John Swinburn

It’s Christmas Day. Last year on this day, I spent a good bit of the day making a variety of Spanish tapas for the day’s celebratory meal. However, the day was a bit rough, as one of my brothers was in the hospital in physical decline, awaiting the completion of bureaucratic processes that would allow him to be transferred to hospice care; he died 34 days later.

This year, I will roast a large (8.7 pound) prime rib. Various delicious side dishes will complement the rare beef and the obligatory (for me, anyway) pungent horseradish that goes with it. My late wife’s sister will come over later today to partake of the feast. And mi novia and my sister-in-law and I we will play Sequence. I am not a fan of most table games; Sequence is one of the few I find tolerable.  A new game, Ransom Notes, is another one I find interesting. We played the game last night after eating chile con queso and tamales.

As I sit here at my computer, my thoughts drift toward people who are alone today. I suppose today is no different from many other days, but troubling comparisons enter my mind: between people surrounded by friends and family and people who are alone. I have such thoughts every year. Every year, I vow to plan to alleviate, in the future, the loneliness for as many people as possible. And every year I reflect on the fact that I have done nothing to fulfill my vow. I wonder whether I am inherently depressive?

I woke up this morning with my shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, and knees screaming in full rebellion. They react with rage at my every movement. Two Motrin probably is not nearly enough to calm the angry nerve endings that protest the mere fact that I am conscious. They would prefer I consume a tumbler full of vodka or a potent, sleep-inducing, pain-deadening narcotic and return to bed. Vodka is out of the question, and I am more than a little reticent to swallow the most-recently-prescribed narcotic: Tramadol. Tramadol belongs to the group of medicines called opioid analgesics, which act on the central nervous system to relieve pain. My hesitation to use the drug in response to a bunch of very painful joints is based on an experience in which I reacted badly. My reaction could have been to Tramadol or to the combination of Tramadol with other analgesics or to the combination of Tramadol with the lingering effects of anesthesia. Or Tramadol might have been guiltless. My frightening reaction, which included delusions and hallucinations and serious thoughts of suicide, may have had nothing whatsoever to do with Tramadol. But I am sufficiently concerned about taking the stuff that I probably will not do it unless my joint and muscle pain becomes intolerably excruciating. It’s not there yet. Frankly, my frightening experience does not mirror the side effects I have read about, connected with the drug. But my experience was sufficiently scary that I will practice an overabundance of caution. Maybe I should ask for something else to combat the pain of age-related decay?

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I have a story to tell. An embarrassing story about something that took place two days ago. A story that reveals the potential consequences of both excessive frugality and long-time neglect.

After attending the celebration of life service for a friend/member of my church—at which I read a poem I wrote for the occasion—we went to our friend’s home to visit with her husband and family. It was there, while I was speaking to him, that her husband pointed to something on the floor between us. Because I had just picked up a canape-sized ham salad sandwich on dark rye, I thought the dark “something” on the floor could have been a slice of the rye that I might have dropped. But it wasn’t; it was a crumbly dark piece of rubber. A while later, as I took a step, another piece of black rubber suddenly appeared on the floor. Immediately, I thought it could be from the sole of my shoes, in that my foot suddenly felt a tad lighter.

Change of scene: back home, in the master bath. I took off my shoes, only to discover the pieces of crumbling rubber had come off my shoes. Big pieces of the soles and heels of both shoes were missing. Though the leather uppers looked perfectly fine, the soles of my very old pair of Ecco brand shoes were crumbling. The shoes I bought several years before I moved away from Dallas were disintegrating while I watched. Mi novia expressed relief that the shoes had not begun to decompose while I walked to or from the pulpit in connection with delivering my poem of remembrance.

Needless to say, I am in need of a replacement pair of dress shoes. As nice as the uppers on my old pair are, it is time for me to discard the old shoes (probably 15 years old or older). I suggested to mi novia that I could just have the shoes re-soled; her reaction assured me it would be best for the shoes not to be reborn.

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I’ll end this rambling reflection by wishing everyone who reads this, and all who don’t, a good day. Whether among friends and family or alone, everyone is on my mind this morning. I am thinking about you,  And wishing you—personally—comfort and joy on this and every day.

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The Great Deception. Every year, millions of children are introduced to variations on a long-living lie sustained through collusion and delusion. Parents—intentionally and purposefully—lie to their children, never considering that modeling is far more effective in molding future behaviors than is simple instruction.

Do not believe the lie I told you, for years, about Santa Claus, but believe me when I tell you about the son of God, born of a virgin, who was crucified and died but came back to convince humankind that resurrection is a thing. And to absolve us of our sins. Or some such story. 

And we wonder why so many of us seem to worship a psychotic, neurotic, deeply insane autocrat? We’re taught from an early age that lies are okay and natural and that one should not feel at all embarrassed for accepting as truth the most remarkably absurd and obviously untrue statements and scenarios. That’s on you, parents of the world!

The vindictive sarcasm above to the contrary notwithstanding, I rather like the Christmas season. The lights, the aromas of cooking and just-harvested live trees, and the blatant expressions of goodwill are all rather appealing. And the stories about reindeer and eggnog and mistletoe. And candles. Especially the flickering light of candles.

And when I hear children giggling with delight about Santa Claus and all the good things people do during the Christmas season, I find that I can accept a few lies to unsuspecting kids. They’re going to learn through harsh experience about lies and lying, so we might as well introduce them to deception in a positive way. A way that will introduce to them the concept of open-mindedness; the willingness to accept and embrace  lies, even lies so utterly blatant.

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I read a poem yesterday at the celebration of life service, held in our church, for a friend who died last week. Her husband asked me to write and read a poem. Honored to have been asked, I wrote a short narrative poem.  I hope it captured her genuine goodness and her steadfast resolve in support of gratitude and justice.

I learned that a frozen water pipe at church caused damage when it thawed, just after we left, following the celebration of life service.  The damage caused cancellation of this afternoon’s planned service and “soup supper.”

Instead, I will make chile con queso and we’ll steam some of the pork and jalapeño tamales I bought couple of weeks ago from El Mercado Latino. It’s almost by sheer chance that we have everything we need for a traditional Swinburn Christmas Eve. Even beer, though I can’t drink it. It has been five months since I had acute pancreatitis. And it has therefore been five months since I have been off of alcohol. I should have lost a lot of weight during that period, but I must have replaced the empty calories in alcohol with the empty calories of round-the-clock snacks. Moving forward, I’ll reject such frequent snackery.  After the chile con queso and tamales. And tomorrow’s feast.

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Odd. I can be extremely flexible, which is how I want to be. But the opposite trait in me is just as strong. I can be rigid, utterly unbending. I can refuse to yield my position on matters both supremely important and extraordinarily trivial. There seems to be no discernable pattern to my broad-mindedness and my opinionated unwillingness to budge, even in the face of irrefutable evidence that my position is inarguably wrong. Fortunately, I think, the outbreaks of headstrong intractability are less frequent than are my periods of tolerance and understanding. Regardless of my position on the continuum, I am ever the skeptic. Even when I fully embrace a position or idea, seeds of doubt as to its rectitude sprout in my mind like kudzu, fed high-nitrogen fertilizer, that might overtake entire forests.

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Today is Christmas Eve. I wish everyone a pleasant, merry, safe, and memorable Christmas. I’ll write again tomorrow.

Brutally cold air—currently in the neighborhood of 1°F—surrounds my warm, cozy house. The wind chill value is and will continue to be considerably lower than that, between -15°F and -30°F, according to hyper-local weather reports and forecasts. So far, water pipes seem to have survived the plunge in temperature from a balmy 42°F around 2 p.m. yesterday. I do not recall a time when temperatures dropped so far so fast. Last night, when we finished watching the final episode of season 3 of Borgen, the temperature had plunged to 4°F.

Thanks to my efforts last Spring to clear my closets of clothes that no longer (that is, never did) fit, I have just one coat to protect me against the cold when I leave the house in a few hours. I sometimes question my intelligence or lack thereof. I suppose it’s not entirely a lack of intelligence. My over-abundance of procrastination is what left me without more clothes suited to cold weather. I put off shopping for clothes far longer than is healthy; my distaste for clothes-shopping is almost a sickness. “Almost” is inappropriate, I suppose. I should attend meetings: “Hello, I’m John. I struggle with an aversion to fashion…any clothing, actually. If left to my own devices, I might either be a nudist or a…what’s the opposite of clothes horse?” My aversion to shopping for new clothes is not so much a distaste for fashion as it is a loathing of the realization that off-the-shelf clothes do not fit. Ever. Only in fairy tales could I expect to find a shirt or a pair of slacks or a jacket or even a pair of socks perfectly tailored to fit my body.

Somehow, I managed to deviate from musings about weather to a semi-rant about clothes that do not fit because they were created for imaginary beings whose bodies differ radically from mine.

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How can you expect a man who’s warm to understand one who’s cold?

~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn ~

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Seriously, I worry that the bitterly cold weather will gnaw at the harnesses of comfort. I worry that the cold might be too much for the walls and windows and doors to keep it at bay. Shivering in the dark, hoping for the miracle of electricity, is an eerie experience; yet one I have rarely encountered. I am extremely fortunate. I live in comfort. I have more than enough to eat. Even in the cold, I can rely on blankets to warm me.

Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.

~ Dwight D. Eisenhower ~

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How decent are we? We are willing to share a bit of our money with unfortunate people, but are we willing to share our homes with them? Do we invite strangers to come in out of the cold? Often, I see generosity as an attempt to replace guilt with something more palatable. We share a portion of our wealth, but we keep a more than adequate store for ourselves. We are willing to share, but only to a point far distant from risking luxury in the name of compassion. When I think of such stuff, I often think of lyrics from a song by Gordon Lightfoot:

And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at the gate.

For some reason, those words and the rest of the lyrics to the song are more meaningful to me than I can justify or explain. They are more inspirational and more thought-provoking—every time I hear them or read them or sing them to myself when I am alone—than I expect them to be.

If only the longing for justice and decency and compassion was enough to cause people to behave differently. But it’s only enough to summon guilt; to motivate us to relieve that discomfort with temporary kindness and grace and sympathy.

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Somehow, a bit more than two hours have passed since I made my first cup of coffee this morning. I can see the world outside my window; it does not look as cold as it is, but there is evidence that the air is frigid. Thin patches of snow on the ground. And the bark on the trees looks like it could shatter if barely tapped with a hammer. But that’s strictly my imagination at work; I cannot see how brittle and delicate the trees are in this beastly cold. I can only imagine it. And avoid it to the extent I can.

Waves in the ocean, generated by wind, are said to travel hundreds or even thousands of miles. The language used to describe waves—their genesis, and their demise—is unique. Terms like fetch and swell and contact distance and stochastic process are meant to help explain the formation and behavior of waves; but understanding fluid dynamics requires more than language. An appreciation of the way water interacts with wind to explain the wizardry of living liquid entails accepting the equivalent of voodoo. Black magic. The embrace of Neptune or Poseidon, as one’s divine savior—or his rejection, as the monster responsible for the treachery of the seas.

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A kiss is just as difficult to understand as are waves. A kiss should have no more meaning, nor influence, than a handshake or a pat on the shoulder. But the power of a kiss dwarfs even the heartiest handshake. Or the most powerful hug or embrace. Not just any kiss, of course. The right kiss. The kiss that sends electrical current coursing through one’s body. The one that could power all the spotlights and electric motors in North America. With plenty of excess power to illuminate the far reaches of the most distant galaxy.

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More patchouli. Because the aroma of a smoldering cone of the right incense unlocks sensual pleasures. The scent of burning patchouli incense unleashes the silent thunder hidden deep inside one’s mind. Not one’s brain; one’s mind.  That joyous amalgamation of thought and emotion and physical sensation; the experience that launches desire and satisfaction and hope and a million more subdued thrills. Or is it all just smoke? Vapor that fools us into believing in fire?

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Between 1 and 4 this afternoon, the weather is expected to turn cold and angry. Snow flurries may fall as the temperature begins to slide; 42°F around noon, 38 degrees colder by midnight. If good fortune prevails, the roads will be sufficiently clear and dry by Friday morning to permit a crowd to attend the celebration of life of a friend whose death reminded me that mortality stalks us. One does not prepare for death; one prepares for the aftermath of one’s death. That is, if one considers the rawness of death and its impact on the rest of us. We claim to understand death, but when it happens to people around us, we suddenly realize we do not believe in death. Death cannot possibly be real, can it? Yet it is inevitable. Like the weather. Like temperatures plunging to an unbelievable 4°F. It is bound to happen, eventually. We will be cold and astonished at the sun’s abandonment. We will want to burn sticks of wood and logs and entire cities; anything to overwhelm frigid temperatures. But we will remain civilized. For a time, anyway.

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Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelenskyy paid the U.S. a visit yesterday. I do not pretend to know how his visit will impact the direction of his country’s war against the aggression of Russia. Nor do I know how it will influence this country’s reaction to that aggression. We shall see. Eventually.

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It’s 7. Two hours have passed since I arose from bed. I wanted to sleep, but I was uncomfortable. Oh, well. I can sleep again tonight. Or, perhaps, sometime today. For now, I will wave goodbye to sleep. Until next time.

Today is the winter solstice, when one of the Earth’s poles reaches its maximum tilt away from the Sun. This is the day with the northern hemisphere’s shortest period of daylight and the longest night. Perhaps I would have figured that out on my own, had I lived four or five hundred years ago. Today, though, I take it on faith. Belief. Trust in the astronomers who understand the solar system far better than I ever will.

I might not have trusted astronomy (science), had I not been taught the value of the Scientific Method. I might have placed my confidence in religious figures, instead, having been taught of the infallibility of a deity and “his” chosen “priests,” for lack of a better term. Or I might have been inculcated with the mysterious “truths” of the invisible gremlins of the forests and their handlers.

I wonder how our descendants, a thousand years hence, will mock us for our unsophisticated misunderstanding of the universe? I suppose I will not be here to find out.

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I hate it when I sleep in, as I did today. Almost 6:30. Hours I could have put to good use; gone forever. That perspective on time tends to make me panic; I am losing some of the limited time available to me with each passing second. Whether I put it to good use or not, first it’s here, then it’s gone. Forever. Never to be retrieved. Never. Ever. Ever.

More than one perspective is available, of course. There’s the one that says, “I can’t get it back, so it’s pointless to miss it.” And there’s the other that says, “If I don’t put every moment to good use, I’ve lost that chance forever, and I will regret that squandered opportunity for all remaining time.” Or something like that.

It occurs to me that I have wasted more than a few moments by writing about them as if they mattered.

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When I am surrounded for more than a day or two at a time by people (that is, more than one person) I do not know well, I begin feeling on edge. When the time extends beyond three or four days, my anxiety transforms into displeasure. After a little more time has passed, displeasure might turn into overt surliness. Eventually, anger could replace the surliness. With enough time, I suppose, anger might morph into rage. Fortunately, I think I’ve maxed out at anxiety. My innate introversion seems to be getting more pronounced, in some senses, in my advancing years. I value privacy far more today than I did fifty years ago. I wonder, am I alone in my personality becoming more hardened into its original core as I age?

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And so Wednesday begins. And so Winter begins. The forecast for tomorrow night and Friday is brutal. Temperatures dropping to within a few degrees of zero. I may have to move to Ecuador.

Yesterday would have been an appropriate day to light a cone of patchouli incense, but I failed to think of it. Today, though, for a variety of reasons, it came to mind. So, as I sit here, the scent of the burning cone fills my nostrils. I cannot say with certainty that it calms me, but I think it helps. I should meditate more frequently, but I would need to awaken even earlier than I do. This morning, I got up around 5; even that, it seems, is not early enough. If I had arisen by 4:30 or, better yet, at 4, I would have felt unhurried and more attuned to the idea of meditation. Tomorrow, perhaps. Today, though, I think I could be sufficiently smooth. Blood pressure of 98/61 and a pulse of 61 suggests I may be relaxed. Yet the body can deceive; physically, I may seem relaxed, but an EKG might reveal something completely different: a frenzied, emotionally chaotic mind-storm. Fortunately, brain waves on an oscilloscope do not reveal the thoughts that undergird the mind-storm. At least not yet. One day, scientists (and others) may be able to read a person’s thoughts. That could be problematic for me, if murderous impulses were deemed enough to warrant arrest and imprisonment. But I’m going off on a tangent here; I’ll loop back into my more sane self.

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Out of the blue this morning, a friend from years ago is on my mind. We drifted apart over the years. “Drifted” is misleading; we clashed in ways that seem to have severed our friendship. Close friendships are few and far between, so their dissolution is especially unfortunate and painful. All these years later I am still distraught that all that’s left of one of those extremely rare once-in-a-lifetime friendships are memories and ashes. My memories of how our friendship dissolved are private, so I won’t share them—here or elsewhere. Maybe I should not even touch on it here, but it will serve to remind me—whenever I return to this post—that we should exercise more care to preserve relationships that are important to our well-being and happiness.

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This morning’s major news stories, like new stories most days, address issues over which I have absolutely no control: 1) The January 6 congressional committee’s findings and its criminal referrals about Trump; and 2) A major earthquake that caused damage and power outages in Humboldt County in northern California. There were other stories, of course: masses of asylum-seekers at the U.S./Mexico border; the Argentinian win of the soccer World Cup; the status of the Russian invasion of Ukraine; and the finding of guilt in Harvey Weinstein’s rape trial; among others. On one hand, I understand the concept that an informed citizenry is important to a nation’s ongoing progress. On the other hand, I do not follow the logic that suggests I should stay abreast of matters utterly out of my control. Perhaps it’s that we citizens should maintain an understanding of daily national and global events in case something over which we might have some degree of control comes along. When one feels powerless to influence the “big picture,” one tends to shrink into one’s own little domain. At least this “one” does.  I may not have any influence over how to deal with Trump’s criminality or Russia’s immoral belligerence, but my control over what I eat for breakfast is nearly absolute, in the context of the available breakfast foods. And, of course, I chose where to live in retirement (thus far). And various other personally significant matters. If I were to devote as much attention to personal matters over which I have substantial control as I do to national and global news over which I am powerless, I might discover I have even more control than I think. I’ll mull that over for a while.

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Using my incense cones in an attempt to attain serenity seems forced. Forced serenity is self-defeating, I’m afraid. Still, I enjoy the scent of burning patchouli. And forcing myself to “chill” demonstrates to me that reality differs radically from fantasy.

Never. I have used the word without considering its finality. It was just another word; a throw-away term for an abstract concept. But today, on the second anniversary of my wife’s death, I understand it. My understanding did not occur suddenly this morning, but today my comprehension is especially acute.

The realization that my eyes have seen my late wife for the last time. That I have heard her voice for the last time. That I have embraced her for the last time. That I have comforted her for the last time. I will never see or hear or touch her again. She and I will never laugh together again. We will never celebrate an anniversary together again. Nor a birthday. Nor anything else. Nothing, ever again. Never. Never is eternal emptiness. Eternal absence. Eternal impossibility. Never. Never. Never.

Apparently, the pain of losing her will never recede. That aching anguish is no different today than it was a year ago, nor any different than it has been every day since. This morning, though, it surfaces more thoroughly. It is not as muffled by the distractions of daily life; today, the calendar insists I again face the reality of never.

A year ago, on the first anniversary of her death, I wrote a post I entitled Today is Immeasurably Sad But Beautiful. The emotions I felt when I wrote those words remain just as raw. But I feel the same appreciative happiness, too. The collision between immense grief and satisfaction creates a level of chaos impossible to describe; I will not bother to try. I will let myself feel what I feel, despite the fact that my self-pitying grief is selfish. I will accept my selfishness today. I really have no other choice.

I tried to get back to sleep, but I failed. So I got up about 3:45 and played Words with Friends with another insomniac. And I noticed the very moment a different insomniac liked a photo I posted on Facebook a few days ago—I considered calling her, but that might have seemed a little creepy at 4:00 a.m., so I did not.

I still haven’t played Wordle this morning. Until a few days ago, I posted my Wordle performance on Facebook every day. I am not completely sure why I stopped; perhaps I just tired of comparing my performance to others’ “scores.” I usually do not find competition particularly gratifying. Maybe that is one of the reasons I never enjoyed team sports much. I liked playing squash when I was in college, but I was not fond of the competitive nature of the game; just knocking the ball around, without keeping score, would have been perfectly fine with me.  What is it about competition that is so attractive to people? And I must admit I find competition attractive sometimes; but not frequently. What is it? Why do we like to favorably compare ourselves with others? It’s a mystery.

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The next three chilly days will be preludes to a major drop in temperatures. Mixed precipitation is forecast for Thursday, with the low temperature than night expected to plunge to 1°F. Friday’s high may reach 16°F. The high on Christmas Eve day is forecast to reach 25°F, with the low that night dropping to 16°F. Those low temperatures and Thursday’s mixed precipitation would not be so bad if we were prepared: appropriate winter clothes, proper protections for water lines, adequate insulation, automobiles outfitted with cold-weather gear and equipment. But such weather is not common around here, so we do not plan for it. We stay indoors as much as we can and we hope for the best, after doing what we can to protect our homes and vehicles. And, of course, ourselves. I often think group living arrangements in co-housing environments are preferable to the way most of live today. But I value my privacy and my solitude too much, perhaps, for that to work for me. I don’t know myself well enough to know how I might react to living in close proximity to groups of people. Hmm.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

~ Lord Byron ~

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I graduated from high school fifty years ago last May. Following graduation, in June I moved from Corpus Christi, Texas to Austin, Texas to begin my college career in the summer session. Fifty years ago this month, I was completing my first Fall term classes during the period when the U.S. launched what is known as the “Christmas bombings” of North Vietnam. I do not remember that war-time offensive—I suppose I did not follow the news at the time, focusing my attention instead on my school work and the freedom afforded by my first several months of living away from home. My recollection of the large scale bombing events, which I vaguely remember learning about later, was triggered this morning by scanning CNN.com, a news source that, regardless of its bias, is sometimes an interesting read.

My failure to follow the news at the time is an embarrassment. Yet I doubt I was alone. I remember the Paris Peace Accords, though, and the withdrawal of U.S. troops a few months later. It wasn’t until the end of April 1975 that the war officially ended, roughly two years after the end of U.S. combat involvement.

Despite the fact that I did not always follow the war closely, I was opposed to it from as far back as I remember, even when my brother was sent to Da Nang as an Air Force medic. My opposition to the war did not coincide with any ill will toward U.S. troops; I felt like they were thrust into a situation over which they had no control. They did what they were commanded to do by U.S. administrations, beginning with Kennedy, that should never have intervened in the conflict. That having been said, some of the atrocities conducted by U.S. troops were unforgiveable. But because I have no direct experience with the horrors of war, I do not know how I might have behaved in the circumstances surrounding those atrocities.

Claims that U.S. troops in Vietnam “fought to preserve the freedoms we enjoy” are flawed, just as are similar claims made about our troops in Iraq. They fought because they were commanded by misguided leaders to do so.

There is no instance of a nation benefitting from prolonged warfare.

~ Sun Tzu, the Art of War ~

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Only the dead have seen the end of the war.

~ George Santayana ~

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I want more coffee now. I may try to brew it especially strong. There are days I wish I had kept my espresso machine; this is one of them. But my machine never made espresso as good as the monstrously expensive machines in coffee specialty shops; I prefer to buy the really good stuff than to make mine that is adequate but not exceptional. For now, I will be satisfied with plain old French roast coffee, adjusted a bit to be stronger than normal. Three hours from now, I will drink more coffee at church as I wait for the Illumination service to begin. I think the service will be exactly like it was last year and in years past. We shall see.

Hunter S. Thompson took his own life. He committed suicide at age 67.

Something I read early this morning mentioned Thompson in passing. For some reason, that casual aside about him led me down a rabbit warren. I refreshed my memory of his style of writing and his style of living. Though I know very little about the way he lived his life, day by day. I know his wife, Anita, was 32 years old when Thompson died; less than half his age. I know Thompson’s funeral was an expensive endeavor, said to have been financed by Johnny Depp. I know Thompson’s ashes were shot out of a cannon as part of the funeral service. But those facts do not reveal what his life was like, day by day. Not that it matters.

Reading that Thompson insisted on always having the ability to take his own life if things got too bad (whatever that means) got my attention. I had a discussion along those lines the other day when mi novia and a friend and I engaged in casual conversation.

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Time has flown by this morning. I woke at around 5:30. It’s nearing 8:00 now. How did that happen?

Time compression. I am 69, two years older than Thompson when he died. I remember when I was 67. It was no big deal. But 69 is a surprise. I did not expect it. I remain a teenager at heart. Or maybe a 20-something. Possibly a 30-something. But no older. Not a day over 39.

Yet Reality screams at me and grabs me by the shoulder, sending pain sufficient to cause me to gasp; “You’re an old man!” Reality screams it, pushing me in just the right place so I can feel the damn pain in my hip that periodically reminds me that I should avoid climbing on the roof. Or stairs. I reply with a stream of vulgarities, loud enough to send the birds outside my study window fluttering away.

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I deleted what I wrote earlier. Roughly 750 words. It was not suitable for all audiences. Epithets accounted for a quarter of it. That may be an exaggeration. But not much. And the subjects I covered were, at best, awkward and troubling. Had I left it untouched and simply published it, my very small number of followers might have worried that I was in danger. I wasn’t, but I am sure some would argue the point. Best to simply delete the post and start over. So I did. I wish I had saved it for myself, though. It captured what was on my mind. Next time, I will save what I wrote so I can look back, later, and marvel at the depth of the hole into which I crawled.

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Enough. Time to move on.

My DNA reveals things about me I once thought were somewhat-private. Now, anyone with access to certain data in the records of ancestry.com can know my DNA suggests: I like the taste of cilantro, I tend to remember my dreams, I am introverted, I am midway between risk-tolerant and risk-averse, that I have dark eyes. But the same data say I am a “night person” and my hair is dark; in fact, I have never been a night person and I had dishwater-blond hair before most of it turned grey. The lesson, I suppose, is that a genetic predisposition to a specific trait does not assure the expression of that trait. Perhaps, though, the fact that a predisposition remains dormant at any given point in one’s life does not guarantee it will remain dormant. I may yet become a “night person,” though the very thought disturbs me—I would hate to replace my early-morning solitude with late-night unknowns. I paid $10 to gain access to those DNA revelations, proving either that I am curious about what my DNA reveals about me or I am ego-driven—or, perhaps, both.

Other people could have different motives to pay the fee for access to their genetic information. Maybe a person is anxious to assuage his concerns that his DNA might reveal a propensity to commit murder. That “trait” has not yet been associated with a genetic marker—but that is not to say that it will not. And who is to say whether the interpretation or application of data about the so-called genetic markers is valid or reliable? I have not bothered to explore the validity or reliability of my ancestry.com information, but I am writing about it as if it were believable merely because it came from a well-known website. Oh, there could be a million motives for paying for access. And a million misinterpretations. And a million resulting missteps or mistakes.

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There was a time no so long ago that I would harshly judge a man who kept his hat or cap on after entering any building. A little later, I reserved my condemnation for people who failed to remove their headgear only upon entry to certain buildings, like public libraries or churches. This morning, as I mull over the protocols for when to wear and when to remove head coverings, the existence of such rules or guidelines seems utterly absurd. Why does society feel compelled to dictate what is or is not proper about wearing a hat and when it must be removed. Yet we create and implement silly rules. And we inflict punishment—usually in the form of disapproving looks—on people who opt to ignore them.

Indefensible! We have no right to embarrass or otherwise punish people who flout the protocol for wearing headgear!

How far does that dismissive attitude go? Should we be similarly flexible about the protocol that requires coat and tie in certain upscale restaurants? Or the social requirement that we wear suitable clothing or, at a bare minimum, cover our genitalia? It seems this matter is another one that moves freely (or almost so) along the continuum of what we sometimes call “proper decorum.”

Despite my mockery, I suppose protocol or ritual or whatever you choose to call it may have a legitimate place in society. It sets limits that can be understood—if not supported—by everyone. It provides a recognizable anchor in times of chaos or confusion. And it may differentiate segments of society from one another, thereby helping to cement bonds between those who share certain attributes. Like skin color, unfortunately. Everything has markers that either bind us together or tear us apart.

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I have a small butt. It does not do its job of holding up my pants, so I must rely on a belt or suspenders or other such device created to prevent the social faux pas of letting one’s pants fall down. A larger butt, one more distinctly double-half-melon-shaped, probably would prevent that from happening. My shape is dictated, in large part, by my genes. I wonder why the ancestry.com exposé of my traits did not call attention to that physical flaw?

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As I sat here at my desk, upright, in a daze approaching sleep, I was jarred awake/alert by a loud “thump” against a window in front of me and to the left. I suspect it was a bird striking the window. But it’s still dark outside. Do birds awaken and fly around at this early hour? When the approaching dawn begins to flush darkness from the sky, I see and hear birds. But this early? In near total darkness?

Hmmm. It may not have been a bird. It could have been a raccoon, its paw balled into a fist, punching at the glass. Or a clumsy squirrel.

I cannot stay fully awake. It is 6:30. I have been up for more than two hours. I think I need more sleep. But I need more coffee, as well. I have a medical appointment at 8:45, so I will stay up; I just need to shower and shave and have breakfast and finish blogging. Not necessarily in that order.

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I inherited a significant number of traits and attributes. One of them seems to be a reluctance to call events to an end. But I must do that with this post. The End.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

~ Edgar Allan Poe ~

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Writers are not unique in their seeming preoccupation with death; they are scribes who capture in words the emotions we all experience and the thoughts and questions swirling in our brains. Some writers—like Edgar Allan Poe and John Donne and Emily Dickinson and William Shakespeare—are especially astute in their observations about death and our feelings about it. They express with uncommon clarity the enormity of life’s closure. But their words often acknowledge the mystery of death is a mirror image of the mystery of life that precedes it. Humankind, from the beginning of our species’ consciousness, has questioned the meaning of life. We are no closer to answering that question today than our predecessors were in the earliest moments of awareness.  Life and death are eternal mysteries. Yet we sense—or we choose to believe—they both have meaning. That belief can supply comfort, especially when confronting the inevitable ends of the lives of people who matter to us. And, as we reflect on the impact of people close to us who have died, we rightfully conclude their lives had meaning to us and that their absence will be deeply felt. Maybe that is the closest we will come to answering the question of the meaning of life. Perhaps the meaning of individuals’ lives and deaths is not vast and universal but, instead, focused and precise and intimate. Celebration of a life that touches our own, it seems to me, should be a longer-lasting response to a death than is perpetual mournful sadness.

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…send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

~ John Donne ~

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A bit more than two years ago, I immersed myself in the Danish television series, Borgen. As I finished watching the third season, I lamented the fact that I would have to wait until at least late 2022 to watch another season, when it was planned for release on Danish television. Mi novia had not watched any of the first three seasons, but I wanted to watch the new season with her. I decided to refresh my memory in preparation for the new season. So, we have begun making our way through the first three seasons; a repeat for me, a new experience for her. In my view, it is just as good the second time around. That being said, I can hardly wait to finish the first three seasons so I can watch the next one, which is entitled, Borgen: Power & Glory. If anyone who reads this has watched or is watching Borgen, I would be curious to learn of others’ reactions to the program.

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The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.

~ Bertrand Russell ~

I have said it before and I’ll say it again: FoxNews and CNN never fail to disappoint me. In my view, neither of the two “news” organizations meet any reasonable standards as unbiased sources of meaningful information. When I scanned their websites this morning, their presentations of “news” screamed bigotry; one from the chauvinistic left and one from the narrow-minded far right. Neither is a reliable source of clean, clear, unprejudiced information. As such, I advise anyone who will listen to be wary of anything the two warring propaganda machines produce or distribute. If the two offered descriptions of a puppy, I would be extremely cautious of accepting either’s characterization. One might describe a soft, cuddly creature suitable as a companion to a newborn baby, while the other depicts a vicious, violent, dangerous, bloodthirsty beast that is hungry for babies’ blood. My experience with news organizations—even “reliable” ones—has left me skeptical and mistrustful. I do not like to be doubtful about what I hear from so-called dependable sources of news, but neither do I like to be manipulated into believing stories shaped by partisan apostles and their bigoted handlers. Skimming this morning’s “news” was a mistake; I am no better informed than before I read the polemics, but I am substantially more agitated.

Rioting is a childish way of trying to be a man, but it takes time to rise out of the hell of hatred and frustration and accept that to be a man you don’t have to riot.

~ Abraham Maslow ~

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If one is to believe the weather report I saw a few minutes ago, this morning’s clouds and rain showers will give way to a brighter, sunnier afternoon. I hope the meteorologists who prepared the forecast are more reliable and less prone to intentionally misleading their audiences than the two news organizations I castigated in the rant above. I do not mind forecasts that turn out to have been unintentionally wrong,  I would be furious, though, if I thought the forecaster purposely misled me into believing I should expect warm and sunny weather for my cross-country drive when he knew an icy storm would make travel dangerous and potentially deadly.

Chill, John. I just lit a cone of patchouli incense. I will let the aroma combine with my purposeful decompression to smooth my mood. I interrupted my volcanic mood by checking my blood pressure; 96/59, an indication, perhaps, my efforts to chill may have been successful. Though, in reality, I doubt blood pressure is a reliable indicator of one’s state of mind.

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Once again, I had a dream that combined experiences from different phases of my past employment experiences. The people and places were real, but they were out of sequence and location. Yet I seemed to know that the experience was present-day, although I knew it was not in the proper place nor in the proper order. I will not remember the dream without writing down what I remember at this moment, but what I remember now is so complex and confusing that I could not hope to document it in a way that would make any sense. So I will let my memories of the dream slip away into the ether. Certain elements were troubling, so it’s probably best to let it dissolve. Otherwise, I might obsess over what is probably a meaningless, chaotic set of misfiring synapses. On one hand, I think dreams have no meaning whatsoever, but on the other I think they may represent unresolved emotional experiences that plague the unconscious. How’s that for conflict?

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An hour and a half has passed since I woke, late, this morning. Time remains in compressed mode. It is impossible to believe so much time has passed since I woke, but I know it has. I remember this morning, so far, but it seems to have flown by at the speed of light. Yet it also seems to have slowed almost to the speed of cold molasses flowing across a sheet of ice. I will end, here, this attempt at thinking with my fingers. More coffee, please. And something flavorful to satisfy my hunger.

Several months ago, mi novia and I launched a search for a dining table. We wanted something more modern, more attractive, more appealing. We found one we liked quite a lot, but several considerations caused us to keep looking; the one we liked was very expensive, it was located at a store in northwest Arkansas, and the cost to have it delivered to Hot Springs Village seemed exorbitant. So we kept looking. One of my brothers, who was in the process of planning a move, offered his very attractive teak table, but the cost and logistics of getting it from southeast Texas to the Village argued against it. So we decided to pause our search. For some reason, the matter of our search for a dining table came to my mind this morning. And what came to mind was a sense of relief—relief that we did not invest money and more time in our search. The rarely-used table in the dining room is perfectly fine. While it is not the sleek, Scandinavian-style teak table I had personally wanted, it is more than adequate. Had we spent several thousand dollars on a beautiful new table, we might have forced ourselves to use it more often than we use the old stand-by, but that forced use would have been an attempt to justify what amounts to unjustifiable desire. Or, perhaps, simple greed. Maybe we will, at some point, replace the antique table that is in need of refinishing and repair, but I no longer feel that there is any urgency to it. And, in fact, I think I would feel embarrassed to spend the money to satisfy what seems to me, this morning, to represent raw avarice. I have not shared my thinking on the matter with mi novia yet, inasmuch as it settled in my brain only this morning. I suppose I’ll find out before long whether our thoughts are aligned.

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This morning’s blogging paused while I prepared an unusual breakfast of corned beef hash, poached eggs, and a Frankensteinian citrus created through human intervention in the reproductive process of tangerines and/or other such citrusy fruits (also known as Cuties™, mandarins, or other other such terms). During the course of eating breakfast, I wondered about the origin of the term “corned” as applied to beef. Mother Google responded to my curiosity by informing me that corned beef was created as a way to export Irish beef to Britain, explaining that “The term “corned” beef derives from the size of the salt crystals that were used to cure the meat.” I am now curious about the enormous salt crystals used by Irish exporters of beef. Where did they get those giant crystals? Or are large salt crystals more natural than the tiny crystals we find in our table salt? Or is our table salt actually composed of much larger crystals that have been crushed and otherwise processed to be more easily transported and/or shaken on our food at the table? Although I am curious about such stuff, I have other things to do this morning than delved into the genesis of the salt on our tables. [But, in fact, the salt on our table is Falksalt, salt flakes produced in Cyprus and distributed by a company based in Sweden. I became enamored of Falksalt years ago after my late wife decided to try it and we found it exceptionally appealing. And now you know how I came to use  flaked Falksalt at my dining table.]

Breakfast this morning was, in my opinion, a delight.

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Sunday’s church service, an Insight presentation of a member’s UUVC Faith Journey, was quite interesting. The presenter, a very active member of the church whose participation in church activities included a year’s service as president, spoke of her evolution from a lengthy early history in a Catholic environment to a long period being “unchurched” through an intellectual and spiritual development that led her to an understanding of that the universe, and consequently humankind’s role in it, is ever-expanding. I enjoy hearing people think aloud, revealing their perspectives on the unknown and unknowable. The presenter’s history as a mathematician and engineer, intertwined with her curiosity about humankind’s almost infinitesimally small place in the expanding universe, was thought-provoking.

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The time is approaching 9 a.m., literally hours later than I usually post my blog. The passage of time seems to accelerate lately. That makes me wonder whether time is actually compressing, to the point that the future will become the past and vice versa. Or, perhaps, space and time are in the process of becoming one another, so that tomorrow, for example, will become a physical thing—and a light bulb or a desktop will morph into concepts against which the sequence of experiences will be measured.

My mind is racing, now, far faster than usual. I wonder whether it might one day become possible for me to slip undetected into the brain of a friend, where I can poke around and see or hear or feel her thoughts. Would I be surprised to know what is there? Could I cross between or through or over walls that separate factual experience from fantasy or spiritual pursuits? Would I find, in the head of another friend, an unexpected curiosity about the ancient history of his ancestors’ experience carving canoes from monstrous trees? Would I find in another friend’s mind memories of his experiences that have yet to occur?

That finishes my excursion into a thick fog, laced with the remnants of dead leaves and bird calls. Call me crazy. Just call me. 😉

Ancient, long-buried memories of what seemed, at the time, insignificant thoughts and emotions can erupt like geysers. Those recollections flood the consciousness with forgotten mental images that drown the present in pools from the past. So it was this morning when, purely by chance, I stumbled upon a New York Times article from August, 2001. The article—an obituary, I guess—told of the death that month of author Robert H. Rimmer at age 84. I did not recognize his name, but I recognized the title of what apparently was his most widely-read novel, The Harrad Experiment.

I remember coming across a paperback copy of the book that belonged to my late sister. I suppose it was around the time the book was at the peak of its popularity which, I learned this morning, was 1966 or 1967, when I would have been thirteen or fourteen years old. Though I doubt I read the entire book, I remember reading enough of it to recall that it appealed to the budding libido of a kid awash in hormones. The Times article described the book as a “…novel about an elite Eastern college where male and female students lived in the same dormitory and did pretty much what came naturally…” The article goes on “…some herald(ing) it as a ringing manifesto for free love.” I may be mixing up memories of different books, but I seem to recall scenes that suggested hidden sexual feelings between two strangers could be unleashed if the two of them would sit facing one another in silence, staring into each other’s eyes, for a period of time—I do not remember how long; it could be several minutes or several hours. Whether that scene was from The Harrad Experiment or not, I am certain Rimmer’s novel unleashed a fascination with all things sexual.

The article I read this morning told that Rimmer went on to write several more books (more than a dozen) that all dealt with unconventional sexual relationships that Rimmer “believed would foster fulfillment and freedom.” In an interview with Psychology Today, Rimmer said, “There will be socially approved group marriage, there will be bigamous marriages, there will be open-ended marriages in which each partner has a relationship outside the marriage.”

After reading the article from the Times, I remembered my fascination with The Harrad Experiment. I think the book must have been responsible, at least in part, for my fascination with the psychology of sexual attraction. I suspect the book triggered my curiosity about and intellectual acceptance of unconventional sexual relationships. Despite my curiosity and my tolerance and acceptance—in theory—of such relationships, they were never sufficiently appealing to overcome my unwillingness to experiment with them. I never considered exploring bigamy, for example, nor trading marriage partners. But in my early teen years and beyond, I remember being fascinated with the idea of casual, short-term sexual relationships.

It’s interesting that happening upon an old newspaper article could prompt me to remember so much about thoughts and feelings from long, long ago. I suspect the book and subsequent literary explorations were responsible in part for my acceptance of people who were in unconventional relationships. Though the book itself is not responsible for my attitudes, my intellectual and emotional reaction to it no doubt shaped my liberal views. Interestingly, my liberal views apply to others’ relationships, but not to mine. My ego is not adequate to withstand “sharing” someone. And I am not confident that people with whom I am close would be able to withstand the emotional storms such relationships might cause. So, after all this openness and acceptance, I find that I am truly liberal in my thinking only to the extent that it applies to strangers. Admitting my hypocrisy, I suppose, is less painful than stitching up the wounds that “unconventional sexual relationships” could cause. Yet the hesitance to explore, first-hand, such unconventional relationships does nothing to constraint the imagination. The imagination is one reason people might have for holding tight secrets about themselves, for fear of being judged.

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A foggy morning, again. As I gaze into the forest, trees in the distance disappear into a grey haze. The quiet of fog-enshrouded mornings is deep. Even the birds and the squirrels seem to acknowledge that silence is in order. But yesterday morning, before church, was like today; yet a few deer and a flock of turkeys in plain view behind the house went about their business—in silence. If I did not know better, I would say Nature is sayings its prayers this morning. Actually, I may not know better. I may know only my perspective; I know nothing of how anyone else—everyone else—experiences the world.

I will stop writing about this for now, but I won’t stop thinking about it. I never stop thinking about it. If I could stop, my head would be empty, luxuriating in the comfort of nothingness. I can only imagine…

Ten years ago to the day, as I sat at my desk, I mused about words written by a young woman I knew only superficially from occasionally reading her blog. She occasionally read my blog, as well. If memory serves, I think the occasional exchange of messages about our respective philosophies lasted only a few months. Either she stopped blogging or I stopped reading what she wrote. But I have not forgotten how meaningful I found a few of the words she included in a blog post a few months earlier. I was struck by how they seemed to have been extracted from my brain:

We cling to things because we’re terrified of empty space. We surrounded ourselves with possessions because we feel like we need them to help us express who we are. We hold on to people because we’re afraid of being alone. We carry around our sadness because we would rather feel something than nothing. We try to fill our emptiness with whatever we can.

As I contemplate those words and how personal they seemed, I try to reconstruct the emotions that made the words seem so descriptive of how I felt. And what I felt at the time, I think, was self-pity. Why I felt it is beyond my ability to recall; but I think that is what I felt. Or maybe that’s not quite it; maybe not self-pity, but something akin to it. I had turned 59 years old a few months before. Reaching that age was no more impactful than any of the milestones before it. But I could sense the next birthday would have a jarring effect on me. I anticipated I would feel I had accomplished nothing of consequence in all the years leading up to the commencement of my sixth decade.

Ten years later—ten years shy of approaching my seventh decade—similar thoughts rattle around in my head. But looking at the years since that time, I now understand the life I had then was more full and more satisfying than I realized. I should have known.

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When a person expresses his sadness or depression or ennui or…whatever…it does no good for friends to give him all the reasons his emotions are invalid. He does not need to be told all the reasons he should, instead, feel happy and appreciative of all the wonderful things for which he should feel grateful. Instead, he needs his emotions acknowledged, his good fortune notwithstanding. Hah! I proclaim what he needs, as if I am an experienced and knowledgeable therapist. Why do we try to eliminate or invalidate emotional pain? I suspect it is because we do not want people we care about to feel that pain. But dismissing the legitimacy of negative emotions may do more harm than good. I suspect, too, that people rarely reveal all the sources of their negative emotions, in part because they feel embarrassed…they feel responsible for their own pain and they expect they would be judged for it if they exposed their own role in causing it. These are topics worthy of conversation, of course, but getting beyond the guilt probably is extraordinarily hard. That, I imagine, is why years of education and training are required before a person becomes a recognized, qualified, certified, legitimate therapist. At least that’s my guess.

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My mind and my fingers are tired. I will try to give both some rest before I launch into another Sunday.

Thunder and lightning accompanied the pounding rain. But that is not what got me out of bed at 4:00 a.m.  The storm arrived two hours after I woke. And now, the light show and jarring claps of thunder have moved on. A constant drizzle, punctuated by periods of heavy rain, and dense fog is all that remains of the series of violent squalls. I observe this weather from the safety and comfort of my cozy study. I suspect my observations would be radically different if I were cowering beneath a tree, hoping Zeus would not choose to unleash the fury of a lightning bolt on that very tree.

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My thoughts this morning struggle as I attempt to direct them to my fingers. They resist, asserting their right to remain safely private. There, hidden in my brain, they cannot expose me to what might be the incredulous reactions of people who might be shocked at what is on my mind. Yet concealing those thoughts also eliminates the possibility of discovering that someone might not react with shock but, instead, with reciprocity.

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Last night, we watched Good Night, and Good Luck, a black & white film about Edward R. Murrow’s exploration and exposure of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s crusade against communism. The film was made in 2005. Its cast included David Strathairn, George Clooney, Robert Downing, Jr., Frank Langella, and Jeff Daniels, among many others. We decided to watch the film after listening to an old interview in which Terry Gross interviewed George Clooney on NPR’s Fresh Air. Clooney co-wrote and directed the film. My assessment of the film: exceptional and highly recommended.

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I skimmed an article last night involving kidnapping, polygamy, and sexual abuse of minors—and odd and unfortunate mix that intertwines judgments of illegality and immorality. As I was reading it, it occurred to me that our society views multiple intimate relationships differently, depending on when they occur. American society accepts multiple marriages, provided they are separated by the appropriate (but unspecified) temporal distance. Simultaneous multiple marriages, though, are deemed immoral and are illegal. The prohibition against polygamy and polyandry formally identifies simultaneous intimacy as thoroughly unacceptable. I wonder why our collective morality views consecutive marriages differently from simultaneous marriages? And why do we frown on intimacy between people who are married, but not to each other?  So many matters about which to be curious. Perhaps we label certain practices as immoral simply as a means of challenging our ability to differentiate between multiple forms of irrationality. Interesting, that. Thinking about such matters could keep a person occupied for hours. Or for a lifetime.

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And that, as they sometimes say, is a wrap.

Autumn is a metaphor for wisdom. And a forecast of rebirth. Watching trees shake off their dead and dying leaves awakens the observer to transformation. The buds to follow could not emerge in the presence of spent leaves that are cast off and litter the forest floor.

We undergo a  metamorphosis, too, when we discard fractured emotions—those cracked and disfigured reactions to real or imagined wounds. We pretend the pains were inflicted on us by others but, in fact, the anguish is a torment of our own making—a response to circumstances over which we no longer have control. When we abandon those erroneous perspectives, we open ourselves to fresh new ones more closely aligned with reality.

It is easy to write about that rebirth. It is much more difficult to experience. But the outcome of the effort promises to be worth the required investment. Time will tell whether the effort succeeds and the results fulfill the promise.

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Last night one of the presenters of a program entitled Buddhism 101 reminded the audience that attributing motives to actions taken by a person assumes we understand what is in that person’s mind. But we cannot know what is in another person’s head. As an example, he described a situation in which a person is in a car in front of a vehicle whose driver is flashing the car’s lights, honking the horn, and following much too closely. We might assume the offending driver is drunk or furiously angry at being forced to drive slower than he wishes. Yet, the driver may be a surgeon rushing to a hospital; he simply wants the car in front of him to let him pass so he can perform life-saving surgery.

That reminder was something of an aside to an explanation of Buddhism‘s Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path. He spoke of dharma and karma and the various Buddhist sects or traditions. Two hours was woefully inadequate to enable the presenter to fully explain Buddhism, especially in light of the time required to respond to questions, some of which suggested an inability to understand basic concepts about Buddhism. Yet I left the presentation with an interest in re-learning what I once knew about Buddhism. And I left with an interest in exploring it more deeply.

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This morning, as very dim light leaked into the forest outside my window, an ugly and unexpected vision visited me. There, among the trees almost hidden by heavy fog, I clearly saw myself with a noose around my neck, hanging from a very high branch. The image disappeared after only a fraction of a second, but my memory of what I saw remains with me. My friend who accompanied me to the Buddhism presentation questioned whether I can envision what I look like. The fleeting but troubling image answers that I can.

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Today, I will be the handyman, working on the master bathroom. Foggy weather makes staying indoors appealing. But we have errands to run, which may take us out and about. A new battery for mi novia‘s car, a long-delayed trip to the post office, and a visit to the grocery store all are in store. I hope to finish my little handyman project between those errands but, if  not, there’s always tomorrow. Ach, but another solemn reminder from last night’s program: tomorrow is never guaranteed.

Relying on one’s memory to recall moments from the past introduces deviations from reality. Time and experience mold and shape recollections of our own histories. Only by intentionally capturing experiences—through photographs or video recordings or contemporaneous written documentation or a combination thereof—can we hope to accurately secure factual evidence of who we were at any given moment in time.

Someone who sometimes seems to know me better than I know myself shared an article from The New Yorker that explores how we change. Not only do we transform from one person to another over time, the stories we tell ourselves—about ourselves—change, as well. We become different people, over time. More importantly, the people we once were change to reflect our understanding of ourselves as seen through the eyes of someone whose experiences differ through time. Today, I look back at myself at age thirty from the perspectives of a sixty-nine-year-old man. Ten years ago, my view of that thirty-year-old man-child was quite different from the way I see him today.

This morning, as I reflect on the idea of capturing who we are over time through contemporaneous images and stories, I realize we can never know who we were “back then.” Every time we attempt to recall our own histories, we view images and read stories through different eyes whose perspectives are shaped by experience. Although pictures and videos and daily diaries that maintain an “accurate” record of our lives may capture experience, their meaning will always be subject to interpretation. Interpretation that changes over time.

The thoughts that accompany my reflections lead me to realize—or, rather, to verify—we can never really know who we are because the contexts of our lives shape us on the fly. I am different from moment to moment. The instant I think I know myself, I have changed in response to my environment and the events that occur in that environment. No matter how many photographs and videos I take and no matter how little time elapses between them, I am never again the person I was when they were taken. In fact, I was never who I may have appeared to be, because the changes taking place in my perspective occurred with greater speed than the camera’s shutter could capture.

The question of who I am can no more be truthfully answered than the question of who I was. It then follows that no one can know me. And, of course, I cannot know anyone else for the same reason. Nor can anyone else know themselves. And when we look back at ourselves in photographs or films, when we read our journals or diaries, we cannot know the people in the pictures or the writers who recorded their stories. We perpetually are chasing answers to trick questions.

Perhaps this understanding of the impossibility of knowing ourselves explains feelings of emptiness and incompleteness. Perhaps it is why, somewhere deep in our psyches, we long for intimate connections to people who, we hope, will somehow enable us to know ourselves.

Illusion. Delusion. Whatever it is, I think we are on an everlasting journey, seeking a way to stop time just long enough to know who we are.

A friend who attends my church is on  hospice care at home. If she is up to it, I will visit her this morning. She and her husband were among the wonderfully caring people whose emotional support was so valuable to me during the difficult last months of my late wife’s life.  Their care and support were lessons in decency and humanity. But it wasn’t just during that dark period that their characters shone so bright. They have always modeled the virtues that are so appealing in good neighbors and friends and even caring strangers. As I think about them this morning, I wonder why the kind of goodness they exemplify sometimes seems so rare. The difficulties and challenges encountered in our lives would not be so overwhelming if everyone were to follow their example. Perhaps it is not that humanity and decency is so rare, but that the breadth and strength of my friends’ caring goes so much deeper than average. Some people are so obviously and genuinely good. I am fortunate to know my friend on hospice care; she is one of them.

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The heavy rains that pounded the roof a while ago have eased up, at least for a while. I can only imagine how the rain must have torn more leaves from the Bradford pear tree that overhangs part of the driveway and a front corner of the house. Yesterday, when I returned from my errands in Little Rock, the street near my house was covered in oak leaves. My driveway was buried under a thick coating of yellow and orange Bradford pear leaves. By mid afternoon, when the wet leaves had shed some of the water attaching them to the ground, I cleared the driveway by blowing leaves into the forest. I suppose that effort was not wasted, though the dim morning light reveals a heavy coating of leaves on the driveway, thanks to the rain. Until the trees are bare, leaves will periodically hide the concrete. Though I might be tempted to just wait until then to blow the leaves away, I know that would be a mistake. The leaves would be too heavy and thick and slick for my battery-powered blower to have any effect, were I to wait. So, I will continue to blow leaves, only to have a new batch waiting for me hours later. Years ago, I thought moving to the forest would eliminate the need for yard work. I was wrong.

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Too many thoughts swirl in my head this morning. I cannot seem to capture many coherent thoughts; my mind is awash in chaos. So I will stop trying to write. It is pointless. Perhaps I need to let my brain settle before I try to write any more. I will give myself time to empty the frenzied conglomeration of thoughts from my head. Maybe that is what I need this morning.

The long list of medications my doctors advise me to take remind me of the replacement brake pads I will have installed on my car this morning. The drugs are intended to extend my useful life, just as replacement automobile parts are meant to extend the useful life of my car. No one claims that new brake pads will guarantee my car will last forever. And no one claims medications will assure me of everlasting life.  Yet both provide insurance of sorts that is worth the trouble and expense.

This morning’s dense fog advisory cautions me to drive with extra care when I drive to Little Rock for replacement of those rear brake pads. After the brake job has been completed, I will head home, but will stop at El Mercado Latino to pick up two dozen pork and jalapeño tamales. My tradition of enjoying tamales and chile con queso and beer on Christmas Eve has evolved over time, blending with a newer tradition of attending a  Christmas Eve church service, followed by a soup supper. I no longer consume, without fail, tamales and chile con queso on Christmas Eve; but we will partake of those traditional foods a day or two either side of that evening.

This year, I will forego the beer, thanks to doctors’ admonitions to avoid alcohol. That advice, which coincided with a short stay in the hospital for acute pancreatitis, reinforced the reality of my aging and decay. When departures from one’s sense of invincibility occur—due to health matters that dictate significant lifestyle changes—one begins to better understand  and appreciate one’s own mortality. Though abstaining from consuming alcohol (four months so far) is neither difficult nor especially noteworthy, that change in lifestyle is yet another experience that emphasizes the fact that my body is out of warranty. And the unsolicited texts, emails, and phone calls that urge me to consider variations on Medicare are akin to the flood of marketing materials that attempt to convince me to purchase an extended warranty for my seven-year-old car. Odd, I think, that we tend to treat ourselves the same way we treat our automobiles. Eventually, we either discard autos or trade them for a newer model. We wish we could trade our bodies for younger, stronger versions; instead, at some point, we discard what is left of them.

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

~ Wole Soyinka ~

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Mi novia‘s bad cold is making her miserable. NyQuil and DayQuil are attempting, without much success, to lessen the symptoms. I have avoided catching her cold thus far, though I have felt on one or two occasions that it might be attempting to invade my body. So far, though, those instances have been brief and have disappeared soon after. I’m knocking on wood that I will remain healthy; at least with regard to a cold.

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It’s nearing 7 in the morning, time for me to launch into the day. If there were a bakery on my way to the Subaru dealership, I would stop and buy a sweet treat. Alas, to my knowledge, there is no such place of business along my route. I will suffer through that deprivation; maybe I’ll go in search of some such place upon my return.

If we would just acknowledge that our perspectives are not necessarily “right,” we might better understand the world in which we live. If we would accept that perspectives that differ from our own may be equally as valid, and possibly more so, our hubris might morph into humility.  Wisdom arises from recognizing that the ignorance on which we rely for truth may be what holds us back from enlightenment.

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I am troubled by the arguments I hear that taxes on electric and/or hybrid vehicles constitute unreasonable penalties for environmental responsibility. In my opinion, taxes on gasoline and taxes on hybrids, etc. both represent variations on the same concept: use fees. In my opinion, vehicles, regardless of type, that use public roadways should be assessed use fees to pay for the construction and upkeep of streets and highways. Taxes on gasoline, therefore, make perfectly good sense to me. When technologies replace—or reduce the amount of—gasoline required for the operation of automobiles, the public revenue lost to more efficient gasoline engines or electric-powered vehicles must come from alternatives to gas taxes. Fees levied on electric vehicles or hybrids can provide those alternative revenue streams. Arguments might be made that users of such vehicles deserve rewards of some sort to recognize environmental responsibility, but I do not think reductions in road use taxes are appropriate ways to acknowledge good environmental stewardship. Perhaps, though, increased gasoline taxes levied on users of gasoline-powered vehicles should be implemented. Such “penalties,” over and above what is required for roadway maintenance, could be used to partially fund more environmentally responsible modes of public transportation. A negative aspect of higher gasoline taxes is that they would place proportionally greater financial burdens on low income users. That greater financial burden could be reduced by implementing reductions in income tax rates for people whose incomes fall below specific threshold limits. Whether my ideas are valid or not, I suspect solutions can be developed that will provide necessary public funds as well as ensure fairness in shared burdens. The place to start is to acknowledge that all users of public means of transportation have a responsibility to pay for the privilege.

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The greatest tragedy for any human being is going through their entire lives believing the only perspective that matters is their own.

~ Doug Baldwin ~

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Empathy begins with understanding life from another person’s perspective. Nobody has an objective experience of reality. It’s all through our own individual prisms.

~ Sterling K. Brown ~

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I have so much to learn, but not nearly enough time to learn it.

Yesterday, just after mi novia returned from her visit to the urgent care clinic in Hot Springs (where her COVID-19 test came back negative—but she has a very bad cold), a little herd of deer appeared in the woods behind our house. Numbering at least ten, the group comprised what I judged to be several full-grown does and a few relatively young fawns. Based on an article I read about herds of deer, at least one or two (and perhaps more) probably were immature bucks that are too young to fraternize with their antlered male elders.

Standing at the windows on one side of the breakfast nook, we watched for at least five or ten minutes as the creatures frolicked and fed on the little greenery visible above thick layers of fallen leaves. Living in a house nestled in the natural world is a gift; I contemplate my good fortune, grateful that I stumbled into something akin to paradise.

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All of us have a secret desire to be seen as saints, heroes, martyrs. We are afraid to be children, to be ourselves.

~ Jean Vanier ~

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The new coffee maker arrived yesterday morning around 10 and I put it to immediate use. Sitting at my desk, alternating between sips of strong, hot coffee from one cup and cool, clear water from another, I decided that’s the way to enjoy the morning. The heat and the intense flavor of coffee, counterbalanced by cool water, is magical.

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I hold French President Emmanuel Macron in high regard, though I know relatively little about him. The way he expresses himself is at once sophisticated and casual, suggestive of a person who is comfortable in his own skin and conscious of his cultural milieu. An opinion piece published online at CNN.com quoted an English translation of his Twitter feed, describing the French national dish—the baguette—as “250 grams of magic and perfection.” I love that sort of over-the-top hyperbole; it is the sort of grandiose comment I might make about something so common as a loaf of bread. But of course I share his admiration for the French baguette. It is not just a loaf of bread; it represents the struggles and the triumphs of the French people over centuries.

I pity people who consider food as mere sustenance. Such people are beyond dull. They lack the creativity and vibrancy that contribute to the enjoyment of life. They tend to focus only on the negative aspects of their environments. If those in their spheres allow it, they smother with gloomy outlooks and deep pessimism the happiness and childish appreciation that accompany simple pleasures.

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I had a dream last night that began in a Chevrolet dealer’s showroom. Someone—I cannot remember who—accompanied me as I waded through a disinterested clot of salespeople in an effort to test drive and perhaps buy a Corvette. Finally, we were directed to a cubicle where a man glumly offered us chairs. A few minutes later, another unenthusiastic man arrived and engaged me in conversation that seemed intent on revealing that I was “only looking.” I got the impression that he did not believe I was truly interested; he assumed I was financially incapable of buying an expensive car. That notwithstanding, he finally has us follow him across a parking lot that was overgrown with weeds to a car that I learned later in the dream was a 1999 Corvette. The salesman sat in the seat beside me and my companion somehow managed to climb in the car and sit behind me. The salesman directed me to cross over a freeway to a feeder road and then drive a short distance. The car’s ride was rough and the brakes were very bad. I found it difficult to stop the car when necessary, but I somehow managed to avoid hitting anything. We arrived at a ramshackle building, where we went inside and discovered a resale shop with old furniture and soft, hand-woven blankets. The salesman wandered off, engaged in conversation with the resale shop’s owner. Apparently, the salesman brought a dog along on the ride and my companion and I were left to lead the dog around the store on a leash made of thin monofilament fishing line that seemed to be perpetually tangled. At some point, my friend and I decided to drive back to the dealership, where we met with the glum man with whom we first met. We explained that we had left the salesman at the resale shop; the glum guy called the salesman, who asked that we return to give him a ride back. As we were driving back, we saw the salesman drive by us in another rather old, worn Corvette.

I had a hard time getting into and out of the Corvette, which convinced me not to buy one—even though a new car would almost certainly be more comfortable and more responsive. Still, I thought, it would be low to the ground, designed for someone younger and more agile. But it wasn’t so much the car that dissuaded me from buying; it was the arrogance and attitude of the salesman. He treated me as if my interest was artificial and that I was wasting his time. I did not like him from the moment we met. My dream seemed to end abruptly when I saw him driving by after asking that I return to give him a ride back to the dealership. Ach!

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I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

~ Pablo Neruda ~

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This morning, I happened on a post I wrote about nine years ago. It generated several comments, including one I found particularly moving. Returning to the past on occasion has value. It reminds us of who we were before circumstances changed us into who we are. Everyone is in a state of constant change, morphing from who we were to who we are and, then, who we will be. Events expose us to revision; they revise us in ways we cannot anticipate. Life and circumstances edit us as if we were a manuscript. And, indeed, we are manuscripts. Just drafts of who we will be at that moment when no more revisions are possible.

Damn! Mi novia is on her way to the “convenient care” clinic in Hot Springs, where she expects to be tested for COVID-19. If the test is positive, confirming the home test she administered this morning, she (and I) hope she is given the latest medication intended to treat the virus, minimizing its effects.

EDIT: The test was negative! It’s just a common cold! I am more than a little ecstatic about that!

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My driveway, which I cleared of leaves two days ago and which remained nearly leaf-free yesterday, is again littered with leaves. And not just a few. The entire concrete surface looks like it was purposely decorated with yellow and orange leaves, most of which fell from the Bradford pear tree overnight. On the one hand, I think Bradford pear trees are quite attractive and provide substantial amounts of shade. On the other, they are weak and prone to shed enormous volumes of leaves. Strong winds snap their branches like delicate toothpicks. Once all the leaves have fallen, we will arrange to have the tree trimmed so the branches do not overhand the roof of the house and to minimize the likelihood the big, brittle branches will not damage the roof with every gust of wind.

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I wish I had a friend capable of relieving my back pain by giving me a professional back massage. Not only capable, of course, but willing. Lacking someone with both the ability and the inclination, I suppose I’ll have to resort to approaching a stranger for the treatment. Not just any stranger, mind you; a professional masseuse or masseur whose hands have sufficient strength and stamina to massage my back for an hour or more.

The idea of relying on a friend to provide a much-desired massage is based simply on my wished-for frequency and timeframe of treatment. I suspect asking a professional to come around at all hours of the day and night might be viewed with suspicion. But, then, a friend might look at it the same way. Perhaps a massage chair is the answer, rather than a living, breathing massage therapist. Or maybe not. Correcting my posture might help, too. Ach. Time will tell.

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For the last couple of days, I have been reading news stories about a missing seven-year-old girl, Athena Strand, who lived in Cottondale, Texas, a community northwest of Fort Worth. I suppose it was the little girl’s photo that captured my attention and interest. The image—of a sweet, innocent child—and limited details about her disappearance made me feel a knot in the pit of my stomach; I hoped she would be found safe, but I feared her body would be found, instead. This morning, I read that the child’s body was found last night. A thirty-one-year-old contract Fed-Ex delivery driver has been charged with capital murder and aggravated kidnapping in the case. While I do not know whether he confessed to the crime, the Wise County sheriff said the suspect provided information that led investigators to the little girl’s body.

I do not support the death penalty, but I find it very hard—damn near impossible—to argue against killing the killer of that child. Though I think the perpetrator must be mentally ill to have kidnapped and killed the child, I cannot find it in me to have compassion for him. Yet I do not know the full story, so my rage against the man who has been arrested could be misplaced. I cannot be absolutely certain the Fed-Ex driver is the one who killed the child, though I am quite confident he is guilty. And, even if I were presented with proof of his guilt, I cannot know what went through his mind when he abducted and murdered Athena Strand. My compassion flows freely to the little girl’s family and friends and neighbors. My hesitance about calling for the death penalty for the killer would almost certainly enrage the child’s parents. The girl’s abduction and death leave me feeling an irreconcilable conflict between murderous rage and humanitarian protection for the mentally unbalanced killer. My distaste for taking the man’s life might disappear if I were chosen to perform his execution. I think my principles might well dissolve into white-hot hatred and a willingness to mete out my inhuman take on justice. I can only imagine the rage and emptiness and unquenchable sadness the girl’s parents must feel. Life can be impossibly painful.

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I bought a ready-to-bake apple pie yesterday. I had planned to bake it today, but that plan may be derailed for various reasons. The fact that I still have not received the coffee maker to replace the one that died does not help. Pie and coffee, together, recall a few vague memories of those rare occasions when I would travel with Dad when he drove from Corpus Christi to the Rio Grande valley to visit lumberyards, which were his customers (he was a lumber wholesaler). We sometimes stopped at small town diners, where we had coffee and pie (though I think I may have had milk, rather than coffee).  My father liked his coffee strong and black, a preference I adopted when I began drinking coffee. I think my preference for black coffee—no creamer, no sugar—was modeled after him.

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If I were alone in the world, my inhibitions would disappear. I would not worry what others might say or think if I were to create (or, at least, attempt to create) an enormous sculpture in front of my house. I would not hesitate to risk failure by trying new endeavors. I would classify my life as an experiment, always ready to be conducted without regard for the consequences of either success or failure. Alas, I am too human. Others’ opinions matter to me. Sometimes too much. I’m going to work on that. Whether the world likes it or not.

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We watched the first two episodes of Three Pines last night. I have not read any of the books by Louise Penny, but I think I might, based on watching the two episodes last night. I have a sense that the books from which the series emerged seem to appeal primarily to women. I am not sure why I have that sense; but it does not matter to me, anyway. I find simple crime/detective stories appealing for some reason. Decent people in stereotypically harsh, hard-nosed roles seem at once to reflect reality and pure fantasy. Odd, that. Cynics and skeptics probably would not enjoy the books or the series; but I am a cynical skeptic, so that theory is immediately shot full of holes. Oh, well. Life is more complex than we sometimes make it out to be.

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Enjoy your day. And your life. Sing. Laugh. Make others laugh. The world will thereby become a better, more welcoming place.

An hour ago, it was four in the morning. It’s five o’clock as I write this. During the time between the two moments, nothing of consequence happened in my life. At least nothing I know about. It is possible, of course, that deterioration took place in my brain or my heart or various other of the organs crucial to my survival, but I remain blissfully unaware of those changes.  I go blithely about my business, ignorant of what might be taking place in my body. I am semi-conscious of changes in my mental state as I wade through the moments available to me, but I do not know what transformations might be occurring in my physical form. My ignorance is not unique, of course. Few of us have even an inkling of how biology is changing us, second by second. Only when the changes present themselves in unmistakable ways do we pay sufficient attention to them. By then, we may or may not be able to stop or reverse those adjustments—if, indeed, they suggest a need or desire to do so. In those cases in which the changes have passed the tipping point, we truly are powerless. We simply must adjust to what may be a deeply undesirable reality. But in making adjustments, we may not actually be powerless; we may respond in ways that recognize certain routes are closed to us, but we may seek alternatives.

My lung cancer diagnosis four years ago is a case in point. I could not prevent the cancer from growing and spreading, but the surgeon and oncologist and radiologist could—with my cooperation. The alternative was to live without the lobe of my lung that had been quietly attempting to kill me. My post-surgery experience is different from my life before the diagnosis. I have less stamina. I have various other physical symptoms related to the absence of a piece of me. But I have adjusted—sometimes quite begrudgingly—to “a deeply undesirable reality.” Before I accepted that adjustment, I briefly considered letting nature take its course. I decided, though, I could not do that to my wife.

Two years later, though, no matter how many adjustments she might have been willing to make, the deterioration of her heart left her unable to make adjustments to save her life. But I still wonder whether I could have done something different in my care for her; something that would have spared her five months of lonely “rehabilitation” that ultimately let to her death. I tell myself there was nothing more I could do. I try to acknowledge that I cannot change the past and that second-guessing myself has no valid purpose. That attempt at self-salvation falls flat. Some days the grey cloud of depression makes me struggle to breathe. Sometimes I would rather just stop. But I cannot do that to mi novia or to anyone to whom I matter. I  overcome the urge to quit; I move on. I shove the anger and depression into a hidden compartment in my brain where I want it to dissolve into an innocuous mist of memory.

Maybe it is the Christmas season that causes my depression to surface. It was during this season two years ago that my wife died, six days before Christmas. That season was dark and painful. But I am determined that this Christmas season will be brighter and better. Mi novia has decorated the house with lights and candles and seasonal decorations that lift my spirits. I want this season to bring her cheer and pleasure. It’s odd, though, the competition between joy and sorrow; between happiness and mourning. Regardless, I will keep the greyness at bay.

The headline reads, “AP’s top 2022 photos capture a planet bursting at the seams.” The contents of the collection of photographs are fascinating. Some images are moving; others, deeply disturbing. Taken as a whole, they offer perspectives on life and death that accentuate the differences between the usually sedate experiences of middle-class America and the chaotic fury of the rest of the world.

Casually flipping through the images would be a mistake. Only by gazing intently at each image is it possible to grasp the intensity of living through calamities unlike any we could otherwise imagine. Only by trying to imagine the feelings of terror, rage, elation, pain, and all the other emotions captured on the faces of the people in the photographs can we even begin to appreciate our extreme good fortune. Even our most difficult struggles or most spectacular achievements cannot compare to life outside the bubbles in which we live. Glimpsing powerful moments shaping the lives of strangers a world away left me with a jumble of feelings—immeasurable gratitude, extreme sympathy, gut-wrenching emptiness, deep hopelessness, boundless admiration.

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I will make another trip to Little Rock next week, a follow-up to yesterday’s visit. New tires yesterday. New rear brake pads next week. Though the demands of maintaining an aging car can be frustrating, having the wherewithal to meet those demands illustrates the meaning of “good fortune.” I could have had the work done yesterday, but I might have had to sit idle for another three or four hours. Instead, I opted to return home to blow leaves off the driveway and the street in front of my house. By returning very early one morning next week, my wait time should be considerably less than it would have been yesterday. Even counting the time required to drive to and from Little Rock, I will “save time” by returning next week. I sometimes wonder whether my impatience causes me to develop a mild case of insanity; though it may be that my insanity is responsible for my impatience. And it may not be particularly mild.

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While I tended to my aging car’s needs yesterday, mi novia joined some of her friends for lunch and a fashion show. The idea of fashion shows holds no appeal for me. Even if a fashion show were to provide an excuse for me to join friends for a jaunt into town for conversation and a meal, I probably would opt out of the experience. I suppose the differences in socialization between males and females of our species are largely responsible for males’ disinterest in such diversions; socialization in that realm of experience “took hold” for me. But socialization into most male-centric activities did not “take.” I have no interest in watching or talking about sports. Or playing golf. Or tinkering with cars. Or hunting. The absence of those areas of interest is largely responsible, I suppose, for my paucity of male friends and my distinct preference for the company of females. But socialization—of both males and females—also is responsible for the limitations of my social engagements, I suspect. I would not feel comfortable inviting friends of the opposite sex, married or not, to join me on overnight road trips to explore interesting places. And whether I felt comfortable or not, I doubt that comfort would last long in the face of the discomfort experienced by others in my personal and social realms. Even inviting a female friend to accompany me for lunch and conversation in connection with my car service appointment probably would cause discomfort to spread like wildfire. Husbands, other friends, acquaintances, and even strangers likely would interpret the invitation as a sinister move. And if the invitation were accepted, the wildfire might erupt into a nuclear conflagration. Perhaps the drama and intrigue of such matters is why I find solitude so appealing; I would rather eat and travel alone than worry about the consequence of jealousy.

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El Mercado Latino in Little Rock in the past has been a source for me for pork & jalapeño tamales. This morning, I sent a Facebook message to the store, inquiring as to the availability of tamales. I could make my own, but it would be more of an undertaking than I would like to pursue by myself—and it’s been years since I made tamales. I doubt I know enough people with enough interest to merit organizing a tamalada (that’s a tamale-making party, for the uninitiated). My rare childhood recollections include memories of buying tamales from people who, at the time, I considered “little old Mexican grandmothers.” I suspect those “little old Mexican grandmothers” were not necessarily old, nor were they necessarily grandmothers. They were just women who made extra Christmas money by making and selling tamales, continuing a tradition that probably began with their own grandmothers and great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers (and so on) in Mexico. I have enormous respect and regard for Mexican culture, especially Mexican culture rooted in el campo.  I suspect my admiration owes to long forgotten memories from my early childhood in Brownsville, Texas. And Corpus Christi, too. South Texas culture is imbued with Mexican influences. Despite a fairly significant sense of underlying racist superiority, South Texas Anglo culture is inextricably linked to, and grudgingly appreciates, its Mexican past.

***Edit before publication: I heard back from El Mercado Latino at 6:40 a.m. They sell fresh tamales Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; I need only to tell them what day and time I plan to pick them up! Life can be so gratifying!

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The damn owls are making too much noise! No, that is not true. But they are asserting themselves. Their “voices” are loud and entertaining. I wish I could see an owl; just so I could equate the sound with the actual creature.

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I am tired. Very tired. I’ve been up for two and one-half hours, without coffee, and I feel the need for rest. I may sit in a recliner and let my daydreams lull me to sleep.