John Swinburn

I want to be remembered as the man I wanted to be, not the man I was.

~ Confidential ~

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Some people seem capable of ignoring their flaws, as if flaws did not matter in the least. Others appear able to focus their attention on little else. Somewhere along that continuum of self-knowledge is a stretch we might call “healthy self-assessment.” On both sides of that limited stretch, the outcasts live. People who are self-absorbed, but at different ends of the spectrum. Hmm. How can they find their way closer to the center?

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I “read” a book, Big Panda and Tiny Dragon, this morning. Mi novia insisted I read it. It’s a very, very, very brief book of drawings of a panda and a dragon with accompanying text of their conversations. The conversations are deeply rooted in Buddhist philosophies. It is a thought-provoking book; it is not revelatory, but it emphasizes issues and ideas all people should think about. Issues to which ample consideration should be regularly be given.  I suppose she wanted me to read it as a means of encouraging conversation.

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I’ve been struggling to think of something I wanted to write this morning, only to arrive at the conclusion that nothing I want to write is appropriate for an audience about which I know almost nothing. I know some people who read this blog consistently, but only a few. The rest? Who knows? They could be government agents or right-wing nationalists, for all I know. I’ll stop trying, for now. My failure to “produce” will not bring down the Republic.

Words are made for a certain exactness of thought, as tears are for a certain degree of pain. What is least distinct cannot be named; what is clearest is unutterable.

~ Rene Daumal ~

The fictional Arkansas town I created and wrote about in 2017 was on life support from the outset. I think COVID-19 would have turned it into a ghost town, had I allowed the pandemic’s grip to take hold.  Since then, I’ve made at least nine posts in which I’ve written short fiction or mentioned the town and its key gathering spot, a tavern which serves as a gathering place for an unlikely mix of intellectuals and backwoods rednecks. That tavern, despite the fact that it does not exist, has become something of my Third Place. A town in Colorado where we stopped for lunch on the way home from our west coast road trip reminded me of my Arkansas town. Though much larger and more vibrant than my struggling little town, a few blocks of the downtown area of Trinidad, Colorado could serve as the setting for much of my story. Trinidad is much livelier and obviously more prosperous than my town, but its bones are, in many respects, the same.

The similarities between my little Arkansas town and Trinidad prompted me to explore a bit more about the Colorado town. I learned that the town became known nationally in the early 1900s for having the first woman sports editor of a newspaper, Ina Eloise Young—who was the only woman sportswriter to cover the 1908 World Series. Mine disasters, fires, and floods afflicted the town during the first few years of the twentieth century, but the town recovered from each. For a small town—the population peaked at more than 13,000 in the early 1940s, dropping to just above 8,000 today—Trinidad has been home to quite a few “famous” residents, including Bat Masterson and Stanley Biber, the latter a physician who pioneered and practiced sex reassignment surgery in the town, resulting in the town being labeled the “sex change capital of the world.” The website, historycolorado.org, says “For more than forty years, “going to Trinidad” became slang for undergoing gender confirmation surgery, and this otherwise quiet and previously little-known Colorado town found itself on the map, not just in the United States but the world over.” Another bit of national recognition came to the town, beginning in 2015, when the marijuana business got a foothold. Some residents of the town credit marijuana with reviving the “dead town.” A 2018 article in High Times quotes a restauranteur, Nick Cordova, as saying “Without weed, half this town wouldn’t be here. Literally.”  Stories about the exceptional rebirth of Trinidad were published before the 2021 legalization of medical and recreational cannabis in New Mexico, so it may be too early to say Trinidad is stable. But it looked good as we passed through not long ago.

But, back to my little Arkansas town. It remains in the back of my mind all the time. And it surfaces fairly often; more frequently than I write about it. Yet I want to write more about it. And I will. I will breathe life into the little town on life support. I will, somehow, replicate Trinidad’s rebirth in my little town. Whether the resurgence of my town lasts remains to be seen. Only after I write it into a believable existence and give it a period of life will I know where it is going. At the moment, I envision a series of stories that could, conceivably, be made into chapters of a novel. I haven’t made mention of the characters in my town; they are at the heart of the stories. My characters, as I see and hear and talk to them, are quirky—to say the least. They are larger than life in some ways, but in others they are absolutely as real as anyone within my sphere. When will I get back to this? When time-consuming obligations stop gnawing at me night and day. When I can devote the time necessary to put myself in the right frame of mind and get myself energized about writing nonstop for a while. When the time is right. If ever it is right. Time will, eventually, tell.

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The printer I ordered last week arrived a few days ago. Yesterday, I opened it and tried to set it up. It does not work. I am sending it back. I have a love-hate relationship with technology. Maybe it’s not technology I hate; maybe it’s the lack of quality control. Or maybe it’s ineptitude in manufacturing. Or maybe it’s manufacturers’ propensity to cut costs by slashing component quality. Or maybe it’s all the above. On one hand, I wish the “old timey” product quality would return. On the other, like everyone else, I would bitch and moan about how much quality costs.

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Yesterday, I set up a game camera on our deck in an effort to capture images of raccoons or whatever other creatures are devouring bird-seed at an ever-increasing rate. I have not yet viewed what, if anything, the camera may have captured. That will be an interesting undertaking. Maybe. But, first, I should shower and shave and get ready for church. I have to make a pitch for committee membership at the beginning of the service today. If not for that, I would not go. I am not in the mood for church. I never am in the mood, though, but I always seems to appreciate being there when I convince myself to go.

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I do not at all understand the mystery of grace—only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.

~ Anne Lamott ~

No matter how well-mannered you are—no matter how clean and pure your your thoughts and actions—no matter how distasteful you find violence or pornography or public displays of intimate behaviors that you believe belong only in the privacy of one’s own home—

It matters not that you are the model of decency and decorum. Hidden beneath all the layers of good behavior that put you in good stead in polite society is a beast that craves everything you claim to find reprehensible.

The existence of that heinous barbarian is not entirely your fault. Granted, it has been there all along, but it has been fed a stead diet that guarantees its growth—without which it might have remained stunted and controllable. But you live in a world in which its nourishment is always assured.

Television and film allow people to comfortably experience reprehensible emotions and behaviors from the safety of their own homes. Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad and The Sopranos, for example, draw the viewer into emotional storms that pump adrenalin into areas of the brain that thrive on excitement. You may reject those television programs, claiming the sex and violence portrayed in them is offensive to you. But that rejection is only a cover; it is an effort to hide your thirst for adrenalin. You would mainline that adrenalin, if you could, but you cannot. Your fear of publicly revealing the beast hidden behind your soft and gentle countenance will not allow you to risk losing control of the needle.

What parts of our psyches do we hide from ourselves? Does the gentle face we present to the world actually conceal a carefree savage, an emotional animal that hungers for action and danger and thrilling excitement? I suspect taking certain pharmaceuticals, both legal and not, might cut through the padlock that keeps the beast in its cage. On the one hand, we want to unleash that demon, but on the other we are afraid that, once released, it can never be put back in its protective cell.

Some of what I wrote above may be true. Most, though, probably is not. At least not to the extremes that I suggest. Writing can be either revealing or concealing. Or it can be both. If “both,” then “either” is evidence of dissembling. “Evidence.” That’s a word one might find in a district attorney’s office or in a courtroom. So, as I consider writing and the law—and occasionally breaking it—I realize the links between them. Writers may leave trails of evidence in their words or paragraphs or chapters. Like bread crumbs for the hungry reader. Thinking of bread crumbs takes me to the kitchen, a place full of aromatic spices and oils infused with herbs and pots and pans aching to be placed on a hot stove-top. How, I wonder, can a pot or pan feel an emotion? How can they ache to be subjected to intense, painful heat? Painful? Pots and pans cannot feel pain.

Do you see what’s happened here? Do you see that my brain has waded through swamps filled with unrelated “stuff?” And do you see that I have manufactured “truths” that probably have no basis except in the easily changeable words I used? Believe nothing. Believe no one. Everything is subject to verification. Verify everything before acting on anything. That is not possible, of course. Nothing is possible. Everything is impossible.  We live in a world in which highly structured chaos is randomly ejected into the emotional atmosphere at precise intervals. How does that make you feel? Anything? Anything at all?

Art surrounds us, providing an impetus to maintain our struggles to understand who and what we are. Art is embedded in everything we see and feel and taste and smell and hear. Even in the rare absence of deliberate art, we are immersed in its natural expressions. Trees and beaches and rocky ledges. Sunrises and sunsets. Dark, menacing oceans—at once comforting and compelling while just as ominous and foreboding—that stretch far beyond what the eye can see. We adorn our walls with art. But we sometimes fail to realize that art is in plain sight in the design of kitchen cabinets and in the trim around doors. And in molding, where walls intersect with floors. Lawn sculptures adorn large, empty stretches of grass…adjacent to landscape timbers and elaborate designs crafted from colored pebbles. And near bushes shaped and trimmed to look “just so.” Chairs and sofas and tables and lamps represent the expression of utilitarian art. Automobiles may once have been primarily modes of transportation, but today they are mobile collections of art and design.

This morning, I spent a few minutes marveling at the expansive artwork of Andres Amador, whose enormous, expansive earthscape designs on sandy beaches inspire awe. His art is breathtaking in its beauty and stunning in its brevity; he must complete his art on a tight timeline during low tide and then watch it disappear when water overtakes the sand. Yesterday, I viewed two photos of the side of a big, unimpressive building several stories tall. One photo showed it plain and unadorned. The other showed it after an artist transformed it into a stunning piece of art—a three-dimensional image of a kitten emerging from a cardboard box. Art, no matter its form, can be uncomfortable; it can make us think thoughts we would rather not confront.

Art hurts. Art urges voyages – and it is easier to stay at home.

~ Gwendolyn Brooks ~

Beauty is not confined to the strictly visual, as I’ve already suggested. Chefs create art both visually appealing and a delight to the nose and the tongue. Musicians create aural art pleasing to hear and, frequently, that is accompanied by vibrations pleasing to one’s nerve endings…perhaps it’s one’s sense of touch? Photographers both preserve and create art with cameras; they present images exactly as captured by the lens and as manipulated by the photographer’s use of imagination and technology. Writers create and share insights and emotions and concepts through their use of language; they “get inside our heads,” where they “paint” images and ideas.

Our lives would be more fulfilling and more peaceful if humankind would cultivate recognition and appreciation of art in all its forms instead of seeking to control an uncontrollable world. The pursuit of power is an affront to artistry; art is an homage to universal freedom.

A line is a dot that went for a walk.

~ Paul Klee ~

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Sometimes I feel like having long, in-depth conversations on topics that, in my opinion, too few others find interesting. Like the importance of art and how it shapes our culture and our sense of what is and is not moral. I recall initiating a brief conversation in which I asserted the importance of art. The response was, essentially, “so what?” And that was followed by “talking about it has no value…our conversation will not change what anyone things about art.”  I remember thinking how the person with whom I was speaking must have been absent when even shreds of creativity and intellectual curiosity were distributed. That, though, is deeply judgmental. Though, in my opinion, deeply true.

The only justice is to follow the sincere intuition of the soul, angry or gentle. Anger is just, and pity is just, but judgement is never just.

~ D. H. Lawrence ~

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No matter what D.H. Lawrence thought about judgement, I judge myself all the time. I recognize many of my innumerable faults (though probably not all of them) and realize my positive attributes can never equal them in number, nor overwhelm them in impact. I pass judgement on myself more quickly and easily than I do on others. Why? Because I know myself far better than I know others. That having been said, I know myself only superficially. There’s someone inside me I have never met and probably never will. Several someones, I suspect. Not literally, of course, but figuratively; we are far too complex to really understand ourselves. Our wiring is too labyrinthine to ever hope to fully grasp how it works. Or doesn’t. Anyone who claims to know themselves completely is delusional. Faced with circumstances we have never before faced can change our understanding of how we might react in such situations; thus changing what we understand about ourselves.

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And we’re off to happily engage with another Friday.

The distance between two places measures separation. The distance between two points of view implies the same. But, with contemplation and conversation, points of view can change and even merge. But places, whether in close proximity or remote from one another, cannot occupy the same spot. Yet points of view too often behave as if they were remote places on a map; isolated by vast distance and absolutely immovable.

Physical space separates places. Either intellectual space or emotional space—or both—keep points of view apart. Physical space has no stake in its location; it is what it is. Self-esteem, though, often anchors points of view to an immovable perspective. Wisdom arises from the exercise of one’s ability to cut the chain to an anchor. Without that anchor, a point of view is free to drift. It may settle far, far away or it may return to its original resting place. But in the interim, a point of view is free to absorb shreds of perspective that would have been invisible and untouchable had the anchor’s chain not been cut.

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The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.

~ Socrates ~

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Today is an opportunity to repair the mistakes that led to yesterday, which turned into today. Tomorrow will provide a chance to mend the fabric of experience I will shred today. The day after tomorrow, if it comes, will exist to stitch together the patches left over from my efforts to mend those pieces of torn fabric.

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Time seems to accelerate early in the morning. And, perhaps, overnight while we are sleeping. We wish for a long, leisurely, satisfying sleep; our head touches the pillow and, suddenly, it’s time to get up. And, when we get up, the clock races ahead; 5:30 becomes 7:30 in less than the blink of an eye. I look back at 5:45 and 6:10 and 7:05 and cry for them to return. “Don’t go so soon,” I call plaintively, hoping they will heard me and heed my pleas. But they do not. They ignore me, as if I have no role to play in the passage of time. No part in transforming yesterday into today. I am being carried along in rapids of a river of moments that refuse to pause for even a second to let me get my bearings.  A stopwatch does not stop time; it only stops us from measuring how fast it is getting away from us.

Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.

~ Khalil Gibran ~

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When is humbleness a flaw? When is pride a gleaming strength? The answers to those questions exist only in our imagination. In our perspectives. In our points of view. Context always controls us; either what we do or how we see what we do. And, of course, how others see us and themselves.

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I never make the mistake of arguing with people for whose opinions I have no respect.

~ Edward Gibbon ~

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Wishing for cool weather will not make it happen. Only by finding a cool place and taking aggressive action to get there will take me into that pleasant place. The question, of course, is whether I have the courage to be aggressive. Time, as it flies by at a hundred times the speed of thought, will tell.

Last night, as we watched another episode of The Sopranos, we heard the shriek of the NOAA weather radio  from the other end of the house. It was too far away to catch what the automated voice said after hearing the disruptive alert. We paused playback and checked our phones for weather warnings. Nothing. Back to watching the television screen. A few minutes later, though, we heard distant growls of thunder. I paused the show again and ran out to my car, in the driveway, to close the windows; beastly heat of late has prompted me to leave them cracked a bit. Not long afterward, we heard wind whipping the trees outside the window; then, the sound of raindrops pelting the house. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Jagged lightning bolts, coupled instantaneously with explosive cracks of thunder, bathed the darkened house in blue flashes of light. In concert with an especially fierce lightning strike someplace close by, electric power to the house was cut. Though it was off for only a few moments, the outage was long enough to reset the WiFi modem and otherwise play havoc with electric-powered devices. Outside, the rain and wind—punctuated by claps of thunder and flashes of lightning—continued to display Nature’s intense power for quite some time. We wandered from window to window, watching leaves and twigs and branches, ripped from trees surrounding the house, and flung into the air.

We continued watching The Sopranos after the lightshow and booming symphony settled down. And, when we tired of the tension and drama of that show, I watched an episode of The Lincoln Lawyer. That series is by no means high art, but it was sufficiently distracting to keep my mind off the more unpleasant aspects of life in a society gone stark-raving mad.

Even as light begins to fill the sky as the time nears 6 a.m., I cannot see outside well enough to know whether any significant storm damage was done to trees close to the house. I suspect forest flora that, yesterday, were struggling to survive a lack of water in almost unbearable heat have been given an opportunity to live at least a little longer. I look forward to having a better look at how they respond as the day progresses.

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Old age is like a plane flying through a storm. Once you’re aboard, there’s nothing you can do.

~ Golda Meir ~

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My visit yesterday to an orthopedist was positive…basically. He said the pain in my knee was simply a natural response to the wear and tear of almost sixty-nine years of use. Nothing particularly troubling. Given that the pain I feel is infrequent and not unbearably severe, he said if he were me he would do nothing about it. And so that’s exactly what I shall do about it. Nothing.

After visiting the orthopedist and stopping at Michael‘s to allow mi novia to select a frame for a piece of art she bought during our recent road trip, we stopped for brunch at Cafe Kahlo on Central Avenue in Hot Springs. I recommend the place. Good service and good food. I like supporting a small, family-operated business like Cafe Kahlo. It helps that images of Frida Kahlo adorn the walls.

My follow-up with the surgeon’s (for my November 2018 lung cancer surgery) nurse practitioner was, as expected, positive. She scheduled me for a follow-up visit one year from now. Assuming the CT scan done in preparation for that visit shows nothing new, next year’s visit will be the last one scheduled; I will be free of another physician’s care. Hallelujah!

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Advice to myself:

Anger is like a storm rising up from the bottom of your consciousness. When you feel it coming, turn your focus to your breath.

Thich Nhat Hanh

Generally speaking, I have been reasonably successful of late in remaking certain aspects of myself. I have tried to follow Thich Nhat Hanh’s advice and, more often than not, I have been successful. I have to remember, though, that this is not a situation of fix it and forget it; it will require constant, lifelong attention. And I have to be willing to accept missteps not as evidence that I have failed but as evidence that I always will need to continue to strive for something outside my grasp: perfection.

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And here I am, ready to face whatever the day brings.

Truth will rise above falsehood as oil above water.

~ Miguel de Cervantes ~

I came across a fascinating article yesterday on the BBC.com website. The article, entitled How does wildlife find garden ponds?, referenced studies that suggest the degree of polarization of reflected light might explain how dragonflies find water. As I thought about the subject, I remembered several times when I had been surprised to find various creatures living in environments that had been “wet” for only a short while. The BBC article mentioned eels living in a partially abandoned garden pond; a pond made by people, not a natural one. It occurred to me that the lakes in and around Hot Springs Village all are artificial. Yet, aside from the stocked fish, they are teeming with wildlife that just “happened onto” them. I would love to know just how snakes and salamanders and frogs and birds and so forth seem to find water so quickly and easily. I suspect that, if we knew the secrets to how wildlife finds water, we might be better-equipped to solve water shortages for humans.  Interesting stuff, in my opinion.

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I’m…an oil-and-water combination of ambition, laziness, insecurity, certainty and drive.

~ Octavia E. Butler ~

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In hindsight, when I have been faced with unexpectedly shocking or otherwise troublesome behaviors from a person, I have come to realize I simply ignored earlier clues. The behaviors generally are not new. There were plenty of signs; I just ignored them or dismissed them. Or I refused to acknowledge them, in the hope the clues were simply aberrations. Usually, after I find myself stunned by such circumstances, I end up being disappointed in myself for having failed to anticipate them. “I should have known,” I say to myself, as I recount situations in which the clues would have been plain to anyone not wearing blinders. But we tend to overlook flaws in people we consider friends. Only when those flaws are so egregious they can no longer be ignored do we reluctantly accept them. And when behaviors are so utterly unacceptable that a person can no longer be called a friend, we look back on our reluctance to see the clues and wonder how we could have been so willingly blind. Such instances tend to put all of our relationships under a microscope, temporarily, as we attempt to evaluate whether we have allowed ourselves to be deluded in other circumstances. We become gun-shy, worried that we may be unable to differentiate, in terms of our relationships, between reality and illusion. Over time, though, we toughen and the pain recedes. But we never completely recover the innocence that enabled us to be surprised and shocked. And we never allow ourselves to be as receptive to interpersonal engagements as we once were. I wonder whether hermits became hermits because they were especially sensitive to troublesome behaviors from people who had been friends? Might they have opted to be loners as a means of protecting themselves from the emotional pain of unpleasant surprises?

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Physical wounds do not heal; they hide beneath scar tissue.  It’s the same with emotional wounds. They may not be entirely visible, but they remain as evidence of damage done to the psyche. Like physical damage, emotional injuries can be repaired, yet they are never the same as before.

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I woke at 3, but stayed in bed until 4. I’ve been watching the sky brighten since around 5. Like yesterday morning, the air outside is dead still. But the temperature is a couple of degrees warmer than it was a day ago. Though I have not been outside yet, I sense that I would feel even less comfortable today than yesterday. The hottest July 12 on record in Arkansas was measured as 116 °F in Jonesboro in 1901. Fortunately, today will not eclipse that horrible number. Not only was that the hottest July 12, it was the hottest day, period, in the state. I offer my gratitude to the universe for letting that record stand. And I am grateful that today will not get even close to it. Today’s high in Halifax, Nova Scotia is expected to reach 70°F; at present, the temperature is 61°F. I want to be there. Instead, I will wade into the heat, here in Hot Springs Village, and wander into the nearest actual town for a visit with an orthopedist, who will discuss with me the “loose bits” on my right knee.

A change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves.

~ Marcel Proust ~

Despite the cool temperature (68°F), when I walk outside the day feels warm and oppressive to me. I suppose that is because the air is dead still. Even the slightest breeze would transform the morning’s weather into a delightful experience. Unfortunately, not a single leaf is stirring as I stare into this day’s dim morning light. The peak temperature today is forecast to be 95°F; unpleasant, but tolerable in comparison to just a few degrees warmer. The temperature here is actually two degrees cooler than Green Lake, Wisconsin. I suspect Green Lake feels cooler, though. And today’s expected high in Green Lake, 84°F, will be significantly more pleasant that ours. I mention Green Lake only because I crave a climate better suited to human habitation than the one facing us here of late. Today’s high in Green Lake is a bit higher than normal, but close. High temperatures in Hot Springs Village, though, regularly soar through the “normal” highs experienced in Green Lake. And we have chiggers here; the bane of my existence. Green Lake, though, has its own insect demons. No matter where you go, you face challenges that diminish what could be an idyllic experience. Where is the “ideal” place? Where is the climate (weather) delightful, the people welcoming, friendly, and wonderful, and the cost of living low enough that a family of four earning barely above the poverty-level could live comfortably? No, really. Where?

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I encountered good advice when reading about what various people have said about the weather:

Wherever you go, no matter what the weather, always bring your own sunshine.

~ Anthony J. D’Angelo ~

Good advice is readily available. Good advice that’s easy to follow is more difficult to find. And it’s even more difficult to find good advice that accounts for one’s unique circumstances and also is easy to follow. Well-intentioned advice can therefore be maddening; as if the advisor assumes the situation facing the recipient of advice is identical to that of the advisor. Enough about that. The best advice is advice that works. It’s best, in my view, to take what works and discard the rest.

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For years, I’ve heard the aphorism/assertion that one should “eat to live, not live to eat.” And in some ways, that advice is absolutely correct—food is, at its most fundamental, nothing but sustenance. But the aphorism fails to recognize the intensely powerful cultural messages inherent in food and its preparation. The foods we eat and the way we prepare them for consumption say a great deal about who we are. They can convey our values and our dreams. And they can tell our stories as well as anything can. Dismissing the almost mystical qualities food and its preparation can have is equivalent to writing off the unique cultural ceremonies associated with childbirth or marriage or death or a dozen other important transitions and transformations every culture experiences and acknowledges. We might as well say “childbirth is just a means of  renewing the labor force” or “marriage is simply the articulation of an agreement between a monogamous couple” or “death is simply an opportunity to thin the human herd.” An article I read recently highlights the importance food played and plays in various indigenous cultures. In Cherokee culture, according to the author, “…strawberry becomes more than just a berry. That ear of corn is so much more than ‘just an ear of corn.’ It is an ancestor, it is our mother; a reminder of who we are, what we’ve been through, and why we must continue to survive. Every meal has the potential to be a small ceremony, a direct link between our ancestors before us and the future of our people.” I would argue that the importance attached to food in our North American culture is similar. The foods we choose say a great deal about the extent to which we value (or don’t value) diversity, adventure, risk, and dozens of other factors that foods help define or articulate. Another quote from the article speaks to the importance of food as more than mere sustenance: “Certain aromas and flavors make an imprint in our minds and have the powerful ability to return us to a particular place, person or experience much more intensely than a visual or auditory reminder.”

Eat to live. Of course. But also, live to eat the fruits of one’s culture and feed one’s dreams.

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I find attractive people who think, deeply, and talk about what they think.  PBS frequently puts such people in front of the camera; that’s one of the reasons I tend to watch PBS when I have access to “over the air” television. Soon, I will subscribe to YouTube TV so I can get access, again, to those people who think and talk about their thoughts. But I get access to similar people right here in Central Arkansas. I suspect similar people exist all over. It’s just a matter of finding them and establishing dialogue.

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Off I go into the warming day.

Very hot weather—kept at bay by air conditioners and ample supplies of clean water— illustrates good fortune as well as anything else. The ability to elude temperatures climbing toward and above the century mark emphasizes why gratitude for the “little things” is so appropriate. Other niceties, like leather sofas and expensive kitchen gadgetry and marble flooring and money for travel and a thousand other unnecessary luxuries, pale in comparison to the basic components of good fortune: food, water, safety, and adequate comfort. Protections from hostile environments, whatever forms they take, are more than niceties; instead, they can define the difference between life and death. I do not want verification by experience that spending a night and a day on the streets, without food or water or shelter, is the antithesis of good fortune; I just know it. And I need to spend some time appreciating it with a rarely-felt intensity. All of us who live in unacknowledged luxury would do well to contemplate and express gratitude for our good fortune. It would not hurt to share some of it, as well.

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Taking oneself or one’s philosophies too seriously can result in unplanned and unwelcome solitude. I can imagine that nothing would be more boring than spending a week listening to Karl Marx drone on about the merits of communism and the fatal flaws of capitalism. I would want to hear about his childhood, how he prefers cooking his eggs, his views on misogyny, and  his favorite jokes. Yet, based on what I know of him, I suspect he might be unwilling to deviate from those topics so near and dear to his heart. And I doubt he would express any interest in me: my childhood, my egg preference, my attitudes about sexism or racism, or things that tickle my funny bone.  I would find offensive and dull his well-intentioned exhortations, directed at me, to abandon “capitalistic” behaviors in favor of actions dedicated exclusively to the “collective.” One need not be so intensely single-minded as Marx to be annoying. But the closer one gets to being a one-issue thinker and talker, the closer one gets to self-made isolation. In years past, though, I have been accused of being sort of like that: somewhat two-dimensional, with my rather aggressive dismissal of team sports. I still have almost no interest in team sports, but at least now I acknowledge the legitimacy of others’ interest in them (though, for the life of me, I cannot understand just why team sports are such a draw to so many). Until not many years ago, though, I made it my mission to express a high level of disdain for team sports whenever the topic arose. Today, I try to restrain myself; to be at least tolerant of pastimes I find dull and uninteresting (unless sports is the only topic of conversation, in which case I remove myself from the discussion).  Yet my interests can be singular and restrictive, too. Foods and flavors, for example, are among my passions. I am sure my posts about food and my tendency to elevate discussions of food to the level of worship can be boring. Yet like my dismissal of team sports and my tendency to remove myself from conversations about them when I find them boring, others can do the same when my actions are too food-focused to suit them. I could probably go on and on about taking oneself and/or one’s interests too seriously; but that would defeat the purpose of this paragraph, if there is one.

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As I peer out  my windows this morning, I notice that the light of the sun is full, but the illumination is not so bright as to require me to shield my eyes. Sometimes, morning sunlight is far brighter than it is today. Exploring this matter, I go close to the window and look up at the sky. It is blue, but with a very pale haze blocking some of the sun’s rays. And banks of soft, translucent white clouds appear in bands against the blue sky. The thin veil of haze is enough to dull the brightness, but not enough to really dim the light. For some reason, this level of illumination draws my attention to the whimsical statue of a frog, sitting in a Padmasana (Lotus) position. in which each of the bulging-eyed-frog’s feet is placed on the opposite thigh. The whimsical nature of the Buddha-Frog is amplified by the fact that it is sitting only a few feet from the figure of a goose that was carved from what I believe is the stump and roots of an Indonesian tree. I am incapable of sitting in a Padmasana position. I would have to restructure the bones in my hips and legs; and my tendons would have to be stretched, through months of exercise. In a process I call exercism. As opposed to exorcism.

In an ideal world, you would come to my house just as the night’s darkness begins to fade into the dim morning light. We would gather—many of us would—near a window and we would look outside, soaking in the changes taking place outdoors. We would call one another’s attention to the changes and would ask one another to describe them and to offer observations about what they might mean. Do they mean anything? Can transformations in light levels have meaning? Should we assign meaning to them?

I would provide coffee for everyone. Or tea, if that were the preference. Or water. I might offer oranges; domestic at the right time of year, imported at other times. Flavors and aromas can enhance experiences. Memories of fragrances can recall experiences from another time; visual scenes, completed by recollections of sounds, arise in one’s head.  We would recount those memories, if we had them. There would be no pressure to recall, but if the scenes were there and you chose to share it, we would listen and watch it unfold with you.

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The morning continues to unfold. It is now just after 7. I’ve been up for more than two hours. Darkness was beginning to slip away when I got out of bed; it was almost gone just a short time later. The rapidity of dawn makes me think I may need to set an alarm so I can experience more time watching through the windows, staring at the darkness. But, for now, I will stop and think about it all. Everything. I will renew my coffee and cut up some cantaloupe and wander into the day.

A follow-up appointment with my primary care physician’s office. An initial appointment with an orthopedist. A follow-up visit with the thoracic surgeon. A therapeutic massage. Scheduling appointments with a cardiologist, a urologist, a pulmonologist, and God knows who else. The upcoming week is a sharp reminder of the fragility of human fitness. Either that or evidence that fear of failing health or injury rules our lives to a much greater extent than it should. Whatever these plans and appointments mean, they are taking place during a time in which we regularly are reminded that mortality and physical dangers are very real “things.” Tony Sirico, the actor who played  Peter Paul “Paulie Walnuts” Gualtieri on The Sopranos died on Friday. Japan’s former Prime Minster, Shinzo Abe, was assassinated on Friday. Seven people were killed and 46 wounded in Highland Park, Illinois on July 4 when a gunman opened fire from a rooftop. Coincidentally, mi novia and I have been watching The Sopranos for several weeks, getting acquainted with a culture of both violence and intense love and devotion. Perhaps the reason The Sopranos was and is so popular is that it normalized violence in a familial setting. Or that it normalized almost unshakable familial bonds in a setting in which violence is as commonplace as breathing. The Sopranos is not escape entertainment any more than the murder of innocent victims and political figures is a departure from reality television. We live (as long as we can) with challenges to the stability of our health and with reminders of the brutality of the human condition.

He who despairs of the human condition is a coward, but he who has hope for it is a fool.

~ Albert Camus ~

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One must wonder whether—not in the eyes of some imaginary god but in the eyes of his human contemporaries—redemption for past behaviors is deserved or even possible. That question is what prompts an exploration of what others have said. That issue is what claws at one’s self-esteem, at one’s sense of worth. At what point does there exist a fine line between excusable or tolerable and inexcusable or intolerable? If one had the ability to selectively erase one’s memory, I think the memories erased would be the ones in which selfishness and lack of compassion are on full display. Whether past behaviors are intolerable or not, some memories may be so shameful and painful that only erasure could cure them.  The fact that erasure is not possible seems to support the idea that memory is the way the universe exacts revenge.  Even on the road to redemption, no penance is ever enough.

The good man is the man who, no matter how morally unworthy he has been, is moving to become better.

~ John Deway ~

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For some reason, this morning I vacillate between modest happiness and deep sadness. No matter how I try, I cannot focus my attention on the positive aspects of my experience; I slip back into…something. It’s not despair, but I think it must be despair’s cousin. I asked mi novia, yesterday or the day before, what is anxiety? Is it depression? Is it worry, coupled with the doldrums? Perhaps I’m taking too damn many pills. Pills for blood pressure, cholesterol, nerve pain, thinning of the blood, improvement of Vitamin B12 in my bloodstream, prostate issues, breathing issues, etc., etc., etc. All those damn pills must collectively be clogging my brain, keeping me from experiencing ongoing normalcy. This dull unpleasantness is not normal. Or, at least, it did not used to be. Water. They tell me to drink more water. Get more hydrated. Flood my body with liquid. More electrolytes. I’ll try it. No reason not to.

Things are as they are. Looking out into it the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.

~ Alan Watts ~

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Housing. Investments. Choosing places to live based as much (or more) on financial considerations as on quality of life factors. More than “quality of life.” Quality of intellectual and emotional experience. What some people would call “spiritual” experience.

I can imagine an incredibly simple but profoundly complex life. A life undisturbed by the chaos of modern times, guided by opportunities afforded in the natural world around me. Simple, perhaps, but exceptionally hard. A life in which I must find or grow or chase or trap my own food. A life in which food is important, but shelter is equally vital. A life in which comfort never becomes the cudgel that permits me to degrade the importance of others’ food and shelter.

We do not necessarily deserve comfort. Sleeping on hard ground among snakes and scorpions and broken rocks with sharp edges may be the natural order. We may have corrupted it by pursuing comfort at the expense of understanding.

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A surge in active listings in the housing market, if not actually driving down home prices, is putting the brakes on their growth. I suspect actual prices of housing will fall, as well. I have seen anecdotal evidence that price drops may be in the offing. Watching Zillow listings in Hot Springs Village, for example, I have seen far more price reductions in the last two or three months than I saw in the last several years. That tells me I sold my house just in the nick of time to catch the wave of rising prices. Though prices, in the aggregate, may continue to climb for a short time while housing supply catches up with demand, the increasing number of price drops suggests the market is cooling. Of course, rising interest rates probably have a lot to do with a cooling market, but I think the market has gone slightly mad for a while. That was good for me in connection with the sale of my old house, but it also suggests the price of the “new” house may not have been justified; at least not justified in what I believe will be a cooling market. If my take on the housing market is correct, there will come a time in the not-too-distant future when buying “distressed” price houses (homes of decent quality and in decent condition that are on the market due to sellers’ financial need to sell) will present excellent investments. Time will tell whether I am right. And time will tell whether it matters.

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Yesterday, July 7, was the anniversary of the appearance on the market of sliced bread. Commercially-available sliced bread first appeared on the market on July 7, 1928 in Chillicothe, Missouri. Otto Rohwedder, who invented a machine to slice bread, and Frank Bench, his old baker friend who helped put the machine into commercial use, are the fathers of sliced bread. Before July 7, 1928, if you wanted sliced bread you had to cut it yourself. The history of sandwiches must have thus been markedly different before that date. Sliced bread before that date must have varied in thickness and in the “cleanliness” of the cuts—if, indeed, bread-based sandwiches depended on sliced bread. Perhaps sandwiches relied as much on chunks of bread torn from loaves, instead of evenly-cut pieces sliced from loaves. Sliced dark rye bread and uncut loaves of sourdough and French bread are my favorites, but I have to acknowledge the enormous impact Rohwedder’s invention has had on the bread world. The image here, as I understand it, shows signage atop the welcome center in Chillicothe, which is about 90 miles northeast of Kansas City, Missouri. That might make an interesting diversion during a little road trip.

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The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

~ Omar Khayyam ~

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I think humankind was more knowledgeable about life and existence (the two, obviously, are neither the same nor are mutually exclusive) in ancient times, when humans had fewer diversions and distractions. In the absence of distractions, we tend to contemplate matters for which we seldom make time in today’s busy world. We think more deeply. We look at the natural world with greater interest and awe. We try harder to make sense of the beauty and horrors of life and death. When we refuse to permit ourselves to be confused by chaos of our own making, we can see that death can be just as beautiful as life. And we can understand that life can be as horrible and wretched as death.

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Mi novia and I mused, during our recent road trip, about the possibility that humanity is and has been an experiment conducted by the universe. A test to determine whether humankind can improve existence. And we both concluded that humankind probably is a failed experiment; a disappointing endeavor that merits cancellation so that other experiments may be tried. The universe has given us millions of years to prove that humankind can be perfected. Instead, we have proven only that we have the capacity to degrade deeper and deeper into an abyss of ugliness. We are sinking into being the antithesis of enlightenment; darkness of the most miserable kind seems to be our legacy. I hate to think such thoughts. I wish I were more optimistic about humankind. But I’m not. I  keep trying. I keep enjoying moments that suggest there is hope. The evidence, though, suggests otherwise. There will come a time, I think, when the universe will cancel the attempt to prove the unprovable.

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Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.

~ Václav Havel ~

Days begin to run together after awhile. When I skip a day of blogging—or like yesterday write only enough to serve as a placeholder for a day that requires too much of me to enjoy writing—my recollections of what and when and where fade into a chalky dust. The heat doesn’t help. It petrifies my ability to think, as if my brain were a sculptor’s clay left in a hot kiln to fire and harden. Making the gentle transition from the cool temperatures and high altitudes of Silverthorne, Colorado to the lower altitude and higher temperatures of Castle Rock, Colorado was wise of us, I think. But even that gentle transition was not enough to clear my head. Driving from Castle Rock through Denver was a nightmare; the pavement as we descended from Castle Rock barely covered its own sub-base. The insanity of drivers switching lane at ninety miles per hour was horrifying. Yet we made it to Castle Rock and then on to Amarillo, Texas. Mi novia did much of the driving from Silverthorne to Amarillo; she worried that I was utterly incapable of driving safely, especially on roads patched together with tar and loose boulders. I think I’m getting the order of the days right; the days remain something of a patchwork of vague moments punctuated with sharply felt experiences. We left Amarillo yesterday with me behind the wheel; I drove most of the way.

I do not remember exactly when, but a few days earlier—on the way home from northern California—a bird flew low in front of the car on the highway and turned sharply toward us. I felt a “thud,” sensing immediately that the bird had struck the front of the car, which probably was traveling at 75 miles per hour. But I looked in the rear view mirror, expecting to see its body fall to the roadway; I saw nothing. We did not think more about it for a day or two. Then, coming out of a restaurant one day, we saw its body; the head was lodged in the grille and the body hung down below. I had nothing to use to remove it, so we went on our way. Finally, when we left Amarillo yesterday morning, I dislodged the creature as I bought gas to begin the day’s journey. The poor bird’s body had been lodged in the grille for days; probably since its demise in Utah or western Colorado.

We stopped in Trinidad, Colorado on the drive south from Castle Rock toward Amarillo. We ate lunch at a place called Las Animas Grill before making a brief tour of the downtown area, making note of the fact that the town was very appealing to us. We noticed the bird’s dead body when we returned to the car after lunch, but I had nothing to use to remove its corpse from the car. I felt a sense of embarrassment and remorse as I climbed into the car after seeing the bird’s body there. A decent human being would have gently extracted the carcass from the grille and placed it somewhere out of the path where it might have been crushed under tires or underfoot. But I left it attached to the front of a 2016 Subaru. I still consider myself a decent human being, but that moment argues otherwise.

Amarillo was hot. But the motel was good. Nicely designed, comfortable, and like most of the places we stayed, obscenely expensive. Still, staying in a motel is cheaper than paying for an RV and then feeding the thirsty RV with very expensive gasoline and paying high prices for tiny pieces of real estate to park it (and relieve it of unmentionable liquids and semi-liquids) overnight. But, still, I find some RVs (especially very small RVs) very attractive.

The drive from Amarillo to Hot Springs Village took about ten hours, including occasional stops and lunch in Mustang, Oklahoma, an Oklahoma City suburb. Mustang, Oklahoma is home to an outlet of RibRack, a chain BBQ restaurant. The food was edible, but I would recommend trying someplace else, were I asked for a suggestion as to places to eat in Mustang. There must be better places. But, then, Mustang looks like Suburban Anywhere, America; everything looks artificial and new and identical to things artificial and new everywhere else one finds suburbs of large, nondescript cities.

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I’ve been following a blog lately, Kelly’s Quest, that I find interesting and insightful and thought-provoking. I will quote today’s post in its entirety, which is a quotation itself:

As mystics throughout time have found, the road to discovery, to peace and enlightenment is a journey into Self. There is more to our conscious being than we realize and it is from within that we find the keys that unlock our inner wisdom. It is from within that we can connect with the source of knowledge that lies beyond the limits of our five senses.

~ Rosicrucian Manuscript ~

The blog’s posts do not always run parallel to my ways of thinking, but they always spark in me an intellectual pursuit of one kind or another. If nothing else, they encourage me to explore whether my beliefs and assumptions are grounded in my perceptions of reality or whether, instead, they are based solely on what I have been “told” or led to believe. I think it pays to question one’s biases and assumptions and beliefs and guiding principles; they do not always belong to oneself. Sometimes, we think we hold a belief, only to realize on reflection that we “believe” only because we have been too lazy to investigate to an extent that allows us to really understand.

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I got more sleep last night than I needed. I went to bed around 11 and woke this morning after 8. On one hand, I hate that I missed all the dark solitude I so deeply treasure. On the other, I woke feeling rested (but sore from too much time in bed) and relaxed. I felt no pressure to jump up and write my blog. No pressure to make breakfast. No pressure to start a cup of coffee. Just relaxed. I have plenty to do today—things I must get done—but I feel no pressure. They will get done. I am just giving myself time to do them.

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I feel love this morning. Do you feel it?

It’s late, nearing 7:30, and I’ve been awake only a short while. The temperature here in Amarillo, Texas already is inching toward 80ºF, with triple digits in the forecast. We may opt to drive all the way home today, but we may decide to take it slow.

I am not in the mood to write more at the moment. Later, I will capture yesterday’s events. For now, on to a slow start.

I did not write a post yesterday. Instead, I was taken by ambulance to St. Anthonys Summit Hospital in Frisco, Colorado. Frisco is about a mile from Silverthorne, Colorado, where we stayed the night. Oddly, this hospitalization was probably my tenth or twelfth while in the midst of travel over the course of the last fifty years or so. Strange, indeed.

The adventure started, I think, as we drove from Provo, Utah toward the Denver area day before yesterday. The drive was considerably nicer than parts of the drive the day earlier. The geography, beginning outside Provo, continuing much of the way to Denver, was stunning. Spectacular rock formations, incredible colors, lovely forests, rivers with amazing rapids; the geology was remarkable. Temperatures for a significant part of the way were much warmer than I would like, but as we traversed Colorado toward Denver, the weather changed. We encountered much cooler temperatures and a fair amount of mostly light to moderate rain. Despite the lightness of the rain, it became more than a bit of a nightmare driving on roads that needed work (and were being worked on). So, instead of going all the way to Denver, we stopped in Silverthorne. The hotel did not have any king rooms available, so we got a Queen-Queen. After half an hour in the room, I was in much better shape, physically and mentally, than I was as I fought the rain and rain-slick roads that caused the car to hydroplane periodically. The only down side to the hotel, from my perspective, was the fact that kids (I assume) seemed to bounce and bang on the floor above us for quite a while. I would like to have called the room and asked their parents to remove the beasts to the parking lot for the night, but in order to maintain my zen-like demeanor for mi novia, I could not do that. I simply adjusted, somehow, and tolerated the intolerable.

During the course of the evening, things changed for me. My shortness of breath, always an annoyance, worsened. Sometime during the night, altitude sickness of some sort overtook me. My constant sinus drainage became worse. At the same time, I started having semi-hallucinatory experiences, in which I was attempting to satisfy competing demands for space by two guys who wanted control of a new facility that had been designed to help me with my sinus drainage. The details of the competition and my efforts to address it remain sketchy. At any rate, sometime during the night I went into the bathroom, I guess to blow my nose (?) and managed to pass out for a moment. I fell down onto the toilet, knocking my glasses to the floor. I panicked, not knowing just what had happened. I called out and mi novia came to my aid. Apparently, I was not entirely coherent for the duration of the episode. She wanted to call 911; I refused, saying it was nothing. We finally went back to bed. My weird dreams/hallucinations continued, though I never got back to sleep. I continued arguing about the space. Mi novia heard me speaking, aloud, all the remainder of the night. The next morning, she insisted on calling 911. A fully-outfitted ambulance and fire truck and another emergency vehicle were there in no time. Six EMTs came to the room and checked me out. They immediately determined the issue probably was altitude sickness. But they recommended transport to the ER; mi novia readily agreed and I reluctantly agreed. To make a long story somewhat shorter: oxygen brought me back to reality and good health. They advised us to continue on our way out of town, suggesting we get away from their 9000-foot environment to something less than 5000 feet. We did. Mi novia took the wheel for yesterday’s travel. The roads are atrociously bad; huge potholes, delaminated pavement, imbecilic drivers going 90MPH+ in zones marked for 60 (but should have been 40). The poor quality of the roads, alone, make a return trip to these parts of the state unlikely.

We drove as far as Castle Rock, Colorado, south of Denver, where we stopped for lunch at La Loma, a very high-end Mexican Restaurant. Rather than continue on, we opted to find a hotel and, if rooms were available, check in early. That we did. I went to sleep shortly after we arrived and slept for several hours. I woke for a while and then returned to sleep some more. Around 2:00 a.m., I had been asleep too long; my joints and muscles ached from that “too long in bed” experience. I got up for a while, then went back to bed, then got up again. I took a shower and shaved. In the meantime, mi novia awoke for awhile, then went back to sleep. I opened my notebook computer and here I am at 5:30 a.m., finishing up a day-late blog.

How far and where we will go today remains to be seen. I am feeling fine, so I plan to drive for at least a few hours, possibly making it to Santa Rosa, New Mexico or Amarillo, Texas today. We will make tomorrow a relatively short day, so we probably will not get home until the morning of the day after. I am ready to be home, if only to put an end to longer-than-I-like day journeys. I prefer road trips that last 300 to 400 miles per day, at most, and leave plenty of time for unplanned stops along the way. This trip had too many time-based obligations along the way and toward the end to allow that; another time, we will do that.

Yesterday’s travels did not compare with days prior. Yesterday was long and arduous, covering too many miles and involving too many hours on the road. The desert between Reno and Salt Lake City has little to recommend it, in my opinion. Heat, dust, sand, bleached earth, salt water, tumbleweed, and arrogant drivers whose driving styles apparently were modeled after Mitch McConnell’s compassion and human decency. I’m probably overstating it, but not by much. I found it difficult to maintain my promised “zen” composure and attitude. I want to be soft and calm and loving. I find it difficult in circumstances that seem designed to ruin such intentions.

What little I saw of Salt Lake City today did not impress me. The mountains around the city are lovely, but the gaping holes in the earth, wrought by copper mines and an utter disregard for the planet, are hideous. The traffic on parts of the city’s freeways was tolerable. On other roadways, it was like Dallas or Houston or Chicago, complete with attitude and disregard for others. Provo, where we stayed the night, was just as disappointing, though bursting with evidence of modernity…and the practice of greed.

Today, we will head toward Denver, where we will spend the night. Then, we will go to Santa Rosa, New Mexico, we decided. I hope my mood changes today and tomorrow. I do not like myself as I am at this moment.

Yesterday marked the end of the vacation aspect of our trip. We left the coast, bound for Reno, Nevada. Our route, though, was a bit circuitous. And it took us through some spectacular scenery. Forests of towering redwoods stretching from dense patches of forest ferns to places so high I had to assume they were far beyond the sky. Vineyards so enormous that I had to believe they held all the grapes used to make all the wines in the entire universe. Roads so crooked and steep I had to believe they were impossible to traverse without plunging off of them into an abyss so deep and unknowable that no one has ever been able to understand where it ends.

Perhaps I am overstating the experience. But not by much. We wandered through Anderson Valley and Napa Valley and other places so remarkable I did not even catch their names. We saw vineyards bigger than Alaska and trees taller than the distance between the sun and the most distant planet. We witnessed water so deep and dense that Earth is far too small and timid to hold them.

Our trip took us south, toward the Bay area, but not quite there. We crept along roads with bends too sharp for gnomes to follow without plunging off into other dimensions as they rounded curves. We slinked beside creeks and slid along rivers. We followed the car’s insistence, knowing the automobile knew far better than we did how to maneuver the landscape. We then drove on big, hideous freeways for awhile, then traveled on magic carpets crafted from gravel and black tar. When, finally, we found ourselves on superhighways that connected cities like Davis, California and Truckee, California, we encountered massive traffic jams caused by truck fires; but we kept ourselves focused on the direction of travel we had chosen. As we drove past the flaming inferno, we saw dozens of firefighters working to contain flames that could have consumed the entire western half of the country. Finally, we made it to Reno, Nevada. To our motel. And to a room with a bed and a shower and a place to rest and recover from an incredible journey.

We did not have dinner last night. Instead, I munched on a bag of Sun Chips and mi novia chose to fast. Surprisingly, I do not feel especially hungry this morning. She is not yet fully awake, but I know she did not feel well when she went to sleep and I think she feels about the same this morning. I hope she improves as she shakes off what little is left of her semi-sleepless night.

Though yesterday we drove only 320 miles, more or less, the winding roads and spectacular scenery extended the time for the drive to considerably more than seven hours (including the truck fire delay and a stop at In-N-Out Burger…meh). Today’s plan is to drive about 560 miles in roughly eight hours. Obviously, I do not expect the scenery to be as captivating on the entire distance on I-80. In an ideal world, one without obligations and time constraints, we might dilly-dally about and see the sights along the way, which would dramatically extend our time on the road. Alas, we do not live in the ideal world. Maybe next trip.

Tomorrow, we plan to drive another 500 miles, stopping somewhere in or around Denver, Colorado for the night. From there, our plan is either to go due South to Santa Rosa, New Mexico or head south and east to Shamrock, Texas. The rest of the trip home will depend on decisions yet to be made.

No, in an ideal world we would not dilly-dally about. In an ideal world I would summon a private, luxurious, incredibly comfortable train car which would take us directly home. Dilly-dallying is for times when one feels especially chipper and healthy.

Enough of this. I need to shower and then eat breakfast. Or vice versa. And, then, hit the road.

Yesterday was devoted, primarily, to relaxation. We enjoyed naps, sitting on the deck, and a relatively brief jaunt into town (Mendocino) for lunch, some grocery shopping, and a look around a few shops. I think people sometimes feel obligated to “see the sights” when they go on vacations to beautiful or even simply attractive places. My idea is that vacations should feel the “soul.” They should provide the fuel the mind needs for rejuvenation; yesterday, my mind needed unadulterated relaxation.

Today, the trek toward home begins. It is a bit unfortunate that our travels coincide with the Fourth of July holiday weekend, in that the roads will be more crowded than usual with holiday travelers. But we are in no rush, so we can afford to be slow and deliberate. We  have mapped out our return, taking a different (much more northerly) route. Mi novia spent a good hour or more last evening, making reservations along the way. While we are not obligated to stay where she made them (except to the extent that we must cancel far enough in advance to avoid charges), it’s less stressful to have confirmations than to feverishly search for vacancies when we’re already tired.

I would like to return to Mendocino—or some similarly beautiful and stress-relieving place along the northern California coast—for a much longer stay; a week or two with no obligations except to tend to the body’s and mind’s need for nurturing relaxation. Even though the expenses associated with staying here are, frankly, outlandish, the cost is worth the benefit derived from spending the money. In other words, there is value in the cost. There is a significant return on the investment. My return to sanity, I think, is not guaranteed, but is far more likely than it would have been had we not invested in making the journey. A significant element of the value was in visiting mi novia‘s family and in seeing my sister.  In fact, those elements were probably more important than relaxing on the northern California coast. It will reward me to remember that.

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The majority is always wrong; the minority is rarely right.

~ Henrik Ibsen ~

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I’ve received good advice about what mi novia‘s mother should call me and vice versa.  Clearly, my idea was a bad one. I’m mulling over the suggestions. And hoping for more.

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In spite of my sense that this trip has been one of rejuvenation, news about recent decisions and probable upcoming decisions of the Supreme Court disturb me in the extreme. I no longer believe the checks and balances our Republic depends on to protect our democratic freedoms are sufficient. And I no longer believe they will. Unless some major—and awfully disruptive and potentially explosive—actions are taken by legislators and, more importantly, the public, we are at immediate risk of the collapse of our democracy and its replacement by an autocratic, theocratic form of government. I would not be at all surprised to see rabid legislative and court supporters of Second Amendment “rights” turn about, taking actions to ensure that progressives and others who disagree with the minority takeover of governmental control lose those “rights.” I have never been one to support unchecked gun ownership, but in light of the very real possibility that the minority government may protect itself by seizing or preventing the sale of weapons of personal protection, I am reconsidering my thinking. The Supreme Court has demonstrated that it is willing to overturn “settled law” by overturning Roe v Wade. It has altered other, less sensational, precedents. And it could just as easily overturn others that, heretofore, would have prevented governmental overreach in many other areas. I am afraid electing a majority Democratic government and packing a Supreme Court with additional justices who would protect rights instead of remove them might not be enough. I am afraid something vastly more difficult and monumentally destructive might be necessary; something that, at first, might appear utterly contrary to fundamental rights. Something along the lines of “do to them what they are trying to do to us.”

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Grey skies and cold winds are omniscient. They see the future. But the problem is they do not say which one they see, and when they see it.

The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.

~ Plutarch ~

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Absolute privacy. Is there really such a thing? Possibly, but it is not assured, even on the private, ocean-facing deck of a pricy rental cottage operated by an upscale innkeeper on the Pacific coast. Yesterday morning, we decided to take advantage of our private hot tub/whirlpool on the deck of our delightful getaway. Being the modest guy I am, I chose to wear a swimsuit. Mi novia, though, was having none of that modesty crap; she walked onto the deck, draped only in an inn-supplied robe, and immediately took it off and hung it up for use as a post-soak garment. We then managed to climb into the tub and let the powerful jets whisk away the residual pains caused by so much time sitting in the car during our trip west. We sat in the tub, gazing at the water and the birds and the waves crashing up on rocks on the islands just offshore. When we were ready to begin the rest of the day in earnest, we climbed out. When I emerged from the water, it seemed pointless to cover up…there was nothing but an empty field filled with wildflowers and sea grass between us and the rocky cliffs leading to the ocean below. So I took off the suit, hung it on a chair to dry, and stood naked on that very private deck. But, a few moment later, I heard the sound of a lawnmower. And the sound quickly grew louder and closer. Just as I wrapped another robe around me , the source of the sound came into view; the man pushing the mower nodded at me as he pushed the mower through the tall sea grass just below our deck. I suspect the guy has seen many people in various states of undress on “our” deck and the ones on both sides of us. And I suspect people who have stayed in the units on both sides of us have wandered to the edges of their decks and looked back at ours, only to see old naked me enjoying freedom from restrictive garments. It’s really not a big deal. But “public” nudity is such an unusual and uncomfortable and, apparently, dangerous and degenerate activity that many of us shrink back in horror at the thought of it. I do not. Not in the least. But I grudgingly accept that some people would find my untoned, white-as-cotton, bloated-as-a-balloon body unappealing in the extreme. So I’ll try to respect privacy in both directions. But, really, wandering around, nude, on the edge of the Pacific Ocean feels extraordinarily free and wonderful! As I strolled around the deck, before the encounter with the lawnmower man, I thought I’d attach another identity to myself: the Nude Pacifist (inasmuch as I was nude and was standing by the Pacific Ocean). It would not make sense, though, sitting fully clothed on a chair on my deck in Arkansas. Not even if I chose to sit naked on my deck. Then, I would have to call myself the Nude Arkie. That appellation is not quite as appealing, though probably more realistic.

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Man’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. ~

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Later in the day, after we had lunch at a restaurant on the port at Fort Bragg, we returned to Mendocino and strolled around one of the touristy shopping areas, a place littered with an assortment of shops and restaurants and inns and the like. Unfortunately, some of the places have not yet fully recovered from the Time of COVID; some may never recover, especially since COVID seems to be making another comeback in and around the west coast. But the places we visited were interesting. During our wandering, mi novia bought me a very nice hat, made of all cotton but that looks like leather. And she bought me a t-shirt. And I bought her a couple of trinkets, as well. It was an entirely pleasant day, all the way around. When we finished our shopping and strolling excursion, we went to the grocery store to stock up on a few items (similar to what we bought the day before) for dinner and breakfast. Between two trips over two days, we bought sourdough bread, two kinds of cheese, some wine, bananas, strawberries, olives, liverwurst, salami, and some blueberry breakfast rolls. Maybe more, I don’t recall precisely.

After shopping, we went to explore the “affordable” houses we had seen advertised the day before. They are two miles inland, situated in an enclave of modular homes (similar to mobile homes, but configured more compactly and more attractively). We went inside one, the cheapest one, and quickly decided it would have to be taken down to the studs and fumigated to remove awfully offensive odors. Others, which we did not enter, looked much more appealing from the outside. And the entire little community was quite attractive and full of lush plants and flowers. We learned, while visiting the office of the community, that the residents had recently purchased the community’s assets (pool, streets, community center, laundromat, etc,, etc.) from its former corporate owner. And we learned that the residents financed 110% of the $16 million+ price tag. That purchase had the effect of requiring each resident (each unit, actually) to pay $1247 monthly to the collective association so it can pay off its 30 year mortgage and related expenses of management. Even with that hefty price tag, though, I believe the cost of purchasing housing there is considerably less than almost anywhere else on the coast. But we are not ready to jump ship just yet. So we will continue to dream.

When we got back to our room at the inn (which, by the way, is situated down the road a ways from the main inn, and seems secluded when compared to other accommodations in this area), we went outside to soak in the views of the Pacific as the sun began to set. During that time, while we were engaged in an otherwise peaceful, trance-like experience, being lulled to serenity by the waves and and wind and sounds, an enormous seagull swooped down and landed on the deck just a few feet from us. We fed it pieces of pretzels and spoke to it.

During our time sitting on the deck, we marveled at another bird, a hawk (we think) that had a fish in its talons. The bird soared up from the water and above us just a short distance west of our location. It disappeared from sight, but we assume it took its prey to a spot where the bird could rip the fish apart with strong talons and sharp beak. As brutal as Nature can be, watching it unfold—even in all its fierce and callous beauty—can be absolutely spellbinding.

Our daily meals lately have followed a pattern: a small, simple breakfast (except one morning while we were in Berkeley my sister fed us smoked salmon on bagels, along with the obligatory cream cheese, purple onion slices, and capers), followed by a lunch “out” at a restaurant, and capped off with a simple “at home” meal consisting of cheese, olives, a little meat, bread, and wine. I rather like that, though I suspect it could begin to feel more like a rut than a pattern if it were not occasionally shaken up.

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When we visited mi novia‘s mother, she asked me what she should call our relationship. She is not my mother-in-law, nor am I her son-in-law, because I am not married to her daughter. I was not sure how to respond; I told her I would think on it. And I have. I came up with something by using the Thesaurus as a guide. I wanted the opposite of “law,” and I came up with “transgression.” And I wanted a description that did not involve “mother” (but not sure why); I decided on “parental woman.” So, the description could be “Semi-Parental Woman in Transgression,” or  SPWIT.  As for me, I might be the “Semi-Spousal Man in Transgression,” or SSMIT. I am not married to this terminology. My SPWIT suggested I aske readers of this blog to make suggestions, so I am doing that. What do both of you other readers think?

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I like this guy. And his fish. I wish I had the skill to create such stuff. It’s a real shame that I do not seem to have either the creativity nor the technical skills necessary to create such carvings. I would of course accept him with welcome arms, even though I did not create him. But it would be even better if I did it myself. Absent that, I could love those sculpted pieces of wood created by a friend. Do any of my friends do intricate wood sculpture? Asking for a friend. 😉

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The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.

~ Plutarch ~

Not long after we arrived in Mendocino, we picked up a couple of free newsprint flyers promoting real estate in and around the area. Most of the listings were, as expected, wildly beyond our financial abilities; house list prices of one million dollars and more were far more common than prices in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. But a few listings were much closer to what I consider “reality” than the rest. Granted, I do not know what the places are like, but the prices—alone—attracted me to them. A few older two and three bedroom homes in what is described as a “55+ community” were particularly interesting, with prices of less than $300,000. I expect we will try to locate some of them today, purely out of interest born of fantasy.

Last night as, unable to sleep, I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about what was driving my sudden and somewhat unexpected interest in exploring the remote possibility that I might be able to afford a house in this exceptionally beautiful area. Was my interest tied exclusively to the beauty of the Pacific coastal intersection of mountains and a vast ocean? The amazing vistas certainly draw my interest; they are unlike anywhere else. But is it just the landscape and seascape that is so captivating? Or it is something else? Or, perhaps, a combination of factors? I think the latter must be it. Yet, as I think about what I so enjoyed last night—sitting on the wood deck high above the water’s edge, gazing out at the rocky island just off the shore, watching the seagulls, and listening to the constant sound of the waves crashing into the rocky cliffs below us—it occurs to me that the biggest draw is the climate. Cool, breezy, and comfortable. No need for air conditioning, except possibly on very rare occasion (but not sufficiently frequent to warrant having an air conditioner). Rare need for heat, as far as I know.

It seems absolutely ideal. Except for the signs I see everywhere we go: “severe drought…conserve water.” The severe drought brings with it the susceptibility to awful forest fires and grass fires. As we drove up the coast yesterday, we saw evidence of fresh fires, still smoldering as firefighters tended to hot spots and worked to keep the flames from erupting again.

Okay, so there’s the cost of housing and the danger of fires. It still is captivating. What else might deter me from wanting to live here? Earthquakes are not just possible here, but probable. With the right construction, though, in the right place, I think I could live with that threat. Earthquakes’ cousins, tsunamis, also threaten the entire coastline; again, with the right location, I could live with that threat. Unless, of course, access to the “outside world” and its provision of food, fuel, clothing, etc. But that possibility exists wherever one might live. The costs of fuel and groceries here, though, are stunningly high. The one gas station in Mendocino recently was reported to have the highest gas price in the country; more than $10 per gallon. We paid as much as $7.39 (maybe more?) on the trip out, surpassing $100 to fill the tank. If nothing else, gas prices would prompt me to limit leisure driving.

Our friends, who are very important to us, do not live here. They might come visit, but there is no guaranteed. We might visit them, but the frequency would be unsatisfactory. Yet we all have moved away from places where we had human connections and we have developed other connections. I suspect we might develop them here, if we ever found a way to relocate to this place. I would be much closer to my sister, who hosted us for a couple of nights as we made out way to the California coast; that’s a plus.

I keep coming back to the almost magical allure of this area, though. The climate. The weather. The absence of chiggers! As we sat outside on the deck last night, we were not bothered by bugs of any kind. The only “threats” were seagulls flying rather close to us and a family of quail surprising us as it suddenly fluttered across the deck from beneath the hot tub.

Mendocino is a tourist draw; I suspect more than 90 percent of the people we saw in town yesterday afternoon were tourists. The only place we saw people we felt confident were “locals” were in a dive bar (Dick’s Place), where we stopped for a drink yesterday afternoon as we waited for our room at Little River Inn to be available. A sign in the bar read “So many Dicks, so few Richards.” The people there, mostly 40ish to 60ish, definitely were locals. We were undoubtedly the only tourists; it would not be considered the most inviting place to most people (except people we are happy to call friends).

So, what is the most overwhelming obstacle to moving to a place like Mendocino, a place where the climate is close to perfect? It’s the same obstacle that has kept me from following most other dreams I have abandoned during the course of my life: money, or the lack thereof. Though I am more fortunate than perhaps most people on the planet, I am like most people in that I have access to only a fraction of the money necessary to enjoy what is truly “the good life.” Life in a place that is comfortable, beautiful, and easy on the nerves. Wealth is too often wasted on the rich. Unlike the rich, who often take wealth for granted, I would not only enjoy it to the fullest, I would share it in an effort to spread the joy. I am grateful, though, for what I have. I would be downright ecstatic, though, if I had access to what the wealthy tend to consider their birthright.

We’ll see what we find when we go out and about in search of affordable places among this incredibly beautiful, scenery—free of evil insects.

When I woke early this morning, I felt an odd sensation, as if my body was vibrating. Focusing my attention more intently on the sensation, I decided it might not be a vibration but, instead, an exceptionally rapid and greatly amplified heartbeat. Considering that possibility, I became a little alarmed; I decided to lay very still, in case any movement could trigger something even more troublesome. Finally, I concluded I must have been dreaming; I got up and dressed, but was not completely certain the sensation was related to a dream. Even now, though I no longer feel it, memory of that sensation causes me some concern. But at the same time I feel more than a little silly for giving the experience any credence. The more I think about it, the more I think it must have something to do with a dream. I have a vague recollection of dreaming that I accidentally knocked a puppy off a card table, causing it to fall on a smaller puppy on the floor below. That could have caused my heart to flutter.

We changed climates yesterday, exchanging an obscenely hot, dry environment for the coolness of the California coast. I felt almost too cool—but not quite—upon our arrival in Berkeley. When, after we drove a few blocks, we entered an Indian restaurant, I knew we had arrived at the intersection of joy and nirvana. My very spicy lamb dish offered proof that truth and beauty do, indeed, reside in northern California.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in conversation with my sister. During a pause in the dialogue, my sister prepared an evening meal of cheese, crackers, veggies, meats, and assorted other goodies; precisely the kind of meal we needed.

The drive from Lodi/Stockton to the Bay area reminded me how much I have grown to appreciate low population density environs. No matter how appealing the amenities of city life, those benefits pale in comparison to the peace and soft tranquility of life in a semi-rural setting. While I enjoy the benefits of urban life, I am willing to trade the peace of the “country” only temporarily.

Today, I want to relax some more. Just soak in the cool temps. Ahhhh.

Apparently, I have more than adjusted to being in the Pacific Daylight Time Zone. Though I woke at 5, I drifted back to sleep quickly, finally forcing myself out of bed just after 7…almost 9 back home. On one hand, this late rising feels decadent and wasteful of daylight. On the other, I do not remember the last time I felt so thoroughly rested when I got up for the day. Mi novia is glad I slept so late; I’m still not quite certain I appreciate wasting so much daylight to laziness. But I will shift blame for the aberration from myself to my activities of late; as much as I have enjoyed meeting and spending time with mi novia’s family, the engagements have required me to expend energy I otherwise would have stored. An excuse, perhaps, but MY excuse.

Last night, even though I was not especially hungry, I was convinced I wanted food, especially after seeing a menu from a nearby restaurant that included goat curry and lamb vindaloo. We went in search of the place, only to find it no longer exists, at least not in the location I found online. Of course I took an online menu as evidence of its existence; I did not bother to check. Despite that setback, we found another place that looked quite interesting, the Dancing Fox, a winery and restaurant. We shared part of a bottle of Old Vine Zinfandel; I ordered fish and chips, mi novia ordered a chicken pie. Both were excellent. And we spoke briefly to the owner of the place, who before his “retirement” had been a clinical psychologist. Fascinating story. He and his wife now live in the middle of some of his acres of vineyards and he loves what he is doing. He is doing, by the way, what I long ago dreamed of doing. I gave up on the dream, though, when it became apparent I would never have enough financial resources to buy enough land and equipment to start a winery; not to mention the money I would need to hire someone to teach me how to produce large quantities of good wine. Oh, well. Life is full of opportunities that pass us by. We simply have to accept that they are beyond our reach and take hold of those within our grasp.

Yesterday afternoon, after visiting with mi novia’s mother, brother, her brother’s wife and son, and various neighbors and friends, we went for a drive around the “old neighborhood” of Stockton and stopped for a drink and hors d’oeuvres at a place on the water. We then went back to mi novia‘s mother’s place, where we all napped. After our good-byes, as we drove by the dozens of vineyards we passed each day of our visit, I felt a little melancholy about leaving this agricultural sweet-spot behind. I love to see seemingly endless rows of grape vines, each one meticulously attached to stakes and wires that train the vines to grow in ways that maximize both their productivity and their visual appeal. I want my own little vineyard. As I’ve already said, I’ve long dreamed of having a vineyard, making wine, and living in the middle of what I jokingly call a “grape orchard,” full of “grape trees.” Ach. But not here. Not in the Stockton area, a place lately so hot that neither man nor beast could thrive. Maybe Napa. Or Sonoma. Or the Pacific coast of Chile. What the hell; I’m dreaming, after all.

This morning, I’ve been watching and  listening to our church service, courtesy of Zoom. But we have to leave, so I shut off Zoom and we had breakfast before hitting the road. I decided to finish up this post after the meal so I would not feel compelled to complete it immediately on arrival in Berkeley. And so, here we go.

Yesterday began with a superb outing at The Farm Cafe at Michael David Winery, only about seven miles from our motel. We were treated to an excellent brunch by mi novia‘s life-long friend, Debbie, and Debbie’s husband, John. Though I had never met either of them, John and Debbie were very much as I expected, thanks to having heard mi novia talk about them quite frequently during the last year. From the moment we sat down with them, I felt completely at ease. They seemed to me the sort of people with whom I could readily develop a strong friendship based purely on their personalities, even if I knew nothing of their histories, their politics, their religious beliefs, and such. That, in my experience is a rarity.

After brunch, we drove to see Gladys again. Gladys shared more of her writing, which was—as expected—interesting, clear, and easy to read. I again urged her to write regularly and to create a blog of her writing. The stuff she showed me would make excellent content for a “story” blog; materials she already has written would make a solid foundation to which she could add as she continued to write. We’ll see if she follows my advice.

I napped for a bit while mi novia and her mother chatted and while mi novia washed and dried some laundry in preparation for the next leg of our travels. Then, after I woke and we engaged in some more chit-chat, we went for an early pizza dinner at Dante’s. Even though I had only a salad and a couple of pieces of pizza, it was far too much, especially when coupled with an Anchor Steam beer. We left with at least half the pizza, a container of salad, and some dressing. That can serve as breakfast for Gladys today. After dropping her off, we headed back to the motel, where we chilled for the remainder of the evening.

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Rational thoughts never drive people’s creativity the way emotions do.

~ Neil deGrasse Tyson ~

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Today, we will pick up Gladys and head over to see mi novia‘s brother and his wife and son. I expect we will make it a relatively short visit, in that we need to try to get some more sleep and prepare for the next leg of our journey with an early Sunday departure. I woke again last night, at around 1:30, with a headache. Taking an allergy pill seems to have alleviated it—at least made it tolerable—by now.

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The wise man continues to live even if he should lose his wealth. But the rich man without wisdom is not alive even now.

~ Theragāthā, 499 ~

The drive from Bakersfield to Stockton was generally uneventful. Both sides of California Highway 99 were lush with orchards and crops and vineyards, even in the blistering June heat. Though the traffic was heavier than I would have liked, it was lighter than we would have encountered had we taken I-5, the other, somewhat faster, route. When we got to Stockton, we took a short tour of the downtown area as we made our way to Trader Joe’s; mi novia showed me where she used to work and she pointed out places she frequented during the fifty years she lived in the city. At Trader Joe’s, we braved the heat of the parking lot and bought an orchid as a gift for her mother, then drove the few miles to visit her.

When we arrived at the place, the heat was almost unbearable. Mi novia rolled down the window on the driver’s side of the car as we arrived to check in at the gate; I felt the heat flood the car as the gate guard delivered a four-minute diatribe about being sure to stop at stop signs on the grounds of the compound or risk certain tickets. Once inside the gate, we located the office and went through an automated check-in process that ultimately produced stick-on names badges for each of us. From there, we found a parking spot near mi novia’s mother’s building.

101°F under an unrelentingly bright sun is monstrously hot, no matter how low the relative humidity. Walking from the car to the building where mi novia‘s mother’s apartment is located seemed a dangerous endeavor. It was as if the air above us had been warped by the heat into the shape of a magnifying glass lens—the sun’s rays, tightly focused by that atmospheric lens, followed us. The way a demonic child, intent on incinerating them, follows ants with superheated sun rays from a magnifying glass. I felt like I could have spontaneously burst into flames at any moment as I trekked from the parking lot to the building’s entry door. But I did not, of course. Inside the door, the cool air quickly revived me. After hugs and a brief introductory conversation, we decided to go off for lunch at Bud’s Seafood restaurant. There, we had a superb meal consisting of delicacies as calamari, cod, shrimp, and such. And, of course, wine. Though the meal was good, it was the conversation that was most gratifying. I learned a great deal about Gladys and she learned a great deal about me. The knowledge-sharing was helped along by wine, that remarkable social lubricant that tends to make it easier for imbibers to speak freely. During our conversations with and about one another, we also learned that our waiter, Jmard, was the only one of his family of several children who had migrated from Canada to the United States.

Mi novia and I encouraged Gladys to write about her life so her ninety years (so far) of experiences might be available to her current family and all her descendants in years to come. We left the restaurant feeling confident that can look forward to reading about her life in Schenectady and Arkansas and Stockton. Given that each of the three of us consumed two glass of wine each, we may have to remind one another of the substance of those conversations.

I am very glad to have met Gladys. And I will be delighted to read about her life experiences. I’ve seen her artwork, which offers proof of her creativity and her skill with a brush. Next, I will read of her 90+ year history and how it shaped who she is today. I look forward to that!

Today, mi novia and I will meet one of her long-time friends for brunch, before we return for another visit with her mother. At the moment, I am thinking our visits may be relatively short because I may need some more sleep. I woke in the middle of the night with severe foot cramps which interfered with my otherwise good sleep (until then). Then, around 4:00 a.m., I woke again with a splitting headache; one of those so painful it will be remembered as “that damn headache” years hence. Motrin and allergy medicine have alleviated much of the pain by now, but the lost sleep they caused remains an annoyance.

As I write this, the temperature outside here in Lodi, California is reportedly 70°F. It will not remain so comfortable for long, I am afraid. The weather forecast calls for temperatures to reach 99°F by noon and 104°F by 3 p.m. These temperatures make me long for what will be much more comfortable temperatures along the coast in the days ahead. Actually, the temperatures on the coast will be downright chilly: highs in the upper sixties and lows much cooler. Time will tell as to the legitimacy of those forecasts. For now, it’s back to preparing for the inferno we will experience later today.

Wednesday morning’s departure from the hotel in Gallup, NM stalled when I went down to get the car, only to be unable to locate it. I circled the hotel parking lot; I could not find it. It was not there. Mi novia came outside as I was finishing my circumnavigation of the parking lot; I told her the car had been stolen. My imagination went into overdrive as I contemplated how we would deal with this truly grave situation. I asked mi novia to verify that, indeed, the car was gone. I gave her the keys and asked her to look for it, in case I had somehow missed it—which was, of course, extremely improbable. Three or four spaces from where I stood, she saw it. Apparently, while my head was turned, the thief had returned the vehicle to a parking space clearly visible from where we stood. She promised I would never live down my failure to find the “stolen” car.

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After leaving Gallup, NM, we drove roughly three hours to Flagstaff, AZ, where we stopped for a late breakfast/early lunch at MartAnne’s Burrito Palace. Green chiles, pork, chilaquiles…between us, we had some extraordinary meals! I heartily recommend the place. And I think I might be able to live comfortably in Flagstaff, provided someone massively infused my bank accounts with huge sums of money. I am willing to provide anyone who might consider doing that plenty of reasons for making me a very rich man.

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Yesterday’s plan—to make it to Tulare, California for the night—was derailed when, after stopping at a rest stop, my previously stolen car threatened to do bad things. Less than half an hour earlier, we had stopped for gas, putting just over $100 worth of $7+ per gallon gas in the car. Just as we left the rest stop, the car went into something of a psychotic frenzy. The dash lights and notifications went berserk: the check engine light came on, the “low fuel” warning lit up, a message popped up asking if I needed help finding a gas station, a message saying the “Eyesight” system was shut off, and various other lights and alarms displayed. Around 4:40 pm, we also were able to reach a Subaru dealership in Bakersfield; we were told they could try to look at the car if we were able to get there before 6:00 p.m. We got there about ten minutes before 6; the very nice young service advisors managed to have a technician look at the car. He said it appeared the gas cap had not been sealed properly after we bought gas, triggering a vacuum leak that led to the warning lights. He reset the vacuum and advised us to fill the car with gas and keep close watch on the fuel gage; if it worked properly (dropping as we used fuel), all would be fine with no further issues.  If not, the issue might have something to do with the gas gage and we should plan to leave it with a Subaru dealer in northern California for 2-3 days while visiting up there. During this chaos, we had determined it would have been crazy to try to make it to Tulare for the night. Thanks to working cell phones, we were able to cancel the motel in Tulare and make a reservation in Bakersfield (90 minutes north of where the car went insane and the location of the Subaru dealership). After we dealt with the nice Subaru service advisors, we left the dealership (without paying anything for the assistance, by the way), and went to the unplanned motel for the night. By the way, it was mi novia who filled the tank before this episode. Just to mention…

Oh, I didn’t mention my need to pee during the 90 minute trip to the Subaru dealership. As we neared Bakersfield, the need became urgent. I pulled off the highway onto a large gravel “viewing area” and tried to position the car to block me from view of motorists “whizzing:” by, and let loose. I was prepared to be arrested for indecent exposure, if it came to that. Fortunately, I was not.

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I hope today is soft, smooth, and pleasant. For all of us.