John Swinburn

We departed Standard Time on March 13 at 2:00 a.m. We will return to Standard Time on November 6 at 2:00 a.m. That change in clock has disturbed my patterns. I was used to getting up no later than 5:00 a.m., but the time change disrupted my habit, causing me to sleep in until 6:00 a.m. No, that’s wrong. My habit stayed the same; the world around me altered the reality it occupies, leaving me to adjust and adapt. I wake at approximately the same moment each day, as measured by the juxtaposition between the Earth and the sun.  But when I wake, the clocks have all raced ahead by an hour. That leaves me with fewer moments of divine serenity and more moments of bitter anger at having to adjust to what seems like the madness of the human race. Goddamn clocks! They are the spawn of Satan, I tell you. They behave like silent dictators, urging us to be quick about whatever tasks have been assigned to us. But we’ve done it to ourselves. Nature has not commanded us to alter the clocks. The Universe does not annually declare an hour lost or an hour gained; human create that artificial magic ourselves. We behave as if we control time, as opposed to the reverse, which we know all too well is true.

I vacillate between believing: 1) Time is an artificial construct devised by humans insistent on regimenting their lives and; 2) Time is simply the manner in which humans measure and record sequential experiences. Both beliefs ignore how other creatures, including trees and dogs and, in olden days, dinosaurs, experience what we call Time. One of the “official” definitions of Time is quite similar to one of my belief patterns: “the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole.” The concept of Time consumes more of my contemplative moments than others around me, I think. Other people seem to think Time is a rather boring subject that does not merit much more than a passing thought or two…every sixty years or so. I, on the other hand, think Time, whether real or artificial, is among the most important influences to which we  humans are exposed. Time deserves our deep, reverential thought; reverential in the secular sense of “touched with awe” or “deeply venerated.”

Time, juxtaposed with experience, tends to cause some people to believe certain events were “meant to be.” That is, if Experience X had not happened during Time Z, then Outcome Q would not have occurred. Others are free to believe what they wish, but I see no evidence that Outcome Q was “meant to be.” Outcome Q was merely coincidental to the intersection of Time Z and Experience X. There is no predetermination involved in that coincidental intersection; it’s not predetermination, it’s simply random chance.

If I had engaged Person A in conversation at Time M, instead of engaging Person B in conversation at Time M, I might have developed a romantic relationship with Person A instead of Person B, in spite of Person A’s marital relationship with Person D, as witnessed and blessed by the State of Y. Excuse the attempt at humor; sometimes a dry subject is made more palatable with the infusion of tasty humor. Or even tasteless humor. But I hope I’ve made my point; Outcome Q always is, to a greater or lesser extent, random. We can influence outcomes, but when we do we introduce an external variable that effectively mutates Outcome Q into Outcome Q1⁄2 or Q3⁄4. That is to say, there is no divine causation; only randomness that morphs into different experiences. Outcome Q may never occur because the direction of its randomness may be impacted by an external force. Like a pool ball heading toward a pocket that is suddenly hit by another ball, causing the pool ball to change course and slam into a pocket on the opposite end of the table.

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I tend to attempt humor when I am in a morose mood. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it has the opposite effect; like telling a joke at a friend’s funeral and watching the room dissolve into a chorus of unrestrained grief at the memory of the dead person’s ability to make people laugh.

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It is after 9:00 a.m. and I have done nothing productive today, other than wash and dry a load of laundry in the predawn darkness. Since then, nothing of consequence. I cannot seem to get motivated to do anything, despite wanting desperately to get the new house finished so we can move in and put this one on the market. It just takes time. As in Time. The juxtaposition of Time with experience. What utter drivel! If I still had my appendix, I would remove it myself, without anesthesia to dull the pain of slicing myself open with a dull, rusted razor blade. Something to motivate me! Self-imposed threats do not seem to work. If threats do not work, perhaps I’ll resort to torture. The appendix thing. Will I do it? Time will tell.

The ancient Mayan calendar’s fourteenth month, K’ank’in, was represented by the glyph for the avocado, according to the avocadosfrommexico.com website. The same source asserts that the avocado was first domesticated roughly 5,000 years ago, “making the cultivation of avocados as old as the invention of the wheel.” When I went in search of verification of that claim, I learned from a website for a French museum called Cité de l’Économie, that “The wheel was invented in the 4th millennium BC in Lower Mesopotamia(modern-​​day Iraq), where the Sumerian people inserted rotating axles into solid discs of wood. It was only in 2000 BC that the discs began to be hollowed out to make a lighter wheel.”

The reason avocados are on my mind this morning is that two perfectly ripe (possibly on the verge of becoming over-ripe) avocados sit in my refrigerator, awaiting slaughter this morning. After storing three avocados in a dark kitchen drawer for several days, I took one out yesterday so we could enjoy avocado toast for breakfast. It was close to perfect. I put the remaining two in the refrigerator to stem further ripening, but I do not trust avocados to respond to common wisdom about ways to stall ripening, so they must be eaten today. Some people may not know that Tim Gurner, an Australian millionaire and land mogul blamed avocado toast (and pricey morning coffee) for millennials’ low rate of home ownership. I am neither a millennial nor a renter, so Tim Gurner’s assertions about avocado toast are meaningless drivel, in my eyes. At any rate, I plan to have more avocado toast this morning. My mode of preparation of avocado toast involves smashing and then whipping the green meat of the avocado with a fork. Then, I squeeze lime juice over the creamy stuff. Lastly, I spread the dreamy cream on a piece of rye toast and drizzle my jalapeño paste on top. My housemate foregoes the jalapeño paste and prefers oat bread to rye. There’s room for everyone’s taste in the land of avocados.

I do wish I owned an avocado orchard. I would find a way to preserve my newly ripe avocados so they would be available year-round. If I owned an avocado orchard, I would need to live in a different climate, though…if I wanted to be near the orchard. It is my understanding that avocados do not respond well to climates that deliver snow, sleet, subfreezing temperatures, and avocado predators —whatever they may be. I am not entirely convinced that I belong in such a climate, either. But that’s the world we live in, isn’t it? A world afflicted with the likes of climate catastrophes, Putin, Trump, and other predatory creatures that do not care a whit about the peace, serenity, and life-affirming calm delivered through consumption of avocados. Gentleness and wisdom flow from avocados like water from a mysterious artesian well.  I would argue that the Buddha ate avocados. As did Jesus Christ, Muhammad ibn Abdullah, and Mahatma Gandhi, among others. Jim Jones of Jonestown, Guyana did not. Nor did Jimmy Swaggart, Jerry Falwell, and Pat Robertson. In fact, I suggest that avocados are anathema to televangelists; because avocados represent decency and purity and goodness, whereas televangelists represent greed, power-mongering, and other things too awful to express in words that may be seen by the young and impressionable.

EDIT: I took a break and had breakfast of…guess what…avocado toast. Except that my phone refuses to let me send a photo to my email, I would have posted a photo here. Oh, well.

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It amounts to an epic, high-budget soap opera with a Western theme. It is loaded with stereotypes of Native Americans and real estate agents and rich cattle barons and “cowboys.” The writers seem to feel superior to “cowpokes” and politicians and ranchers and anyone else who might fit stereotypical descriptions of people who live in “big sky country.” But, even with myriad offensive—and occasionally laughable—flaws made by inept make-up artists, we’ve allowed the series to seep into our brains enough to want to keep watching it. I am embarrassed by my interest in it, but because it was recommended by a friend for whom I have enormous admiration and deep affection, I will overlook my embarrassment and admit to enjoying the series. The series is Yellowstone. We have invested $40 so far in subscribing to two seasons, though we’ve only begun to watch season 2. I expect we’ll invest another $40 to watch seasons 3 and 4 on Amazon Prime. Despite my disappointment in myself for becoming enamored with the series, I am glad my friend recommended it. Thanks to her recommendation, I can yank her chain by pointing out her uncanny ability to identify in me the same bizarre taste taste in epic soap opera drama that makes her to so enjoy Yellowstone. 😉

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My girlfriend will attend church today. I will not. I have good reasons for missing church again, but I will return. In two weeks’ time, I will enter the community hall and then, the sanctuary. I have gotten used to free Sundays and I will have a time getting used to giving up that luxurious freedom from obligation (except to paint, which also has been an obligation, just not as unencumbered with…something). But get used to it I will.  Between now and the time my girlfriend leaves, my sister-in-law will come join us for coffee and conversation. Just like the old days. I liked the old days. And I will like the new ones. Should they come. As I said recently, only NOW is assured. Now is the time to which we should devote our full attention. Now should command us to behave as if it is all we have. Because it is.

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I hope you who read this post are now and will forevermore be happy.

The very first time we open our eyes, after birth, everything in our blurred field of vision is miraculous and new. Opening our eyes is one of the only things we can do on our own at that moment; otherwise, we depend on others for our every need. Newborn babies probably are not conscious of their utter dependence on other people for comfort; for survival. Whether they know it or not, they could not survive in the absence of the absolute control exercised on their behalf by people they do not know. We enter this life completely dependent on other people. Many of us—perhaps most of us—will leave the same way; relying on other people to keep us comfortable and, to the extent we desire it and they insist, alive.

It is in the intervening moments between those two periods of helplessness that we exercise various degrees of control over our lives. We make choices. We respond to—or ignore or bungle or otherwise miss—opportunities. We confront—or run from—threats. And either we understand the necessity for—and power of—gratitude or we take for granted all the good fortune that befalls us.

The effects of these myriad choices emerge during one’s entire life, but I think they grow clearer and more meaningful as the arc of one’s life passes beyond the zenith. If we had only taken the time to contemplate, deeply, every choice we were about the make—before all these realizations became crystal clear—we might have made other choices. And we might have had far fewer regrets. And we would have understood, all along, how gratitude—or the lack thereof—shapes our perspective on the world.

Gratitude and regrets comprise the two opposite points on a spectrum of emotions for which there is no word, as far as I know, in the English language. When I went looking for a word that describes that range of emotions, the closest I could come was this Portuguese term: saudade.

Saudade is described as a deep emotional state involving impossible nostalgic or melancholic longing for something or someone about whom one cares for deeply or loves but is forever unreachable. Though the word does not quite capture, at least not explicitly, the concepts of gratitude and regret, is comes very close. Perhaps my use of the word does not translate directly, either. According to an article online on the National Public Radio website, the Portuguese writer, Manuel de Melo, said the word describes “a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy.” I can see how gratitude is a pleasure one might “suffer,” but I do not see how regret could be “an ailment you enjoy.” Maybe it is the reverse: gratitude is an ailment you enjoy and regret is a “pleasure” you suffer. No, not quite. But the word will do.

With that as a backdrop, I contemplate, with sausade, the significant choices I have made in my lifetime thus far. I recall, with gratitude that swells in me beyond my ability to control it, the choice I made to pursue a life with my late wife. But that same sausade acknowledges with regret the fact that her daily impact on my life is irretrievably gone.  And I feel enormous gratitude for the opportunity to live a life with someone new. At the same time, I recognize that a committed relationship replaces certain pieces of my life, after marriage, that are no longer available. Solitude and isolation, which earlier could have gone on for days and days, cannot be sustained for long now. So, on the other side of the odd balance, I regret the fact that those deep levels of solitude and isolation are no longer available, but I am grateful for the reason they are no longer mine.

A clash between gratitude and regret is, I think, inevitable. And the relationship between them is so intricately interwoven and so incredibly complex that I could not begin to describe it in less than 100,000 words. This post—this rambling, incoherent post—originally was meant to explore a limited picture of my experience with gratitude and regret. The picture is too big for the canvas. Or my canvas is too small for what I’ve tried to paint on it.

The pain of my sausade consists of deep, unending gratitude, stitched together with long, strong bonds of regret. And the contentment of my sausade consists of a few scraps of regret sewn with gratitude into a mirror-image.

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So, floor installation re-set. A two-person crew (a man and his son) have begun to lay the new floor. They first spend many hours removing and/or grinding staples and nails and the like from the floor. They are laying the LVP now (or, they were yesterday until a snowstorm dropped several inches of snow on us). Their schedule has them in and out, working on our house between other commitments. I expect it will be the end of the month before it is finished. In the meantime, we can start arranging for the shower door installation, the door-repair guy to come back out and do some magic, a drywall guy to come do some drywall repair and add texture, and so on. I hope we’re in the house by sometime in April. And then we can sell the one we’re in.

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Yesterday afternoon’s snow dropped considerably more than I was expecting. My off-the-cuff guess is that we had about 5 inches. But the street outside my window looks clear, like the snow did not stick (except to trees, grass, forest floor, etc.).  I won’t go exploring until I know all’s well.

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I was up before 4:30 again this morning, this time due to sinuses that do their best to drown me while I sleep. I tend to nap intensely while watching television, so I’m getting plenty of sleep, just not all in long, uninterrupted stretches. Last night, sleep was helped along, early, by peach-flavored Crown Royal, some Bombay Sapphire gin, and an afternoon gummy to treat joint inflammation. In spite of the effects of those medicines, I cooked a rather nice salmon dinner, served on a bed of pearl couscous and kale. The recipe called for roasted red peppers, but I had none, so I roasted some green bell peppers in the oven and substituted them. It worked rather well.

Cooking salmon last night triggered a hunger for baked cod: big, white, and chunky, enhanced with the addition of a spicy oil and citrus-based sauce. I can imagine a couple of side dishes: roasted parmesan green beans and a nice Italian salad (Romaine, cherry tomatoes, red onion, black olives, pepperoncini, various spices, and an oil & vinegar dressing. Maybe I’ll do that soon. I think there’s some cod in the freezer. At the moment, I feel confident I could become a committed pescatarian. Later, I’ll feel certain I could become vegetarian or vegan. Later still, I might vow to eat nothing but meat; afterward, I might alter that vow by limited it to beef or goat or chickens that were treated like royalty up until the very moment of their slaughter to meet my gustatory desires.

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Speaking of food, I am in the mood for Daniel’s tacos (chorizo, bacon, potatoes, caramelized onions, eggs, and cheese; jazzed up with some salsa picante). But it’s only 7:08 and I have no reports about the drivability of the streets around here. And I am the only one awake in this house. Alas, I think I’ll have to make breakfast here; something elaborate like cereal with blueberries, banana, and almond milk. Ach! I wouldn’t mind an Indian breakfast of sambar with idli. Hell, I would pay  handsomely for a killer dish of migas, made like they used to make (and may still), at Casa Jose in Arlington,
Texas. Migas as Casa Jose were part of my on-again, off-again, weekend tradition when I lived in Dallas.

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The day is off to a rousing start. And I will go chase it now.

A visit to an old cemetery that reached capacity ten ore more generations earlier tells the story of the enduring legacies most of us living today can expect to leave. At most, we will leave a barely discernable name on a piece of weathered stone. More likely, the name will be illegible, time and the elements having erased physical evidence of our existence. Or there will be no chiseled monument; only a vague record, purposelessly kept on magnetic media, for curious future generations to examine. Our lives will have been lived and forgotten. Our achievements and our failures will have long since disappeared into the mist of irrelevant history.

Neither children nor grandchildren nor great-grandchildren nor any that follow will remember us. No other family members, nor friends nor strangers, will pay homage to us. No one will owe us reverence. In the future, we will not have mattered. If we have any hope of mattering, we must matter today. For most of us, our only hope of mattering is in this brief moment in time. Now.

None of us are Abraham Lincoln, whose words have been etched in our collective national psyche ever since he spoke them at Gettysburg. But his words at that time and in that place were foreboding for the rest of us: “The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here…”

So…what? If we want to matter, we must matter today. We can offer gestures that tell others they matter. We can acknowledge other people and their contributions to our lives. By expressing or demonstrating to people around us that they matter, today, we matter. Today. Yesterday is irretrievably gone. Tomorrow is not assured. The only moment we can effectively shape is now. A quotation, misattributed to Maya Angelou (but adapted from and traced to a high-level official in the Mormon church) is relevant to this observation:

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

That sentiment is true. Unfortunately, while generally a positive sentiment, it can be a deeply painful reminder that one has said things that should never have been said.  Things that can never be erased. Hurts that can never be healed. Damage done that can never be, and should never be, forgiven. Especially by oneself.

I suppose I’ve inadvertently argued against myself when saying now is the only moment that matters. Those moments in the past that cannot be reversed also matter. Those haunting moments that highlight one’s glaring faults can matter more than anything one does now.  No penance can absolve one of those irreversible moments. Perhaps that reality is why now matters so much. If for no other reason, recognizing the impossibility of reversal should give one reason to pause before uttering words that cannot be retrieved, leaving a legacy of regret etched forever in one’s mind.

Some days, one’s thoughts are suited to a small, intimate circle. The wider world does not care, nor does it have an investment in knowing, what is on one’s mind. To the world at large, if the world notices at all, one’s thoughts usually are merely drab, tedious intrusions.

Something incomprehensible powers the universe. Perhaps it is the universe itself, the one and only creator and recipient of the effects of perpetual motion. The universe is the only real model of self-creation, self-replication, and self-renewal. The universe created itself before it existed, yet it must have existed prior to that moment in order to create itself. The reason we find it impossible to understand the nothingness before the Big Bang is that there is nothing to understand. Our minds are incapable of conceiving the inconceivable. All the investigations based on physics and all the explanations from religions and all the spiritual explorations that seek to know the unknowable are utterly fruitless. Explanations, regardless of the source, simply are theories that lack the substance to give us even a glimpse of reality. Because reality is, like everything in it, based on the illusion that we can know anything. Everything we claim as truth or knowledge or fact is mere speculation supported only by concepts we choose to believe but which can never be proven nor disproven.

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Except that I know the quoted, unnamed, historian was writing about Samuel Johnson, I might think his words were written about me: “…wrote nothing of first importance in the history of literature, and made no appreciable contribution to the philosophy or sum of knowledge of his age….” Johnson often is quoted as saying “no man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” I, then, am a blockhead, because I’ve written for money only on very rare occasions. I write and write and write and write to no avail. The only outcome of my writing is the occasional temporary clearing of the clutter in my head.

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He who has so little knowledge of human nature as to seek happiness by changing anything but his own disposition will waste his life in fruitless efforts.

   ~ Samuel Johnson ~

The obvious solution to the unsuccessful pursuit of happiness rests just above the neck. It is not pursuit at all, is it? Seeking happiness is not like hunting. It is more like building a car. It is a manufacturing process that requires assembling parts in such as way as to make the car run as intended. If a part does not fit or does not operate as expected, it must be replaced by one that functions appropriately. A car does not move smoothly along a roadway if a propeller is used in place of a tire.

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Too often, we adjust ourselves to ensure the comfort of people in our lives: employers, spouses, employees, neighbors, customers, merchants, etc., etc. With due respect to Samuel Johnson, perhaps it’s not entirely one’s disposition that must be changed but the context in which one’s disposition is on display. Though it sounds selfish, perhaps the best approach to life is to first satisfy oneself and, only then, to seek the company of those who would be comfortable in one’s presence. Yet we rarely engage with the world around us as we wish but, rather, as the world wishes us to engage. And we are taught that seeking approval from others is the way to happiness. At least one way. Sometimes, perhaps frequently, that does not work. We can become addicted to approval; it is the heroin of the insecure and leads, ultimately, to the same sad end.

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We must become so alone, so utterly alone, that we withdraw into our innermost self. It is a way of bitter suffering. But then our solitude is overcome, we are no longer alone, for we find that our innermost self is the spirit, that it is God, the indivisible. And suddenly we find ourselves in the midst of the world, yet undisturbed by its multiplicity, for our innermost soul we know ourselves to be one with all being.

   ~ Hermann Hesse ~

I have yet to actually confirm Hesse’s assertion, but it rings true. And it reinforces my sense that seeking approval or adjusting to others’ expectations or desires is contrary to one’s interests. Only when we can be in congress with the deepest parts of ourselves, and be at ease with whatever those parts may be, can we find ourselves undisturbed.

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One last point. I identify with Charles Bukowski’s words, in his novel, Factotum: “My ambition is handicapped by laziness.”

At my core, I am a tranquil man. Deep inside me, buried beneath the façade of a sometimes explosive temper and an anxious, excitable shell, is a man who attaches great value to serenity; not just for myself, but for everyone. Yet I live in a world that is not suited to such a man. I live in a world that foments anger and cultivates excitability.  And so, I suppose, I adapt to that world. I allow myself, too frequently, to step out of the calm waters of a placid pond and into churning rapids approaching a waterfall. For years, I’ve felt a kinship with the idea embedded in the title of a book of poetry by James Kavanaugh: There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves. The poem that gives the book its title includes a stanza that especially resonates with me:

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.

People who experience the world with sadness at its horrors are ridiculed as weak and useless. People who wish for peace and gentleness and compassion and caring are derided and mocked and scorned. Even when that derision is not directed at them, they know in watching others shower it on kindred souls that they, too, are its objects.

I think my armor plates, the stuff of which anger and excitement are made, are so adept at hiding my tranquil core that only I know it is there. But I do know it. Regardless of what I do and say. Regardless of how I behave. Regardless of how others perceive me. It is there. Perhaps it is barely alive, having been suffocated and strangled and beaten with my own fists, but it is there.

Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.

~ Henry Louis Gates Jr ~

I absolutely hate finding myself in agreement with anything one might find on Fox News, but that’s the situation in which I find myself with respect to opera singer Anna Netrebko’s withdrawal from future engagements at the Metropolitan Opera. The Met said it would not engage artists who support Putin; Netrebko refused to repudiate her support of the subhuman scum Russian dictator, so the Met said there was “no way forward” to permit Netrebko’s performances. I doubt there are many people who find Putin more offensive than I. And I think Netrebko’s support of Putin is, to put it mildly, offensive and stupid. But Fox News made a valid point in saying in an opinion piece about the Met’s refusal to permit her to perform:

“It is perfectly bizarre for the Met to stand against tyranny by attacking free speech, the very right that combats tyranny in all forms. This is not just the day that the music died for Netrebko, it is the day that free speech died at the Met.“

Unfortunately, I did not find any similar denunciations of The Met’s decision by any other news media; I hope that is because I did not look hard enough. If the media does not take a firm stand on this sort of censorship (and it is censorship, albeit by proxy), I am afraid our democracy is on the ropes.

This issue brings to mind several situations that have made the news in recent months in which various colleges and universities have cancelled speeches and performances which people on my side of the political spectrum found objectionable. I despise right-wing mouthpieces and find their hate-laced diatribes offensive and based largely on deliberate manipulations of circumstances and facts. But I believe, deeply, that one of the core elements of democracy is free speech. Taking actions to deny people the right to spew offensive rhetoric (or even the right to believe in offensive ideas or support offensive people) may give momentary relief from their offensive language and ideas, but it sets the stage for retributive actions. Not only that, it is simply wrong. I am a firm believer in the concept said to have originated with French philosopher Voltaire, as expressed by author S.G. Tallentyre: “I wholly disapprove of what you say—and will defend to the death your right to say it.” While there are limits to what is permissible, those limits should be few and only permissible when absolutely necessary as life-or-death protection. As I said, I hate agreeing with Fox News. But I would not silence it, even when it tries to silence or mock or invalidate the credibility of people who agree with me. I might argue forcefully against someone whose point of view is diametrically opposed to mine, but I would not cut out their tongue.

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During the past several weeks, I have snatched a few moments to read some provocative things I’ve come across in other people’s blogs in months and years past. These are blogs that, like mine, seem to have very small audiences; it’s extremely rare to see a comment in response to a published piece. On those rare occasions when I have taken the time to offer comments on those provocative pieces, the author almost invariably responds to my comments, expressing appreciation. But in other blogs, the ones with huge followings and dozens or  hundreds of comments, the author rarely responds to comments; at least not in the comment section of the blog. I wonder whether the volume of comments is so high that the writer might feel responding to them would be an almost impossible task. But I would think the fact that followers think enough of what the blogger wrote to comment on it would merit a response. Perhaps, though, the writer doesn’t even know the comments are there. Perhaps he doesn’t go back to see if there are comments. Early one, I suspect the settings were adjusted to notify the writer of every comment. For big, popular blogs, that might create such volume of email that the writer simply could not cope. Maybe that’s why my comments on those big, popular blogs never seem to get replies; at least not from the writer. This is on my mind this morning because, a few weeks ago, I commented on a blog and never got a response. Oh, well. It is what it is. Zen, baby.

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Yesterday’s plan—to continue painting the new house—was adjusted into a related endeavor, but one that did not involve inhaling a huge volume of dust still hanging in the air from tile cutting and installation. Instead of continuing to transform the interior of the house, work shifted to the very warm outdoors, where badly mangled crepe myrtles and freeze-damaged azaleas needed attention. Several crepe myrtles on the property are, in my estimation, dead. A few more have been subjected to such severe pruning (“crepe murder,” some call it) that their survival is in question. Still, the long, unruly stalks that previous heavy pruning encouraged needed trimming. So, that’s what happened. And a few related items outdoors, including untangling and unfurling a very heavy 100-foot-plus hose. The previous owners—who I now consider some of the most unclean, uncaring, inconsiderate, and generally low-life people I’ve ever encountered—apparently saw fit to stop looking after the yard a year or three ago. And they left the tools of their abuse and abandonment behind. But I’m taking it as it comes. Zen, baby. Their abuses will make it possible for minor efforts on our part to result in what will seem a magical transformation. I keep telling myself that.

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The last three nights allowed us to add three movies to our “have watched” list: Unthinkable, Wild Oats, and The Weekend Away. Each of the three films has mild entertainment value; Wild Oats is moderately funny and has a sense of “feel good” quality to it. While I would not heartily recommend any of the three, unless watching one of them was an alternative to scrubbing toilets, they are not what I’d call bad. Just not the sort of films that have the potential for changing one’s attitudes about life. That is, none of them require the viewer to think; only to watch and to listen with half an ear.  I am in the mood for a riveting series; something that grabs me from the beginning and keeps me wanting more. I say I’m in the mood, but maybe not: maybe I want to be in the mood to watch something gripping, but I’m not there at the moment. It’s hard to articulate the odd level of ambivalence dancing in my brain. I suppose painting a house in slow motion and watching the paint dry, while the floors of the house seem locked in a perpetual unfinished state, will do that to a person.

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It might surprise you to know you’ve been on my mind lately. If I were to include your name in my blog every time I thought about you, you might be flabbergasted. You might aske, “Why are you thinking about me?” It’s hard to say. But I think a lot about a lot of people. Some, though, more than others. And  you are among those I think about quite often. Relatively speaking, of course. It’s not enough to put me in the category of “stalker,” but it’s pretty frequent. You might think I’m writing this with someone else in mind. No, it’s you. And you. And you, too. Here are some clues as to who you are. You have cereal with bananas (and sometimes blueberries) most mornings and every word that comes out of your mouth amazes me ;-). You just moved into another house, after a separation. You walk a lot…a LOT. Your dogs are incredibly cute…and they know it. You just bought a beast of a truck…just like one you had years ago. You attended my wedding and have been my friend for many years. You share my birthday. You and your partner drove a Jeep on your last visit to see me. You and I share an ability to cry at the drop of a hat and an enjoyment of working with clay. You are one of the most energetic and generous people I’ve ever known and the sparkles in your hair…well they are lovely. You taught me to recite a poem in German. You share my fascination with co-housing, among other interests. You gave me a “snake” plant (AKA mother-in-law’s tongue) and taught me to shoot a pistol. You’re considering new flooring for your condo and we don’t talk with one another enough. You teach school, yet found the time to tend to someone who desperately needed you. You (both of you) periodically send me surprise “goodies” and encourage me to come visit. You share your generosity, your knowledge about and love of Galveston, and your sense of humor with me.  I could go on and on. But my fingers are beginning to tell me to stop. I am sure several of the people I am thinking about do not read this blog. And I suspect I failed to include here several people I think about regularly. That’s the danger of trying; you’re bound to leave off the list someone who’s incredibly important. I hope it suffices to say you are important to me and I value having you in my life. Whoever you are, thank you.

Between 1:30 and 4:30 this morning, I felt like I was in limbo, between periods of semi-consciousness and being wide-awake. The whistling, wheezing sounds of my breathing—coupled with constant bothersome aches and cramps in the muscles in my arms and legs—kept me awake enough that sleep was impossible. But even those intrusions on my consciousness did not prevent me from drifting in and out of a dream-like state. I was sufficiently conscious to recognize I was only semi-conscious, but unconscious enough to merge my conscious experience with a daydream of sorts. The experience felt like I was inside a bag made of a cloth strong enough to prevent me from breaking out but translucent enough to make out outlines of people and things around me. At the same time, I knew the experience was not real, but I could not force my consciousness to fully emerge. Finally, at 4:30, I broke free of the in-again, out-again experience; I awoke and went about my day.

First task: put my clothes in the clothes washer and fill the detergent dispenser; but I will wait until a little later, when there’s no risk of waking someone softly sleeping, to start the cycle. The machine is not especially quiet. Later still, when the clothes are clean and dry, I will don my painting apparel and subject myself to the stretches and bends and other abnormal movements that painting requires. Tonight, I will again suffer the attendant cramps and aches. For now, though, I will enjoy my coffee and think with my fingers.

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I questioned whether I was wideawake or wide-awake this morning, so I looked up the words. To my surprise, wideawake refers not to a state of consciousness but to a style of hat. The most common visual expressions of the hat may be seen in two Rembrandt paintings and the Quaker Oats logo. Also, a photo of Alfred Lord Tennyson shows him wearing the wideawake style hat.

Speaking of hats, it has been months since I have worn either of my two fedoras. I’ve worn my grey French driving cap only once; my two other French driving caps have been hanging in my closet, ignored and unused, for months. I like the idea of wearing a hat or cap more than I like the reality of how I look in them. Put bluntly, when I wear headgear, I think I look like I’m trying to look like someone I want to be but who I’m not. I know I should not give a damn what other people might think of how, based on my choice of clothing accessories, I look. But I sheepishly admit to vanity and to giving more weight to others’ opinions than I should. In exploring this phenomenon of social over-sensitivity, I came across the following description of people who care too much for others’ opinions of what they wear, do, say, etc.. According to someone who claims expertise in the topics, they have:

“…highly sensitive nature, low self-esteem, insecurities, self-doubt and lack of self-confidence and these are also can be associated with the range of mild to serious psychological problems such as anxiety, fear, or depression.”

Hmm. And I encountered a word that’s new to me: allodoxaphobia, which means “fear of other people’s opinions.”

The person who claims expertise may have nailed me. Though I doubt my tendency to give too much credence to others’ opinions of me is the cause of whatever psychological problems I may have. Actually, some days I do not give even half a small damn what others think of me or my appearance. I prefer those days; but they are not frequent enough. It feels good, when wearing sweats and a t-shirt and a hat and flip-flops in public places like restaurants and the theater, to utterly dismiss what others think about my dress. Alas, some people would not want to be seen with me when I’m attired that way. They seem to think old men should have more decorum. Bah!

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Still speaking of dress and decorum, if I could be properly fitted by a professional tailor, I might feel different about occasionally being dressed to the nines. I actually might like wearing a perfectly-tailored sport coat, slacks, button-down shirt, and polished leather shoes. When I dressed “professionally,” I sometimes did not mind the uniform at all, except for the tie. Ties are pure, unadulterated decoration designed for discomfort. But I might wear a cape or a cloak. A couple of years ago, I wrote about capes and cloaks. I still haven’t gotten either. Though I eschew “fashion” as a celebration of unchecked vanity, I rather like certain fashionable clothing. More hypocrisy on display. Such is life. I am a hypocrite when hypocrisy is appropriate.

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We forfeit three-fourths of ourselves in order to be like other people.

~ Arthur Schopenhauer ~

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We sit in front of our televisions and computers, watching the spasms of war as we collectively spiral around a drain constructed of greed and the lust for power. There’s little we can do but scream and rant. Perhaps a few, though, will throw Molotov cocktails into places Putin might be hiding. And a few more will explore ways of permanently silencing an aging instrument of the KGB by setting off explosive devices to emphasize their distaste for Soviet-style dictatorships. Maybe highly-trained ex-Soviet marksmen with a distaste for imperialism and unprovoked invasions will position themselves and their Kalashnikov AK-204 assault rifles so that their bullets will find and will cure the cause of the latest human-made global crisis.

There is a spiritual hunger in the world today – and it cannot be satisfied by better cars on longer credit terms.

~ Adlai Stevenson I ~

I find it odd that I can yearn, deeply, for peace, yet when war is thrust upon me—even at a great distance and outside my sphere of personal interest or influence—I can become enamored of inflicting unrelenting violence on the initiating warriors. I wonder whether the initiating warriors feel the same about peace-mongers; whether they want to subject the peace-mongers to unrelenting soothing. No, of course not. Our attitudes are different. We are made of different psychic material.

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The shower is tiled (but not yet grouted) in the new house. The master bedroom, the staging point for the tile cutting, etc., looks like a war zone. The rest of the house looks only moderately better now that it did before I cleaned it up yesterday. Eventually the house will be habitable. I keep telling myself that.

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You are now free to go about your Sunday. Here, take this hug and kiss and let it energize your day.

No disease is incurable. No injury is too severe to be reversed. We simply lack the knowledge necessary to cure the disease or heal the injury. I believe humans have the capacity to cure—and even to eliminate—every disease. I think we have the potential to repair even the most severe damage to the body and the mind. But we have yet to muster the wherewithal to overcome our lack of knowledge. If we were collectively to decide that absolutely nothing deserved our resources and our sheer will more than curing disease, that objective would consume every resource and every ounce of energy until the objective had been met. We would ignore political battles, space exploration, imperialistic adventures, the “war on poverty,” and securing our borders against imaginary invasions. We would do whatever we had to do cure disease. Or heal injury. Or whatever else we decided to do. Hell, we probably could overcome the limitations of physics if we decided to find a way to travel faster than the speed of light.

But we have never had the blind will to abandon everything else in favor of an enormous, impossible, unreachable goal. Except when we have done almost exactly that. Perhaps the Manhattan Project did not pull out ALL the stops, but it illustrates the sort of accomplishment we are capable of reaching when we devote enough resources. Roughly $2 billion ($23 billion in 2020 dollars) was invested in the Manhattan Project, according to research and investigative calculations performed by Louis Johnston and Samuel Williamson. More than 130,000 people were involved in the project, which led to the development of two types of atomic bombs, among various other outcomes.

Perhaps we have been unwilling to spend invest our human and financial resources so heavily since then (except, perhaps, for ongoing military and space exploration expenditures) because of the outcome of the Manhattan Project. Up to 215,000 people were estimated to have died as a direct result of the U.S. bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. The Manhattan Project may have led to the end of World War II, but it also ushered in an era in which the potential annihilation of the human race is ever-present. Maybe we are afraid of unleashing the potential for cataclysmic unintended consequences if we were to embark on an even more ambitious undertaking.

My confidence in humankind’s capabilities has skyrocketed and then shriveled dozens of times in my lifetime. About nine years ago, the Manhattan Project factored heavily into a post on this blog (a post entitled Singular Solutions), in which I expressed a desire to see the creation of what I called a “Global Solutions Initiative,” which would identify and then tackle the twenty most pressing matters facing humankind. I suggested pulling out all the stops to accomplish the objectives the initiative would develop.  I ended that post with two sentences that still represent my feelings about humankind’s capabilities: “I do have faith in science and technology.  I am not sure how much faith I have in humankind to take appropriate advantage of them, though, without mucking up the world in the process.”

In the presence of your Satguru, knowledge flourishes; sorrow diminishes; without any reason joy wells up; lack diminishes, abundance dawns and all talents manifest.

~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar ~

If only the magical thinking that leads to such confidence in goodness were based on reliable experiences and realistic expectations. But we constantly turn to “hope,” in the fervent desire that “hope” will lead to a better future. Baseless hope, though, is a more tolerable experience than the certainty of skepticism.

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If I can sustain my stamina and my energy today, I will do more painting. And cleaning. And dreaming about what might be. And I’ll daydream about riding around soon in a friend’s newly purchased dually pickup, which is outfitted to pull a fifth wheel trailer. The idea of driving a huge diesel-powered truck pulling a huge home on wheels is frightening to me, a little like driving a semi rig after a lifetime of driving nothing larger than a Smart car. Better to paint than to imagine that sort of experience!

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Time to launch into the day.

The supreme good is like water,
which nourishes all things without trying to.
It is content with the low places that people disdain.
Thus it is like the Tao.

    ~ Lao Tzu ~

Lao Tzu, in the Tao Te Ching, explains that the Tao is not a name for a thing, but is the underlying natural order of the Universe, whose ultimate essence is difficult to define because it is essentially inexplicable yet evident in the simple fact that one is alive. The Tao is not a concept, Lao Tzu asserts, but an underlying reality upon which everything is grounded. At least that’s my understanding of Lao Tzu’s assertion.

I have a CT scan scheduled for early this morning in Little Rock.  I’ll leave around 6:00 and drive the “back roads” to Little Rock, avoiding Interstate 30 and spending only a few minutes on 430 and 630 when I get to the city. I’ve grown increasingly tired of interstate highway traffic and local freeways designed to accommodate commuters rushing to their jobs. My tolerance levels for scurrying crowds focused on getting to work is much higher when high density public transportation is involved. It’s harder for me to achieve a Zen-like serenity when high-speed cars and trucks and road rage (others’ or my own) are involved.

Maybe it’s old age; but I think it’s something else, something deeper. Something within me; a foundation of wisdom attained from time and experience. We rush too much. We focus too intently on personal convenience and satisfaction, essentially ignoring what is best for the community of which we are a part.  We speed toward objectives that need not insist on immediacy. Yet we demand immediacy, even when immediacy runs counter to our sense of contentment and happiness. Public transportation—buses, trains, light-rail, van-pools, etc.—nourishes our collective social engagement and our acknowledgement that “we’re all in this together.” But, alas, it seems we’re not. We have honed our sense of self-centeredness to the point that we value selfishness over benevolence.

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I’m in a philosophical mood as I write this. I suspect that mood has arisen from my thoughts about Ukraine and war and refugees and hypocrisy. Hypocrisy in that so many among us curse the refugees on our southern border who are fleeing from crime and oppression and crumbling societies—but express compassion for people who look more like us, people who  often have light skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. I wonder whether conservatives feel compassion for Ukrainians fleeing the horrors of war; if they do, why do they treat with such contempt the refugees attempting to cross our southern borders to escape the horrors of a different kind of war? Are conservatives so transparently bigoted?

But what about the rest of us, the ones who feel compassion for Ukrainians as well as Hondurans and Guatemalans and Mexicans and Ecuadorians, et al? We feel compassion, but do we invite them into our homes? Do we confront immigration authorities, saying, “these people are our friends and they are welcome to visit me in my home” in order to protect them? I think the skeptical Republicans who ask that kind of question may have a point; that we claim to be compassionate, but our compassion often is two-dimensional and is not shored up with a commitment to action. It should embarrass us. It embarrasses me to think I am all talk and no action. Oh, “I would take in Ukrainians, but how could I get them here…blah, blah, blah.” How convenient it is to rely on the excuse of inconvenience.

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I spent most of yesterday at the new house, painting. I accomplished quite a lot. As a consequence, my muscles and joints feel like I ran back-to-back marathons. Ugh! Still, I’m glad I spent the day being productive. And I watched others being equally as productive: a plumber and his helper removed what may have been one hundred pounds of copper from behind what had been the walls of the shower. They replaced the old copper with new copper and PEX (cross-linked polyethylene pipe). And, later, a couple of guys began building the new shower pan and walls. They will continue that work today while I sit lazily in medical offices in Little Rock. I hope to see considerable progress when I get back to the house this afternoon. And I expect to produce considerable more progress tomorrow and Sunday. And on Monday I expect to meet the flooring company representative to show him flaws in his product. And one day before too much time passes, I hope to begin moving into a freshly painted house with new floors, a new shower, and great potential.

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And now, some quotations from people whose words give me reason to think deeply and wonder whether humans  will ever reach our full potential as compassionate beings:

When someone steals another’s clothes, we call them a thief. Should we not give the same name to one who could clothe the naked and does not? The bread in your cupboard belongs to the hungry; the coat unused in your closet belongs to the one who needs it; the shoes rotting in your closet belong to the one who has no shoes; the money which you hoard up belongs to the poor.

    ~ Basil the Great ~

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When plunder becomes a way of life for a group of men in a society, over the course of time they create for themselves a legal system that authorizes it and a moral code that glorifies it.

    ~ Frédéric Bastiat ~

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Human beings are born with different capacities. If they are free, they are not equal. And if they are equal, they are not free.

    ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn ~

This image popped up on my computer this morning as a reminder of a time several years past. Though the scene has changed since then, I remember it. My late wife and I were sitting at a window of a waterside restaurant. The screen covering the window’s dirty glass degrades the image, which would have been far more picturesque if taken without those obstacles. Nonetheless, I remember being struck by the reflections of the boats on perfectly still water. Embedded in this post, it may be impossible to see where the boats end and their reflections, beneath them, begin. But I remember feeling a sense of awe—that the water of the lake could be so incredibly still, as if the boats had been placed on a mirror that reflected the boats and the protective canopy above them.  A simple photograph, without even a single person in it, can bring memories flooding back, filling one’s head with emotions that run the gamut between longing and regret and everything in between.

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Do your work, then step back. The only path to serenity.”

~ Lao Tzu ~

The results of medical tests over the last couple of days were all good. Tomorrow, I go in for my annual visit with the nurse associate of the surgeon who performed my lobectomy three-plus years ago. She will review the results of the CT scan, which will have been done earlier tomorrow morning, and will tell me all’s well. That’s my expectation. I would rather not drive to Little Rock at 6:30 tomorrow morning, but that’s the way the world works. I would rather spend tomorrow painting and otherwise making progress on the new house. Actually, that’s not true: I would rather not paint, etc., but that’s what it’s going to take to finish the project and ready the house for our occupancy. But work has been delayed, again, because of flaws in the flooring material. A representative from the distributor is scheduled to come have a look on Monday. The owner of the flooring store told me he will put his foot down; even though the representative claimed, after seeing photos of the material, that the flooring is not flawed, the owner insists he will prevail. I expressed my appreciation. And I told him that, if for any reason the distributor refuses to replace the flooring, we are prepared to reject it outright and pick another brand and “look” that will suit us just fine. I hope this process does not go on long. In the interim, a new shower in the master bathroom will be installed. The old shower was torn out yesterday (or the day before?). Eventually, the house will be nice. Eventually. And, one day, I will be considerably older than I am now, if the universe cooperates with my plan. I have been advised that I need to be “so Zen.” As in “soooooo” Zen. As in as cool and calm and unperturbed as a Zen Buddhist monk. I may get a vanity license plate made for my car: So-Zen. I wonder: would having such a plate on my car actually cajole me into accepting the realities of traffic madness and insane drivers as simply unavoidable facets of life on Earth? I’ll let you know, if I get those plates. Or, I should say, that plate. Arkansas provides just one license plate; it is affixed the rear of the car. I can’t decide whether that is a brilliant way to save resources or an imbecilic way to give drivers a fifty percent chance of avoiding identification on roadways.

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Once the renovation of the new house is complete and we have moved in, I expect to feel comfortable and rested. The place is nestled among the trees in a relatively empty area of the Village, with only other house on our tiny cul-de-sac street–at the far end. We will sit on our deck and will view the forest, with a glimpse of the occasional deer or fox or turkey or racoon or skunk or possum. That’s the plan.

Nature is the best medicine for serenity. Peace, calmness, stillness. It’s good for the heart.”

~ Karen Madewell ~

The plan for today, though, is to go paint. And I shall, before long.

I’ve somehow wandered into March, directly from December. How in Hell do I find myself in the third month of the year? I am relatively certain that, yesterday, the idea of the year 2022 was a distant absurdity. And now, here I am, two months in and counting. Time is rushing by faster than I can think. I must put on the brakes or it will get away from me. Time will travel into an unknowable future and take me with it. What awaits us in the next moment, or the one after that? The only way to reduce the speed of time is to savor every moment before it’s gone. To live in the here and now. To accept that tomorrow eventually will come, but until it is here it doesn’t matter. These simple solutions to the disappearance of time take mental discipline, emotional energy, and relentless practice. That is, they are not simple. But they are investments in happiness. The dividends they pay are elements that, together, define what it means to be content.

I know these things. Yet I fritter away moments with worry about moments that have yet to take place. We all engage in this wasteful habit, to one degree or another. Yet simply by acknowledging participation in our own discomfort, we take the first step toward frugality. That is, using our limited moments to generate the most beneficial experiences. Including, of course, moments of contemplation, reflection, and appreciation.

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Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. Now is the time to understand more, so that we may fear less.

~ Marie Curie ~

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I look through my books, the ones that remained after my late wife and I donated or sold so very many before our move from Dallas to Hot Springs Village. Even at pennies on the dollar (or even far less), we made several hundred dollars by selling books to Half-Price Books.  I did not keep track, but memory suggests to me that we reduced our library to one-eighth its original size. Even so, the books on the shelves in my study must number over 100; maybe more. Regardless, I need to get rid of even more: the ones I’ve read and enjoyed, but not enough to read again; the ones I want to read, but almost certainly will not (like War and Peace and books of equal size). There are so many books I want to have read, but do not have the patience to wade through. At any rate, those books will have to go.  And travel books. And so many more.

I love books. I am a bibliophile. Books allow me to escape reality for a while, insulating me from the unpleasant challenges of the world around me. And they are not only instruments of escape. They bring me ideas and visions and spur intentions in me that I otherwise would never have had. But I am a realist, as well. Books take up space.

Books are transforming from a visible, physical form—the expression of ideas captured in ink and paper—to impossibly small computer files. That reality leads to a question: is the new, electronic form that is replacing the old, physical form really a book? Or will a book always be a physical thing, ideas expressed on paper between two covers? The secondary definition of “book” online reads as follows: “a work of fiction or nonfiction in an electronic format.” So, that answers the question. Or does it? Have we simply ignored the underlying question? What, exactly, is a book? “A work of fiction or nonfiction?” Does that really define the objects we have learned to call “books?” Or do we need to rethink what constitutes a book? And do we need to a new term that describes the capture and distribution of ideas in electronic format?

I suppose my ultimate question, not entirely relevant at this moment in history, is this: will “books” (that is, the physical things with covers) as we know them today eventually wind up only in museums? Will libraries, which house thousands of volumes of old-style books, become unnecessary? I love libraries, too. I love their silence and the reverence they pay to traditional books. And the concepts that books represent, including the freedom to think and say whatever one wishes. But libraries, like books, require physical resources that may be better used in other applications.  I hate the idea. But I think I hate it because my romantic notion about books is based on a reverence for the physical “thing” I call a book.

If you compare the adoration of books with religion, you might see the quandary. Religions sometimes get caught up in their icons and idols; religious people sometimes require reminders not to worship idols but, instead, the “god” that inspires those idols. Books might be considered the idols of ideas; when we worship books, we mistakenly may be paying homage to clothing, rather than the body beneath it. I am just thinking. My thoughts may be in the fragile edge of an unstable cliff. So be it.

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The results of my ultrasound yesterday were, in a word, “unremarkable.” That’s what I like to hear or see. “Nothing to see here, folks, move along.” My girlfriend’s more involved procedure is today. I hope she gets the same results. Waiting for test results, even routine tests, can be illuminating. One considers (or may consider…as I do) the possibility that the results could deliver unsettling news. And when one considers that, one begins to imagine how life might change. And that possibility fuels an even greater appreciation and gratitude for the kind of life one is living at this very moment. Life is splendid, even with all its challenges and disappointments. Even with its sometimes nearly unbearable physical or emotional pain. Regardless of the sometimes seemingly endless, aching depression. Life is splendid. We can only hope for that to extend as close to forever as we get.

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He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche ~

I will ask my brothers and sister , who was I as a child and, later, as a teenager and, later still, a young adult? Was I always as emotionally fragile early on, as I was in my so-called “prime?” Were my emotions as delicate and fracturable as they are now that I am an old man? I learned, a few days ago, of a friend’s experience with COVID-19; he said it caused him to be highly emotional—easily becoming angry and crying with compassion in response to television commercials. The idea of commercials triggering tears is funny; except it is not funny. It suggests some sort of chemical imbalance in the brain may cause emotions that, otherwise, would be under a person’s control and not subject to random and unexpected display. I wonder whether my emotionality is the product of some sort of physiological aberration; a flaw in my brain that gives me less control over my emotions than most people have. I’ve always been more than a little embarrassed by my tendency to tear-up at the slightest emotional trigger; I’ve felt the shame of unwelcome hypersensitivity. And it occurs to me my embarrassment is a response to what I have always considered, subconsciously, a mental abnormality. So, in a nutshell, my reaction to my state of mind suggests discomfort with what may be akin to (and is) a mental illness. I would not be embarrassed to seek a diagnosis for a physical ailment; so, why would I feel embarrassment to consider seeking a diagnosis for an emotional flaw? That question is not mine alone; it was put to me directly by someone else.

It’s odd, though. While I am very uncomfortable to be the only person in the room with tears streaming down my cheeks, I simultaneously feel that my ability to feel extreme empathy and compassion is almost a gift. I think I would miss that ability, if it were to be “cured.” I just wish I could control the display of external evidence of that ability. Maybe I still have strands of the dreaded “macho” gene intertwined with my DNA. When I think THAT, I get angry with society for explicitly teaching males to control their emotions; to avoid crying at all costs. I get furious with a culture that intentionally curbs empathy and rewards indifference or hatred or emotionless reactions to circumstances that should shake us to our core. I could go on writing about my visceral reaction to what I consider this societally-engineered deviance; but I won’t. It’s pointless. Yet giving in to societal stupidity is the same as endorsing it. One should fight, hard, against mutant societal instructions, not give in to them. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” Maybe equating acquiescence to malignant social mores to death is a bit dramatic, but perhaps that’s exactly what is necessary to change the world. That, and a lot of energy. I’m lacking in that department at the moment.

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Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

~ T. S. Eliot ~

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The installation of new flooring in our new house began yesterday, but stopped early on when some flaws in the flooring became apparent. The installer saw the same flaws, discovering that they were prevalent throughout samples from both pallets of the materials. So, today, I understand the company owner will come take a look. And, from my understanding of the situation, a representative of the flooring distributor will take a look, as well. Maybe today. Maybe later. I don’t know. I just know I want the floor to look perfect, whenever it is installed. So, we will wait.

Before the flooring fiasco began, a plumber capped the pipes and drains from the old jetted tub we had removed, as well. And he will return one day, after the floors are laid, to install some other plumbing-related items.

And during the flooring discovery, new flooring was being installed in my “old” house’s workshop area behind the garage. During that endeavor, the installers discovered that the water lines for both the utility sink and the toilet are the inflexible-pipe style that, with the new flooring, would be too short to reconnect. So, they removed the sink and toilet, but those items cannot be reinstalled until a plumber comes to make the proper adjustments with new water-supply lines. I’m getting far too used to spending money with every breath I take. One day, all this “housework” will be complete. Life will return to some semblance of normal. Freedom to move about the planet will be mine.

This morning, I go in for an ultrasound of my bladder; a follow-up to a kidney stone episode of several weeks ago. During that episode, I experienced a small-scale equivalent to a “dark night of the soul” that made me have serious thoughts of suicide. I am sure it was the cocktail of drugs I was given during and after the procedure to remove the stone was responsible for that terrifying experience: anesthesia and post-procedure pain-killers. I will assume all is well with my bladder until and unless the doctors say otherwise. I do not want another experience like I had, associated with the kidney stone removal.

And today my girlfriend begins the unpleasant process of preparing for a routine medical test/procedure that requires one to stay home all day and drink enormous volumes of liquid. Her procedure is tomorrow. I will serve as chauffer and advocate.

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I’ve always loved to write. I’ve always felt my writing has the potential of delivering profound ideas in beautiful language. But nothing I’ve written thus far has delivered on its promise. Although I probably have forgotten most of what I’ve written; so it’s possible there’s a gem hidden among the rubble I’ve left. I can hope for the relevance of the past; that’s probably the best chance for attainment. I think I have to hope because my writing seems to have weakened over time. It has become simple and stale and abysmally common. Perhaps that’s because I live a pretty damn common life. Write what you know, some self-professed experts have long said. I’ve never bought that, at least not entirely. Write what you dream; that would be a better admonishment.

Uninterrupted isolation. That is what I think I need to be able to write more meaningfully. A week or two or even more, cloistered in some hidden retreat in the woods or on a desolate coast. A place that will force me to empty my mind of the mundane and focus exclusively on the brilliantly obvious aspects of existence.

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Too much thought and not enough action. Overthinking things tends to lead to stagnation. Knowledge without understanding is an unworthy burden.

The price of inaction is far greater than the cost of making a mistake.

~ Meister Eckhart ~

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I must drink more water so I can have a full bladder for my ultrasound. They want me to need, desperately, to pee; but they want me to torture myself by avoiding that quite natural inclination to acquiesce to Mother Nature. Oh, well.

If you would take, you must first give, this is the beginning of intelligence.

~ Lao Tzu ~

Every moment is both beginning and end. Each instance of the smallest measure of time launches a new experience; at the same time another tiny measure of time comes to its conclusion and, along with it, the component of the experience it presented. It occurs to me that most people ignore those tiny fragments of Time—like seconds or minutes or hours or even days—in favor of Time’s larger assemblages. I assume that is because so many processes that enrich our lives—or that bedevil them—require longer segments of Time to come to fruition. But without those miniscule fragments of Time, the larger agglomeration of moments could never become the stuff of full experiences. Lacking those fleeting moments, memorable experiences would never happen.

A paragraph has a beginning and an end. In the same way, each word in a paragraph has a starting point and a conclusion. The experiences of our lives—and the experience of Life—is comparable. Our Lives are anthologies of experiences, comprising words and paragraphs and pages and chapters and books and book series…and even long series of books. Another way to compare Life to the components of simply living is this: Life is like the entire set of the Encyclopedia Britannica and the moments that make Life are like letters.

Now, with all of this convoluted philosophical background aside, I will say it more clearly: people tend to treat life as if only its “memorable moments” matter. Birth. Graduation. Marriage. Childbirth. Employment. Blah. Blah. Blah. If we could persuade ourselves to invest the same emotional energy in each moment that we invest in these so-called milestone events, our lives could be and most likely would be dramatically more joyous. Conversely, the sad, stressful, traumatic elements of our lives might be exponentially harder to experience: Death. Life-threatening Illness. Loss of Spouse. Divorce. Job Loss. Miscarriage. But wouldn’t an almost constant sense of awe and joy and deep, endless appreciation make those inevitable horrors moderately more tolerable?

My mind is meandering this morning. I am trying to attach ideas to experiences and I am attempting to think through a method of making my life, and the lives of all I touch, more valuable and generally better. That’s a tall order, of course. But if I were not alone in pursuing an absurdly big but enormously attractive goal, maybe its attainment would be far more likely. We’re all just letters in words, but we can be pages in the Encyclopedia Britannica.

Yesterday, as I stood next to my car, filling its tank with gas, I noticed a man at a nearby pump, also filling his tank with gas. A heavy breeze and very cool temperatures made me a bit uncomfortable, wearing only a sweatshirt. The man was wearing a coat that I think may have been a Carhartt brand (they have a certain “look”).  I commented to him, “That looks like the kind of coat you need on a day like today.” He took a moment before acknowledging my comment; he may not have realized I was speaking to him, as his back was toward me. Finally, he said, “Yeah, especially with a wind like this.” I nodded, and said “Nice coat.” And that was it. He finished filling his tank and he drove away. But I thought to myself that this brief and essentially meaningless interaction filled my mind with more value than had I spent those few moments simply staring into space. I had to exercise my brain enough to form thoughts, make words, direct those words to another person, and listen to and respond to the reply. For just a moment, I felt so grateful for just recognizing the incredible magic of that experience. Two old men, engaging about the warmth and comfort of a coat: meaningless but enormously representative of the vast majority of our moments. They mean nothing, but without them there can be no others. Therefore each moment is precious beyond measure. I wish I could find a way to ensure that I recognize that every instant.

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Yesterday morning, after Zoom church, and early afternoon, I scrubbed the floors in the space behind the garage in preparation for today’s flooring installation. After I scrubbed the floors, we took a drive to visit a friend who’s camping for a few days at a campground on Lake Ouachita, less than half an hour from here. We sat in her 30-foot RV (maybe it’s even bigger?), both its slide-outs fully open. It has plenty of room for her, her four dogs, and two guests (it could easily accommodate more). It was nice to sit and talk, with no obligation to “do” anything. Just engage. That’s so comfortable, so relaxing, so extremely comforting. I suppose that’s one of the reasons people like to go RVing. I’ve never been, so it’s only supposition, but that seems like one of the appeals. After setting up in an RV campground, there’s not much one has in the way of obligations: one does only what one WANTS to do, not what one must. Well, not all the time. With a view of the lake a short distance away, the shade of tall trees, and the quiet of a relatively sparsely-populated campground, she had a nice spot. Every time I get near an RV, I start thinking again about getting one and doing some traveling. But the paucity of money, among other things, keeps getting in the way. And the responsibility for upkeep and storage and the pre- and post-trip prep. But I could get used to that. Couldn’t I? I know this: I would want an RV I can drive, not a trailer to pull behind me. I am allergic to trailers. Unless they come with a professionally trained driver for the pulling vehicle, someone who is invisible but highly engaged with RV responsibilities at all times. I don’t think they sell such trailers. Isn’t it nice to mull over the possibility, though? If one has an active imagination, one can have anything his heart desires. In his head, anyway.

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My arthritic wrists, fingers, knees, elbows, hips, and ankles are annoying. But at least they work reasonably well. I should exercise them all more frequently, though. Exercise is a good thing, I’m told. I’ve always equated exercise with exorcism, though, so I’ve tended to stay away from it. I need to retrain my mind to live in the real world; in the here and now. But wouldn’t that negate the effect of an active imagination? These are hard questions with no easy answers. I’ll keep asking them, though, until the answers are both easy and make rational sense.

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I need more coffee. I got up very late this morning, right around 6, so I’m automatically cranky. When I stay in bed too long, I arise as a rather surly curmudgeon, whereas I get up feeling happy and generous and overflowing with goodwill and smiles when I get up at my regular, early times. Seriously. I’m far better if I get up at 4 than if I finally get out of bed at 6. Getting up late makes me feel like I’ve frittered away a significant portion of the day, a portion of the day I’ll never get back. A series of moments I’ll never experience in a state of consciousness. That, my friends, is cause for never-ending sadness and perpetual mourning.  That’s my nugget of truth for the day. That, and this: I really need more coffee.

A friend of mine is off in a few days on a vacation trip of a lifetime. If circumstances cooperate when she visits Norway, she will see the Northern Lights, visit the northern part of the country where she will experience the culture of the Sápmi—both the Sami people and the region once called Lapland—and, I hope, visit Oslo. For as long as I remember, I have wanted to visit Oslo and another town nearby, Drøbak, where “The Three Mermaid” statutes frolic on the edge of the Oslofjord. I feel an inexplicable kinship to Norway and the Norwegian people. One of my fictional characters, Kolbjørn Landvik, is an old Norwegian fisherman from days long ago, a crusty but gentle old man who communicates with me mystically over time and distance.

My sense of kinship is at odds with one of my few experiences with Norwegians. though. For example, I learned several years ago about a guy locally (who lives in a small town near Hot Springs) who is the epitome of stupidity: a Trump-loving, gun-toting, hillbilly bully who moved to the U.S. to escape the open-mindedness of Norway. I do not remember details; only that I was stunned to learn that a country with which I was so enamored could have produced such an offensive deviant. Yet, in spite of my disgust with a single lump of Norwegian stupidity, I maintain my deep appreciation for the country, its people, and it culture. A few years ago, my late wife and I drove to some friends’ post-wedding celebration near Madison, Wisconsin (our friends, both male, wanted to celebrate their union in their former home state, a place then disgraced by its rabidly homophobic governor, Scott Walker). There’s a town near Madison, Stoughton, that’s known for its Norwegian heritage. For example, it hosts a celebration of syttende mai (seventeenth of May), the day the constitution of Norway was signed. I felt like I had found Kolbjørn Landvik’s kinfolk when we visited that town during our trip to celebrate our friends’ marriage.

By the way, if I do not post to my blog for a few weeks, look for me in my friend’s suitcase. I may hiding in there. I just hope I survive the flights in the cargo hold.

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I firmly am of the belief that deep exposure to—and possibly at least brief immersion in—other cultures should be a requisite for recognition that one has reached adulthood. Failure to demonstrate an understanding that other cultures have intrinsic value should be grounds for treating a person as a perpetual child; a ward of the State, as it were, who is consigned to living as an impotent, non-voting, powerless slug permitted to do only what his elders (both temporally and intellectually) and betters tell him to do. Well, I may be overselling the idea. But I believe exposure to other cultures expands one’s understanding of both the value and the failings of one’s own. And it forces one to realize that acceptance of emotional mistakes like nationalism are akin to deliberately adopting debilitating mental illness as a lifestyle choice.

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Yesterday, as I was scrambling to remove everything from the floor of a “study/work area” behind my garage, I came across several certificates of recognition for pieces of writing I had submitted to writing contests. Some certificates were for “first place” and several were for various levels of “good but not quite good enough” recognition. I’ve long since stopped writing for submission to contests. All the contests to which I have submitted in the past were judged by people who were no more qualified to judge my writing than I am qualified to judge the quality of a surgeon’s first cut. Besides, “winning” a writing contest is, for me, hollow and essentially meaningless. In every case, I wrote in response to some sort of prompt, rather than submitting something I wrote because I wanted to write it. So, already my writing was manipulated to fit into a slot that I do not necessarily fit into. My writing does not fit into the square hole or the round hole; it slides around pits and canyons, looking for an escape route. At any rate, I found those certificates. And I wondered why, if they are so meaningless to me, I kept them? Good question. I suppose, in spite of my disdain for writing contests, I am sufficiently vain to bask in the artificial accolades heaped on me through my participation. But not vain enough to keep the certificates after discovering them. I did make a note of which ones I won and in which ones I “placed,” but then I placed the cheap certificates in the recycling bin like the scrap paper they were.

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Private thoughts. Secrets. Confidential information. Whatever they are, everyone has them. All of us know things we opt not to share with the world. Maybe we share with one person or a small, close-knit group of intimate friends, but we keep our broadcasts small and close by. The ones I find most intriguing, though, are the ones we share with no one else—the ones we may wish to hide from everyone and the ones we want to share with someone but dare not. We dare not because of the consequences of disclosure. But what could those consequences be? Abandonment. Rejection. Arrest and imprisonment. Ridicule. Wave after wave of embarrassment. Diminution of social position. Assignment of pariah status. Or nothing. Nothing at all. But fear of the possibilities keep us from revealing what we think or know. The concept intrigues me. It finds its way, in one form or another, to my fiction (when I write fiction, a rarity these days). One day, I may write extensively about those private thoughts that so control us. And I may write about what can happen when we open up about secrets. How the way the worlds sees a person can change in an instant. Imagine learning that your closest friend is a murderer. An adulterer. A true believer in the power of witchcraft. A Nazi. A member of the KKK. In love with your wife. Suspicions about the secrets those closest to you might have can torment you, if you let them. That’s another fascinating thing about private thoughts: the reaction of others to what they think may or may not be locked inside one’s head. A psychological thriller could be based entirely on one person’s real or imagined private thoughts and the way a close confidant might react to the idea…hmm, I feel a short story, or even a longer one, coming on.

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It’s approaching 7:30. I’ve been up for almost two and a half hours. Back to my old reliable habits.  I think it’s just about time for breakfast.

Our greatest pretenses are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there.

~ Eric Hoffer ~

I have had limited exposure to Eric Hoffer’s work, but lately I’ve repeatedly encountered references to it. The quote above resonates with me; it acknowledges something I’ve always known but could not quite articulate. I want to read some of his work, including the book, True Believers: Thoughts on the Nature of Mass Movements. Another Hoffer quote that is especially thought-provoking to me is this one: “A mass movement attracts and holds a following not because it can satisfy the desire for self-advancement, but because it can satisfy the passion for self-renunciation.” People join cults, for example, because they feel worthless; they claim to seek radical social change, but in fact their real target is self-replacement. Perhaps Hoffer’s philosophical explorations might reveal what those same people do if they choose not to join cults; if, instead, they reject such identity-erasing attachments. Perhaps they withdraw into themselves.  I’ve read several short extracts of Hoffer’s philosophical writing. They appeal to me in part because I agree with them. That’s not the way to learn—one learns by exploring ideas outside his own beliefs—but there’s some comfort to be gained from affirmation that one’s perspectives are shared by someone as widely regarded and respected as Hoffer.

I might challenge Hoffer’s statement about self-renunciation. Rather than a passion for self-renunciation, perhaps it’s a matter of seeking renewal or replacement or exchange: I want to be someone else…someone who might support some sort of radical social change…so I will support this movement that promises the opportunity to exchange the person I am today for the person I might become tomorrow.

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I was in bed for seven hours last night. I suppose I slept most of that time, but it was a very restless sleep, interrupted several times because I felt either cold or hot or because I was sleeping the “wrong way” on my shoulder. Or because I had to get up to pee. Each time, I had a bit of a tough time getting back to sleep. But eventually I did. I had to force myself to stay in bed when I woke at 4. I went back to sleep and finally got up at 5. Sometimes, I wish I could either sleep all the time or not at all. “All the time” is growing increasingly attractive. Sleep tends to allow a person to leave those nagging aspects of real life wallowing in the gutter.

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I cooked a rib-eye roast last night, a very expensive gift to ourselves, thanks to a visit to Costco back in December. Paired with a fiery horseradish sauce, some wedges of tomatoes, steamed zucchini topped with Greek dressing, and San Francisco sourdough bread (and a little wine), it was a very nice meal. But far too rich to eat frequently. Though I could probably figure out a way to tolerate it.

We would have made a GreenChef meal, but the free package for three meals we should have received Thursday came on Friday. Everything looked fine, except for the proteins: warm chicken, warm salmon, and warm shrimp. We opted to ask for a re-do. We’ll get another try in mid-March. The first GreenChef meal we had, courtesy of a friend (who also gave us a coupon good for three free meals), was outstanding. Quick and easy and healthy. That’s the habit I/we need to get into.

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Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues but the parent of all others.

~ Marcus Tullius Cicero ~

I am having an incredibly hard time reconciling my deep gratitude for my life as it is with my desire to change it in fundamental ways. It’s as if I were one person being torn into two distinct and quite different pieces. This conflict requires much, much more thought. It is in such circumstances that introspection is the most valuable and potentially the most dangerous.

I spend many hours here in my study, deep in the middle of the night, drenched in thought and illuminated only by a lamp that intrudes on darkness. This early morning solitude, wherein with my fingers I engage in make-believe conversations with hypothetical raconteurs and with myself, is both salvation and destruction. My time alone, pretending to be immersed in meaningful conversations with imaginary readers, keeps me moderately sane. Simultaneously, it normalizes isolation. It makes the deviance of intense introspection seem natural. It can transform loneliness into its own curative elixir, albeit one potentially tainted with poison.

There was a time when I welcomed being awake in the wee hours as an opportunity to explore ideas that might lend interest to my fiction writing. These days, writing fiction is not as entrancing as it once was. Consequently, I do not do as much research as I once did. I remember one night, a few years ago, when I encountered information that I realized could be extremely valuable to me for a piece of crime fiction. The information had to do with how long a drug used to render a person unconscious could be detected in a victim’s body after it was administered. Normal blood and urine tests could detect this particular drug (whatever it is…I do not recall) for only a few hours. But the drug could be detected in a victim’s hair for up to four weeks after it is administered. That is the sort of thing that kept me up in days past. These days, fuel for writing fiction is not responsible for waking me or for keeping me awake. These days, it’s introspective mining; thinking that thinks about thinking, always inward, ever deeper. More and more distant from the surface. Closer and closer to the core.

Tonight—this morning, actually—I woke just after 2:30. Of course, I slept long before “bedtime,” so I am getting sleep, just not entirely during “normal” hours. When I got up, I felt like going for a drive. If the streets weren’t slick with black ice, I might have left an explanatory note ( just in case my girlfriend were to wake to find me absent) and wandered off in search for an all-night diner. My late wife and I did that on rare occasions in years past. When we lived in Dallas, there were times that we both would find ourselves awake and hungry at 3 in the morning. More than once we joined the ranks of insomniacs at a Waffle House or a little diner I think was called Jack’s.  There’s something appealing to me about rubbing elbows with night-owls, though I’ve never been one. Not really. I mean, I never closed bars. When I was awake in the wee hours, it usually was after I’d been asleep for several hours.  This morning, I wish I could safely go out and find a 24-hour diner, just to experience that strange sense of camaraderie with other people for whom, for whatever reason, the solitude of the night feels like a soulmate.

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Here I sit, musing about my own psyche. In Ukraine, where it’s eight hours ahead of the time it is here, people do not have the luxury of musing about their psyches. They are worried about their lives and the lives of their friends and families and fellow Ukrainians as brutal Russian attacks continue. Someone identified by The Independent as a “senior western intelligence official” has said “Kiev could fall to Russians within hours as Ukraine air defences eliminated.” When I consider what the people of Ukraine are experiencing at this hour, my concerns seem so utterly petty and meaningless. In place of my anxiety or sadness or depression or whatever it is, a growing sense of rage is emerging. The idea that a dictatorial world leader could personally launch an unprovoked war on another nation, shredding the emotions of millions of innocent civilians and putting their lives in mortal danger is stunning. Should assassination of such leaders be legal? Should assassination of such monsters be a moral imperative? I would like to think that anyone responsible for initiating a war should rightfully be afraid that he or she will be the inescapable target of elimination.

You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake.

~ Jeannette Rankin ~

Many Russians are enraged by Putin’s actions. And they are making their anger known through protests. Russian authorities, though, are ready to quash those protests. According to an article posted just an hour and a half ago on the NPR website, “Some 1,745 people in 54 Russian cities were detained, at least 957 of them in Moscow,” in response to those protests.

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I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.

~ Dwight D. Eisenhower ~

Like most Americans, I am not intimately familiar with the political landscape in and around the Ukraine. But I now will become more attuned to what is happening there because Russia has launched a full-scale invasion of the country. My obligation, though, is not simply to accept this administration’s explanations about the genesis of the current state of affairs. Nor should I buy into the predictably partisan response. Neither should I accept Russia’s defense of its rights or obligations to take control of the country. My obligation is what it was before the invasion: to examine information from all angles and to make my own decision. There may be some truth, for example, in Putin’s assertion that Ukrainian separatists deserved to have been recognized long ago. It is possible Ukraine simply held onto power over certain regions because the thirst for power overrode the belief in giving citizens the right to self-governance. It’s also possible that the Ukrainian separatists were simply Russian “plants,” intended to create the appearance of widespread support for the return of parts of the Ukraine to Russia.

Just as invasion is the true and tried weapon in the hands of capital against the class struggle, so on the other hand the fearless pursuit of the class struggle has always proven the most effective preventative of foreign invasions.

~ Karl Liebknecht ~

Put simply, I will not accept information spoon-fed to me by any government, nor any media that’s unwilling to openly question the veracity of information provided by any officials. I love the concept of government under the umbrella of self-governance. I am deeply skeptical, though, of “government officials;” their motives often are purely partisan. Their motives have nothing whatsoever to do with self-governance; but only their hunger for power.

Who knows how Russia’s invasion will impact our daily lives? Media reports suggest gas prices will skyrocket.  The stock market already has reacted with a sharp shiver. Will housing prices, recently so high, plummet? Will the cost of products rise dramatically as either a direct or indirect response to the cost of goods and the cost of transportation? I wish I knew the answer. And I wish I could take my long-sought trip to New Mexico, to that little adobe hideaway; my imaginary oasis that might protect me from a perpetually mad world.

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The process of finishing our house—painting the walls, having new flooring installed, renovating the master bath, having most of the doors adjusted, installing new plumbing fixtures, getting those final touches regarding lighting completed—still seems months away. I signed a $1600 “change order” yesterday, giving the flooring contractor the go-ahead to tear out the jet tub, and cap off the related plumbing. The costs of tearing out and replacing the shower will be in addition to that. The ice and snow and freezing rain yesterday and today have delayed the process another two days. Weekends are wasted, except for painting. I feel like I’m frittering away time as if I expect to have all of it I could ever want. At my age, that attitude could be fatal. I try to acknowledge the briefness of life and to behave accordingly. I try to appreciate every moment and recognize the next one may not be mine to experience.

And I pose these questions to myself: Are the time and money I spend on a new place to spend my time and store my possessions worth the return on investment? Or am I spending a limited store of time on ephemeral circumstances with questionable value? As much as I’d like the answer to those questions, only time will respond, and only on its own terms.

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The New York Times called Oriana Fallaci, “a dissecting interviewer of the powerful and an iconoclastic journalist.” Fallaci was born and died in Florence, Italy. Famous for her coverage of war and revolution (she was a partisan during World War II), she was well-known “long, aggressive and revealing interviews” with world leaders. Until I spent just a little time reading a bit about Fallaci’s life, I knew very little of her. I knew the name and that she had been a global journalist, but little else. When I read a little about her recently, I learned that she became increasingly well-known through several provocative and controversial articles. Her outspoken criticism of Islam earned her both praise and condemnation. Her engagement with the Ayatollah Khomeini, regarding the obligation for women to wear a head covering called a chador, during her interview of him in 1979 got worldwide attention. Here is a translation of the exchange, as reported in the Corriere della Sera:

Fallaci: I still have to ask you a lot of things. About the “chador,” for example, which I was obliged to wear to come and interview you, and which you impose on Iranian women…. I am not only referring to the dress, but to what it represents, I mean the apartheid Iranian women have been forced into after the revolution. They cannot study at the university with men, they cannot work with men, they cannot swim in the sea or in a swimming-pool with men. They have to do everything separately, wearing their “chador”. By the way, how can you swim wearing a “chador”?

Khomeini: None of this concerns you, our customs do not concern you. If you don’t like the Islamic dress, you are not obliged to wear it, since it is for young women and respectable ladies.

Fallaci: This is very kind of you, Imam, since you tell me that, I’m going to immediately rid myself of this stupid medieval rag. There!

Whether one agrees with her position or thinks she should have given more respect for a culture in which she was a guest, it is hard not to respect her for her assertiveness. I respect her for her dogged determination to get at the facts when reporting on world events. But a journalist like her, one with obvious biases, makes one a touch more conservative in believing everything journalists report. When they have an obvious bias (like her bias against Islam), one has to question whether reporting is filtered through an image-altering lens.

So, one has to respond to the following assertion with both curiosity and skepticism:

Europe is no longer Europe, it is Eurabia, a colony of Islam, where the Islamic invasion does not proceed only in a physical sense, but also in a mental and cultural sense.

~ Oriana Fallaci ~

An attack against a religion seems so awkward and fundamentally wrong…until one looks inward to the United States and sees the infiltration of Christian dogma into government and the education system. How can rational people NOT attack a religious sect whose core intent it to inject fundamentalism into every aspect of our lives? Or is my perspective jaundiced because of my innate skepticism about religion in general?

I like—but have some significant issues with—another of Fallaci’s pronouncements:

We must take positions. Our weakness in the West is born of the fact of so-called ‘objectivity.’ Objectivity does not exist – it cannot exist!… The word is a hypocrisy which is sustained by the lie that the truth stays in the middle. No, sir: Sometimes truth stays on one side only.

~ Oriana Fallaci ~

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I do not enjoy arguing. I do not enjoy debate…unless it results in a shift in my perspective on any given matter. “Knowing” is better than “believing,” from my point of view. Getting the facts and interpreting them as clearly and as cleanly as possible is far preferable to unquestioningly accepting information given to me. Clearly, I am opinionated. I believe very strongly in my perspective until someone shows me or I otherwise come upon information that changes my mind. Unlike many people (but probably like many others), I am not married to my beliefs. I readily can change my position on a matter when presented with facts or perspectives that successfully challenge that position.

Yesterday, my girlfriend and I had a conversation about the Supreme Court’s agreement to hear a case in which a website designer asserts her right to turn down website commissions for same-sex couples.  Not long ago, I would have said the website designer should be required to provide that service, regardless of a client’s sexual preferences. Now, though, I think the designer should not be forced to take that business. But I think the designer’s bigotry should be broadcast far and wide. And I think the right to be a bigot should also extend to the other end of the social/political spectrum: I should have the right to refuse to do business with right-wing Republicans because their beliefs or actions conflict with my moral code.

My girlfriend argued that the government should protect people against the kind of bigotry the web designer’s assertion illustrates. She suggested that incorporating my position into public policy could lead to businesses expressing an unwillingness to serve Blacks or other groups who are different in some way. I agree that freedoms, even the freedom to be stupid and unfriendly, should have some limits. But the fine line between “obnoxious but permissible” and “obnoxiously hurtful and prohibited” can be very hard to define. And it changes, depending on a society’s evolution.

There should be more rational, unemotional conversations about delicate issues. Those conversations could lead to an economically unproductive world peace, though. Then, where would we be?

Needless to say, we did not reach unwavering agreement on the bigoted web designer. I say give her the rope to hang herself. My girlfriend suggests the prohibition of refusing to do business with someone because a person’s beliefs or actions are somehow objectionable is objectionable of its own accord. And I see that. But I don’t see government intervention as the cure. I view economic strangulation as the cure. Tell enough people about a business owner’s bigotry and eventually the business will fold. “Or grow much stronger,” my girlfriend might say.

I say I do not arguing, then go on to express appreciation for arguments. Again, it’s not the conflict that is attractive to me, it’s the illumination…the increase in knowledge or the decrease in ignorance.  Depending on one’s perpective.

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I enjoy conversations that may not yield certainty about an issue but that provide significantly more illumination on a matter. A friend and I used to have such one-on-one conversations on occasion—sitting out on the deck or at the dining table, we would drink wine and talk about weighty matters of humankind—but lately our conversations have been less philosophical and more about pragmatic or practical issues. I’d like to spend some time with her, exclusively, and allow the natural flow of conversation to lead to those philosophical matters. I miss that with her.

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I’ve written far more this morning than I should have done, if I want anyone to read the entire thing. My reasons for writing do not necessarily stand on a desire for being read; rather, they stand on having said what was on my mind. I’ve had a lot on my mind these last three hours or so. So I document them in one way or another. I fashion a blog post out of scraps of thought that zip in and out of my consciousness.

I do think of specific people when I write. It depends on the topic. The reader who reads these words—if that reader knows me personally—can be certain I think about her or him when I’m writing. Every person I know (especially those I like) contributes to my writing in ways unique to each individual. For example, when writing about issues involving the climate or the environment or the impact of co-housing on of a few friends who are deeply interested in environmental issues. I think about a specific friend when I write about being extremely sensitive and emotional. And I think about specific people when I write about different ways of demonstrating assertiveness.

Right now, I think I should stop writing. It’s 6:00 on the dot and I’m ready for breakfast of some kind. Even if I have to eat alone at this early hour.

Once again, sleeplessness won over rest. I’ve been awake now for an hour, having gotten up just before 3:30. The thoughts running through my mind had nothing to do with the stresses of house renovations. Rather, my thoughts focused on far darker matters. I spent the better part of the hour expressing, in writing, my impenetrable hopelessness about humankind. Finally, though, I stopped writing because it was just too depressing to think those thoughts.  I saved the rather lengthy diatribe, though, in case I need one day to explain the depths of my occasional plunge into the blackest of black holes. If I were to post what I wrote, someone encountering my words probably would think me suicidal and/or in the mood to arrange for the simultaneous detonation of nuclear devices worldwide.

So, instead, I explained in the first paragraph of this post what I did for the first hour of this morning’s insomnia—plunged into depression much deeper than my usual toe-in-the-water immersion. But I’m out now, still drying myself off with a dank towel. I know the cure; but the universe seems unwilling to eliminate COVID and Putin and Trumpism and famine and poverty and virulent greed and a thousand other triggers, so I will have to satisfy myself with periodic doses of alcohol and medical marijuana and entertainment that gets my mind off the real world long enough to allow me to breathe a little.

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Life’s…a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

~ William Shakespeare ~

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When I got up this morning, I opted to wait to take my regular morning pills because I really should take them around the same time every day…which is somewhere between 5 and 6. I forgot to take them yesterday and, if I don’t do something soon about pausing this writing frenzy and taking them, I might forget them again. I also opted, when I got up, to refrain from putting on a sweatshirt, thinking a t-shirt would be adequate. But now I feel cold. I wish I had a sweatshirt on. But I’m too wrapped up in writing and thinking and whatever else is going on in my mind to bother. Putting on a sweatshirt so I can feel more comfortable seems like a pointless exercise for some reason. Ditto the taking of pills that, as far as I can tell, have no effect on me, except to require me to transfer money out of my bank account into the accounts of pharmaceutical giants and their obscenely rich executives. My skepticism is clawing its way out of my pollyannaish outlook.

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…it’s no good worrying about tomorrow. It probably won’t come.

~ J R R Tolkien ~

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This morning, my sister-in-law is coming over to see if she wants any of my late wife’s jewelry. I am not sure what I will do with what remains, but I feel pretty confident I will not discard it or give it away. I may incorporate it, later, into art. Right now, I just cannot imagine letting go of it. The idea of holding onto something that belonged to a loved one who died is fundamentally irrational, but that realization does not stop me from being irrational. Though my sister-in-law was good enough to sort through my wife’s clothes so I did not have to, I found it impossible to let go of some of the caps and shirts my wife used to wear. I still do not know what I might ever do with them, but I cannot bring myself to part with them. I wish I could overcome my irrational attachment to such things. It’s possible that having them in the house is simply prolonging my grief; but I think getting rid of them might send me over the edge. It is not that I am thinking of my late wife that is making me feel so intensely emotional this morning; I think it’s just the opposite. Because I feel so raw and emotional, that may trigger me to think of her. Hell, I do not know what I’m saying. I am just spouting hypotheses for lack of anything better to do.

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The flooring/remodeling guy is coming by this morning to discuss options for both the bathroom in the new house and an inexpensive upgrade to the “workshop” area behind the garage in this one. It’s not a workshop, really. It’s more like an upscale hobby area, complete with its own HVAC system. It’s only about 160 square feet, but it has its own half-bath and two separate areas with lots of cabinets and work surfaces.  I am SO looking forward to getting the new house ready to move into and the old one ready to sell. I want this process to be over. I’m tired of it. I want to be rid of the need to be home every day. I want to be able to get away from everything for a day or a week at a time without having to devote so damn much time to planning it out. As it is now, I don’t feel like I can leave for even a day without absurd amounts of planning and preparation. That’s part of the reason I feel so attached to concepts of minimalism. I remember how fervently attracted I was, when I was younger, to the idea of becoming an ascetic. I wonder what the hell happened to that idealistic kid? He grew old and lazy and spoiled. That’s what happened.

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It’s too damn cold to be wearing a t-shirt instead of  a sweatshirt and to be wearing flip-flops instead of lined slippers. I will give in to my discomfort. I will try to find comfort in clothing.

Finally, I stayed in bed until 6 this morning, after getting to sleep last night after 11. That’s an abnormally long stretch of sleep for me…though it wasn’t all sleep. Sometime during the wee hours, an intensely loud, grating screech from the NOAA weather radio alert jarred me awake. The automated voice announced a severe thunderstorm warning for a long list of Arkansas counties, including at least parts of Garland. Inasmuch as there was little I could do to deter a severe thunderstorm from making its way to the skies above where I live, I drifted back to sleep. Then, a couple of hours ago, a series of bone-jarring cracks of thunder woke me from a dream; in an instant, more thunder-claps erased my memory of the dream. Between the rolling growls of thunder that followed the loud “bangs” (that I assume coincided with lightning strikes), I could hear rain pounding on the roof and the windows, as if driven by high winds. All this calamitous noise made sleep, for me, impossible. Besides, it was 6 in the morning, a good two plus hours later than I’ve been waking in the recent past. I felt like I’d lost a significant portion of the day. And I had. Usually, by then, I would have been deep into my daily ritual of writing. I had to get up, if for no other reason than to make up for lost time.

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Encountering unexpected delays and expenses in getting the new house ready for occupancy is taking its toll on my peace of mind. The unpleasant surprises arising from learning how much work we need to do on our house just keep coming. I feel like I am under constant mental bombardment. My psyche is constantly battered by invisible but brutally powerful cudgels.  This mental environment is tearing into my serenity like a vicious junk yard dog tears into intruders.

I understand, of course, that I should not allow external event to cause me to worry. If I can’t change circumstances, I have no justification to worry. I do not need justification. I cannot simply sidestep unpleasant circumstances roll off my back. I can try, of course, and periodic meditation helps, but the frequency and significance of new “stuff” is maddening. I wrote a few days ago about wanting to get in my car and just drive and drive. I wanted to get to my desolate, isolated adobe house in New Mexico and contemplate life. I still want that. Only more. But I don’t necessarily want to contemplate life. I just want to relax. The little adobe house needs to have a hot tub on a deck out back. The deck should have a comfortable chair for me. And I’ll need wine. And perhaps some gin and tonic. Food. Yes, I’ll need food. That should be adequate.

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The ache of loneliness fills our hearts, and the mind covers it with fear. Loneliness, that deep isolation, is the dark shadow of our life.

~ J. Krishnamurti ~

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Today, I will have my second session with a hair stylist/barber who cuts the hair of a large number of members of my church, mostly women. But he cuts men’s hair, too, and I was ready last time to see if someone new to my head could improve my appearance with a haircut. Unfortunately, I looked just the same. But instead of sitting in a crowded barber shop listening to customers and barbers talk about sports and hunting and liberals who cause the impending destruction of western civilization, I sat in a room with only one other person—the guy who cut my hair. Unlike my normal haircut experience, I could actually engage in conversation with the guy cutting my hair. We knew many of the same people. He inquired about whether my girlfriend had sold her house. Etc. I am not sure whether the haircut was better than my “usual” haircuts by random barbers; but I liked my hair better than usual. So, I scheduled another appointment for five weeks later: today.  In the past, I’ve tended to wait much longer between haircuts; I delayed them because I found the experience at least modestly unpleasant. Even though the cuts cost more, I think I’ll get my hair cut more frequently. I only wish they would substantially improve my appearance.

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If isolation tempers the strong, it is the stumbling-block of the uncertain.

~ Paul Cezanne ~

Each of us views the world through lenses exclusive to us. The surface of the lenses are polished with the fine grit of our unique experiences. The materials from which the lenses are made vary; some are made of clear glass, others of natural materials whose crystalline structures behave like prisms or microscopes. Still others are made of synthetic polymers. The sources of the materials both distorts and clarifies the physical images we see and the way we interpret our visions.

When I seek isolation, some will see that as a desire to run away. Others will see it as a wish for quiet, replenishing solitude. Others will be blind to what I desire because my desire has no bearing on their happiness or, for that matter, their experience of life on Earth.

Some days, the experience I seek might be found in drinking a cup of coffee in the presence of someone interesting in discussing life and experience and meaning. Other days, I want lone experiences that answer questions about who I am or put me to a test of endurance. Still other days I might seek simple comfort, either alone or with someone who matters deeply to me.

Depending on the day and the hour, I see the world through different lenses, each unique to me. Like everyone, I am a million people in one body. I am both at ease with those people and at odds with them. I could devote my life to exploring how to eliminate the battles that take place between them, when the lenses become cloudy and scratched.

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That’s all for now. I must shower, shave, and prepare for the day.

Strip away the chain fast food joints, the used car dealerships, and wave after wave after wave of hideous billboards promoting the poverty of mindless consumerism.

If there’s anything left, it’s worth a look. Because what is left is the soul of a place. The tavern where locals gather to exchange stories offers a safe spot to bask in the casual comfort afforded by members of their tribe. The library, which often is simply a tavern with books, is sometimes where the literati and artists gather between drinks. And the places where tradespeople congregate to talk shop; those places grease the wheels of critical elements of community. Sometimes—often—the tavern serves this purpose; it does double duty. The old barbershop used to be the center of communication, but that has changed. Everything has changed, in fact. The places that defined the soul of a community have, in many respects, withered. They may still exist, but their days are numbered. An artificial web of slick magazines, colorful flashing billboards, and mindless trend-followers intent on proving they are on the cutting edge have replaced much of what once constituted the unique character of a place.

I’ve written about “The Third Place” on this blog many times. Ray Oldenburg—an urban sociologist who wrote the book The Great Good Place—described the first place as the home and the second place as the workplace; the third place is represented by anchors of community life that facilitate comfortable, fulfilling, and creative interactions. Bars, libraries, churches, parks, bookstores, barber shops—those are among the locations that tend to evolve into “third places.” Oldenburg coined the term “the third place;” he was the first to attach a name to the concept and to argue for its pivotal role in society at large. I have enormous regard for Oldenburg.

In years past, I’ve written about how intensely I feel about the need to deliberately create and cultivate “third places.” And, of course, I am not alone. Plenty of coffee shops and bars have adopted “third place” in their names, in the hopes of becoming community magnets toward which people gravitate for connections. They are places where people feel safe. They are places where people feel like they belong. Places where they contribute to that sense of well-being and safety.

Until COVID-19 slammed into our world, my church had become something of my third place. But I am no longer comfortable interacting with large numbers of people who interact with large numbers of other people. So that third place has in a  sense disappeared. The church is still there and I’m still very much a part of it, but it’s no longer the safe haven where I can get away from the rest of the world and feel comfortable about it and the company I keep.

Third places represent the soul of a community. Collectively, they are woven into the social fabric that defines what the community is. Is the community welcoming, or it is insular and suspicious of outsiders? Does the community stitch together people of different backgrounds, colors, beliefs, and interests…or is it two-dimensional, dull and conforming?

If, as I suggested above, the “third places” that define the soul of a community are disappearing in large numbers, what will replace them? I mean, what will constitute the glue that binds communities together as cohesive units (even when those elements may be at odds with one another)? I wish I knew. The topic is one that I would like to explore if I had the resources of first-rate university library and an available cadre of enthusiastic and energetic students anxious to add to the body of knowledge about urban sociology. My gut tells me societies will continue to have “third places,” but they will in many respects morph into entities we cannot even imagine today. The idea of massive Zoom gatherings—involving people in their homes, drinks in hand, conversing with like-minded people—comes to mind. But that’s probably too low-tech and too awkward and too unintuitive to work.

Though I get excited and enthusiastic about some things, like “The Third Place,” my enthusiasm quickly wanes when I realize I am approaching the point at which I will leave my sixth decade and move into the seventh. The time necessary to develop an adequate background to pursue many of my interests probably is not available. And even if it were, getting that background should begin, in earnest, no later than one’s thirties. That realization brings about thoughts of “if only…” That’s not a healthy attitude, so instead of bemoaning the fact that I’m not 35 years old, I have to simply let my interests be shallow and superficial, rather than deep and significant.

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In other news, I am sore. Very sore. My biceps ache. My lower back screams even louder today than yesterday. One of the reasons I awoke several times in the night last night involved cramps in my legs, hands, and arms…courtesy of the odd stances my body took while bending to paint or reaching too far while poised on a ladder.

Today, the flooring guys return, so I cannot do much (if anything) because I would be in their way. There are plenty of errands to run, though, so I will not be bored.

Time to think about more coffee and some breakfast. I roasted a pork loin last night, so I could take a piece or two, dice it, and incorporate it into an egg and/or a potato dish. Or I could simply eat cereal again. Or I could do something entirely different. That option is always highest on my list of things to do; I just have to be prepared to do it. Off I go. Where remains to be seen.

The topic of yesterday’s post continues to plague me. Haunt me. Cause me to shiver and wonder whether I am the target of a witch’s demonic spell.

What kind of person paints a ceiling dark, drab green? Does such a person worship alligators? Does he spend time wallowing in muddy swamps? Does a dark, drab green ceiling provide a mental link to the painter’s deviant upbringing? Does the painter get some level of dank, musty, reptilian comfort from such a ceiling? I ask only because I am curious why someone would do what I spent the day yesterday undoing. I covered the dark, drab green ceiling with a coat of white primer. Today, if my plans proceed as I expect they will, I will apply a coat of “ceiling white” paint to that same ceiling. My neck and my arms and my lower back will object strenuously, but I must get the job done. Next, I will apply a coat of paint to the walls of the same room ; the color of said paint is called “storm clouds” (or some such name). This room eventually will be my study, the  place where I will write and read and gaze out the window at hummingbirds visiting their feeders (yet to be hung) and other birds enjoying seeds at their feeders. And, if the universe is just, an occasional deer or raccoon or fox or turkey or other form of wildlife as it scampers across my driveway.

While I was painting the hideous ceiling, my girlfriend was applying a coat of bright yellow paint to the laundry room. When she finishes, the yellow paint will make the room bright and cheerful; it will make doing laundry a delightful chore. Eventually.

Before we finished the day painting, though, we had a plumber visit to determine whether the big jetted tub has a leak. We know for certain it once had a leak; a leak severe enough that the plywood of the subfloor beneath the edge of the tub must be replaced. Fortunately, no leak at the moment. But he found evidence that, at some point in the past, the shower drain leaked. Though it appeared not to have damaged the subfloor, the quality of the “fix” to the leaking drain appeared shoddy, at best. After examining the shower’s construction, we tentatively reached a decision. The bottom line is that we may remove the jetted tub, tear out the shower, and rebuild the shower in the same footprint it now occupies. I did not anticipate any of this. I had hoped the house was “move-in ready.” Once these and various other issues are resolved, the place will be beautiful and comfortable and a lovely place to live. I just have to keep telling myself that.

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It’s 4:20 and I’m trying to decide whether I should go back to bed and try to get some sleep. I got up just before 3, intending only to pee and get a glass of water as replenishment. But I felt myself waken more thoroughly than would be compatible with sleep, so I decided to stay up “for just a while longer.” And then, of course, I thought I’d jot a few notes to myself. And that turned into this rehash of yesterday’s mix of progress and unpleasantness. I doubt I can sleep now. Perhaps, instead, I’ll shave and shower and prepare for another productive day. Time will tell.

That which renders life burdensome to us generally arises from the abuse of it.

~ Jean-Jacques Rousseau ~

I wonder whether the Rousseau quotation applies to me. According to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Rousseau had a negative view of philosophy and philosophers, “seeing philosophers as the post-hoc rationalizers of self-interest, as apologists for various forms of tyranny, and as playing a role in the alienation of the modern individual from humanity’s natural impulse to compassion.” Hmm. The “post-hock rationalizers of self-interest,” huh? I think a little more critical introspection may be in order. Critical in the sense of  judgmental.

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This morning, I am tempted to get in my car and drive. And drive. And drive. I feel like driving to New Mexico, where I could rent a little adobe house in a desolate area miles from the nearest houses or businesses. I could sit in a comfortable chair in that little adobe house, looking out the window at the emptiness of the land and thinking deeply about questions we rarely dare ask ourselves. I could contemplate life and I could determine whether there is any intrinsic value in it. I think I know the answer already.

Aside from the existential aspects of my desire to get away, there is another motive. It is to recover from the emotional exhaustion I suddenly feel—related, I am sure, to the major changes in my life over the past two years. But even the “cure” to exhaustion would bring about its own set of stresses. Getting away would only delay completion of the renovation of the new house; and the slow pace of the renovation is a measurable contributor to the exhaustion for which I desire a cure.  My self-described “exhaustion” probably is nothing more than a temporary response to situational irritants. It’s not really that I am exhausted; it’s that I’m pissed off and fed up. So, it’s not that I lack the emotional stamina to deal with the crap, it’s that I just don’t want to. But the sooner I accept that I simply must deal with it, the better. I thought by now I would be writing my blog from my new house. I thought by now I would be able to take day trips on a whim, jumping in the car and driving; just on the spur of the moment. That will teach me to think. That’s one of the downers of adulthood. Accepting and dealing with reality sucks.

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In spite of my lack of enthusiasm for it today, I plan to go to the new house today to do some more painting. Some dim bulb in the past life of the house decided to paint the ceiling of the study a drab green; today, I will attempt to cover it, first with a primer coat and then with a “ceiling white” top coat. I still have to paint the walls of the study, finish painting the living room/kitchen/hallway area, finish the two bathrooms, and paint the master bedroom. Not knowing just when the new flooring will arrive, the need to paint the ceiling, especially, seems urgent; I do not want to splatter paint on the new floor while painting the ceiling. I am not worried about splatters while painting the walls; it’s easier to control the paint while painting the walls. Don’t ask me why.

Also this morning, a plumber will take a look at the plumbing around the big, hideous jetted tub; yesterday, the floor guys discovered that the floor beneath the edge of that tub was rotted due to water damage. We need to know if there is a current leak; and whether now is the time to remove the tub and cap off the pipes leading to it. There’s other “plumber stuff” to be done, too. Maybe the plumber can do it all at the same time.

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Complaining about decidedly first-world problems is embarrassing. Like everything else in life, comfort exists on a continuum. And satisfaction exists on a continuum. Gratitude for the goodness I experience should come first, long before I even consider complaining about circumstances that do not infringe on my ability to enjoy life. I know this. I try to nourish in myself an innate gratitude that overrides a sense of censure. Too often, the strength of the latter is the greater strength, though. A correspondent suggested to me that a meditation practice might help with that. A tendency toward procrastination keeps intervening with the “good intentions.”

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Freezing rain is no longer in the forecast for next week. Today, the weather gurus are predicting “mixed precipitation,” which would mean anything from dew to rain to snow to ice pellets to steam spewing from angry clouds that look surprisingly similar to images of Zeus. But that could change. And it probably will. The vagaries of nature remain impossible to accurately predict, much less control. Yet we continue trying. I just cannot get excited about weather forecasting this morning. Weather will continue, no matter what I expect. It will occur in some form or another and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

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I suppose I always fantasize about running away from my problems. I imagine myself driving through the bleak landscape of North Dakota, heading toward Whitefish, Montana. It’s a far cry from New Mexico. Where doesn’t matter so much as does a sense of isolation, desolation, emptiness. That’s the cure for everything. It brings everything that was fuzzy and indistinct into sharp focus. It changes one’s perspective.

After a few days of delightfully comfortable weather, the icy fingers of winter clawed back with a vengeance yesterday afternoon. Today’s high temperature is forecast to reach only 46°F, after a much colder evening. Temperatures are expected to edge back up to the mid-60s by Wednesday of next week, but next Thursday may be a repeat of yesterday, except worse. At the moment, forecasters call for freezing rain by next Friday. By next Saturday morning—more than a week away—we can expect temperatures to drop to 21°F. A lot can change between now and then, of course. Meteors could rain down upon Earth, causing the oceans to spawn massive tsunamis. And the celestial invaders, super-heated by friction as they plunge through the atmosphere, could could turn the seas into boiling cauldrons. But I’m not expecting it.

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Yesterday afternoon, we visited a friend from church. After having long promised to take her one of my favorite soups, I finally made good on the promise. I made a big pot of some North African lentil soup early yesterday morning. Aromas of onions cooking in oil, combined with garlic, cumin, coriander, turmeric, paprika, and cinnamon filled the house. I associate those smells with the odors I imagine I would encounter in an outdoor market in Morocco; I’ve never been to Morocco—I’ve never been to Africa—but something about the scent of those spices cooking in oil tricks me. Those aromas conjure memories of visiting places I’ve never been, eating foods I’ve never tasted, and hearing a cacophony of unfamiliar voices speaking languages I do not understand.

My oldest brother lived and worked in Algeria for a while, several years ago. If my memory serves me, he took advantage of his time while there to travel to other African and Middle Eastern countries. I think he used his home base of Oran, Algeria as a launching point to travel to Europe, as well. I recall, only vaguely, that my sister went to visit him while he lived in Oran; either to take his two sons to visit him or to visit the three of them for a while. I think she was involved in a minor automobile accident while in Morocco. But my memory is deeply unclear about that period. I’m not even sure how old I was when my brother was in Algeria. But I recall, again only vaguely, that at his behest I bought him a piece of high-end audio equipment and shipped it to him in Oran. I wish I had, at that time, made a habit of writing about my daily experiences. Today, without that kind of extemporaneous evidence from those times, I cannot depend on my memory to tell the truth.

My friend, the one we visited yesterday, spent time in Denmark a number of years ago. Unlike me, when she was younger she kept a daily record of her travels. And she wrote letters home to her family, which they kept. She now has in her possession the letters she wrote home. She is in the enviable position of being able to read what she wrote in her own personal records and to compare that with what she wrote in letters home. One legacy of the decline—more like disappearance—in letter-writing is the effective erasure of memories. That really amounts to  the elimination of experiences, to some extent, because experiences we cannot remember may just as well never have happened. Ach! To borrow a phrase from the lyrics of a song by Tom Paxton, “it’s a lesson too late for the learning, made of sand, made of sand.”

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I’ve maintained one of my other blogs, one to which I have not posted in quite some time, because I recorded some experiences in it that I do not want to forget. I captured one such experience, about twelve years ago, with these words: “Dissatisfied, alone, wishing I could pin down what’s on my mind that’s making me feel morose and disconnected and acutely aware of the fact that I don’t matter.” A friend told me at the time that I was experiencing “a dark night of the soul.” That was her explanation, based on her religious beliefs. I did not accept her explanation then and I do not accept it now. I think I explained my feelings as having arisen in part from my oldest sister’s death a few months before this particular post. I wrote this: “It’s shocking to realize that a powerful piece of one’s life can be irrevocably ripped from it with no explanation, no reason, and no recourse. One’s “power” quickly comes into question and a realization sets in: one has no power of any consequence. The world is capable of instantly rendering powerless and irrelevant one’s control over even the smallest aspect of one’s life.”

My relationship with my sister was very different from the one I had with my brother who died recently. And I have grown more used to the idea of mortality, including mine, during those twelve years. Still, the emotions I felt at the time following my sister’s death were not entirely different from the ones I continue to harbor today. I sometimes think “normal” for me is that bleak existential angst I have so often written about; happiness and joy and appreciation for life and all it offers is abnormal. It’s a deviation from that sullen consistency that’s been my companion for most of my life. Fortunately, I suppose, the oscillation between depression and joy is not as frequent nor, usually, as dramatic as it has been in the past. That makes for less troubling lows and less enjoyable highs. I’m not sure tempering emotional extremes is as fulfilling as we’re led to believe.

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Once again, I could not stay asleep, thanks to my horrendous congestion. I finally got up around 4, after trying to fall asleep following my 2:30 awakening to pee. Sometimes, the large array of medications prescribed to improve my breathing seems to help; other times, not so much. Last night, it was not so much. I felt like I was breathing through a warm, wet cloth; and I whistled every time I inhaled and wheezed with every exhalation. Now that I’ve been up for close to two hours, I can breath just fine and the maddening noises emanating from my mouth have gone silent. I suspect I’ll attempt a nap sometime after dinner tonight, as I’ve been wont to do of late. At least that will give me a bit more sleep than otherwise I would be getting. I know from experience this period of suffocation insomnia, as I call it, will disappear before too much longer, only to be resurrected later. What triggers either the cause or the cure eludes me. I wish I knew; I would pay myself big bucks if I could uncover a way to quickly and completely control this annoyance.

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Last night, I watched a few YouTube videos that offered instructions on how to polish solid surface countertops and how to remove scratches from such countertops. The idea that I might be able to take an old, dull counter and give it new life, making it as a shiny as new is appealing to me. I’ve watched a number of other “how-to” videos, most equally interesting to me but also probably equally irrelevant. I do not have a need for most of the knowledge or skills these videos offer; only an interest. I think I can trace that interest to the fact that I’ve spent my entire work life doing things that ultimately do not matter. Shuffling papers. Talking ideas to death. Discussing policies. Revising policies. Conversing with people about how to achieve results without ever actually doing anything that would lead to measurable results. So, watching “how-to” videos is refreshing. They show how to actually accomplish a measurable objective: remove a scratch, make a countertop shine, replace an auto’s headlights, repair an automatic closer for screen doors, etc., etc., etc. People who create products or who grow crops or raise animals or repair broken stuff are happier, by and large, than people who write about creating products or growing crops or raising animals or repairing broken stuff. The actual DOING of things rather than THINKING of doing things. Although watching a video is not really DOING. But it’s more satisfying to THINK about being productive than to talk about the concept of productivity.

Okay. None of this is always true. But it is, sometimes. I want to accomplish something of which I can be proud. Build something. Repair something. Create something. Art, at least, is a creative emotional exercise in which thoughts are translated into something tangible. Rather than just more thoughts. I sometimes think writing is an artificial outlet. It has no real outcome other than to demonstrate an enormous number of ways to organize and present a limited number of letters and spaces and punctuation marks. But there’s no substance, for the most part. Obviously, some writers perform magic with their ability to organize letters into words and sentences and paragraphs and chapters. But most of us just spill letters onto a screen in haphazard fashion, hoping that some of the ideas that accompany the spillage will capture the interest of a Nobel Committee; not really. But we do engage in outlandish fantasies that have as much chance of taking place as I have of learning brain surgery by listening to a cassette tape. Ultimately, some people do things that matter. All people want to do things that matter. But there may be only a limited number of things we can do that really matter.  Yet everything matters. Or does it?

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Something that matters is this: the flooring guys left a window in my new house open when they left yesterday. I need to remind them today to be more careful in future. If it has been open during the heavy downpours of yesterday morning, new subfloors might have been needed.

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Okay. I need to have something to eat, even though it’s rather early. I am inexcusably hungry.