John Swinburn

Days begin to run together after awhile. When I skip a day of blogging—or like yesterday write only enough to serve as a placeholder for a day that requires too much of me to enjoy writing—my recollections of what and when and where fade into a chalky dust. The heat doesn’t help. It petrifies my ability to think, as if my brain were a sculptor’s clay left in a hot kiln to fire and harden. Making the gentle transition from the cool temperatures and high altitudes of Silverthorne, Colorado to the lower altitude and higher temperatures of Castle Rock, Colorado was wise of us, I think. But even that gentle transition was not enough to clear my head. Driving from Castle Rock through Denver was a nightmare; the pavement as we descended from Castle Rock barely covered its own sub-base. The insanity of drivers switching lane at ninety miles per hour was horrifying. Yet we made it to Castle Rock and then on to Amarillo, Texas. Mi novia did much of the driving from Silverthorne to Amarillo; she worried that I was utterly incapable of driving safely, especially on roads patched together with tar and loose boulders. I think I’m getting the order of the days right; the days remain something of a patchwork of vague moments punctuated with sharply felt experiences. We left Amarillo yesterday with me behind the wheel; I drove most of the way.

I do not remember exactly when, but a few days earlier—on the way home from northern California—a bird flew low in front of the car on the highway and turned sharply toward us. I felt a “thud,” sensing immediately that the bird had struck the front of the car, which probably was traveling at 75 miles per hour. But I looked in the rear view mirror, expecting to see its body fall to the roadway; I saw nothing. We did not think more about it for a day or two. Then, coming out of a restaurant one day, we saw its body; the head was lodged in the grille and the body hung down below. I had nothing to use to remove it, so we went on our way. Finally, when we left Amarillo yesterday morning, I dislodged the creature as I bought gas to begin the day’s journey. The poor bird’s body had been lodged in the grille for days; probably since its demise in Utah or western Colorado.

We stopped in Trinidad, Colorado on the drive south from Castle Rock toward Amarillo. We ate lunch at a place called Las Animas Grill before making a brief tour of the downtown area, making note of the fact that the town was very appealing to us. We noticed the bird’s dead body when we returned to the car after lunch, but I had nothing to use to remove its corpse from the car. I felt a sense of embarrassment and remorse as I climbed into the car after seeing the bird’s body there. A decent human being would have gently extracted the carcass from the grille and placed it somewhere out of the path where it might have been crushed under tires or underfoot. But I left it attached to the front of a 2016 Subaru. I still consider myself a decent human being, but that moment argues otherwise.

Amarillo was hot. But the motel was good. Nicely designed, comfortable, and like most of the places we stayed, obscenely expensive. Still, staying in a motel is cheaper than paying for an RV and then feeding the thirsty RV with very expensive gasoline and paying high prices for tiny pieces of real estate to park it (and relieve it of unmentionable liquids and semi-liquids) overnight. But, still, I find some RVs (especially very small RVs) very attractive.

The drive from Amarillo to Hot Springs Village took about ten hours, including occasional stops and lunch in Mustang, Oklahoma, an Oklahoma City suburb. Mustang, Oklahoma is home to an outlet of RibRack, a chain BBQ restaurant. The food was edible, but I would recommend trying someplace else, were I asked for a suggestion as to places to eat in Mustang. There must be better places. But, then, Mustang looks like Suburban Anywhere, America; everything looks artificial and new and identical to things artificial and new everywhere else one finds suburbs of large, nondescript cities.

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I’ve been following a blog lately, Kelly’s Quest, that I find interesting and insightful and thought-provoking. I will quote today’s post in its entirety, which is a quotation itself:

As mystics throughout time have found, the road to discovery, to peace and enlightenment is a journey into Self. There is more to our conscious being than we realize and it is from within that we find the keys that unlock our inner wisdom. It is from within that we can connect with the source of knowledge that lies beyond the limits of our five senses.

~ Rosicrucian Manuscript ~

The blog’s posts do not always run parallel to my ways of thinking, but they always spark in me an intellectual pursuit of one kind or another. If nothing else, they encourage me to explore whether my beliefs and assumptions are grounded in my perceptions of reality or whether, instead, they are based solely on what I have been “told” or led to believe. I think it pays to question one’s biases and assumptions and beliefs and guiding principles; they do not always belong to oneself. Sometimes, we think we hold a belief, only to realize on reflection that we “believe” only because we have been too lazy to investigate to an extent that allows us to really understand.

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I got more sleep last night than I needed. I went to bed around 11 and woke this morning after 8. On one hand, I hate that I missed all the dark solitude I so deeply treasure. On the other, I woke feeling rested (but sore from too much time in bed) and relaxed. I felt no pressure to jump up and write my blog. No pressure to make breakfast. No pressure to start a cup of coffee. Just relaxed. I have plenty to do today—things I must get done—but I feel no pressure. They will get done. I am just giving myself time to do them.

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I feel love this morning. Do you feel it?

It’s late, nearing 7:30, and I’ve been awake only a short while. The temperature here in Amarillo, Texas already is inching toward 80ºF, with triple digits in the forecast. We may opt to drive all the way home today, but we may decide to take it slow.

I am not in the mood to write more at the moment. Later, I will capture yesterday’s events. For now, on to a slow start.

I did not write a post yesterday. Instead, I was taken by ambulance to St. Anthonys Summit Hospital in Frisco, Colorado. Frisco is about a mile from Silverthorne, Colorado, where we stayed the night. Oddly, this hospitalization was probably my tenth or twelfth while in the midst of travel over the course of the last fifty years or so. Strange, indeed.

The adventure started, I think, as we drove from Provo, Utah toward the Denver area day before yesterday. The drive was considerably nicer than parts of the drive the day earlier. The geography, beginning outside Provo, continuing much of the way to Denver, was stunning. Spectacular rock formations, incredible colors, lovely forests, rivers with amazing rapids; the geology was remarkable. Temperatures for a significant part of the way were much warmer than I would like, but as we traversed Colorado toward Denver, the weather changed. We encountered much cooler temperatures and a fair amount of mostly light to moderate rain. Despite the lightness of the rain, it became more than a bit of a nightmare driving on roads that needed work (and were being worked on). So, instead of going all the way to Denver, we stopped in Silverthorne. The hotel did not have any king rooms available, so we got a Queen-Queen. After half an hour in the room, I was in much better shape, physically and mentally, than I was as I fought the rain and rain-slick roads that caused the car to hydroplane periodically. The only down side to the hotel, from my perspective, was the fact that kids (I assume) seemed to bounce and bang on the floor above us for quite a while. I would like to have called the room and asked their parents to remove the beasts to the parking lot for the night, but in order to maintain my zen-like demeanor for mi novia, I could not do that. I simply adjusted, somehow, and tolerated the intolerable.

During the course of the evening, things changed for me. My shortness of breath, always an annoyance, worsened. Sometime during the night, altitude sickness of some sort overtook me. My constant sinus drainage became worse. At the same time, I started having semi-hallucinatory experiences, in which I was attempting to satisfy competing demands for space by two guys who wanted control of a new facility that had been designed to help me with my sinus drainage. The details of the competition and my efforts to address it remain sketchy. At any rate, sometime during the night I went into the bathroom, I guess to blow my nose (?) and managed to pass out for a moment. I fell down onto the toilet, knocking my glasses to the floor. I panicked, not knowing just what had happened. I called out and mi novia came to my aid. Apparently, I was not entirely coherent for the duration of the episode. She wanted to call 911; I refused, saying it was nothing. We finally went back to bed. My weird dreams/hallucinations continued, though I never got back to sleep. I continued arguing about the space. Mi novia heard me speaking, aloud, all the remainder of the night. The next morning, she insisted on calling 911. A fully-outfitted ambulance and fire truck and another emergency vehicle were there in no time. Six EMTs came to the room and checked me out. They immediately determined the issue probably was altitude sickness. But they recommended transport to the ER; mi novia readily agreed and I reluctantly agreed. To make a long story somewhat shorter: oxygen brought me back to reality and good health. They advised us to continue on our way out of town, suggesting we get away from their 9000-foot environment to something less than 5000 feet. We did. Mi novia took the wheel for yesterday’s travel. The roads are atrociously bad; huge potholes, delaminated pavement, imbecilic drivers going 90MPH+ in zones marked for 60 (but should have been 40). The poor quality of the roads, alone, make a return trip to these parts of the state unlikely.

We drove as far as Castle Rock, Colorado, south of Denver, where we stopped for lunch at La Loma, a very high-end Mexican Restaurant. Rather than continue on, we opted to find a hotel and, if rooms were available, check in early. That we did. I went to sleep shortly after we arrived and slept for several hours. I woke for a while and then returned to sleep some more. Around 2:00 a.m., I had been asleep too long; my joints and muscles ached from that “too long in bed” experience. I got up for a while, then went back to bed, then got up again. I took a shower and shaved. In the meantime, mi novia awoke for awhile, then went back to sleep. I opened my notebook computer and here I am at 5:30 a.m., finishing up a day-late blog.

How far and where we will go today remains to be seen. I am feeling fine, so I plan to drive for at least a few hours, possibly making it to Santa Rosa, New Mexico or Amarillo, Texas today. We will make tomorrow a relatively short day, so we probably will not get home until the morning of the day after. I am ready to be home, if only to put an end to longer-than-I-like day journeys. I prefer road trips that last 300 to 400 miles per day, at most, and leave plenty of time for unplanned stops along the way. This trip had too many time-based obligations along the way and toward the end to allow that; another time, we will do that.

Yesterday’s travels did not compare with days prior. Yesterday was long and arduous, covering too many miles and involving too many hours on the road. The desert between Reno and Salt Lake City has little to recommend it, in my opinion. Heat, dust, sand, bleached earth, salt water, tumbleweed, and arrogant drivers whose driving styles apparently were modeled after Mitch McConnell’s compassion and human decency. I’m probably overstating it, but not by much. I found it difficult to maintain my promised “zen” composure and attitude. I want to be soft and calm and loving. I find it difficult in circumstances that seem designed to ruin such intentions.

What little I saw of Salt Lake City today did not impress me. The mountains around the city are lovely, but the gaping holes in the earth, wrought by copper mines and an utter disregard for the planet, are hideous. The traffic on parts of the city’s freeways was tolerable. On other roadways, it was like Dallas or Houston or Chicago, complete with attitude and disregard for others. Provo, where we stayed the night, was just as disappointing, though bursting with evidence of modernity…and the practice of greed.

Today, we will head toward Denver, where we will spend the night. Then, we will go to Santa Rosa, New Mexico, we decided. I hope my mood changes today and tomorrow. I do not like myself as I am at this moment.

Yesterday marked the end of the vacation aspect of our trip. We left the coast, bound for Reno, Nevada. Our route, though, was a bit circuitous. And it took us through some spectacular scenery. Forests of towering redwoods stretching from dense patches of forest ferns to places so high I had to assume they were far beyond the sky. Vineyards so enormous that I had to believe they held all the grapes used to make all the wines in the entire universe. Roads so crooked and steep I had to believe they were impossible to traverse without plunging off of them into an abyss so deep and unknowable that no one has ever been able to understand where it ends.

Perhaps I am overstating the experience. But not by much. We wandered through Anderson Valley and Napa Valley and other places so remarkable I did not even catch their names. We saw vineyards bigger than Alaska and trees taller than the distance between the sun and the most distant planet. We witnessed water so deep and dense that Earth is far too small and timid to hold them.

Our trip took us south, toward the Bay area, but not quite there. We crept along roads with bends too sharp for gnomes to follow without plunging off into other dimensions as they rounded curves. We slinked beside creeks and slid along rivers. We followed the car’s insistence, knowing the automobile knew far better than we did how to maneuver the landscape. We then drove on big, hideous freeways for awhile, then traveled on magic carpets crafted from gravel and black tar. When, finally, we found ourselves on superhighways that connected cities like Davis, California and Truckee, California, we encountered massive traffic jams caused by truck fires; but we kept ourselves focused on the direction of travel we had chosen. As we drove past the flaming inferno, we saw dozens of firefighters working to contain flames that could have consumed the entire western half of the country. Finally, we made it to Reno, Nevada. To our motel. And to a room with a bed and a shower and a place to rest and recover from an incredible journey.

We did not have dinner last night. Instead, I munched on a bag of Sun Chips and mi novia chose to fast. Surprisingly, I do not feel especially hungry this morning. She is not yet fully awake, but I know she did not feel well when she went to sleep and I think she feels about the same this morning. I hope she improves as she shakes off what little is left of her semi-sleepless night.

Though yesterday we drove only 320 miles, more or less, the winding roads and spectacular scenery extended the time for the drive to considerably more than seven hours (including the truck fire delay and a stop at In-N-Out Burger…meh). Today’s plan is to drive about 560 miles in roughly eight hours. Obviously, I do not expect the scenery to be as captivating on the entire distance on I-80. In an ideal world, one without obligations and time constraints, we might dilly-dally about and see the sights along the way, which would dramatically extend our time on the road. Alas, we do not live in the ideal world. Maybe next trip.

Tomorrow, we plan to drive another 500 miles, stopping somewhere in or around Denver, Colorado for the night. From there, our plan is either to go due South to Santa Rosa, New Mexico or head south and east to Shamrock, Texas. The rest of the trip home will depend on decisions yet to be made.

No, in an ideal world we would not dilly-dally about. In an ideal world I would summon a private, luxurious, incredibly comfortable train car which would take us directly home. Dilly-dallying is for times when one feels especially chipper and healthy.

Enough of this. I need to shower and then eat breakfast. Or vice versa. And, then, hit the road.

Yesterday was devoted, primarily, to relaxation. We enjoyed naps, sitting on the deck, and a relatively brief jaunt into town (Mendocino) for lunch, some grocery shopping, and a look around a few shops. I think people sometimes feel obligated to “see the sights” when they go on vacations to beautiful or even simply attractive places. My idea is that vacations should feel the “soul.” They should provide the fuel the mind needs for rejuvenation; yesterday, my mind needed unadulterated relaxation.

Today, the trek toward home begins. It is a bit unfortunate that our travels coincide with the Fourth of July holiday weekend, in that the roads will be more crowded than usual with holiday travelers. But we are in no rush, so we can afford to be slow and deliberate. We  have mapped out our return, taking a different (much more northerly) route. Mi novia spent a good hour or more last evening, making reservations along the way. While we are not obligated to stay where she made them (except to the extent that we must cancel far enough in advance to avoid charges), it’s less stressful to have confirmations than to feverishly search for vacancies when we’re already tired.

I would like to return to Mendocino—or some similarly beautiful and stress-relieving place along the northern California coast—for a much longer stay; a week or two with no obligations except to tend to the body’s and mind’s need for nurturing relaxation. Even though the expenses associated with staying here are, frankly, outlandish, the cost is worth the benefit derived from spending the money. In other words, there is value in the cost. There is a significant return on the investment. My return to sanity, I think, is not guaranteed, but is far more likely than it would have been had we not invested in making the journey. A significant element of the value was in visiting mi novia‘s family and in seeing my sister.  In fact, those elements were probably more important than relaxing on the northern California coast. It will reward me to remember that.

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The majority is always wrong; the minority is rarely right.

~ Henrik Ibsen ~

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I’ve received good advice about what mi novia‘s mother should call me and vice versa.  Clearly, my idea was a bad one. I’m mulling over the suggestions. And hoping for more.

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In spite of my sense that this trip has been one of rejuvenation, news about recent decisions and probable upcoming decisions of the Supreme Court disturb me in the extreme. I no longer believe the checks and balances our Republic depends on to protect our democratic freedoms are sufficient. And I no longer believe they will. Unless some major—and awfully disruptive and potentially explosive—actions are taken by legislators and, more importantly, the public, we are at immediate risk of the collapse of our democracy and its replacement by an autocratic, theocratic form of government. I would not be at all surprised to see rabid legislative and court supporters of Second Amendment “rights” turn about, taking actions to ensure that progressives and others who disagree with the minority takeover of governmental control lose those “rights.” I have never been one to support unchecked gun ownership, but in light of the very real possibility that the minority government may protect itself by seizing or preventing the sale of weapons of personal protection, I am reconsidering my thinking. The Supreme Court has demonstrated that it is willing to overturn “settled law” by overturning Roe v Wade. It has altered other, less sensational, precedents. And it could just as easily overturn others that, heretofore, would have prevented governmental overreach in many other areas. I am afraid electing a majority Democratic government and packing a Supreme Court with additional justices who would protect rights instead of remove them might not be enough. I am afraid something vastly more difficult and monumentally destructive might be necessary; something that, at first, might appear utterly contrary to fundamental rights. Something along the lines of “do to them what they are trying to do to us.”

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Grey skies and cold winds are omniscient. They see the future. But the problem is they do not say which one they see, and when they see it.

The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.

~ Plutarch ~

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Absolute privacy. Is there really such a thing? Possibly, but it is not assured, even on the private, ocean-facing deck of a pricy rental cottage operated by an upscale innkeeper on the Pacific coast. Yesterday morning, we decided to take advantage of our private hot tub/whirlpool on the deck of our delightful getaway. Being the modest guy I am, I chose to wear a swimsuit. Mi novia, though, was having none of that modesty crap; she walked onto the deck, draped only in an inn-supplied robe, and immediately took it off and hung it up for use as a post-soak garment. We then managed to climb into the tub and let the powerful jets whisk away the residual pains caused by so much time sitting in the car during our trip west. We sat in the tub, gazing at the water and the birds and the waves crashing up on rocks on the islands just offshore. When we were ready to begin the rest of the day in earnest, we climbed out. When I emerged from the water, it seemed pointless to cover up…there was nothing but an empty field filled with wildflowers and sea grass between us and the rocky cliffs leading to the ocean below. So I took off the suit, hung it on a chair to dry, and stood naked on that very private deck. But, a few moment later, I heard the sound of a lawnmower. And the sound quickly grew louder and closer. Just as I wrapped another robe around me , the source of the sound came into view; the man pushing the mower nodded at me as he pushed the mower through the tall sea grass just below our deck. I suspect the guy has seen many people in various states of undress on “our” deck and the ones on both sides of us. And I suspect people who have stayed in the units on both sides of us have wandered to the edges of their decks and looked back at ours, only to see old naked me enjoying freedom from restrictive garments. It’s really not a big deal. But “public” nudity is such an unusual and uncomfortable and, apparently, dangerous and degenerate activity that many of us shrink back in horror at the thought of it. I do not. Not in the least. But I grudgingly accept that some people would find my untoned, white-as-cotton, bloated-as-a-balloon body unappealing in the extreme. So I’ll try to respect privacy in both directions. But, really, wandering around, nude, on the edge of the Pacific Ocean feels extraordinarily free and wonderful! As I strolled around the deck, before the encounter with the lawnmower man, I thought I’d attach another identity to myself: the Nude Pacifist (inasmuch as I was nude and was standing by the Pacific Ocean). It would not make sense, though, sitting fully clothed on a chair on my deck in Arkansas. Not even if I chose to sit naked on my deck. Then, I would have to call myself the Nude Arkie. That appellation is not quite as appealing, though probably more realistic.

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Man’s mind, once stretched by a new idea, never regains its original dimensions.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. ~

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Later in the day, after we had lunch at a restaurant on the port at Fort Bragg, we returned to Mendocino and strolled around one of the touristy shopping areas, a place littered with an assortment of shops and restaurants and inns and the like. Unfortunately, some of the places have not yet fully recovered from the Time of COVID; some may never recover, especially since COVID seems to be making another comeback in and around the west coast. But the places we visited were interesting. During our wandering, mi novia bought me a very nice hat, made of all cotton but that looks like leather. And she bought me a t-shirt. And I bought her a couple of trinkets, as well. It was an entirely pleasant day, all the way around. When we finished our shopping and strolling excursion, we went to the grocery store to stock up on a few items (similar to what we bought the day before) for dinner and breakfast. Between two trips over two days, we bought sourdough bread, two kinds of cheese, some wine, bananas, strawberries, olives, liverwurst, salami, and some blueberry breakfast rolls. Maybe more, I don’t recall precisely.

After shopping, we went to explore the “affordable” houses we had seen advertised the day before. They are two miles inland, situated in an enclave of modular homes (similar to mobile homes, but configured more compactly and more attractively). We went inside one, the cheapest one, and quickly decided it would have to be taken down to the studs and fumigated to remove awfully offensive odors. Others, which we did not enter, looked much more appealing from the outside. And the entire little community was quite attractive and full of lush plants and flowers. We learned, while visiting the office of the community, that the residents had recently purchased the community’s assets (pool, streets, community center, laundromat, etc,, etc.) from its former corporate owner. And we learned that the residents financed 110% of the $16 million+ price tag. That purchase had the effect of requiring each resident (each unit, actually) to pay $1247 monthly to the collective association so it can pay off its 30 year mortgage and related expenses of management. Even with that hefty price tag, though, I believe the cost of purchasing housing there is considerably less than almost anywhere else on the coast. But we are not ready to jump ship just yet. So we will continue to dream.

When we got back to our room at the inn (which, by the way, is situated down the road a ways from the main inn, and seems secluded when compared to other accommodations in this area), we went outside to soak in the views of the Pacific as the sun began to set. During that time, while we were engaged in an otherwise peaceful, trance-like experience, being lulled to serenity by the waves and and wind and sounds, an enormous seagull swooped down and landed on the deck just a few feet from us. We fed it pieces of pretzels and spoke to it.

During our time sitting on the deck, we marveled at another bird, a hawk (we think) that had a fish in its talons. The bird soared up from the water and above us just a short distance west of our location. It disappeared from sight, but we assume it took its prey to a spot where the bird could rip the fish apart with strong talons and sharp beak. As brutal as Nature can be, watching it unfold—even in all its fierce and callous beauty—can be absolutely spellbinding.

Our daily meals lately have followed a pattern: a small, simple breakfast (except one morning while we were in Berkeley my sister fed us smoked salmon on bagels, along with the obligatory cream cheese, purple onion slices, and capers), followed by a lunch “out” at a restaurant, and capped off with a simple “at home” meal consisting of cheese, olives, a little meat, bread, and wine. I rather like that, though I suspect it could begin to feel more like a rut than a pattern if it were not occasionally shaken up.

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When we visited mi novia‘s mother, she asked me what she should call our relationship. She is not my mother-in-law, nor am I her son-in-law, because I am not married to her daughter. I was not sure how to respond; I told her I would think on it. And I have. I came up with something by using the Thesaurus as a guide. I wanted the opposite of “law,” and I came up with “transgression.” And I wanted a description that did not involve “mother” (but not sure why); I decided on “parental woman.” So, the description could be “Semi-Parental Woman in Transgression,” or  SPWIT.  As for me, I might be the “Semi-Spousal Man in Transgression,” or SSMIT. I am not married to this terminology. My SPWIT suggested I aske readers of this blog to make suggestions, so I am doing that. What do both of you other readers think?

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I like this guy. And his fish. I wish I had the skill to create such stuff. It’s a real shame that I do not seem to have either the creativity nor the technical skills necessary to create such carvings. I would of course accept him with welcome arms, even though I did not create him. But it would be even better if I did it myself. Absent that, I could love those sculpted pieces of wood created by a friend. Do any of my friends do intricate wood sculpture? Asking for a friend. 😉

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The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled.

~ Plutarch ~

Not long after we arrived in Mendocino, we picked up a couple of free newsprint flyers promoting real estate in and around the area. Most of the listings were, as expected, wildly beyond our financial abilities; house list prices of one million dollars and more were far more common than prices in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. But a few listings were much closer to what I consider “reality” than the rest. Granted, I do not know what the places are like, but the prices—alone—attracted me to them. A few older two and three bedroom homes in what is described as a “55+ community” were particularly interesting, with prices of less than $300,000. I expect we will try to locate some of them today, purely out of interest born of fantasy.

Last night as, unable to sleep, I tossed and turned in bed, I thought about what was driving my sudden and somewhat unexpected interest in exploring the remote possibility that I might be able to afford a house in this exceptionally beautiful area. Was my interest tied exclusively to the beauty of the Pacific coastal intersection of mountains and a vast ocean? The amazing vistas certainly draw my interest; they are unlike anywhere else. But is it just the landscape and seascape that is so captivating? Or it is something else? Or, perhaps, a combination of factors? I think the latter must be it. Yet, as I think about what I so enjoyed last night—sitting on the wood deck high above the water’s edge, gazing out at the rocky island just off the shore, watching the seagulls, and listening to the constant sound of the waves crashing into the rocky cliffs below us—it occurs to me that the biggest draw is the climate. Cool, breezy, and comfortable. No need for air conditioning, except possibly on very rare occasion (but not sufficiently frequent to warrant having an air conditioner). Rare need for heat, as far as I know.

It seems absolutely ideal. Except for the signs I see everywhere we go: “severe drought…conserve water.” The severe drought brings with it the susceptibility to awful forest fires and grass fires. As we drove up the coast yesterday, we saw evidence of fresh fires, still smoldering as firefighters tended to hot spots and worked to keep the flames from erupting again.

Okay, so there’s the cost of housing and the danger of fires. It still is captivating. What else might deter me from wanting to live here? Earthquakes are not just possible here, but probable. With the right construction, though, in the right place, I think I could live with that threat. Earthquakes’ cousins, tsunamis, also threaten the entire coastline; again, with the right location, I could live with that threat. Unless, of course, access to the “outside world” and its provision of food, fuel, clothing, etc. But that possibility exists wherever one might live. The costs of fuel and groceries here, though, are stunningly high. The one gas station in Mendocino recently was reported to have the highest gas price in the country; more than $10 per gallon. We paid as much as $7.39 (maybe more?) on the trip out, surpassing $100 to fill the tank. If nothing else, gas prices would prompt me to limit leisure driving.

Our friends, who are very important to us, do not live here. They might come visit, but there is no guaranteed. We might visit them, but the frequency would be unsatisfactory. Yet we all have moved away from places where we had human connections and we have developed other connections. I suspect we might develop them here, if we ever found a way to relocate to this place. I would be much closer to my sister, who hosted us for a couple of nights as we made out way to the California coast; that’s a plus.

I keep coming back to the almost magical allure of this area, though. The climate. The weather. The absence of chiggers! As we sat outside on the deck last night, we were not bothered by bugs of any kind. The only “threats” were seagulls flying rather close to us and a family of quail surprising us as it suddenly fluttered across the deck from beneath the hot tub.

Mendocino is a tourist draw; I suspect more than 90 percent of the people we saw in town yesterday afternoon were tourists. The only place we saw people we felt confident were “locals” were in a dive bar (Dick’s Place), where we stopped for a drink yesterday afternoon as we waited for our room at Little River Inn to be available. A sign in the bar read “So many Dicks, so few Richards.” The people there, mostly 40ish to 60ish, definitely were locals. We were undoubtedly the only tourists; it would not be considered the most inviting place to most people (except people we are happy to call friends).

So, what is the most overwhelming obstacle to moving to a place like Mendocino, a place where the climate is close to perfect? It’s the same obstacle that has kept me from following most other dreams I have abandoned during the course of my life: money, or the lack thereof. Though I am more fortunate than perhaps most people on the planet, I am like most people in that I have access to only a fraction of the money necessary to enjoy what is truly “the good life.” Life in a place that is comfortable, beautiful, and easy on the nerves. Wealth is too often wasted on the rich. Unlike the rich, who often take wealth for granted, I would not only enjoy it to the fullest, I would share it in an effort to spread the joy. I am grateful, though, for what I have. I would be downright ecstatic, though, if I had access to what the wealthy tend to consider their birthright.

We’ll see what we find when we go out and about in search of affordable places among this incredibly beautiful, scenery—free of evil insects.

When I woke early this morning, I felt an odd sensation, as if my body was vibrating. Focusing my attention more intently on the sensation, I decided it might not be a vibration but, instead, an exceptionally rapid and greatly amplified heartbeat. Considering that possibility, I became a little alarmed; I decided to lay very still, in case any movement could trigger something even more troublesome. Finally, I concluded I must have been dreaming; I got up and dressed, but was not completely certain the sensation was related to a dream. Even now, though I no longer feel it, memory of that sensation causes me some concern. But at the same time I feel more than a little silly for giving the experience any credence. The more I think about it, the more I think it must have something to do with a dream. I have a vague recollection of dreaming that I accidentally knocked a puppy off a card table, causing it to fall on a smaller puppy on the floor below. That could have caused my heart to flutter.

We changed climates yesterday, exchanging an obscenely hot, dry environment for the coolness of the California coast. I felt almost too cool—but not quite—upon our arrival in Berkeley. When, after we drove a few blocks, we entered an Indian restaurant, I knew we had arrived at the intersection of joy and nirvana. My very spicy lamb dish offered proof that truth and beauty do, indeed, reside in northern California.

We spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening in conversation with my sister. During a pause in the dialogue, my sister prepared an evening meal of cheese, crackers, veggies, meats, and assorted other goodies; precisely the kind of meal we needed.

The drive from Lodi/Stockton to the Bay area reminded me how much I have grown to appreciate low population density environs. No matter how appealing the amenities of city life, those benefits pale in comparison to the peace and soft tranquility of life in a semi-rural setting. While I enjoy the benefits of urban life, I am willing to trade the peace of the “country” only temporarily.

Today, I want to relax some more. Just soak in the cool temps. Ahhhh.

Apparently, I have more than adjusted to being in the Pacific Daylight Time Zone. Though I woke at 5, I drifted back to sleep quickly, finally forcing myself out of bed just after 7…almost 9 back home. On one hand, this late rising feels decadent and wasteful of daylight. On the other, I do not remember the last time I felt so thoroughly rested when I got up for the day. Mi novia is glad I slept so late; I’m still not quite certain I appreciate wasting so much daylight to laziness. But I will shift blame for the aberration from myself to my activities of late; as much as I have enjoyed meeting and spending time with mi novia’s family, the engagements have required me to expend energy I otherwise would have stored. An excuse, perhaps, but MY excuse.

Last night, even though I was not especially hungry, I was convinced I wanted food, especially after seeing a menu from a nearby restaurant that included goat curry and lamb vindaloo. We went in search of the place, only to find it no longer exists, at least not in the location I found online. Of course I took an online menu as evidence of its existence; I did not bother to check. Despite that setback, we found another place that looked quite interesting, the Dancing Fox, a winery and restaurant. We shared part of a bottle of Old Vine Zinfandel; I ordered fish and chips, mi novia ordered a chicken pie. Both were excellent. And we spoke briefly to the owner of the place, who before his “retirement” had been a clinical psychologist. Fascinating story. He and his wife now live in the middle of some of his acres of vineyards and he loves what he is doing. He is doing, by the way, what I long ago dreamed of doing. I gave up on the dream, though, when it became apparent I would never have enough financial resources to buy enough land and equipment to start a winery; not to mention the money I would need to hire someone to teach me how to produce large quantities of good wine. Oh, well. Life is full of opportunities that pass us by. We simply have to accept that they are beyond our reach and take hold of those within our grasp.

Yesterday afternoon, after visiting with mi novia’s mother, brother, her brother’s wife and son, and various neighbors and friends, we went for a drive around the “old neighborhood” of Stockton and stopped for a drink and hors d’oeuvres at a place on the water. We then went back to mi novia‘s mother’s place, where we all napped. After our good-byes, as we drove by the dozens of vineyards we passed each day of our visit, I felt a little melancholy about leaving this agricultural sweet-spot behind. I love to see seemingly endless rows of grape vines, each one meticulously attached to stakes and wires that train the vines to grow in ways that maximize both their productivity and their visual appeal. I want my own little vineyard. As I’ve already said, I’ve long dreamed of having a vineyard, making wine, and living in the middle of what I jokingly call a “grape orchard,” full of “grape trees.” Ach. But not here. Not in the Stockton area, a place lately so hot that neither man nor beast could thrive. Maybe Napa. Or Sonoma. Or the Pacific coast of Chile. What the hell; I’m dreaming, after all.

This morning, I’ve been watching and  listening to our church service, courtesy of Zoom. But we have to leave, so I shut off Zoom and we had breakfast before hitting the road. I decided to finish up this post after the meal so I would not feel compelled to complete it immediately on arrival in Berkeley. And so, here we go.

Yesterday began with a superb outing at The Farm Cafe at Michael David Winery, only about seven miles from our motel. We were treated to an excellent brunch by mi novia‘s life-long friend, Debbie, and Debbie’s husband, John. Though I had never met either of them, John and Debbie were very much as I expected, thanks to having heard mi novia talk about them quite frequently during the last year. From the moment we sat down with them, I felt completely at ease. They seemed to me the sort of people with whom I could readily develop a strong friendship based purely on their personalities, even if I knew nothing of their histories, their politics, their religious beliefs, and such. That, in my experience is a rarity.

After brunch, we drove to see Gladys again. Gladys shared more of her writing, which was—as expected—interesting, clear, and easy to read. I again urged her to write regularly and to create a blog of her writing. The stuff she showed me would make excellent content for a “story” blog; materials she already has written would make a solid foundation to which she could add as she continued to write. We’ll see if she follows my advice.

I napped for a bit while mi novia and her mother chatted and while mi novia washed and dried some laundry in preparation for the next leg of our travels. Then, after I woke and we engaged in some more chit-chat, we went for an early pizza dinner at Dante’s. Even though I had only a salad and a couple of pieces of pizza, it was far too much, especially when coupled with an Anchor Steam beer. We left with at least half the pizza, a container of salad, and some dressing. That can serve as breakfast for Gladys today. After dropping her off, we headed back to the motel, where we chilled for the remainder of the evening.

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Rational thoughts never drive people’s creativity the way emotions do.

~ Neil deGrasse Tyson ~

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Today, we will pick up Gladys and head over to see mi novia‘s brother and his wife and son. I expect we will make it a relatively short visit, in that we need to try to get some more sleep and prepare for the next leg of our journey with an early Sunday departure. I woke again last night, at around 1:30, with a headache. Taking an allergy pill seems to have alleviated it—at least made it tolerable—by now.

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The wise man continues to live even if he should lose his wealth. But the rich man without wisdom is not alive even now.

~ Theragāthā, 499 ~

The drive from Bakersfield to Stockton was generally uneventful. Both sides of California Highway 99 were lush with orchards and crops and vineyards, even in the blistering June heat. Though the traffic was heavier than I would have liked, it was lighter than we would have encountered had we taken I-5, the other, somewhat faster, route. When we got to Stockton, we took a short tour of the downtown area as we made our way to Trader Joe’s; mi novia showed me where she used to work and she pointed out places she frequented during the fifty years she lived in the city. At Trader Joe’s, we braved the heat of the parking lot and bought an orchid as a gift for her mother, then drove the few miles to visit her.

When we arrived at the place, the heat was almost unbearable. Mi novia rolled down the window on the driver’s side of the car as we arrived to check in at the gate; I felt the heat flood the car as the gate guard delivered a four-minute diatribe about being sure to stop at stop signs on the grounds of the compound or risk certain tickets. Once inside the gate, we located the office and went through an automated check-in process that ultimately produced stick-on names badges for each of us. From there, we found a parking spot near mi novia’s mother’s building.

101°F under an unrelentingly bright sun is monstrously hot, no matter how low the relative humidity. Walking from the car to the building where mi novia‘s mother’s apartment is located seemed a dangerous endeavor. It was as if the air above us had been warped by the heat into the shape of a magnifying glass lens—the sun’s rays, tightly focused by that atmospheric lens, followed us. The way a demonic child, intent on incinerating them, follows ants with superheated sun rays from a magnifying glass. I felt like I could have spontaneously burst into flames at any moment as I trekked from the parking lot to the building’s entry door. But I did not, of course. Inside the door, the cool air quickly revived me. After hugs and a brief introductory conversation, we decided to go off for lunch at Bud’s Seafood restaurant. There, we had a superb meal consisting of delicacies as calamari, cod, shrimp, and such. And, of course, wine. Though the meal was good, it was the conversation that was most gratifying. I learned a great deal about Gladys and she learned a great deal about me. The knowledge-sharing was helped along by wine, that remarkable social lubricant that tends to make it easier for imbibers to speak freely. During our conversations with and about one another, we also learned that our waiter, Jmard, was the only one of his family of several children who had migrated from Canada to the United States.

Mi novia and I encouraged Gladys to write about her life so her ninety years (so far) of experiences might be available to her current family and all her descendants in years to come. We left the restaurant feeling confident that can look forward to reading about her life in Schenectady and Arkansas and Stockton. Given that each of the three of us consumed two glass of wine each, we may have to remind one another of the substance of those conversations.

I am very glad to have met Gladys. And I will be delighted to read about her life experiences. I’ve seen her artwork, which offers proof of her creativity and her skill with a brush. Next, I will read of her 90+ year history and how it shaped who she is today. I look forward to that!

Today, mi novia and I will meet one of her long-time friends for brunch, before we return for another visit with her mother. At the moment, I am thinking our visits may be relatively short because I may need some more sleep. I woke in the middle of the night with severe foot cramps which interfered with my otherwise good sleep (until then). Then, around 4:00 a.m., I woke again with a splitting headache; one of those so painful it will be remembered as “that damn headache” years hence. Motrin and allergy medicine have alleviated much of the pain by now, but the lost sleep they caused remains an annoyance.

As I write this, the temperature outside here in Lodi, California is reportedly 70°F. It will not remain so comfortable for long, I am afraid. The weather forecast calls for temperatures to reach 99°F by noon and 104°F by 3 p.m. These temperatures make me long for what will be much more comfortable temperatures along the coast in the days ahead. Actually, the temperatures on the coast will be downright chilly: highs in the upper sixties and lows much cooler. Time will tell as to the legitimacy of those forecasts. For now, it’s back to preparing for the inferno we will experience later today.

Wednesday morning’s departure from the hotel in Gallup, NM stalled when I went down to get the car, only to be unable to locate it. I circled the hotel parking lot; I could not find it. It was not there. Mi novia came outside as I was finishing my circumnavigation of the parking lot; I told her the car had been stolen. My imagination went into overdrive as I contemplated how we would deal with this truly grave situation. I asked mi novia to verify that, indeed, the car was gone. I gave her the keys and asked her to look for it, in case I had somehow missed it—which was, of course, extremely improbable. Three or four spaces from where I stood, she saw it. Apparently, while my head was turned, the thief had returned the vehicle to a parking space clearly visible from where we stood. She promised I would never live down my failure to find the “stolen” car.

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After leaving Gallup, NM, we drove roughly three hours to Flagstaff, AZ, where we stopped for a late breakfast/early lunch at MartAnne’s Burrito Palace. Green chiles, pork, chilaquiles…between us, we had some extraordinary meals! I heartily recommend the place. And I think I might be able to live comfortably in Flagstaff, provided someone massively infused my bank accounts with huge sums of money. I am willing to provide anyone who might consider doing that plenty of reasons for making me a very rich man.

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Yesterday’s plan—to make it to Tulare, California for the night—was derailed when, after stopping at a rest stop, my previously stolen car threatened to do bad things. Less than half an hour earlier, we had stopped for gas, putting just over $100 worth of $7+ per gallon gas in the car. Just as we left the rest stop, the car went into something of a psychotic frenzy. The dash lights and notifications went berserk: the check engine light came on, the “low fuel” warning lit up, a message popped up asking if I needed help finding a gas station, a message saying the “Eyesight” system was shut off, and various other lights and alarms displayed. Around 4:40 pm, we also were able to reach a Subaru dealership in Bakersfield; we were told they could try to look at the car if we were able to get there before 6:00 p.m. We got there about ten minutes before 6; the very nice young service advisors managed to have a technician look at the car. He said it appeared the gas cap had not been sealed properly after we bought gas, triggering a vacuum leak that led to the warning lights. He reset the vacuum and advised us to fill the car with gas and keep close watch on the fuel gage; if it worked properly (dropping as we used fuel), all would be fine with no further issues.  If not, the issue might have something to do with the gas gage and we should plan to leave it with a Subaru dealer in northern California for 2-3 days while visiting up there. During this chaos, we had determined it would have been crazy to try to make it to Tulare for the night. Thanks to working cell phones, we were able to cancel the motel in Tulare and make a reservation in Bakersfield (90 minutes north of where the car went insane and the location of the Subaru dealership). After we dealt with the nice Subaru service advisors, we left the dealership (without paying anything for the assistance, by the way), and went to the unplanned motel for the night. By the way, it was mi novia who filled the tank before this episode. Just to mention…

Oh, I didn’t mention my need to pee during the 90 minute trip to the Subaru dealership. As we neared Bakersfield, the need became urgent. I pulled off the highway onto a large gravel “viewing area” and tried to position the car to block me from view of motorists “whizzing:” by, and let loose. I was prepared to be arrested for indecent exposure, if it came to that. Fortunately, I was not.

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I hope today is soft, smooth, and pleasant. For all of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ William Least Heat Moon ~

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

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

I long for the “Blue Highways.”

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

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

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

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

~ Henry Miller ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Alice Walker ~

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

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

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

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

~ John Swinburn ~

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

Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstract Thinking—Abstrac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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