doubt can drive a person mad, but failing to do so cements the insanity in perpetuity.

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I do not hate vegans, nor vegetarians, nor flexitarians nor pescatarians. But some of them hate me—perhaps not me, personally, but people who behave as I do—because I live outside the tiny sphere of behaviors they find acceptable. I find it odd that we tend to choose limited characteristics or attributes or behaviors as the triggers for our loathing. Nutrition (or food preferences). Religion. Political philosophy. A person can find dozens, maybe hundreds, of other reasons to hate or, at least, dislike people who do not share our worldview. Or, if not our entire worldview, the view from a tiny window. Oddly enough, some of these detesters express great appreciation for diversity—but only when that diversity coincides with their own worldview. I wonder whether a cattle rancher who loathes vegans would be as adamant if the vegans he loathes were not so condemnatory of the way he earns his living?

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As usual, the morning has zipped by with astonishing speed. It’s now about 7:30 and I need to rush to shower, shave, and get dressed for an Insight service at church. Though I would rather stay home and loll about in my casual morning clothes, I suspect I will be glad I made the effort to go to church, once I have done the deed. At least I hope so.

The morning, thus far, has seemed almost a frenzy of activity, said activities infringing on achievement of my desired serenity. I suppose I will have to get used to the dislocation of my treasured quiet solitude; the directions given to me at my doctor’s office will squelch my tendency toward calm, slothful indolence. I am to take daily, early-morning blood glucose readings, check my blood pressure and blood oxygen saturation, breathe in the healing fog from a nebulizer, devour a handful of pills (the number of which increased by one after yesterday’s visit with the nurse practitioner), walk (at an early hour, walking will be restricted to some time on the treadmill), and probably a few more rituals intended to improve my health and prolong my life. Despite their intent to improve my lot in life, these rites have succeeded, so far, in making me feel old and infirm. And why should I not feel old and infirm? I am 69 years old. I have behaved, for much of my life, as if my body could be mistreated or ignored, with no consequences. The chickens I freed long, long ago have come home to roost; if I insist on continuing to behave as if I am physically and mentally invincible, I will reap my just, but unpleasant rewards. The choice is mine to make: live within the strictures of  relatively rigid self-care. No longer am I in fine fettle; if I am to retrieve a semblance of the fineness of my fettle, I must adjust my habits. And so I will. I hope. Oh, I will, but whether I can persuade myself to transform newly-acquired good habits into permanent behaviors will be the test. And the measure of my comfort and longevity.

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Finally, a Speaker of the House has been elected. I fear the process has done irreparable damage to an already badly faltering institution. But I tend to agree with Ohio Representative Marcy Kaptur, who was profiled in an online article on CNN.com this morning, that the institution has other troubles. She has urged the Democratic party “to wake up to the plight of ‘industrial and agricultural America,’ lest that important segment of the population throw their full-throated support behind the Republican party (even though, in my view, Republican policies treat that segment as if it were simply an expendable means of achieving the party’s desired objectives).

For quite some time, until three or four years ago, I laughed off the idea that the Democratic party paid little attention to the circumstances of middle America, and that it was almost exclusively representative of coastal elites. But I have changed my perspective. Though my wants and needs and preferences in almost all areas of my life mirror those of the coastal elites, I believe the legitimate needs of middle America has been largely ignored by both major parties. And I think my long-held implicit insistence that the soul of the nation be molded into a likeness of my image is unreasonable. And dangerous to democracy. Everyone’s perspectives deserve equal consideration. Even the people I consider deviant right-wingers deserve to be heard. More importantly, they deserve evidence that they have been heard and that their viewpoints have been given more than cursory consideration. I doubt that evidence will be forthcoming from either party, because the parties have morphed into machines whose only functions are to protect themselves and to fight to ensure their superiority over their adversaries; their constituencies be damned. What an unpleasant realization. Although the January 6, 2021 insurrection was an abomination, perhaps a different sort of insurrection, fueled by the rage of the vast, unheard massive moderate middle, could awaken what is missing in most of the members of Congress: a sense of obligation to serve their constituents and their country.

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The morning is grey and still. Rain is in the forecast. Weather is one of the eternal forces over which we have little control. Perhaps we should not try to control the weather, paying attention, instead, to our own humanity.

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There is wisdom hidden in the reflection of ourselves in the mirror. Our opposites. We look in the mirror and think we see ourselves. In fact, we see only the surface of someone else. If we look deeply, though, we can see beyond who we are and who is reflected in the glass. We should pay heed to him or her. There’s wisdom back there, if only we would probe for it with our minds.

Once again, my love affair with the solitude of early morning darkness promises to be all too brief. Though I awoke at a reasonable hour, showering and shaving interfered with the commencement of the day. The time is now 6:30; what remains of darkness soon will be overtaken by daybreak. I need another hour or two of night, but I will get only an hour until the sun rises. Light will overtake darkness long before “official” sunrise at 7:20 or thereabouts. The little time during which the sun remains hidden is insufficient to allow me to ease into the day the way I would like. Setting my alarm every evening would enable me to capture the morning’s darkness, but the noise would rouse mi novia, possibly interrupting the time she most needs to sleep. Besides, the idea of setting an alarm to return me to my natural rhythm disturbs me. Cursing and complaining will accomplish nothing. I must simply adjust and adapt to whatever is happening to my circadian rhythm. Life does not always cooperate with one’s wishes.

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No matter how much I wish to write this morning, it simply is not in me. I want to record my thoughts, but they would require too much explanation; without amplifying them in great depth, people reading them would misinterpret them. My thoughts would be mistaken for madness, whereas in fact they are simply expressions of curiosity. They would be interpreted as expressions of curiosity too easily be read as warnings that I am edging toward a dangerous precipice; which is not the case. Just philosophical inquiries about emptiness. Queries about whether a vacuum really can exist. And, if it can, whether space is “something” or “nothing.” We think we know more than we know. Everything in us and around us is steeped in mystery so deep we cannot hope ever to reach the bottom. Or the top.  There’s a reason I cannot write this morning. Language is inadequate to express emotions and perceptions. And so I will surrender, for now.

Noise. Perpetual noise. Like the constant humming or grinding or scraping of crickets. If what I “hear” is simply evidence of tinnitus—or even if it is not—I want it to stop. Now. Some days, I suppose I’m just used to it. Others, like today, I feel myself losing any traces of sanity I might still possess. Those incessant sounds tempt me to strive for absolute silence, using any means necessary to end the ceaseless buzz. An ice pick through the eardrum might do it. Or an explosive device, detonated the distance of a hair’s width from my ear. Or ears. Which ear is it? Or is it both? Perhaps only by drowning the sounds in yet more sounds will do it. Sitting next to railroad tracks as an enormously long freight train races by would at least mask the crickets. At least for a while.

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The dream, details of which have completely escaped me, was frustrating and frightening. If I could remember it, I would record the unpleasant experience, with the objective of interpreting its meaning sometime later, when I am in a more serene mood. But that would do no good. The “meaning” of dreams often is nonexistent. It is simply a jumble of images and sounds and irrationality, sculpted around a sensation that feels like it should have meaning but, in fact, has none.

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I finally met the woman who bought my house. She contacted me several days ago, by text, looking for a reliable HVAC service company. The heat in what is now her house had gone out just before a strong cold front was expected to descend on the state. And she mentioned that she had some mail for me. I gave her contact information, but opted to stay away for a few days, given that I was in the midst of a fierce cold, or something like it. Yesterday, though, I drove over. We chatted for a while and she gave me the mail, which included a sticker for my car license tags that I had paid for a few months ago but had not received (and had forgotten). When I entered the front door of the house, the view immediately gripped me; it was what had sold my late wife and me on the house when we bought it in 2014. But I now value even more the solitude of the forest, where I have no neighbors. Things change.

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I may decide to drive to Little Rock tomorrow to close out a bank account. A short drive might satisfy my urge to take a road trip, but I doubt it will extinguish the desire to get away, on the open highway. An excuse. That’s all I need. Some reason to get in the car and go, But my annual physical is scheduled for next week, so I cannot just strike out for parts unknown without causing some grief for my physician’s office. And that’s the sort of thing that matters these days: keeping the doctor’s office happy. Crud.

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I must leave soon. My blood draw and other lab work awaits. This is what occupies my time of late. Maybe I will make  it to breakfast with the “church men” after the blood-letting. Ach. I must get dressed and go.

My very long-time habit of waking extremely early seems, unfortunately, to be dissolving. This morning, I woke just after 6:30, a full hour later than my normal “latest” time to wake. The loss of an hour or more of my private time of isolation may be “healthy,” but I truly miss those lonely hours. It is not just the length of time alone I miss, it is the darkness. There is something about looking through the windows into empty blackness that sooths me. Pre-dawn darkness, when I am alone with my thoughts, nourishes my imagination and feeds my need for the purity of solitude. Yet, I have slept in lately. This morning, I woke around 4:15 to pee, but chose to return to bed, where I slept for more than two more hours. I could have, as usual, gotten dressed and padded out into the dark house, but instead I decided to take just a few more minutes to rest. A few more minutes. Maybe it’s just the remnants of my severe cold that is keeping me from my old familiar patterns. I truly hope so. And I hope I can readjust my sleep habits, returning to the reliable hours of darkness that replenish my…what is it?…soul, for want of a better word.

+++

An acquaintance, with whom I have not spoken in quite some time, is a gifted writer. A few years ago, she wrote a short book that she chose not to try to publish. Instead, she shared it with just a few of her colleagues who, like her, enjoy writing. I was fortunate to be among them. She called the book’s genre “granny porn,” in that its plot revolved around a group of elderly men and women who lived in an old house which served as home to a co-ed group of old folks who were sexually interested and active. It’s interesting to think back to my youth and even my middle age when, I remember, the idea of sexually active oldsters was essentially unheard of—almost preposterous. Why the idea that libido might simply dissolve into disinterest made any sense is beyond me. I suppose the tendency for issues of intimacy seemingly to become increasingly private as one ages might contribute to the idea that sex is restricted only to the young. I am not sure what prompted me to think about “granny porn” this morning, but as the matter has surfaced in my brain it makes me think. I wonder whether “granny porn”—based not purely on prurient interests but on the natural evolution of sexual relationships as one ages—might develop a strong following among people in their sixties, seventies, and eighties? Of course, at some point one’s interests in sex must begin to wither simply as a matter of changes brought about by aging. But until then, I would think that literature based on reality, rather than uninformed assumptions, would have a reasonably good-sized market. I doubt I’m going to write much pornography, but someone probably should. 😉

+++

Last night, we watched five of six episodes of a Netflix limited series entitled, Hold Tight.

IMDb‘s description of the series does not do justice to the storyline: “When a young man goes missing soon after his friend dies, life in a tight-knit, affluent Warsaw suburb slowly unravels, exposing secrets and lies.” Set in modern-day Warsaw, Poland, the series started slow, in my view; slow enough that I considered trying something else for the evening’s entertainment. But I am glad we stuck with it. By the beginning of the second episode, though, I was committed. By the end of the fifth episode, I was riveted. While initially a bit difficult because it was performed in Polish with English subtitles, it did not take long to forget that I was not “hearing” it in English.

Harlan Corben, the writer on whose work Hold Tight and several other Netflix limited series is based, is deeply involved in the television/film production of a number of his works. I suspect I will explore some of his 34 novels in the coming months and years.

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Mi novia and I went out for a late breakfast this morning, thanks to the absence of some of the normal ingredients of breakfast. Subsequently, we made a trip to the post office and then drove by the site(s) of the tornado that damaged several buildings in and around the Jessieville schools on Monday. From there, we drove just a little north to the approximate area where a body was found off Highway 7 North.  That, and a stop at a pharmacy to pick up a prescription for me, was our excitement for the morning. Only after returning to the house and dawdling for a while did I realize I had not finished writing my blog for the day. Curses! I really must get back on track so my sleep cycle corresponds to my writing processes.  And now, as it nears noon, I will cogitate on the matter. Until tomorrow, I expect…

Last night, I slept only intermittently. During those brief periods when I slept, I was semi-conscious; my so-called sleep was a troubled amalgamation of wishes and fears and reactions to imprecise concerns going back to my childhood—a nasty brew that attempted to drown me in memories that might not even have been my own. I think I’ll sleep far better when I return from my doctor’s appointment this morning. Speaking of which, I should leave here around 9 for that visit.

+++

Powerful storms swept through the area yesterday afternoon, evening, and night. The most severe seem to have been north of the Village, where either powerful straight-line winds or a tornado tore into the Jessieville schools, leaving significant damage to buildings and sports fields. The extent of the damage has yet to be reported in full, thanks in part to the fact that our local newspaper is not a full-on news source (it is more of an ad-rag with extremely limited capabilities to pursue and report news). Time will tell just how extensive or limited yesterday’s storms were.

+++

I remain far, far from capable of writing the way I normally write. My cold/flu/affliction is on its way out, but it continues to inhabit me, causing all manner of discomfort or displeasure. I loathe this feeling of ill health and unease. I thought I was over it yesterday morning, but it seemed to have returned with a vengeance later in the day. Enough of this. I will set my alarm in a moment, to alert me when it’s time to leave. In the interim, I will attempt to drift into sleep for just a while.

What delights will 2023 bring? What pleasures? What pains? There’s no value in anticipating the unknowable, nor use in wishing for circumstances over which I have little or no control. Hopes and dreams and dreads sometimes seem such wasteful expenditures of energy. But in what, instead, should we invest ourselves? As I contemplate my multiple answers to those seemingly simple questions, the pointlessness of guessing games becomes clear, yet all we can do is guess, for we have no way of telling the future. We can attempt to shape it, but unless we truly are willing to commit “time, talent, and treasure” to modifying our lives, we delude ourselves into thinking we have any control. One can see the absurdity of the dilemma, I think: one has no control unless one exercises the control one has. Control involves taking risks. And risks involve deliberately ceding control. But ceding control, by risk-taking, is the only means by which one can hope to take charge. Circular reasoning. “Living in sphere” is how I have decided to describe it.

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I am restless. Not restless in the sense that I simply want to get out of the house, though I am restless in that sense, too. I am restless in the sense that I want to exchange my circumstances for another set. But when I try to envision the set of circumstances I want to explore, I tend to imagine my current self in a new environment. I need to imagine a different self in a different environment. Or, perhaps, a different self in the same environment. Changing both who and where I am would accomplish the difference I seek. But changing who I am without altering my environment would do the same, I think. Both, though, done simultaneously, would be a more thorough revision to the circumstances that define me—both in my eyes and in the eyes of those who see me.

To a great extent, accomplishing that dramatic reconfiguration of my circumstances would involve changing my story. That is, I would have to tell a story about myself that differs from the “truth.” For that “truth” to take hold, I would need to surround myself with people who, today, I do not know and vice versa. Staying where I am, then, would make impossible the idea of a different me. I would have to enter a new environment as a man with a different story. That is, I would have to abandon my history and the people in it; I would have to lie. It would require me to enter a new environment where I am unknown. There, I would introduce myself as a different man with a different past. A mysterious stranger whose history would mold itself around the way I want to be perceived. A believable history hard to confirm or contest. The transformation would be enormously interesting to me, but essentially impossible without a willingness to truly abandon—at least temporarily—my life as it exists today. I would have to leave my present circumstances behind me; my family, my friends…everything. That would be the most painful and most difficult aspect of the exploration. And, I do not have the wherewithal to put people through it. Unless…unless I could share my plans and get buy-in from people around me. Agreement to let me disappear for a while, only to return after my—hopefully—successful transformative experience. Ach! It’s silly to even think it. But I think it, nonetheless.

+++

Though I awoke around 5:30 this morning, my blogging thus far today has been sporadic. I am returning to the computer now (around 8:40), with the objective of finishing today’s post, after which I will rest/nap for a bit. I think I am close to wrapping up my cold/flu/whatever, but continue to tire quite easily, which I find more than a  little irritating. I do not recommend this affliction, whatever it is, for several reasons—not the least of which is the constant tiredness/weakness that accompanies it.

+++

Temperatures today should reach the mid sixties, dropping off to the low fifties and upper forties in the several days to follow. I am easily chilled of late, so I will go outside only when necessary (tomorrow and a few days hence, I have long-established doctors’ appointments).  I look forward to the time when I’m fully recovered from this crud; enough, at least, to deal with cool temperatures without feeling like an elderly geezer unable to cope with temperatures below 80°F (okay, that’s stretching it, but I make the point for emphasis). Enough of this talk. I’ll wrap it up here and take a pause to recover from inadequate sleep.

Whether it was the flu or a fierce cold, I’ll probably never know. Whatever I had—have—kept me from writing coherently for a few days. I chose not to try to post anything the last couple of days of 2022, opting instead to conserve my mental energy. That conservation did no good, other than allow me a little time to rest. Aside from hiding for all time the thoughts that went through my head as the year ended, my rest accomplished nothing of consequence. But keeping away from people these last several days probably saved others from catching whatever ailed me; and whatever remains with me: the coughing, headaches, body aches, chills, and various other symptoms that caused me to sleep so much. And to fail to sleep when I so desperately wanted to. I doubt whatever it is I had/have is still contagious, but to be safe I am remaining in a quarantine of sorts at home. I would not enjoy going out into the world yet, anyway, as I still feel a little weak and uncertain on my feet. Within a few days, I am confident I can and will safely return to the real world. In the interim, I will continue to contemplate the transition to a new, but artificial, measure of a segment of time.

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Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

~ Seneca ~

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The Gregorian Calendar, which is now used by most of Earth’s population for civil purposes, first replaced the Julian Calendar on the day following Thursday, October 4, 1582; that next day was designated Friday, October 15, 1582. The ten-day adjustment was made by Pope Gregory XIII as a means of “correcting” the calculation of the dates of Easter. The adoption of the Gregorian Calendar, replacing the Julian Calendar, has been taking place ever since Pope Gregory XIII started the process. Ukraine and Yugoslavia and Russia, for example, adopted the Gregorian Calendar in 1918. Saudi Arabia did so in 2016.  My interpretation of the Gregorian Calendar we all use, without thinking, is that it is the result of the merger between astronomical physics and religious accommodation. The calendar is a convenience and a generally simple shorthand that allows us to speak the same language with respect to the measurement of the passage of time.

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The end of 2022 is behind us and the beginning of 2023 is here. Both are artificial measures of time, but they serve as milestones; markers to which we can point when examining changes that have taken place in our lives. My hope is that the beginning of 2023 will serve as the marker of positive, productive, rewarding, happy changes. Not only for me, but for everyone. If I had the ability to magically improve the world at large, I would exercise it. And, in fact, I have the ability to do just that. So does everyone else. It’s simply a matter of putting it to good use. I cannot change everything, but I can change something. It may sound cliché and trite, but I am convinced it is true. That always is true; not just at the beginning of a new year. At any moment, we can decide “I will contribute in positive ways, rather than complain or otherwise get in the way of improving the lot of others’ lives.”

As I look back at what I’ve written, I can see that I am not fully recovered from my illness. My mind remains foggy. That will change. But at least I am on the path to shaking off this fierce cold or flu or whatever it is. And when it is finally gone, I will spend time in deep thought, recovering some of the ideas that have been dormant this past week or so. I vaguely remember some I think are worth making available to anyone who might wish to read them. They will be here, in time.

+++

Three monstrous crows just landed on the driveway outside my study window. Their “caws” are loud. How many crows does it take to constitute a murder, I wonder?

Millions of people are in far worse shape than I. People around the globe live in extreme poverty, are exposed to existential dangers posed by war, face climate disasters that could bring utter ruin, or any combination of other horrors much more severe than mine.

Still, I feel pretty shitty. My head is stopped up, as is my chest, I have a loud and painful cough, my throat is sore, my badly aching joints and muscles are causing me all kinds of grief, and I have a headache that vacillates between painful and simply bothersome. I have slept—or attempting to sleep—in the neighborhood of 52 hours since Monday afternoon. Whether it is the flu or a severe cold, it will disappear in its own time. I’ve tested, twice, for COVID-19 and the results are negative.

Until my symptoms disappear—or until they are, at least, tolerable—I will try to extricate myself from my inexplicable need to blog every day.  Even this short post is draining. But at least I am not facing war, extreme poverty, and other horrors that face so many people on the planet today. I am trying my very best to be grateful for the situation in which I live…and I’m trying to find my maladies tolerable.

Until I blog again, I hope you have all manner of reasons to be satisfied and grateful for your positions on the planet.

Yesterday’s creative void turned into a series of naps, punctuated by coughing, nasal decongesting, and other such symptoms of a cold. After said naps, I felt somewhat better. This afternoon, after another night’s and morning’s sleep, I feel considerably worse. I am completely stopped up and my throat is red and raw, presumably from attempts to snore through my BiPAP mask. I had hoped sleep would improve my symptoms. Such are the risks of advancing age. I will pretend to write, anyway.

+++

Christmas Day this year came and went without much fanfare. Ditto, the day after Christmas. The experience was pretty much as it always has been. I’ve had considerable experience with Christmas; years and years, so I have the routine down pat. The variations caused by the presence or absence of specific people become routine, too; the key to easing the adjustment is to enter into the season without expectations. Just go with the flow. Easier said than done, I realize, setting an objective is a good first start.

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I awoke early this morning, but I could not maintain wakefulness. First, I sat on the couch, drifting off. Next, I pulled a blanket over my chilly body and attempted to relax on the long white sofa. No luck there, either. So I went back to bed, where I slept several more hours. Mi novia supplied me with blankets and water and Motrin and DayQuil and various other drugs intended to erase or, at least, minimize the symptoms of colds. I remain thoroughly stopped up. My chest is clogged. I attempt to clear my sinuses, but have no luck. I suppose I’ll just have to suffer through this modestly mild misery.

My brain continues to feel fuzzy and uncooperative. I feel fuzzy and uncooperative all around. I give up on writing a blog. There’s no point in trying to write when one’s head aches and one’s attitude is surly and unpleasant. And so I will sit at my desk in this empty house (mi novia is out playing card games with friends) and howl, summoning creatures who might understand my mood and who might have certain ways to make me feel human again.

Usually, even when my mind is blank, I can sit down at my computer and write…something. Not so this morning. I have run into a wall ever since I awoke. An immoveable wall; solid concrete blocks laced together with steel rods. Its height is too great. I cannot reach the top, much less fling myself over it. And, so, I wait again. I’ll return here in a bit.

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Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath.

~ Eckhart Tolle ~

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Well,  at least I can search out words of wisdom…as above…even while sitting inside this sinking pit, so devoid of creativity. The problem is this: I have nothing in my mind that I am willing to share with just anyone who happens along. In fact, there are precious few people with whom I would be willing to freely share. Those factors being in play, I think I’ll call it quits. I may return later today with a surprise non-morning post. Or I may not.