John Swinburn

Temperatures should hover between the upper sixties and the lower-to-mid-seventies through Friday. In spite of the rain and accompanying high humidity, this feels close to ideal to me.

If money (or the insufficiency thereof) posed no limits on me, I would seek out a place where temperatures year-round were close to what I am experiencing this week; I would build my home there, surrounded by vast empty acreage and an impenetrable wall or fence.  I would pay people to shop for me and bring me what I want and need.

That “ideal” is selfish. It ignores the needs of people who might be ejected from the land I commandeer. It is lunacy to think a wall or a fence would keep out the “riff-raff.” It is shameful for the term “riff-raff” to spill from my mind through my fingers and onto the keyboard. It is embarrassing even to conceive of selfish desire for privacy, isolation, and self-imposed seclusion—one that might overtake my sense of what is right and just and proper. But the fact is, selfishness exists. It exists in me. I should not want what I cannot—and perhaps should not—have. But what “should be” and what “is” often are very different. That discrepancy accounts for the injustice and pain prevalent throughout our planet.

Yet who are we to decide what “should” or “should not” take place in the world? We tend to make assertions as if they were pronouncements from a supreme power, ourselves, who is the arbiter of what’s right and wrong. But we are simply instruments of the natural order; we possess no special place in the hierarchy of life that gives us the exclusive right to make pronouncements about what is or is not just. Their languages and brain processes differ from ours, but the gazelles and the cheetahs in the savannahs of Africa might have valid, but very different, views on the justice of the predator/prey relationship. We argue forcefully against allowing animals to starve from neglect, but we meekly buy steaks from the butcher, taking care not to inquire about the treatment of the animal that supplied the beef.

Somehow—in their customs or beliefs or wisdom acquired through experience—the indigenous peoples around the world have managed to find a place of balance between good and bad, predator and prey, and desire and gratitude. The tension I have always felt, between living with and incorporating within me those concepts, seems to have been eased long ago. I think the society in which I live is responsible for that tension in me. There are no universally accepted “truths” to guide people in our society. Instead, for direction we rely heavily on competing religions, governmental rules and regulations, and sometimes warped familial traditions.  I suppose conflicts between societies and their unique “truths” have always existed, but acceptance of all the layers of ecstasy and pain was a part of the ancient traditions. And the core reality that all creatures rely upon, and should revere, the world around them has been a constant for millennia. Humankind has broken that core reality into fragments, grinding some of the pieces into dust and shaping others into knives.

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Facts overwhelm wishes and dreams. We confront the reality that people do not always share their wishes and dreams. Sometimes wishes and dreams are merely fantasies. Reality carves desire into long, pliable ribbons that can be woven into ropes that, in turn, either bind us to an impossible future or tie us to a harrowing past.

I often “think aloud” with my fingers, as I have done in the paragraph above. These little thought bubbles do not necessarily have any connection to my reality; only to my imagination. I suppose my “thinking aloud” can be dramatic—sometimes elaborately so. Drama, though, can emphasize the impacts that ideas and emotions can have on us; so, it is not always superfluous. It can be informative, insightful…educational.

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It’s just a tad past 5:30. I think I’ll have another cup of coffee and then shower and shave. I have a doctor’s appointment early this morning…in just about three hours. Between now and then, I should be able to clean my body, make my teeth sparkle, sort my thoughts, and have a satisfying breakfast. “Should” is the operative concept here. Off I go to tackle the dissonance between wishing for something and actually doing it.

This morning’s drenching rains and rumbling thunder are not entirely welcome. But watching rivers of yellow pollen flow away from the house and off the deck lessens the burden of a sullen, wet, grey day. This morning, the buyer’s inspection of my house is scheduled to take place. I wish, for the sake of the buyer and the inspector, the day would clear and brighten so their endeavor would be more comfortable. Unfortunately, the weather forecast does not bode well for their comfort. At least the majority of the inspection will take place inside, I assume. But the inspector will no doubt need to get to the crawl space and make rounds around the exterior of the house; I feel for the person who must cope with today’s rain. I do hope all goes well and the buyer is satisfied that the house is in excellent condition and requires no repair; we shall see.

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Those who have virtue always in their mouths, and neglect it in practice, are like a harp, which emits a sound pleasing to others, while itself is insensible of the music.

~ Diogenes ~

Wouter André De Backer—AKA Wally de Backer, AKA Gotye—wrote a song I like quite a lot, both the music and the lyrics. The song is Somebody That I Used to Know.  I first heard and saw the song performed on Facebook, I think. That first exposure to the music was courtesy of a Canadian pop band, Walk Off the Earth. That performance was spectacular, in that it was a mixture of the music and an extraordinary performance by band members playing ukeleles, guitars, etc. Later, I was mesmerized by another performance, this one in a multi-media video incorporating kinetic art with instrumental music, merged with people (Gotye and the New Zealand singer-songwriter, Kimbra) performing the song. Both performances were extraordinary. But the thing that struck the most responsive chord with me was the poetry and the depth of emotion of the lyrics. In particular, these: “You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness” and “But you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough.” Those lyrics conjure emotions that fit like a glove; they extract from me emotions of a long time ago, when I was attempting to mature out of teen angst into old age. It was a long, laborious process. At any rate, I heard the music again this morning as I was wandering through the vast, empty rooms of the internet, seeking something to grab me and awaken a part of me that sometimes seems too deeply comatose to ever again emerge. Whether the music accomplished that herculean task has yet to be determined, but hearing it spurred memories to crawl out of hibernation, leaving their lairs for brighter places. When I heard it this morning, I felt compelled to find out more than I knew, hence my new knowledge that it was written and performed by Gotye, a man with multiple identities.

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I have a few items I must either sell or give away before I move in a couple of weeks. A queen-sized Sleep Number bed (including frame); a walnut desk with a credenza of sorts (a separate piece) rising from the side of the desk away from which I sit when at the desk; and a corner desk…possibly a few more odds and ends. Oh, and some wrought iron outdoor patio/deck furniture. Just thought I’d mention it here, in case someone from HSV who needs/wants some furniture happens upon this page.

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The thunder and lightning are getting more fierce and the rain is coming down harder. If I were in a boat on Corpus Christi Bay, I would call this a dangerous squall. Here, I call it a moderately disturbing squall. Inasmuch as I’ve been up for hour and have other things to do, I will let the squall rage while I get back to work, preparing for my impending move.

Generally, we do not bother exploring in depth the world at our fingertips.  It seems we take certain elements of our lives for granted, assuming there is nothing much to know about them other than that they are “there.” I am just as guilty as anyone else for failing to understand and acknowledge all the intrigue and stunning surprises easily available to me…but not sufficiently fascinating to merit my undivided attention.

Chances are good that many—perhaps most—people reading this post are unfamiliar with Louis Camille Maillard. Maillard was the French chemist who described the process  known as the Maillard Reaction. The Maillard Reaction takes place between amino acids and reducing sugars, giving browned foods their distinctive flavors. It is a “form of non-enzymatic browning which typically proceeds rapidly from around 140 to 165 °C (280 to 330 °F), according to Wikipedia. The Maillard Reaction occurs to produce the unique flavors of bread crusts, oyster sauce, toasted marshmallows, toffee, etc., etc.

I believe I learned of Louis Camille Maillard and the Maillard Reaction just this morning, as I skimmed an article on BBC.com about oyster sauce. The article explained that “it is made from the liquid oysters have been poached in, boiled until it’s caramelised and dark and then enriched with soy sauce and spices.” Perhaps I would have known about (or remembered) Maillard and his eponymous process, had I attended culinary school. Or read more extensively about the causes of flavor transformation during the cooking process. I have done neither, hence my ignorance of the man and his namesake description of a crucial process in cooking and the flavoring industry.

The details of what causes and what occurs during the Maillard Reaction are far more involved and complex than I want to get into. I would not remember all the component actions and reactions involved, even if I delved into learning about them with a passion. I simply am not a person to recall excruciating details, such as “the reactive carbonyl group of the sugar reacts with the nucleophilic amino group of the amino acid to form a complex mixture of poorly characterized molecules responsible for a range of aromas and flavors.” But I do enjoy and appreciate exposure to information about a common occurrence in the kitchen that produces innumerable flavors, depending on the chemical constituents of foods being cooked, cooking temperature, time, the presence of air, and the extent to which the foods being cooked are stirred (or not).

I could learn so much about so much more if only I opened my eyes a bit wider and paid closer attention to my immediate environment. If only I asked questions the way a child asks them; with wide-eyed wonder and insatiable curiosity. And I need not become an expert in anything—by giving free rein to my curiosity, I would just a better-informed person. A little happier person, simply by knowing more about…stuff! Though I think I may be a little more curious about the world around me than the “average person” (as if there is such a thing), there is so much more room for expansive, explosive growth in my curiosity. Allowing that expansion to occur involves little more than honing one’s consciousness…asking questions about almost everything in one’s life.

What is responsible for differences in food preferences between people? Why do I like rye bread more than I like wheat? Why do some people intensely dislike the taste of anise, while I like it very much? What causes a person to be physically and/or emotionally attracted to someone and why is that attraction reciprocated (or not)? What causes one’s hair to become grey or white with age? Why are lancet windows so common in churches? Literally millions and millions of questions like and unlike these are available for the asking and answering. If we devoted our attention to knowing more about our own small sections of the world, we might find that even the mundane, heretofore boring, aspects of our lives can be made enormously interesting.

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Intellectually and emotionally, I feel so much younger than my age suggests I should. I can get extremely excited about things that generally are assumed to be the provinces of the young. My interests often are more in line with fresh-faced college students than with people whose lives have been amply seasoned by experience and frustration. I make mistakes one would not expect an old man to make; one would think someone who has lived this long would know better… I do not want to go through a period of life in which the audacity of youth is abandoned and forgotten. On the other hand, I do not want to relinquish the extraordinary wisdom one accrues simply by having more temporal experience than is available to the young. I want to experience both the wild passion of youth and the unparalleled serenity of knowing I have lived a life well-spent. I suppose that describes wanting my cake and eating it, too.

I think my perpetual sense of youthfulness may exist because I never fully matured; I never had to. Having children, I think, tends to cause people to mature more completely than living as a childless adult. Children require care and attention I did not have to extend. Adulthood as a parent involves taking on enormous responsibilities for another person’s well-being that adulthood without children does not require. I would not trade my freedom as a childless adult for the responsibilities of a parent. But parents almost invariably say having children is the most spectacular experience they’ve ever had. So, we’re both happy with our circumstances. However, I suspect that, when two adults—one who had kids and one who did not—pair up, tensions can be enormous. The childless adult’s freedom can be curtailed and the one with children can feel pressured to minimize the intrusions of parenthood on the adult relationship. I write as if I were pronouncing a truth—in fact, it’s just supposition, based on both assumptions and observations at arm’s length.  That’s another aspect of youthfulness that appeals to me: the ability to presume I know more than I actually do. 😉

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I would like to look in your eyes this morning—fix our gazes upon one another—for just two minutes. Would that uninterrupted period of staring at one another be uncomfortable? Would it be transformative in some way? Would it make one or both of us feel like we know the other a little better? Would we feel that we had looked into one another’s mind…and what might we think we see there?

Try that with someone today. Just two minutes of uninterrupted gazing into another person’s eyes. Whether that person is your spouse, your sibling, your parent, your child, your friend, or your secret lover—take two minutes to learn whatever that time teaches you.

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It’s almost 6. Time to shower and shave and get ready to embrace whatever this day brings.  Oooh, but, first, another cup of coffee. (I can be so easily distracted by something attractive and “shiny.”)

My sister-in-law (my late wife’s sister) bought a new pair of “readers” the other day. When she dropped by for an early-morning visit yesterday, on a whim I decided to put them on. I was surprised when I looked at the selfie I took; I actually liked the look! I’ve never liked my appearance much; there’s something uninspired and drab about it. But these glasses changed everything. The only problem (and, of course, there is a problem) is that I must wear glasses with nose-pieces that keep the frames slightly away from my face. Otherwise, my long eyelashes brush the inside of the lenses, causing me to feel a modestly unpleasant sensation and, eventually, leaving tiny oily slashes on the lenses. I suppose that means my eyelashes are oily. I suppose I could cut the eyelashes (a risky proposition), but I’m not inclined to do that. Maybe I’ll just get a pair of glasses I can wear only occasionally, when I feel the need to boost my self-image for a moment or two. I like these glasses frames; they make me far less unappealing. Maybe it’s my scroungy beard that does more to hide the deeply unexceptional appearance behind it. Or maybe it’s both. Whatever.

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Three recently-hatched Carolina wrens leapt from their nest, which is hidden in an awning under the eve of my house, yesterday. They fluttered their insufficient wings; maybe the fluttering was adequate to soften the landing. For the next several minutes, they rested, then fluttered around the deck, then rested. The birds looked like they had long but delicate little eyebrows as they rested, contemplating their next attempts at flight. Eventually, while my attention was diverted elsewhere, they managed to jump/fly up to the deck railing and, then, leap off. One, at least, was able to fly/glide to a nearby tree. I assume the others did the same. I do not know the habits of Caroline wren babies once they leave the nest…do they return? I am sure I could look it up online, but that would require a diversion of my attention and my fingers, which could delay this potential post for years. So, I’ll wait until later to find out.

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Something—maybe a poet’s elegy for his father—prompted me a few days ago to think about my father. I tried to remember what he was like when I was a maturing young man and, later, a grown man in his late twenties and early thirties. My long-term memory has always been spotty, at best, so I do not have a particularly large assortment of memories from which to choose. I was about 32 when he died, so that would have been not quite 38 years ago. Memories from that era of my life are sparse, but I remember bits and pieces of life then. My father, long since retired, worked off and on as a security guard at night. I know he did it in part to supplement his tiny Social Security income, but I sensed that it was more a matter of having something to do with his time that caused him to do it.

I remember worrying that he would fall when he climbed up on the roof of a shed he was constructing, with the help of one of my brothers. And I remember that same worry when he and another brother took apart the remains of our house that Hurricane Celia  destroyed. That would have been at the beginning of my junior year in high school.

My mother and father moved to the Houston area from Corpus Christi in the late seventies or early eighties, I think. Their first house was in The Heights, a now-upscale area of renovated old homes. Even then, the gentrification of the neighborhood had already begun. Homes in that area were beyond the means of my wife and me, though both of us wanted to live in the area. We had to settle for suburban Katy, where homes in new developments were far more affordable, though far less appealing. I do not remember why my parents sold their Heights home; I just remember they did. And they moved west, to the fringes of Houston where I lived. Their house was only a couple of miles from ours.

All these thoughts about those “old days” came trickling out of me again this morning. There’s never a flood of memories. They leak out of my head, moment by moment, until I am able to cobble together a cohesive recollection. I realize my reconstructed experiences may be inaccurate. But, then, aren’t all memories biased by the experiences of the person having them? Each of us experiences the world from a perspective no one else on Earth shares. So, while our recollections may be correct for us, for others they may be warped or worse.

Memories are not like photographs. They are more like mixed-media paintings—oils and water colors and textured fabrics on a receptive background. The results may be clear and realistic, almost like a photo, but more often the image is semi-abstract. Either lighter or darker than the original from which the likeness was obtained. And colored by the mood and motives of the artist. There’s a photograph on the credenza above my desk. The image is of all six of my parents’ children on the occasion of a milestone birthday of my oldest brother. If, when I look up at the photo, I let my eyes lose focus, the image looks like a stylized, semi-abstract,  water color painting of my family. My memories of my earlier days are like that painting; soft and imprecise around the edges, colors flowing gently from one sister’s shirt to a brother’s vest to an almost colorless background wall. No matter how long I look at that photograph, a few minutes later I cannot recall all of—even most of—the details. That’s how memories work, I think. We recall only that a snapshot was taken, not what was in it.

Once again, I’ve wasted someone’s time by wandering aimlessly through my mind and documenting many of the steps taken on the journey. Watching paint dry can be more engaging than attempting to develop interest in someone else’s vague and pointless memories.

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I got up earlier than usual, around 4. The clock turned to 6 just now. I may practice 5-minute meditation, using Alexa’s free service to guide me. I would love for the rest of this day to be based on a cool, calm, Zen-like start. We shall see.

Sometimes, one finds it necessary to take unnecessary risks. That is, exposing oneself voluntarily to circumstances that friends and family would label irresponsible and dangerous is required for one’s sense of happiness and sanity. Those instances when one feels compelled to engage in perilous activities must be kept secret, lest the sphere of one’s tiny little world explode into a monstrous, limitless, self-immolating supernova. And therein lies the dilemma: is the momentary excitement of an unnecessary risk worth the incineration of incinerating a routine that is perfectly comfortable, if unexciting? Such risks must not always be kept secret. For example, many years ago, on a whim I paid $100 to climb into a small airplane, get tightly strapped to a guy I’d just met, and plunge out of the craft from a high altitude. My one episode of sky-diving was unnecessary, risky, and (depending on one’s perspective) irresponsible. But I felt like I had to do it. It could have been (and thus far, has been) my only opportunity to experience the thrill of free-falling for several seconds. I had a similar, but decidedly less dangerous, thrill when I arranged for a hot-air balloon ride for my late wife and me as a birthday present for her. In both cases, it was not necessary to keep the experience secret.  But sometimes the experience one requires to feel fully alive must be kept close to the vest. That dangerous thrill has to be kept in the dark recesses of one’s brain or else one’s world could be consumed by the flames of rage, suspicion, and distrust. For example, if a person felt compelled by intense curiosity to experience the effects of cocaine or heroin or meth, that lust for a dangerous experience (or, after the fact, the actual experience) would best be maintained in strict confidence with oneself; even sharing it internally with oneself could lead to explosive results. The unquenchable desire to take unnecessary risks has to be measured against the likelihood that taking the risks could lead to one’s demise or, almost as bad (or, perhaps, worse), the utter destruction of one’s comfortable and content lifestyle.

Even the quietest, calmest, most rational among us have those secret desires to take impossibly dangerous risks. Or those people have already taken the risks and have kept them hidden. Or they have taken the risks and found them sufficiently compelling to merit taking them again; with great care to ensure they remain secret, nearly impossible to be uncovered. I look around me and wonder who among my family and friends and acquaintances may have taken—or be contemplating—almost unspeakable risks. And, then, I look in the mirror and wonder the same thing about him.

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Yesterday evening’s Zoom call with my siblings felt good. For some reason, the last couple or three Zoom video conference calls with them have seemed more relaxed than the ones before. Our interactions always have been comfortably informal, but these last few have felt especially good, almost as if we were sitting together in the same room, chatting about recent events and offering up observations about whatever happened to enter our minds. Last night’s call lasted about an hour and a half. That, I think, is about the limit for such video conference calls; after that, they begin to seem a bit labored, with too many silent stretches during which participants strain for something to say to reignite the conversation. At any rate, the sibling engagement was good. Next time, we’ll try to have my nieces and nephews join in, hiking the number of participants to about a dozen. I hope that feels as comfortable and relaxed as last night’s conversation. The next one will have to wait until my oldest brother and his wife return from their river cruise in Portugal and their subsequent exploration of the country in and around Porto. I envy them making that trip; it sounds both relaxing and exciting.

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For months and months, I’ve been saying to myself and to anyone else who would listen that I feel a need to go on a road trip. Actually, I need to go on several. I need to go to California to see my sister and to see Colleen’s ninety-year-old mother. And I need to go on a road trip (perhaps it’s the same one) that will allow me the luxury of traveling as slow as my curiosity will require. And as fast as I need to go in order to reach a destination that is more attractive than “here” and “now.”

And I need to go on my own to a desolate place to think and write and sort out in my mind the unwanted realities of aging. How does one cope with arthritis pain as it grows worse and worse, with no cure in sight or even a way to soften the symptoms? How does one accept the body’s inability to do what once was as natural as breathing? How does one learn to accept knee pain and joint inflexibility? Will I be able to accept these things and adjust to them, or would I (and the people around me) be better off if I simply set a limit beyond which I would be unwilling to go?

I keep putting off the actual road trips. Instead, I make occasional quick jaunts on the road for a day or two. I do this in between responsibilities associated with buying and remodeling and selling and so forth. A real road trip requires abandonment of such responsibilities. Ignoring obligations. Exploring the future and the past without being attached to either.

The A problem with me is that I sometimes need both isolation and proximity at the same time. I want to be completely alone, but in the company of someone who will comfort me. I want to have no obligations to supply love and compassion, but I want to be needed and wanted.  I am several people together in one body wrapped with with smoke and sinew.  I am certain that certainty is an illusion. My emotions are at once as soft as a rabbit’s fur and as hard as granite. Icy blood dams create dangerous rapids of animosity in my veins, while warm rivers of compassion fill my eyes as they witness injustices and pain. I want to reach out for an embrace but instead recoil in fear of rejection. Rage and fear are different expressions on the same face.  The origins of modesty and shame live in the same sullen prison cell, a place where the mirrors are cracked and smudged with the dust of bad experiences.

I’ve wandered into somber narrative poetry, a place tangled with thorny vines, webs of long-dead spiders, and the knotted, decayed remains of snakes. This place is not fit even for cloudy days; certainly not days tinged with sunlight and promise. I will try to climb the broken and rotted rungs of a ladder to reach the surface, but that is a long way to go. Better to try to make it than to wonder whether the dangerous trip to the top is worth the potential pain it entails.

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A few quotations about taking risk from people who took them.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.

     ~ Goethe ~

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Leap and the net will appear.

     ~ Zen Saying ~

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Pearls don’t lie on the seashore. If you want one, you must dive for it.

     ~  Chinese proverb ~

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Go out on a limb. That’s where the fruit is.

     ~  Jimmy Carter ~

Another short, one-finger post. Here I sit in Bentonville, Arkansas, watching dawn race to spray light over the motel parking lot outside my window. Last night’s presentation by Alice Walton et al was interesting and informative, but I am ready to hit the road home. As much as I would like to spend time exploring Bentonville and environs, I have work to do in HSV. I want to shed the obligations sooner rather than later, so I must get back to it. But a short visit was enough to remind me that I could be quite comfortable here…an urban environment not yet made offensive by inevitable urban density, sprawl, and intolerable traffic. The problem with places like this is that they attract crowds who value what such places have to offer but who either are unable or unwilling to create them on their own. Instead, they flock to attractive places, making those spots unattractive in the process.

This lovely setting will be intolerable in short order. Development and the crowding it brings will suffocate the beauty of the place. The easily walkable environment will be choked by traffic, already ruining what once was an idyllic setting. Coffee shops and restaurants will be overrun by useless boutiques and convenience stores and densely-packed commercial office space. Developers could have allowed ideal density to set limits to growth, spurring developers to move on.

Okay, I’m now sitting in FierstWatch, waiting for avocado toast. Then, on the road home.

My mood could use some repair. The sound of the road will cure me. I have confidence.

There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.

~ Jack Kerouac ~

You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.

~ Dorothy Parker ~ (When challenged by columnist Franklin P. Adams to use the word “horticulture” in a sentence).

I always have appreciated the wit of Dorothy Parker. I thought I’d start today’s blog post with something that might make people smile…or take offense…or spray coffee through their noses. Parker’s adaptation of the familiar “you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink” is a tribute to both her familiarity with cultural aphorisms and her extremely sharp, biting wit.  My late wife enjoyed Parker’s witticisms. For that reason, I bought my wife a t-shirt imprinted with one of her favorite Parker poems:

Resumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

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If not for a full plate of things to do and places to go today, I would write. A lot. I wish I could record all the thoughts that are swirling about in my brain this morning—not by documenting them with my fingers on a keyboard, but by recording the thoughts and visions in my head so I could play them back in my mind. I think far faster than I write, though some people would argue in opposition to that statement. But I do. There’s so much going on in my head that I want to remember, but I know I won’t. There’s plenty of “junk” that gets in the way, but occasionally I notice something of potential value going through my mind and I’d like to have a way to automatically record it so I could get to it later and explore it in more depth. Alas, that’s not possible. Often, my thoughts are fleeting; so terribly ephemeral that they do not last long enough for me to record them in any form. My fingers are too slow and my mind is insufficiently agile to place them where I will remember them. Of course, I do not want to or need to remember most of what goes through my brain; there’s too much chaff there to want to save it all. But when near-perfect spikes of wheat become visible among mountains of chaff, I’d like to have a way to snatch it and preserve it. If only…I wish…etc. One day, people may have ways to instantly and/or automatically record what goes on in their brains. If that happens, they will take great pains to keep those recordings out of the hands of every other human being; the stuff going on in my head could be used to send me to the guillotine. Or worse.

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Last night’s performance by the Quebe Sisters at the Woodlands Auditorium was an interesting diversion from “normal” evenings that involve watching movies or television series or reading from my computer screen. Though western swing is not among my favorite musical genres, watching and listening to the talented sisters play fiddle and sing was an enjoyable diversion. And when they deviated from western swing and got into a bluegrass number, my engagement went up a few notches. There’s no question the sisters and their band members (a bassist and a guitar player) are extremely talented. I admire their skills and their dedication to a musical genre that they obviously have “in their blood.” I have my Realtor and her company, Re/max of Hot Springs Village, (which sponsored the event) to thank for tickets to the event.

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Today will involve an interview with one or more representatives of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA), who will determine whether I quality for TSA Pre-Check status. Eventually, if I ever decide to travel frequently by air to and from other countries, I might decide to pursue TSA Global Entry. But not today. Today, it’s just TSA Pre-Check. Just in case I ever decide to fly again. Which I will, of course. Just when, though, I do not know. Better to get the details out of the way early so as to avoid scrambling at the last minute.

After the grueling, 10-minute interview and fingerprinting, a quick road trip to Bentonville will occur. In Bentonville tonight, Alice Walton, Aggie Gund, and Darren Walker will speak at Crystal Bridges in connection with the screening of the film, Aggie. The focus of the film (and the conversation) addresses the intersection of art and philanthropy and social justice. I’m more intrigued by Alice Walton that I am with the film (at the moment). Ms. Walton’s wealth (the richest woman in the world?) is interesting, but more than that is the fact that she has been so generous with it. Funding Crystal Bridges (and ensuring its open and free admission) impresses me. Though she inherited her money, she seems to have worked hard to ensure that it does not benefit herself alone; she is a philanthropist whose exceptional generosity is worthy of exploration.  ANYWAY…just hours after the conversation and film screening (overnight), obligations in HSV will require a hurried return trip home. I need to get back home in time to attend a UUVC board meeting tomorrow afternoon. Then, I must hurry home to host and participate in a Zoom video chat with my siblings, who are scattered far and wide.

A full schedule can be either/both energizing and draining. I look forward to the opportunity, after the house closes and the move is complete, to have at least a few weeks in which my schedule is open or, at least, is mine alone to control. I imagine going someplace like the Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow for a few days, where I can be both intensely lazy and intensely focused on nothing but writing and relaxing. We’ll see about that. But, first, I think a trip to California is in the offing so we can visit my sister and mi novia’s ninety-year-old mother. Despite the stresses of travel, that promises to be a welcome change from the frenzy of shedding old houses and making new ones livable.

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Together with a culture of work, there must be a culture of leisure as gratification. To put it another way: people who work must take the time to relax, to be with their families, to enjoy themselves, read, listen to music, play a sport.

~ Pope Francis ~

If I had a way to do it, I would like to unobtrusively slip inside a person’s head so I could read or listen to or see the thoughts that reside there. Of course, that action would expose me to those deepest, darkest secrets about which I wrote yesterday. I would know, first-hand, those thoughts or experiences or ideas the person wants to keep sealed. I would feel the emotions that prompted the person to shackle those secrets to his or her brain, hidden from exposure to a judgmental world.

If I could accomplish that impossible intrusion, I would give iron-clad assurances the secrets would remain safely locked away. No one should fear revealing the secrets shared with no other person; not even the secrets exposed through unauthorized break-in to the impenetrable prison cells of our own making. My interest in learning what is inside a person’s head is not motivated by the possibility of achieving some surreptitious aim. My motive would be personal curiosity. That, and the possibility I might find we share concerns about the sharp edges and cavernous emptiness within the endless realms of our minds.

The targets of this curiosity of mine are numerous, though the identities of only a few come up with frequency as I daydream about such stuff. I think it is natural that my curiosity is piqued about people who read what I write here. What do they really think when they read my words? Do they think I am slightly daft? Irretrievably nuts? Dangerously psychotic? Moderately intriguing? A soul mate? A soul mate’s opposite? Because regular readers (as well as those who only occasionally stop here) rarely give me any feedback, slipping inside their heads is the only way to know what they think.

What does the woman who wanders the world in an RV with her husband think when she reads what I think? How about the man—a guy I think of as “G-man” because of his career in government—whose interests often parallel mine? Or my friend who finds the appeal of the road so strong that she collects vehicles to aid in her escape to the highway, should the need or desire be sufficiently strong? Or the woman who appeared in a recent dream with me on a houseboat on the Mississippi River? Or the pair of women, one of whom lusts for my leather sofas, in whose company for some reason I feel so utterly at ease? Or the woman who decompresses from demanding days by sitting on her deck, letting wine and gummies soften the hard edges of experience?

As I think about these people who at least occasionally read my blog, I realize they mirror the people I consider friends. And I realize they’re almost all women. Yes, I know, I’ve written many times about the fact that most of my friends are women. I still wonder just why that is. Maybe it is because I do not feel an immediate sense of competition with women, the way I do with men. But “competition” is not quite the right word; but it’s close. There’s something about other men (or maybe it’s not them—maybe it’s me) that makes me sense that I should be on guard, as if they are adversaries. It could be my assumptions about them—their strongest interests will be in things that hold little appeal to me: sports, hunting, golf, conservative politics, and so on—make me feel dull and imprisoned by their presence. That is grossly unfair, of course. But regardless of its propriety, there is it. So, what word best describes the sense I feel…if not competition, what word best describes it?

I may be wrong about who reads my blog, too. It’s entirely possible that men in my circle of acquaintances regularly or occasionally read what I write. But if they do, my curiosity remains: what do they think? Not just about what I write, but about everything? That’s what interests me. What people think and feel. What motivates them? What do they find off-putting? What philosophies guide the way they live their lives? What interests them? Why, for example, do they crochet or refinish furniture or work with stained glass or throw pottery or make sculpture? My interest is deeper than getting the “because it relaxes me” answer; I want to know why that particular undertaking eases those tense muscles.

There’s so much on my mind this morning. Much more than I’m prepared to write about. There’s excitement, of course, about selling my house. And moving to another one. But there’s fear, too. Fear that I might have unrealistic expectations. That’s true of me, though, almost all the time. I worry that I might be setting myself up for disappointment by setting my expectations so high; but, usually, my expectations either are met or exceeded. So why worry? It does no good. But I do it anyway, just in case. It’s silly and unhelpful and very possibly dangerous to my health. So was smoking; that took me more than three decades to finally stop. And I got lung cancer, anyway.

My late wife and I used to laugh hysterically when we talked about her misunderstanding of a lyric from John Prine song, That’s the Way the World Goes Round. Here’s the correct stanza:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

But she heard:

That’s the way that the world goes ’round
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s half an enchilada and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes ’round

That’s how we should react to worry; just laugh it off. Easier said than done, of course.

My mind is all over the place this morning. I need to take a deep breath and relax. A little meditation could certainly help. Just ease into the day, John.

An hour and a half from now, I have to drive to the grocery store to pick up an order I placed online last night. That will take my mind off the million and one things that are trying to cut me into an equal number of slices so thin I could see through them. And that is what I’m after when I think about slipping inside someone else’s brain: I want to see through the thick walls we put up to hide what’s behind them. And I’m back to square one.

Onward, through the haze of pollen and confusion.

Spring returned late yesterday, after leaving in a huff a few days earlier. Summer slipped in during Spring’s absence, arriving with a vengeful blast of heat that wilted blossoms and steadfast resolve. His fiery breath baked new-fallen pollen onto the hoods of cars and urged chiggers and snakes to emerge from their long winter naps. Spring’s return, though, was too late to shepherd insects and reptiles back into their respective dens; they are ready to spring on exposed skin and at unwelcome intrusions.

I prefer the coolness of actual spring to the heat of early summer. Or, for that matter, any summer. Though I was born in an unairconditioned environment and spent most of my youth in sweltering heat and humidity, my ancestral roots are in England and Scotland, where the climate is (or once was) far more hospitable to humans than is the moist oven of much of the southern United States. Consequently, occasionally I have to acknowledge the madness that causes me to remain in a place where intelligent representatives of our species would never have settled. Only a lunatic would stay in such a loathsome, unfriendly atmosphere when he could choose to live almost anywhere else—where the climate is considerably more hospitable. An advanced nomadic lifestyle—moving seasonally in response to changes in temperature and precipitation—would make far more sense than setting permanent roots in hot, rocky, scorpion-infested lands rife with chiggers and snakes.  But, all things considered, I’m reasonably happy here, under the circumstances. I would not want anyone to think I am a whining complainer, though that descriptor might well describe me during fits of discomfort with the local climate.

Yet, as I mentioned, Spring returned yesterday. Today’s temperatures are expected to reach only 66°F and tonight’s should dip to a chilly 48°F. That’s more like it. Despite the accompanying clouds and rain, those temperatures suit me SO much better than yesterday’s official 77°F (though my car’s temperature reading claimed it reach 83°F). I’m not whining, mind you, only expressing my actual emotions in response to unacceptably high temperatures.

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I recently skimmed an article that I believe suggested some scientists (physicists, I presume) have posited a theory that an alternate universe in which time moves backward exists as a mirror image to our own universe. As much as I find such stuff intriguing, I sometimes find it beyond far-fetched. Perhaps my skepticism is simply due to the possibility that my mind is not sufficiently open and accepting. Or, perhaps, my doubts are grounded in the idea that time moving “backward” is simply another way of saying “memory.” Perhaps these physicists, during psychedelic trips—stoned on peyote and LSD—are fascinated with how memory works…and that psychedelic fascination morphed into a theory that suggests a mirror universe in which time moves backward. Perhaps we should just ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall. Or talk to the physicists and tell ’em a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call. 

Either I’m fortunate that I did not experiment with peyote and LSD and the like or I’m unfortunate that I’ll forever miss the world-view-expanding experience of taking psychedelic drugs. As I grow older, though, I find that my fear of potentially devastating long-term effects is no longer as terrifying. I suppose the fear is still there, but long-term is no longer such a long time. My guess, though, is that mind-altering drugs have different effects on old brains than on young brains. Old brains have more experiences etched into memory, which could have an enormous impact on how the brain reacts to psychedelic substances. Something that, to a young brain, might be new and remarkable and mind-expanding, to an old brain might seem artificial—manufactured out of shreds of recall that are based on real-world experiences. This is all supposition. I don’t have a clue as to whether these idea have any merit or, on the contrary, are wasteful uses of the electrical and electrochemical impulses in my brain. Who know? I don’t.

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This blog is the only place I can openly “talk” about things that would be awkward or difficult in a setting involving real people having real conversation. Here, I can launch into stuff that might make participants in a conversation quite uncomfortable; but, here, none of us are worried about what the others think. But there are many subjects that I have thus far prohibited myself from broaching because they might be too awkward, too deeply personal, too close to the soft, painful spot inside all of us that we want to keep hidden. That spot is different for everyone, but we all have it. And we know we don’t want to allow forceps and scalpels and probes anywhere near it. But other people who write are readily willing to touch on virtually any subject. A woman I met and knew briefly as a writing instructor and guide said, in effect, writers “must be willing to explore even the most painful or the most embarrassing or the matters so personal that they could destroy relationships or families or…” Writers, in other words, should be fearless about what they write. This woman was discussing memoirs at the time. She directed her comments to whether memoirists should be completely, brutally honest. In her view, complete honesty—with all its potentially painful side-effects—is the only steadfast rule for writers. While I accept her assertion, I think it is true only for true, dedicated, unwaveringly committed writers who are willing to hurt not only themselves but others in the name of literary purity. Not necessarily to the rest of us. But everyone, I think, whether writer or not, should have a place where all those hidden parts of our lives, those deepest dark secrets, come out. Maybe it’s just acknowledging a memory. Maybe it’s writing fiction that mirrors—at least in part—the secrets we hide. Maybe it’s a recording a person makes, speaking in his or her own voice into a microphone, memorializing whatever secret action or thought they cannot publicly acknowledge or announce.

I realize, of course, broaching such a subject might prompt readers to think MY secrets are so ugly and dangerous and potentially damaging that releasing them would destroy my world. No, no so much. They are mostly mundane; only slightly erotic or perilous; moderately menacing; yet all of them are private until they carelessly slip out of my fingers onto the keyboard. Or are pried out of me.

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Today is trash day. Time to scramble to get the monstrously over-large barrel out on the street for the autoloader trash vehicle to snatch it up and empty it into the bowels of the garbage truck.

If all goes according to plan, the sale of my house will close on May 27. I got an offer less than 22 hours after the listing went live just after midnight on Friday. Despite quite a lot of interest, including tours by several prospective buyers, the person whose Realtor made the first appointment to view the house was the one whose offer I accepted. I was told by several people that the house would sell quickly and for a good price. I was nervous that…that might have been true for every other house in the area, but perhaps mine would be the exception. Still, I will be on pins and needles until the closing is finished and the proceeds are in my bank account. That, unfortunately, is just who I am.

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Perhaps one of my church auction “wins” will be valuable to me in combatting my tendency to worry about things over which I have little or no control. Despite handing out advice to others—”worry does no good, inasmuch as you don’t control circumstances”—I have a tough time accepting my own. My auction success, an introductory course on meditation, may put me on the road to a worry-free life. The course probably is not quite that effective, but it could help.

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Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.

~ Swedish Proverb ~

I posted this image on my blog on September 15, 2012 to accompany words with which I attempted to describe in somewhat abstract fashion the experience of a pre-dawn walk. The Swedish proverb, which came to mind as I mused about the worthlessness of worry, conjured that image from my memory.

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I am what some people might call passionate. Others might use a different term. Some might say intense. Some could say fervent. Or fierce. Or ardent. Or even wanton or wistful or salacious or…too many words describing too many emotional peaks that may be too forceful or, simply, uncomfortable to people easily made to feel awkward. I do not intentionally cause such emotional distress. But emotions, to my way of thinking, should be strong, so as not to be confused with “vague sensibilities.”  Hmm. This came out of nowhere.

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It’s after 7. My fingers melt after daylight unless I take them off the keyboard.

The transition from winter to summer occurred in the pre-dawn hours yesterday. Or so it seemed. Various seasons, rarely appropriate to the calendar, have come and gone during the past month or so. Frigid periods took place, followed by days of summer-like heat that accompanied massive pollen-drops from trees anxious to lighten their load. Whether the bizarre transitions confused the forest fauna or not, I am confident the flora are beyond confused; befuddled and mentally unstable surely describe both leaves and lichens these past few weeks. I envision bushes—huddled together to conserve heat—reeling in surprise as the polar vortex morphs into an up-close-and-personal visit from the sun…or an encounter with the bowels of a volcano. If there’s any good to this manic climatic dance, it may be that chiggers might not survive the see-saw temperatures. I am afraid chiggers can survive nuclear holocaust, though, so the “silver lining” may simply be smoke from bitterly cold grass fires.

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Yesterday was a busy one for me. Today similarly will be a full one. My cell phone rang rather early; a call from the Realtor’s office, asking whether a viewing today (Saturday) at 9:30 could be arranged. I answered in the affirmative, of course. And then another call, asking for a viewing yesterday (Friday) at 12:30. And then another call, asking for a second viewing by the 12:30 visitor. This happened as I prepared to go to the Democratic Club picnic yesterday afternoon, after which I would go to the UUVC services auction last night. And mi novia and I went to lunch before she and a friend left for an overnight trip to Little Rock for a Maya Angelou birthday celebration which included a concert performance by Ruthie Foster, a favorite blues singer. I did not eat at the picnic. Last night, as I left the auction, I had a boiled shrimp. I needed a little something for sustenance, after spending a small fortune on winning bids on several auction items. I got home a little after 9. My Realtor contacted me just before 10, telling me I have an offer. For the next couple of hours, I mulled over the offer; I decided to wait to give it serious consideration until I learn whether the first visit today might bear fruit. I got to bed just after midnight. I woke at 2:30. I tried to sleep again. Maybe I did, but not much. I got up at 5:11. It’s 6:25 as I write this. In about an hour and a half, the buyer of my refrigerator is supposed to come get the heavy beast. Then, an hour and a half later, I need to vacate the premises for another viewing of the house. We’ll see. And I have to go to church to pick up one of my auction wins; I walked out last night without it. And I committed to contribute $50 for a group purchase on behalf of the church…but I forgot to give my $50 to the person who headed up the effort. My head is not screwed on tight.

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A crust eaten in peace is better than a banquet partaken in anxiety.

~ Aesop ~

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“If I had it to do all over again, would I?” That question is incredibly common, but utterly fruitless and stress-inducing. It labels past actions as probable mistakes, rather than opportunities to learn from experience. Yet, still, I find myself asking the questions that have no answer.  Would I choose the same course of education? The same type of work? The same places to live? The same relationships? If I could relive my youth, would I spent it in more productive pursuits?  Who the hell knows?! What is done is done. History cannot be revised to suit the present…or any moment. Maybe I am alone in asking myself these absurd questions that have no answer except the one we manufacturer in our minds; we have no way of knowing “what if…”

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The sky this morning is blue; a slight bit hazy, but blue. I will wander out, later, to see what I can see. I will refuse to let tension and stress make this day any more tiring than it should be. I’ll see how that refusal works in the real world.

If I’ve written about hugs recently, I hope I will be forgiven for another round of hug-appreciation; I just feel the need to give accolades to the value of hugs. Hugs used to make me very uncomfortable. I felt like I was invading someone else’s space and they were invading mine. The only hugs that seemed good and natural were the ones I shared with my late wife. Otherwise, there was nothing pleasant about a hug, really. I went through the motions when greeting people, but I did not really like hugging or being hugged. But then something changed. I don’t know if it was a single experience that brought about the change, but I feel sure that one incident had a lot to do with it. A person hugged me, commenting that a hug should last for quite awhile; I think the idea was that it takes more than a cursory touch for the goodness of a hug to take hold. I remember thinking how good it felt to be in that embrace. The idea that such an experience should be more than fleeting appealed to me. That elation of being in that embrace is something I hope I can recapture. But hugs—if one of the participants makes it last too long for the other’s comfort—can be awkward. For that reason, even though I like long hugs that convey real affection, I tend to make them short and incomplete. By incomplete I mean a hug with a very light touch and an almost cursory (and nearly impossible to feel) squeeze. It’s too bad, in my view, that people tend to feel uncomfortable with the bodily contact involved in actual hugs. They tend to accept hugs almost at arm’s distance, with only a few square inches of clothing touching another few square inches of the other person’s clothing before the “hug” is over. I think the variations in the depth and breadth of hugs calls for more descriptive terms. Calling everything within those variations a “hug” is akin to referring to all cars as “vehicles” instead of Chevrolet or Toyota or Buick or Honda, etc. So, how about some more descriptive terms for hugs? “Clutch” might best describe a hug in which each participant wrap arms tightly around the other and holds on tight for twenty seconds or more. This kind of hug is what I have grown to enjoy and appreciate. A “cling” could describe a less tight embrace that also lasts for quite some time. Less tight might signal that the relationship is deep, but will not lead to cohabitation. At the other end of the spectrum, a “flump” might be the word to describe a flaccid, brief, essentially superficial hug. I find those kinds of hugs distasteful and disingenuous. Of course, they may be genuine expressions…but not of affection…more like distaste or disapproval.

What the hell. Any hug is better than no hug at all, isn’t it? Of course it is. Hugs can repair things that are broken, just as they can strengthen things that already are strong.

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The world will not collapse if I relinquish all of my responsibilities. Every one of them. Even if I sit alone for weeks in a stone building on a deserted beach on a coastline no one ever visits, swilling vodka, the world will not implode. No matter what I do or do not do, the world will take virtually no notice. Nothing of consequence will change, regardless of how active or inactive I am. The message to myself is this: almost nothing I do is vital to the survival of the planet. Nothing I do has an appreciable impact. My point is that all sorts of fabulous circumstances and awful experiences befall billions of people every day, with or without my intervention. Life goes on. If I were to depart Planet Earth on a spacecraft bound for Mars, glaciers I left behind here on Earth would continue to calve and disappear at alarming speed.  If I were to stay right where I am, doing what I am doing, glaciers here on Earth would continue to calve and disappear at alarming speed.

That’s the macro view. My existence is essentially irrelevant and meaningless. But the micro view is radically different. My glance at someone at just the right moment could have an enormous impact on a person. Perhaps the words I write here could be sufficiently thought-provoking that a reader’s perspective on something important to the reader changes. Giving someone a hug at precisely the moment they need it most could be my most significant contribution to humankind. Or, at least, to the person I hugged. Little interactions on an individual basis are the ones that really matter. The only ones that matter.

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Vladamir Putin is roughly one year older than I. I cannot imagine someone of my age engaging in such horrific acts as Putin. But I must accept reality; Putin is a brutal monster. He cunningly established himself, during his career in military and state intelligence services, as a political operative, able to assume positions of increasing power. He worked in foreign intelligence with the KGB before resigning to pursue a political career. For a short time after moving into Boris Yeltsin’s administration, he served as director of the  Federal Security Service (FSB). Scanning his professional history, it seems obvious to me that his philosophical perspectives were established and fed by his years in foreign intelligence. He has been an enthusiastic supporter of Soviet-style power consolidation for many years. Apparently, he believes in an ethos that rewards nationalism and expansive control.

Imagine that J. Edgar Hoover had managed to be elected President of the United States. His history of using illegal but essentially invisible strong-arm tactics would have given him unprecedented ability to frighten those around him into refraining from opposing his authoritarian tactics as Commander in Chief. Hoover’s history of running the FBI gave him access to information he could manipulate to destroy his enemies; Putin had similar access to similar information in the Soviet Union and in Russia. A J. Edgar Hoover administration could have led to horrendous abuses of power in the U.S. A Vladamir Putin administration has done and is doing that in Russia today. And it is flexing its muscles and attempting to spread its wings.

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And we’re off. My house went on the market, officially, some time after midnight last night. Most of the photos are dulled by the fact that they were taken when the house was enveloped in fog; there was very little sunlight to brighten the images. I hope the Realtor’s recommended price is the right one for this house. I hope the house will sell fast and the closing will happen quickly and without a hitch.  And I hope the buyer is a nice person who will get along well with the neighbors on both sides; they are nice people who deserve nice, considerate, helpful neighbors.

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I wonder whether anything I write is the right thing at the right moment? Does it matter, on the micro level? It doesn’t, of course, on the macro level, but I hope it does, for someone, on the micro level. For me, I suppose writing is the equivalent to salvation, though I’m not sure what it’s saving me from. I suppose it saves me from exploding or coming unraveled or whatever else happens to a person when he keeps everything tightly hidden from view until, when it breaks out of its self-made prison, it suddenly shatters the sky with the enormity and ferocity of its release. Yeah, if writing can save me from that, all of the unread letters and unfollowed advice and the rest of the drivel will have been worth it. Just keep me from releasing an explosion of emotions kept sealed in a steel safe.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

~ Robert Heinlein ~ (from Stranger in a Strange Land)

It is possible to love another person, a stranger, so intensely as to be evidence of the validity of the words Heinlein wrote. That reality came to me quite some time ago from an image—not sure whether it was a photo or a video—of two very young children, a boy and a girl. They were young brother and older sister whose parents had been killed in a warlike conflict. They huddled together in front of their utterly destroyed home, crying. It was obvious from the words of the announcer or narrator that they had nowhere to go and no one to look after them. I remember feeling such intense compassion for those children. I loved them. And I felt I could never be happy until I knew they were safe and happy and had a good chance at a tolerable future. That love either dissolved over time or it became less intense.  I no longer need their happiness to ensure mine. But when I think of them, my gut tenses and I feel that original pain I felt when I saw them.

So, what does that tell me? Love changes. It evolves or matures or ripens or whatever else one might say happens to it. It is different one year in from ten years in from forty years in. It can grow enormously, from a tiny seed to an enormously large tree. Other seeds can grow, too. Some of them flourish over time. Some twigs and larger limbs break off and fall to the ground to decay. The product of some seeds grows unruly and must be trimmed or cut down.

It tells me, too, that love differs from person to person and context to context. Love can be that towering oak or that tall and slender pine. It can be an annual or a perennial. It can perish from too little water or too much heat. Its presence is sometimes announced by the startling aroma from its flowers or by the soft scent of its sage leaves. I am rambling again, as I am wont to do. I’ll stop. At least I’ll move on to another thought.

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A fierce tension exists between seeking to minimize one’s possessions and wanting the joy “possessions” bring. That tension once was far less than it is today. What once was a modest strain—the same sort of strain between equal masses on a double-pan balance scale—is now a vicious pull. Thanks in large part to the successes of advertising and marketing, the force of weight on one side of the balance has grown many times over. Advertising and marketing have transformed us into consumers of beauty, rather than observers of that beauty. When I say “beauty,” I mean the bounties of life, both experiential and palpable. There is an enormous difference between consumption and observation. As consumers, we are not satisfied until we actually have objects of beauty in our possession. As observers, we embrace the beauty delivered to our senses, without feeling a need to own it. Observers visit a National Park. Consumers purchase the land for exclusive use.

The possibilities of migrating from an economy based on owning to one based on sharing are limitless.

~ Jay Samit ~

I contend that we would be happier people, in general, if we were to reject the notions implanted in our brains by advertisers and marketers. We could be far happier—requiring far less money and all the other trappings of wealth—if we simply accepted the principle that ownership is onerous but sharing is sweet. That is just hokey tripe, of course, but the idea is valid. The challenges of ownership/consumption are far greater than those of experience/observation. Essentially, ownership is private and personal and rife with responsibilities, whereas experience allows private and personal engagement but with limited, shared responsibilities. I’m wandering off into a subject that is too easily misunderstood. And I am insufficiently capable of explaining it well enough to ensure I will not be misunderstood; so, I will leave it here for a reader to ponder and, I hope comment about consumption versus observation.

But before I go, I will return to a related topic I find compelling: co-housing. Co-housing allows participants (co-owners who share both the responsibilities of consumption and the benefits of observation) to experience communal life in a way that maintains both their privacy and their control. Co-housing involves each housing-unit individual/family owning private (stand-alone, single family property if desired) housing, along with shared ownership of common properties/facilities. I think co-housing, while just sticking one’s toes into observation versus consumption, might be among the best ways to introduce ourselves to the benefits and values of sharing and observation-based enjoyment, instead of tight ownership and control.  This is rich, isn’t it, coming from a guy who has just put his privately-owned house on the market, after having purchased another privately-owned house. I feel more than slightly hypocritical for promoting a concept I have not personally experienced.

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Speaking of hypocrisy, yesterday I officially signed the papers to put my house on the market. I suspect it will go on MLS, Zillow, and Realtor within the next day or two. Though the market seems to have slowed slightly (or, possibly, more than slightly) in the Village, there’s still considerable demand for housing here. Whether that demand extends to a house like mine, in the price range attached to it, remains to be seen. I hope I discover, quite soon, that there is, indeed, such a demand. If not, I have the wherewithal necessary to wait until my supply meets the appropriate level of demand. I wonder whether there is an economic model that embraces the best compassionate elements of communism (lower case “c”) and the most practical and pragmatic elements of capitalism (lower case “c” again)? Democratic Socialism, a term applied to a mix of political/social and economic theories, is too divisive (and probably inaccurate). Perhaps I’ll coin my own term for a new philosophy that would describe the society in which I would like to live. And the one I believe would be most satisfactory to the most people. Except the supremely greedy and the insufferably lazy. And a few other rotten people who I would tend to label something other than “human.” But I’m going off-track again, am I not? I am.

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I need to get my hands on a software application that mimics Adobe Photoshop but at a fraction of the price (I purchased and used Photoshop when had my business, but have long since forgotten how to use it…and I recall it being too expensive for personal use).  And I used the software to create the header for this blog. I need to replace the header, but I need to get my hands on something like Photoshop to create the graphic. I still have the same hat and the same sweater, but I wear different glasses now. And I have a moustache and a scraggly beard with a mix of light-brown and grey whiskers. Frankly, the facial hair looks much better than I expected it would. Although, to be entirely honest, I still think my “beard” looks like my facial follicles haven’t quite matured out of adolescence. I’m an old teenager, facial-hair-wise. Anyway, it’s time for a blog-lift. Maybe. But not until I’ve moved and my life is considerably more settled.

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We cannot force ourselves to love—or to withhold it. At best, we can curb our actions. The heart itself is beyond control. That is its power, and its weakness.

~ Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni ~ (Palace of Illusions)

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And with that, I’ll return to the real world of Thursday morning, when I will await a screen-repair guy and do other worldly things.

Emotions can consume a person, the way flames consume a fireplace log. After the conflagration, only ashes remain; the burnt-out, misshapen scraps of a façade that became fuel. That’s the problem with emotions. Although they can enrich life and make it beautiful, they can just as easily torch one’s sense of safety and well-being. Emotions become nourishment for heat that will sear and melt away the parts of us that make us who we are. That’s the danger of emotions. Their beauty can transform the flame of a candle into a uncontrollable blaze; an inferno that devours its source of strength and beauty.  Like all aspects of life, emotions exist along a multi-faceted spectrum, with hatred and love at opposite ends of one facet; fear and attraction the opposites of another. And on another, rage and peaceful embrace sit at opposing ends. We are simply vessels for emotions. When flames and sparks ignite them, the vessels in which they dwell become victims of their own willingness to attempt to contain them.

There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.

~ Patrick Rothfuss ~

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I’ve been cautioned against getting too little sleep. This morning, I feel the lack of sleep catching up with me. Last night, I stayed up until close to midnight and slept only four and a half hours. As I attempt to write this post, I slip in and out of consciousness, as if my body and my mind are screaming for rest. That is what meditation may do for me; allow me to recharge my energy, normally done during sleep, by soothing the waves that carry me through the day as if I were in a dinghy on rough seas. But I slept awhile yesterday afternoon, so it’s not a lack of sleep that’s sapping my energy. It must be something else entirely. There I went, again; slipping into a twilight-like dream and  having a conversation with myself, a conversation that turns into an argument we both lose. Perhaps I’m just losing my mind. These lapses into a sleep-like state while I’m awake at the keyboard may be symptoms of dementia. I am not serious, of course. Just speaking to myself by exercising my arthritic fingers

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Keep calm and buy a house.

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The clock read four-twenty when I finally got out of bed this morning. Almost two hours have passed since I abandoned attempts at staying asleep. I had been half-awake for quite some time, thanks to the BIPAP mask slipping slightly. When that happens, the air leaking from the sides of the mask blows against my closed eyelids at the same time it creates an odd sound, almost like a howl. When I had enough of the wind in my eyes and the wolf in my ears, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and extricated myself from the mask.

The room felt cold. After I pulled on my casual morning pants and sweatshirt, then slipped into my decaying flip-flops, I padded out to the living room. The indoor/outdoor thermometer read 48°F outside, 65°F inside. I had forgotten to return the thermostat to its normal 69°F (normal used to be 68°F) after feeling to warm sometime yesterday. It’s amazing how a difference of 3°F can make a house feel frigid. That minor variation in room temperature can accelerate the cooling of a hot cup of coffee as well, I discovered.

My desk is uncluttered, relatively speaking. Yesterday and the day before, I shoved the clutter into boxes and moved them to the new house, where later I’ll have to spend weeks finding paperwork I need. I like an uncluttered desk. I like an  uncluttered house. I appreciate order in and around my home. Moving and the preparation for it involves taking temporary clutter and turning it into semi-permanent chaos by institutionalizing it in unmarked boxes.

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The glass shower enclosure was installed in the new house yesterday. We hauled more “stuff” over. There’s more to be done, of course, but we’re getting there. I’m beyond tired of this slow-motion re-housing event. In the end, though, I hope the new house will prove worth waiting for.

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My current house is not yet listed (no contract with Realtor yet). Yesterday’s showing was a kind of off-book event. I still have to sign the agent’s contract, have photos taken, write and/or okay the description, etc. And, ideally, I should have emptied enough from the garage so that cars can once again fit. Just last-minute straightening up. I hope the listing can be finalized today or tomorrow. And, then, we wait for a buyer.

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Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.

~ Miguel de Cervantes ~

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A bone-jarring clap of thunder just awoke me from the state of semi-madness to which I aspire this morning. I do not recall whether the meteorologists and other atmospheric magicians predicted bone-jarring claps of thunder. Whether they did or not is immaterial. Reality tells me it is nearing 6:30 and I am alive and craving food I cannot find in the refrigerator. What the hell. I wish I had the discipline this morning to begin a thirty-day fast; nothing but water until my body rebels. It may not be healthy, but it would surely cause me to lose a few pounds and their attendant inches. I might fit into my clothes again. No. Probably not. No fasting today. Instead, I’ll double check to see whether Amazon has next-day delivery on “big and heavy man” shirts. Hah! I am a bundle of laughs today. Off to the races. And an early breakfast.

There is no poison worse than hatred, nor no medicine better than love.

I wrote those words more than eight years ago, a couple of months before I moved to Hot Springs Village. Though I do not recall exactly what was on my mind when I produced that very brief blog post, the posts I made in the days before and after provide context that I think explains, at least in part, what was on my mind at the time. I had grown bone-tired of negative thoughts; both mine and those of strangers I encountered every day. I wanted a place free of unnecessary turmoil and artificial bravado. Ever since then, I’ve sought a place in my mind where I could find refuge from the world. Probably long before then, though, I had been searching for that spectacular stillness that I dreamed might exist for me somewhere. It’s not a physical place; I realize that. It’s an inner calm that has eluded me my entire life. The words, “There is no poison worse than hatred, nor no medicine better than love,” somehow bring that imaginary place into focus for me. Some days, when the reality hits me that I will never find it, I think I want to give up on everything; just curl up and disappear. Other days, when I allow myself to believe in magic, I feel like reaching inside myself and drawing out the energy to do the impossible. As I look back, I see time behaving like a long, powerful whip, snaking its way in undulating cycles from one end to the other until—crack!—it explodes, as if the air it touches splits open with a bang.

Stillness. The absence of demands. Nothing pulling on me or pushing me or otherwise disturbing my supreme quiet. I remember a time, long ago, when I thought I needed action, energy, motion. I could not sit still. I could not be contained by a room with four walls; I needed to be free to explore the wider universe. That’s what I thought. What I really needed was a placid experience in which all the noise of living could be shut off; the volume adjusted down from a chaotic cacophony to absolute quiet. But that was never an option; at least I did not think quiet was an experience I could tolerate. Had I heard that nothingness, though, everything might have been different. I’m too old now to ever know. But I know with certainty there is no poison worse than hatred, nor no medicine better than love.

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Speaking of noise and chaos and the frenzy of living inside a pressure cooker…

My chest of drawers and my electric powered recliner sold in a flash, leading me to believe I might have priced them both too low. Or, perhaps, at precisely the right price. Whatever. I am satisfied that they are out of my house. After the sale, we gave  set of four outdoor glider/rockers that filled my screened-in porch to mi novia’s ex-husband, who had originally bought them when the two of them were married. And, then, he returned the favor by giving us a high-top, four-chair deck table for  the screened-in porch of the current house…as I prepare to sell it.

I got a text yesterday morning from the owner of the flooring company that installed our new flooring. He had said he would arrange to purchase my old fridge early this week; the text today, though, indicated he was attending to an ill relative. Consequently, one of his employees would contact me later in the day to arrange to pick up the refrigerator. Because I had not yet finished cleaning it, I immediately set about making the thing sparkle. But the employee never called. Perhaps there is a good reason. Maybe the  fridge will be picked up today.

A good friend came by with her behemoth of a pickup truck yesterday and helped us move some more “stuff” to the new house: a chair, an ottoman, and miscellaneous other things. Her truck and her labor, incidentally, were responsible for moving the high-top table and four chairs from the home of the ex to the home almost on the market.

Speaking of almost on the market, the Realtor called yesterday, informing me that she wants to show my house to someone today. To do that, I would need to complete the realty contract, which she said she would send to me. I have not yet received that contract, but I did receive the Seller’s Disclosure Notice, which I spent the better part of an hour in the wee hours (now coming to a close) completing. It should be in her hands when she wakes (which could be awhile, since she may sleep in today the form came through to my email just a few minutes before midnight last night). In a just world, she would show my house today to the potential buyer, who would then make an all-cash offer for a 15-day closing. I am a dreamer; always have been, always will be. 😉 I must convince myself to “chill” and let events unfold at their own pace, whether that pace be leisurely or frenetic.

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Movement versus stillness. I wonder whether it is possible to have both at the same time? Exhilaration and depression, hand-in-hand. I think not. I think that’s a little like simultaneous up and down, good and bad, true and false. Or is it “motion versus stillness?” It doesn’t matter. It’s all the same damn thing. Grasping at handfuls of air, only to find they escaped into the ether.

Our lives are like a chicken’s eggs, we are both brittle and viscous. We are anomalies of physics. Living, breathing examples of the impossible, in shades of black and white, surrounded by colors so intense our eyes cannot see them. Like so much else around us. We are blind to this incredibly brief existence. I think we do not even know how brief it is until it is about to end. We deny the inevitable until denial becomes more upsetting than facts.

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A busy day ahead. I must continue to clean and clear away daily clutter. The house must look pristine for the prospective buyer. Why do we not do for ourselves what we do for others? Why don’t we treat ourselves like prospective buyers, people deserving of clean, orderly, brilliantly attractive environments? Is it because we do not deem ourselves worthy? Is it laziness? What else could it be? Are we simply worn out?

Last night—as I sat skimming through an assortment of CreateTV programs—it occurred to me that I should spend less time being “entertained” by television. Instead, I should spend more time watching educational programs and learning about topics that capture my interests. During my time skimming the channel, I learned a bit about Western Australian pearl diving and I watched as an enormous oyster was harvested and its prized “meat” carved into tasty morsels, flavored with fresh lime juice. And I listened to an interview with Gary Vaynerchuk, a serial entrepreneur who says he values empathy more than money. I heard Richard Bangs discuss the appeal of the Matterhorn and Zermatt, Switzerland. I viewed a brief promo piece for Ask This Old House, a program that once was one of my favorite ways to while away the hours in front of the television when harsh weather made venturing out a chore.

Public television is an extraordinary resource that I used to use with a passion. Lately, I seem to have abandoned PBS in favor of injections of entertainment from Netflix and Amazon Prime. While I enjoy being force-fed entertainment, those channels require nothing more from me than sitting in front of a television while having my mind manipulated by entertainment professionals. CreateTV, though staffed with paid professionals as well, requires more of me. It insists on engaging my senses and piquing my curiosity. It scratches at the scab that threatens to bury the itch to learn, to know more, to uncover aspects of my personality that, without prompts from curiosity factories like CreateTV, I might simply allow to wither.

I watched CreateTV last night in between reading and responding to inquiries about my offer  to sell my electrically-powered leather recliner. My late wife and I bought the recliner around the time of my lung cancer surgery in November 2018, assuming I would find a recliner more comfortable than a couch in the aftermath of surgery and chemo and radiation treatments. Our assumptions were correct; I am glad we bought the recliner. But it has always been too big for the space available for it. It has always crowded out other furniture. Now, more than ever, it is a comfortable annoyance. So I’m trying to sell it. And I’m trying to sell the big 8-drawer chest-of-drawers; I use only 2 drawers regularly and one more as a storage locker for old winter clothes that never fit well and are growing increasingly unflattering to my physique.  There’s lots more to dispose of. Would that I had the discipline and the wherewithal now to discard everything but necessities. Life could be so much simpler if I would prohibit “things” from commanding so much of my energy and attention.

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Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

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My niece and her husband left yesterday morning around 10. I wish they could have stayed longer, but Ignacio has to work today, so a brief trip was all the time they could afford. We will see them again before long, I hope. They are engaging, intelligent, fun people with whom to spend time.

After they left, we scurried to our computers to catch the morning service of our church via Zoom. Inasmuch as yesterday was Easter Sunday, our minister decided to offer what I consider to be an odd sort of “communion.” Though his message was interesting and powerful, I remain uncommitted to religious tradition—even progressive adaptations of tradition. I look forward to hearing others, who were actually present for the event, talk about their perceptions of the service.  Certain rituals and traditions seems right and proper to me, while others seem stilted and forced. It’s hard to articulate the differences between those with which I am comfortable and those that do not appeal to me. I should explore my thoughts on these matters; I might find I better understand myself if I do.

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Today, after my recliner sells (I hope), a friend has generously agreed to come over with her truck to move some furniture. The more we can do early this week, the better the house will look to prospective buyers. I hope. Somewhere along the line, I need to do a lot of cleaning and straightening. I’m not in the mood for it. I’d rather be in the garage, puttering with things that intrigue me. But the benefits of cleaning and straightening outweigh the benefits of puttering. So, my choice is made.

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Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.

~ Barack Obama ~

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I will get more done today if I begin now than if I wait until I feel like doing what must be done. I am now ready to force myself to behave like an adult, despite the fact that I have never felt like one.

I look in the mirror and see someone I do not recognize. He is an imposter. Someone far larger than I, attempting without success to fit into my body. Someone slack and pasty, a pretender who cannot possibly be the same man I remember seeing through the glass when I was younger and stronger and more powerful. This guy needs a body-lift and a face-lift. And, as I gaze into his soul, it’s obvious he needs some time in self-reflective repair. It might be time to exchange his ill-fitting parts for a complete replacement.

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Today is Easter Sunday. Not a big deal to me, of course. But many people in the wider world consider the day a sacred reminder of all manner of spiritual matters to which humankind pegs its value. There was a time I would mock what I considered an intellectually stunted attachment to magic; no longer. I have matured (to an extent) to the point that I recognize and acknowledge that all of us should be free to believe what we wish, provided that belief is not harmful across a broader spectrum. If only I had achieved that level of tolerance much earlier. And if only the remainder of people on the planet would do the same. I do not wish for all of us to actively embrace the peculiarities of everyone else; only for us to refrain from mockery and worse. Is that too much to ask? I do not know. But perhaps tolerance should not be our objective; perhaps understanding, which goes well beyond tolerance, should command our aims. It is important to acknowledge that understanding does not necessarily equate with acceptance or support. Understanding equates with knowledge. Tolerance can be based on knowledge, but it can just as easily be based on grudging ignorance. There’s a place for both tolerance and understanding. When the two go hand in hand—I think that’s the golden ring we should reach for in our efforts to be more human.

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It is not for me to judge another man’s life. I must judge, I must choose, I must spurn, purely for myself. For myself, alone.

   ~ Hermann Hesse ~

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Despite early torrential rain and periodic reminders during the day that water can come from the sky with little warning, yesterday turned out well. After dropping off a variety of last-minute add-on items for a garage sale whose organizer graciously allowed us to latch onto, we went to town. Drenching rain notwithstanding, tourists flooded Hot Springs yesterday. Our intended visits to the Gangster Museum and the Ohio Club were derailed by lack of available parking. So we went to Riley Art Glass Studio, where we were first among a handful of visitors. We watched Charles and Michael Riley work their magic with molten glass, as Charles maintained a constant banter about the process. After watching the glass blowing and molding process for quite a while, we headed out. Before leaving, though, my niece bought a few pieces of lovely glass art. We had lunch at Sqzbx, then drove up the steep road to the top of West Mountain, where the views of Hot Springs are stunning, even on a cloudy day. We saw several deer along the steep drive up (and down). After we drove onto Whittington Avenue, we saw a groundhog in the thick grass of a lot between two old houses; it raced for cover when we got too close.  After we got home, the rest of the crowd opted to take a nap; I moved a few more items to our new house and then stopped by my sister-in-law’s house for a glass of wine and a relaxing conversation on her back deck, overlooking her back “yard,” which would be more appropriately called a Zen forest. After a carry-out dinner of sushi and various hibachi grill treats, we called it a day and eased into the evening.

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In the practice of tolerance, one’s enemy is the best teacher.

   ~ Dalai Lama ~

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Time to slog through the day. More coffee, please; something to set me aflame with passion.

When I rose from bed this morning, the aches and cramps that accompanied the launch of the day startled and surprised me, though they are not new. But they are more pronounced. “I used to be young,” I said to myself. “How did I come to be so old, so wrenched with the pains of an old man’s body? Is this just the start of an irreversible decline in comfort? Can I turn back the clock, even a few years, to regain the youth I so foolishly assumed would last as long as I do?” Arthritis. Adhesions in the gut, reminders of various past surgeries that patched my body together so it would last a while longer. Shortness of breath, an emphatic admonition about the excised and discarded lobe of my right lung. A chronic inability to clear my lungs and silence the whistle from deep in my throat. These are the keepsakes of advancing age, otherwise known as decay. Perhaps a return to morning walks on relatively flat surfaces, after the move, will reinvigorate the old muscles and calms the aches and pains. A better diet and more exercise would help reduce the baggage of weight accumulated during years of ignoring advice on taking care of the only body available to supply my brain with the nourishment it needs to keep going.

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Last night, after a nice dinner out with friends and my visiting niece and her husband, we returned home to relax and engage in conversation—though my part in the conversation was limited, as my eyes closed involuntarily and repeatedly. My niece and her husband had driven from Houston yesterday, so they were understandably tired, too. We made an early evening of it; in bed before 10. Not long thereafter, the NOAA Weather Radio screeched, loud enough to wake me even if I were deaf, to warn us of a severe thunderstorm watch. A few moments ago as I was taking my first sip of coffee, just before 5, the beast howled again. This time, it announced a severe thunderstorm warning. The automated voice sounded the alarm for fierce winds, golf-ball-sized hail, damage to roofs and cars, etc. Because the weather radio announcement was garbled, I checked the warning online on the National Weather Service website. It seemed even more dire:

HAZARD…Tennis ball size hail and 60 mph wind gusts.

IMPACT: People and animals outdoors will be injured. Expect hail damage to roofs, siding, windows, and vehicles. Expect wind damage to roofs, siding, and trees

Fortunately for us (so far), the announcement of locations expected to be impacted did/does not include Hot Springs Village.

This kind of weather does not bode well for the garage sale my late wife’s sister helped organize for today (she was with us at dinner last night, too).  I’m crossing my fingers and toes in the hope the weather blows over quickly, leaving perfect weather for garage sales.

As I return to the keyboard, I learn of a new weather statement, a tornado warning. Fortunately, this one, too, does not include the Village. But I hear loud cracks of thunder, followed by rolling growls that reverberate for many seconds. Whether tornadoes are near or not, this weather is not conducive to being outdoors. I am convinced the change in climate is accelerating. Mother Nature is intent on exacting her revenge on humankind for our cavalier mistreatment of the only planet we have ever known.

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Save a few touch-ups and some silicone caulk, I finished painting the “bonus room” behind the garage in the “current house” yesterday. I hope that room, along with the rest of the house and the outstanding view to the southeast, will lead to multiple offers to buy the house when it goes on the market late next week (assuming all goes according to plan). We still have plenty of stuff to move to the new house (to eliminate clutter) and lots of straightening up and cleaning up to do before the house is ready to show, but I hope we can get it done before Thursday or Friday. I am more than a little ready to have this four-month episode of housing conversion behind me.

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Every increased possession loads us with a new weariness.

~ John Ruskin ~

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If I were more courageous, I would dispense of most of my possessions. I would live a much leaner life, a life in which material things did not serve as stand-ins for what really matters. It takes courage to shed the trappings of modern-day contentment, I think. Modern-day contentment is a replacement for meaning, an artificial replacement for something most of us have long since lost. We do not needs belts or blouses or shirts or smart-phones or polished walnut picture frames or Volkswagon convertibles to make us complete. But discarding all those things puts one in danger of being labeled mad or worse. Yet is being labeled mad all that bad? I mean, if one is happy with fewer possessions, is that an unhealthy experience? No, of course no. But it does take courage. And the ability to shed criticism like water from a duck’s back. Most of us care too much what we believe strangers might think of us. Even though, as people wiser than I often have said, they don’t.

Wouldn’t we (Humanity, that is) be surprised to learn Nature is a sentient being and that she has finally decided to rid herself of a constant thorn in her side? How might we react if incontrovertible proof showed the monstrous hurricanes and the outbreaks of devastating tornadoes within the last five or ten years occurred not by accident but emerged from Nature’s blind rage? What if earthquakes and tsunamis, once caused by simple and natural geological adjustments had become conspiratorially militant strikes against humankind?

Well, if these things were spelled out to us in ways that made their validity and reality impossible to reject, we would reject them nonetheless. Because we are superior. To everything. We own all of the Milky Way galaxy and the universe beyond. Our reign will never end because we are the supreme masters of all creation. Yes, this is how we would react because this, apparently, is what we believe. We would never think that Nature, always under our control, would intentionally unleash a series of savage attacks on humankind in a deliberate effort to rid the world of us. We could not comprehend the idea that we might simply be parasites whose annoying properties had become to much for Nature to bear. And the idea of a sentient, thinking Nature capable of having motives for her madness? Rubbish!

Dinosaurs once believed in their superiority, too. I remember a conversation I had with a triceratops (I’ll call him Bruce). He asserted without a hint of irony that Nature had better watch herself or Bruce and his clan would bring her to her knees. Bruce and his family and friends perished in a volcanic firestorm just before a massive meteor reduced to a sullen, dank swamp the territory they previously ruled.

Nature is not just the leaves and vines and forest creatures and fish in the sea. No, she is air and water and atmospheric dust. And she constitutes the clouds and the sun and every star in the sky and beyond. Nature controls anger and compassion and laughter and tears. Nature is far more complex than the brain of that most arrogant creature, the one who mistakenly believes Nature is simply a tool he can manipulate to do his bidding. And, finally, she has had enough. While she could simply snuff out the offensive bastards who attempted to subjugate her, she has chosen to torment and torture the imperious son of a bitch for a few decades—enough time to ensure that the progeny of the progeny of the progeny of the progeny of the ones who unleashed nuclear fear on the world pay for their ancestors’ misdeeds. Nature has decided to slowly and deliberately dissolve every shred of human DNA.

But, wait. When I say “deliberate,” I do not mean the word in the way we normally understand it. I mean that Nature has determined that the parasitic experiment that is humankind has caused unpleasant tears in the fabric of eternity. Therefore, Nature has determined, it must be excised so that the natural order of Everything can be returned to some semblance of normal. The process will take time, to ensure that the message gets through to every tiny slice of human DNA before it is returned to Universal Fuel. UF is everything between everything else. It is what is “there” when there’s nothing there.

I think I’ve mistakenly suggested Nature has anger in the same way humans do. No, Nature’s anger is simply a normal process of digesting and disposing of unwelcome intruders on her domain of everlasting acceptance. And I may have been mistaken in suggesting Nature torments and tortures in ways like humans engage in those activities. Nature’s torment is simply a way of accelerating engagement. And torture, while unpleasant to the tortured, is a natural prodding; a reminder of what is real and controllable versus what is unreal and chaotic.

Bruce finally understood the futility of control. Control is an illusion. Bruce and his successor creatures had and have no control. They react to stimuli over which they have no influence; a little like worms responding to heat by curling into little balls.

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In other news, my arthritis can be almost unbearably painful, but that extreme form of Natural torture last only a short time. Thereafter, the pain is tolerable but assertively present almost without interruption. The joints in my fingers feel like red-hot needles are piercing my flesh and bones; as if I know how that would feel…but I can imagine it.

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Enough of that. I have to save avocados from spoilage and I have to cook a pork tenderloin from Greenchef.com before the accompanying kale, etc. goes bad. Admittedly odd breakfast, but frankly that’s the sort of thing that makes me happy. I’m off to get happy.

I “hear” the beat of my heart. Or perhaps I feel the blood coursing through the vessels in my head, near my ears. The difference between the sensations of sound and touch is almost indistinguishable when both are so faint and distant. But another—much louder—sound disturbs my quiet at the moment. It’s the sound crickets make, but it’s not really a sound at all. At least I don’t think it’s really a sound. My body creates a sensation of sound; only I can hear it. According to the American Tinnitus Association, “tinnitus is the perception of sound when no actual external noise is present.” So both the “sound” that mimics my heartbeat and the crickets I hear are entirely in my head. In other words (mine, only…no one else would be so crude to say it…), I am unbalanced. “It’s all in your head,” I can imagine people saying to me, if I were to reveal the fact that I hear noise that isn’t there.

If I hadn’t given up on trying to sleep before 3:30, I might have been able to avoid these irritating noises. But the very real noises emerging from my mouth and nose when I breathe, coupled with the cramps on the outer side of my lower left leg, made sleep virtually impossible. So I got up. I made coffee. I ate some peach  yogurt. I took dishes out of the dishwasher and dried the ones that never dry of their own accord. And I became conscious of the damn crickets. And the blood coursing through my veins. And the noises a house makes while most people sleep.

If death weren’t so final and so complete, I might want to experience it, just to have the luxury of absolute silence. Every so often, I get these ideas in my head about the allure of complete silence. I’ve written about the subject before. I want to know how silence feels; how it must lull one into an ecstatic, trance-like state. Pure, uninterrupted silence. Like total darkness, but for the ears, not the eyes.

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I used to vacuum the house regularly between visits by the cleaning person, but I have gotten out of the habit. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been spending so much time either working on the other house (painting and so forth) or thinking about working on the other house. The reason for my failure to regularly vacuum and clean notwithstanding, the fact remains that I have been falling short on keeping the house clean and dust-free. Consequently, as the time nears to put the house on the market, there is more “clean up” work to do than may be possible in the time I’ve allowed myself. At the same time I should be cleaning house, I must be packing and moving things to the new place. And I should be putting the finishing touches on painting, etc. on both places. I’ve put myself into the almost impossible position of insisting that my current house be put on the market immediately, while not giving myself the time necessary to get the house ready to show to prospective buyers. This dilemma, one of my own making, arose because I am fed up with the slow-as-molasses pace of the process. It’s been four months since closing on the “new” house. But to look around the house where I live, one would find scant evidence of any significant preparations for a move—not even regular dusting and vacuuming and routine cleaning of the kitchen and baths. It’s not that the place needs a deep cleaning; it’s just that it needs the routine stuff that I’ve more or less ignored while I’ve spent my time on the other  house. I’m frustrated with myself for letting preparations for the move lag so badly. But I’m unwilling to allow that frustration once again inject even more delay into the process. I could scream. But I won’t. Because it’s 4:15 in the morning and my blood-curdling scream could cause the neighborhood to erupt in panic.  So I will continue to sit and stew and pace back and forth in a cage with a door that is closed, but not locked. I am experiencing a shock to my system in the present moment; it is caused by the transition from the past to the future. I am not handling that transition well. I have ignored too many day-to-day obligations. I must repair my rhythm.

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Future shock is the shattering stress and disorientation that we induce in individuals by subjecting them to too much change in too short a time.

~ Alvin Toffler ~

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I had a routine once. When I woke up, I skimmed news websites, wrote my blog post, and then made a breakfast that usually consisted of a poached egg, a few radishes, a piece of Canadian bacon, and a glass of tomato juice.  Then, I’d putter for the rest of the morning; a trip to the post office or the grocery store, some more writing, and a few other mundane things. Then I had lunch, which often consisted of a tin of smoked herring, sliced tomatoes, a few slices of purple onion, a chunk of bell pepper, and cucumber spears. The afternoon may have included an aimless drive and general puttering, followed by a simple dinner. The rest of the day and into the evening were relaxed and simple. Sometimes I watched movies, sometimes I read, sometimes I cleaned house and did laundry. It was a simple routine. It wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but it wasn’t dreadful, either.

My routine has gone out the window. That’s what buying a house does to you; at least that’s what buying a house that needs much, much, much more work than you thought it did does to you. It upsets your routine. It inflicts a new reality on top of an old one. It tinkers with something that wasn’t entirely satisfactory by exposing it to something that sometimes feels dreadful.

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Enough. I slept briefly while sitting upright. Time to remedy that situation.

Today would have been the forty-second anniversary of my marriage to my late wife. We had been married for forty years and eight months when she died. Every milestone event in which she played a significant part—birthday, anniversary, major holiday, and on and on—triggers both grief at the fact that I lost her and precious memories of my good fortune at having her in my life for so long. That seesaw of emotions causes tears of joy and tears of pain to flow. It is natural to feel competing or conflicting emotions, I suppose. Despite expecting those emotional waves, the emotional ride they deliver can be bumpy and draining, both physically and mentally. Today, I would like nothing more than to indulge myself in comforting memories, but I have to stay focused on the tasks at hand: wrapping up some cosmetic work on the current house and preparing for the move to the next one.  I met with the Realtor yesterday; she offered suggestions as to what furniture we should move out to better “stage” the house for potential buyers. At the moment, there is simply too much furniture to allow viewers to easily imagine what the place would look like with their furnishings. Instead of spending the day with the luxury of remembering the past, I will spend it setting the stage for the future. But I will allow myself to smile at reflections of my good fortune. And I will accept tears as the natural response to enduring grief.

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True friendship multiplies the good in life and divides its evils. Strive to have friends, for life without friends is like life on a desert island… to find one real friend in a lifetime is good fortune; to keep him is a blessing.

   ~ Baltasar Gracián ~

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The term “soul mate” often is either spoken in sarcastic jest or uttered with metaphysical fervor. But I think the term refers to a legitimate connection between people that is neither laughable nor otherworldly. I believe one can have a very few “soul mates” in one’s life; people to whom one feels a strong bond that blends intellect and emotion. If a person is married, ideally the spouses are soul mates for one another. Their fusion of romantic love with absolute trust, along with their innate desire to protect and one another and  help each other grow to their potential, is an expression of the bond that I think qualifies the pair as soul mates. A person can have other soul mates, in the form of very close friends with whom one shares most of those same attributes. Those are people with whom one feels quite close and comfortable and with whom one shares likes and dislikes; people who might almost be clones who do not look like one another. In every case, I think there is an intense affection between soul mates; not a romantic affection, but an affection of endearment and devotion. I suppose other people might call what I described as “best friends.” Maybe. But best friendships can splinter. The bond between soul mates is like a perfect weld that cannot be broken; the metal on either side of the merged metal might be torn, but the weld remains steadfast. Khalil Gibran advised not to make bond of love; I think his admonition is correct; our differences are matters, I think, of semantics. Obviously, not all marriages are between soul mates. Nor are all friendships sufficiently deep and the bond adequately strong to withstand pressures that might conspire to tear them apart. In thinking about soul mate relationships, I would say they are rare. But they are stunning in their beauty, even if invisible to the world around them.

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But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

   ~ Khalil Gibran ~

I have many things on my mind today, but I do not have the time nor the words to express what those things are. For now, I’ll return to my role as painter and mover.

Cornelius turns 78 years old today. Let’s look back 78 years to when he was born and then 78 years before the year of his birth. And let’s continue looking backward, 78 years at a time, in that fashion to some of his ancestors:

My point is this: each of us has an almost immediate history stretching back centuries. And most of us know virtually nothing about the people whose lives made ours possible. We may know bits and pieces about our parents’ lives and even our grandparents’ lives, but almost nothing about those before. How odd that we study the history of humankind so intently, but we rarely look deeply into our own past. What would we discover if we could travel back to the time of our great-great-great-great-great grandfathers? What lessons would we learn from their ability to live in an atmosphere absent the technologies we have come to take for granted?

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Our ancestors are totally essential to our every waking moment, although most of us don’t even have the faintest idea about their lives, their trials, their hardships or challenges.

Annie Lennox

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Watching and listening to a storm’s fury can have the same effect as staring into a clear night sky. Both can make a person feel tiny and insignificant. After sunrise this morning, I will determine whether last night’s ferocious hail storm did any damage to our cars. And when morning light permits, I will gaze southward, checking for signs of damage between my house and Brookhill Ranch, just over a mile and a half south of here. Frantic television meteorologists said last night that a tornado had been reported “on the ground” north of Brookhill. A short while before that news, the fierce hail and rain suddenly stopped; because I’ve been told such an abrupt halt to stormy weather can precede tornado strikes, I was quite concerned. A few minutes later, hail and rain began anew, but not as heavy as before. Television weather coverage a short while later indicated a large, potentially deadly tornado was on the ground north of Little Rock. The National Weather Service declared a tornado emergency for an area north of Little Rock while we watched weather coverage on television. A tornado emergency is “an enhanced version of a tornado warning, which is used by the National Weather Service in the United States during imminent, significant tornado occurrences in highly populated areas.” A chilling emergency message from the National Weather Service broadcast to cell phones in and around the area of violent weather spoke to the severity of the threat:

A large, extremely dangerous, and potentially deadly tornado is on the ground. To protect your life, TAKE COVER NOW!

While I do not know whether the severe weather did any damage elsewhere, I know nothing of catastrophic consequence took place in my immediate area. I suspect news reports will inform us of the impact of last night’s storms elsewhere. Based on the reports from last night’s news, I suspect a major tornado did considerable damage somewhere close to the Little Rock Air Force Base and the surrounding area.

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We drove to Little Rock yesterday afternoon for an  appointment with an ophthalmologist for mi novia. The appointment was to remedy a post-cataract surgery cloudiness of vision, a pretty common after-effect of implantation of artificial lenses. YAG laser treatment opens up a thickened area around the lens capsule and lets more light get through to the artificial lens. The procedure takes only a few minutes. The post-laser follow-up involves special eye drops, a prescription for which was sent by the ophthalmologist to a local pharmacy. Unfortunately, when we got back to town to pick up the prescription, it was not ready; the drops called for are unavailable. So, this morning will be devoted, in part, to checking with the doctor about alternatives. Ach!

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Eventually, we learn what we need to know. About the world, of course, but more importantly, about ourselves.

Yesterday’s guest speaker for my church’s “insight service,” the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys, was much more interesting than I had expected. The speaker, Steve Straessle, offered both a polished delivery and an engaging message. His topic, “Awakened Youth: Engaging the Generations,” offered some thought-provoking ideas about encouraging young people to be engaged with the world around them. A point he made repeatedly was that kids should be given opportunities to think and do for themselves, rather than having everything delivered to them. Parents (and teachers, etc.) who think and act for kids instead of expecting kids to think for themselves are doing the children a disservice. Straessle mentioned his school’s policy surrounding “stuff” left at home; parents are prohibited from bringing forgotten lunches, homework, etc. to school. Students are expected to figure out how to deal with such matters; Straessle stressed that kids need to be given the opportunity to develop their own problem-solving skills. I was surprised to learn that the Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys has a significant percentage of non-Catholic students. The more I learned about the school, the more convinced I became that the school’s curricula, even the religious curricula, are likely to be invaluable to students as they develop their own problem-solving and critical thinking skills. Hmm. Who knew?

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My used copy of Gretel Ehrlich’s The Solace of Open Spaces arrived in the mail a few days ago. I have not opened it yet and probably won’t for weeks to come. Many other books sit on my desk or on my shelves, unread or incompletely read, awaiting a sudden change in my outlook that will prompt me to voraciously consume books as greedily as I consume food. For reasons I attribute mostly to my imperfect eyesight, I haven’t been reading much of late; I stick to my computer screen, which is easier to read that the books that await me. I still haven’t made a happy and comfortable transition to Kindle-like devices in lieu of paper books. Another book I have picked up several times, only to put down when I get sidetracked by mundane stuff that interferes with more pleasurable pursuits, is a non-fiction book, Kings of Texas by Don Graham. A friend who knows my early years were spent in South Texas lent me the book; he rightfully assumed I would find the subject of the book (the King Ranch and its environs and the history thereof) intriguing. I need to focus my attention on reading. But almost all of my free time of late has been directed toward matters involving reading two houses for a move. I am so very, very ready for that process to come to a happy, relaxing end.

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I’ve had Last Tango in Halifax on my watch list for quite some time, but until recently it did not make it to the top. My sister-in-law—the one who lives in Mexico—recommended it to me ages ago. Only after a friend repeatedly urged me to give the series a try did we give it a go; we started watching it just a few nights ago. Last night, we finished watching episode 6 of the first season. I am hooked on the series. The fact that the series features one of my favorite British actresses (Nichola Walker) in a starring role had something to do with my interest in including it on my watch list. Once I started watching, critics’ rave reviews about the series’ acting, storyline, and various other attributes made sense; it’s a fine piece of work.

Other viewing experiences of late have not been as enjoyable. Wheelman, for example, was an absolute waste of time; I am embarrassed to have had the program on any screen in my house. And In the Dark, though not horrible, did not grab me; although we did watch five episodes of the program before veering into quality (Last Tango…).   It occurs to me that I could have been reading instead of watching television series and films; but, of course, it is easier to sit and be entertained than to sit and participate in the process by engaging one’s eyes and imagination. Consuming books require more creative energy that does consuming video entertainment. It is time I stretch my creative-energy-muscles more aggressively.

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Old age is the most unexpected of all things that happen to a man.

   ~ Leon Trotsky ~

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Several nights of  reasonably long and restful sleep came to an end last night; it was a dramatic departure from those nice, long periods of sleep. An unhappy return to insomnia. I woke just after 2, following a few hours of inadequate sleep and only moderate rest. After getting up for half an hour or so, I tried again to sleep, only to give up around 3:30. Some restless nights coincide with moderate levels of creativity; not so this night. I’ve tried, to no avail, to engage my mind in a way that would enable me to write creatively. My creativity seems buried under layers of anxiety and related emotional upheavals. However, I did have some (maybe one?) dreams before I woke. I remember only one with any level of precision; a friend came through a door into the room I occupied and asked me to help her put on her socks. She was full dressed, including a heavy coat, except her feet were bare. While I was pulling her socks over her feet, her husband came through the same door and stood nearby. He, too, was dressed in winter clothes but he wore no shoes nor socks. Though he did not say anything, it was obvious to me that he was in line for me to help with his socks, too. I remember nothing more; I do not remember whether I ever managed to help him with his socks.

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Wisdom follows loss.
Loss is the greatest teacher;
knowledge born of pain.

Dogwood blossoms fall.
Leaves replace their soft beauty
with rugged resolve.

Wishes tell stories,
many of them bald-faced lies.
But still, we listen.

Sleep escapes the night.
So many long, restless hours,
Waiting for the day.

Feel the scorching flames
of searing hot memories.
Tears, but no water.

Grief lives there alone
in delicate reflections.
Memories of then.

Irreversible.
What’s done is done forever.
Permanent, you see?

Asphalt street sizzles.
Another piece of pavement
covers Mother Earth.

Who owns this planet?
This verdant green paradise
recoils from our grasp.

Gazing into a crisp, cold, dark pre-dawn sky is a radically different experience from gazing into a crisp, cold, bright mid-day sky. All other aspects of the experience being the same, the daytime sky gives me more of a sense of control of my own destiny. Looking into the dark sky in the hours before dawn somehow accentuates my insignificance; my powerlessness. When I look into the darkness, I am subject to the whims of the universe or, at least, the randomness of time and place. This morning—as I stared into the cold sky and saw, perhaps, hundreds of twinkling stars and planets—I felt tiny; like a lone ant on a massive sphere surrounded by more distance than my miniscule mind can comprehend.

If I were to stand in the same spot and look at the same places in the cold midday sky today, I might still feel small and powerless, but the sensation would be different. The light of the sun would in some way give me a touch of solace; like a comforting embrace from a stranger, in the aftermath of something stunning.

I am trying to describe the differences in sensation between two experiences, one of which I felt moments ago. The phrase, “like night and day,” comes to mind. I might as well attempt to compare identical experiences that differ only in context; one takes place in the air and one in water. The simple act of breathing becomes central in that comparison. It’s a little like that; comparing the sensations I feel in looking up at the sky in darkness and in light.

I attempt to amplify simple existential experiences by focusing my attention on them. By doing that, I free myself from the more mundane pressures of day-to-day life. The stresses of living in the twenty-first century reality of Ukraine invasions and other traumas and dramas pale in comparison to the sensations of feeling tiny in an incomprehensibly large universe. But it’s only a temporary cure; a momentary escape, thanks to the anesthesia of philosophical contemplations.  When I emerge from the effects of the anesthetic, the same world and the same stresses confront me. I sometimes wonder, “what’s the point of staring into space?” But I quickly answer my own question: “you simply wanted a temporary reprieve; just a short rest before facing the reality of life.” Yet a temporary respite is never enough. I think one of the reasons people become monks is that monastic life offers lengthy temporal distance from what some Buddhists would classify as “worldly pleasures and whatever else binds us to suffering.”

This morning, as I contemplate matters both universal and hyper-local, I realize that I think religion is an outgrowth of humans’ need for comfort; a need for a reprieve from the pain and suffering and general stresses of everyday life. What I once mocked as a mindless adherence to beliefs I found stunning in their silliness, I now think I understand. Though I maintain my firm disbelief in the principle tenets of most religions, I think I understand why they exist; to provide refuge from the real world. I mentioned anesthetics a moment ago. That brings to mind something Karl Marx wrote, calling religion the “opiate of the masses.” Marx viewed religion in the same way I used to (and, in some ways, I still do), suggesting that religion dulled the pain of the impoverished masses and, at the same time, caused them to disengage from progressive politics. Marx saw that function as a distinct negative. This morning, at least, I think that “opiate” is exactly why people flock to religion; it can anesthetize them from the realities of day-by-day life.  I am wandering into strange territory here.  I need to extract myself from this conversation with myself and move on to the world outside the confines of my skin.

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Unless the weather is too cool and/or the winds are too strong, our neighbors will take us out on Lake Balboa this afternoon, after which we’ll have an early dinner with them. That will take place after we spent more time at the new house this morning, working on what I hope are the final touches before moving in—in stages. Our Realtor will come by on Monday morning to offer suggestions on what we should move out of my current house to best stage it for presentation as I offer the house for sale. We need to move some, but not all, of the furniture out of the house. Even though it is a rather large house, it seems a bit crowded with two of so many things: two loveseats, two sets of dining chairs, two dining tables, two sets of living room chairs, etc.

Even though we are nearing “move-in” for the new house, there are plenty of items I will need to complete after we move: staining new trim on some doors and some baseboards; buying and installing a new faucets on the laundry room sink; “shoring up” the master bath counter top…and the list goes on. But at least we should be able to move in before long. Just getting out from under responsibility for two houses…two sets of insurance, two sets of property assessments, etc…will be an enormous relief.

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My car’s gas tank is less than a quarter full; or, if you’re looking at it from a different perspective, the tank is more than three-quarters empty. So, I need to buy gas sometime today. I have to check to see if payment has been made for my homeowner’s insurance for my current house; I switched from annual payment (a hefty $1600+) to monthly payments…I hope. Assuming the switch was successful, I will be pleased; otherwise, I will be late on my annual payment. So many “little” things that I need to do or have done, many of which are governed by the calendar. Right now, I think I would enjoy a ten-day vacation on a tropical island, where my only concerns would be “what shall we eat today” and “where can I be most comfortable as I relax and read a book on the beach?” That, and a full-body stress-unwinding massage would be emphatically welcomed.

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It’s nearing 6:00 and I feel the need for another cup of coffee and a little something to eat; peach yoghurt, perhaps. I hope anyone reading this blog post has a happy, stress-free day today.