John Swinburn

Ever since I experienced problems with a WordPress “plugin” that prevented the distribution by emails of notifications of new posts, the number of readers of my blog has dropped dramatically. I think readers who rely on receiving notice about new posts assume I am not writing while on my journey. The same problem removed the “like” button from my blog, so readers cannot even signal that they saw what I wrote. I suspect I can correct the problem, but it will take considerable dedicated time; time I am unwilling to spend while “on the road.” Consequently, I suspect very few people read about my travels and my thoughts while I am away. Once I correct the problem (assuming I really can correct it without paying for help to do it), I may post a summary, with links to older posts that may have gone unnoticed and unread. Or I may not. The readership of this blog is small, to start, so the work involved in attempting to recover from the issue may not be worth the trouble. Sometimes, technology can be a pain in the ass. Maybe I should just rely on Word to record my thoughts and memories for myself. We’ll see. Indeed we will.

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Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.

~ Saul Bellow ~

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Dan Rather’s persona as a journalist always has made me cringe a bit. Though I believe his reporting has toed the line of journalistic integrity, on more than one occasion the way he reported the facts seemed, to me, to border on the overly dramatic. I vaguely remember him reporting on the devastating power of a hurricane. Despite the intensity of the storm, the words he chose and the manner in which he held his body—as if the wind and waves were about to plunge him into a watery grave—seemed overly sensational. That not withstanding, the information he provided has been believable, reliable, and honest. In other words, he performed admirably as a journalist. This morning, I read a piece he and Elliot Kirchner published in the blog/newsletter, Steady, on the Substack platform. I wish everyone, especially Trump supporters, would find it and give it a fair reading. This piece is not overly dramatic; it is honest and quite sobering.

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Yesterday, we drove all over Schenectady and beyond. We saw locks of the Erie Canal. We spent time sitting in a wonderful coffee shop in the Stockade district of Schenectady. We drove by houses where mi novia’s family used to live. We stopped for lunch at a Caribbean diner/restaurant. The day before, we went to the Gerald B.H. Solomon Saratoga National Cemetery—located in the village of Schuylerville in Saratoga County, New York—and found the headstone of her father’s grave. While in Schenectady, we wandered about the historic Vale Cemetery, where we found the headstone of her grandparents’ graves. And she showed me the house where she lived until she was ten years old. And, as has been our custom in recent months, we looked at houses for sale, trying to find that perfect house in that perfect location—the place that would be “perfect” for us, should we decide to uproot ourselves from our home in the hot, humid, maddeningly ultra-conservative South. Our time in Schenectady, though only a few days, has been delightful. Today, we depart for (as yet) places unknown.

Our route may take us through Pennsylvania, a corner of Maryland, across West Virginia, and into Kentucky as we make our way southwest toward home. Or we may opt for a different route, one that takes us across New York state, clips the edge of Pennsylvania, and crosses Ohio and Kentucky. In either case (or another, different, path), we’ll eventually slide across Tennessee into Arkansas and then home. Whichever route we take, we probably will arrive back home considerably earlier than we had planned; we thought we would be gone at least three weeks, maybe four or more. But we are considering the possibility of shortening this trip a little so we can embark on another fairly lengthy journey in the relative near-term. Perhaps we will pick just one or two destinations and go to it/them, with the idea that we will put down roots for several days so we can behave more like tourists than vagabond travelers. Time will tell.

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The massive bulk of the earth does indeed shrink to insignificance in comparison with the size of the heavens.

~ Nicolaus Copernicus ~

I read this morning that pieces of sculpture created by Brad Pitt are on display in Tampere, Finland until mid-January next year. Though I do not doubt that Pitt’s considerable artistic talent played a significant role in the decision by (someone…I know not who) to show his work, the skeptic in me attributes quite a bit of the decision to factors involving Pitt’s fame and wealth. No matter how much talent and artistic skill and creative vision I might develop, my artwork will never find a place in Tampere, Finland. Nor, for that matter, in any recognized gallery anywhere in the world. I’m too poor and too old for my art to merit public display anywhere of consequence. Of course, considerable time has passed since I attempted to create physical art. I abandoned those efforts when it became apparent to me that am lacking the requisite capacity. I do not have and probably never will have the abilities nor the considerable materials necessary to transform my mental visions of sculpture I would like to create into actual, physical forms. I have ideas for sculpture and large-scale pieces of art. Lacking, though, are the materials necessary for creating them and the technical skills required for translating creative visions into physical representations of those visions. I could offer the same excuses for my failure to be a wealthy and highly sought-after actor; I possess neither the talent management resources nor the training and innate acting skills necessary to be a wealthy actor. Much the same could be said about why I am not a neurosurgeon, an architect, nor a captain of industry. I do not regret my inability to do brain surgery or to be an actor or to guide the direction of important industries. But if I could rebuild my life from the ground up, I might devote much more attention to creative arts, including sculpture and architecture. That being an impossibility, I have no choice but to just move on; wading through retirement from service as a meaningless pawn in a useless series of unnecessary endeavors.

I once got as close as 112 miles from Tampere, Finland, though at the time I did not know that Tampere existed. In fact, I did not know about Tampere until this morning. But one day many years ago, I spent an entire day wandering the streets of Helsinki with my late wife. We both were quite happy to have had the opportunity to visit that city, in spite of the fact that neither of us were world-renowned sculptors and despite our ignorance of the existence of Tampere. The lesson, as I contemplate my life this morning, is that regret for unreached dreams is pointless; gratitude, instead, for actual experiences is far better. Even modest accomplishments serve as a better foundation for happiness than does the recollection of shattered dreams.

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I also read this morning that friends are enjoying a week of camping at Lake Ouachita. Though I have little experience camping, I know that sitting quietly in a wooded setting at water’s edge has the effect of melting stress and replacing it with happy serenity. There are at least two distinct types of “get-aways.” One is like the one I think my friends are enjoying; simple relaxation in a pleasant setting, with no pressure to “do” anything. The other is more like the one I am experiencing now: getting away from the normal day-to-day grind and replacing it with opportunities to see and experience new settings. The latter kind involves almost constant motion and a drive to move on to the next experience. Though the latter experience is quite enjoyable, it does not erase stress the way the former does. I think I want some of the kind of experience in which I am under no obligation to go anyplace or do anything. Just “be.” Just let the environment melt the stress away. Perhaps another “vacation” will involve renting a water-side cabin for a week, far away from any “attractions,” and simply soaking in the calm, comforting experience. I used to scoff at such experiences; no longer. I long for them. Even in the relative serenity of retirement, getting away from the daily demands that accompany living in the presence of masses of humanity (no matter how small and semi-rural) is deeply appealing.

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Our “home base” for the moment (for four days in total) is a very nice, modern suite in a nice, modern hotel property. I described it in an earlier post: it has a small kitchenette (stove, refrigerator, sink, microwave, coffee maker), a separate living area with a large screen TV, a separate bedroom (also with a TV), a separate room with toilet and shower, and plenty of closet space. When we leave here, it’s likely our “on the road” accommodations will not be quite as fancy, but they will be adequate. We have consciously decided to spend more than the bare minimum so we have far more than the bare minimum of accommodations. In fact, we try to find accommodations that might be considered luxurious by some standards, while limiting the financial damage to the extent we can. Motel 6 or Red Roof Inn or similar places are fine, but not for us. We want considerably thicker walls and somewhat more upscale accouterments. So we go for Hampton Inn or Homewood Suites, etc. I keep toying with the idea of buying a self-powered RV (i.e., a motorized vehicle with its own accommodations), but the cost of ownership and the cost of site rental quickly compares unfavorably to motel rooms. On the other hand, the experience is quite different. Renting an RV is obscenely expensive; otherwise, I might try it. I suppose I’ll keep bouncing back and forth, mentally, until either I make a firm decision or until I acknowledge that I won’t. We shall see.

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Sunday, we attended services at the Unitarian Universalist Society of Schenectady. I fell in love with the building. So, I’m hoping to post two photos I took. One is a shot of the front of the building and the other is the circular sanctuary (empty, after the service). Just for the record.

It was not quite a whim, but neither was it a plan long in the making. Yesterday, we attended the Sunday service of the Unitarian Universalist Society of Schenectady. Coincidentally, yesterday was the UUSS in-gathering, also known to the members and friends of the church as the “water communion.” Their water ceremony was similar to, but somewhat different from, the same type of event the Unitarian Universalist Village Church held just two weeks before. Neither the differences nor the similarities are especially important; conceptually, they are essentially the same: events intended to acknowledge a “new year” of gathering together after a summer during which many members of the congregation have been apart. A striking difference between the UUVC service and the UUSS service was evident in the fact that, at the UUSS service, everyone wore masks during the service. And the UUSS service was led by two co-ministers, women who also are married to one another. Near the end of the service, the ministers led the congregation in an installation ceremony for the new board of trustees of the church.

UUSS services are held in a beautiful mid-century modern building, designed and constructed for the church in 1961. The sanctuary is a domed structure with seating at the perimeter beginning at street level; each successive circle of seating is lower than the one before it. In the center is an open, flat circle. The building is beautiful, but it is showing its age. It needs work, but because the building is listed on the National Register of Historic Places (listed in 2014), the work will be expensive and closely monitored to conform to rigid standards. After the service, we we invited to join the congregants for a pot-luck lunch. We sat with two board members, including the new president. Unlike UUVC, the congregation was of mixed ages, ranging from very young children to elderly, long-time members. And one of the board members was a Black woman. That diversity is possible due to the fact that Schenectady is a very diverse community in terms of age, race, ethnicity, gender, and socio-economic status. I am glad we decided to attend. However, I was highly disappointed that—because we attended the UUSS service—I was unable to view by Zoom yesterday’s UUVC service, “Religion for Atheists,” delivered by Reverend Mark Walz.

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Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

~ Soren Kierkegaard ~

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The topography and vegetation surrounding Saratoga Lake, New York is stunningly beautiful. Living on or near the lake today must require significant riches; far more than I could ever hope to have. But just seeing it and soaking in the splendor of the landscape is adequate; just keeping property in pristine condition would require more money than I would ever have; and more than I would be willing to spend.  That’s true of so many places, though. Such is life.

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After waking late (after 8:00 a.m.) this morning, I was a bit rattled, so did not write my usual early morning blog. Instead, we left the hotel in search of a country apple orchard store/cafe mi novia remembered from her childhood and subsequent visits to her home town. We found the country store, but discovered that it no longer served breakfast. And the “new” owners sold the apple orchard years earlier. So, after buying some apple donuts to go, we searched out another place; similar, but bigger and more exciting and inviting. We ate breakfast there and perused the extensive selection of beautiful vegetables. Then, we headed to the Gerald B.H. Solomon Saratoga National Cemetery where her father is buried. After finding the place and getting some pictures, we wandered around Saratoga Lake, where we found the old house her grandparents had once owned. Too bad they sold it years ago; even in a state of disrepair, the tiny house directly on the lakeshore must be worth a small fortune today.

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The time is past 4:00 p.m. We are back at the hotel, resting after spending the morning seeing the sights. Mi novia is downstairs, washing clothes in the hotel’s guest laundry. I have no idea what we might do tomorrow. I know only that we will leave Schenectady on Wednesday morning; probably beginning the direction of our trek back home. We are in no hurry, though. We have a lot of available time yet blocked on our calendar, so we may creep along the eastern seaboard for a while, inching our way back to Arkansas a little at a time. Who knows? I don’t.

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Poetry can do a lot of things to people. I mean it can improve your imagination. It can take you to new places. It can give you this incredible form of verbal pleasure.

~ Billy Collins ~

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It’s odd, isn’t it, when troublesome and argumentative—but educational—philosophical quandaries invade one’s dreams? Just such a set of circumstances took place in my subconscious early this morning, just before I woke. Another vivid dream, for the second night in a row. The people involved in this dream included one of my brothers, members of my church, one of my nephews and his wife, my late wife’s sister, a friend who just celebrated his birthday, a friend from Hot Springs Village who is involved in her own long road trip at the moment, and various others. The situation revolved around the availability and/or release of telephone numbers.

My memory of the details of exactly how and why the phone numbers were released and the reasons for releasing them are sketchy. But I remember insisting that the phone numbers should have been readily available.  And I recall that a woman who is a “friend” of the church was upset because she believed the availability of phone numbers was being made as a tool to strong arm friends into becoming members. She claimed she and her husband were not members because they could not afford to make financial commitments (which is, by the way, not a requirement of membership), but the availability of their phone numbers was helping pressure them to join. She asked me whether a specific person was responsible for revealing their numbers.

My nephew was irate about making his wife’s phone number available to other members of the family (this, incidentally, never occurred in the real world, as far as I know). And my sister-in-law, not physically present in my dream but mentioned by me friend who just had a birthday, was a pawn in a disagreement in which an argument was made that the release of phone numbers could contribute to behaviors tantamount to sexual harassment. There was much more in this convoluted dream, but I do not quite understand or remember just how it all fit together. I do recall, though, that I finally insisted that the availability of phone numbers was a matter of easing emotional trauma and that, if a person felt strongly about the matter, he or she could block the numbers of certain people. And I recall, during the midst of the arguments, attempting to resolve the tensions surrounding the disagreements by washing an enormous sink-full of dishes. In the final bit of the dream I recall, I asked my camping friend something about her phone, but I do not recall just what. And, then, I woke up.

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Yesterday morning, we left Ashtabula, Ohio early after filling the tank with gas. After filling the tank with gas, I reset both trip odometers, including the one that recorded the mileage since departing on this road trip. Fortunately, mi novia recorded the starting mileage in writing, so we will have a record of the distance driven when we finally return home. We decided to forego a visit to Niagara Falls for the day, opting instead to drive directly to Schenectady, New York.

Along the way, we stopped at a remarkably attractive and well-appointed rest stop overlooking Chautauqua Lake, where we mused about the beauty of the area and how nice it would be to live in this area, nestled amid the natural beauty of this part of New York. Later, we attempted to find a place for lunch in Corning, New York, but the town seemed to eschew restaurants in favor of the Corning Museum of Glass.  As much as we would have liked to have visited the museum, street construction and blockage (coupled with hunger) argued against it. So, instead, we moved on to a gas station in Big Flats, New York, for a lunch of pizza. Then, we hit the road again, bound for Schenectady. We checked in to a very nice hotel, where we have a “room” that’s more like a nicely-appointed one-bedroom apartment, complete with kitchen (with a stove, full-sized refrigerator, dishwasher, living room (with big-screen TV), bedroom (with another big-screen TV), and bathroom. We’ll be here for a few days, using it as a base of operations while we visit the area where mi novia spent the first ten years of her life.

When we left Hot Springs Village, we thought we might visit Door County, Wisconsin and/or Traverse City, Michigan and various other places that we have, so far, missed. We did not really think we’d get to Schenectady, New York. Yet here we are, roughly 2500 miles (after taking an admittedly round-about route to get here) from where we started. Today, we will attend a service at the Unitarian Universalist church, just to see how our church compares. Then, we’ll see what we can see in and around Schenectady.

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Here, roughly (in two parts), is the route we have taken so far. Quite the trip.

Here I sit, in a motel in Ashtabula, Ohio, roughly sixty miles east of Cleveland. This motel room is tiny, in comparison to the apartment-sized place in South Bend. That apartment had separate living area, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen; full-sized refrigerator, stove-top, microwave, etc. It was a little tired, but it was as roomy a motel room as I’ve ever had. I was almost sad to leave it, but I had to go in search for a place to buy a toll-tag. And I found a toll-tag. But, as I was initiating it online, I learned that it might not be recognized by the toll-tag readers in Indiana for several hours. And it might not be recognized by toll-tag readers in other states for up to 48 hours. So, instead of risking it, I stayed off toll roads yesterday, opting instead to take “back roads” through Indiana and Ohio. The back roads yielded experiences I probably would not have had on a toll-road: lots of road-side  veggie stands (and pumpkin sales yards), plus several Amish horses and wagons driven alongside the “back roads.” And there was more, of course. Except for the horrors of dealing with rush-hour Cleveland traffic and misdirection from the car’s GPS and from the smart-phone GPS (both of which lost their ways and, consequently, my way), the drive was not at all bad. Lunch in downtown Perrysburg, Ohio revealed a downtown area that suggested a very nice place to live for people who like both “small-town” atmospheres and the amenities of city life. Perrysburg is just outside Toledo, Ohio, where I had my first long-term hospital stay for unplanned out-of-town surgery; that was in 1990. I don’t recall what hospital I was in back then; it may be gone now, for all I know. It matters not that I do not recall the place.

Today, the target may be Niagara Falls, New York. And/or Schenectady, New York. We shall see.

Last night’s dreams included one in which I was involved in some sort of association in which a volunteer leader of the organization, a woman, stabbed at least one other volunteer, also a woman. The woman who was stabbed recognized the severity of her injuries, but she was in no pain. And she could walk. I walked with both of them along a steep creek embankment that was decked in old 2×6 boards. My arms were long enough that I could keep my balance by propping myself up with my hands pressing against the boards. I think we were headed to a house where others had been stabbed. And I think the purpose of our trek to that house was to inform the residents of the house that the violent leader who was so handy with a knife had done some very bad things. Odd, that dream.

Time to get ready for departure. Off we go.

I used to listen to a program on National Public Radio called “This I Believe.”  If it were still being produced, I might offer to write and read something for the program. It might go something like this.

Stress can change one’s personality. It can transform a reasonably decent person into a monster. For that reason, alone, I believe low-dose marijuana should be legal and its use encouraged before embarking on travel in areas in which heavy traffic and the resulting stress is likely. I believe marijuana—or Xanax, Librium, Valium, Ativan, or a similar alternative—might save lives and/or mental health if used judiciously before engaging in high-stress driving experiences. This I believe.

And there you are. That, among other things, is what is on my mind this morning.

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If yesterday’s traffic and toll-roads are indicative of modern technology, I want to spend the remainder of my days as a Luddite. I left Madison, Wisconsin behind yesterday morning, bypassing opportunities for the excitement and enjoyment of the very attractive city in favor of pursuing the objective seeking new adventures by heading south, then east. I tried to avoid the misery of Chicago traffic by swooping around west and south of Chicago to Kankakee, then sneaking back up I-57 to I-80, where I could zip eastward. Kankakee, as you might recall, was prominently featured in the lyrics of a song (City of New Orleans) written by Steve Goodman and made famous when sung by Arlo Guthrie (and others).  Before we got to Kankakee, a café in a small town, Streator, looked sufficiently “homey” to merit a stop for lunch; my assessment: meh. The back roads to Kankakee were fine. But I-57 was crowded, under the perpetual construction I remember from my time living in Chicago in the mid to late 1980s, and thoroughly unpleasant. And I-80 was beyond horrible—overwhelmingly bad to the twelfth power—from the moment I approached that evil toll road until maybe 15 miles after I merged onto it. The traffic crept along at 2-3 MPH (when it was moving at all), except when bastards darted in and out of traffic, and frequently slowed to a standstill.

I am of the opinion that the beasts who drive without consideration of the people around them deserve to be be euthanized—by drowning in gasoline heated to a point just shy of combustion. And then, unlike the Illinois turnpike (I-90 & I-39) which apparently will bill me for tolls, the Indiana turnpike (I-80 & I-94) requires travelers to stop and manually punch a button to get a ticket, then feed the ticket to a machine and pay with either cash or credit card…except the tickets and the payment machines are badly outdated and exceedingly difficult to use. After battling with the horrors of incredibly user-unfriendly road design, dealing with technology that was outdated by 2001 was almost too much for me. Yesterday, if I had been given access to a mid-level nuclear device, I might have reduced southern Illinois and most of Indiana to nuclear ash. Instead, I blew a few gaskets inside my brain and promised myself I would never travel by car in or around southern Illinois and any of Indiana ever again once I leave this part of the country.

After checking in to a motel and getting an early dinner, my mind went into overdrive, seeking routes for today and the days ahead that might keep me distant from interactions with humans and their technological mistakes. I doubt I was successful. But I vow never again, after this trip, to drive I-80 and I-94 and, if I can avoid it, I-90.

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This morning, I explored the process and cost of obtaining an E-Z Pass toll-tag. Not that I plan to travel on toll-roads in each of these states, but if I were to get an E-Z Pass I could use it in Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Islands, Virginia, and West Virginia. I may find a CVS pharmacy where I can buy one this morning before I get back on the toll-road; it could measurably improve my state of mind and my life. It’s early yet. CVS pharmacies probably do not open until 9 or later. I have time. I can wait, if it will help me retrieve my sanity. Alternatively, I could opt to add time to my drive and avoid toll-roads entirely. That might be an intelligent option. We shall see.

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When the mechanics of a journey become sufficiently troublesome as to cause angst to bubble up and spew like red-hot magma, perhaps it’s a signal to stop and smell the roses. Except South Bend, Indiana, where I am this morning, may not be suited to growing roses. Instead, I think kudzu and poison ivy probably thrive here. But that thought  may be based entirely on the level of stress I felt yesterday as I left the tollway in search of a place to stay for the night. So, taking a break, here, from the journey may not be only inappropriate, it might cause welts, blisters, and a nasty rash that could last anywhere from hours to weeks. A more suitable respite might be found in a cabin on the shores of a quiet little lake, where egrets and herons wade near the shore. A place where fishing would yield a fresh-water catch that would be the star of many lovely meals. Alas, I do not know of such a quiet, private lake where I would be permitted, much less encouraged, to stay to allow my anxieties to settle into serenity. But here I am  in South Bend, home to the University of Notre Dame. Perhaps I’ll just sit and contemplate the vagaries of life on the road and hope for a well-spring of gentle tranquility. There. That should do it.

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I will be slow to leap into this day. I will take my time and make the experience my friend.

Yesterday was a surprise. Decorah, Iowa struck me as the “Mayberry” I’ve been looking for. A beautiful small town with a vibrant, appealing downtown. The town boasts a Unitarian Universalist congregation and a Democratic party headquarters (that share space). A Korean/sushi restaurant. Multiple coffee shops. And, to my knowledge, a downtown that has not a single “brand” retail outlet; everything is unique and owner-operated, it seems. Just a lovely place. Residential areas just blocks from downtown are filled with attractive, well-maintained houses. Many, many of those well-maintained houses have “yards” with little to no grass; instead, they are filled with lush, colorful gardens. The only downside, as far as I can tell, is the town’s paucity of available real estate. Ach! I could live there, easily, if only I could find the right house. We spoke to several people, including a gentleman (75-years-old) who was extremely friendly and obviously progressive in his world-view. He suggested that the town was split 60-40, progressive-conservative; people get along, though, regardless of their political perspectives, he said. Mostly. There are a few die-hard hyper-conservatives who trumpet their loathing of all things and people who adhere to a liberal attitude, but they are few and far between. Oh, what I would give to pick up and move there tomorrow!

But we picked up and left, after a delightful several hours there, heading in the direction of Madison, Wisconsin. Last night, we stayed on the western fringes of Madison. Today, I will steer the car south and east, intentionally bypassing the greater Chicago area. No need to fight the traffic when there’s nothing drawing me to the city and region where I once lived and that I once loved.

After breakfast and packing up the car, I’ll direct it generally eastward. I expect a motel somewhere in Indiana will be home tonight; or, if I push it hard, a motel in Ohio, near the shore of Lake Erie. The car’s odometer surpassed 100,000 miles during the drive yesterday (or was it the day before?), without notice; I saw that I had left that milestone in the dust only fifteen miles after it occurred. It’s well beyond that, now. And it will rack up quite a few more before this long, aimless trip is done. As I watch the miles drift by, I think to myself that it seems I am running away from something. Perhaps it is a clutch of memories I am trying to ease or a longing I am attempting to erase. Or, maybe, I am running toward something; something new and exciting and energizing. One of these days, I’ll look back and determine just what it was that prompted that sense of running away from or toward something.

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Road trips tend to require the consumption of junk food; pretzels, crackers, chips, etc. I have to slow down on that stuff if I hope to maintain the direction my weight is taking. That is, down. We shall see. We always do.

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I could spend the day writing, but I have roads to follow and distances to leave behind. Off we go. I will long remember and treasure this trip. But I know it is only one of many more to come. I enjoy the highway and all it offers. I’ve learned a lot about the beauty of corn fields and the designs they make in the earth. I’ve seen many things I want to explore more deeply. And I will. Perhaps not today. But someday.

Another day. Another precious day.

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We thought yesterday we might head to Door County, Wisconsin. Or Madison, Wisconsin or the Milwaukee area or Spring Green. Instead, we wandered along the border between Iowa and Illinois, taking the Great River Road through Muscatine, Davenport, Camanche, Bellevue (where we stopped for lunch), and finally Dubuque, where we veered westward about ninety miles. We spent the night last night in Waterloo, Iowa.

As we meandered along the Mississippi River, I became enamored with the look and feel of several towns along the river. First, Muscatine captured my imagination; I could imagine living in a house (or in a mid-rise condo) with a view of the Mississippi. Then, I fell in love with Davenport—small enough to retain the charm of a semi-rural setting, but large enough to offer the amenities of a city. We roamed streets near the riverfront, driving by many beautiful old houses that seem to have been meticulously cared for. Based on listings we found on Zillow.com, I decided I could pay cash for a house in Davenport, which could serve as a lovely non-winter getaway. I am not serious about such an idea, though. Yet.

Davenport has a population of roughly 100,000, but I saw no signs of the ugliness of city traffic or urban blight (though, admittedly, we did not take a comprehensive tour of the town). But the little city holds enough appeal to warrant serving as a port-of-call for Viking River Cruises. As we drove through town, we were surprised to see a docked Viking River Cruise vessel. A Viking motor coach arrived dockside just as we entered a parking area reserved for buses (no cars allowed when a ship is docked…but we drove in anyway, after which I got gun-shy and insisted we get out of the way of the bus). Though the ship seemed enormous to me, it is a tiny fraction of the size of an ocean-going vessel. On every level (three?) of the side of the ship visible to us were balconies; people were sitting on some of them. I can imagine feeling quite at ease on a river cruise. Mi novia and I mused about the passengers, assuming that many of them must be Europeans or other foreign visitors, for whom a cruise up the Mississippi would be just as exotic as a cruise on the Rhine or Danube would be to us. In fact, we decided a cruise on the Mississippi would be an exotic adventure to us. One day, perhaps…

Today, we are thinking about driving northeast to Decorah, Iowa (just because…), then perhaps further north to Rochester, Minnesota. Then, we might head back southeast toward Madison, Wisconsin. Of course, that could change. And probably will.

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We are only an hour (or less) from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where a former employee (from many, many years ago…like 37 years) lives with her husband. I have toyed with the idea of trying to connect with her, but have decided trying to set up another reunion with her might derail our meandering journey. I last saw her about twenty-two years ago, when I visited Cedar Rapids on business. We stay in touch, every year, by way of my annual birthday email greeting to her and her email response. That’s enough. A face-to-face meeting probably would be a bit awkward, in that we probably have very little in common after all these years and there would be little to talk about. So, we’ll use the time and energy that a visit might require for other experiences.

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I got good news last night, via an email from my nephew, that my brother has been released from the hospital. He may yet be able to make his move to Ohio without any delays, but he’ll need to see a GI doctor first to see about  what treatments, if any, he’ll need for his diverticulitis. Sudden illnesses are scary (a fact to which I can attest, from personal experience). When they resolve satisfactorily, one feels even more grateful for one’s health than beforehand.

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We spent last night in Burlington, Iowa. Had we known, we might have hurried to get here several days earlier to experience the Wake ‘n Bake Delicious Dolls’ Drag Brunch. But, no, we got here two days late. The next major event advertised on the Greater Burlington Partnership website, the Jefferson Street Farmers Market, occurs two days hence. We will be long gone by then. Had we been in the mood for gambling, we could have stepped out the front door of our motel and walked next door to the Catfish Bend Casino. But we were in the mood to rest our tired bones, instead, so we stayed in our room, treating it like a cocoon. That was after a trip to Walmart, though, where we bought a cell-phone charger to supplement the one we brought with us. I left another one at the hospital during my last trip to the ER, several weeks ago.  I think I could learn to like Burlington, Iowa if I were to stick around for awhile. The greater Burlington metropolitan area is home to roughly 48,000 people, though Burlington itself has a population of roughly 24,000 in 2020, a decline of about 3,000 from the official figures released in the 2000 census. I have learned this about myself in recent years: I seem to prefer the “vibe” of places that are losing population, rather than places that are growing. I think my affinity for such places relates to my belief that I see potential in those areas; “if I were in charge, I could and would make the changes necessary that would result in the ‘right kind’ of slow growth—expansion that would excise the ugliness and fertilize the beauty, as it were.” Apparently, I hold my fantasies about my capabilities in high regard.

This morning, we will decide where to go today. Perhaps we’ll go to Madison. Or maybe to the Milwaukee area. Or, perhaps, to Spring Green. Or any number of other places in Wisconsin. We’ll know once we’re in the car and well on our way to wherever we’re heading.

+++

Wherever you go, go with all your heart.

~ Confucious ~

Last night, we stayed in another Hampton Inn, this one in the northeast corner of Kansas City, Missouri, near Worlds of Fun Village and Oceans of Fun Village. We did not explore either Village, which appear to be components of a single, monstrous amusement park. They simply are not our idea of “must-see” attractions, although I was drawn to the amusement rides visible from nearby streets. Roller coasters and other such rides intrigue me—rides that attempt to cause riders to lose lunch and dinner and a few snacks. I may not be able to hold my meals, but I would be willing to try. Or, I should say, I once would have been willing to try. These days, I am afraid my bones might be so brittle that the centrifugal force of the rides might shatter my skeleton into a thousand pieces. Perhaps riding those beasts should wait until my last hours on Earth are nigh; twenty years hence, perhaps. Yeah, right.

Today, we shall wander east and, possibly, north. We may look for odd attractions along the way. Things like the world’s largest pod of okra or the longest intact toenail in the universe or the happiest cantaloupe or the baby with the longest beard (none of which are real…just dreamed up to fill space). Whatever we do, we will plan on enjoying the experience.  We shall see what the day holds as it unfolds.

+++

The lack of a refrigerator in my car has proven to be a serious deficiency, one that could be rectified only by replacing the car with a properly outfitted van or mini-RV. The deficiency became obvious as we passed fruit and vegetable stands, not bothering to stop because we have no way to refrigerate any purchases we might make. For example, we could have bought watermelons, but they would quickly deteriorate in the hot car. And we have opted to stop and buy cold drinks as we’ve driven down long highways; with a refrigerator, we could have an ample supply of cold drinks without the trouble of wandering the aisles of convenience stores, looking for the refrigerated sections. A refrigerator (along with a stove, sink, and other conveniences one associates with a well-equipped home) could serve us well. Thus the idea of a properly outfitted van or mini-RV is appealing. I spent some time online last night, looking for RV shows we might visit on our travels. Unfortunately, our timing is off; we’ve either just missed some shows or we’re too early for the winter shows. It’s probably best; I might be tempted to buy something I cannot afford and I would have to arrange for my car to be shipped home (trading it in is not an option, as the title to the vehicle is tucked safely away in a safe deposit box, I think, in Hot Springs Village). Circumstances have a way of dictating one’s behavior.

+++

According to the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency’s The World Factbook, “Canada gained legislative independence from Britain in 1931 and formalized its constitutional independence from the UK when it passed the Canada Act in 1982.” I did not realize the recency of the country’s dissolution of its constitutional independence from the UK. I knew it became effectively independent many year earlier (it “became a self-governing dominion in 1867,” according to the CIA…and I have no reason to dispute my home country’s clandestine services organization), but I was unaware (or had forgotten) the 1982 milestone. My interest in perusing the The World Factbook arose from my resurgent fascination with the idea of becoming Canadian. Alas, the process of becoming Canadian is more involved than I think reasonable, especially for a man only slightly more than a year away from becoming a septuagenarian.

I have spent far less time in Canada than I would like. But I have spent enough time in the country (though it has been quite a while since my last visit) to know how deeply appealing I find the country and its culture. I’ve spent a little time in Toronto, Calgary, Vancouver, Montreal, Halifax, and a few other places in between; enough to know I should have been born in the country that is our neighbor to the north.

It’s possible, though unlikely, that our current travels will take us into Canada. But I would surely like to drive into Canada and, then, to travel the country from east to west and south to north…by automobile, by train, or by private motor coach. If Prime Minister Trudeau is reading these words, I hope he will recognize my post as a plea for him to grant me citizenship and free access to the country. And I hope he will respond in a way that I find both appropriate and humane. I know. I am approximately insane for even writing this odd plea.

+++

Time to go down for breakfast. Thence to the road, which will take us to places we want to see and experience and embrace.

Yesterday’s weather grew cooler and wetter as we made our way from Bartlesville, Oklahoma, heading toward and through the Flint Hills of Kansas. We got as far as Council Grove, on our way to Manhattan, Kansas, when we hit a detour. A major, lengthy, time-consuming detour. A detour that added considerable distance and time to our journey and that derailed our plans to get to Manhattan. Our detour took us to Junction City, where we decided to have a very late (roughly 3:00 p.m.) lunch. After lunch, when the time was well after 4:00 p.m., we opted to stay in Junction City for the night. We found a Hampton Inn and made a reservation. Compared to the previous night’s Hampton Inn (in Bartlesville), the place we stayed last night is a dump; much smaller room, badly outdated (compared to the Bartlesville property), a bit smelly, and considerably pricier than it should have been. Such is life in dealing with independently-owned properties. Some people—clothed in greed and wearing not even thread-bare robes of decency—price their “wares” at obscene rates.

Yet, while I bitch and moan about how the place is not the palace I think I deserve, I acknowledge I am awash in good fortune. I am lucky to be able to stay in a place as nice as this: clean sheets, comfortable bed, functioning HVAC, etc., etc. If I compare my circumstances to the guy we encountered when we filled up with gas along the way, I am rich. The guy, driving a ragged, road-worn pickup truck, had two arms full of tattoos, a nice smile, and a pleasant demeanor; not (in my opinion) the countenance of a beggar. He asked if I could spare a few bucks to help him make his way back home…to a town whose name I do not recall, only that it was south of Stillwater.  Initially, I rejected him, claiming I had only a credit card. He replied by saying something to the effect that “if you could put a few dollars on your card, that would help us get home.” An older man sat in the passenger’s seat. When I finished filling my tank, I gave the driver a $5 bill; he seemed genuinely appreciative. He went inside the convenience store where I believe he bought $5 worth of gas. He put some gas in the truck, then moved it away from the pumps and parked in front of the convenience store. As mi novia came out of the store, where she bought some drinks and snacks, she walked over to his truck and handed him a $5 bill. I believe the guys really needed help buying gas to get home. As I reflect on our interchanges with the guy, I wish I’d handed him a $20 bill. It might have made his day. It certainly would not have ruined mine.

+++

Today, we will make our way to Kansas City, where we will have lunch with mi novia’s friend and her husband. They are staying in Gladstone, a Missouri suburb of KC, helping the woman’s brother following his hospitalization; the couple live in mi novia’s old hometown of Stockton, California and have made their way east to assist the woman’s brother. After lunch, we plan to pay a short visit with a friend and former employee of mine who lives in the Kansas KC suburb of Lenexa. Then, we will find a place in the northeastern suburbs or exurbs of Kansas City in preparation for our departure tomorrow morning, possibly in the direction of Traverse City, Michigan. While we have no set destination, Traverse City intrigues me. On the way there, assuming that’s where we head, we may stop in Bloomington, Illinois. However, because that’s a college town, we may decide we’d rather no stay in a motel that could be a magnet to drunken college students (I may be a little judgmental, I know). We shall see.

+++

I learned last night that my brother, the one who’s preparing to move to Ohio, was admitted to a hospital in Houston, Texas yesterday with GI issues, possibly an ulcer. That is a disturbing situation that I hope is quickly and completely and satisfactorily resolved. I’ve lately been concerned about my sister-in-law, another brother’s wife, who is awaiting surgery for a heart valve replacement. And I’m concerned, as well, for my sister, who has been wrestling with pain in her hips; that is especially concerning because she must go up and down a steep set of stairs to go into and out of her condo. The effects of aging are all around—and in—me. Aging causes me to assign considerably greater value to lost youth and to what once was good (or, at least, acceptably decent, but deteriorating) health.

+++

Beyond Traverse City, assuming we actually decide to go there, we do not know where we might head. My thinking is driven by an interest in finding a place that might be appealing to me as a place to live, should I decide to vacate Hot Springs Village. I struggle with the idea of leaving Hot Springs Village because I have good friends there. But I struggle with staying because of weather and chiggers and its declining quality of intellectual health; that is, it is not just a conservative stronghold, it is a stronghold for conservative stupidity on steroids. But so is much of the country. I long for comfortable weather, interesting and intelligent people, and the possibility of an appealing lifestyle…whatever that means. Is there a place in the U.S. that’s both affordable and attractive in all the right ways? I do not know. And I am still not sure about leaving the country. I may be too old and set in my ways to try on a new language and a new perspective on life. We shall see. Maybe.

+++

I have been away from Hot Springs Village for only about three days. It seems like an eternity. Odd, that.

Doors in the motel hallway slam shut, announcing strangers’ departure and alerting me to strangers’ inconsiderate behavior. Those slamming doors do not awaken me, but they raise my hackles. But, what if those doors slammed by accident? Would I retain my loathing for the strangers who accidentally slammed them? Or would I dismiss the possibility that the slamming was accidental? Should I assume the strangers up and down the hallway intentionally slam doors as a means of notifying their unknown neighbors that strangers leaving early demand to be noticed? Where in the world of strangers does malice reside? Is it in them, the strangers, or is it in me, the stranger to the strangers?

Five years ago, I began writing what I had hoped would become either a solid short story or, if my creativity and stamina would cooperate, a full-fledged novel. Needless to say, the story did not hold my interest long enough to see it to completion. In fact, after writing only enough to set the stage for a political and military confrontation between allied, I set the story aside. Only this morning, as I skimmed a list of documents in a “writing” subdirectory did I come across the meager framework of what could have become an interesting story. The two characters in the opening scene of the story are the prime minister of Canada and the president of Mexico. They have just agreed that the topics they were about to discuss would be held in strict confidence between the two of them; no one, not even their most trusted staff members nor their spouses or anyone else, could be privy to the information they would share.

The information they shared was this: both countries had secretly been developing nuclear weapons; not as offensive weapons, but only for their defense. Defense from their most powerful ally. The United States. Especially in light of the fact that an egotistical madman occupied the White House. The leaders of the two countries were concerned about the unpredictability of the U.S. president; they felt obligated to protect their citizens from his actions. During their brief meeting, they agreed to quickly craft and sign a mutual defense agreement and announce it publicly.

About the same time I was writing that piece of fiction, I was exploring the idea of writing a novel, also involving nuclear weapons as a source of dramatic tension. And part of that tension revolved around nuclear threats that could, eventually, lead to catastrophic destruction of a major U.S. city. But, before that city might be destroyed, another small city whose name suggested the larger target would be targeted. Just as proof of intent.

I convinced myself, at the time, that a road trip to gather information for my novel would be in order. So, my late wife and I drove to Manhattan, Kansas. The details of what I did there are dull and unexciting, but the seemed interesting at the time. So, this morning as I wonder where mi novia and I might go as we launch our road trip, Manhattan, Kansas is among the places I might consider as a target. But, the Texas coast, setting for another short story (actually published in an anthology), is another option. So are Oberlin, Ohio and Traverse City, Michigan and Savannah, Georgia. We’ll see where we are tomorrow morning at this time.

This trip, though, will not be a “writing trip.” It will be an opportunity for experiences and excitement and the thrill of travel. And off we go. Soon.

I expect my treadmill to arrive this afternoon or early evening. I ordered it online a number of weeks ago, but like so many other consumer products, it was a victim of bottlenecks of manufacturer or distribution or both. But, according to a couple of phone calls I received yesterday, I should receive it today. Some people pooh-pooh the idea of a treadmill, saying it quickly will become a clothes rack, used only for garment storage and not for exercise. Those same people say treadmills are poor stand-ins for actual walking. I agree with the latter statement, except that I consider time on a treadmill to be dedicated time for exercise, whereas I consider walking for pleasure to be something entirely different. And, unlike the world outside, beneath the sky, treadmills are available whether it’s hot, cold, rainy, snowy, or deeply dark.

With good fortune and plenty of discipline, I will be able to demonstrate to the doubters the effectiveness (potential) of treadmills.

+++

The journey is more important than the destination” So says the time-worn aphorism. In a very limited way, I will put that adage to the test, beginning tomorrow. I will climb inside my vehicle and take a journey. It may be 200 a mile journey or I may drive 500 miles. The drive may take me north, but it could just as easily take me south. Or east. Or west. Or variations thereof. Tomorrow’s journey will be just the first day of a weeks-long adventure. Every day, a new journey. Another 200 or 500, or just 75, miles. Every day, the destination will be irrelevant; the “getting-there” is the more important aspect of the journey; wherever “there” happens to be—I will not know until I get there.

The idea of this kind of journey—which involves no planning and no destination—is a bit stressful to mi novia. She is used to journeys in which the destination was primary and every aspect of carefully planning how to get there was almost as important. This journey, in which extemporaneous decisions about direction and distance, will shatter those experiences into dust. Well, maybe not quite dust. At some point each day, we will have to decide where we want to try to stay. And we will have to try to book a room. And we will have to reach that destination in order to stay in that place. So, being a wanderer—a gypsy, a vagabond—is not so easy; one strays back into elements of a planned life. Nothing ties us to the idea of eschewing planned destinations; if, after a time, we decide we prefer the structure of a known destination and a planned itinerary, we can make the appropriate adjustments. Mi novia and I will decide off the cuff.  I am not sure whether I agree with the assertions in the following quotation, but I like the way it slides off the tongue.

I have wandered all my life, and I have also traveled; the difference between the two being this, that we wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.

~ Hilaire Belloc ~

+++

93/59; pulse 49. I suspect that’s indicative of my über-relaxed state of mind. But that cannot be it; I am not that cool and calm and collected. Of course, I scurried over the Sister Google for some information (I’ve done that before, but I’ve forgotten what I learned). Sister Google allowed that a pressure under 90/60 is abnormally low (though not dangerous). I have this distinct feeling that I already wrote about this stuff…like just days ago. Either this feeling is déjà vu or it’s a close cousin to it. Perhaps I am light-headed, one of the possible symptoms of hypotension. Or perhaps I am like many/most others, who may sometimes be at or near the cut-off for hypotension diagnosis,  but who show no symptoms at all. And, then, my lower-than-normal blood pressure drifts up to the not-so-awfully-low range. All’s well in the land of make-believe

+++

My travel fantasy this morning includes a destination: an isolated private island on which is perched a magnificent little house; very modern in design but nestled into the topography as if it grew there. Once there, I would close the window between my private little island world and the universe beyond that window. When I open the window again, all I can see are grass prairies leading to the top edge of high cliffs. Two hundred feet below, waves crash into the vertical cliff walls and water splashes almost to the prairie grass above. The house is well-stocked with food. One room is essentially a library, with shelves all along the walls and in aisles in the center of the room, leaving little room between the stacks. Plenty of books. And a crafts-room, complete with pottery wheels, slab roller, clay, colored glass, lead solder, soldering gun, welding equipment, plasma cutter, grinders, kilns, table saws, radial arm saws, a drill press, and dozens of other tools and various supplies. Heaven on earth. And the place has unlimited power. And several freezers full of food…did I mention? Hey, this is a fantasy. I can have what I want.

+++

The clock tells me it’s time to begin getting ready for the day. I suppose I will comply.

Dim, grey light filters through the trees. The dimness diminishes with each passing minute, replaced by a slightly brighter sky behind the branches. The distant glow above the horizon grows in intensity, offsetting the loss of darkness with a deepening supply of luminescence. Soon, darkness will be hidden, visible only under the leaves and forest debris on the ground. Pine and oak trees will continue to battle with the sky, shading the ground beneath from the sun’s pure white light. But darkness will lose the battle, as it does every day. Will darkness ever prevail? Will the sun ever abandon its effort to bathe the world in light? Deep grey and dark green colors still mix with the blackness of night as dawn claws its way out of the forest. But the forest will remain at the edge of darkness for as long as dense stands of oak and pine stay close to one another, holding development at bay for another little while. Eventually, though, the trees and underbrush will be dispatched to a place where only memory is permitted to thrive.

The image here is only an imaginary expression of something that does not exist. It is your eyes’ deceit; trickery that lures your mind into believing light and darkness have a place on the screen in front of you. You know better. The image burned into your brain is a figment of your imagination; a relic of a time when you had the eyes of an eagle and the resolve of a martyr. Today, of course, you sit in front of a screen, watching evidence of your gullibility put on display for all the world to see. Grey and dim, indeed. Shades of deep, dark green. Darkness giving way to light. It’s all a deception of the highest order. But, still, you stare into the abyss and watch flames consume a lost cargo ship as the water surrounding it boils and thrashes and screams for release.

+++

A final opportunity delivered to a desperate man standing on the raised railing of a cargo ship under assault by gale force winds and waves as tall as ten story buildings. Perhaps he jumped. Maybe he was pushed. Or, quite possibly, the sea wrapped its watery fingers around him and pulled him from the railing and toward the bottom of an impossibly deep ocean. No one else will ever know, for he may have been alone—or, at least, by himself—on that massive sea-going vessel. The ship subsequently drifted for weeks on calm waters. Finally, though, the corrosive air and water consumed the framework upon which safety had been built and then torn asunder. The ship sank beneath the mysterious waters of an endless body of water, where the boat’s secrets will remain locked in a vault until the vault and its contents are consumed by time.  The desperate man will then be gone forever, as will all evidence of him and the life he lived. Because when time and water erase memories, nothing remains; not even history.

+++

I successfully returned to bed at 3, after briefly considering abandoning it at that ungodly hour. Instead, though, I went back to sleep and slept until 5:30. Time moves far too fast in the early morning hours. It races by, as if driven by a frenzied witch running late for an appointment with infinity. A witch, incidentally, need not wear a pointy black hat; she can wear a stylish orange fedora to complement the warlock’s beige pork pie hat. His hat is woven from the dried skin of the enemy; “the enemy” is a catch-all term for everyone else who is not “us.” The warlock employs an army of milliners who craft pork pie hats, as well as stovepipe hats, the kind Abraham Lincoln wore. Lincoln was the only person I know of who wore tall, stovepipe hats; the presidential dress-code never caught on with the riff-raff among us. We always chose fedoras or newsboy caps. As well we should.

+++

And the morning continues to unfold. I will watch it. And I will take  my car in for an oil change and tire rotation, preparation for a long, long, long road trip. Now, in the interim, I will explore answers to the mysteries of the lesser light.

Distant thunder. The sound is far enough from me, and faint enough, that it may be my imagination rattling around in my head. But I think it’s thunder. Thunder, a thousand miles away, clutching at the clouds that bind it to a continent on which English is not the chosen language. That’s what creates distant thunder; clouds ramming into one another over foreign lands so far away they look like paintings. Wee-hour imaginings; that’s what’s responsible for these clutches of words, these syllables gathered together in random fashion, with just enough meaning to keep them from separating into noisy partial-word sounds.

+++

Sunlight will remain at bay for hours. Until then, I will sit in a room illuminated by an artificial sun, a sun misshapen into a tube with designs etched on its sides.

Light, to my way of thinking, is the visual manifestation of heat in a precisely defined and limited space. Light is an interesting phenomenon. It is neither a physical “thing” nor an imaginary spirit. Light bathes us in vision; without light, we would be blind. Yet light is not the same as our eyes; without our eyes, we would be blind, but eyes and light are radically different from one another.

Eyes are physical things, whereas light is more an event than a thing. More an occurrence than an item we can grasp in our hands. Darkness, like light, has no physical properties one can hold in our hands. Yet, when circumstances cooperate, we can feel darkness. We sometimes can differentiate between darkness and light without the aid of our eyes. When darkness replaces light, shining on our skin, we can feel heat dissipate. Or, maybe we feel light loosen its grip. Or, by contrast, perhaps we feel the grip of darkness tighten.

If light and darkness are phenomena, then greed and altruism, too, are phenomena. All phenomena are related to one another, in one form or another, if for no other reason than their manner of being. We can stretch that elastic relationship just enough to assert that darkness and altruism are related, just as are greed and light. Perhaps the relationships are inverse. Yet maybe they are not. Maybe, despite all we’ve been taught for all these long centuries, altruism and darkness are simply mirror images of one another. Maybe, in fact, altruism behaves as if it were light—simply to ensure its visibility in that mirror. And light acts like greed to force us to turn our eyes away from the negativity inherent in the inverse of giving.

I read yesterday, while skimming an article asserting the legitimacy of “woo-woo” thinking, that nothing exists until it is noticed. So, planet Earth did not exist until the first living cells were able to react to—that is, notice—their environment. But the article went further; it suggested that a tree in a forest or a pipe wrench sitting on a work bench do not exist until noticed by humans. I suppose a raccoon that climbs the tree or a monkey that picks up the pipe wrench are products of an overactive environmental imagination. Seriously, the assertions are absurd on one hand, but they are meritorious of deep, nonjudgmental thinking on the other. Looking at the world around us in ways utterly foreign to our experience is a valuable exercise. It awakens us from a stupor and thrusts us into a experience of enlightenment unlike anything we have ever before encountered. We must simply allow ourselves to be drawn into a prism, from which we can peer outward at the way it refracts life. That’s all it takes. But that transformation is equivalent to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon captured in amber one million years ago. The emergence is next to impossible, except when one allows one’s imagination total freedom, in which case the transition is supremely simple and flawless. Back to the “woo-woo” thinking, though: nothing exists until it interacts or engages in some way with entities around it. Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe I do not exist in your eyes, and vice versa, until we engage. Until we notice one another—with profound appreciation—we do not realize how fulfilling our interactions with one another might be. We may as well not exist until we devote the time and expend the energy to know one another. To. Notice. One. Another. I notice everyone. If I stare at you, it is because I want you to exist; more than simply in my imagination.

+++

Yesterday was lost. Lost to sleep for much of the day. Lost to a malaise; not one foretelling the onset of disease but, instead, a slowly-disappearing reaction to consuming too many almonds the night before. I know better. Yet I allow myself to over-indulge. And, when I do, I pay the price. The price, yesterday, was a general sense of discomfort and a desire to sleep my way through a painful, aching gut. It may take another day or two to fully resolve itself. In the meantime, my efforts to satisfy my hunger probably will gravitate toward jello and other soft foods. Maybe pasta, flavored with pizza sauce (because, to my knowledge, there is no canned/jarred pasta sauce in the house and I am not in the mood to create a sauce from scratch. Sauce intended for pizza—thicker and sweeter and richer than I’d like, but acceptable, anyway, as a stand-in—thinned with a little water and improved with some Italian spices and crushed red peppers may do the trick. For breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever. I was sufficiently hungry last night to consume an entire can of Campbell’s tomato soup. Though not overwhelmingly hungry right now (at 2:23 a.m.), I could eat. I could eat quite a lot, if I did not have to prepare it. If I had a servant, I would be considerably heavier and more solid.

+++

I slept yesterday afternoon without noticing the rain and thunder. Only after I woke did I learn that the sky had opened, drenching the ground and producing growls and cracks and other fierce noises that would, under normal circumstances, wake me. My sleep must have been deeper than I thought, though. I heard nothing. I was deep in sleep while Mother Nature disturbed the peace of almost everyone in the Village but me. That is a rarity. Thunder tends to enter my body as if the sound belonged to me; and, normally, I react to the sound as if it were attempting to escape from me. I tend to cling to it the way I envision a drowning man clings to a life raft. But not yesterday. Not when I was fighting to recover from whatever it was that attempted to knock me down and out.

+++

The time is 3:24 a.m., nearly two hours later than it was when I awoke and climbed out of bed. The first cup of coffee is history and the second is disappearing fast. I think I’ll hard-boil some eggs. Deviled eggs for breakfast is beginning to sound alluring in the extreme. And so it came to pass that the man created deviled eggs. And they will be good. I will notice them. And they will return the favor, caressing my tongue and thus releasing flavors so rich and fulfilling that anyone reading these words will feel the experience.

+++

It’s Tuesday. One of roughly Tuesdays (more or less) so far. Others have experienced more Tuesdays or fewer. But I have experienced as many as I possibly could up until this point. If the universe is willing, I will experience many more Tuesdays. And there you are.

Sadness—deep, intractable, incurable heartache or grief or overwhelming sorrow—provides an endless supply of content for writers. That reality gives rise to the question as to whether sadness propels people to become writers or whether writing is symptomatic of a profound, underlying sadness. Does the fact that even comedy, beneath its slick, laugh-stoked exterior, is soaked in sadness have any bearing on the discussion? Probably not. A thousand arguments can be made to refute the connection between writing and sadness. But a thousand more substantiate the link between the two; while no causal relationship can be verified, neither can it be discounted. No one can know with certainty, no matter how much knowledge one has stored in the recesses of one’s mind.

+++

Once again, I have been up for hours. This morning, I woke “for the duration” at 4. Earlier, I had forced myself back to bed around 12:30. But I could not do it again at 4. Even after being up for almost two and a half hours, I have been unable to write anything I am willing to show to the denizens of planet Earth who stumble upon this blog. Not that I would know they saw it. They would not leave comments to show that they saw what I wrote. They would simply look dismissively at my words and would then move on to more interesting places on the internet.

+++

I give up. There’s no point in continuing this charade. I cannot write this morning, no matter how much I might want to. I am unwilling to record most of this morning’s thoughts here because I might be asked to explain the source of my ennui; I have no explanation to give. Depression? Anxiety? Simple fatigue? Who knows? Enough for now. Perhaps I will tumble out of the doldrums at any moment.

The computer claims the outside temperature is 66°F right now; that would be delightful, except that the humidity is 92%. A few moments ago, I went outside to experience 66°F at 92% humidity. I expected the experience to be somewhat disappointing; I thought the high humidity would mask the comfort of the temperature. I was wrong. It felt wonderful. Even though there was not even a hint of a breeze, the temperature felt wonderful. I barely even noticed the high humidity. Usually, when the air is dead still, as it is now, temperatures have to be considerably lower than “normal” to feel comfortable. But not so this morning. I encourage everyone who is able to experience 66°F at 92% humidity, when the air is absolutely still, to do just that. Experience it. And talk about it.

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As people age, they tend to repeat themselves. Their conversations sometimes seem to have been recorded on a loop; though the words may be slightly different, the content varies only slightly. These repetitions may occur over the course of a few days or, as time marches on, over the course of a few seconds. Between those extremes, repetitions take place with increasing frequency and with decreasing time between them.  To the mind whose ear is exposed to high-speed repetitions, the exposure can be maddening. But one’s frustration must be tempered with understanding of the reality of what is happening to the brain. Virtually all people go through various degrees of the phenomenon. Understanding and kindness should be one’s reaction, not unchecked frustration. How easy it is, though, to condemn a lack of understanding in others while demonstrating it in oneself.

As I contemplate my experiences listening to a story for the umpteenth time, I wonder whether repetitive telling is an indication of the importance of the story to the teller. Or does it, I wonder, illustrate a limitation on the number and/or depth of topics available in the teller’s brain? Or, maybe, both? These questions are based not only on curiosity born of observing others, but of curiosity and fear that arise from recalling my own behaviors. And, in answer to my own questions, based on my own experience as a story-teller, I think it’s a bit of both. The stories must be important to me and, therefore, telling them to others in my sphere must be important because I want others to understand who I am. Repetitive telling is a measure of their importance. Yet repetition must also be an sign of decay; mental decay reduces the number and depth of topics available for conversation.

This is all supposition, of course, though it may be based in part on past reading about the effects of aging and its impact on both the individual and people in the individual’s sphere. I often wonder whether my curiosity is fueled by my own intellect or by my exposure to others’ thinking? Who knows? I should be satisfied to know I can still think, whether my thoughts are spurred by my own intellect or by others’ thinking. I should be, but I’m not. I want to know more. I want to know so much more than I know. The human brain, I think, has capacities far exceeding any we have measured heretofore. We have not yet unlocked the doors to that vast empty space where knowledge can be kept at the ready. We may never unlock the doors; we may never even find the doors so we can attempt to break them down with brute force. Oh, to be able to live and observe, from a safe and comfortable distance, for the nex thousand years.

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Enough for now. This morning we will go to church.

Today is Saturday and the day holds great promise. Just how or why, I do not know; I just sense this day in early September is likely to be a good, productive, satisfying day. I ask all my readers, both of you, to tell me (by leaving a comment on this blog) why this day holds such positive promise. I hope my friends Lana and Mel recognize that this day will be a highly-productive pre-move day; soon, all the challenges of a 300+ mile move will be behind them—I mention them by name because I am extremely conscious of the stresses and challenges of a residential relocation. I hope everyone else in my limited sphere will find this day one full of not only promise, but extraordinary experience. Your happiness contributes to mine, so my good wishes for you are selfish wishes; but, at least, you may reap some benefits from my selfishness.

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A friend sent me a message yesterday, informing me about a Magnolia Network television series called Van Go. Though I haven’t watched any episodes yet, I did enough research to know I easily could get hooked on the program. Sufficiently so that it could prompt me to commence pursuit of a solid, reliable, easy-on-the-gas van that’s in search of a new life as a rolling home for nomads. I can see it now: a large shop outfitted with all the equipment and tools necessary to convert an old Sprint van into a mobile retreat with all the necessary luxuries (yes…I know) of home.

I probably should finish all the thousands of little projects around the house first. Or, better yet, hire someone to get all the bothersome unfinished items off the to-do list. It might seem odd that I do not have the interest nor the drive to finish the little things, but I want to undertake a monstrous undertaking in the form of a vehicular makeover—converting an unattractive cargo-hauler into a perpetually-mobile vacation “cabin.” I would have had the same passion for completing every detail, personally, if I had been the sole designer/creator/installer/whatever for the house. But handling only some of the aesthetic matters, like painting and hanging towel racks and such become more of a chore than taking a project from the drawing board all the way to a finished piece of what might be called art.  And, of course, there’s the issue of thinking I may have ADHD (you know, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder). And, then, there’s the life-long trait toward my innate laziness that reveals itself only mid-project; no matter what the project. And, finally, I need access to/ownership of the necessary tools and equipment and I really need a patient, dedicated person who has used the tools to show me how. I could learn on my own, I suppose, but the risk of cutting of a finger or five while re-learning the proper way to push boards being cut by a table saw is higher than I would like. We’ll see. We always do.

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Yesterday’s ultrasound of my kidneys and bladder revealed only that they are “grossly unremarkable.” Or something like that. Unless the urologist reads something more sinister into the report that appeared in my medical records just a few hours after the procedure, my bladder and my kidneys are in tip-top shape. And well they should be. They seem to be working overtime these days. So much so that I decided to buy an “on-the-road” plastic portable urinal to take with us on our upcoming road trip. During my online exploration of these little containers (they’re nothing more than specially-shaped/formed plastic containers with lids), I discovered that these accouterments are available not only for men, but for women! I asked mi novia if she wanted me to buy one for her while I was at it. She allowed as how she’d rather stop at convenience stores and gas stations. I would, too, if I had the luxury of an enormous bladder and the ability to fight the urge while traveling on long stretches of highway jammed with cars but few pee-stations.

Which brings me to my next rant: we should all just lighten up about public urination. Both men and women should feel absolutely free to pee anywhere and at any time they need to. When possible, of course, they should pee on plants that could benefit from the water, rather than on concrete or asphalt, but the location should be up to the person peeing. Do we get apoplectic when we see a dog lift its leg or squat? Of course not—unless it’s inside on a carpet or throw rug. I do not advocate that we give people that much freedom. But I do advocate for giving people the latitude to pee when and where they need to without being ostracized, arrested, or shunned by the rest of us “more civilized” creatures. Nonsense! While I do not advocate for public pooping, I do advocate in favor of allowing public urination. Yet I really cannot defend how or why I differentiate between the freedom to pee and what I consider legitimate restrictions on poopery—I just do.

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I bought a limited supply of medicinal marijuana yesterday, knowing I might need something to help minimize shoulder and neck pain after a long day’s driving during our upcoming trip. But, as I contemplate the as-yet-indeterminate-route-and-destination(s), I wonder whether we will be traveling through ultra-conservative, unenlightened, harsh, and judgmental states where possession of such stuff might be considered a capital offense. Can I go on record as a strong libertarian with regard to laws restricting or prohibiting possession and/or use of marijuana? I think the government has no business infringing on individuals’ rights to use marijuana (or any other substance), provided the use of such substances does not directly endanger others. I feel the same way about many other restrictions society imposes on people—like public nudity, public urination, prostitution (though I have mixed feelings on that), and various others. With regard to prostitution, my mixed feelings arise from my concerns that a prostitute may not have chosen that path, but instead may have been forced into it due to circumstances out of her (or his, I suppose) control. In which case, I oppose forcing and coercing or otherwise putting her (or him) in the position of having to be a prostitute, instead of wanting to be one. Enough on that for now.

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You probably have not read this far because, I understand, what I write can be too much and too lengthy to be suitable for breakfast-time (or any time) reading. That has not stopped me from writing it, nonetheless. You see, I feel compelled to allow my brain to unwind and express itself through my fingers most mornings. Absent that outlet, my mind might get so wound up that it could snap like the springs on a garage door, making the device over which it has control and responsibility utterly and completely inoperable. That is, I might become a blind zombie, unable to speak, think, or see. And I would not want that.

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I think I mentioned that it’s Saturday, a day of immense opportunity. Take advantage of the exciting opportunities available to you. And tell me about them. And let me tell others about them. So that we all can share in this growing tide of happiness and positive evolution. Good morning!

I hereby divest myself of negativity for as long as my discipline lasts!

This morning, I stumbled across a YouTube video in which a couple shows off their full-time “van-life” van and talks about what they did to convert the 2014 Mercedes-Benz Sprinter. Though I dragged myself away from the 25-minute video after only 12 minutes or so, the vehicle and the fantasies (call it vision, if you like) that spurred its conversion got me hooked for a while. The couple that built it planned on being full-time “van-lifers,” though after building their dream van people began clamoring for their help with van conversions. The demand for their time increased exponentially. So, I gather they may not be living on the road full-time; instead, they travel when they want but devote whatever time they deem appropriate and necessary to what is, I suppose, a lucrative little business. I would like to have such a van. I do not necessarily want to build it myself, though. There was a time, when I was younger and more agile and had fewer aches and pains in every damn joint in my body that I would have wanted to do the work. I still do want to the work, actually, but I acknowledge the fact that I am getting rather brittle in my decrepitude. The actual work of van conversions is suited to younger people, though ideas for design that would enhance utility and comfort remain the province of people in their dotage as well as people in the foolishness of youth. What I lack in youth I also lack in extra, uncommitted cash, so, who is best suited to design and convert vans is not really a topic relevant to me. But if I were to win the lottery…

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Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.

~ Ray Bradbury ~

This morning, at a few minutes past 8, I will rush off for my ultrasound appointment. The sonographer will press her sonography stick (or whatever it is called) against my lower abdomen and other parts as he or she conducts an ultrasound examination of my bladder and kidneys. This is a follow-up to my experience with a large kidney stone, removed in February, and the subsequent ultrasound to verify that all was well. It was. And this morning’s ultrasound will, I hope, confirm the same. They want me to have a full bladder for the ultrasound. They may or may not get their wish, inasmuch as the urgency and frequency of my need to pee has grown more demanding with the passage of each day. The age-related decay of one’s physical humanity begins as an annoyance and degrades into a impossibly deep well of full-scale aggravation.

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I feel fortunate, in that mi novia is willing to indulge my wanderlust. When we begin our upcoming road trip, we will leave the house without having any specific destination in mind. We will just go. We may drive toward Traverse City, Michigan. Or Port Townsend, Washington. Or Charleston, South Carolina. Or Oswego, New York. Or Albuquerque, New Mexico. Or a combination thereof. We want to go too many places and our timeline for road-tripping is too short to actually fulfill all our dreams. So we will respond to each day with a decision on which direction we will head. It’s the planning for this trip (or the lack of planning, actually) that makes the idea of a full-equipped “van life” van so appealing. Motels are expensive and the experience of staying in a motel is so similar from place to place that I do not much like the idea of staying in motel after motel. But I’m also cranky and demanding in my old age, so the idea of staying in a B&B with limited privacy (and feeling the need to be very quiet very early in the morning) is unappealing. But it’s better than not traveling at all. Ach! I change my mind so damn frequently about travel and motels and having a van and on and on and on.

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Argentinian Vice President (and former first lady and former president) Cristina Fernández de Kirchner survived an assassination attempt when the gun her attacker attempted to use failed to fire. Attempts, whether successful or not, to assassinate political leaders around the world demonstrate the dangers of politics. Or is it the dangers of governance? Or both? And is there really a difference? Governance is just one manifestation of politics. One cannot govern in the absence of political pressures. However, one can exert political pressures without enduring the burden of governance responsibilities. Yet exerting political pressures is a matter of degrees; assassination is on the extreme edge of such pressure. What one person considers compassion, another person considers weakness. What one person considers fairness, another considers injustice. We might all be better off living in a sealed environment in which politics is prohibited; but governance cannot exist in a political vacuum, so the prohibition of politics would correspond with the chaos of anarchy. There’s no winning a battle with oneself, no matter the strength or weakness of the opponent.

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Politics have no relation to morals.

~ Niccolo Machiavelli ~

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I am not a game player. At least not often. And not many types of games. I play words games, but only with people I find intellectually appealing. I play a few other games–just occasionally and maybe just one game–only with people whose company I like. There’s something about games that makes playing them with people one does not like a terrible struggle. One not worth the effort. That something, I suppose, is a certain level of intimacy. That intimacy is reserved for a limited number of people. Beyond that limited sphere, there’s a sizeable ring of discomfort. And beyond that, a more narrow ring of dislike. And, still further, a wider ring of dismissal or emptiness.

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It’s approaching 6:45. I must shave, shower, and dress (obviously) before I leave for my appointment. I still have time for another cup of coffee and some avocado on toast. A decadent lifestyle, without doubt.

I allowed my laziness to overwhelm my desire to write this morning, hence no early-day blog post. This post, begun shortly before 10:00 a.m., will serve as a stand-in for what would have been a much earlier post.

The fact that I went to breakfast with my church’s “men’s breakfast group” this morning could be used as an excuse, but that would have been a lie. Normally, by the time I left for breakfast, I would have long-since finished writing my post. No, this morning, I was just lazy. Instead of writing, I read an array of Facebook posts, including this one:

If someone is falling behind in life, you don’t have to remind them. Believe me, they already know. If someone is unhealthy, they know. If someone is failing at work, they know. If someone is struggling in their relationships, with money, with self-image… they know. It’s what consumes their thoughts each day. What you need to do for those who are struggling is not to reprimand, but encourage. Tell them what’s good about their lives, show them the potential that you see. Love them where they are. When we can’t see clearly for ourselves, we need others to speak greatness over us. People don’t need you to tell them what’s wrong with their lives, they already know. They need you to reassure them that they can still make it right.

Those are the words of a young (29-year-old) woman by the name of Brianna Wiest. She is a writer, a poet, a thinker. And, I think, wise beyond her years. She is the bestselling author of 101 Essays That Will Change The Way You Think, The Mountain Is You, When You’re Ready, This Is How You Heal, and two poetry collections, Salt Water and Ceremony. No matter how old I get, I will never be as young and productive a writer as is Brianna Wiest. There might have been a time when I would have been bitter about that unchangeable reality. But not now. I have grown old; simultaneously, I have grown appreciative of people who, in their youth, already have outshone me despite my lengthy head start.

In addition to reading the words of Brianna Wiest, I read the words of David Legan, a sometimes-follower of my blog. He commented on yesterday’s post, noting tangentially his disagreement with my words about anger while expressing his appreciation of Bill Morrissey’s lyrics and music. Those lyrics, he suggested, lure one into a sense of comfort until they strike, hard, at one’s heart with their powerful insight into our insignificance. Bill Morrissey’s lyrics remind me of Greg Brown’s lyrics. Both of them were exceptionally skillful storytellers; Brown still is, but Morrissey died young, at age 59.

Emotion, delivered in the form of poetry and lyrics and narrative prose so profound it embraces one with a hug like that of a grizzly bear, is the driving force of knowledge. We learn almost as much from moving, powerful language as we do from experience; maybe even more. Emotion is the foundation for thought—we cannot think until, first, we feel.

Does the final sentence of the paragraph above seem especially arrogant? As if I were asserting as fact what is only my opinion? I make such pronouncements with the expectation that they will trigger appreciation in some people as if I had expressed a profound insight. And I understand—and expect—that some people will dismiss my words as evidence of undeserved hubris. Either is fine with me. I doubt most of what I express as certainty. At the same time, though, I think it’s entirely possible that my words may carry with them, for some people, an intensity of insight rarely encountered in these environs.

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Writing during the hour before noon feels oddly inappropriate. I feel like I’m using someone else’s time to produce words that rightfully belong to someone else. Strange, I know.

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A good friend of mine writes poetry. It is a relatively recent activity for her, I think, but her writing is exceptionally good, as if she has been practicing and refining it for years and years. Her poetry conveys emotions as well as any I have heard or read. A recent poem is, like several others, remarkably good. I think it’s time for her to begin compiling her work with the idea that she is to create a chapbook. I will happily help.

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A mail delivery person, a stand-in for our regular carrier, just drove by at high speed and whirled around in the cul-de-sac, slowing just enough and he changed directions to throw mail into my mailbox before roaring away at even higher speed. I automatically assumed he had thrown an explosive device into the mailbox; either it had a timer set to go off just seconds after his vehicle was at a safe distance or he wanted leave the vicinity before he detonated the bomb. It has not yet exploded, so I will now take the risk of checking the mailbox. If I do not publish a post tomorrow, Friday, you can assume my first assumption was right.

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James Johnston Stewart and John Francis Peppard wrote the song Armed with a Broken Heart. John Gorka is the only artist I have heard perform it. Until I attempted to verify that John Gorka had written the lyrics and tune for the song, I was deeply impressed with John Gorka’s superb song-writing skills. Now, Gorka may well be an exceptional songwriter, but not the writer of that song with which I am so impressed. Gorka does a superb job of performing the song, but he seems to get all the credit for it. Stewart and Peppard deserve a LOT more than they get. So it seems with many songwriters. They do not get recognition for their work; the performers always seem to get the credit. That has bothered me for years. I remember being incensed when I learned that all the accolades I had thrown at Arlo Guthrie for City of New Orleans should have been shared with the songwriter, Steve Goodman. Maybe I’m the guilty party. Maybe everyone but me knows who wrote all those wonderful songs that the non-writing performers get so much credit for. But I doubt it.

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It’s damn near noon. I can’t have a morning blog post get published after noon, so here’s where I draw the line. Enough.

Years ago, I applied for a job based in Zanesville, Ohio. The job sounded both interesting and extremely challenging—had I been offered the job, I would have had to decide whether I could successfully manage a large trade show despite having never managed one before. I was prepared to say “yes,” I could do it. But I was not offered a job. In fact, I was not invited to Zanesville for an interview.  Anticipating that I would be asked to come in, though, I explored a bit about Zanesville. The internet was not as readily available nor was it the vast store of information it is today, but it gave me clues about the town. I learned that the population of the town was roughly twenty-five thousand. The Muskingum River flows through the heart of the town. From all I could tell, the town and the surrounding areas were attractive. I learned enough about the town that I wanted to go see it. Even before I learned I was not selected to be interviewed, I was ready to relocate. Something about the place appealed to me. Alas, the expected invitation never came. I would not be offered a job with Offinger Management Company. Oh, well.

Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.

~ Saul Bellow ~

This morning, I looked for information about the company. Though I found many links to information about Offinger Management Company, the one that struck me was the one that claimed the company was “permanently closed.” Could that be? Its website cannot be reached. The Google map listing claims it is permanently closed. At 6:25 this morning, I called the phone number listed on the Google map summary of the company (+1-740-452-4541), only to learn that the number is not in service. I do not know what happened to Offinger Management Company. Perhaps it was the same thing that happened to Challenge Management, Inc.—the owner and founder lost interest in the business and most of the people the business served. When I closed Challenge Management, I hoped to stay in touch with some of the people involved with the associations I managed. And I have, although to a much-reduced extent compared to what I envisioned.

Back to Zanesville, though. I’m curious about the town. It is located roughly halfway between Columbus, Ohio and Wheeling, West Virginia; an hour by car to either place. I have been to both municipalities and found them interesting. Wheeling is only an hour away from Pittsburgh; so Zanesville is only about a two-hour drive to Pittsburgh. As I glance at the Google map, my eyes pause as they see Toledo and Detroit and Dayton and Cincinnati, all places I have been, at least briefly. I spent several days in the hospital in Toledo in 1989 or 1990, where I had emergency surgery for what the doctors thought was appendicitis. The pain, as it turned out, was caused by a severe flare-up of Crohn’s disease; the surgeon removed a substantial length of damaged, inflamed intestine. My first major surgery. I’ve always wanted to go back to Toledo, just to look around. Since my hospital stay, I have been back to the area; I spent time in Perrysburg, a suburb southwest of Toledo. It was a business trip, like almost all my travel has been. Now, though, I’d like to travel without obligations and commitments and other things that might distract me from the pleasure of experiencing a new place and new people.

Memories bubble to the surface in response to such minor, accidental recollections. I would like to visit Zanesville. And all along the shores of Lake Eerie. And I’d like to take a train from Sault Ste. Marie north to Hearst. I think that’s the train my late wife and I took during our circle tour around some of the Great Lakes in the late 1980s. We may have stayed overnight in Hearst or, if the train was running to Wawa then, we may have stayed there. In either case, the overnight was in a French-speaking village in Ontario. I would like to do it again. This time, I would write about it. Memorialize it so that, someday, someone might stumble across my blog and find it sufficiently interesting to read about a Canadian rail adventure. God, I could go on for days, resurrecting fragments of past experiences that I should have captured on film or in words. Or both. Now, I have to rely on memories that may not even be mine; they may be snapshots of memories taken through someone else’s eyes and delivered to me as though they were mine. Hmm. What, I wonder, belongs to me, alone, and what is simply a shared recollection triggered by a word or an image online? Hard to tell.

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Most people I know avoid angry confrontations when they can. Anger tends to overwhelm our protective defenses against speaking words that should not be spoken, so people try to tend to try to soften anger with understanding. Understanding the genesis of anger helps to lessen its grip. But circumstances can be too unstable for understanding; circumstances sometimes trigger responses over which we have little emotional control.

Perhaps anger simply erases or, at least, dramatically reduces our inhibitions. Regardless of the process, avoiding angry confrontations is preferable to indulging the “high” that accompanies unchecked rage. Yet, from time to time, even the most even-keeled, in-control, gentlest, and most reserved people erupt in fury, steeped in bitter indignation. When that occurs—when these normally calm, even-tempered people respond with uncharacteristic ferocity—the post-eruption emotion is deep embarrassment. Even more than embarrassment, they feel enormous regret that their behavior may have done permanent damage to otherwise strong relationships.

Five enemies of peace inhabit with us – avarice, ambition, envy, anger, and pride; if these were to be banished, we should infallibly enjoy perpetual peace.

~ Petrarch ~

Collateral damage can be a casualty of blind, unrestrained anger; especially when the rage displayed by one person ignites an equal measure of reactive animosity in another. An almost unbreakable bond can disintegrate like a solid brick wall struck by a cannon-ball; every brick shattered in so many pieces the wall cannot be rebuilt without an ample supply of bricks and freshly-mixed mortar.

Such angry confrontations are, fortunately, rare. But when they occur, they can drench  peace, tranquility, and serenity in the equivalent of gasoline and, then, strike a match. The resulting conflagration leaves scorched earth, blackened forests, and empty landscapes where, before, there were fertile fields, thriving green woodlands, and stunning vistas.

When we talk of anger, we speak of another emotion, fear, dressed in different robes. Anger is born of terror; terror that an irrevocable change in circumstance may be taking place. Anger is the response to that dread. The sooner we understand the origin of anger, the quicker we overcome it. But unless we overcome anger before it explodes, it will forever alter our emotional landscape.

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Well, this post certainly has taken on a life of its own. I thought I might jot down a brief paragraph and be done with the day’s blog post. But, no! I had to open the floodgates, allowing the release of what should be a gushing river but, instead, is only a trickle. I’ve not written about all this morning’s memories; some of them are so precious or so painful that my eyes brim and my fingers freeze on the keyboard. I do this to myself. I suppose I deserve it; otherwise, why do I keep dredging up memories that, on the one hand, are delightful and on the other are as sharp and as dangerous as a razor.  It’s nearly 7:15, much later than I had hoped to have finish writing my blog post. Too often, I go past the limits I set for myself. That, alone, is enough…

Love is an immortal force, though there is nothing magical or supernatural about love. Love is not the emotional expression of  god-like experience. Yet love sometimes seems supernatural. It survives even the most monstrous attacks and the most heartless abandonment. Neither age nor death nor the eternal passage of time diminishes love. Love never weakens, nor does it shrivel or decay. Unlike our bodies—the vessels within which love is carried—love does not wither into dust. Like bronze, love endures as long as time itself. Though we may try to extinguish its flames, love survives as a permanent beacon of light and heat. Love is an everlasting source of glowing embers that sometimes flare into conflagrations, providing warmth and illumination during even the darkest, coldest moments. But if love ever were to die, frigid darkness would envelope the length and breadth of time and space. The cold emptiness would smother stars and turn the blazing cauldrons of emerging galaxies into ice as cold and hard as hatred. Yet that can never happen, because love in an immortal force. Treating love as an illusion—a fantasy, a figment of our imaginations—only delays the inevitable realization that love is the foundation upon which all else rests. Love is real; more real than sight and sound and taste and touch and smell. Love binds all our experiences together, making possible all our accomplishments and all our mistakes.

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I have so much on my mind this morning my head feels like it might explode. Neither words nor gestures nor telepathic communications can express what’s inside my head. And nothing I can say or do is sufficient to communicate what I think and feel. I am a pressurized cooking vessel—filled with air and water and steel ball-bearings—thrust into a fiercely hot flame. There is no option to remove me from the heat. Or vice versa. When the pressure becomes too great for the hermetically-sealed steel container to withstand, a chaotic explosion will cause scalding-hot water and shrapnel to rain down upon the emptiness around me. Of course my head is not really that air-tight. Nor is it as hard as tempered steel. And it is not filled with ball-bearings. The pressurized cooking vessel is, of course, a metaphor for my skull and the contents are metaphors for my thoughts—air, water, and steel ball-bearings. What the hell good are metaphors? Well, they reduce the immediacy and the intensity of anxiety and depression and despondency. Metaphors are like medicines. Wait. Using metaphors within the confines of similes can cause drug interactions, as if metaphors and similes were Schedule II narcotics and I had taken a cocktail of oxycodone, fentanyl, and tramadol. Yes, I agree. Apparently, the pressure-cooker has gone off the rails. That is to say, misbehavior has become my closest ally; she is my constant companion.

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I can stop drinking coffee any time, without any negative effects. Apparently, I am not addicted to caffeine. That notwithstanding, I like to drink coffee. Assuming coffee itself is not bad for me (I only drink ¹/₂ to 3 cups per day, usually toward the lower end of that range), coffee is not one of my bad habits. But I still have not been able to replace coffee in the morning with water. I try to supplement coffee with water, but that effort only lasts a day or two at a time before I forget that I’m trying to drink more water. I wonder whether that would change if I were to cut out coffee entirely? I’ve done it before (but not with the purpose of consuming more water) without any problems. Maybe I’ll try. Perhaps I’ll resurrect my “doing without” experiment, in which I go for a month at a time doing without something I regularly enjoy. In the past, I’ve replaced one thing for another. For example, I’ve replaced coffee with tea in years past. And I replaced meat with vegetables. We’ll see. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just ignore this entire train of thought and will get on board at a different station, perhaps with a different mode of transportation; possibly a yacht or a barge.

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You may think I haven’t noticed, but I have noticed. Oh, yes, I have noticed.

Have you ever had these conversations in your head? The kind of conversations that would never take place in the real world, but which seem perfectly natural and normal in the deep recesses of your brain? I participate in those conversations on a fairly regular basis, engaging in conversations that I doubt would ever happen outside the confines of my brain. I once had a brief conversation with Aesop. You know, of Aesop’s Fables fame. Ah, but that’s enough.

Yesterday, during my explanation of my “faith journey,” I butchered my attempt to speak aloud an inscription I found in a grotto connected to St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Windthorst, Texas. Despite botching the pronunciation, the words seemed right to me:

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus nunc et in hora mortis nostrae.

Translated into English:

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

My fascination with a religious monument I found in a tiny town in a deeply rural Texas landscape still surprises me. I look back at what I wrote on August 1, 2013 and I contemplate what I found so captivating about that Latin phrase. My investigation at the time revealed that the plea in Latin is commonly found in Catholic environments. Though I do not share the religious beliefs of the Catholics responsible for placing the inscription in the grotto, I inexplicably felt a connection with them—without knowing who they were and whether they were still alive. The inscription is part of an outdoor shrine paid for with money sent home  by 64 Windthorst, Texas military service members during World War II.  All 64 service members returned home.

I visited the shrine in July 2013, during a time when my vehement distaste for all things religious was near its peak. Yet I found something about that place and those words captivating. As I skimmed old blog posts, dating back to as early as 2005, I came to the realization that I more than occasionally exposed cracks in the thick veneer of my religion- mocking attitudes. Though I continued to find all manner of reasons to mock religion as the expression of wishes and fantasies,  the genuine tenderness and gratitude I sometimes encountered in religious contexts sometimes impressed me. Even in light of the fact that religious expressions almost always drew upon a deep-seated belief in a “higher power,” the depth of belief was at once moving and embarrassing. Moving because religious expressions seemed to arise from deep and genuine human emotions; embarrassing because those deep human emotions were, in my view, drawn out under false pretenses.

Over time, though, I’ve come to be far more tolerant and accepting of religion. It finally sunk in that my “certainty” that a “higher power” does not exist is no more believable than is others’ certainty that a “higher power” does, indeed, exist. Stalemate. But it need not be a tense, potentially violent stalemate. It can be a civil disagreement. But we both have to agree to the terms: gentleness, willingness to listen, replacement (for a time, at least) of certainty with willingness to accept uncertainty.

I said yesterday I describe myself as a agnatheist. Despite my considerable confidence that religion is simply medieval mythology brought to modern times, I acknowledge the possibility that I am wrong. I cannot use science to prove a negative, so I have to either accept my beliefs or not. But more importantly, it doesn’t matter whether one’s positions on matters religious legitimately can be defended. What matters are the people involved (or not) in matters religious. One ought not to judge a person solely on the basis of his or her beliefs. Beliefs, of course, have to play a part. But they need not be (and should not be) the sole determinants of one’s decision to be friendly with and, possibly, to become friends with, someone whose beliefs differ from one’s own.

My thoughts are wandering all over this morning. That’s not unusual, though. It is just the way my brain attempts to work.

We had dinner with friends last night. They made New Orleans style barbecue shrimp (with fresh Gulf shrimp), bread, and dessert. We provided a salad. Oh, and they even provided a stand-in shirt for me, knowing (as they did) of my propensity for splashing my meals all over the front of my shirt. The stand-in t-shirt could tolerate a bit of barbecue shrimp splash. My newish, unacceptably over-priced button-down could not. At least not without considerable whining and expressions of regret over my willingness to eat barbecue shrimp unless I was wearing a plastic poncho. I appreciated the stand-in shirt. It saved me from having to listen to complaints from that whiney button-down.

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

~ Robert Frost ~

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We keep waffling. First, we were going to drive to New York and beyond. Then, we were going to Wisconsin and beyond. Then, to the far reaches of the Pacific Northwest. Then, briefly, to Florida’s Gulf coast. Or was that a dream? At any rate, I know only that we may be leaving sometime in September for destinations unknown. I actually like the spontaneity of waiting until the day of departure—or even a day or two later—to make the decision about one’s destination.

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On occasion, someone will say to me some version of the following: “Do you ever regret posting some things? Do you ever wish you could turn back time and snatch the post back before it goes ‘live’ online?”

The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.

~ Omar Khayyam ~

“Of course not,” I answer. Being a nonbeliever, I have never feared being struck by retaliatory lightning bolts. Perhaps that’s the difference between a believer and a nonbeliever. The believer tries to moderate his behavior just enough to avoid lightning bolts; the nonbeliever may or may not try to moderate his behavior; it’s a matter of mood.

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In just a few hours, I will attempt to engage in a conversation of sorts with a small sample of members and friends from my church. I will talk about my “faith journey,” and they will either engage in question & answer with and without me or not. I expect a small turnout and an even smaller post-presentation gathering. That suits me, as I am more comfortable in an intimate setting than on a massive, circular stage that rotates in front of a stadium-sized studio audience. The smaller the audience, the easier it will be for me to dismiss the hecklers.

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Daylight has begun to creep around outside my window. I think I should go explore it a bit.