John Swinburn

A twenty-minute embrace. That’s what is on my mind this morning. Not too terribly long ago, I read something that suggested complete strangers who embrace one another for as little as twenty minutes can fall in love with one another. Actually, it was not just an embrace. It was a long embrace, followed by conversation. During the conversation, each of the strangers were required to look into the other stranger’s eyes. By the end of twenty minutes, the strangers had become completely enamored with their partners in the study. Whether this is a real memory or is just a fantasy I have concocted to justify my thinking, I do not know. But I am certain the outcome of spending twenty minutes looking into the eyes of a stranger was the topic of a psychological study I read when I was in college. I think. Could it be that “not too terribly long ago” was actually almost fifty years ago?

The idea that looking into a person’s eyes and embracing the person for an extended period could lead to falling in love is intriguing. In an authoritarian society, I can imagine the use of forced intimacy through physical embracing and visual engagement; people could be paired in service to the State. A psychological study of this type probably would be judged unethical. One does not manipulate a subject’s emotions in a way that could be permanent; it is just wrong. And the ethics of such an endeavor would grow even murkier and more sinister if the subjects in the study were in committed relationships to other people. But how can we learn about ourselves as humans without putting ourselves into such circumstances?  It’s a dilemma.

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If I knew how many times in a day my friends and family think about me, I think I would be either deeply flattered or deeply depressed. As I consider this matter, I realize that I think about many people during the course of a day; sometimes, I think about specific people dozens of times in that timeframe. Many times, in fact. If I close my eyes, I realize that I see those people not dozens of times, but hundreds. Thoughts of a given person, thoughts that seem to last minutes, might last only a fraction of a second, but the recollections and new experiences that race through my brain during that instant may involve months or years.

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Listening to Professor Pragya Agarwal’s video presentation, in which she discussed the topic of How Women are Penalised for their Emotions, prompted me to consider that most people in our culture identify emotions as either masculine or feminine. We judge people when we witness them expressing emotions outside what we consider the correct sphere. Whether our tendency to equate emotions with either masculinity or femininity is trained into us or is hard-wired in our DNA is not absolutely clear. Regardless of its genesis, we can “train” that bias out of us, individually. Yet most people tend to maintain their natural bigotry, making judgments even in the full knowledge that judgments are based on illegitimate stereotypes. We can try to be non-judgmental; but those attempts often fail.

The brain is like a muscle. When it is in use we feel very good. Understanding is joyous.

~ Carl Sagan ~

Looking inward, we realize how nearly-impossible it is to re-wire our psyches. Despite the fact that I know men are expected to temper their emotions—and to avoid certain feminine emotions altogether, I cannot seem to adhere to the rules. I rarely am successful in either tempering or avoiding entirely the expression of gender-inappropriate emotions. And that inability to suppress or hide those emotions creates anxiety. In spite of the fact that I receive comforting reassurances that the display of certain emotions in men is perfectly natural, I try to curb them. I agree that stoicism is a recipe for mental trouble. I agree that it is perfectly normal for men to express feminine emotions. But, apparently, I do not possess sufficient self-confidence to do so openly. I talk a good game. But when it comes to defending the legitimacy of expressing the full range of emotions, I inch away from the front lines. I backtrack a few steps at a time and then sprint away in search of a protective cave where I can conceal myself from prying eyes and ears. On one hand, I want to be able to express emotions without worrying that I will be judged for doing so. On the other, I want to have the discipline and masculine wherewithal to conceal those emotions completely. Competing ideas and thoughts. Hypocrisy. Fear. It’s not enough to wrestle with concealing emotions; I seem to want to conceal and express them at the same time. The grey matter in my skull is uncomfortable; it wants to shift to a more pleasant experience.

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The vocal owls remain. We heard again them last night and I heard the sound again this morning. The sound is loud, but it seems distant. At the same time, though, I have the idea that the bird is perched in a tree very near to me; my sense that it is distant may be the result of the sound echoing off the forest of trees.

Listening to the owls and all the other creatures in the forest makes me think: how can I be satisfied to know only the sound? How can I go about my day-to-day life without dedicating myself to getting closer to the sounds? Closer to the creatures that make them? Knowing all about their lives and how they go about living  them? How can I become more knowledgeable about the critters and their sounds?

Those questions arise in virtually every other aspect of my life. The fact that I harbor so many questions—each of which hides ten thousand more—suggests that my knowledge of the world around me is deeply superficial. I know so very little about so very much. That phrase describes my assessment of myself. I skim knowledge, barely breaking the surface so I can get a glimpse of all I do not know. We acknowledge the vastness of our ignorance of life beneath the sea, but we overlook the fact that we are equally ignorant of what goes on outside the periphery of our lives.

I know virtually nothing about the structure and functions of grain elevators. The knowledge required to plant and harvest hundreds of acres of corn or cotton or wheat is outside my realm of experience. My ignorance about wastewater management, brain surgery, modern internal combustion engines, and millions of other aspects of life on earth offers anecdotal evidence that I have been shielded, for my entire life, from knowing more. I have never understood the delivery of electricity to our homes; I consider it proof that magic takes place under our noses. My knowledge of what is involved in launching satellites into orbit. And my understanding of the process of extracting petroleum from the earth and refining it into products that have become vital to our daily lives and, indeed, our survival. I wonder, is it possible to flood our brains with knowledge in a way that will enable us to retrieve that knowledge instantaneously? I’ve been told, in years past, that we use only a fraction of our brains. But more recently, that assertion of fact has been challenged as myth. Researchers have reported that MRI imaging shows that there is no dormant part of the brain. The brain makes up only 3-5% of the body’s weight, but it uses up roughly 20% of the body’s resources, in terms of oxygen and glucose. If only I knew more. If only my knowledge were deeper than wide. Understanding requires depth; breadth  equates only to exposure, not to insight.

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The day is speeding by already. I will attempt to capture it and slow it down. Time is racing by of late, a signal that insists I pay attention to mortality. And so I shall.

Warrior, a Scandinavian television series, is worth watching. I’ve noticed that one of the actors, Dar Salim, plays in many Scandi political and police thrillers. Born in Baghdad, Iraq, he moved with his family to Denmark, where he was reared. I won’t go into the plot; plots often are somewhat irrelevant, the underlying themes more important to the story.

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I woke hungry. Ravenous. I am trying to control my desire for food, though. If I relent, I will empty the refrigerator and the pantry and then will go to a grocery store, where I will leave the aisles and the freezer cases barren. The cause of my hunger is a mystery to me. Most days, I am perfectly happy to wait for a few hours after I get up and before I eat. Today, though, I want to satisfy my hunger immediately. Waiting will just cause the flames of desire to grow higher and more intense. But wait I will. And when the time to eat finally comes, I will tear through the meal like a captive wolf that hasn’t been fed in several days.  Or maybe not. Though I have not been especially careful about my diet, ever since my short stay in the hospital in late July I have been more conscious of what I consume. And that should continue. A benefit of being more aware of what I am eating has been weight loss. Since late July, I have lost roughly 17 pounds. If I lose another 70, I will have reached a weight more closely identified as my “ideal” weight. Maybe it will happen. Maybe not. Time will tell.

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Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: We taste only sacredness.

~ Rumi ~

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Even with all the doors and windows shut and various common house-noises filling the empty space, the sounds of two owls calling to one another last night were unmistakable. Though darkness and tree branches shielded the birds from our view, there was no question: those sounds were from owls. According to the Merlin app on my phone, the sounds were made by barred owls.

That was last night. This morning, I woke for the second or third time—around 5:30—to the same sounds. The “hoots” continued for roughly fifteen minutes, then stopped. I’ve waited for at least ten minutes, hoping the calls would start again, but those forest creatures are silent for now.

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Humans’ senses are so feeble, in comparison to virtually all the creatures around us. Our senses of smell, taste, touch, sight, and sound are inferior; because, I suppose, our evolution focused on necessary attributes and not so much on the ones I think would be nice to have. Like extraordinary night vision. And daytime vision dozens of times sharper than my vision at its youthful peak. Oh, and the ability to fly; more like swallows than pelicans. And the nose of a bloodhound. I could go on and on, but indulging the fantasy is pointless. Secretly, though, I do it anyway. I indulge my fantasies as a means of keeping me sane. Or preventing me from sliding further into the madness of twenty-first century humanity.

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Today is Veteran’s Day, a day meant to honor veterans who served in wars the U.S. has fought. Originally, it was Armistice Day, an event first celebrated in 1919 to honor the day World War I ended a year earlier. In 1938, Congress recognized the day as an official holiday. Then, in 1954, the name was changed to Veterans’ Day to honor veterans of all the wars in which the U.S. has fought. After seesawing between dates, the day is once again acknowledged on November 11, the day the first World War ended. Unlike Memorial Day, this day is not meant strictly to honor war dead; its purpose is to honor all those who served in the military during wartime. I suspect the limitation on honoring those who served during wartime has been abandoned, whether officially or unofficially. Today, the day seems to honor anyone who has worn a military uniform, regardless of when they served. Someone, I hope, will either verify or correct what I say here.

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And a good day to you.

Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer Lopez. Jennifer Garner. Jennifer Hudson. Jennifer Lawrence. Jennifer Love-Hewitt. The entertainment world is awash in people whose names reflect an era in which the name, Jennifer, was a parental favorite. It’s not just the entertainment world, either, and the “era of Jennifer” is not a new moment in history. I went to high school with someone named Jennifer; we’re now friends on Facebook. And I have another Facebook friend, someone I’ve never met and to whom I’ve never spoken, whose name is Jennifer, but who sometimes refers to herself as Jenny. There are others, I think, but my head is not sufficiently clear at the moment to remember them with any precision.

According to a website called MomLovesBest.com:

Meaning: Jennifer may come from the Proto-Celtic word “windo-seibrā,” meaning “fair one.”
Gender: Jennifer is traditionally a female’s name. However, it can be used by any gender.
Origin: The name Jennifer is believed to be of Cornish origin. It was adapted from the name “Guinevere,” of Arthurian legend.

The reason I am fixated on Jennifer this morning is this: I noticed as I scanned the web this morning that CNN saw fit to include “news” about Jennifer Lopez and Jennifer Garner and Jennifer Aniston on the home page of its website this morning. And those three “news” items triggered thoughts of other Jennifers I have known. It just mushroomed into a Jennifrenzy, as it were. I began to ask myself whether there is an inexplicable connection between Jennifer and me. Despite my rejection of such a “woo-woo” concept, the idea provides mindless entertainment. But in the real world, I am not in contact with these Jennifers except on very rare occasion; commenting on a Facebook post, for example, or reading a once-or-twice-a-year message from the Jennifer from my high school days.

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If the universe were fair to those of us who inhabit it, a pair of strong hands would be giving me a massage right now. From the base of my skull, along both shoulders, down the middle of my back and back up along both sides, those hands would release the tightness of those muscles. With disciplined fingers and a firm grip, a trained masseuse would cause the aches and pains to disappear into the ether, replaced by muscular appreciation.

When I wake up, my lower back complains bitterly about what I must have done to it during the night. My shoulders, stiff and uncooperative, scream at me in a voice only I can hear; cursing my choice of sleeping positions. I blame the extra two and one half hours of sleep I got, but did not want nor need nor agree to. That extra time in bed was an accidental experience, one that should not have occurred. I awoke to pee at four, only to return to bed; getting back in bed was a mistake, as I could not stay awake. And, so, I gave my muscles and joints even more time to petrify. Curses and maledictions. Big damns and little damns. Perhaps resting comfortably in a hot tub for a few hours is what I need. I’ll settle for a massage. Actually, I suppose I’ll have to settle for an unfulfilled fantasy; a pair of imaginary hands performing their magic on me.

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This morning, a handyman will install a television wall-mount. And he will install an electrical outlet behind the television, thereby eliminating the unsightly dangles of power cords dripping from behind the wall-mounted entertainment portal. There was a time when I would have undertaken both projects; a very long time, in fact. My bones and joints and muscles were more limber during those years. During those years, I could contort my arms and legs and torso in ways that, today, seem impossibly dangerous and painful. Time has taken its toll on my capabilities; joints that once were as malleable as a rubber band sometimes become inflexible, almost brittle. When those symptoms of decrepitude disappear, as they often do, I feel young and vibrant and ready to take on the world. But when the symptoms are in full swing, I feel old and feeble and angry at myself for deferring my enjoyment of life for so long. Youth tricks us into thinking we are invincible. Old age imbues us with the wisdom that—had we only possessed it—would have made our youth so much more valuable in preparing us for our later years.

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My high school graduating class was big. I think more than 600 seniors crossed the stage to collect their diplomas on that celebratory evening roughly fifty years ago. In recent months, I have been following a Facebook group dedicated to my high school graduating class. Though I have not stayed in touch with anyone from my class (I was approximately as introspective and reserved then as I am now), I have reconnected with some people. And when I read updates about someone I once knew, it sparks the resurrection of tiny fragments of memory of my high school experience. Lately, many of the updates on the group page are devoted to death announcements. It should come as no surprise to me that the number of deaths of former classmates is increasing. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. We’re all aging at the same rate. There’s a strong correlation between old age and death; but the definition of old age varies, depending on a number of factors. On the one hand, I remain young; some might say I am immature for a man of my age. On the other, my body proclaims—loudly at times—that I am too old to behave the way I did in my twenties or thirties or forties or fifties. Had I taken better care of my body during its first half-century, I suspect the physical evidence of my geezerhood would not be nearly as obvious and restrictive. C’est la vie. No point in crying over spilt milk.

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I once started writing a fantasy short-story about a man who barely heard the almost imperceptible sound of a tiny bell whenever someone else thought about him. He, alone, could hear the bell. Though he knew it signaled someone was thinking about him, it gave him no indication as to whose thoughts included him. But the volume of the sound increased when someone’s thoughts about him were especially vivid. And he noticed that the increased volume seemed to coincide with his own thoughts of three different women. Finally, one day, he mustered the courage to mention his odd affliction to one of the three women.

“I hear you think about me,” he said. “I do not know what you’re thinking, I know only that I am on your mind. Is that crazy?”

The woman’s head bowed slightly, as if reacting in embarrassment to the man’s words. “Not crazy. I hear those bells when you’re thinking about me, too.”

“Bells? You hear bells?”

“Yes,” the woman said, “and I’m not alone in hearing them. At least two other women hear them, as well. And we talk about what it may mean.”

The story, which remains unfinished, was to explore the complications of three competing romantic relationships. I’ve since decided that would be too formulaic. For a while, I thought the story might morph into one about a menage a quatre, but I decided I should probably stay away from writing soft porn…or hard porn, for that matter.

I am not sure what prompted me to think about that short story. Such stuff just comes to me on occasion; as if there’s a message…meant for me to unlock its meaning. But I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no mysterious message. Just one’s own fantasy attempting to justify itself. I was a bit younger then, too. But youth holds no copyright to delusional thinking.

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Time to launch into an appreciation of Thursday.

Yesterday morning, on a whim, we drove to Lake Village, AR, located about 125 miles southeast of Little Rock. Because we got something of a late start, we spent only a short time there; enough time to know we want to return when we can spend more time exploring the village. Lake Village is on Lake Chicot, which is on the Great River Road National Scenic Byway. Lake Chicot, an oxbow lake, was created by the Mississippi River during a period of meandering. The lake is the largest natural lake in Arkansas and the largest oxbow lake in North America.

Our first stop in Lake Village was at Rhoda’s Famous Hot Tamales and Pies. The place looks worn beyond recovery, as if every scrap of wood and every drop of paint has lived well past its useful life. Yet the “open” sign said it was not yet ready to be razed and replaced by something made of glass and stainless steel and polished granite. The decrepit little place invited us inside.

We each opted for one of the day’s soul food specials. My plate consisted of fried chicken, beans, boiled cabbage with flavored with strips of pork, macaroni & cheese, and a piece of cornbread. Miss Rhoda Adams, the founder and owner of the place, sat with her husband at one of the few tables in the tiny place. Mi novia got into a conversation with her and with the woman at the counter, who is Miss Rhoda’s daughter (one of ten or eleven children). As a child, Miss Rhoda had a similar number of siblings in her home. Intriguing place; we definitely want to go back for tamales.

After lunch, we drove along the Great River Road to Lake Chicot State Park. The drive along the river road revealed an interesting layout. The road is very near the lake’s shore. On the opposite side of the road from the river, some nice homes with very large yards afford views of the lake, across the road. Behind those houses, though, is a sea of decaying mobile homes and a few stick-built houses that appear to be on their last legs. The poverty on display one street back from the imposing waterfront homes is stunning.

We plan to spend more time wandering Lake Village and places nearby, including the World War II Japanese American Internment Museum in McGehee, Arkansas, roughly twenty miles north of Lake Village. We’ll put Lake Village on our list of places to go when we have more than a few hours to spend. Yesterday’s whirlwind day trip ended when we got back to the house as darkness fell.

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My adventurous friend, who recently cruised the Norwegian coast in pursuit of adventure and a sustained opportunity to see the “Northern Lights,” is now in Iceland. Having viewed, and captured on film, the aurora borealis, she is shivering in the cold beauty of Iceland. Iceland is one of those countries that holds a special appeal for me. I am sure the appeal is based in significant part on how I perceive Iceland as much as the reality of Iceland. My understanding of Iceland is based not on personal experience; it is based on superficial exposure to my interpretation of living vicariously through others’ experiences. And, of course, Icelandic television series. One of my many unfinished stories (short stories, books, etc.) is set, in part, on a flight from Paris to Reykjavik. The story begins with my protagonist leaving money and a note for a Parisian prostitute when he departs his hotel room for Charles De Galle Airport, where he catches a flight to New York, which has one stop in Reykjavik. During the flight, he becomes acquainted with an Iceland woman who lives in Paris but who is returning to Iceland for her ex-husband’s funeral. Despite having assured his girlfriend in New York, before beginning his trip, that he misses her deeply, my protagonist is extremely attracted to the Icelandic woman, who he learns is a writer. Rather than simply laying over in Reykjavik, as he had intended, my guy decides to spend a few days in Iceland, where he skillfully maneuvers between multiple romantic relationships of convenience.

I’ve done it again. I’ve allowed my attention to my adventurous friend to veer off in another direction, embracing and incorporating another target of my imagination. My brain surprises me when unexpectedly charges off course in hot pursuit of shreds of an overactive imagination. My imagination is fueled by the kind of passion usually reserved for people whose special skills are so advanced they require expression to maintain them at peak performance. But my imagination is not especially advanced; but it is constantly in action, providing me with enough artificial experience to falsely suggest otherwise.

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A couple of nights ago, we began watching The Watcher. Two episodes. If we do not watch any more of the program, I will not weep at the loss of entertainment. Last night, we watched a movie entitled The Good Nurse, which is based on a true story about a nurse who is a serial killer. As we sat down to watch…something, anything…we mentioned to one another how much we want to pick something that satisfies as much as How to Get Away with Murder, with Viola Davis. That series kept our rapt attention over ninety episodes spread out over six seasons. Of course we binge-watched, thanks to the series’ availability on Netflix. I’ll just have to keep looking for the next riveting, long-running series.

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As I write this, the results continue trickling in from yesterday’s votes. Not surprising to me, but sickening nonetheless, is the fact that Sarah Huckabee Sanders won the governorship of the State of Arkansas. And Greg Abbot retained his death grip on the State of Texas. We probably won’t know all the results for several days, possibly longer, but I think I know enough to say the Republicans had a good night. Perhaps not quite as good as they might have hoped, but enough to cause me enormous concern about the near-term future of this country. Still, the votes were not entirely one-sided. Close to half of the voting electorate chose moderate and left-of-moderate candidates in many places, tempering the “mandate” the Republicans will claim they received from the election. As the final results come in, I may change my assessment; but until then, I will remain moody and unhappy with a political system that allows—perhaps even encourages—right-wing zealots to hold public office.

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Poetry and beauty are always making peace. When you read something beautiful you find coexistence; it breaks walls down.

~ Mahmoud Darwish ~

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Although I have a very long list of things to do  around the house, I needed yesterday’s pure freedom. And I may need another day of it. Today’s calendar is absolutely empty. I could fill it with hundreds of nagging chores, but I feel like that will not happen. I may be in the mood, again, to get away from the mundane and explore something new and exciting. Or, at least, new and different. For now, I will try to smooth my rough surfaces and sooth my anxious mind by thinking pleasant thoughts and envisioning beauty. This, I hope, will free me from rigid routines and thrust me into a pleasurable dream-state. We shall see; we always do.

Some days, I sit at my desk, skimming the latest data that claims to be news and contemplating the day ahead. And, then, when the world around me becomes too toxic to allow into my thoughts, I sometimes turn to poetry, because the language of poetry is clean and direct. It strips away unnecessary clutter, leaving only pure ideas and thoughts. But there are circumstances when poetry strips away too much, leaving only the remnants of a barren skeleton. Yet even in those spare experiences, poetry suggests those missing words or phrases or ideas. Poetry, whether one’s own words or the words of someone else, cleanses the mind. Poetry, when read aloud and alone, can transport a person from a mundane existence to a place where thoughts and emotions are rewarded equally.

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Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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Today is election day. I will not go to the polls, though, because I voted early. I withheld my vote from a few self-proclaimed Democrats because they have done or said or supported things I find reprehensible. There was a time I would have voted a straight Democratic ticket, but no more. Republicans do not have a monopoly on corruption, nor does the mere fact that someone calls herself a Democrat equate to honor. Far too often, the decision about who should get my vote is based on a judgment about who will do the least harm. Despite my distaste in doing so, though, I always will cast my vote; voting gives me an opportunity to support incremental improvements in the political structure within which we live.

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There’s a fine line between indignation and rage.

~ John Swinburn ~

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This morning’s coffee is unusual. Its flavor is midway between bitter and metallic, leaning more toward bitter. And it feels thin in my mouth, as if some of its attributes have been stripped away, leaving only a brittle, foul-tasting skeleton in its place. This situation—in which the normally delightful flavor of coffee that welcomes me to the day is replaced by a nasty-flavored imposter—is rare, but not unique. I have never been able to determine what causes this hideous aberration in my morning routine. I just have to accept that “it is what it is” and move on.

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Exactly four years ago, I was almost as embarrassed to be human as I am today:

There’s “talk” among the other species about whether pine forests and tallgrass prairies should rise up against us. Most of the colonies of ants and the libraries of lichens argue against it, saying humans as entertainment demand they be kept as pets, if for no other reason. But, during a recent interspecies thinkalong, an exaltation of larks and a pride of lions spoke in favor extinction. Various kingdoms and phyla took positions simply for the enjoyment of argumentation. All of this right under our noses, as it were.

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Generally speaking, I think women are more highly evolved than are men. Men trail behind women in terms of emotional freedom—and the rewards that freedom offers. An open mind is like a door;  ideas flow, like foot traffic, in both directions. Women tend to be more open-minded than men, I think; more receptive to unfamiliar ideas than men, who behave as if they are afraid of new ideas. Of course, there are plenty of closed-minded women whose stubborn insistence on clinging to fear-based lies slows progress to a crawl. I suppose my attitudes toward men could be called misanthropic. But it’s not so much the men themselves that I find offensive; it’s their unsophisticated simplicity and their dull limitations. Naturally, only a portion of the men on the planet qualify for my cynicism; I find most of the rest to be more or less tolerable. Uninspired, perhaps, but relatively decent. The same tendency I have to lump all men in the same basket (and, then, to backtrack and place them in separate places based on their individual attributes) is in play with regard to women. But I tend to view women, as a population, with undeserved favor. I must identify those relative few who merit my admiration and appreciation; leaving the rest as…ornaments, I suppose. The bottom line is that I find it easier to engage in conversation with women than with men; although I am not much of a conversationalist until I have become extremely comfortable in a person’s presence. Or in the presence of several people with whom I am quite comfortable. I watch. I listen. I observe. Whether that is just my style or is evidence of my fear of social engagement is open to debate.

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Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle, Old Age a regret.

~ Benjamin Disraeli ~

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Finally, the gas log insert was installed in the fireplace yesterday, giving us access to the beauty of warming flames. But the logs need to be “broken in,” which will involve burning the logs at full blast for five hours. We’ll wait until it’s considerably cooler, when we will light the gas logs, open the windows, and watch the clock for five hours. I do look forward to sitting in front of the fire, staring in mesmerized silence as I let the flames transport me to another dimension.

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All right, then. Time for me to work on Wordle.

Why is the idea of paying for access to television news channels so absurd? And why is the practice of subscribing to newspapers shrinking, dissolving into a tiny replica of its former self? Our concept of “news” is changing. We allow ourselves to be fed so-called news around the clock, but by admitting that flood of information, a method of validating it becomes ever more critical. Except too many of us fail to insist on validation, opting instead to believe even fictional reports, so long as they coincide with our philosophies and perspectives on the world around us. Ideally, only news with the potential to directly and measurably impact our lives would reach us. If that were the case, I suspect the volume of our exposure to so-called news would decline precipitously.

How can we determine whether new is relevant to our lives? Would it be possible to sort the wheat from the chaff, leaving us only with news containing highly personalized, vital intellectual nutrients? My skepticism is on full display this morning, as I consider my strong belief that purveyors of “news” have gotten increasingly good at convincing us of the relevance of all news. They insist that only through constant, heavy exposure to news can the average citizen protect himself against the dangers of ignorance. But I assert that news avoidance may well be the only way to achieve a modicum of serenity. Yet I do not avoid news. I may not be as thoroughly inundated with it as some, but even skimming the headlines is enough to keep my mind in a state of perpetual chaos. I can do nothing to influence processes and outcomes, yet I allow my head to be filled with suggestions that I MUST do something to change the world. In response, I sit in paralyzed frustration at my inability to alter the course of history.

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Too many thoughts compete for my attention this morning. I cannot narrow the field.  Everything merits attention. But nothing has sufficient magnetism to warrant completing my thoughts. They stretch across one another as if intentionally strewn in front of competing ideas. I’m thinking of Norway and Mexico and Canada. And I’m thinking of people with connections to each country. I contemplate Canadian news outlets and wonder how they compare to their Icelandic brethren. I consider Mexico’s affinity for folk art and reverence, musing about the differences between Mexican and Icelandic and Nordic world-views. I think about the series we have been watching, Jack Ryan, and wonder why, despite its appeal to me, it is not even remotely as appealing as Entrapped or Occcupied.  I fantasize about taking a road trip to Michigan or climbing into the basket of a hot air balloon and floating as far as burning gas and the wind will take me. Memories of places I have never been flood my head, leaving me dazed and confused by an artificial past. My history competes with a present that may be the expression of a dream, spun from thin threads of imagined experience. Chaotic, yet simultaneously beautiful. Like a kaleidoscope consisting of fragments of colorful broken glass whose chaotic relationships with one another produce stunning abstract images.

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As my interest in people grows, I realize how very little I know about them. We have casual conversations about topics of mutual interest, but I know virtually nothing else of consequence. Where they were born, where they have lived, what kinds of books and films they enjoy, their food preferences, their religious beliefs or lack thereof. So many aspects of a person that go unexplored in the early days of getting to know him or her. I think it could be great fun to spend twenty-four hours with a casual acquaintance; asking probing questions and responding to equally penetrating queries. A “forced” intimacy that might reveal aspects of a person that would not otherwise be exposed; at least not until the relationship had matured and unfolded over a period of years. I imagine some of the questions might embarrass or shame or otherwise create considerable mental discomfort. But if both parties to such an exploration ask and answer probing, potentially embarrassing, questions, the realization both have made shocking admissions probably would minimize the discomfort both feel. Maybe.

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Fog has descended upon the forest outside my window. The day appears bleak, with the trunks of trees barely showing themselves. Fog tends to dull one’s vision, at least one’s vision of objects at a distance. The leaves on the trees outside my window are absolutely still. Not a whisper of a breeze; not  a single leaf is moving. The image outside my window is perfectly still, as if it had been painted and left to dry. Hmm. How can it be that air is not moving, not even a fraction of an inch. The atmosphere fascinates me. The way you think intrigues me. Everything compels me to look more carefully and more deeply than I am used to; I should attempt to remember every ridge in every leaf and every inch of skin on the faces of people I find interesting. Observation is too often left to chance; it should be given its appropriate due. And now I leave this thought for another one; but this next one will remain private, though I might share it with you when the time is just right.

A pain in the neck. Literally. I must have been in an awkward position while I slept. The moment I began to wake, the pain in left side of my neck grabbed my attention. Hard. Like a grip powered by heavy-duty hydraulics. And my lower back—the knots of muscle at the base, on both sides—are brutally tender. The twenty-five minutes since I climbed out of bed have delivered no reduction in the pain. I suppose I should tiptoe back into the bedroom, sneak into the bathroom, and take a couple of Motrin tablets. Over-the-counter painkillers will, I hope, interrupt the discomfort, but I would rather take much stronger, faster-acting prescription pain medications. I am keeping those, though, for that time (which, I hope, will be far, far into the misty future) when I may need assistance in going gentle into that good night. In the meantime, I will slide through the bedroom into the bathroom, swallow two tablets, and wait for the painkillers to kick in. I should have taken the analgesic the minute I woke up, but I suppose I was in a daze. Analgesic? Why did I select that word, when simpler ones would do? To massage and exercise my stiffening brain, I suppose.

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Even though I continue to write about food from time to time…and even though I express deep appreciation for foods’ flavors and textures, my passion seems to be fading. “Fading” does not adequately describe the speed and extent of the decline in my affection for food. I still enjoy many foods, but the pleasure they deliver is not as intense as it once was. I no longer start to crave certain foods the moment I think about or hear about or see them. It’s not just the dramatic reduction in my passion for consuming foods; my interest in preparing them has plummeted, like a heavy stone dropped into a still pond. Perhaps my lust for all manner of exotic foods will return. Perhaps the disappearance of my gastronomic zeal will right itself in the near-term. Or, maybe, something in my brain triggered a permanent change in me. Maybe I have become one of those people I have labeled “boring” (when I’m being charitable) because they do not seem to understand the thrill of experiencing new flavors and the joy of savoring the taste of old reliable stand-by dishes.

This decline in interest, though not really precipitous, is surprising and a little alarming. Foods and flavors have been among my core passions for as long as I remember. I can imagine only a few experiences that could, conceivably, fill the gap. Only rarely have I had sensations could rival the ones I felt when enjoying particularly tasty foods with especially satisfying tastes and textures. This reduction in appreciation is leaving an emptiness that feels cold and unfriendly. I do not like it.

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I did not turn clocks back one hour last night, despite numerous admonitions to do so. My notebook computer and my smart phone adjusted the time, without any help from me. The bedside clock and the clocks on the oven and the microwave remain in another dimension of time. I think both devices were manufactured shortly after the advent of the sundial. I suspect there are other clocks in the house that might need assistance in making the transition to a new timeframe. Perhaps the cars, too, require intervention to become consistent with the new reality we created by modifying time in the wee hours of the morning. Eventually, all the clocks will have found their new equilibrium. Yet in roughly six months, we’ll put them through the same troubling exercise.

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I read an article about how language impacts a person’s thinking about time and space. Because it’s a rather long and involved article, I will not attempt to summarize it here. Instead, I’ll just provide this link and encourage interested readers to click on it to pursue a truly interested read.

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It’s nearing 6:00 a.m. in this new incarnation of time. The earlier approach of dawn will take some getting used to. But I will get used to it. And all will be right with the world.

We enjoyed dinner last night with two other couples. Each pair contributed to the feast, which included pulled pork, slaw, beans, and macaroni & cheese, followed by dessert. The weather forecast—which mentioned the possibility of fierce storms—and strong winds that seemed to support the forecast sent us home relatively early. Once we got home, the NOAA weather radio screeched several times, warning of dangerous weather and advising precautions against it. We heard the rain pound against the window. Lightning strikes and the resulting cracks of thunder shook the house, but the power did not fail, so we were able to continue watching the Icelandic crime drama,  Entrapped,  We are now on season 3 of the series, the first two seasons of which were entitled Trapped. Same location, same characters, same riveting storylines and, in my view, excellent acting. Once I get involved in Scandinavian mystery thrillers, I can watch them for hours and hours, nonstop. According to a website devoted to television and film (The Cinemaholic), the series was “filmed entirely in Iceland, specifically in Siglufjörður, Hafnarfjörður, Seyðisfjörður, Egilsstaðir, and Reykjavík.” Oh, how I wish I were fluent in multiple languages. Including Icelandic. Just so I could pronounce the names of those cities, towns, and villages. And the names of the characters. Like Andri’s daughter, Þorhildur.

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Finally, now that daytime temperatures have climbed back into the seventies, our gas-log fireplace insert is scheduled for installation on Monday. The inner workings of the logs in the fireplace when we bought the house were broken and unrepairable, so we bought a replacement set. We continue pouring money into the place and, I suppose, will continue to do so for quite some time to come. I continue working on my attitude about that reality, telling myself every investment or expense is improving the place; making home a little better and more comfortable day by day. And that’s true. We’ve decided to spend a rather considerable amount of money to create an oasis under the trees next to the house; grading the area to be a bit more level, adding huge flagstones to the area, and various other improvements. If the weather cooperates, the work will commence just before Christmas, assuming the planned schedule stays on track. In the meantime, I keep wrestling with the idea of buying a gas-powered leaf blower so I can keep up with the massive leaf-fall that already has begun. It’s either that or pay someone unrealistically high rates to do the work. In my opinion, the yard-maintenance guys seem to value their “skills” and time on par with cardiovascular surgeons, aeronautical engineers, and royalty. Such is life. The work continues. Every improvement, every item from the “to-do” list that’s completed, every cosmetic upgrade…they’re all making life more gratifying.

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I have developed an inexplicable interest in Michigan. I want to taste the cheeses made in Pinconning. I want to sit at a bar in an old tavern in a small town on the shores of Lake Huron and chew on blind robins. I want to listen to small-town conversations between life-long residents, as the participants eat smoked whitefish sausage. I want to watch the loading and unloading of ships in the ports of Cheboygan and Ludington and Calcite. So many other places…to watch and experience and about which to ruminate and wonder. My interest in Traverse City and Marquette grows with every passing day. My curiosity might be fully satisfied with just one trip to Michigan. Or it might require dozens of visits and hundreds of days and nights before I reach saturation. I think it’s too late in the year to consider making a long, meandering trip through Michigan; that sort of exploration should be undertaken in the spring or summer or very early fall. Not just days or weeks before frigid conditions might happen overnight, thereby upsetting the enjoyment of a road trip. Perhaps I should plan a meandering trip around the periphery of Arkansas, instead. And, of course, we must go north to Ohio within the next several months; I’ve been promising my nephew and his wife (and, now, my brother) I will visit. And I will. But not quite yet. Yet the road calls to me year-round. It beckons me. Lures me with the promise of excitement and exhilaration.

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If I were a woman, I believe I would take a firm stand against brassières. I would refuse to wear a garment that, based on complaints I have heard my entire life, is so damn confining and uncomfortable. Especially a garment that apparently was designed to disguise and/or hide a uniquely feminine attribute. I understand the concept of a woman wishing to stabilize her breasts when her body is in motion (like when she is jogging), but I do not understand the concept of other people expecting the woman to cage or otherwise constrain them. This is not my battle to wage, of course, but I am opinionated and, so, I speak my mind even when the matter at hand is none of my business. And there you are.

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I am ready to burst into the day, taking full advantage of the fact that I am alive. And I shall.

Until an epiphany a few minutes ago, my appreciation of and trust in the Associated Press (AP) was enormous. And they may remain so, but I’ll have to mull over my flash of insight before I reach any conclusions. As I skimmed the AP headlines, it suddenly occurred to me that the volume of sports stories on the AP website seemed at least equal to, if not greater than, the volume of pure “news” stories. From that realization emerged dark disappointment; how could an ostensibly legitimate news source give as much coverage, or more, to something so frivolous as the World Series or FIFA politics or an Eagles versus Texans football match? Just as quickly, though, my budding anger fizzled, replaced by yet another epiphany: the media have a responsibility to provide ways to escape the dreadful realities of the news they report. For some—many—people, sports provides that escape. Sports provides a pressure-relief valve to mitigate the stresses and horrors of current events. News about entertainment and science and technology, along with other news focusing on unnecessary diversions also provide outlets to relieve the pressures of life in modern times. BBC.com, another news resource to which I frequently turn, is just as frivolous, “reporting” on lifestyle matters, adventure travel, cooking and gastronomy in general, and other  topics that, I suddenly realize, are simply my diversions of choice. Just like sports are the diversions of choice for millions of others. My disdain for spectator sports (except the occasional baseball game, viewed from open-air stands, and some soccer matches, among others) is being replaced by embarrassment. Embarrassment that I have a tendency to mock sports fans for their mindless adoration of adults playing children’s games. Embarrassment that, until moments ago, I have not recognized the resemblance between my appreciation of “how to” or food-related news and others’ love of sports. I doubt this epiphany will translate into a dramatic increase in my respect for sports mania, but at least it gives me cause to ponder and reflect.

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Until yesterday, I had not given much thought to this year’s Thanksgiving day meal. But a friend’s mention of the possibility of a gathering on that day caused me to reflect on what I have done on Thanksgivings in the past. Before we moved to Chicago, we tended to celebrate with my parents and any of my siblings who happened to be nearby. Those family meals were the kind one would find in a Norman Rockwell painting. Later on, my late wife and I sometimes followed our national traditions, with turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce (whole berry for me, jellied stuff from a can for her), etc., etc. But our more frequent “traditional” meals were traditions of our own, just the two of us. We sought out celebratory meals from various other cultures. Thai, Indian, Russian, Spanish, Chinese, and various other “foreign” foods. Those celebratory meals were easier to come by when we lived in Chicago and Dallas. I think we had a Thanksgiving meal at a now-defunct Indian restaurant in Hot Springs a few short years ago, but otherwise our meals here have tended toward the broader traditions of the culture in which we live.

My life has changed in fundamental ways since those days of intense culinary adventure. But I miss those deliberate departures from American tradition almost every year, even though I continue to value the traditions I remember from the days when several members of my original family gathered. I suspect mi novia and I will develop our own unique traditions which may involve gathering with friends who, like us, are distant from our extended families. It’s interesting to me how the traditions of Thanksgiving and Christmas, especially, seem to revolve around food as much as the “meaning” of the holidays. Yet I use the occasions of those and some other holidays to reflect, privately, on matters of gratitude and loss and hope. Food provides both a physical and an intellectual setting for contemplating such important issues and ideas.

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My friend who is cruising north along the coast of Norway has achieved her dream of seeing the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights.  Viewing the photos of the phenomenon she posted on Facebook, I can imagine her excitement when, in the crisp, cold air on the ship’s deck, she first saw the green and gold and yellow atmospheric glow, the lights quivering like a thin, sheer curtain dancing in a light breeze. Whether my imagination reflects reality—whether my mind’s eye mirrors the way the lights appear—I do not know. Regardless of the accuracy of my imagination, I think I would stare in grateful appreciation if I were to see the Aurora Borealis myself.

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No sight is more provocative of awe than is the night sky.

~ Llewelyn Powys ~

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Open-minded. Broad-minded. Receptive to new ideas. Receptive to conflicting opinions. I like to think those words and phrases describe me, but too often I find myself firmly ensconced in an unwavering position informed only by my deeply opinionated beliefs. That intractability bothers me. It runs counter to my fantasy about who I am. When I am forced to admit my obstinance, I curse myself for allowing belief to crowd out reality without conducting adequate investigations into the facts of a matter. I suppose I have always known about these flaws in my personality, but I have attempted to ignore them. I have wanted to be better than to allow myself to give more weight to my opinions and beliefs than to verifiable facts. Perhaps by recognizing imperfections I can take steps to overcome them. Of course I can. But will I? I like to think I am malleable, adaptable, open to adjustment when exposed to different perspectives. Time will tell if that self-congratulatory attitude has merit.

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The scene behind my house, as viewed from the base of the stairs leading from the deck to the ground below. The place where serenity awaits.

True poetry is the linguistic expression of inspiration. Too often, though, language is manipulated into artificial poetry, a poorly disguised attempt at the real thing. The difference is the passion that drives true poetry. Obvious passion, sometimes, but at other times passion hidden beneath layers of stoic calm. Superficial poetry, on the other hand, is shallow stuff that attempts to disguise its emptiness by covering it with emotional bluster. I have written both kinds. When the real thing erupts, controlling it is impossible; it flows like a fast-moving stream through rapids or like an unstoppable river of magma, its heat impossible to quench. The fake pretender? It splashes aimlessly in an ocean just an inch deep and a foot across. With practice, one’s eyes can differentiate between the two, but only after being fooled a few times.

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All people are creative. Unfortunately, some of them do not understand or appreciate their creativity. Recognize it or not, though, they are creative. It’s just a matter of allowing it to express itself. Perhaps through painting. Or sculpture. Or cooking. Or carving wood. Or sewing comforters. Or writing. Or dreaming. Or in a thousand other ways. Coaxing crops out of the field. Nurturing ornamental plants. Raising livestock safely from fragile creatures into monstrous, powerful beasts. Designing buildings. Transforming ideas for buildings into structures that withstand time and weather. Capturing images through a camera lens. The possibilities are endless.

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My first job in association management began more than forty years ago. The organization that introduced me to then hitherto profession has undergone at least two transformations of its name since. Last night, I read that the association I knew as the National Association of Corrosion Engineers is now called the Association for Materials Protection and Performance, having merged with another organization, the Steel Structures Painting Council, SSPC. I remember my frustration when, a four or five years into my six years of employment there, I urged the volunteer leadership to explore the possibility of absorbing SSPC. It made such good sense, I thought, in that the two organizations seemed to duplicate one another’s efforts. But my urging was, at the time, a pipe dream. Such things take time. Obviously, they can take decades. The organization resulting from the merger is far larger and more sophisticated than the one I worked for. It has multiple offices around the world now. But its evolution was far too slow for my taste. I would have been bored to tears waiting forty years for progress to occur. And, as I learned over the course of my career, no matter how much energy and effort I might have put into the advancement of the organization and its members, I would never have been one of them. Like the staff of most associations, I always would have remained “hired help,” inferior and dispensable.

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Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.

~ T. S. Eliot ~

Finally, in a short while, I will return to the barber shop. I had my most recent haircut around the middle of August. I had scheduled a return visit for September 14, but I cancelled that date when our travel plans interfered. I could have rescheduled upon our return from our road trip, but I allowed myself to procrastinate. So, a month and a half beyond my “monthly” trim, I return. Today’s “trim” will be more than a trim. It will be more like a remodel. A revision to my appearance. My appearance will change more dramatically than I it would have, had I returned to the barbershop earlier. I wonder: will I ever stick with a regular schedule of barber visits? Or should I simply allow my hair to grow, unfettered, again?

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I am unprepared to write much. No matter that November, the month for writing books, has begun. I am unable to spur creativity. It remains dormant. Asleep and unwilling to awaken.  Today feels dreary, thus far. As if the world is awash in grey dust and fog.

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Ten years ago today, on her birthday, I wrote a short piece remembering my late sister, Mary Eleanor, or Melnor as we called her, who had died three years earlier. Eight months ago, on January 29, I wrote that my brother, Tom, had died that morning. And just six days before Christmas two years ago, Janine, my wife of almost 41 years, died after spending about five months between hospitals and so-called rehabilitation facilities. As I remember these people I loved, these missing pieces of my life, it occurs to me that grief is ever-present. We cannot avoid it. Though we know it stalks us, we try to outrun it. We try to outwit it. We try to cope with it. Coping with grief is impossible. We must simply let it wrap itself around us, squeezing us until all the tears have been wrung out of our bodies. Yet tears always return, perpetual reminders that loss cannot be outrun. Loss cannot be reasoned out of existence. We simply face it. Either we weather it or we don’t.

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Although the new big-screen television is dramatically larger than the one it replaced, I can imagine it will seem inadequate after viewing even larger screens. Two years hence, I suspect asserting the need for an 85-inch screen will occur; Scandinavian crime shows deserve to show themselves in all their enormous glory. Yet I can imagine living in a tiny house, instead, in which a 36-inch screen might seem monstrous. That little house, set far from the madding crowd, might seem like a luxurious refuge from a world spiraling into conspiracy-theory-propelled madness. If so, then I crave luxury. But I crave ascetic deprivation, too. And I seek meditative cures to mental maladies; I want to think my way out of a grey ball that resembles depression, but really  may be  unsatisfied greed. Greed need not be a thirst for material things. Greed may be a hunger for knowledge or understanding or acceptance of an imperfect world. What might the experience be like, sitting in a room with nothing to do but think and stare at four blank walls? Would boredom set in, or would one’s mind adjust to the lack of external stimuli by experiencing a lively inner world of its own creation? Or would one escape from the deprivation by forcing oneself to sleep? Odd, how acquisition of an enormous magnet for one’s attention can cause the mind to shrink back and into itself.

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My mind this morning wanders between contemplation and meditation. Between reflection and reverie. I can imagine spending the entire day sitting beneath a tree, listening to Plato’s teachings. Or dreaming of sitting, alone, on the deck of an abandoned ferry drifting in the frigid waters of the northern Atlantic off the coast of Iceland.  But I have obligations today. First, I have a doctor’s appointment. Later, I will help fellow church-goers by picking up and disposing of their recycling. And during the course of the day, I must deal with the intricacies of calculating and processing requests for required minimum distributions (RMDs) for the year.

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People who privately and quietly create or simply find beautiful, serene places in which to enjoy life have every reason to restrict access to their hidden retreats, because the rest of us hunger for placid places. And our appetites puts those hidden oases at risk. We want the benefits of their creators’ or discoverers’ visions, so we invade their sanctuaries. Our search for asylum transforms the peacefulness of those sanctums into frenzied replicas of the places we leave behind.  Whether quiet little towns, pristine natural wonders, or purpose-built, restricted-access communities, tension exists between “founders” and “intruders.”  The tension is understandable. Founders deserve to quietly enjoy the fruits of their creation or their discovery. But exclusivity is anathema to equality; we seem to insist that everyone should be free to experience all the wonders of existence on the planet. Yet we somehow manage to chisel out restrictions that satisfy almost everyone; our homes are our castles, open only to those we invite in. And we agree to share, otherwise. Public streets and public places are open to all. Some places, though, are subject to fierce disagreement and debate. Those places—home to the fortunate few, in many cases—always are in flux.  Ski resorts, for example, often are carved out of pristine near-wilderness. The lives of the people who live there, who may value the isolation, are disrupted when the area is invaded by people who want recreation, luxury accommodations, and all the amenities of a high-end resort. The same area, though, may be discovered by other groups, though, who want only the privacy and isolation that founders enjoy. Tension from three directions. Who, if anyone, should be given precedence?

These matters are on my mind this morning because I wish I could find that beautiful, private, serene, undisturbed place. But if I found it, I might ruin the quiet a “founder” might have discovered or created. And even if I took care to ensure the continuing privacy and quiet enjoyed by the founder, I can imagine fighting tooth and nail to keep others from invading my new-found private retreat. Where is the fairness in all this? It is not strictly about public property versus private property; it is about access to and enjoyment of both. The dilemma may be just another aspect of the Tragedy of the Commons, adapted to modern desires for the private enjoyment of…everything.

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The first person, who, having inclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, battles and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes would not that man have saved mankind, who should have pulled up the stakes, or filled up the ditch, crying out to his fellows, “Beware of listening to this impostor; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and that the earth itself belongs to nobody.”

~Jean-Jacques Rousseau ~

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Light filters through the trees, calling on me to complete my finger exercises and retreat to the kitchen in search for a suitable breakfast. And so I shall.

Shortly after I awoke this morning, I viewed a friend’s Facebook posts. She is cruising the coastline of Norway, absorbing the sights and sounds of a magical Scandinavian adventure. A few photos from her journey triggered a resurgence of my longing to visit places like Bergen and Stavanger and Trondheim and Oslo and Bodø and Lofoten and Geilo.  Though some of the places are only place-names to me, nothing more, they represent exposure to cultural experiences that fill me with excitement. I am not quite sure why I am so intrigued by the Norwegian experience; whatever stokes that interest, though, is quite strong. One of her dreams has been to view the aurora borealis, a dream I share. And I was glad to see she finally saw that spectacular phenomenon. Her cruise is taking her north, far beyond the Arctic Circle. That is a part of the world I think I would like to visit. I suggested to my friend that she pack me in her suitcase for the trip, but she rejected the idea for various reasons, including her legitimate belief I would cause her luggage to exceed weight restrictions. Known as Spitzbergen or Svalbard, that part of Scandinavia is among the world’s northernmost inhabited areas, where rugged tundra is home to Svalbard reindeer, Arctic foxes, and polar bears. The coastal area further south is home to one of my fictional characters, Kolbjørn Landvik, who I have incorporated into a few incomplete short stories. Kolbjørn is a man made of the same cloth as another of my characters, variously named Springer Kneeblood, James Kneeblood, and Calypso Kneeblood. That character may, in fact, be multiple characters who are related to one another by blood. One day, I may complete some of the stories about Kolbjørn that I have begun. When my friend returns from her trip, I hope to lure her to spend time with me and regale me with tales of her experiences so I can fantasize vicariously through her stories. Perhaps her experiences will find their way into my tales about Kolbjørn. Time will tell.

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Night before last, we went to a Halloween party organized by and at my church. In preparation for the event, mi novia bought several bags of candy she planned to take to the party. After we entered the building, I asked her if she had brought the candy inside with her. That’s when she realized we had left it at the house. Unprepared to return home in the driving rain to retrieve the candy, we left it where it sat on the kitchen counter. Ever since, we have allowed ourselves to consume far more candy than is healthy. I am not especially fond of sweets, but when sweets are within easy reach, I consume them. So it has been with the Halloween candy. Based on the amount of candy I have eaten since we returned from the party, I suspect I have gained a good five or ten pounds and elevated my levels of blood glucose by a factor of five…or more. As they say, though, you only live once. So, I have thrown caution to the wind and probably will continue to do so until the candy is removed from the house and delivered somewhere else, where it will contribute to others’ sugar highs. Where the hell has my discipline gone?

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Yesterday morning, instead of attending church, we spent time with a couple of landscapers we invited to view an area adjacent to the house where we hope to create an outdoor retreat. The idea is to transform the rather rough, uneven area into an oasis of sorts where we can place a fire pit and have seating. I envision an area with large flagstones set in a bed of gravel. Strings of lights would provide lighting and atmosphere suited to casual conversation and laughter. Except for the fact that I have been told to stay away from alcohol because of an episode of acute pancreatitis, I would imagine that I would sit in this outdoor oasis and drink wine. Damn health issues! It’s patently unfair that I cannot enjoy something I so appreciate without risk of spurring bodily outrage and the potential for a painful demise.  I think I’ll insist on doctors evaluating anew the diagnosis of acute pancreatitis. I suppose I can get used to the idea of trying non-alcoholic wine. I’ve gone three months without drinking alcohol, without withdrawal or other difficulty, so I suppose I can get used to the idea of abstinence for the rest of my life. Especially if I can consume medical cannibis  to assuage the pain as I sit among the trees. Somehow, though, the investment in creating an outdoor oasis is no longer quite as appealing as it once was. Perhaps I could get used to the idea of using the oasis as a place for my morning coffee; a place to sit outdoors and soak in nature. We shall see, we shall.

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Speaking of Scandinavian influences on my life experiences, we continue to watch Trapped, the first two seasons of which represent a prelude to the third season, which was released with a new title, Entrapped. I am absolutely enthralled with the Icelandic thriller. I find it interesting that the Icelandic characters easily shift from speaking Icelandic (pronounced ist.l̥ɛn.ska) to speaking English when non-natives enter their domains. According to Wikipedia, about 314,000 people speak the language, the vast majority of whom live in Iceland, where it is the official national language. But the language is not what I find so enthralling about the series. Much of the appeal of the series, for me, is the engaging storyline, coupled with the easy integration between the very modern Icelandic culture of places like Rekjavik and the semi-rural and rather isolated lifestyle of Siglufjörður, a fishing village in northern Iceland. As brutal as one assumes the weather in Iceland to be, it does not seem to me to be awful. In Rekjavik, for example, the highs year-round range from 36°F to 57°F and the lows range from 28°F to 49°F. The range in Siglufjörður is not much different. The film, though, shows periods when brutal snowstorms with fierce winds drive virtually everyone indoors. I assume the film depicts actual conditions in the village. And, I assume, the brutality of winters in Iceland is not due so much to temperatures as to wind and driven snow. Hmm. Worth exploring further.  Yet the weather is not the main story, either. The main story revolves around crimes, including murders, dismemberment, human trafficking, drugs, and the like…you know, the same sorts of things that make life in Arkansas so much like life in the rest of the United States. 😉

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Bad weather always looks worse through a window.

~ Tom Lehrer ~

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Without inner peace, outer peace is impossible. We all wish for world peace, but world peace will never be achieved unless we first establish peace within our own minds. We can send so-called ‘peacekeeping forces’ into areas of conflict, but peace cannot be opposed from the outside with guns. Only by creating peace within our own mind and helping others to do the same can we hope to achieve peace in this world.

~ Geshe Kelsang Gyatso ~

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

~ Khalil Gibran ~

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Absolute silence—the complete absence of even a hint of the slightest noise—is but a fantasy; an artificial reality that exists only in our imagination. Even if a person was placed in a sound-proof box, insulated on all sides with three feet of acoustic insulation and buried ten feet underground, the vibrations produced by the blood coursing through his veins and the air flowing in and out of his lungs would interrupt the serenity of silence. We deceive ourselves into thinking we have experienced pure silence; that experience simply represents a reduction in sound level or a purposeful dismissal of attention to noise, not its absence.

Listen. That sound is both decay and rebirth; fierce silence and the timidity of deafening noise. The absence of sound, if that were possible, would signal the rejection of everything that matters. Consider that the noise emanates from atoms and molecules slamming into one another. Those chaotic encounters cause ripples in space, triggering yet more sounds that form a natural symphony. Even when we sleep—when we experience what we believe to be quiet—the sounds go on and on and on. If ever we were  able to experience the emptiness that accompanies the absence of sound, we would be bereft; the experience would be like having our hearts and brains ripped from our bodies, leaving behind only quivering masses of dying cells. Pure, unmitigated silence is available only to the dead; but even they are subject to minute vibrations of their environments—though, of course, the dead are not conscious of sounds at the molecular level. Yet even in the absence of operating receptors of sound waves, the waves continue to interrupt the serenity of space.

It occurs to me that even total deafness does not equate to pure silence. The sound waves remain in play. I suspect that the simple act of thinking must cause miniscule reverberations in brain tissue that could/should be classified as sound. The more I think about this matter, the more thoroughly convinced I become that absolute silence is an impossibility; at least in the universe in which we live. Yet I long to experience that impossibility, if only for a moment. But that wish is contrary to reality. Just like everything else that conflicts with authentic existence, even silence is a fantasy.

Despite the futility of seeking real silence, I value both the endeavor and the outcome. Much like the hunter who fails in his pursuit of prey, the quest itself is enormously rewarding. Simply thinking of silence may be as gratifying as experiencing it.

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Today is Sunday. A few minutes before 7:00 a.m., I hear an airplane overhead. Noise that interrupts my quietude. But listening to the buzz of its engine makes me wonder what the pilot sees in the pre-dawn darkness. And why he or she is wandering the skies at this hour. I make up reasons the pilot wants or needs to be aloft. I imagine the purpose of the flight; delivering a freshly-harvested kidney to someone desperately in need of it. Or, perhaps, the plane was stolen by an inexperienced pilot who is now fleeing from law enforcement. I wonder why the cops are after her? Did she steal a piece of prized art from a Hot Springs gallery? Did he murder his wife’s paramour in a fit of rage and he is now running, hoping to escape his inevitable capture? Or is it more mundane…returning a wealthy family to Kansas City after a Saturday meeting with a financial advisor? If I could ask the pilot, I would. But I can’t. So I won’t. And I won’t let my inability to get to the bottom of it ruin my day. I just won’t.

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I am in the mood for a thick, juicy steak. Or some superb sushi. Or a bowl of miso soup. But my mood will be ignored when it’s time for breakfast.

The Subaru, a 2016 model, is seven years old, having been purchased around the last quarter of 2015. Its odometer reads something like 104,000 miles. Its tires are showing signs of wear, sufficient to warrant consideration of replacing them. The car’s second battery just died; the first one lasted three years, the second one a year longer. Tiny pockmarks on its windshield offer evidence of its many miles on roads laden with sand and gravel and other enemies of smooth, clear glass.

Paragraphs like the one above emerge from desire, not from need. They flow from a thirst that can only be quenched by forcing rationality to overcome unreasonable greed. That’s what “new car fever” is all about; greed. And desire stoked by clever marketers who know how to plant the seeds of want deep inside one’s psyche. The cure for this unhealthy lust for something new and exciting and decidedly different is forced rational thought. The potential impact of surrendering to this unbridled hunger is enormous. It is fraught with danger, including the risk of financial disruption. So, the thing to do is this: publicly announce one’s commitment to keep the Subaru until the cost of maintaining it equals or exceeds the cost of replacing it. But circumstances that run the gamut from soup to sirloin could derail such a commitment; so, it’s better to leave that pledge chained in the proverbial basement until absolutely necessary. And, in the interim, exercise restraint.

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Partisans tend to be blind to the dangers presented by their ideological brethren. While clear-eyed with respect to the menace posed by their opponents, their senses are dulled with respect to their allies. People whose political mindsets mirror mine tend to readily acknowledge the dangerous lunacy of the reactionary right; but they dismiss the potential for violence instigated by their progressive supporters. And, of course, the opposite is true; conservatives tend to reject the possibility that people on their “side” could do irrevocable harm to human decency. The unpleasant reality of today’s political climate is that the majority of people in the two largest political camps turn a blind eye to the damage done by their peers. For those of us who recognize this reality, the best response is to insist that both sides tone down the rhetoric that stoke violent and/or dangerous behaviors. But I am not optimistic that anything will come of it; except more indefensible violence.

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Rain. This time, I hope, more than a brief and utterly inadequate shower. I would be delighted to see, when dawn finally breaks, that the pine needles covering the street in front of the house have washed away. And I want to see the grass, now parched and thirsty, soften and bend as roots soak up moisture and deliver it where it is needed most. I hear the rain on the roof and the sound of water flowing through the gutters and downspouts. I understand rain worship. I appreciate the dozens of rain deities, though I am especially intrigued by Zeus, the Greek god of sky and thunder and the ruler of the gods of Mount Olympus.  I would like to deliver a speech, which I would open with these words: “I have a personal relationship with Zeus, the god of thunder and the ruler of Mount Olympus…” I do not know why the idea intrigues me so; it just does. Living a fantasy is so much more appealing than reading someone else’s ideas about fantasies.

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Last night, we sought out and finally found Trapped, the Icelandic-language series which represents the first two seasons that morphed into Entrapped, the title given to the third season’s episodes. Entrapped is available on Netflix; Trapped is available on Amazon Prime. I suspect collusion between Amazon Prime and Netflix; watching the first three seasons of the series requires subscribing to both services. Though I already subscribe to both, the requirement that I do so in order to watch three consecutive seasons is an affront to human decency. Well, it may not be quite that bad, but it’s fundamentally wrong. At any rate, we’re well into watching Trapped. I managed to stay awake last night. Thus far, my review of the two series (based on what I have seen) is quite positive. I recommend both, based on my limited exposure to them.

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The climate is punishing us. It is forcing us to confront a reality we desperately want to avoid. Its public face, weather, is changing so fast we cannot keep track of it. I suspect we will either wither in perpetual drought or drown in unceasing rain. Or we will roast in the sun’s heat or freeze as glaciers reclaim continents they long ago lost.  In the meantime, we will pretend nothing untoward is happening. Until denial is no longer an option.

There is no forgiveness in nature.

~ Ugo Betti ~

There was a time when I would have said I believe the development of technology should not be harnessed by bureaucracy. I would have said developers of technologies should not be restrained by unfounded fears about its misuse. I would have bristled at the idea of imposing limits on the application of technologies.

If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.

~ C. S. Lewis ~

But I now realize just how powerful technology has become. Or, rather, how clever some unscrupulous users of technology have become. My change of heart came as a result of several abuses of technology. First, the ways in which social media, especially Facebook and Twitter, have been used to drive public opinion to either the political/social right or left. Second, the manipulation of audio and video files to mislead listeners/viewers into believing they are seeing/hearing a person make statements the speaker never made. I now am very much in favor of well-conceived regulations that attempt to control such abuses. And I have grown skeptical of users of technology. By extension, I have grown suspicious of technology, not just its application; its development merits monitoring and management to protect society from itself. Technology is innocent, but often people who apply it are not. Technology is simply a tool that can be misused to do great harm. A hammer can drive nails into wood; and it can break windshields and crack skulls.

Hmm. As I think about the comparison between technology and hammers, it occurs to me that regulations do not prevent broken windshields and cracked skulls. Will bureaucratic restraints, then, limit that harm done by technology? Perhaps it’s not regulation of the tool that’s needed. Perhaps it’s a complete revamping of the environment in which it’s used. That is a task whose implementation will take far longer than the time available to it.

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My presence on Twitter over the years has been minimal, at most. Learning the news that Elon Musk has completed his acquisition of the company and fired its CEO, CFO, and others, my immediate reaction was to think the company’s ownership is irrelevant to me. But thinking about it for just a moment, my laissez faire response transformed into one of  concern. The fact that the world’s richest man now has control over a social media platform with such enormous power to shape public opinion bothers me. The fact that a multi-billionaire who exhibits an unhealthy conservatism now controls a mechanism that feeds “news” to such a huge population of users bothers me.

I do not want the world to be controlled by rich egotists. I do not want public discourse to be moderated by someone whose motives are cloudy, but whose self-interest is almost certainly behind the purchase. What I want and what I get are not necessarily in synch, though. Money talks. I sometimes loathe the “free market,” the economy that rewards greed and promotes the idea that all value is determined by monetary worth. No, not sometimes. Always.

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We began watching Entrapped last night. The Icelandic film, I learned this morning, is actually season three of Trapped. Entrapped involves the disappearance of a member of a cult. I have decided we should try to find Trapped, and watch it, before we go back to Entrapped. The “third season” might make more sense, though it flows well and does not seem to be untethered, the way some programs can. At any rate, I drifted in and out of sleep while trying to watch Entrapped. The film was not at fault; it was mine, entirely.

The last few nights, we have dipped our toes into various films and series with little success. After getting so engrossed in truly interesting series and films, viewing lately has been hit and miss. In scanning my “want to watch” list, it’s apparent I’ve become addicted to Scandinavian films, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts. But not just Scandinavian. Foreign language films; Spanish, Italian, German, British, etc.  I don’t remember which one it was, but I recall watching something set in Finland; in and around Helsinki, I think. There’s something about many of the foreign films and series I’ve seen lately that is fundamentally more appealing than most American-made products. The creators of those products have canned something I cannot quite describe, but whose taste is quite nice.

But maybe we’ll try some more American-made stuff. Yesterday, a friend recommended An Unfinished Life, which is now on my list to watch on Amazon Prime. We’ll give that a shot one of these days before long. In the meantime, mi novia will find time to watch Sons of Anarchy, which she rented a day or two ago. I may join her from time to time, even though I’ve seen it. It is among my favorite series; very near the top.

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Men are rather reasoning than reasonable animals, for the most part governed by the impulse of passion.

Alexander Hamilton

And with that, I will climb into the day to see what I can see.

The task of completing the house in which we live is a never-ending process. I tire of looking at unfinished wood trim. I grow weary of noticing the intersections of walls and doors, where old paint is exposed next to the new color, thanks to adjustments made to door jambs and frames. The kitchen sink is an affront to good taste and practicality. I suspect I could spend another $50,000, just to deal with all the little—and not-so-little—things that remain incomplete. If I were more energetic and if my limbs were more limber, I could complete most of the remaining unfinished items in a week or so. But I am lethargic and brittle. I have grown lazy over the past three or four years, leaving me wishing I could find capable, reliable, dedicated, and affordable workers to do what I should do myself. But people with the attributes I seek exist only in my imagination. If I could find a way to live in that fantasy-land around the clock, my problems would be solved. But, alas, that search is nothing but hallucination on top of delusion; a mirage that disappears as I inch close to it. By the time I’m where I think that vision should be, it has turned to transparent vapor, leaving no more than a trace of what I thought I saw. Oh, the jobs eventually will be done. But by that time, normal wear and tear will have taken their toll, requiring the expenditure of more efforts, efforts that have slipped into physical bankruptcy. My optimism is being held under water, against my will; I cannot allow myself to drown in unfulfilled promises I make to myself.

+++

I conducted “interviews” with my remaining siblings yesterday, my two brothers and my sister. They went well, except for the fact that I failed to hit “record” before launching into the first interview, the one with my oldest brother. I hope I can remember enough about his comments to reconstruct the conversation. During the conversations, I realized I should have set aside more time for each of them. And I realized how important it will be for the four of us to follow up with a group conversation. My intent is to capture memories from our respective childhoods, thereby allowing me to paint a picture of my family’s life from the earliest days of my siblings’ childhoods to the present. That may be a more demanding task than I initially thought. Time will tell. Given my perpetual state of laziness, I may have to shift priorities between getting the house “fixed up” and documenting histories about which I know little and recall even less. One way or the other, I hope I can muscle through my projects; I could use the boost to my morale that completing a project or two might give me.

+++

The appeal of television and film—even the best of the genres—is slipping of late. I train my eyes on the screen and promptly lose my focus on the program I am watching. Though I am not asleep, I want to be. I do not have much interest in watching even stuff I found riveting only a few months ago. As I sit on the loveseat, I daydream about sleeping, instead. I imagine taking a nap that lasts days or even weeks; a long rest from which I would awake feeling energized and enthusiastic about everything around me. But weeks-long naps are out of the question. I will have to dredge up my energy and enthusiasm some other way. It will come. It always does; sometimes, it just takes longer than usual. My state of weariness may be a sign that I need some uninterrupted rest; time that requires nothing more of me than to loll about the house without obligations of any kind. Or it may be a symptom of mild depression, which I hope will dissolve in response to the tiny sertraline (AKA Zoloft) pills prescribed by my doctor’s nurse practitioner.

+++

Speaking of depression, the appearance of what seems to be growing Republican momentum is troubling to me. All I can do, though, is to vote. And to let others know my stance on political races: unless I have substantial and defensible reason to do otherwise, I will vote for Democrats and democratic ideals. Some Democratic candidates, though, are so off-putting that I would rather vote for either a Libertarian or withhold my vote all together. For example, John White is running for Congressional District 4 against Republican incumbent Bruce Westerman and Libertarian challenger Gregory Maxwell. White’s positions are more offensive to me than Westerman’s. Depending on further assessment, I will vote either for Maxwell or will withhold my ballot in the race.  But my vote, especially in Arkansas, does not make much difference. Except to me and to my sense of self-worth. That sense of self-worth notwithstanding, I am afraid Republicans are poised to retake the House and the Senate, turning the remaining two years of Biden’s term into an exercise in futility, thanks to Republican obstructionism.

My tendency to lean Democrat does not mean that I am a Democrat. I usually vote Democrat because my philosophies are in much closer alignment to Democrats than to Republicans. But my world-view sometimes conflicts with elements of the Democratic platform. I believe blind adherence to a party platform, regardless of the party, is tantamount to shirking one’s responsibility for determining for oneself the best way to support practical solutions to problems facing us. Partisanship, especially partisanship fueled by chanting confrontational slogans, tends to put distance between logic and morality.

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I am to be referred to a rheumatologist. The reason has to do with the expansive worsening of muscle and joint pain. I hope the referral comes soon.

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The Swedish tradition of fika—something like an official, almost enforced, coffee break—is said to be among the reasons Swedish workers are, by and large, happy and live with less stress than their counterparts around the world. I say we should adopt the idea here. Thinking of fika makes me long for a cinnamon role and another cup of dark, rich coffee. Actually, I would love an espresso, although I think a triple or quadruple espresso is what I’m really after. And a croissant or an apple fritter or a jalapeño-sausage kolache would be just fine, if cinnamon roles are not available. For the moment, though, I think I’ll have to settle for cereal or a piece of avocado toast. And, with that, I’m off to launch into Thursday.

As I skimmed Facebook posts yesterday, I came across one that tickled my fancy. Ostensibly, the post represented the way young children who are learning the English language compensate when they encounter situations or circumstances for which their command of the language has not yet prepared them. Whether the examples are legitimate or not, I liked them. Some of the ways the kids compensated are:

• • Panic water: Used when the child could not remember the word, “tears.”
  • Water zoo: Used when the child could not conjure the word “aquarium.”
  • Hibachi breakfast: A child’s term for “Waffle House.”
  • Jesus stores: Instead of “churches.”
  • Loud period: A child’s alternative for “exclamation point.”
  • Foot waist: The term a child used for “ankle.”
  • Beach chickens: “Sea gulls,” to the clever child.
  • Leg elbow: The knee, I assume.

When I am able to find humor in such stuff, either I feel safe and secure or I am using every opportunity to find the distraction that will lead, eventually, to mental salvation. I have reason to believe a sense of safety and security is responsible for my mood, yet I must acknowledge my thirst for distraction and the deliverance it will bring. Emancipation from both the pleasure and the pain of long, awkward moments when one finds it impossible to put into words an experience that one finds both terrifying and exhilarating. Just another inexplicable moment in my brain.

+++

Today, I will “interview” my three remaining siblings, via Zoom, to place into the record their memories of certain aspects of their (and my) childhood and development through young adulthood (and, perhaps, even later…depending on how the interviews go). From my perspective, it is important to mine their memories, beginning with the early days of my family’s history; because my memories of those times is extremely spotty. And I want to get three different perspectives on some moments in our collective histories about which we all have some memories.  Today, I have set aside one hour, back-to-back, for the three interviews. That may be insufficient. If so, later I will revisit and extend the interviews, if my siblings are amenable. My interest in the genealogical history over the course of multiple generations of my family is not strong. But I have a healthy and growing interest in learning more about the history of my immediate family. Perhaps this little endeavor will satisfy my thirst for knowledge. Perhaps not. We shall see. I am looking forward to hearing what I will hear in the next few hours.

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I came across a promotion for an event that I think I may  attend: Buddhism 101, sponsored by the Hot Springs Buddhist Society. The information I found (from a Facebook event link) does not mention registration, so I assume it’s open for drop-ins. If that assumption is correct, I expect I’ll attend: December 8, 5:30-7:30 pm at the Garland County Library. Though I have some limited familiarity with Buddhism, I have never truly absorbed what I have learned; perhaps learning in a setting dedicated to that purpose will help the knowledge “stick” this time. Buddhism is not a religion, in my view (and, most likely, in the views of others more knowledgeable than I); it is a practice. Adopting the practices of Buddhism could well provide a guided route to greater serenity. My own serenity is under my control. I know that. But accepting that is far simpler than adopting it as an attitude and a discipline. Every time I learn or re-learn something about Buddhism, I feel that I am getting nearer to understanding myself.

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Season 9 of The Blacklist is behind us. Thankfully. Though when the series began it was interesting and kept my attention, the longer it has played out, the less interesting it became. I suppose that was due to the fact that the stories became increasingly outlandish and the characters’ interactions between one another lost any shred of believability. By the time those flaws became apparent, though, we were so deeply invested in the series that it would have seemed wasteful to abandon it. So we suffered through the recent badly-conceived seasons and their absurd episodes. I suppose we will watch season 10, as well, but first we will explore other opportunities for entertainment.

After ending the viewing marathon of The Blacklist, we watched a movie called Lou. It was okay, though some important matters were hidden until late in the film, which spoiled its structure, in my opinion. After Lou, we watched 21 Bridges.  Last night, after trying to remember that film, we decided it was mind-numbingly tolerable, but not memorable enough for us to say we liked it…or not. A “docu-drama” entitled, Lost Girls, came next. Again, tolerable for entertainment but not something that grabbed me because…well, because it wasn’t that interesting. The writing, in my opinion, was rather dull and the acting was decidedly average. Better than I can act, but mediocre at any rate. We then turned to a Polish series, The Green Glove Gang. We watched three episodes; I am getting comfortable with it, but I am certain I would enjoy something else far more—if I just knew what that something else might be. Let me hasten to add I know there are dozens of films I want to see; films I will enjoy. But matching my moods to the films available to fit them can be quite a challenge. It will happen, I am sure. Perhaps a return to generic Scandinavian police procedurals or Norwegian political dramas will capture my interest. We shall see.

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And, now, for a snippet of pointless fiction that came from, and is going, nowhere.

Calliope Lathrop wept when her mother announced the decision to sell. “But Mama,” little Calliope whined, presenting the most pitiful, twisted face she could muster, “I need that water zoo. I can’t sleep unless it’s next to my bed.”

“You should have thought about that before now, young lady! You haven’t cleaned it up since we bought it. And I’ve had to remind you every day to feed the fish. No, I’m selling that tank and all the fish in it. That’s final!”

And it was. Clandestra Lathrop placed an ad in Craig’s List: “50-gallon fresh water zoo, complete with pump, gravel, decorative plants, and ten fish. $225.“

Skeeter Maplecutter offered $200 and Clandestra Lathrop accepted immediately. Panic water streamed down Calliope Lathrop’s cheeks when Maplecutter left the house with the empty water zoo and several bags of squiggling, live fish. Clandestra watched as panic water etched her daughter’s cheeks.

“I told you, young lady!  Didn’t I tell you?!”

The silent stare, Calliope’s response, should have warned Clandestra. But if it did, she failed to act on her apprehension.

Two days later, when Clandestra and Calliope strolled along the waterfront, Calliope stopped and pointed to a distant flock of birds gathered at the water’s edge. “Aren’t those beach chickens?” she asked.

“Ugh!  I hate those filthy creatures! They’re good for nothing but eating discarded French fries. Don’t encourage them.”

But Clandrestra’s admonition to her daughter was too late. Calliope had already motioned to the birds to come do her bidding. The birds—twenty-eight of them—strafed Clandestra in rapid succession. One by one, the birds flew past her, slashing at her with open-beaks. Each of the birds made a second pass, after which Clandestra’s face was marred by fifty-six deep gashes, blood flowing from each.

“Damned beach chickens! I hate those damned birds!” Clandestra shouted, wiping the blood from her face. Screaming, as if her words would have some effect, she tried to get the birds’ attention. And, apparently, it worked. Her declaration of loathing apparently sparked a rage reaction in some of the birds.  They returned in precisely-timed sorties, tearing at Clandestra’s face and neck with each pass.

Her mother’s failed efforts to push the birds away may have caused Calliope a tinge of regret. But if it did, it was short-lived. And it was not the kind of regret that accompanies compassion. No, it was the sort of regret that a jewelry thief feels when he leaves a particularly valuable stone behind.

And thus ends an especially long and unnecessary blog post.

The news from my visit to the oncologist yesterday was as I had hoped: nothing new. No changes; no indications of anything untoward taking place at the cellular level, no need to be concerned in the least. So, consuming the barium slurry had a positive outcome.

But before I could celebrate, I had to deal with my car’s battery, which died in the parking lot of the oncology clinic. Thanks to my AAA membership, I got a jump start within fifteen minutes of making a call. (My call, by the way, was answered by an automaton and the rest of my interactions were based on a smart-phone app texted to me by the AAA automaton.) The live tow-truck driver, Dustin, suggested I go to Walmart to get a new battery; best prices and good service, he said. So I did. I went to Walmart on Central, where I was told they had a battery in stock and it would take in the neighborhood of thirty minutes to handle the exchange. Mi novia, who had met me at the oncology clinic and who followed me to Walmart, took me out for lunch while the battery was being replaced. During lunch, I got a text, then a phone call, from Walmart. “Oops. We do not have the battery in stock, after all. But we called the Albert Pike store, and they confirm they have one.” So, we finished lunch and mi novia dropped me off at the Walmart on Central. I drove to the Albert Pike store, where I was told the wait would be two hours. It was more like thirty minutes. Though it’s always a pain to deal with dead batteries, yesterday’s experience was a lesson in gratitude. I was grateful that AAA was so responsive and that Dustin, the tow truck driver, came to my aid so quickly. And I was grateful that I was able to get a new battery; even though it was a more involved process than I would have liked, it was relatively painless, and it did not rob me of an entire day. In hindsight, I was quite fortunate to be wrestling with the effects of a dead battery than with the effects of a resurgence of cancer or the effects of a military invasion of the place where I live.

The lesson in gratitude was this: if one puts one’s experiences in context, one will find that there is reason for being grateful, even when circumstances are not “ideal.” Though things could always be better, they also could be considerably worse. Context and comparisons can be used either to complain or to celebrate; it’s a matter of choice.

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I sometimes regret agreeing to do things I once claimed I would like to do. Odd, isn’t it?

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Incivility in the political arena disturbs us. We fret about politicians modeling uncivil behaviors, worried that impressionable young people will imitate the interactions they see, thereby being molded into rude bullies who lack compassion. Though politicians deserve some of the blame, most of the culpability for bad behavior falls to the rest of us. We allow civility to be cast aside in favor of doing as much damage to our political opponents as possible. Debates in which participants must articulate and defend their policies are too tame for us. We prefer to watch and listen as “our candidate” verbally assaults their opponent, inflicting mortal wounds with weapons crafted from lies and half-truths. Yet when the other side lands painful blows, we complain about the demise of civility on the public stage. We are hypocrites. We accuse the other side of playing dirty politics, but we find ways to defend our own abusive gamesmanship, claiming we had no choice but to use every political weapon in our arsenal—considering how the other side “started it.” Like children, we lay blame elsewhere in defense of our own misbehaviors.

Taking sides in political contests leaves me feeling dirty and exposed, as if I were the ugly partisan. And, of course, when I take sides, I am the ugly partisan. Rather than support a specific candidate—and rather than attack one—the honorable thing to do is to take a stand in favor of (or in opposition to) a particular position and/or philosophy. We claim we do that today. I think we lie about that. We prefer to see ourselves as principled supporters of ideas, but the reality is that we may like or loathe ideas, but we are far more passionate about the people behind them.

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Rain. I worship water from the sky.

I am making this up. Except I’m mixing reality with fantasy. I am not prepared to reveal what is real and what is decidedly false. So here I go.

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The light beige liquid is cold. Try as they might, the producers of the stuff could not completely mask its chalky characteristics. Instead, they tried to conceal them by disguising the barium mixture behind an artificial taste vaguely reminiscent of a sweet coffee drink. The pharmaceutical grade liquid, which looks a bit like congealed, viscous cream, comes in a plastic bottle. The instructions command me to consume half the liquid two hours before the procedure. I am to drink the remainder an hour in advance. As I drink the first half, I get the distinct sense that this liquid mocha “treat” is heavier, by volume, than molten lava. I feel it—though it might be my imagination—racing down my esophagus and into my stomach, the speed of its descent enhanced by its weight and by the fact that the stuff is slippery. I hate to even think it, but I cannot help but feel like barium has a consistency very similar to phlegm; with that thought in mind, drinking it is not as easy as I had hoped. I manage to get the first half bottle down, in spite of the sensations that surround my consumption of the radioactive slurry.

And, after that first half bottle, I wait for an hour. I sit and wait to see how my body reacts to the heavy liquid attempting to fill me with nuclear…something. Did I consume isotopes,  I ask myself? What is the half-life of the stuff I just drank, I wonder? Will the magical atomic flood enable radiographers to see through me? To make the subterfuge worthwhile? Or is this entire process simply a diversion, a way to distract me from something strange and sinister? I cannot allow myself to think such things. It is unhealthy to attribute malevolent motives to radiographers and the technicians who manipulate their patients. What possible reason would they have for tricking me into believing all these processes and procedures are legitimate if they are, in fact, unnecessary? If I try hard enough, I am confident I could con some QAnon adherents into believing the doctors and nurses and techs who surround me before and during and after my CT scan are political operatives. People whose objectives are immoral and dangerous to life as we know it. But the idea of confusing QAnon simpletons has very little appeal. It would be too easy, I reason. I should do something more difficult. Like convince people who have known me for eight or ten years that, despite the stories I have told to the contrary, I retired in 2011 as a CIA field agent. The boring story about my association management career, I could tell them, was just cover. My claims about living in Dallas were just part of the plan, I might say. In fact, I lived for five years deep in the Bolivian forests with an indigenous family. There, I carefully watched drug lords oversee the cultivation and harvesting of opium poppies. I monitored the transition from vegetation to potent drug. And I fed false information to Mexican and Columbian cartels, courtesy of the Drug Enforcement Administration. Ah! Those were the days! Living in the jungles of Central and South America, wearing only a loincloth and clenching a bone-handle knife in my teeth and carrying a deadly weapon—a spear carved from a tusk of a now-extinct sabre-tooth tiger.

Only 18 more minutes until I am to consume the second half of the bottle of coffee-flavored phlegm. Time is creeping along slowly, as if speed is the enemy of distance. Perhaps I should explain that. But I cannot find the words. The best I can do is this: “as if speed is the enemy of distance” Those words just sound right, as if they were designed to convey a sense of hallucinogenic confusion. They are up to the task. They work. They deserve the Distinguished Flying Cross for “heroism or extraordinary achievement while participating in an aerial flight.” Except they were not involved, directly, in an aerial fight. Instead, they sent unmanned drones into battle. The world changes. We adjust and adapt.

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Time to drink more goo.

Yesterday morning, as my sister-in-law and I were heading into Hot Springs for pre-dawn breakfast, I gazed up at the sky through the open moon roof. My head back and eyes trained on the clear sky above, midway between warm and cool, the sheer number of stars shocked me. It had been quite a while since I stared upward at the darkness of a crystal clear night sky. Yet time disappeared as I looked skyward. That remarkable view brought back to me a feeling of wonder and awe, the same sense of amazement I have felt so many times before. There were too many stars to count as I stared in reverence and contemplated the meaning of distance. I doubt I am alone in confronting the impossibility of comparing the distance between Hot Springs and Havana, Cuba (roughly 1000 miles) to the distance between stars. Proxima Centauri, the star closest to Earth (aside from the sun) is 4.246 light years from Earth. I tried to convert the distance measure of 1000 miles to light years; the resulting number: 1.70108e-10. Just like the visual effect of staring the blanket of uncountable stars above, the intellectual effect of trying to comprehend the distance between Hot Springs and Havana, Cuba was mind-boggling. This morning, I stepped outside into the ink-black darkness and looked skyward; no stars. Cloud cover hid the thousands of stars I saw yesterday. The fact that one cannot depend on experiencing the awe of a clear night sky every night makes it imperative to go out and look as often as possible. We do not want to miss the chance of seeing a jewel-strewn sky. Good fortune comes to those who seek it out with fervor.

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The population of Earth today is roughly 7.753 billion. The United Nations says the population of the planet one hundred years ago, in 1922, was between 1.86 billion and 2 billion. Assuming exactly the same rate of growth as between 1922 and 2022, the population one hundred years hence will be in the neighborhood of 22.3015 million. Gandhi once said “The world has enough for everyone’s need, but not enough for everyone’s greed.” Various groups of scientists have produced estimates of the planet’s “carrying capacity,” the maximum population size an environment can sustain indefinitely. Those estimates, according to an undated Australian Academy of Science paper, range from ≤2 billion (obviously wrong, given Earth’s current population) to ≤1024 billion. The majority of studies (20 studies) though, suggest ≤8 billion (20 estimates) or  ≤16 billion (14 estimates). The lower of those two figures is a little terrifying, given how close we are to 8 billion right now. Many (perhaps most) demographers acknowledge that the planet can sustain a number greater than today’s population, but they also seem to be concerned that the tipping point, though unknown, is near. I continue to be a proponent of the thinking of Thomas Malthus. While Malthus may have gotten the timeline and the numbers wrong, I think his logic is far stronger than today’s proponents of allowing population to grow exponentially. Malthus suggested that, if unchecked, people breed “geometrically” (1, 2, 4, 8, 16, etc.). But he said the production of food can only increase “arithmetically” (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc.). Again, he may have been “off” with his numbers, but his theoretical underpinnings were correct, I think. The idea that the supply of Earth’s resources will somehow magically expand to meet the demands of overpopulation is absurd. Utter nonsense. Mind-numbingly stupid. Okay. I may be slightly judgmental on this subject. So be it.

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We had lunch yesterday at the Pasta Grill in Russellville. The place is a moderately upscale Italian restaurant. Worth a visit. As is Leonard’s Ace Hardware in Russellville. Leonard’s is a truly “old-style” hardware store, a big, cavern-like building stuffed to the rafters with damn near anything one could expect to find in a hardware store. I could wander its aisles for days. I could empty my bank accounts and those of a hundred wealthy Villagers, if I released the hold I’ve placed on my urge to buy; were I to permit myself to do it, I could spend millions of dollars, just in pocket knives and power tools. Before we left yesterday, we had picked up a set of four telescoping metal marshmallow forks (because everyone needs telescoping metal marshmallow forks). I also bought a few peg-board hooks, obscenely overpriced…to the extent that the cost of the hooks with which to hang tools is approaching the cost of the tools themselves.

The drive to Russellville was unplanned. We just got in the car and went. We wandered up Highway 7 until we got to Highway 314, which took us to Highway 27, which led us through Rover and Danville and Ranger and Chickalah and Dardanelle. Nice drive. Very little traffic. Just relaxing. A calming getaway.

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Today, we will go to church. Afterward, we will go to lunch with some folks from church. And, then, we will come home and I will mull over what tasks I should tackle and in what order. And I will think about tomorrow’s CT scan and my visit with my oncologist. I look forward to the time when she will say to me, “You’re cancer-free.” That statement requires five consecutive years in which there is no evidence of cancer’s return. That’s a year and  a month from now. I just hope my good fortune continues, so I can hear those words and feel a bit of weight fall from my shoulders. Although if I got word that cancer had returned, I would not be panic-stricken or otherwise devastated; it would just be a setback I would have to address. Either I would overcome it or it would overcome me. A simple, if deeply concerning idea.

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Enough for now. I now need to shave, shower, and dress suitably for church. I believe flip-flops, shorts, and a ragged t-shirt should be adequate, but I live among people who are not quite as savage as I.

After a short brush with winter, temperatures are beginning to moderate; proving, again, that the third week of October can remain harsh and summer-like. Although, to be fair, 61°F does not feel especially summer-like. The expected high of 81°F, though, may remind me that summer remains on the prowl.

My sister-in-law is taking me out for breakfast this morning, in celebration of my birthday, which was yesterday. We’re going to the Track Kitchen, an operation that originally was set up for the jockeys, trainers, and other people deeply enmeshed in horse-racing and related equine endeavors. I still find it difficult to believe that, for the last forty years or so, I have climbed steadily and certainly toward the precipice of geezerhood. It is hard to determine the precise moment when the journey toward age discrimination began. Perhaps it was at age 18, when my obligation to vote and take up arms in defense of my country’s imperialist impulses commenced. Or maybe it was at age 21, when I was permitted to consume alcohol, legally, in a pointless attempt to deaden the pain of knowing my pedigree—as a member of Western civilization for whom war and war-like behavior was and is a significant aspect of my heritage.

But that’s not the topic for today’s breakfast, is it? No, today’s topic revolved around a post-birthday celebratory breakfast. That is, just a happy acknowledgment of the pleasures associated with early breakfast. The Track Kitchen opens at 6:30, about an hour later than a breakfast eatery should open for business but at least a couple of hours earlier than most other so-called breakfast eateries. My sister-in-law and I should arrive about the time the doors open, so our breakfasts will be among the first ones prepared today. I am willing to be a guinea pig in the name of flavor. And off we go, in just a matter of minutes.

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Some mornings, I realize I have the freedom to simply drive away. Just disappear into the early morning darkness. I have the freedom, but with it comes the realization that exercising it would be an act of extreme cruelty. I cannot imagine behaving in such a cruel and callous way. Yet the appeal of anonymity is incredibly strong. The obscurity that accompanies being a complete stranger has a ferociously strong appeal. But overcoming that attraction is a stronger obligation than is yielding to it.

All of us have more freedom than we are willing to acknowledge. Our freedoms are broader and more beautiful and dangerous than we know. We have the capacity to upend our own lives and the lives of countless others around us. All we need do is step out the door and keep going…ignoring the expectation that we will return…dismissing the hideous torture to which we would thereby expose people who matter to us. The allure of anonymous freedom is rarely strong enough to make us act on it. The appeal of blending in with grey crowds in distant places simply does not have the power to easily overcome empathy, compassion, love, and all the other emotional strings that tie us to the lives we live.  But the fantasy of expunging our existence…the illusion that we could erase all previous experience and eliminate in others the memory of our existence…remains. Even in the face of knowing that any attempt at erasure would unleash emotional firestorms capable of melting entire galaxies. And, so, we secretly dream, despite knowing we have been sentenced to life. On we go.

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Darkness persists. The forest creatures wait. They will watch us drive away, soon, and they will watch when we return in full daylight.

Bona fide creativity is thick and bulky and as rare as ice on the surface of the sun.  Creativity—the real stuff, not the version made of artificial ideas bent and shaped to look authentic—is in short supply. Stand-in creativity, made of brittle plastic and glue that does not maintain its grip, floods the places where actual creativity has grown weak and unstable. Stand-in creativity replicates itself by capturing the reflection of the real thing when the real thing strolls in front of a mirror. Physically, fake creativity looks almost identical to genuine ingenuity—except the artificial stuff is almost as thin as a breath of air. Comparing actual creativity with a badly botched replica is akin to comparing Audrey Hepburn with Marilyn Chambers. Or George Clooney with Ron Perlman. Why is it that, when we try to illustrate a spectrum ranging from exceptional beauty or physical appeal  to appearances that are deeply offensive to the visual senses, we always dredge up actors or other public figures? Why not select from life-like drawings of non-existent ideals? That, it seems to me, would be more fair and reasonable. But that’s a question for another day or another lifetime. So many unanswered questions that will remain unanswered until the answer becomes irrelevant and annoying.

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The outside temperature at the moment is 45°F. Inside my computer, a tiny electronic meteorologist sends me a note: “Today’s high will reach 77°F. Prepare for a rapid 32°F warming.” I am prepared. My paint-stained sweatshirt and old, worn sweatpants are easily set aside, replaced with a short-sleeved t-shirt or button-down and a pair of shorts or jeans. I am prepared for any microclimate thrown at me today. I could respond with just as much success if temperatures went in the other direction. Though I do not have a parka, I have enough jackets and blankets and other such instruments of warmth to protect me from blizzard conditions. I am ready for climatic engagement.

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The increasing speed with which birthdays come and go grows more stunning with every passing year. I remember the health scare yesterday—or was it a year ago—which began with a blood test early in the day. Hours later, during the evening meal, I got a call from the nurse, demanding that I go to the hospital emergency room; the test suggested the possibility that I might be experiencing a pulmonary embolism. It all worked out just fine. But the fact that the experience took place a year ago is frightening. My memory is just as clear and precise a year later as it would have been just a day later. Time accelerates exponentially.

The breakneck speed, after age forty, of the aging process is mind-blowing. Fortunately, I applied the brakes at age fifty-one. That’s when I had a double coronary bypass. I vowed then I would not grow immediately and irrevocably old. And my vow worked. Mentally. In fact, I succeeded in turning back time. I behaved like a twenty-five-year-old in a forty-five-year-old body. And that worked for quite some time. Until the evidence of aging became too obvious to ignore.

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Today is my birthday. Birthdays were not especially important to me when I was a child. They have grown increasingly irrelevant as the years have passed. But, for some reason, this one is catching my attention. This one has grabbed me by the shoulders. It has shaken me like a can of carbonated soda. And it is threatening to throw me against an unyielding piece of steel-reinforced concrete, just to watch me explode. At some point, if we reach an as-yet undefined “ripe old age,” each of us becomes conscious of our diminishing capabilities. Whether those capabilities involve walking or singing or thinking or speaking or writing or stepping up on a curb to avoid being hit by a bus, we watch and experience the diminution of attributes that made us what we were. Pieces of us drop off, almost unnoticed, until the legs that once were like massive tree trunks suddenly appear as if they were twigs. Thick, muscular chests wither into hollow vessels that barely contain what’s left of our lungs and heart and liver. Arms, barely held together by thinning bones that seem intent on turning to dust or shattering into pieces as fine as sand.

It’s all a matter of attitude that keeps us from dissolving into barely-recognizable goo. Attitude, coupled with actions guided by that attitude, can prevent the decay. But only if started early enough and practiced long enough. Though I suspect decay can be turned around with remedial intervention. We shall see.

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Time to explore what, so late in the morning, this day holds.

When I saw her two days ago, my primary care physician’s advanced practice nurse ordered four lab tests. I suspect the tests will reveal nothing of consequence. A CT scan—or several different types of CT scans—are more likely to reveal the causes of my neck and joint and shoulder pain. The skeptic in me expects the outcome to be simple: the pain is caused by normal wear and tear and there is nothing to be done to eliminate or minimize it. Irreversible bodily decay is the likely culprit; the inevitable deterioration that accompanies aging probably is the source of my physical unhappiness. My pain is just another experience that I will have to accept and to which I will have to adapt. I could be wrong, of course. The tests could reveal something far less sinister or far more terrifying. Circumstances are what they are; no more, no less. I cannot control the universe, no matter how badly I might want to be master of life as we know it.

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Nothing profound is apt to flow from my fingers nor spill from my lips this morning. I cannot imagine summoning more wisdom today than I summon every other day. I am deeply average; unremarkable in every way. That’s a reality we humans tend to reject; we refuse to accept that we are nothing special, hoping beyond hope that we will stumble upon some extraordinary attribute we did not know we had. There is no such extraordinary attribute. There is only deeply, unremarkably plain and fundamentally dull. We’re all like that, but in different ways. Our mediocrity is woven into every shred of skin and each brain cell.  We might as well be amoeba. Yet, on occasion, we shine. We sparkle. We glitter and glow and bathe the world in which we live in brilliant light. But that’s just our imagination, paired with the imaginations of everyone else in close proximity. We collectively persuade ourselves we are something special, indeed, and we cast off our mindlessly dull attributes in favor of being clothed in magic. And so it goes. From dull to luminous to plain and back to delightful, all in the space of less than a microsecond of spectacular experience. Odd, isn’t it? Odd that the world allows us to pretend we matter?

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Daylight begins far later than it did just a few months ago. I awake and look outside into a blackness that lasts much longer than it used to last. It’s after 6:30, but the sky looks like the sun was shuttled off to a distant galaxy, where it is being kept hostage while ransom demands are being clarified and polished. Who do we ask to pay the ransom for the sun? And how do we respond if our demands are rejected out of hand? Do we dare threaten to drown the sun if our demands are ignored? And, once we make the threat, do we dare carry it out? Once the sun’s furious fires have been snuffed out, do we have any hope of recovering them from the ashes? I wonder, some days, how helpless we would feel if we were to learn that the sun’s source of fuel would burn off in just two more days’ time? Would be try to prepare for the end? What could we possibly do to prepare for it? Is there anything we might be able to do that would lessen the terror? Could we somehow take preparatory measures that could minimize the horror of watching everything that matters turn to ash?

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The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.

~ Albert Camus ~

Let me be very clear, first: I adamantly oppose as inexcusable harassing behavior—too common among too many men—in which people are treated as objects. Yet, even as I find harassment offensive and inexcusable, I cannot precisely define the point at which indulgent appreciation becomes improper and abusive attention. That is, where is the fine line at which, once crossed, behavior transforms from acceptable to unacceptable? Generally speaking, I am referring to behavior, by males, aimed at females. But it can be the reverse, I am sure, or gender-on-gender offensiveness. I’ll stick to males behaving badly, for the moment.

At what precise point does an acceptable level of “girl watching” transform into unwelcome glares? When a man’s eyes follow a woman walking by him, at what point does his glance become a harassing stare? At what point does innocent flirting between acquaintances merit rejection as uncomfortable overture? Does there exist a universally accepted sphere of behavior that, if transcended, is recognized by both males and females as a bridge too far? Assuming such a point exists, how close does “acceptable flirting” come to that point?

The nineteenth century believed in science but the twentieth century does not.

~ Gertrude Stein ~

This is on my mind at the moment because I am mulling over a story I wrote a few years ago. It involves a relationship between the executive of a nuclear watchdog agency and a woman who works for him. Their relationship, as written, is rather flat; its genesis is weak and not sufficiently explained. I am thinking about revising the story to make their relationship more three dimensional and its ramifications more believable. But getting a better, more clearly defined, “red line” understanding of how a relationship might develop that, at first, seems natural, is important. And making a believable transition between an acceptable relationship and one in which the behaviors of both parties have crossed the line will make the story, in general, more believable. Though, in honesty, I doubt I’ll do much with the story in question. I lost interest before I finished writing it and I’m having a tough time reviving the embers. We shall see.

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During the course of several years, as I have written more than once, the scent of patchouli incense conflates with a sense of serenity. Yet I have noticed an odd dichotomy involving that odor, one in which thoughts of the patchouli scent spark a rather intense, almost frantic, desire to smell that aroma…a frantic desire for tranquility.

Now, as I think about it, I wonder whether my brain has convinced itself that tranquility is assured only if my nose can confirm the presence of the patchouli aroma. And I wonder whether the ecstasy of tranquility is so powerful that mere thoughts of the Patchouli scent cause an addictive response between my nose and my brain?

This morning, as I reached for the incense cone, I felt my heartbeat hasten and flutter, as if the mere thought of the aroma caused an eruption of passion.

Biochemical reactions. Is that the simplest explanation of what we humans are? Just responses to chemicals—natural and otherwise—in our environment? Or is there something much deeper than that? I choose to believe the latter. But I cannot begin to explain just what it is.

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On rare occasions, a single shred of memory bursts from the darkness—a tiny fragment of my forgotten past—to enlighten me about certain childhood moments. This morning, for no apparent reason, a memory of what may have been my first trick-or-treat Halloween experience. This scrap of memory has two parts. The first is my recollection that a very chilly cold snap had descended on the town where I lived, Corpus Christi. The second consists of my olfactory and my gustatory memories of the delightful flavor of candy corn. The sugary treat had been given to me by neighbors displayed seasonal spirit through their Halloween decorations and brightly-lit front porches. My memories are not crystal clear, but they are sharp enough to count as some of the very few real “memories” from childhood I can claim as my own.

I say there was no apparent reason for my memory. That may be wrong. I had just noticed my computer’s assertion that the outside temperature is 30°F. The chill and the fact that the middle of the month has come and gone point to the changing of the seasons. Those factors and my specific memory of a childhood Halloween following on the heels of a cold snap worked in tandem to dredge up a memory. There’s always a reason. We do not always know what it is. But it is there, waiting to be discovered.

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Nostalgia projects an imprecise and incomplete memory from an imaginary past onto the real present. Though the idea of nostalgia is appealing, the reality of trading tips on coding smart-phone apps with one’s great, great, great, great grandmother is an absurdity. It’s not because the great^nth relative is stupid; it’s because the great^nth relative’s life has an entirely different context, one in which smart phone apps are meaningless.

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Light is spilling from the sky, bathing the denuding-in-process forest with dim illumination. It won’t be long before the deciduous trees will be naked and the pine trees will be clothed in a green negligee. But not today. Today, the forest creatures will retain their modesty. For a while longer. Damn! It’s too cool this morning to go dancing nude in the forest. That’s true whenever it’s not too hot.