John Swinburn

Roughly eleven hours and 665 miles after leaving the motel in Yukon, Oklahoma, I sat at the desk in another hotel; this one in Gallup, New Mexico. Yesterday’s drive included a stop for lunch at the Big Texan Steak Ranch (I did not attempt the 72 ounce steak and all the trimmings challenge in an hour) and driving through an incredibly ferocious downpour between Albuquerque and Gallup. And, of course, some spectacular scenery, especially west of Albuquerque. Putting 665 miles and eleven hours behind me yesterday left me incredibly tired. That was after an entirely unsatisfactory night of trying to sleep.

Last night…well, let’s see how I want to describe it…I got to sleep relatively quickly after I went to be; probably within fifteen minutes. But I woke several times before 2:15, after which I could not get back to sleep. Aching left knee, right shoulder, and loud wheezing when I breathed all worked together to keep me fully awake. No matter how I tried to relax, chill, think about other things…nothing worked. I finally got up rather late, well after 6, and showered. The shower (a tub, actually, fitted with a shower spray) was incredibly slippery, causing me to nearly fall several times. The water did not help; it kept me slippery and feeling like the soap would just not wash off. I detest such combinations of slippery surfaces and water unsuitable for bathing. Oh, well. I’m clean now.

In a while, the road will beckon. Tulare, CA is scheduled to be home for tonight. Google Maps claims it is about 11 hours and 728 miles from here (not counting stops for meals…so 12 hours or so). Next road trip will be one designed for 3-5 hours of driving a day, with stops every so often to take in local flavor. This one is proving brutal to my old, tired bones.

And now, it’s onward to the call of the highway.

The business part of the day yesterday started relatively early, an 8:15 appointment for a CT scan. This was a two-part scan; the head and the chest. The head scan was an annual precautionary check-up, intended to verify that there were no indications of cancer popping up in the brain. The chest scan was a quarterly routine. It, too, was meant more to verify the absence of a return of cancer than to seek it out. Both results were as I  hoped and expected; no evidence of any cancer.

Despite starting early, the day did not speed by. Because the medical processes dragged on for a bit, we did not hit the road until about noon. We drove to Russellville, where we stopped for lunch at Feltner’s Whatta-Burger. I had heard positive things about the place; it did not disappoint. From Russellville, we headed west. We drove, stopping only briefly to pee, until we reached Yukon, Oklahoma, a suburb on the western edge of Oklahoma City, around 6 pm. After checking in to the Hampton Inn and unloading the car, we ate dinner at Primo’s Italian Restaurant, located in an outdoor shopping mall across the street. We had too much to eat; calamari and bread to start, followed by chicken piccata for her and shrimp diablo for me. Very tasty food, but far too much. And messy. I spilled a rather considerable amount of red sauce on my button-down shirt; daylight will tell whether the stains came out—I am not optimistic.

The open road is a beckoning, a strangeness, a place where a man can lose himself.

~ William Least Heat Moon ~

Today, we may try to have a meal in Albuquerque, which is about 8 hours west of us, but our destination for the day is Gallup, New Mexico, which is another two hours beyond. We’ll see. It depends, I think, on how we hold up. Neither of us slept well last night. I doubt I slept more than three hours, even including those odd combinations of sleep and wakefulness that incorporated recurring dreams that simply would not give in to either consciousness or unconsciousness. Ach!

It is almost 7, literally hours later than I normally would have finished writing. A slow start is not terrible, but I had hoped for a very early start so we might finish the day’s driving a little earlier. Oh, well. Such is life on the road.

I long for the “Blue Highways.”

I learned I could only begin to know myself by reading what I had written. Only by absorbing the words I had chosen—to paint my thoughts in language—could I understand how my wisdom about myself changed from week to week or month to month or year to year. This knowledge, which began to come to me late, as I neared my sixty-fifth birthday, was both freeing—as if I had cast off shackles that bound me to ideas unworthy of worship—and dangerous—forcing me to wade on tiptoes over a high ridge across valleys filled with wolves on one side and sharks on the other. Ultimately, attempting to understand myself—to the extent that one can know who one is—has generated more gratitude and more regret than a person deserves. And it has raised more questions about who I am. A question it answered is this: Will I ever know who I really am? The simple answer? No. Another question, one I’ve often posed to myself in the deepest hours of the darkest nights: Will I ever give up the quest? The answer? No matter how much I might want to surrender, that answer, too, is I will not…unless the quest becomes more than a man of my constitution can bear. Only when I come to understand how strong, or how fragile, I am, will I learn how to find the answer that always has been buried beneath the layers of illusions inside me.

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The journey begins today. Whether I write about it will depend on what I find as I allow my mind to wander. Time will tell.

Except for the immorality of it (including the economic and emotional damage it leaves behind), I might rather enjoy a life of crime. The challenges of the occupation might well provide the kind of adrenalin-induced “high” that few careers offer. Stealing expensive cars, breaking into art museums, invading the homes of the rich and famous, and lucrative white-collar crime in which the assets of massively-overpaid corporate CEOs are siphoned off into offshore accounts…I might be enticed into such activities except for my allergy to forced confinement and my compassion even for people who may deserve to have their wealth lightened by a significant percentage. I once dummied magazine covers for a few magazines for criminals: Home Invasion Today, Auto Theft Today, and (I think) Identity Theft Today.  The idea included creation of a holding company, Criminality Today Holdings, that would serve as publisher and recipient for the subpoenas that certainly would follow.

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The only thing we never get enough of is love; and the only thing we never give enough of is love.

~ Henry Miller ~

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The waters off Somalia are not the only territories patrolled by modern-day pirates. Last November, a Danish patrol killed four pirates in the Gulf of Guinea, off the coast of Nigeria. The 3540-mile stretch of water between Angola and Senegal is a dangerous zone where piracy is common; 195 pirate attacks took place in those waters in 2020. In another part of the world, armed Bangladeshi gangs roaming the waters around the Bay of Bengal have a history of kidnapping Indian fishermen and holding them for ransom. Those pirates prowl the mangrove swamps on and near the coast, as well as the open waters, taking captives and using them as leverage to get money. The fishermen have little choice but to put themselves at risk for kidnapping. They can either fish the waters along the coast, go out to sea, or take their chances seeking food in the coastal swamps and forests. An Indian fisherman named Mandal said, “We have a hand-to-mouth existence here. If we don’t go to the sea, the hunger pangs will kill us before the tigers, crocodiles or pirates get us.” In May of this year, a French-owned racing yacht, the Lakota, was attacked by pirates in the Red Sea between Yemen and Eritrea; news reports suggest Iran-backed Houthi militia were responsible for the failed attack, which included rocket-propelled grenades (repelled by the yacht’s crew). Closer to home, pirates attacked a Bay of Campeche Pemex oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico. In that case, the pirates stole equipment and supplies in a raid that lasted about three hours. Other cases of piracy in the Bay of Campeche have robbed fishermen and tour operators in the town of Isla Aguada of roughly 500 motors (and many boats) during the last several years. According to an article in the New York Times, the surge in piracy off the coast of Mexico (especially in the Bay of Campeche) began in 2017. The tactics used by the pirates in Mexico seem, from descriptions reported in various news media, to mimic those used by Somali pirates. That could be a simple coincidence, or it might be evidence of a widening global conspiracy involving international criminal gangs. Given that the pirates in the Bay of Campeche seems to target ships operating under the flags of many countries and that those ships often carry highly valuable cargo that the pirates steal, there may be something to that possibility.

It is hard to say with any degree of certainty whether piracy really is on the upswing or whether the apparent surge is the result of more frequent reporting. And whether poor “policing” or growing poverty and desperation or some combination thereof is to blame. Regardless of the causes, the apparently increasing dangers to mariners and fishers and others who spend time on open waters is a concern. And it should be a concern not only to people whose business is on the water, but people who are on the water for recreation and tourism. Interesting to me is that most of the information I found about recent episodes of piracy came from foreign English language media: Mexico News Daily, Aljazeera, Arab News. And, of course, the New York Times.  Perhaps piracy on the open seas does not have a direct, immediate impact on most of us. But such criminal acts can be adapted and adjusted (Somalia to Mexico, perhaps?), so I think it behooves us to be aware of and to take action to prevent such attacks. I would hope our military and police agencies have sufficient information about international news to enable them to prepare when the time comes.

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We have been watching The Sopranos. Though I truly enjoy the series, the fact that I have to pay to watch it is more than a little annoying. I’m already paying for Amazon Prime; yet in order to watch it on Amazon Prime, I have to pay twenty-something-dollars per season. I snarl and growl and snap and curse every time I notice that payment is required to watch the program. It’s not like I cannot watch plenty of truly interesting, entertaining stuff without paying more; there’s plenty on Netflix and Amazon and Roku TV and dozens of others that either are free or are included in what I already pay. But I chose to watch The Sopranos. I should have waited until it is made available free. But that might be twenty years. So, I am paying for time. Bastard marketing geniuses know when they have you by the balls and they know when they can squeeze.

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Unlike most blog posts I write, this one began unfolding during the middle of a blazingly hot, humid, terribly uncomfortable Friday afternoon. I attempted to feel cool and comfortable, though—I finally set up a compact disk (CD) player in my office so I could listen to some of my long-ignored CDs. The piece I listened to while writing these words was Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. I’ve loved that music from the very first time I heard it, many, many years ago. Before listening to that, as I mused about what and when I wanted to write, I listened to selections from The Memory of Trees, by Enya. And before that, music of Dire Straits. Earlier, I listened to more Gordon Lightfoot. Speaking of Dire Straits, one of my favorite tunes is Sultans of Swing. Regardless of the music, though, it’s not right unless one’s mood fits it. At any rate, I’m cobbling this post together, using a few moments here and a few moments there as fabric; my imagination and my fingers constitute the sewing machine. And I have returned here, after 8 on Saturday morning, to continue my odyssey.

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Okay. It’s Saturday morning (much later than usual, I might add). And I feel compelled to think and argue with myself and to express ideas that have, heretofore, been hidden in the recesses of my brain.

Renting should cost more than buying. That’s my economic assertion for today. The reason: renters generally do not have to worry with mortgage payments, property insurance, repair of major systems like water heaters or air conditioners or foundations, etc. Buried within rental payments are what amounts to management fees that enable renters to avoid the direct costs of ownership. Renters pay for convenience and for absolving themselves of responsibilities. And, of course, they pay to avoid making a large down payment on a property they may not be able to afford.

On the other hand, of course, landlords can be a greedy lot. Not all of them, of course. But some of them. Some of them yield to the allure of income sources over which they have almost absolute control; just set a price and demand it be met. The only real recourse available to renters when met with unreasonable increases in rent is relocation. Given that very real possibility, renters are less likely to accumulate unnecessary material goods; they want the pain of moving to be as painless as possibly, so they travel light…lighter than their property-owning counterparts.

Ah, but we allow ourselves to be duped into the belief that economies of scale allow apartment owners to charge less for a rental unit than what it costs to buy a home. We have accepted the concept. Economies of scale? More likely, the write-offs available to landlords minimize tax burdens and make the idea of charging less the cost for rent an attractive proposition. But, then, I’m not a landlord; I’m  just a cynical old man who has been exposed to greed painted to resemble charity or philanthropy.

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Our former next-door-neighbors hosted a dinner last night at at Blue Springs Grill in celebration of their fiftieth anniversary.  We were honored to have been among the twelve people they invited to share their celebration. The dinner was superb; we were among others who share our political leanings and, in general, our social philosophies, so it was a very pleasant, stress-free evening. One of the invitees had arranged for the entire group to go see a musical immediately after dinner, but we opted out of that because we’re busy preparing for our lengthy (4500-5000-mile round-trip) road trip.

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What if? What if the heat wave we’re experiencing is not a “natural” phenomenon, nor a consequence of global climate change? What if, instead, it is the result of a deliberate effort by a cabal of unfriendly foreign governments to bring us to our knees? Conspiratmo—the name given by this group of foreign powers to its group of elite weather control scientists—has successfully manipulated atmospheric conditions to the point that Conspiratmo scientists can actually program weather patterns and launch them at will. This most recent weather catastrophe is the brainchild of Bellicose Nostradamus, a French-born agent for the People’s Republic of Somalia (PRS), one of the participating nations.  Nostradamus, who earned his Ph.D. in Atmospheric Understanding from the University of Nairobi, was recruited as executive in charge of developing and operating the Somalian Weather Control Agency (SWCA). SWCA quickly earned a reputation for taking bold, unprecedented actions intended to empty the sky of rain. Later, as Nostradamus was perfecting his team’s capabilities, the agency was credited with the management and movement of heat domes. Naturally, when other countries were able to verify and validate weather-based military attacks, all hell broke loose. The larger, more powerful nations (USA, Russia, China, France) had laughed at the feeble efforts of SWCA until its work brought about floods, heat waves, and fierce windstorms to local environments.  But by then, it was too late. Conspiratmo had already initiated the formation of monstrous heat domes and impossibly strong hurricanes. The objective: up-end world power relationships and force the big, powerful, deeply arrogant nations to beg for survival.

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Enough of this. I have things to be and people to see.

I spent a short while this morning admiring hats worn by women during Royal Ascot Ladies’ Day at the Ascot Racecourse in Ascot, Berkshire, England. The hats, elaborately designed, deployed, and decked-out millinery, range from beautiful to grotesque, with a fair sprinkling throughout the spectrum ranging from good to evil. I happened upon photographs of hats as I was skimming the BBC.com website. Though all the hats I saw in pictures were women’s hats, I have grown appreciative of men’s hats. Lately, I am particularly intrigued by Panama hats with wide, black hatbands. I might look slightly goofy wearing one, but I have decided everyone looks a little goofy when the light is right, so what the heck. I may have one someday. Or not. I have a few hats and caps, but I rarely wear them. Probably because I think I look goofy in them. Catch-22 thinking.

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A couple of days ago, when my sister-in-law came over to wait out the workers at her house, she turned on the television. The television was confused, as it had never before been turned on during the day, but it adjusted. My SIL began watching a channel dedicated to old Johnny Carson Tonight Show episodes. I stopped in and watched for a few minutes. Carson’s guest was Eddie Murphy; both of the men looked much, much younger than I imagine them today. Murphy’s stand-up routine was excellent; hilariously funny, a mix of silly stuff and provocative material. My first experience with “daytime” television in many years (I know, there is no more “daytime” or “nighttime” television; it’s all “all-the-time television.”).

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My office/study is fully usable, though some of the cabinets are full of disorganized masses of paper. I still have things to do, but for the time being it is completely serviceable. What a relief. I have a desk that has a bit of space on top. I can move around without a high probability of tripping over boxes. I do look forward to getting the garage sufficiently empty so that both our cars can fit; I do not admire the look outside my window when it is marred by big, hulking automobiles.

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Two hours from now, I’ll drive to my primary care doctor’s office for a consultation. Suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, my feet, ankles, and hands (but especially my feet) began to swell. Aside from looking rather unsightly, swelling can be a symptom of conditions ranging from dismissably minor to frighteningly major. I am counting on the former, with an added bonus; not only do I want it to be of negligible importance, I want it to be easily and instantly resolvable.

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My thoughts this morning are scattered. I will gather them. Perhaps later I will write about what’s on my mind, beyond the obviously frivolous.

Yesterday was a productive, rewarding day. First off, mi novia went for some physical therapy. Then, a handyman began the process of installing shelves cabinets in my office, after first removing the trappings of gun racks from those cabinets. He got other things done, as well, including replacing some inadequately functioning light fixtures. And I had blood drawn at my oncologist’s Village office (note to self: the technician in my primary care physician’s office draws blood faster and far less painfully that my oncologist’s staff). And my sister-in-law brought her cat over while workers dealt with issues at her house.

Then, late yesterday afternoon, three of us (mi novia, my sister-in-law and I) had a superb dinner at 501 Prime. Each of us had various cuts of prime beef, prepared exactly as ordered (and, in the case of my dining partners’ meals, accompanied by very high-end specialty culinary pairings). We started the meal with a couple of dozen freshly-shucked Gulf oysters and half-a-dozen grilled oysters. And, we had Old Manhattans and Old Fashioneds. The dinner combined my 2021 birthday celebration, somewhat delayed, with an expression of deep appreciation to my sister-in-law for her almost superhuman help in our move from one house to another. I could wax poetic for hours about last night’s dinner, but will not; I will say that, whenever possible, I will return to 501 Prime on Wednesday afternoons to partake of its “buck a shuck” deal on raw oysters. Just $1 each for exceptionally good oysters. I think they are “farm raised,” but did not think to ask. Oh. What a meal. When we got home, the only thing I could consume was water. As it happens, the water spent every two hours during the night urging me to allow it to escape.

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Last night’s magnificent meal prompted all three of us to spontaneously utter comments about our extremely good fortune to live when, where, and how we do. Many of the things we take for granted are unattainable luxuries to the rest of the world and, in fact, many people in this country, this state, and this region of the state. My sense of gratitude for my good fortune competes mightily with my sense of guilt for either failing to share enough of the largesse bestowed upon me or enjoying that largesse even in the knowledge that my enjoyment could be at another’s expense.

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‘Thank you’ is the best prayer that anyone could say…Thank you expresses extreme gratitude, humility, understanding.

~ Alice Walker ~

Given enough deep and committed thought, every place and every person divulges stories; so powerful their importance can never be over-stated. What may be obscure to one person—or meaningless—may be evident to another—and of enormous consequence. A close assessment of every facet of life, examined under the scrutiny of genuine interest, reveals complexity that rivals that of the human brain or the most sophisticated super-computer. My experience in life thus far has taught me that, among other things. Unraveling what we learn, though, is just as impossible an undertaking as explaining photosynthesis using only one-syllable words from a dead language about which one knows nothing.

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Sometimes, I feel like I am having an epiphany, as if a vitally important, life-affirming secret has suddenly been revealed to me. So it felt this morning as I was thinking about my gratitude for my astonishingly good fortune. I felt (and feel) such enormous gratitude that I wanted to express it to someone, as if I wanted to thank that someone for all the good fortune that has befallen me all my life, in spite of the challenges. That’s when it hit me: perhaps religion emerges when people who are grateful for their lives feel compelled to offer thanks…to someone or something. Because there is no one “there” to identify as the grantor of that bounty or good luck or whatever, perhaps we humans create an imaginary being to serve as the recipient of our grateful appreciation. The ones who get it right, in my humble opinion, are those who recognize that good fortune is created by a combination of one’s own efforts, the efforts and support of other people, and happenstance: being in the right place at the right time with the right history and the right resources. Expressions of gratitude, then, rightfully should be directed to the people and the circumstances and the planet on which those circumstances take place. Expressions of that gratitude are a form of prayer, though prayer is not necessarily directed toward a god or a person but, instead, toward what I’ll call “all responsible entities, situations, or circumstances.” The etymology of “prayer” suggests the word emerged from begging, asking, or entreating. In my evolving definition, its meaning is more closely aligned with acknowledging in grateful appreciation.

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I spent eight hours, roughly, in bed last night, after going to bed very, very early. Though I awoke a few times (and had a bit of a tough time getting to sleep at first), I suspect I was actually asleep for well over six of those eight hours; a marked improvement. I have a reader to thank for that. You know who you are: I tried your idea and it may be working! Though I was up at 4:30, I was in bed much longer than “usual.” Thank you.

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I write these posts every morning, for an audience numbering in the teens, in an apparently relentless pursuit of obscurity.

~ John Swinburn ~

Certain moments demand radical departure from normalcy. They may require paying attention to the ignored. Or dismissing the continuously connected. Clarity, perhaps, where once there was only a blur. Or inexactness where precision prevailed. Brief instances of understanding cry out for tangled hours and days of confusion. We think we know what we want or need; we only know what routes we expect, when the unexpected may chart the only viable road to what we sometimes call salvation.

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When I was young, my mother bought iron-on patches to fill the holes I wore in my jeans. Those tough, adhesive-impregnated pieces of denim-like cloth probably extended the useful life of my jeans by a season or a year; I don’t remember just how long my jeans lasted after those fabric-based pieces of life-support were applied to them. Memories of those patches popped up this morning as I thought about the patches I’ve worn on and in my body over the years. I have scars on my chest and my belly and my back from surgeries that saved my life and permitted me to change my bad habits, thereby extending my life by years. I was permitted to change my bad habits; I did not always do it. I stopped smoking after bypass surgery, but I did not otherwise significantly alter my lifestyle. I did not (and do not) get sufficient exercise, nor is my diet suited to keeping my cholesterol nor my weight in check. After the surgery to remove cancer and a lobe from one of my lungs, I made a half-hearted attempt to “get healthy,” but it did not last. My intake of food and booze could be taken as evidence I am trying to die fat, with an abused liver. It’s always possible to change, but like the patches on my childhood jeans, there comes a point at which the patches no longer work; the denim is worn thin in too many places and the rips and tears in the fabric are too numerous to mend. And, besides, jeans go out of style, even for kids; they want to look stylish in chino or linen or corduroy or…whatever. We never know for certain when the patches no longer will hold. As we notice the fabric begin to fray and the patches deteriorate beyond repair, we wish we had taken better care of our clothes.

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The superstructure of our society—the skeleton that provides support for the muscles and skin and organs that keep society functioning—is delicate. If any one of a number of “soft spots” were to be badly damaged, society could be injured badly enough that it would be barely able to limp along during its recovery. But if several pieces of cartilage and a number of tendons were torn or inflamed at the same time, society’s skeleton could not remain upright; it could stumble and fall. Its tumble could injure even more critical components, making its recovery questionable at best. It might be unable to regain sufficient strength to stand again. The soft spots today include the economy, the electrical grid, communications—including satellite communications, transportation systems (especially for food), and fresh water supplies and delivery systems.  Severe damage to any one of those systems could cause extreme hardships. Massive damage to several of them would be akin to breaking a hip, a shoulder, some ribs, and a couple of vertebrae. A single major disruption could cause enormous hardships, but we might be able to limp along in a “semi-normal” state until we were on the road to recovery. Multiple disruptions could be far worse; survivable only by those amply prepared for such extraordinary challenges. Preppers, in other words. People who anticipate disruptions to the electrical grid or food supply or water distribution systems or communications infrastructure…or all of them. People who stockpile enough fuel and food and water to last long enough to enable them to jumpstart their own sustainable food supplies (e.g., gardens, livestock) and find (and protect) sources of potable water. People who prepared by getting generators and solar electrical systems and batteries. As a large part of the country suffers with a monstrous—probably deadly—heat wave this week and next, many people are facing the distinct possibility of unreliable water supplies and unreliable electrical grids that could shut off live-sustaining air conditioners. Many of us may think of preppers as paranoid; the more I think about the fragility of the bones that support society’s flesh and blood, I begin to think of them as perhaps paranoid, but also as survivors. A friend encouraged me to think about “getting ready” for major social dislocations, “just in case.” Without doubt, it merits thought; I think it merits action, as well.

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My thoughts and opinions often are contradictory. When I look through window panes, I wonder whether how different the view would be if those window panes were prisms, rather than flat sheets of  glass. Perspective can change everything. And, while I am in favor of seeing the world from different perspectives, I will be among the first to admit that looking at situations from different perspectives introduces delay and, often, dispute. Prisms display an almost endless array of colors; two-dimensional black and white becomes restrictive and uninformed.  This issue—the assessment of the world as if seen through a prism versus a flat sheet of glass—is a common theme in my thinking and my writing. And it came to mind as I thought about what I was writing this morning; the idea that past health-related decisions might have put us on an irrevocable path, versus the idea that anticipating and preparing for calamity may be extremely wise. A pessimistic view, versus an optimistic view of dealing with a pessimistic prediction. I wish I were smart enough to weave these competitive ideas into  a logical and understandable theory of living.

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Another hard, often sleepless night. Awake at 2:15 for a couple of hours, then asleep for an hour before I finally rose for the day. Perhaps I should try sleeping pills.

Someone else, deep in the middle of this steamy night, is pondering whether life has meaning. Beyond the trite aphorisms whose validity we seem to accept without question, another insomniac wonders whether life does, indeed, have intrinsic purpose. Does it have inherent value, or is its significance artificial? To further explore, is its importance real, or do we feel compelled to assign consequence to it simply because it is all we have—because, without core value, nothing truly matters in the larger sense?

Of course it has value, respond those who—nodding in affirmation at the motivational words printed on art paper suitable for hanging and available for purchase with payment plans that charge usurious rates—accept the general consensus without questioning its legitimacy. Do they know something we don’t? Or are our doubts and skepticism evidence of flaws in their thinking?

There is no question that human life matters to those who live it. We matter to one another, too. But beyond the intimate and personal, is there an unbreakable thread that ties us all together in some form or fashion? John Donne wrote

“…if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind…“

We tend to treat those words as having emerged from a fountainhead of wisdom. But were they written as much to justify a hope or a belief as to express a truth? We will never know, no matter how deeply we explore; no one can ever know the thoughts and emotions that prompted John Donne to write those words. But we can question words of wisdom. And we should. We should not simply accept the common consensus, even when it sooths our troubled souls. We should question everything. Even ourselves.

Many months ago, I wrote another post that, like so many others, addressed the issue of purpose.

“…I forgot my purpose. Not just my purpose in looking up the word, either. My purpose. My. Purpose. Why I am here. My reason for being. Ma raison d’être. No, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t forget. I’ve never known. None of us have. We make up stories, we create elaborate explanations for our existence…”

No matter how many times I explore the question, I do not find answers. Or I pretend to find satisfactory explanations, but I later admit they were not satisfactory at all; they were just briefly successful lies to myself.

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I have no legitimate reason to feel exhausted; nonetheless, I do. I feel like I should go back to bed and stay there the rest of the day, but I doubt I could get back to sleep, so I probably will not try. Instead, I will stay awake and will fulfill my obligations today; a meeting of church committee chairs, a call to my doctor’s office to request a visit to address the swelling of my feet and ankles, the ongoing efforts to unpack and organize and make our “nest” into the relaxing oasis we envision it will one day become.

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Why am I not satisfied with the way things are? Why not accept the crack in the kitchen counter and the ugly but usable stove-top? Why not adapt to the bathroom cabinets? Why daydream about living in a different climate? Why dwell on what seems unsatisfactory? Why? Because there’s something gnawing at me, something saying life is not quite right, that it needs some adjustments to make it better or to make it tolerable or to make it “perfect.” I’ve always wanted change instead of happily adapting to the life I am living.  I wonder what it is that’s missing? This is nothing new; it is as old as I am. I’m growing immeasurably weary of the sense that there must be something better; a better environment, a better way to experience the world, a better way to be. I wish I could be completely satisfied with the way things are. But to do that I think I would have to withdraw from the world. Or I would have to simply accept dictators and unjustifiable wars and starvation and poverty and gun violence and power-mongering and cracked kitchen counters and ugly but usable stove-tops. And, perhaps, I would have to accept an emptiness that cannot be identified and cannot be filled.

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I will say again what I said months ago: “The only thing about which we can be certain is that we can be sure of nothing.”

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It’s just past 5:30. I’ve been up and out of bed for more than two hours. This cannot continue.

Somewhere in the bowels of the National Gallery of Art (NGA), hidden from public view, is the Henri-Émile-Benoît Matisse painting La Coiffure. The 1901 painting depicts Matisse’s wife, Amélie, facing a mirror while arranging her hair. I do not know where I first came across the painting, nor precisely why I saved it to my computer; I do know, though, that I have been attracted to the painting for years. The last time I remember viewing it was when, dutifully following a silly Facebook meme sent to me by an acquaintance in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. The words I used when I posted it were: “The idea is to occupy Facebook with art, breaking the monotony of photos of lunch, sushi and sports. Whoever likes this post will receive an artist and has to publish a piece by that artist with this text.” Memory of whether anyone responded dutifully to me is long gone.

Coming across the image this morning prompted me to inquire about the painting’s history. I learned that its last public viewing took place at the NGA between January 2010 and January 2012 for the exhibition entitled, “From Impressionism to Modernism: The Chester Dale Collection.” I also learned from the NGA’s website the earlier provenance of the painting, specifically:

Purchased from the artist by (Galerie Druet) for Eugène Druet’s personal collection; sold 1910 to Judge Jacob M. Moses, Baltimore; by whom sold 16 December 1929 to Stephen Carlton Clark [1882-1960], Cooperstown, NY; (sale, 11 May 1944, Parke-Bernet Galleries, New York, no. 93); purchased by Chester Dale, New York; gift 1963 to NGA.

I wish, when I was young enough to retain the information, I had the patience to learn more about art history. When I say “more,” I really mean “anything.” What miniscule knowledge I have about art and art history could fit into a thimble crafted for an elf’s child. I am the poster child for “I may not know art, but I know what I like.” In other words, I am embarrassingly ignorant about art and artists. I know some of the major artists whose names regularly appear in prominent places, but beyond their names I know very little. I understand Matisse is known as a post-impressionist, but I cannot define what that term means without resorting to a Google search. Thanks to Wikipedia, I know Matisse contributed to Fauvism, “the style of les Fauves (French for “the wild beasts”), a group of early 20th-century modern artists whose works emphasized painterly qualities and strong color over the representational or realistic values retained by Impressionism.” I like the artist’s use of color and his ability to convey, with color, emotional context; at least that’s what I think I like about his work. Whether anyone with knowledge of art and art history would say that, I do not know.

The second image, entitled The Woman with a Hat, is also a painting of Matisse’s wife. Leo, the older brother of Gertrude Stein, bought the painting together with his sister, though he is quoted as calling it “the nastiest smear of paint I had ever seen.” Apparently, the two of them realized it was an important piece of art that would contribute to the world of painting. Unless the information I found this morning is outdated, the painting resides today in the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

During my morning foray into the art world, I came across an article that identifies “The Thirty Most Popular Modern and Contemporary Artists.” I wonder whether “most popular” legitimately translates into “most influential” and/or “most important” (in terms of their impact on various art movements)? Without any background in art appreciation, I have no idea. One of the artists identified in the article, Cecily Brown, is “…credited as one of the main influences in the resurgence of painting at the turn of the millennium. Her paintings are filled with erotic, fragmented bodies amidst vivid, pulsating colours…” Another of the top thirty, Takashi Murakami, is called the “Warhol of Japan,” and is said to be famous for his merging of fine art and popular culture.

Another modern artist, Peter Max, whose art is variously called pop art and expressionsim painting, is a favorite of mi novia as well as some our friends. But there are so damn many modern artists! How does one identify the ones who are creative geniuses and masters of technique; people whose contributions to art will be recorded by history as unquestionably enormous and important? Perhaps if I knew more about art and art history I would know. But I don’t. I just know what I like. I like a lot of Picasso’s work; like Don Quixote and Guernica and the Girl Before a Mirror and The Art of War. And I like Van Gogh, especially his self portraits and Starry Night. I like a lot of the art of women ArtNews calls “The Women of Impressionism,” including Berthe Morisot and Mary Cassatt and Eva Gonzalès and Marie Bracquemond. I like a lot of the work of Paul Cézanne and Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. But I probably could not have spouted off those names except for first wandering through the internet, looking for art and artists that pleased me.

Art, to me, is both escape and prison. It depends on one’s mood when viewing art. It can transport the viewer to another time and place where today’s troubles are distant; not even memories. But it can lock the viewer into an inescapable cage where the only things on view are the hideous occurrences of humankind’s inhumanities. Naturally, I prefer the former, but the latter is just as important, if not more so. Okay. Enough about art for the moment. I have admitted to broad stretches of ignorance, resolved only to the extent that this morning’s surface-skimming trip through an art-filled pond the size of a raindrop. On to something else about which I know almost nothing.

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White-breasted nuthatch. Summer tanager. Carolina wren. Tufted titmouse. Carolina chickadee. Cardinal. Blue jay. Mourning dove. American goldfinch. Common grackle. American crow. Eastern phoebe. Ruby-throated hummingbird. These are some of the backyard birds we have seen since moving to the bowels of the forest. I’m sure there are others we have not identified. It’s quite a treat to see such a diverse set of bird visitors near us. Some of the land on our deck and/or eat from the feeders. Others just zip by. Either way, though, it’s a treat. Watching them can relieve stress more quickly and completely than any other “treatment” I’ve tried. Like works of art, I can rarely identify any but the most common birds without referring to reference materials about birds.

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I know damn near nothing about almost everything. I am an expert at nothing. That is probably true of most people. We’re generalists whose depth of knowledge of any given subject is more like that of a raindrop on a concrete sidewalk than the Pacific Ocean’s Mariana Trench. I blame the complexity of life for that shallowness. Without foregoing interest in anything but an incredibly narrow field of exploration, it is virtually impossible to become “expert” in anything. Even then…even if one were to focus every moment of one’s time and attention on a tiny sliver of the world around us…our knowledge of a topic would be woefully incomplete. There’s just too much to know. Our minds are too small and unable to store and/or retrieve such vast stores of knowledge. The most sophisticated, complex, and fastest super-computer cannot begin to possess all the knowledge “out there”  that’s available for us to “know.” We pretend to be knowledgeable, when in fact we are bumbling through with a cursory appreciation of only the surface of that tiny fraction of the world in which we live. I could not begin to tell you about how a specific species of mollusks found only in the deepest parts of the Pacific Ocean secure, consume, digest, and process the nutrients from their food sources. I cannot even tell you which birds outside my window are insect-eaters and which consume only seeds or berries. How we humans have been able to take over and relentlessly deconstruct or destroy the planet on which we live is beyond me.

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Do we want to get serious about healing our planet? I think not. Because it’s just one more thing about which we know damn near nothing. We can pretend to attack the problem with all the intellectual weapons at our disposal; but we will find that, the more we know, the more we don’t. Let Earth heal herself. Let her consume us as if we were spoiled food; she will expel us from her digestive system, after which she will recover naturally. Eventually, we are apt to discover, too late, that the damage we inflict on this planet ultimately will result only in our extinction; after we are gone, the brief biological experiment that goes by the label humankind will be terminated. In the interim, we can continue to fool ourselves or we can face the facts that the consequences of our thousands of years of planetary butchery will inevitably come home to roost.

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My Sunday morning mood is not as positive as I might like, but it’s surprisingly not negative, either. I’m resigned to the fact that our species will be held accountable for our abuses and our willful neglect. And a happy Sunday to you.

Once again, heavy rains took their toll on yesterday’s plans; lunch with friends at a country diner, postponed from Wednesday to Friday due to weather, had to be scrapped again for the same reason. Fortunately, though, weather was not a factor in the gathering with my extended family (siblings, spouses, nephews, nieces, etc.) on Zoom. Thirteen of us logged in to the event. For about an hour, we updated one another about the mundane and the meaningful. I was glad that mi novia and my late wife’s sister (still my sister-in-law, yes?) were able and willing to be on the call. It was good to all the faces and hear all the voices. We all (or most of us) agreed a face-to-face gathering in the foreseeable future is a legitimate goal; whether one or more of us takes the bull by the horns, initiating such an event, remains to be seen. Inasmuch as I am the one writing about it, I think I should at least lend support for it; and with more than just words. Time will tell. It always does.

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Very early this morning, around 4, when I was awake and caffeinated and restless, I skimmed some Facebook posts.  Images of the broken remnants of the stone entryway to Hot Springs Village dominated the feed. Late yesterday afternoon, a car smashed into the wall of stone that served as the backdrop for the Village sign, essentially destroying the imposing entrance. Though those images dominated, it was another one that captured my attention and interest.  A Facebook friend, Trish, reposted an image originally posted by someone who identified as Gabrielle is Dreaming. The photo showed the interior of the National Gallery Singapore and its caption indicated the image was from the show, “Century of Light.” It took a tiny bit of sleuthing to learn that the show was held from November 2017 through March 2018. And the photo I found so intriguing apparently was not a piece of art from the show but, rather, an image that seemingly shows temporary walls and arches created for the exhibition. The walls were painted deep cobalt blue and the arches/archways were ochre. Even before I noticed who had posted the image, its bold colors made me think of Trish; the colors are among her favorites, I think. She sometimes posts photos of her house (she lives in Mexico City), which she has decorated in bright, bold colors. If memory serves me correctly, cobalt blue and ochre are among the colors of some of the walls in her house.

But I’ve gone off track…again.

The colors, especially the ochre, sparked my interest in learning more about it. For some reason, pairings of cobalt blue and ochre, and the sharp contrast between them, are suggestive of north African and Middle Eastern environments. I suspect I have seen such pairings in pictures of those places, but I cannot recall specifically where I might have seen them. During my exploration of ochre, I learned (re-learned is probably more accurate) that ochre is a family of earth pigments whose main ingredient is ferric oxyhydroxide. Yellow ochre, which is the color with which I was so intrigued, is a hydrated iron hydroxide, also called limonite. That bit of information spurred me to look for examples of the color in art, which led me to a video of an artist demonstrating how various colors can be mixed and matched to create complex textures of color that suggest different moods or emotions. It was fascinating. But, just now, when I tried to find it again, I could not. That’s a shame, because it was exceptionally well-done and very informative.

That deter into color, during which I barely touched on cobalt blue, took me to just before 5. It was then that I returned here to memorialize my morning thus far. And here I am.  Thinking about repainting the house with variations on cobalt blue and ochre. No, not ME repainting the house. Someone else with far more patience, more flexibility, and considerably greater skill. It’s probably a bit too early to do that; my domestic partner might take offense to the idea.

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I had a telephone conversation with a friend yesterday afternoon, before my Zoom call, that troubles me still. My friend was upset and frustrated with circumstances I fully understand. I empathize and sympathize, but it was clear from the conversation that my suggested approach to dealing with the matter does not represent who my friend is. That, I suppose, is part of what troubles me. And it’s what prompted me to think of Shakespeare’s famous lines from As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Though it’s not necessarily what Shakespeare intended to convey, sometimes we have to harness our natural emotions in favor of behaving in ways that, although uncomfortable, might reduce conflict, resolve tension, and secure resolutions to problems. Yet I realize there is a fine line between promoting harmony by “acting” outside our normal personal styles and succumbing to the pressures of a situation by placating other people. I think that fine line can be radically different from person to person. In fact, I am well aware of how that line is different for the person I am today compared to the person I was ten or fifteen years ago. Today, I am far more willing to flex and bend and mold myself around circumstances I find unpleasant. So, advice must always be considered—and taken or rejected—in context. I suppose what troubles me is that my advice and the arguments I made in support of it might both be at odds with my friend’s personality. And my advice might have been too accommodating to the person with whom my friend had a conflict. But the bottom line is that I offered only advice; my friend was (and is) free to take or reject it in whole or in part. I hope my friend understands my advice, whether fitting to my friend’s personality or not, was offered with the best of intentions. Sometimes, I think I can come across as too invested in a situation; as if I would be hurt or offended if my perspective is not adopted at the “right” one. I need to work on that.

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I am wicked hungry. If I had been less slothful yesterday, I could prepare something wonderful to satisfy my cravings right now. If I were less of a lazy slob, I would have gone to a grocery store and bought some sausage or bacon or some other form of cruelty-laced but deliciously tasty protein suitable for breakfast. I would have prepared for today’s breakfast, had I been more energetic and forward-thinking. Instead, I stayed home-bound all day. As a consequence, I will be limited today to a meatless breakfast, which might consist of cereal or eggs or cantaloupe or some combination thereof. I’ll survive. I just won’t be as thrilled with breakfast as I otherwise would have been. Oh, I could have eggs and chicken, but who mixes those ingredients for breakfast? I would, but I might get an unhappy glance, or worse, in response. Such is life in the food desert.

Tilting at windmills can be a fruitless endeavor,
a noble enterprise that may yield nothing more
than witnesses’ glazed eyes and gaping yawns.

Convincing one’s unwilling army the enemy is real is
the first step in vanquishing one’s adversary.
Even when loss is certain, each battle is for hope.

Belief in a cause is a dangerous avocation,
a thrilling engagement that can leave a person
weary and impotent, dejected and alone.

Attempting the impossible can crush one’s spirit, yet
it can spark renewal of fiery passion—fueling
life-changing ardor that alters the course of history.

Fighting against the odds can lead from a lonely path
to a thoroughfare of like-minded warriors who share
their weapons and galvanize their followers.

The honor of trying and the majesty of refusing to surrender
may be the only guaranteed outcomes of the engagement,
yet tilting at windmills can snare one’s soul.

Defeat is possible only if surrender holds some appeal,
only if giving up in the face of overwhelming odds is an option,
only by refusing to fight an imaginary enemy that is real.

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It has been several years since I last visited Kontiki African Restaurant in Little Rock. An article on the BBC website, lauding the bold flavors of the foods of Sierra Leone, sparked my memory of the place. Kontiki is the only west African restaurant I’ve ever visited. West African cuisine is markedly different from the other African cuisines I’ve tried: Ethiopian, Moroccan/northern African, and South African. West African cuisine, while not my favorite, offers some standout dishes I would love to have again: pepper soup, jollof rice/stew, and roasted meats marinated in a spicy peanut butter concoction. As I think about the relatively few African dishes I’ve eaten, it occurs to me that I’ve probably missed an enormous swath of cuisines. Africa is, after all, a huge continent. I suspect the ingredients and methods of preparation vary widely across the continent, just like they vary widely between Ethiopian and west African and Moroccan dishes. I should make it a mission to explore other African cuisines; not necessarily to prepare them myself, but to taste them as prepared by people who are intimately familiar with the foods. Finding those people, though, may be just as much of a challenge as finding restaurants that serve the cuisines. Arkansas probably is not be the place to find them. Oh, well. Just a little dream.

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I listened to and watched “the hearings.” Riveting, frightening, and motivating. But also a little annoying. The opening statement by the officer who waxed poetic about her grandfather’s love of country and her own…it seemed so utterly staged. That bothered me. But the rest of the presentations were riveting. Illuminating. I wish the rest of the world, at least the Trump-loving universe, would watch and listen and force themselves to realize their hero is, in fact, a psychopath unlike any others.  Well, we’ll see. I am afraid that universe is, like its hero, unable to differentiate truth from sick, deluded fiction.

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My ego got quite a boost last night.

The boost was the culmination of circumstances that began last Sunday, during a pot-luck lunch at church. A friend sitting across the table from us mentioned that she had to leave soon to participate in an evaluation of auditions for an upcoming “radio-play,” in which the players will read the script of a play in what amounts to a purely acoustic performance. This friend suggested that we should go audition. On a whim, and knowing nothing more than that, we decided to do it. We left the church and headed directly to the site of the auditions, arriving five or ten minutes after auditions had begun. We were given paperwork to complete, had our photos taken, and were advised to deliver our completed “packages” to the assessors (all the while, others were auditioning by reading from sample scripts). Both of us (mi novia and I) were asked to read parts, which involved reading lines while others read their lines in response, etc. We both read parts from the radio-stage-play version of Alfred Hitchcock’s 39 Steps. An hour or so later, we were done. It was an interesting diversion for an early Sunday afternoon.

Now, to the ego-boost part. Just as we got home from mi novia‘s birthday dinner with friends, I got a call from the casting director, who invited me to accept a leading role in the play. She said I had “knocked it out of the park” with my reading. Though I suspect her compliments were amplified to help convince me to accept, they were sufficient to give my ego quite a boost. Unfortunately, I learned during the phone conversation, the rehearsals for the play would conflict with our former neighbors’ 50th anniversary celebration and our road trip to California. Bottom line, we could not accept. I said “we.” That’s because mi novia, too, was invited to accept two parts—two parts—in the play. The casting director told me both of us really impressed the people responsible for casting the plays.

I apologized to the casting director for being unable to participate (and for essentially wasting their time and, because they picked us, derailing their casting efforts for a bit). I wish we had known more about the rehearsal schedule, etc. before we went to the auditions—we would not have gone, had we known. But, then, we would not have had the opportunity to realize the interest and excitement of a “radio play.” We talked last night, after the phone call, about possibly exploring it again in the future. I almost wish we could postpone our other obligations.

We will be back from our road trip in time to go to the performances. Now, after our experience with the auditions, we will be certain to get tickets. I will play close attention, especially, to the performance of the people who will be reading “our” parts.

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The weather yesterday and the day before seemed, to put it mildly, close to cataclysmic. Yesterday’s fierce thunderstorms, with blinding rain and constant rolling thunder—and lightning that sometimes seemed almost like a strobe-light on steroids—put a crimp in our plans. After consulting with the friends we had planned to meet for lunch, we postponed our get-together; the weather was bad and unpredictable. We almost postponed our dinner plans, as well, but the skies cleared in time to permit us to get together (though not where we planned…more details below). We saw photos and videos, posted online, taken yesterday of spillways in the Village; the rain caused the spillways to resemble dangerous rapids.  But as wild as yesterday’s weather was, a thunderclap the day before was unlike any either of us have ever experienced. The house literally shook and “undulated” in reply to the unprecedented crack of thunder. It felt like the house was rippling in response to the earth heaving beneath it; almost like an earthquake demonstrating the fragility of human habitation.

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Dinner last night was excellent. We ate at Dolce Vita Italian Ristorante, which was surprisingly packed with patrons. We had assumed everyone but us would have given up on dinner plans, considering the heavy rains and fierce winds that finally let up around 5 pm. Wrong. But we had no trouble being seated. And, as usual, the dinner was superb, made even more so by the presence of good friends and good conversation.

We had planned to go to the recently-reopened DeSoto Club. However, we finally got through to the restaurant just before 5 after trying all day. After an utterly unprofessional handling of the first moments of my call, my call was passed on to someone who asked how I could be helped. I asked to make a reservation; he told me reservations could be made only by email and that I would get an email in response if my request was “approved.” He told me the place was terribly busy; booked and crammed and crowded…etc. When I expressed incredulity at using email for reservations, the man on the other end of the line became downright rude; he snapped out the email address and said that’s the only way to make reservations.  After dinner at Dolce Vita Italian Ristorante last night, I decided to stop by the DeSoto Club to see what it was like, in person.  At about 20 minutes to 8 (they close at 8), there was no host or hostess up front. There were quite a few empty tables.  I waited for a couple of minutes when, finally, a guy sauntered up and asked if I could be helped. I asked how I could make reservations. He reiterated what I had been told earlier; only by email “until we have our systems in place.” I told him I had tried to call all day; he said “our phones lines have been messed up.” When I asked whether email requests would be answered, regardless of whether or not reservations were available, he said “they are supposed to respond.” He added that there would be no way I could get reservations for Thursday through Sunday; “we are totally booked.” And he said he would advise not trying to get reservations for groups of more than 8 people. Apparently, 8 people stretches their capacity to cope. The email I sent yesterday at 5 pm is still waiting for a response, despite the fact that “they are supposed to respond.” I had very high expectations for the DeSoto Club. I am beyond disappointed; I am deeply annoyed at what I consider raw unprofessionalism. I have rarely encountered incompetence and rudeness so blatant as I did in my interactions with that restaurant. It is quite a surprise, considering the fact that the restaurant owner’s other restaurant in Hot Springs has been so well-managed. I may give the place another try in a few months; if it hasn’t ironed out its unforgivable ineptitudes by then, though, that will be the last time.

A couple of days ago, I read, online, about someone else who claimed to have had a similar experience with the restaurant. My immediate reaction was to dismiss the bellyacher as having embellished the experience; moreover, I thought, he probably was a chronic, crybaby complainer. After my interactions with the place, I am embarrassed that I misjudged him and that I questioned the truth of his description of his experience.

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Enough complaining. I plan to build an extraordinary day out of the upcoming hours.

History—even recent history—tells us country names change. The place we now call Botswana once was known as Bechuanaland. Zimbabwe was Southern Rhodesia, then Rhodesia. Zambia was Northern Rhodesia. Croatia, Slovenia, Macedonia, Serbia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina, collectively, were called Yugoslavia until not so many years ago. Myanmar was Burma. Iran was Persia. Sri Lanka was Ceylon. And on and on and on.

Therefore, Turkey‘s announced change to Türkiye (pronounced tur-key-YAY) should be neither difficult nor surprising. The name change, like every other one before it, originated at the confluence of political agendas and the thirst for recognition and hunger for power. And from a dazzling array of evolutionary socio-political triggers that, once the events fueling them are started, cannot be contained by simple power of will. The change of a country’s identity and “brand” from one thing to another is a bit like a runaway train; there comes a point beyond which there is no stopping it. And, who knows? Should we even try?

Whether the emergence of Türkiye is evidence of nationalistic fervor or not, nationalism and/or patriotism often reveals itself when power is in the balance.  It is just one of those things that happens on a planet populated to a great degree by nationalists whose allegiance is limited geographically and intellectually by artificial and by natural borders. Humans are innately tribal, though our tribes can be massive and geographically diverse. And fiercely competitive. And enormously selfish. We call ourselves patriotic; painting ourselves as merely loyalists in an attempt to hide our true identities: selfish and greedy partisan chauvinists. Patriotism is, in fact, just nationalism light; an acceptable—indeed, demanded and expected—form of jingoism. To question the rectitude of the philosophies or actions of one’s tribe is called unpatriotic; tantamount to treason. “We the people” willingly buy into that mass hysteria, seldom questioning whether our loyalties arise from being deliberately manipulated. “My country, right or wrong” is a symptom of a successful propaganda campaign. We are taught to “pledge allegiance” because people whose allegiance is unshakable are easy to control, especially when asked to embrace the unacceptable; to believe the unbelievable. Witness our incursions into Vietnam and Iraq, for example. Deliberate social manipulation brings us patriotism, nationalism, heterosexism, homophobia, racism, gender stereotyping, and a host of other social ills that masquerade as armor to protect us against darkness and evil. When the legitimacy of one of these restrictive controls (sexism or racism, for example) begins to crumble under the weight of truth, the forces of bigotry are corralled in an attempt to protect the other “isms” from a similar fate.

Well, that was a surprise. I did not expect my comment about the name change of the country we once called Turkey to lead to a political rant about the ills of nationalism and its psychotic cousins. That’s just the way my mind works. Free-association thinking, flavored with personal beliefs and biases.  Sort of like a rorschach, but without the ink splotches.

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Today is mi novia‘s birthday. We will meet friends for lunch in a small town forty-five minutes west of us. We will deliver my collection of vinyl records to them at that place. The vinyl is just an excuse; we’ve been wanting to see them for a long time. The perfect birthday gift (especially to me, since these people have been my friends for forty-five years or so).  Later, we will have dinner with some other friends at a recently re-opened restaurant about which we have high hopes. Whether the restaurant meets our expectations or not, getting together with friends for a celebratory birthday dinner will be a pleasure. At some point in the not-too-distant future, I will take mi novia out to an upscale restaurant for a post-birthday celebration. We simply haven’t have the time or the inclination lately to think about such things, though. Our minds have focused on moving and unpacking. The more we think about how much we have to unpack and put away, the clearer it becomes that it probably will be Christmas of 2023 before  we complete the task.

Mi novia and I agreed, at some point, that we would not buy one another presents for birthdays, holidays, etc., etc. However, she has a habit of buying things for me year-round; if she observes that something is lacking or if she believes I will like something she encounters. she buys it. I have never been good at buying gifts. The problem is this: I often think of the “ideal” gift for a person, but if I do not act on the thought immediately, it gets lost in the muddy morass that is my brain. No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what the “ideal” gift was. And I simply cannot think of anything else to get in its place.  I actually prefer unplanned gift-giving. Spur-of-the-moment gift-giving, in my opinion, seems more genuine than giving prompted by the calendar. And gifts are not necessarily “things.” Gifts can be experiences or simply thoughts articulated in a way that clearly demonstrate love and caring.

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The dim light of dawn begins to unfold, of late, around 5:30. At the same time, bird calls commence and get louder. This morning, I hear the distinct calls/songs of cardinals piercing the silence of the morning. I can hear the sounds quite well, even though the doors and windows are shut; glass and wood cannot keep those noises from entering the house and making their way to my ears.

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Be a good person, but don’t waste your time trying to prove it.

~ Paulo Coelho ~

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Yesterday, I went in for a stretching/cupping session, my first one, but the therapist opted not to do the cupping because I was (and remain) insufficiently hydrated. Cupping without proper hydration, she said, could pour poisons trapped in my tissues directly into my bloodstream, which would cause me (and I quote) “to feel like shit.” My next session, scheduled for early July, will include cupping; that session will determine (for me) whether I want to pursue it. I had planned on a simple massage, but mi novia’s ex-husband’s raves about his experience with this therapist and this therapy convinced me to give stretching/cupping a try. The stretching part involved moving my arms and legs and other body parts in ways and over distances to which they are unaccustomed. I think that is good. I need to get outside my physical comfort zone and give my blood vessels and muscles and the tissues of tendons some challenges of motion. But, really, I’d love just a plain old massage, too. Really. I want a strong-hands massage to ease the tension in my too tight muscles. Soon, perhaps. Maybe.

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When people inquire about “how are you?” the correct answer depends on context. Who’s asking the question? How close are they to you? Do they really want to know? “Fine” is the normal, generic, safe response. Even when you’re not fine at all. Even when you want to reveal anguish or fear or deep, unending sadness, “fine” is the best response. Depending on context, of course. It’s hard, though, to know whether the question is simply an automatic one meant only to get or keep a conversation going. If that’s the case, a truthful answer probably is not the right answer. Even when the query is genuine, the time or place may not be right to let loose with all the challenges facing you. Rather than wait for the appropriate context, though, it’s best to seek out the right listener if things really are not “fine.” But that is not easy, either. Because, how do you know? How do you know who is both sufficiently interested and invested in you? How do you know who is able and willing to listen in a way that’s helpful and non-judgmental and genuine? Sometimes, it’s a crap shoot. Deciding when and to whom to reveal that things are not “fine” is a risky proposition. Knowing that, though, may enable you to armor yourself against disappointment. If the risk proves worthwhile, good. If not, your coat of mail protects you. And you move on to the next context. Or you crawl back into your lair.

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And off I go into the morning!

There should be no disagreement, no debate: white men live with enormous amounts of unearned privilege. The simple randomness of birth gives us opportunities not available to people of color or to women. We are, in a word, lucky. Some of us feel guilt or embarrassment or humiliation or shame at our undeserved privilege. Wait…it is, without question, unearned; but is it also undeserved? Given enough time for silent meditation, I hope most men would finally reach the conclusion that our privilege is both unearned and undeserved. We should not have opportunities placed in our laps if those same opportunities are not equally available to everyone else. Whether we “should” have advantages or not, we do.

So, the question arises: should we refuse to accept those unearned privileges so that others might be given opportunities to which they might otherwise denied? The immediate reaction may be, “Yes!” But thinking about it leads to an intellectual dilemma. If my rejection of privilege would then damage the opportunities available to my newborn daughter or my year-old son, would my decision to refuse privilege be moral? Might my refusal to accept the advantage of privilege constitute BOTH a moral act and an immoral act? And if my action would be both moral and immoral, what moral alternatives might be available? Yet, if I had to choose between my obligations to society and my obligations to my children, who would I be expected to sacrifice at the altar of morality? Put another way, should my children be penalized because society has decided to confer upon me privilege that I refuse to accept it? A corollary question: should the children of others be penalized for society’s decision to lavish upon me unearned entitlements? Ach! Life is undeniably hard. But for many of us, there’s a soft underbelly of comfort from time to time. Would that the soft comfort would extend to everyone.

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Finally, another visit to the grocery store parking lot in just a while this morning; there, the items I purchased online will be delivered to me. Placed in my car for me. I will not even have to exit the vehicle to collect the bounty of my shopping spree.

Talk about privilege! I was lucky enough to be born into a white family whose parents taught their children how to get along in a middle class world, even though I think we were, economically, on the fringes of the middle class. Those parents willingly sacrificed their own comforts so the kids would have opportunities to prosper. And here I am, living in a gated community; groceries being delivered to my car. Had I made a few more wrong moves—or had my parents and older siblings not modeled respectable behaviors and attitudes—I might be living under a bridge today. Or not living at all; the victim of sickness or violence or despair.

See how easy it is to slip into a perspective from which the dark side of even innocent good fortune is visible? But the ease of seeing the “bad” in the “good” exists in reciprocal circumstances. When faced with obstacles and challenges or worse, the flexible mind can quickly adapt by going into “learning” mode. That is, a person can adjust his or her perspective by looking for the lessons in negative circumstances. Sometimes, of course, one has to tell oneself some lies or at least mislead oneself in order to find those lessons. But it’s possible. I’ve done it.

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Today’s local weather forecast calls for possible thunderstorms, high levels of pollen in the atmosphere, and uncomfortably warm temperatures coupled with high humidity. I’ll just have to accept the weather; it is what it is, as some might say.

Rain is a distinct possibility this morning.

The early morning sky seems heavy, as if burdened and in need of relief. Rain can relieve the sky of its uncomfortable heaviness. Or so I’ve been told by clouds, who have a close relationship with rain, so they should know. If it were possible for me to converse with clouds—and if they had the decency to respond without mocking the fact that I speak to them—I could learn a lot. I could learn what the world looks like from far, far above the ground. Though, to be frank, lately the clouds have hugged the earth as if they were afraid the earth would wander off without them. I could learn something from those earth-hugging clouds, too. I could learn whether they consider themselves one and the same as fog or whether they think of themselves as distinct from it. And how do they differentiate themselves from fog—if they do—when clouds and fog collide on the sides of mountains? So many things to learn! So limited in my ability to experience the perspectives enjoyed by inanimate objects…assuming, of course, inanimate objects can experience joy. Doesn’t “enjoy” mean “to experience with joy?” I think it does. And, if so, can clouds or rain or fog experience joy? Can they enjoy their experiences in the universe? Humans assume only animals can feel pain and love and joy and sadness. We are so sure of ourselves. Actually, though, we know next to nothing. We know less today than we will know tomorrow, but there will never be enough tomorrows to know all we do not know today.

No, I am not experimenting with LSD. Nor any mind-altering drug. Just thinking. Maybe it’s whimsy. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s an attempt to wash away the ashes of yesterday.

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I ordered incense from Amazon a few days ago. Unlike many things one can order from Amazon, incense is not delivered overnight. Or even a few days after ordering. I do not know why I have to wait so long; perhaps it is shipped from Bangladesh or Pakistan. Or, maybe there is an unpublicized incense shortage; my order’s delay is simply evidence that incense is in short supply. At least the patchouli scent; that’s what I ordered this time. Last time, I ordered an assortment of scents. I was not thrilled with several of them. I like patchouli, so I ordered an entire box of patchouli-scented cones. According to Wikipedia, “Patchouli is a species of flowering plant in the family Lamiaceae, commonly called the mint or deadnettle family.” Until this morning, I had never (at least, not as far as I remember) questioned the origin of patchouli. Perhaps I assumed it was a mixture of hippie-sourced smell crystals, created under cover of darkness in isolated mountain passes is the Colorado Rockies, far, far from the prying eyes of law enforcement and evangelical ministers. But now I know otherwise. Assuming, of course, one can trust the pronouncements of Wikipedia. At any rate, I look forward to receiving my patchouli-scented incense. I’ve been burning a rather unsatisfactory cinnamon-scented incense I bought many years ago in downtown Hot Springs.

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Robin Williams is quoted as having said, “I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.” In hindsight, given our knowledge now of his battles with depression, I think he may have had insights that most people, thankfully, will never have. But his insights can be informative, educational, perhaps even life-saving. Feelings of worthlessness probably cannot be overcome by urging people to “buck up” or providing evidence that they are valued and loved. I suspect feelings like that must be addressed at a much deeper level with the help of people who understand the genesis of depression and know ways to pry it out of a person’s mind and discard it where it cannot be resurrected.

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The “coo-coo-coo” of mourning doves greets me around dawn every day. I rarely see them, but I hear them. When I lived on a mountainside, in the morning I heard the crowing of chickens and lowing of cattle. Now, I hear mourning doves and Carolina wrens and pine siskins. And crows. And other birds.

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

~ George Saunders ~

George Saunders’ 2013 commencement address at Syracuse University preceded his book, Congratulations, By the Way: Some Thoughts on Kindness. A transcript of his commencement address, posted to the New York Times website three months after he delivered it, was viewed more than a million times within three days after it was posted. Saunders, for those readers here who might not know of him, is a writer—of fiction, essays, and children’s books—who was born in Texas (Amarillo) and grew up in Illinois (Oak Forest). I think he still teaches at Syracuse University. His background does not matter, I suppose; it’s his message. When I read a bit about him this morning (following a rather circuitous route from this morning’s edition of The Marginalian), the quotation (above) about his greatest regret being failures of kindness struck me in the head like a two-by-four. Those failures are at the roots of my most unpleasant, shameful memories. Circumstances which called for kindness from me but, instead, drew from me meanness or indifference or outright cruelty. Those are the failures for which self-forgiveness is very nearly impossible. Despite the fact that those events or episodes…whatever the proper term…are far outnumbered by instances of kindness, they are the ones that contribute more heavily to my self-image. My memories of those unhappy recollections are not necessarily crisp and clear, but their presence is sufficient to sully the image when I look in the metaphorical mirror.

As I ponder the character traits I value in people, it occurs to me that kindness has always been one of those I value most. Until I thought about those traits in light of my appreciation of Sauders’ comments, I might have said compassion or empathy were the ones I find most admirable. But kindness gets to the core; it encompasses both compassion and empathy, as well as genuine caring. Kindness embraces tenderness and humanity and a trait that is hard to define but easy to see: decency.

It is easy to be kind when the objects of my assessments share my philosophies and behaviors. Even then, though, I can (and too often do) fail at being kind. But when the objects of my judgment think or act in ways anathema to my view on righteousness, kindness frequently is left to languish in the recesses of my hidden human decency. I justify my lack of mercy by arguing that reciprocal treatment is “deserved.” I judge people all the time; but only when my judgments are positive do I tend to be kind. And that is a failure of kindness. When I say “I,” I probably should say “we.” I am not necessarily any more guilty of the crime of unkindness than most of us. The world would be a better place if we all practiced kindness more expansively.

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The close-up image was taken from the master bathroom window, looking down. The smaller, head-on shot, was taken about forty feet in front of the fawn. Both of them were taken in our side yard. We went in search of our missing hose “pot” (for storing the watering hose), when my sister-in-law spied what looked like a mushroom in the middle of the side lawn.

We left the lonely fawn to loll about in the morning sun, only to find it was gone when we returned for a look a short while later. I learned that does often leave their offspring resting alone during the day to avoid predators. The doe apparently rounded up the fawn after we saw it and led it away to a more safe setting, with fewer inquisitive humans.

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Today’s church service will formally welcome several people as new members. Most of them have been friends of the church for a while and decided to join when the time was right for them. A celebratory salad and dessert lunch will be held afterward. Then, I will come home and nurse my chigger bites.

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Behind my knees. Below both hips. Both butt cheeks. The top of my left left, beneath the butt. The tops of both feet. The right side of my right ankle. Those are a few of the locations of the current round of itchy, itchy chigger bites.  Every year, during the long, long, long chigger season (AKA late spring, all summer, and early fall), I question my sanity for staying in Hot Springs Village. I loathe chigger bites. I scratch them mercilessly, despite using anti-itch ointment especially formulated for chigger bites, leaving raw, red spots where the beasts have feasted on my flesh. The idea of living someplace where chiggers do not thrive (and, preferably, cannot survive) appeals to me more and more with each passing year. Why in the name of all that’s holy have I just purchased another house in the Village, when I could have relocated to a near-paradise, where chiggers are treated as never seen mythic pests, not as an unfortunate reality of daily life. Bastards! I hate chiggers. I would be willing to risk thermonuclear war if it meant the end-times for chiggers.

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The coming week includes appointments that, I hope, will change me. First, I have an appointment to get a haircut at a barber shop where I’ve never been. I may take a photo of me, taken about ten years ago, in which what little of my hair is visible is exactly how I want it cut but have not had done in ten years or so. Or I may not. Another appointment is for “stretch therapy with cupping,” which I take to mean “massage.” I have not had a professional massage in a very, very long time. I hope it will be as relaxing as I remember a massage to be. Relief of the stress that, over time, builds up in one’s neck, back, and shoulders is a magical sensation. When that tightness disappears, the world becomes a happier, brighter, more appealing place.

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Time to begin the process of making myself presentable, which is a considerable effort. Shower. Shave. Get dressed. It is SO. DAMN. DEMANDING. I prefer being slothful, staying dressed in über-casual morning clothes all day. Oh, well. One does what one must to be welcomed, or at least tolerated, on the fringes of civilized life. If my being clean and dressed makes other people feel better, then I should practice kindness. I must be kinder.

The proceeds of the sale of the “old” house are in the bank. I should be ecstatic that the long, tiring episode is behind me. I am glad it’s over. But I expected a degree of elation that, as of yet, has failed to materialize. Instead, I feel somewhat stunned and surprised at the absence of euphoria. I waited for it. I expected it. I looked forward to it. In its place, there is a modest sense of relief, as if a heavy stone was removed from my backpack. I feel appreciation that the burden is not so great, but the expected ecstasy apparently escaped from an open door. That is a disappointment. Considering the investment of mental and physical energy and the time, money, and stress involved in the process, this mild feeling of relief does not seem a fair trade. Perhaps it’s just shock; maybe, once the reality sinks in, enthusiasm and unrestrained delight will course through my body in a happy adrenalin rush. I hope so. But then what? Where will the next infusion of happiness come from? This dull reaction and odd sense of “so what?” does not belong here. After putting so much into it, there should be an unending wellspring of joy. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe a few days of being lazy—napping and lolling about without feeling compelled to accomplish anything—would resolve the disappointment. Perhaps I will see. At the moment, I am not dancing. But, then, I have never been a dancer, fearing what others would see if I tried.

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On occasion, the idea of writing a blog post holds absolutely no appeal for me. In fact, it seems burdensome, similar in effect to looking forward to a drive to my office, through heavy traffic, for a face-to-face meeting with a remarkably stupid and deeply arrogant client. I no longer have to drive through heavy traffic to my office. I have no stupid, arrogant clients. This morning, at least, I will not insist on writing a lengthy blog post. Instead, I will expend my mental energies elsewhere.

Four-plus years ago, I wrote a post I entitled, The People Who Feed Us. In it, I mentioned almost in passing that I wished I had the opportunity to meet and talk to the farmers and farmworkers and the other people responsible for getting food to my pantry and my refrigerator. I expressed an interest in talking to people involved in every facet of feeding me, even “the person who artificially inseminated the cow that gave birth to the animal from whose carcass my steak was carved.” That curiosity—about people who have a significant impact on our lives in one way or another but about whom we know very little—continues to grow.

I thought about a related issue again yesterday afternoon, when I realized too late that I had ordered something through Amazon but had failed to update my mailing address. The item already had been shipped. It will be delivered to a house I no longer own nor live in. As I contemplated what steps I would need to take to update my mailing address, I thought about the incredibly complex web of people who might be touched by my mistake or others like it, people who:

work to ensure that Amazon’s online systems are as simple as possible so that purchasers can correct such errors (until items are shipped); deliver my package; are involved in managing the intricacies of processing credit card payments; designed the products I bought; manufactured and marketed those products; produced the website content that enabled me to order the products; measured the demand for products like the ones I ordered and/or determined the need to supply them…the list of people is almost endless.

What if, I wondered, I could have a brief conversation with each of these people? Not necessarily to learn about their jobs so much, but to learn a little about their lives. How much insight into the challenges and obstacles facing them might I gain? How much appreciation for their successes might I have after these brief conversations? And how much greater an understanding might I gather about people who are very different from me? Or might I come to realize that they all are essentially the same, at their core; people just like me?

I have had similar “brainstorms” in the past. Many, many similar brainstorms. I imagine, on occasion, stopping people with whom I interact in various settings, to take a few moments to tell me about their lives. I don’t, of course, because they often are in a time crunch to perform their jobs…or my inquiry might confuse them and throw them off.  But I would find it fascinating to engage in conversation with them; about their lives, not their jobs. People like:

the person delivering my mail; the UPS or FedEx delivery person; the bank teller; the grocery store cashier; the fast-food clerk or manager; the waitstaff at restaurants; the guys who do yardwork; the HVAC maintenance person; the hotel or motel desk clerk; the pharmacist; again, the list is almost endless.

Intense thoughts about both the mundane and the exciting aspects of our lives helps me realize how deeply involved I am with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other people. People who impact my life in ways large and small, but about whose influences on me I rarely consider. No matter how withdrawn from the world one might try to be, the structure of our society demands almost labyrinthine involvement with others. We depend on one another for almost everything. We are far more engaged with one another than we tend to think we are; perhaps not always face-to-face, but engaged, nonetheless.

Thinking about how much the comfort my life depends on other people—by and large people I do not know personally and generally never even meet—causes me to realize I do not express my gratitude enough. In part, of course, because I do not even realize I should be grateful. Only after I think deeply about the role other people play in my enjoyment of life do I realize how much a debt of gratitude I owe to so many.

Too often, in the face of unpleasantness or obstacles, I quickly forget how grateful I should be. The tendency to erase that realization is a constant struggle. I admire people who seem to have overcome (or who have never had) the tendency to forget gratitude. They seem to me generally happier and more at ease in the world than the rest of us. I may constitute  small percentage who fail to adequately recognize the need for gratitude. But I don’t think so. I think I am among the masses who should nurse an attitude that demonstrates that we realize the importance of human connections. Even mundane, transactional connections. They all are important. I realize that now. I may forget, but I’ll try to remember.

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I was told the buyer of my house has finally signed the purchase documents and that the title company has the money from the lender. And I am told the funds will be wired to my account today. Hallelujah! Based on what I was told, I should get a phone call confirming the transfer just about the time an MRI of my right knee is being done. So it goes.

These photos do not even begin to do justice to the environment surrounding the new house, but they will have to do until I find the time and inclination to take and organize and post more photos.

Photos that show the inside of the house will have to wait until the process of unpacking and organizing has been completed. Perhaps shortly after Christmas 2023.

But, back to these photos. The image with the red dot was an attempt to capture a photo of a summer tanager (the red dot). The bright red bird is a male; the female is colorful, too, but less flamboyant. Her coloring includes muted orange and green, coupled with a bit of red. The pair (and several of their friends, it seems) live for the moment in the forest directly behind our back deck. Watching them flit back and forth is relaxing. Listening to their songs and their calls is equally pleasant. The image looking out my office window (in the front of the house) captured a small ground squirrel attempting to get access to the bird seed in the feeder. The feeder has since been moved, replaced by a much larger one that attracts cedar waxwings, among other birds. The photo showing long, straight pine tree trunks is one view off the back deck; look in another direction and the view is full of the lush greenery of mixed hardwoods. Finally, the photo of the deck was taken from the seat I tend to occupy when I sit outside on the back deck. A panoramic view from that spot would reveal a mixture of dense hardwood forest and thinner piney woods above a thick layer of brown leaves on the forest floor.

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As I’ve told myself many times of late, we (most Americans and many others) are far too enamored of “stuff.” We attempt to fill the emptiness in our lives with tangible evidence that our lives have meaning. We collect sofas and televisions and electronic gadgetry in the hope that ownership will convince the world around us—and ourselves—that our efforts mean something; we try to equate material wealth with both happiness and relevance. In reality, simple comfort (and not material wealth) seems to be more closely associated with happiness than does wealth. As for relevance, that is an open question…I suppose that perpetual question of context may be at play…

Sitting on the back deck with a glass of wine or a gin & tonic, listening to the music of the forest, argues against the importance of material wealth. Of course, in today’s world at least moderate material wealth is necessary to provide simple comfort and to afford access to the setting in which I find myself. But sitting outside in this gentle setting reinforces what I already know: that “things” can be anchors and distractions from the actual beauty of life all around us. I know this, but too often I permit myself to be swayed by misplaced and very temporary desire. I “want” a new sports jacket or a new television or something else shiny and attractive but, ultimately, unnecessary. I quickly learn that that shiny something is no more capable of bringing me happiness than I am capable of emptying the ocean with a single swallow of water.

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Yesterday afternoon I wrote what I now consider a wholly inadequate response to an extremely generous comment left by an occasional follower of my blog; she left her comment on the post I wrote yesterday morning. She expressed hope that I will continue writing my blog; I will, though I may take a little break sometime soon. After reading her comments, I felt like calling her to tell her how good it felt to read her complimentary words. But I don’t have her number. And she might have been shocked to have received my call, anyway, in that we have not spoken with one another since about 1979, when we worked together. We’ve had the rare interaction online in the last year or two, but no voice communication. I was intrigued by the exceptional language skills that her comment revealed.  And her talent for boosting a person’s spirits with words is enviable. I doubt she will read these flattering words and the content of my comments in response to hers. I think she visits the blog rarely; but I hope she will someday see them and that my appreciation for her compliments will give her some pleasure.

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My expectations about the completion of the sale of my house have been repeatedly dashed or delayed, so I will refrain from announcing any such expectations this morning. Suffice it to say the process still has not come to an end. I have signed papers, but that is where is stands. The aphorism about counting chickens and eggs in baskets is apropos; for now, I simply will continue to learn about the torture of real estate transactions by observing them as coolly and as calmly as I can.

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Three hours hence I will take my Subaru to an automotive service shop a few miles from the Village for its somewhat late 90,000 mile service. I opted to go local, rather than to the dealer an hour away, for various reasons, including both time and money savings. The local service shop gets high praise from a friend, which is reason enough for me to trust the place to do good work.

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It is light enough now that I can walk outside without fearing I will stumble into a tree or a raccoon or my parked car. My computer tells me the temperature outside is 73°F; that is comfortable, though my computer also tells me the pollen count is high. So, I may walk outside, bask in the cool comfort of the still quite dim morning light, and sneeze as I feel my eyes itch and water. Still, this time of morning is lovely. It fills my melancholy soul with promise that today will be enough; it will be all I need.

My “readership” as measured by “Statcounter” traffic monitors is down considerably. Especially the “regular” traffic, the number of returning visitors, is down. That’s a sign that what I write is not gripping enough to cause readers to want to come back. In other words, my posts increasingly bore regular readers. Maybe I have been stuck in a rut, documenting my thoughts in excruciatingly unexciting detail. Or perhaps it’s a sign that other people, people around me, move on. Their interests ebb and flow, just like mine. Their desire to know what I am saying wanes. Television news anchors lose viewers when major events absorb the majority of their face-time; people tire of hearing the same damn thing, over and over again. Even riveting news gets old. So, too, with blogs; especially blogs without the rivets. So be it. I’m not aiming for high traffic numbers. But I will admit that it pleases me to see high numbers of return visitors. Even though they rarely, if ever, comment or indicate any interest in what I write. Their numbers are down. Such is life. I keep saying I write for myself, not to engage with or please an audience. And so it is.

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I envision crossing the Texas panhandle, watching the sky for signs of hard summer weather, the sort of weather only storm-chasers—in their adventuresome madness—seek out. Finally. The long-delayed road trip to California is on the calendar again. We set aside roughly three weeks for the California trip. When we finally determined it was pointless to wait for a “safe” time to go, we had to decide when to take the trip. The decision is made. We will go. The trip will be an exhilarating, joyful adventure.  Soon, we’ll be off!

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The calendar is never empty of obligations; we had to make the call to miss some important “dates” in favor of the long-deferred travel.  That fact—that the calendar seems perpetually to hold obstacles to freedom—is on my mind again. Calendar commitments are harnesses that constraint my movement. The calendar restrains me from…no, it’s not the calendar. Too often I acquiesce to the calendar’s commands—commands I place there after agreeing to the commitments they entail.

Bondage to the calendar seems to sneak into my posts on a regular basis. I blame the calendar, but I allow the calendar to engage in slavery. I do not object strenuously enough against subjugation to a schedule. I fail to cast off the chains of enslavement to pursue freedom. Instead, I obey the calendar, ignoring my cries for freedom from the confining embrace of voluntary commitment. It’s my fault for permitting events to control my movement and my time. I won’t promise myself that I will forever reject making those commitment; but I will promise to take them less seriously. That, alone, will make it easier to make changes to my personal time commitments.

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Dignity is missing. And empathy. Compassion. Morality. Other attributes one would hope to find in people who call themselves public servants. Instead of those qualities, they possess (and brag about) attributes more commonly found in common criminals: dishonor, indifference, animosity, dishonesty. Somehow, though, these latter attributes seem to make them popular. As if unprincipled braggadocio were a badge of honor—a peculiarity that demonstrates a criterion for holding public office: unworthiness. Voting could turn them out, but we do not vote in sufficiently high numbers to do it. Instead, we sit back and bitch about the decay of democracy, blaming the politicians. We should be blaming ourselves and each other. Voting should be a public bade of honor; failure to vote should trigger mechanisms to publicly shame the eligible voter who stays away from the polls. And that includes me when my intention to vote is secondary to other things that seem more important. Almost nothing is more important than voting; failing to vote essentially gives control of one’s life to someone selected by a fraction of the public.

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We take ourselves too seriously. We do not allow ourselves time to “play” as much as we should. Adult obligations must be met, but we need not seek them out to the extent that they crowd out opportunities for enjoyment unconnected to a social purpose. Fun. Plain old fun. Silliness. Mindless banter. There’s room for such stuff in our lives. We can devote our energies toward ensuring religious freedom or to protecting wildlife habitat or to the right to control one’s own body or to control of handguns and assault rifles…but that should not precludes us from laughing at television comedies or enjoying a glass of wine with friends around conversation that intentionally avoids the “serious” stuff. Maybe some people look at a person with my attitudes and judge me to be too frivolous or insufficiently concerned about what we are leaving to future generation. I say let those people judge me as they wish. I will respond with mockery and derision, but only a little; because I’ll be too busy having a little fun between my bouts of deep involvement in social issues.

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I hope the buyer closes, today, on the purchase of my house. Getting word that has occurred will relieve an enormous amount of pressure on me. Pressure, I will admit, I permit to cause me to feel tightly wound and nervous. I wish I were better equipped to unwind my stresses.

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I may take a vacation from writing this blog…see if the world collapses in response.

Despite having been to neither city, Traverse City, Michigan and Ann Arbor, Michigan have a fascination for me. I am especially enamored with Traverse City, the smaller of the two, with a population of roughly 16,000. But Ann Arbor, considerably larger at 121,000, has special appeal, too; a college town, I imagine the diversity of options for education and entertainment is significant. By the way, I realize the winters in both places can be brutal. The average high January and February temperatures in Traverse City are 28°F and 29°F, respectively. The average highs in Ann Arbor are only a few degrees warmer; 31°F and 35°F, respectively.  But summer temperatures in both places are absolutely delightful, especially when compared to anyplace in Arkansas: Traverse City’s average summertime  high is only 80°F and Ann Arbor’s average high reaches only 84°F.

It’s not just Michigan that holds an allure for me. What I’ve read and heard about Schenectady, New York appeals to me, too. The summer and winter average temperatures are similar to those of the Michigan cities. And Schenectady has a population of only around 66,000. Plenty of other smallish cities throughout New York and Pennsylvania and Connecticut and Massachusetts, etc. may be appealing, too.

Given that my move from one sprawling house to another has just been completed, I may be out of my mind to even fantasize of moving to either place. Actually, my move has not been “completed.” Unpacking and organizing is apt to take months. And, in the throes of moving, I heard myself say “I will never move again.” Never mind. Promises to oneself are easily broken. Especially when those promises ignore the challenges of summer heat, humidity, chiggers, and deeply-engrained irrational hyper-conservatism. Yet promises need not be steadfast “either/or” propositions. Perhaps there is room for compromise, wherein promises are met, but with appropriate adjustments. Maybe the process of “moving” becomes, instead, “temporarily re-situating.” As in, living in one place for part of the year and another place for another part. Lots of people do it—people with the financial wherewithal and the temperament that enables them to adjust. They exchange the brutal summers of one part of the country for the milder, more comfortable summers of another place. Or they flee frigid winters in favor of more temperate climes.  There is enormous appeal, to me, for living in places more hospitable than Arkansas; at least part of the time. But, for the moment, I’m putting the reins on my fantasies, keeping my options to a small but manageable number. I say “my options” when I now must say “our options,” given that I am no longer utterly and completely free of ties. We have talked, off and on, about living in other places. Not since we made an enormous financial commitment to another house and invested months’ worth of intellectual and emotional energy in the move. But we have talked about it. So it’s not a new concept, dropping out of the sky like a balloon, laden with steel spikes.

I have done a bit of exploration of the fantasy cities. All of them offer the potential of friends with some common philosophies in the form of Unitarian Universalist churches/communities. Not that the existence of a UU congregation is the only source of progressive thinkers nor does it offer the assurance of suitable commonality…but it helps. All the places are small enough, but large enough, to provide interest and options. Yet the cost of housing is, like everywhere else in the known universe, rising—perhaps to unsustainable heights. Ownership is no necessarily attractive, anyway. But I have yet to explore the availability of affordable short term rentals/leasable living space.

I’ve long since abandoned the idea of pulling or driving an RV; the work involved in upkeep, not to mention the challenges of keeping the thing on the road and avoiding collisions with other vehicles are more than I want to consider.

At some point, I think one becomes too old to enjoy the excitement of change and newness. At some stage of life, the challenges of altering one’s routines and adopting new ones becomes a burden. Before I reach that point, if I haven’t already, I want to continue to experience the excitement of adjusting to new places and being exposed to different points of view. I do not want to regret having missed the opportunities afforded by changes in place and the attitudes places carry with them.

Making the kinds of changes I am considering/fantasizing about, though, has one distinct and painful disadvantage: it adds time and distance between friends. No longer would I be in a position to drive to the other end of the Village or the western edge of the state to visit friends, nor would they be in a position to make a quick trip to visit me. Visits would require extensive planning and the commitment of both time and resources. Though I think I would be willing to spend the time, money, and energy to make those treks, I doubt I would feel comfortable asking the same of friends. And, in reality, I wonder how often that might occur; not frequently, I suspect.

I thought I had completed this entire thought process before; I thought I had reached a firm, almost irrevocable decision. But here it is, again. Wanderlust might be part of it. But that’s not all of it. Part of the reason my fantasy found its way back in to my consciousness has to do with the fact that I never really gave sufficient consideration to what I’ve been seeking. And I do not know, still. It’s just something else. An emptiness in a part of me that I want to fill; but I do not know just what or where it is.

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It’s not quite 5:30. I’ve been up for more than two hours, though I did get quite a lot of sleep last night/yesterday evening. I slept for two hours in the recliner in my office, thanks in large part to spending part of the afternoon on the deck, drinking gin & tonic. But that rest probably would have been necessary even without the G&T. Yesterday morning was devoted to unpacking and sorting and putting things away. That’s more draining, more demanding, than one might think. At any rate, I went to sleep and then, two hours later, I went to bed. And then, at 3:18, two hours after interrupting my sleep for a pee break, I was up for the duration. As I gaze out the window of my office, I can see through the trees tiny dots of very dim light. Morning light will be here soon. The birds will begin their morning music and I will commence my watch, attempting to spy them as they alight on the feeder outside.  This has already become a new routine for me.

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And now, a diversion, as I delve into my imagination:

I pull off a long, empty highway into the parking lot of a 24-hour roadside diner, after having driven several hours overnight. I order black coffee, two poached eggs, two thick strips of pepper-laden bacon, a baked tomato, and some mushrooms cooked in just a touch of butter. Yes, this place will accommodate my desire for a baked tomato and sautéed mushrooms. And, unlike most roadside diners (and most other places that serve coffee), the coffee would be brewed from freshly-ground French roast Kona beans. The waitress, Alison Bates, is a forty-something woman reconfiguring her life after the death of her husband. She is brown and sinewy, as if she has spent her life outdoors in a physically demanding job…maybe on a farm or as a roughneck in an oilfield. But she describes a different life. She tells me her twenty-year marriage was, essentially, twenty-years of wasted time. Her husband, a salesman for oilfield service equipment, spent most of his time on the road; when home, he spent his time watching sports on television and golfing with his buddies. Alison says she spent twenty years living alone with a man she barely knew, wondering how she could escape the prison to which she had willingly, but mistakenly, committed herself. Her husband’s sudden death from a blood clot in his brain unlocked the prison gates. Though she graduated from college, she had never used her degree professionally; she had worked in administrative jobs just to stay occupied. But the money she earned was her own and she saved almost all of it during those twenty years. After his death, she took her husband’s insurance money and her savings and hit the road. She stops occasionally to explore new places and have new experiences. Like this job as a waitress at an all-night diner. She says she plans to leave here in the next few days. I ask her where she’s going. “I don’t know, yet. Any suggestions?” I suggest she join me as I head west to Española, New Mexico, where I built three adobe casitas that serve as temporary bed and breakfast getaways for city dwellers looking for something their lifestyles forgot to give them. I offer to deviate from my planned route if she’d like me to take her all the way to Albuquerque. “No,” she says, “Española is just fine. And I’ll be glad to stay a few nights at your B&B if there’s room. Incidentally, Bates is my maiden name. I kept it because I never wanted him to think he owned me.”

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Alright, it’s now 6:08 and I am getting hungry. I think the meal Alison served me simply triggered my appetite. The idea of a baked tomato is extremely appealing to me. But the oven looks unfriendly and uncooperative. Plus, I still do not know where to find cookie sheets or Corningwear dishes or the like, the dishes I normally would use to bake tomatoes. So, instead, I will rummage around the kitchen and the pantry, looking for something that might calm my growing appetite. Or I may wait and suggest to mi novia that we go out and get a carry-out breakfast from a fast-food joint. Oh, the joys of living in a restaurant desert.

One year ago today, the seduction began in earnest. It started weeks earlier, but it culminated with a visit to see his masks. His masks! How apropos! A visit to determine which of his personalities was the real one. Was it the quiet one, the one who intensely observed the world around him, but chose to limit pronouncements about his observations—except through an almost-hidden social media presence? Was it the reserved, but moderately cheery one, who watched “Trivia” players reveal their spheres of knowledge and the degree to which competitiveness defined their personalities? Or was it the solitary man whose fascination with creating ceramic whimsy matched well his obsession with language? Perhaps a little of each? With elements of energetic, opinionated anger thrown in the mix?

Or was it something unexpected? Was the man behind the masks, in fact, a hunter…a predator? Or an admirer who set a trap—no, that’s too harsh a description; call it alluring, tempting bait—to entice an attractive potential paramour into his den? Wait! Did he initiate the seduction? Or did she? Who was the seducer? Was it the bold woman who invited herself in, ostensibly to view his ceramic masks? Or was it the man behind those masks? Had he already decided the intelligent, bold, beautiful woman was enormously attractive—irresistible, in fact? Had he determined, well in advance, that something had to be done to lure her into his life? Were his public proclamations of his plans—to divest himself of his connection to the Village in favor of a nomadic lifestyle in search of…something—simply calculated to be temptations that would bring her to his doorstep?

Perhaps both core scenarios have some truth to them. But he really was planning to go. Yet he was feeling ambivalent about leaving without knowing whether his fascination with her was mutual. The bottom line, from his perspective, is that she clearly was the seductress. She decided to act before it was too late; before his plan to become a vagabond became reality. She has said as much. And as much as he misses what he expected would become a long, possibly unending, adventure on the road, he is glad his plans were derailed by hers. Today, one year to the day after the formal “seduction” was launched, they share a new home and unending possibilities. Perhaps the future even holds some elements of a nomadic lifestyle. Happy Anniversary, mi novia. What do you think? Who is the man behind the masks? And who is the woman he found so irresistible? Is she the same one who showed up at the door with wine? Was Malbec the right choice? I think so. 😉

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Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.

~ Boris Pasternak ~

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It was no surprise to me that I woke at 3:38 this morning. What surprised me is that I was able to stay in bed, attempting to fall asleep again but failing in my attempt, until 4:21. While I have no interest in “sleeping in” until 7, it would be nice to wake up and see the clock report that it’s 5:05.  I enjoy watching darkness slowly dissolve into barely visible light, but I prefer that gradual, plodding dissolution to last no more than an hour or so.

I hear the call of a mourning dove announcing that dawn is here. It is light enough to see the trees across from my window. I even can make out their leaves in different shades of green.  Still, though, no deer in the driveway. No birds at the feeder. I should go outside to feel the cool morning air. And I will.