Kindness

Call it mawkish or maudlin or mushy. Call it by whatever name you feel compelled to use to dismiss it. But give compassion its due. Consider the power of kindness to protect people from stepping over that invisible line beyond which there is no return. Simply by demonstrating that someone cares, an act of kindness can prevent a painful life from ending early. And acts of kindness can guide that painful life toward a path more peaceful and fulfilling. But kindness is not just about saving lives. It is about saving the humanity in our lives.

This topic is on my mind this morning as a result of a bit of introspection—recalling my responses to real or imagined slights I endured from strangers. My thoughts were not about how those strangers should have been kinder to me; they probably did not even realize I was upset with their behaviors (which, incidentally, were not necessarily acts of unkindness but, rather, were acts of people being people). My thoughts were about how unnecessarily upset I was with minor inconveniences—and how my reactions did not consider for an instant what those people might be going through in their lives. For example: someone ahead of me may have allowed his car to remain motionless for longer than I thought necessary after the stoplight turned green. I did not consider that the person might be distracted because he just lost his job or his child or his spouse. Simply allowing him that distraction, rather than honking my horn and shaking my fist, would have been an act of kindness.  Refraining from showing my impatience probably would not save the driver’s life; but it might have saved my humanity from continuing to wither.

There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; my philosophy is kindness.

~ The Dalai Lama

I have witnessed responses to acts of kindness that seemed out of proportion to the acts themselves. Like someone breaking into sobs and tears when a stranger chases after them, calling out, “Excuse me, this pocketbook fell out of your purse!” I can imagine the overly-appreciative beneficiary of the kind stranger’s action might have been going through an emotionally wrenching experience. A simple act of kindness might have brought that person back from a  dangerous precipice, hence the unexpectedly emotional response. Or, perhaps the person was so unused to being the recipient of acts of kindness that a very simple act of kindness triggered what I, and others like me, might have thought an over-reaction.  I’ve seen dozens—more likely, hundreds—of “over-reactions” to simple acts of kindness like that. As moving as those acts and those reactions might have been, I have to wonder about how many other situations there must have been in which kindness did not play a part. How many people might not have been shown the humanity in others, and what might have been the results of the absence of kindness? And what of those who let the opportunity to be kind pass by? How much colder and harder and angrier did they become?

It is easy to sit at my desk early in the morning and write about the power of kindness. But it is much more challenging to weave kindness into my psyche with enough staying power to ensure that it replaces either indifference or hostility. No matter how much I want always to be kind, keeping my indifference or hostility at bay sometimes is a Herculean task I do not seem to have the capacity to accomplish. Just recognizing the desire to be kind, though, may help. And recalling the dozens or hundreds of times I have been the recipient of kindness when, instead, I could have been the recipient of indifference or hostility may do the trick. Both, I hope, will conspire to make me a better person. Some day, maybe today, my kindness may be needed to help a stranger survive emotionally devastating circumstances about which I know nothing and never will.

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Yesterday, I discovered that the paint can I had been using was mislabeled at the paint store. The color got mixed up with another color we had picked for another room. Fortunately, we like the color I applied to the walls so far. (The colors are very similar shades of green.) Unfortunately, we do not have any more paint of that color to finish the job. That means we’ll need to see about getting the paint store to give us another gallon of the paint I’ve been using, as well as a gallon of the paint I thought I had been using (for another room). I will force kindness to replace hostility in my mind, regardless of whether I am the one to go to the paint store or not. The fact that we like the “wrong” color quite a lot (more, I think, than had I painted the room with the intended color) helps.

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My aching muscles may force me to call this Sunday, today, a day of rest.

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Fresh Start

As the sun emerged from its evening slumber this morning, the eastern sky bathed my part of the world with muted brilliance. Orange, blue, and deep purple light filled the horizon, backlighting the forest of naked trees behind and below our house. Despite the frigid temperature (my computer’s display tells me it is 12°F in Hot Springs Village), the sky looks warm and inviting. Only when I approach the big windows on the back of the house does the reality of merciless cold sink in. This is not a moment to walk outside wearing only flip-flops, a t-shirt, and a pair of think sweat-pants. So, I add a sweat-shirt and slippers lined with artificial wool; still, I am unwilling to step out into air that is far beyond brisk. Even without the mess that ice and snow makes, very cold weather is unappealing in the extreme—except it seems to clear the air of even a hint of moisture, intensifying the crispness of vision. Everything looks clearer and in much sharper focus when air temperatures plummet toward the single digits.

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Once again, I went to bed late and, consequently, awoke considerably later than normal. By the time I got out of bed, the pre-dawn sun had begun to strip the sky of darkness. Within minutes of taking my first sip of coffee, the night sky started its departure, replaced with dim light and soft versions of the colors I described above. Then, in what seemed the blink of an eye, the light show reached its crescendo. Morning colors faded into the starkness of day.

I wish I could slow the disappearance of the peak of morning’s beauty. The sense of awe and the intense emotions that accompany the dazzling display of Nature’s celestial art fills me so completely; but it fades far too quickly. That sublime sense of wonder brought about by a beautiful morning sky disappears so fast, replaced by a feeling of resigned indifference to the demands I face for the remainder of the day. With the right frame of mind, I might be able to capture that magnificent mood and feed on it all day long. Holding on to that frame of mind requires devotion and a sense of awe of its own. Alas, I’ll have to think those thoughts another morning, before the spectacular scene unfolds before my eyes.

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Last night, we watched three episodes of season four of Ozark. I should have read a synopsis of the first three seasons before I began watching, because I could not recall the full story that led up to the opening scenes. My memory of books and movies is atrocious; within minutes of finishing a novel or a film, plot details are erased from my brain. I suspect the reason for the erasure is that there is scant room in my head. The storage space is small to start with; it is made smaller by my mind’s insistence on storing minutia that takes up too much of too little room for recollections. Despite my poor recall, I was able to get sufficiently familiar with the story line to enjoy the episodes. Ozark is riveting, both from the perspective of adrenaline-producing action and from the standpoint of psychological intrigue. Were it not immoral and illegal to launder drug money, and were the dangers involved in the endeavor much smaller, I think I could enjoy the occupation.

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A doctor in last night’s dream discovered I had been given a misdiagnosis by another doctor. Unfortunately, the initial diagnosis found I suffered from something mildly annoying but innocuous, while the subsequent diagnosis by the other doctor involved a deadly malady involving both the bones in my extremities and my torso, especially my chest cavity. I do not recall much of the dream, only my surprise at the second diagnosis and my fear that insurance would not cover the diagnosis, much less the pointless treatment. And I recall laughing nurses and other medical staff; they did not seem even remotely disturbed by my terminal illness. I remember, very vaguely, a sense that the second diagnosis was made in a glass-walled clinic in what seemed like a mall kiosk. I wonder whether, when we cannot recall specific aspects of a dream, our minds attempt to fill in details? That might explain the absolutely bizarre circumstances I sometimes “remember” from nonsensical nighttime excursions into madness.

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The last few drops of paint in the gallon simply weren’t enough to apply a first coat to the entire hallway. And it was getting late in the afternoon, so I was not interested in opening another can and pouring a bit of it into the paint tray. So, I left the hallway unfinished. I should be able to finish it today (if I kick myself in the rear hard enough to make me drive over to the house to get to work), as well as apply a second coat over the one I have applied. As usual, the most time-consuming aspects of painting has been the preparation. I do not like that aspect of painting. And, I’m discovering, I do not like the other aspects, either. Would that I could snap my fingers and the job would be finished. But that’s not possible. I have another several weeks of work to do before we can work on the floors. I expect we’ll move in before the end of August. Maybe.

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All right. It’s time to dive into the day. It’s well after 8. I’ve dilly-dallied around long enough. I’ve returned to this post to put an end to it. So there you are.

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Old Dead Friendships and Such

Despite repeatedly falling asleep while watching Stay Close, a “limited series” on Netflix, I subsequently managed to stay awake until about 2 a.m. And that late night resulted in me saying in bed until the sun began peeking over the horizon this morning. When I get out of bed so late, I feel like I’ve wasted half the day. It’s now past 7:30. I sense I cannot possibly accomplish all I intended today because of my slovenly ways. Late to bed and late to rise robs a man of wealth and exercise. Or something like that. Yet it’s so damn cold out that I doubt I would be out and about doing anything productive, regardless of when I went to bed or when I got up. Some days, it’s best to just go with the flow.

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One of the reasons I increasingly avoid going to CNN’s website can be found in the link from its main news page this morning: “Martha Stewart reveals why she broke it off with Anthony Hopkins.” For the love of God, this is news? Pardon me while I slit my wrists. My friend, Deanna, suggests that avoiding news is good for one’s mental health. I am certain she is right.

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A guy I grew up with, starting in elementary school and going all the way through high school and a bit beyond, got in touch with me by email a couple of days ago. He noted in his message that he came across an email I sent to him in January 2012; he wondered what’s been going on with me during the past ten years. I was the one who looked him up back then. The email to which he referred was the last of a few we sent back and forth beginning a month or two earlier. Until that brief exchange, we had not been in touch since before we graduated from college—him from Texas A&M, me from the University of Texas at Austin.

His unexpected message triggered thoughts about other friendships that either dried up for lack of intellectual or emotional fuel or, conversely, burst into flames before turning into embers. What—in the ignorance of youth during my last two years of high school—I thought was a close friendship fell into both categories of dissolution. That other friend and I agreed, immediately upon high school graduation and before we moved to Austin to start school in the summer, that we would share an apartment that first summer, then would room together in a dorm for the fall and winter semesters. I learned, within only a few weeks after we moved into the apartment, that we were not really compatible. Somehow, I had not realized before then that he just wasn’t very bright. And his primary interest in going away to school was to drink and party. I was interested in both, too, but not to the exclusion of academic pursuits. Consequently, almost immediately, our friendship withered. As the summer wore on, his failure acknowledge that I had an occasional right to peace and quiet caused what might have remained of a friendship to explode into a fireball of loathing. Long before the summer was out, our plans to share a dorm room had burned to ashes.

My classmate’s email brought to mind an adult-timeframe friendship that turned to volcanic ash. This more recent friendship dissolved after I called my friend’s attention to the hollowness of her repeated promises she always would be available to me 24/7; any time I needed a friend’s support. I had confronted her empty commitment before, only to hear a response saying I was merely misinterpreting circumstances. The last time, my anger and disappointment at yet another vacuous promise sparked repeated enraged replies from her, during which she accused me of mistreating her. This, from a woman who claimed she would always be “just a phone call away” at a time I needed someone to talk to in the aftermath of my wife’s death—but who repeatedly let days go by before returning a phone call or a text message, if indeed they were returned at all. I realized that, yet again, I had misunderstood: I was again simply a convenient acquaintance who could fill rare empty time for her, not  a friend who deserved respect. Fortunately for me, I was never in the throes of existential angst when I left those ignored messages. But the fact they were ignored demonstrated I could not count on help when and if I ever needed it. I may be unrealistic in expecting both steadfast commitments and unwavering follow-through on them. Yet I think my friends can reasonably expect both from me. Perhaps I’ve permitted a nonsensically romantic notion of friendship to interfere with life in the real world. That may be me. So be it. Better to strive to emulate Don Quixote than Niccolò Machiavelli.

Back to my old friend’s email. Though we’ve not remained friends—more like long lost acquaintances—it was good to get his message and to learn that, from what he says, his life has been good this last ten year period. It sounds to me like he is enjoying his children, his grandchildren, and even his career, which he says he will continue until he reaches his seventieth birthday. Personally, I am very, very happy I retired at 58. I would have been very happy ten years earlier if I had been able to retire at 48.

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We picked up some garage shelving yesterday from Sam’s Club. One day, when the temperatures return to levels suitable for human survival, we will erect the shelf units in our new garage. Then, we will begin moving “stuff” from the current house’s garage to the new one. This renovation and move will be a slow motion project. That’s fine. It will keep me busy. And it will keep me exercising muscles that haven’t been used in years. I can feel those muscles and their supporting joints. I look forward to the time I will no longer feel the aches and, instead, will feel the strength those aches will give me.

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OMG. It’s after 8! I have to get with it or the day will pass me by.

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Cold and Sub-Average

Bending down on my hands and knees to painstakingly apply tape to woodwork in an attempt to protect the wood from the unwanted application of paint is not something I find appealing. In fact, I’m increasingly finding it not only unappealing, but intolerable. I need to find someone who’s young, careful, disciplined, and who understands that the job of masking off trim is not a career worthy of hourly compensation in the triple digits. But I doubt I’ll find such a person without looking. And I don’t have time to look. So, instead, I’ll begrudgingly and very slowly do the work myself. And, I’m afraid, do it not as well as someone younger and more agile than I. Some days, I think I’m deeply and irrevocably stupid. Some days, I curse myself for taking frugality to extremes. I used to be smarter than I am now. I think. But maybe not. Maybe I’ve always been approximately stupid; just dressed up to mimic someone just barely above low-level sub-average.

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Today, the weather here in Hot Springs Village is brutally cold and getting colder. I hope my grocery order will be ready, as expected, at 7 this morning so I can get out and back home early enough to avoid being cold later in the day. No, that doesn’t make much sense, but then neither does anything on my mind at this moment. I didn’t sleep as well as I would have liked. That’s why I am the way I am this morning.

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I have grown tired of saying “yes” to doing things I do not want to do. My willingness to refuse requests to which I used to agree evolved from my observation that striving to please others by agreeing to their requests does not pay the dividends I assumed it paid. I learned the same lesson in a work setting in 1997 when, after almost eight years as CEO of an association that employed me, my employment contract was not renewed. Voluntarily giving up my personal time to work evenings and weekends so frequently for almost eight years counted for nothing. My dedication to minimizing expenses for my employer at the expense of giving up my comfort or time meant nothing. It was just a job. And when the board of directors decided to flex its muscle and hire someone its members found more appealing, I was summarily replaced. Neither of these lessons should be misconstrued to mean I have decided to be utterly and completely selfish. But I now weigh the impact of saying “yes” on my time and energy; I am willing to give up a bit of both, provided it is for a good cause (like helping a friend or making life easier for someone who deserves a break). But I am not willing to agree simply because I’m asked. I’m no longer willing to allow people to take me for granted. I write this not in response to any specific request that I have refused, but in response to something I read this morning. That piece just reiterated for me that looking out for oneself is not automatically selfish; it can be critically important to one’s mental, emotional, and physical well-being.

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This morning, after I got up a few minutes before 5, I glanced at a post in a Facebook group called British Food Lovers. There, an image of a full English breakfast reminded me of the days when I traveled to English on business a few times each year. The photo— bangers, sunny-side-up eggs, English bacon, a fried mushroom, toast, a small bowl of baked beans, and a couple of miniature slabs of hash-browns—was not quite the typical breakfast I remember, but it was close enough to bring back memories. It was during those regular trips to England that I learned that the unsavory reputation enjoyed by British food was undeserved. Like so many cuisines, a full appreciation of British food may require a bit of getting used to, but allowing the flavors to “grow on you” is well worth the adventurous investment. Steak & kidney pie, shepherd’s pie, cottage pie, and a raft of other uniquely British dishes are nothing short of wonderful. Even roast beef smothered in gravy, dramatically different from the roast beef generally served in the U.S., is an outstanding culinary experience. The woman with whom I share my home has the same stereotypical image of British food that so many other Americans do. If not for COVID and the degradation of civil society, I would take her there to show her that it’s not what she has been led to believe it is.

I suppose the “old style” British cooking has changed, though, as have so many other things British. When I see recent television series or films set in London, I can scarcely recognize the place; chrome and glass high-rise buildings now dot the landscape, something I never saw when I visited so often in the early 1980s. Even as late as 1998, the cityscape was very different from the way it appears today on television screens. Today, the 1980s and 1990s seem ancient history. I suppose they are. The world has ripened in the intervening years. I might even say it has rotted.

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The attention I initially paid to the British Food Lovers group caused Facebook to show me similar food groups dedicated to: Mediterranean food; Italian cooking; Lebanese cooking; etc.; etc. Unlike so many other unsolicited recommendations, I’ve found the food groups appealing. Now, if only I could discipline myself to actually cook some of the things I see presented by aficionados of various international cuisines…

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Okay. Enough for now.

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Turtles and Fragile Male Egos

Fragile male egos are on my mind this morning. No, not plural. Singular. Just my fragile male ego. I realize my ego is frail and brittle. It can be shattered like thin, delicate glass simply by giving thought to how our (and especially my) physical attractiveness declines with age. But, then, I have to ask whether that is a valid statement. Does our physical attractiveness decline, or does our definition of attractiveness fail to mature along with our bodies? Thanks in no small part to advertisers’ constant barrage of ads that reinforce the idea that “beauty” is the exclusive province of the young, we convince ourselves that we shed copious amounts of physical attraction with each passing year. (I put quotation marks around beauty because I’m drawing a blank as to the male version of that attribute…assuming beauty is not gender-neutral and applies exclusively to females)

My male ego took a beating yesterday while I was getting my hair cut. Sitting in the barber’s chair, I looked directly into a mirror in front of me. Looking back at me was a pasty-skinned man with far too much flab around his aging neck. Where once I could have seen a young man with reasonably tight skin, I saw a geezer who had allowed himself to slide gracelessly past middle age into the middle years of old age. Who would find that man even slightly attractive, I wondered? I have my answer and I’m glad my attractiveness does not rely exclusively (maybe not even partially) on my physical appearance. But if the majority of youth-fixated advertisers had their way, we would equate attractiveness with youth; nothing but age (or the relative lack thereof) and bespoke clothing designed to accentuate youthful attributes would matter.

Speaking of fragile male egos, I think they are largely responsible for the popularity of flashy pickup trucks, guns, and hunting gear. A large proportion of the male population seems to associate those products with the demonstration of adequate “maleness” and its corresponding attractiveness to either young, attractive women or equally macho men. Or both. I am grateful my fragile male ego is not strengthened by male toys. Instead, mine requires stroking of a different kind—words like “you’re handsome” or “you’re intelligent” or “you’re not bad for someone so old” work for me. 😉

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Speaking of pickups, what ever happened to the long-bed versions? They used to be long enough, with the tailgate down, and wide enough to fit a sheet of plywood. Now, they look like they might require a shoe-horn to fit a half-sheet. And what about shoe-horns; does anyone use shoe-horns anymore? So many products that used to be commonplace have suddenly disappeared. Or so it appears to me. Calculators, once ubiquitous, are now rare. Wall phones exist only in museums and on the walls of diners in derelict old western towns along long stretches of desolate highways.

Those isolated towns, the ones with wall telephones in their diners, make great sets for gritty movies in which all the characters—hard-drinking, tight-lipped, and deeply unfriendly to strangers—have monstrous chips on their shoulders.  For some reason, I like those kinds of movies. There Will Be Blood. Hell or High Water. No Country for Old Men. Missing. The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada.  Okay, they’re not all of the same genre/ilk. But I like them, nonetheless. There’s something about their tone. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I may not know movies, but I know what I like.

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New toilets are scheduled to be delivered today. At the “new” house. The toilets there work perfectly fine, if you like toilets designed to use too much water for too little flush. They are not broken. They work as they always have. They’re just not good, modern-day, water-efficient toilets. So we ordered new ones. We won’t install them until we know what we’re going to do with the floors in the bathrooms. That decision will come soon, I hope. In the meantime, I’m very slowly painting the walls, with the idea that every wall in the house will get at least one coat of a new color. Some will require two coats. Some will require a primer and one or two coats. It’s like renovating a house. Almost exactly like renovating a house.

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The temperature outside is now 52°F. The forecast calls for it to drop to 19°F tonight. Another night to leave the faucets dripping. And for the next two or three nights. I do not know whether I will do much painting while the temperatures are so low. I may sit in front of the fireplace at the “old” house, instead, warming myself and mulling over things over which I have no control. Which could be damn near anything.

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I made the mistake of ordering groceries online and scheduling pickup for tomorrow morning. The roads could be icy tomorrow morning. I do not much like driving on icy roads. “Do not much like” is my understated way of saying “loathe.” But what’s done is done. I guess I could cancel the order, but that would delay getting the groceries. So I will just play it by ear. If it’s icy tomorrow morning, I will drive slower than normal. Much slower than normal. Turtles could speed by me. Time will tell. It always does.

 

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A Little Bit Melancholy and a Little Bit Philosophical

Though the vast majority of us seek both freedom and security, most of us historically have recognized the need to temper each so we can enjoy sufficient levels of the other. The concept that “your freedom ends where mine begins” refers to the competing behaviors that give rise to the need for civil limits on freedom. “Pure” freedom invites chaos because it does not acknowledge responsibilities to protect members of society from damage inflicted by the freedoms enjoyed by others. Therefore, societies establish generally agreed limits on freedoms, thereby securing what their members collectively accept as reasonably limited levels of freedom. When those limits infringe too deeply on freedoms in the name of “security,” people tend to complain or rebel. Conversely, when freedoms are so unrestrained as to fail to protect or preserve the enjoyment of freedom by others, members of society tend to clamor for greater restraints: more rules equal more security to enable the enjoyment of freedoms so infringed.

The USA today is in the throes of intense and frequently uncivil debates—and too often violent disagreements—about what constitutes acceptable levels of freedom. Hyper-progressives demand freedoms that über-conservatives find both offensive and potentially dangerous to the freedoms right-wingers want to enjoy. Similarly, über-conservatives demand freedoms that hyper-progressives find equally offensive and dangerous. It is interesting that both ends of the political spectrum fiercely depend their positions but refuse to accept exactly the same arguments from their opponents that they employ themselves. In both cases, they are in effect saying, “your freedom ends where I say it does and mine has no limits.” In other words, “only my position matters.” At both ends of the spectrum, but especially on the far right, I increasingly see demands that “my” freedom be secured by “my” rules.  And that security, again especially on the right, seems to involve guns and a fanatical worship of a narrow interpretation of the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

The solution to the impasse? I do not know. But I suspect it will involve either one or more supremely charismatic leaders whose words will somehow calm the growing rage or bloodshed of epic proportions, followed by either right-wing or left-wing authoritarianism. I hope, fervently, that charisma wins the day. I see no evidence of its emergence today, though. Neither Democrats nor Republicans seem equipped to handle the challenge, largely because level-headed, intelligent, persuasive people either have left the parties in disgust or their voices have been so effectively drowned out that no one can hear them. Both parties shriek when they talk; their screams are used to attack their opponents and to defend their indefensible positions. The charismatic leader, if one is to emerge, must be apolitical and secular. Good luck.

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Last night, we watched the entire third season of After Life, which is more than a bit of a tear-jerker. The end of the last episode is very much open to interpretation; it can be interpreted as either very dark or much lighter and more in keeping with the idea that “life goes on.” All three seasons reminded me of my own eternal sadness that will never recede. Maybe that’s why it was such a tear-jerker for me. Ach.

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This morning, I’ll be off soon to get a haircut, then to the bank to get some spending money, then to pick up a prescription for my sweetheart’s dog, and then to the paint store to get more rollers. And I have to drive into town to pick up a prescription refill for me—one that seems to have helped my stuffy head a bit. From there, I’ll head back to the salt mines, paint brush and roller in hand, to make a tiny bit of progress on the makeover of the new house. It’s slow, slow going. I imagine this project may take months to finish, at the rate I’m going. I wish I were flush with unnecessary money. I would hire all the work done.

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My mood this morning can best be described as moderately melancholy with a measure of or two of weariness thrown in. I’d like to replace that with something a little more appealing, but I don’t know quite how to get there.

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Contrary to the Common Wisdom

Contrary to the common wisdom, Zeus did not invent thunder, nor was he responsible in any way for lightning, rainstorms, and the fierce tornadic winds that destroyed entire villages in a matter of seconds. No, Zeus was simply a better salesman than Gideon Grace, the actual creator of those expressions of Natural anger and depression.  Zeus felt no compunction about taking credit for the work of Gideon Grace, nor stealing the accolades due others. Zeus did not always take personal credit, either. Sometimes, he delighted simply in snatching credit away from those who deserved it and placing it squarely in the hands of those who did not. For example, Zeus was the first plagiarist, having taken words penned by a Greek fiction writer and planting them in the notebook of Moses, credited with writing the Book of Genesis. Though Zeus did not take credit for writing the book himself, he mentioned casually, to his friends, that he could have written a more convincing story.

In light of all of Zeus’s thievery of credit from others’ work and his remarkable skills at self-aggrandizement, one might wonder why we do not worship him today. We have Gideon Grace to thank for that. You see, though Gideon was robbed of credit for inventing thunder, lightning, rainstorms, and tornadoes, among other awe-inspiring forces of Nature, he had the last word. Gideon virtually managed, during his last days, to land a proverbial body blow from which Zeus never recovered. I could give you details, but frankly they are rather mundane and might detract from the impact this knowledge has on you today. There’s more about Gideon that would be news to you, I’m sure. But I’ll leave it, at least some of it, to your imagination.

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Gideon Grace and Aphrodite were unlikely lovers. Gideon was far older than she, for one thing. Her marriage to Hephaestus, Gideon assumed, made her unavailable to him. He initially did not know, though, that the marriage was rocky, at best. So, he assumed his innocent flirtations would amount to nothing. Their periodic messages to one another, carried back and forth by Hermes and Iris, carried only hints of the budding enchantment they felt for one another.  For quite some time, they danced around their growing mutual attraction, never daring to admit to something so utterly out of the ordinary and socially unacceptable. They had never met, yet there was something powerful between them, something magnetic. The emotion was a hybrid between physical and emotional and sexual attraction, tempered by their adherence to social mores and by each of their mutual assumptions that they, alone, had those deep feelings of attraction. But when Aphrodite crossed the threshold of Gideon’s house to meet him the first time, ostensibly on a purely platonic visit to lay plans for the upcoming Aphrodisia Festival, the walls of pent-up desire came crashing down. It was then that Gideon revealed that he sometimes used an alias: Ares. And thus began a tryst of epic proportions. But the stories about Gideon and Aphrodite have been bent and twisted so completely by the hands of history that their reality is no longer recognizable. So we do not know what really happened between them. In fact, they hid their relationship so completely that we can rely only on innuendo as the source of our knowledge about it. Even the rumors have been mangled so badly we cannot even be sure Gideon and Aphrodite existed. We must rely on our imaginations, then, if we are to know the whole story. The only thing about which we can be certain is that we can be sure of nothing.

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We watched an excellent documentary last night, entitled Gordon Lightfoot: If You Could Read My Mind. I have been a fan of Lightfoot and his music for as long as I can remember; certainly since the mid-to-late-sixties. The story of his evolution from a talented but rather unsophisticated young man to an extraordinary singer/songwriter was fascinating. I did not know about his self-destructive behaviors in his earlier years, up to and including the times when he released some of this best-known music. The documentary revealed the complexity of the man’s life, both personally and musically. And it documented the high regard he inspired in many other musicians with whom he engaged. The film, released in 2020, showed him as a 80-year-old man whose physical appearance has changed dramatically (and, in my opinion, for the worse) since his heyday. When I went to see him in concert in Houston, probably around 1982 or so, he was at or near the peak of his popularity. I still like his music as much now as I did then. His ballads are incredibly rich with emotion and they draw out those emotions in the listener, in me at least. I’m glad we stumbled upon the film on Amazon Prime. I haven’t watched much on Amazon Prime, but looking at my Prime “wish list” this morning, I saw that another film I want to watch is now available as part of my subscription: A French Village. I’ll have to make a point of watching that soon.

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I called my brother yesterday, the one who’s in a medical rehab facility, but when he answered he said he could not speak to me. His voice sounded raspy and weak and he seemed out of breath. I worry about him and wonder about his progress; whether he is getting any stronger. Ever since my late wife went into a rehab facility locally, my opinion of such facilities has declined dramatically. I am of the opinion that for-profit hospitals and rehabilitation facilities should either be prohibited or subject to extremely intense and constant scrutiny. Capitalism and medical care are at odds with one another, just as capitalism and compassion cannot exist comfortably in the presence of the other. I am opinionated. I know it. No one has to tell me that.

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Apparently, there was a big hubbub about the Dallas Cowboys’ loss to the San Francisco 49ers yesterday. I will never understand why people can get so enthusiastic about watching a bunch of overpaid men play a violence-prone game but cannot seem to generate as much enthusiasm about voting in presidential elections.

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I am hungry for pancakes. Unfortunately, I expect that hunger will not be satiated.

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Distant Connections

When I woke this morning, I felt a slight sense of panic that I might not have responded to a weeks-old email message from an online friend, a woman who stumbled across my blog more than a year ago and with whom I subsequently established an occasional email exchange. My panic subsided when I discovered that I had, indeed, responded. Though we’ve never met, I feel an emotional attachment to her; the kind of attachment one feels when there’s a sense that a person shares some of one’s personal philosophies. That kind of attachment is what led me to meet—face-to-face—Roger and Robin and Tara and Kathy (and another Kathy) and Larry and Teresa and Juan and…there may be more. While none of those people—who after encountering them through online exchanges and then meeting them in person—have become close friends, each of them has become a person I care about. Most of us stay in touch on occasion. We share intellectual and emotional attributes that tie us together. I sense that I share such commonalities with this woman. And when I learned recently that she is and has been going through some difficult personal struggles, I wished I could reach out and hug her. Or call and let her hear a friendly, comforting voice over the telephone. But we’ve never spoken and I suspect she might be reticent to give me her number or to call mine. As I mull this over, I realize I have never spoken by telephone to my other “internet-initiated” friends. So, perhaps original distance and the rarity of instances of communication make such forms of contact outmoded. Maybe communications in which spoken words are exchanged from afar are not suited to friendships created in the ether. Hmmm. I’ve thought about this sort of thing before. I still haven’t resolved it in my mind. Are “arms-length” interactions with which there are no (or, at least few) voices or “visuals” exchanged capable of morphing into friendships? Or are these types of interactions another form of engagement? Some day, I may have an answer. But for now, it’s just supposition that ebbs and flows day by day.

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The noise. Again. The noise. The sound of blood pumping through or near my eardrums. The muffled but maddening “thump, thump, thump” that offers sonic proof that my heart continues to beat away. I hear that damn noise loudest in the morning when I sit at my desk, pounding on the keyboard. While I deeply appreciate that my heart is doing its job, I wish it would not announce every throbbing beat with evidential noises.

I desire unmitigated silence.  Just briefly. No sound at all. Emptiness where noise now fills my head. No noise emanating from the heating ducts. No creaks in the floor as the house settles and rebels against changes in response to temperature fluctuations. No “huffs” as my damaged pulmonary system endeavors to deliver oxygen to my bloodstream. Pure, uninterrupted silence. I want for my ears the same experience my eyes enjoy when all light from every source is blocked. If I could enjoy both experiences simultaneously, even if only for a few minutes, my gratitude would explode like a geyser’s steam suddenly freed from its underground prison. I wonder, do other people have the same experience with incessant noise? Am I alone in my sense that noise, either natural or artificial, is a permanent fixture in my ears or my mind? Or, put another way, have I gone mad? Am I insane, hearing noises where none exist? I think not. Oh, I am sure I hear the noises. And I want them to stop just long enough for me to experience nirvana. Just long enough.

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Not long after I awoke this morning, after I satisfied myself that I had not neglected to respond to an email, I explored some recipes I found online. One, in particular, caught my attention. Kibbe nayyeh—a Lebanese dish consisting of raw minced leg of lamb, herbs, spices, and bulgar wheat—looks extremely appealing to me. I have long been a fan of various raw meat dishes such as steak tartare, Ethiopian kitfo, Italian carpaccio, and another couple of Ethiopian dishes called gored gored, and tere siga. Various people have advised me against eating raw meat, but it’s my contention that properly prepared raw meat has been eaten for many centuries without killing all those who consume it. And I love the flavor. Unlike the other raw meat dishes I’ve had, though, kibbe nayyeh is made from lamb, not beef. I have never had a raw lamb dish before (except when I’ve sliced off a little chunk from a big, beautiful leg of lamb). In spite of my growing concern about the treatment of animals raised so their flesh can be consumed by humans (and other creatures), I maintain my appreciation for opportunities to eat beef. And chicken. And pork. And so on. While I think I could survive just fine as a vegetarian, I am not sufficiently motivated or disciplined to do so. Therefore, I remain an omnivore. Thus my interest in kibbe nayyeh. But where can I find very high quality (95%+ lean) lamb? That is the only obstacle that might prevent me from making and eating kibbe nayyeh. Well, I am not sure whether my sweetheart would eat it. But even if she refuses it, I would make it and consume it. It may be a perverse pride, but I am proud that I will try almost any food that others eat. The foods of other cultures, especially, interest and intrigue me. My passion for foods from foreign lands makes living in a state that amounts to a almost a cultural-food-desert a bit of a challenge. Such is life, though. “It is what it is.” 😉

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The snow from yesterday and last night remains on the limbs of trees, on bushes, and on my car in the driveway. Whether the streets are drivable or not, I doubt I’ll be going out much (if at all) today. Painting can wait. But I really should get to the post office if I can. The world will not end, though, if I do not make it to the P.O. I’ll play it by ear. Perhaps I should plan on making BLTs for breakfast this morning. Or for lunch. Something to assuage my lust for kibbe nayyeh. Maybe a BLT will do it.

 

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Blending

Perhaps one day after I die, someone will stumble upon this blog and will find its several thousand posts (approaching 3900 as I write this) intriguing. That someone—as she begins wading through the morass of words I have written here— might decide the writer had something profound to say but never found it within himself to orchestrate his language in such a way as to reveal that profundity. She might decide the tangled, unstructured outpourings the writer composed most mornings consists of a compelling philosophy hidden among scraps of language better suited to something else—an advice column or a personal diary or a wishful life list or a catalog of unexplored ideas. Whatever she decides the writing represents, she might decide to use an analysis of the writer and his words as the basis of her research for her doctoral dissertation, which she may entitle “Hidden Swinburn: Philosophies of an Introspective Madman.” Her doctoral advisor, Professor Kolbjørn Landvik, probably would suggest to her that her academic career would be better served by selecting another subject to explore. But this doctoral student, who I’ll call Phaedra Collier, will be undeterred. She will steadfastly refuse to deviate from her fascination with this unknown man who documented his rapid-fire attention deficits, no matter how mind-numbingly boring or unhinged they might have been. I imagine Phaedra Collier will regret her refusal to select another topic of exploration. During her dissertation defense, she will engage in fierce debate with Professor Landvik and his colleagues, Professors Ekstrom Noble, Linoleum Price, and Calypso Kneeblood. The professors will collectively agree Phaedra Collier has become too emotionally engaged with the blog’s writer to present cogent arguments supporting her contentions about his philosophies or his madness. They will reject Phaedra’s dissertation and send her back to start over. Phaedra, dejected and broken-hearted, will decide to abandon her dream of attaining her Ph.D. in Literary Philosophy. Instead, she will leave academia and will burrow into the far northern Canadian wilderness, where she will buy several hundred acres of virtually inaccessible land. There, with a used Kubota tractor, she will clear a small plot of land and build an architecturally significant house. From her modern abode, she will create a self-sufficient farm. She will earn money by creating and selling, by way of the internet, scented candles which, when burned, will smell like a fireplace burning oak and hickory.

I would like to have known Phaedra Collier, but she will have been born a hundred years or more too late. But I feel like I know her anyway. I can almost read her mind. And I can hear her words even before she speaks them.

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The trouble Phaedra and/or others like her might have when they stumble upon this blog is that the writer weaves fact and fiction together without warning. Even to the seasoned literary detective, it is sometimes difficult to determine which words are based in reality and which are mined from pure fantasy. Phaedra, as it turns out, was able to separate the wheat from the chaff or the gold from the iron pyrite or the charcoal from the coal. Her surname, Collier, derives from her ancestors’ trades: coal miners. Just thought I’d throw that in.

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I woke this morning before 4, my wheezing and coughing having returned with a vengeance. I’ve run out of one of a couple of medications about which I’ve not yet decided their utility. Apparently one or the other (or both, collectively) work to minimize my mostly nocturnal wheezing. One of the medications was prescribed and I am eligible for one refill, which I will call about today. The other was given to me as a sample by my primary care doctor. I had decided that one might work, so I asked my doctor’s office to prescribe it and they obliged. But my prescription insurance company contacted me to say the inhaler has a “high” deductible. Astronomical is a better word: $682 is what they want for a three-month supply. I can live with wheezing, thanks, at that price. After that “high” deductible, it would be “only” $117 per month. No, thanks. The deadline for agreeing to let them ship it at those prices has passed. So, I’ll see if the other prescription may be responsible for keeping my wheezing at bay. I would like to be able to sleep without waking myself up by wheezing and coughing. We shall see.

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Despite the fact that painting the house will be a very long-term project, I’ve decided it will be worth it. Having not yet completed the living room, I have decided the light forest green color my sweetheart selected is precisely the right color. I had been inclined to go for a light grey and I had wanted to paint the wood trim white. (The trim is stained and the stain has been mistreated over the years, so I thought painting would be the best way to restore it to a more attractive look.) No. The wood trim now looks spectacular. With some TLC, I think it will look wonderful. The room will be a showpiece. I can barely wait until we are able to move furniture into the house, with us to follow. But I’ll have to wait. I have a lot of painting yet to do. And we have to hang new ceiling fans and light fixtures. Oh, the house will be a beauty. I have been a doubter. But now I can see beyond the unkempt appearance and the needed repairs. Yes, it will take time, but it will be worth the wait.

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I could write and write and write about my life. But if I did, any reader who stumbles across this blog would curse me for the abundance of my words. So I’ll close this morning’s disgorgement and work on getting on with the day. I will try to get to work early today. The afternoon promises rapidly falling temperatures and mixed precipitation. Ach!

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Impractical Magic

I have a nascent interest in knowing something about Aristotle’s personal life. All of us have at least some exposure to Aristotle, thanks to his influence on philosophy and modern modes of inquiry and thought. But few people know anything of substance about the man’s personal life: where he was born, how he was educated, etc. I suspect access to  reliable information about those topics has been severely limited by the passage of centuries and the decay of most of the records that might have existed in Aristotle’s time. My only option, then, is to travel back in time to the year of Aristotle’s birth, 384 BC. But how do we know with any degree of certainty that he was born in that year? Or that he died in 322 BC? How do we know he was born in Stagira, Northern Greece, or that was reared by a guardian after his father’s death when Aristotle was a child? We know these things because Wikipedia tells us. Wikipedia is today what Encyclopedia Britannica was in my youth. Except information presented in Encyclopedia Britannica was, I am told, subject to rigorous verification; far more than its modern unofficial successor.

When I was a kid, I could get lost in “the encyclopedia.” Its many volumes contained so much interesting “stuff!” I know I used to read the encyclopedia—I am certain of it—but my memories of losing myself in those volumes are hazy, faded snapshots at best. I wish I could bring those foggy memories into sharper, clearer focus. There’s so much I could learn if only I could recall aspects of my life that now are hidden behind a thick, dusty curtain of time. I wonder how I would have been different if I had been able to sit at Aristotle’s feet? I wonder how, listening to him share his knowledge and learning from him how best to employ critical thought, I might have been better able to think critically? I suppose I’ll never know. At best I can only imagine. I can only dream who I might have been, had I been personally influenced by arguably the most influential philosopher of all time.

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Even a modest amount of out-of-the-ordinary motion stretches fallow muscles and tendons. One’s arms and shoulders and legs—lethargic and unaccustomed to responding to minimal demands—object to such simple but unusual requirements by exaggerated howling, as if they were being subjected to brutal torture. I know this because I did a bit of painting yesterday. That activity required me to move a bit more than usual—reach up toward the ceiling, bend toward the floor, stretch and twist, and otherwise expose my body to positions it apparently finds offensive. This morning, I feel a little like I slept on a bed of sharp rocks after having my arms and legs bound with wire rope into deeply unnatural positions.  That notwithstanding, I shall return for more torture this morning because, otherwise, the process of painting the house will take far too long. While painting, I’ll take an occasional break to try to adjust doors so they close and latch properly. And I’ll do some deep cleaning—it seems the people who used to live in the house did not see the value in removing dirt and grime from stoves, ovens, door casings, shelves, countertops, floors, and other out-of-the-way places. One day, though, all this will be rewarded with a beautiful, functional, immaculately clean abode. I say “one day” because, at the rate I am going, the process will be complete far, far in the future. No. Stop that. I must maintain a positive outlook. I must adjust my attitude by becoming an optimist.

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With the proper tools and the knowledge and skills necessary to use them to their maximum potential, the limits of my ability to make things would be impossible to reach. But that’s true of everyone, isn’t it? All we need are tools and knowledge and skills—and the interest in using them and the discipline to do so. What world would we have today if everyone, from the first upright human to the baby born moments ago, used their brains to the fullest? They would either create or otherwise get access to the tools necessary to excel. The universe that today seems so impossibly huge would seem much smaller, because we would have learned so much more about it. Humankind’s potential would have taken us to levels heretofore only dreamed about in wildly fictional stories.

But we haven’t used our abilities to their fullest. And we’ve allowed damaged emotions and lethargy to derail us. I suppose we could start over, but after seeing what we’ve done with what we have, why would we?

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I’ve listened again in recent days to Happens to the Heart, a song written and performed by Leonard Cohen and published after his death. Cohen’s poetry overwhelms me with its enormous store of emotion and meaning. His music carries me to places I do not know or understand, but that mean a great deal to me. I am in a philosophical mood this morning. Cohen has taken me there, courtesy of his music and my memories of listening to it since my college days.

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Time to re-enter the world of practical action. I often prefer the realm of impractical magic.

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Competing Emotions

I first mentioned Keb’ Mo’ here in a piece I posted in March 2013, but I’ve been one of his raving fans for much longer than that. I think the first time I heard his music was during a visit to my late wife’s sister when she lived in Santa Rosa, California. That was many, many years ago. Though I like a lot of his music—virtually all of it—probably my favorite song is Life is Beautiful.  And here, from YouTube, is a version of the tune in which he and Taj Mahal collaborate:

It may seem silly to say this, but sometimes when I listen to a large selection of a musical artist’s music I get the sense that I know enough about him or her that I am confident that, if we ever met, we would get along very well. Keb’ Mo’ is one such artist. There’s something about his music and the way he delivers it that tells me he is a genuinely good, kind, compassionate man. He strikes me as someone who is humble, has a good sense of humor, and has not let his fame and fortune ruin those qualities. The skeptic in me says I should just let myself believe all that and should never, ever engage him in conversation, if presented the chance. I often wish that skeptic would shrink away, never to return. Competing emotions can be troublesome. Indeed.

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A few days ago, I mentioned Ranchman’s, an old restaurant in Ponder, Texas where I used to get spectacular chicken-fried-steak. A friend happened to read the post, which triggered his memories of the place. He was introduced to it in 1972 during dove hunting season. At the time, the place was owned by the original owner, Pete, who always sat at a round table facing the door. My friend recalled his introduction to the place and how he experienced it: “Hunters didn’t bother to clean their boots when they came in. There was plenty of mud on the floor. There was a late model Rolls Royce parked diagonally in the middle of the street in front. One of the dove hunters, I imagine.” The Ranchman’s of today, even though it is shuttered for the time-being, remains an iconic attraction that recalls a different time. Although the place has evolved and “modernized” a bit, it continues to be a snapshot that takes visitors back in time.

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True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories.

~ Florence King ~

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Recently, I bought new lenses for my eyeglasses; the prescription, after an eye exam, changed ever-so-slightly from the previous lenses, so I opted to replace the roughly three-year-old lenses. But I kept the frames. Yesterday, one of the ear pieces broke. I called the optical shop, hoping to buy a replacement ear piece. Instead, I was told they would replace the entire set of frames under warranty. The skeptic in me (he lurks in plain sight) says the shop has nothing to lose by replacing the frames and a lot of goodwill to gain (from some personal experience in consulting interactions with optometrists, I know the wholesale cost of frames is a tiny fraction of the retail price we pay—at least that was true about 15 years ago). That skeptical attitude notwithstanding, I was surprised and quite appreciative at the good news. I now have something positive to say about McFarland Eye Care of Hot Springs. And that positivity notwithstanding, I plan to go to a different eye clinic to have my eyes checked. Optical products and ophthalmic care are different beasts.

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An idea for a piece of oddball fiction:

A man goes to a town he’s never been to or heard of before. He notices the absence of restaurants; no diners, no fast-food joints, nothing. He stops in at a convenience store, hoping to get something to eat. But he notices the place has nothing edible on its shelves. Nothing one might ordinarily expect in convenience store: no chips, no jerky, no candy bars. Nothing. He asks the clerk at the counter: “Is there anywhere to eat in this town?”

The clerk responds, “To what”? “

“To eat. Anyplace to get lunch? Or even a snack. You don’t have anything in here to eat. That’s kind of strange.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the clerk answers. “What does that mean…’to eat?’ Is that what you said?”

The man looks shocked. Did he just hear the clerk say he doesn’t understand the term “to eat?”

Yes, that’s what he heard. And he notices other customers are paying attention to his conversation with the clerk. They, too, seem perplexed by his question.

Just an undeveloped idea. I have a lot of those. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. My head is full of scraps of potential fiction, nonfiction, and would-be poetry. All undeveloped. Unpolished. Much of it, unfortunately, uninspired. But every word has the potential of replicating itself, each new version consisting of different letters. It’s like the way cells divide and change into different components of life-forms. Some words evolve into lengthy novels, while some are transformed into newspaper articles or business communications. And some ripen into urgent manifestoes that call for the violent overthrow of governments or whole societies. The thing is, one never knows what will emerge from a word as it changes. Identical words can morph in very different ways. Their progeny can mature into marketing catalogs or love letters or even ransom notes that threaten death and mayhem if the recipient fails to follow explicit directives.

One day, I hope to return to writing fiction. But for now, my attention span is so short I can’t even begin to think about writing something longer than a few paragraphs. I get bored with what I write. I get bored with myself. I feel the need to transmogrify in reverse, becoming taller, younger, better looking, and far more intelligent and worldly. A dashing figure who churns out novels and epic poems at the speed of thought. Uh huh. Right after I win the lottery.

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I woke this morning around 3:30, but did not get out of bed until a few minutes after 4. I really tried to go back to sleep, but my body was having none of that. So I got  up, made coffee, and retreated to my computer. It’s nearing 7 now and I cannot stop yawning. I am afraid I may not have enough energy to paint an entire room today. But energy or not, I have to get cracking.

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By the way, yesterday’s email notification about the day’s new post began “I am in the mood for a tit.” My intent was to write “I am in the mood for a titillating experience,” but I stopped mid-sentence. Apparently, I hit “publish” before I erased the sentence entirely. My apologies for the surprising error. 

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I Don’t Wanna Be No Parigüayo

The most difficult and time-consuming aspect of painting walls takes place before the first roller is dipped in paint. Applying tape to protect trim and other materials on which paint is NOT to be applied is both exacting and mind-numbingly tedious. Properly covering floors to protect against drips takes patience. I know this because I have done it many times. And I am about to do it again, because my tendency to be frugal and miserly won out over wanting to paint the inside of our new house without personally intervening to do the work. When the quotes came in (between $5,200 and $6,200), I drew in a breath so deeply I feared I would suck in all the air in the room. The size of the bids sealed it: we will do it ourselves. That means, of course, the process will take longer than we had imagined. Such is life. Today, we will begin the process of transformation. Actually, the process began in earnest yesterday, when a contractor applied texture to the walls of the master bathroom; the walls, which had been stripped of wallpaper and painted dark, dark grey by the previous owners, desperately needed rescue. Today, I will apply tape, one of my least favorite of the tasks included in household transformations. Onward. After coffee. And after the sun rises.

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Yesterday began in what can only be described as a bizarre fashion. I got up around 4 and went about my usual things: making and drinking coffee, blogging, reading the news, etc. Three and a half hours later, my IC got up. Shortly thereafter, when she glanced down, a look of confused horror crossed her face and she pointed at my feet. I followed her gaze and instantly realized what had triggered the distressed look: on my left foot, I was wearing a flip-flop and on my right foot I was wearing a slipper. Apparently, I had managed to leave both pairs of footwear on the floor next to the bed; when I got up in the dark, I slipped one foot into the left side of one pair and my right foot into the right side of the other pair. I never knew it until my IC pointed out that I appeared to have transformed overnight into a demented old man who can no longer properly dress himself. I wonder: how wise is it that this same man plans to paint the entire inside of his new house? I suppose I’ll need to remind myself that the primer goes on first, before the color coat, and not vice versa.

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My fingers sometimes get ahead of themselves. That reality presented itself just now as I finished up the final sentence of the paragraph above. Instead of typing “not vice versa,” my fingers typed “nice versa.” It’s not that I left out letters, it’s that my fingers attempted to respond to my thoughts at the same speed I had them. My digits tried to outperform their abilities, resulting in gibberish on the screen. Usually, I catch such failings before I post my thoughts online, but occasionally I see the mistakes after I’ve already clicked on “publish.” And sometimes I do not realize what I’ve done until someone else points it out to me. And, I’m sure, sometimes I never know that I’ve published a piece laced with what may appear to the casual observer as a typo, when in fact it is a brain-finger-disconnect, which today I’m calling a “smattercast.” But I’m fine with calling it a typo.

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I came across an intriguing neologism this morning. Parigüayo. My understanding is that it’s a Dominican Republic bastardization of other words unknown. Its meaning has evolved over time, but I think it now refers, essentially, to person who is a dolt, a loser, a socially awkward jerk. I hope to retain my memory of the word so I can  use it appropriately in my writing in the future. Of course, using such a word invariably requires a follow-up, unless a definition accompanies its use. But what is the point of using a perfectly descriptive word if no one else understands its meaning without requiring an explanation? I don’t know. Maybe I won’t use parigüayo, after all. It might suggest I wear different shoes on my two feet.

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I got sidetracked. It’s late. I have to get a move on. Onward with the day!

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Feeding on Acts of Kindness

Ranchman’s, the only restaurant in the tiny town of Ponder, Texas, opened in 1948. When I lived in Dallas, my late wife and I made the hour-long drive to Ponder many times. An hour drive was a scant price to pay to satisfy hunger for a superb chicken-fried steak.

I learned this morning, reading an article in the Dallas Morning News, that the restaurant has been closed for more than 660 days. But the owner insists he will open it up again when COVID and kitchen construction permit. The man, Dave Ross, closed it due to COVID and took advantage of the down time to remodel the ancient kitchen. Unlike many restaurant owners, Ross owns the building Ranchman’s occupies outright. He apparently does not need the restaurant’s revenue to survive. The restaurant opened in 1948 and has been in the same building ever since. Ross is renovating and enlarging the kitchen during the COVID shutdown.

The newspaper story reminded me that I was among the throngs of Ranchman aficionados who often took out-of-town guests to the place to show them authentic small-town Texas—and to give them a taste of honest-to-God real chicken-fried-steak the way it’s supposed to be. I miss that flavor and texture. The only place I’ve ever had chicken-fried steak that compared favorably was at Mary’s Café in Strawn, Texas (which, amazingly, may be about as good as Ranchman’s version of that wonderful food of the gods).  Seriously, I’ve enjoyed pretty good chicken-fried-steaks in other places, including some spots in Arkansas. But nothing (not even Mary’s) compares to the unique taste and texture of the CFS at Ranchman’s. I am hungry for that perfect chicken-fried-steak. Starved for CFS is a more appropriate description of the way I feel at this moment. Oh, how I miss that food and those memories.

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I do it all the time. I state, with unflinching confidence, that a person is acting in a certain way because he or she is feeling one way or another. I am certain of my perceptions, notwithstanding my understanding that, in reality, I cannot see the world through another person’s eyes. We cannot know what prompts a person to do what he or she does. We cannot legitimately attribute motives to others without actually being those people, which is impossible. I know this. Why, I wonder, is it so damn difficult to train myself so my automatic response is compassion or appreciation, instead of skepticism?

Yesterday, my IC and I had a conversation about acts of generosity that find their way into newspaper articles and social media stories. I have read about several such things lately. Some examples: An extraordinarily generous tip that provided restaurant worker with the money needed to save a home from foreclosure. Donation of a car to someone who could not afford reliable transportation. A waiter patiently helping an elderly and infirm restaurant patron by cutting the customer’s food for him.  The articles and news clips are numerous. And every one of them tugs at one’s heartstrings. Almost every time we come across such touching stories, though, we encounter comments that chastise the “good Samaritan” for promoting themselves by telling their  stories. People whose acts of kindness find their way into the news often are labeled self-serving, assuming they seek recognition for their good deeds purely out of emotional vanity.

During the conversation over breakfast yesterday, my IC suggested people who share the stories of their generosity may do so simply to model such behavior; to encourage others to act in the same way. Or they may have a personal, emotional need to be recognized for their acts of kindness. They may need others to see that they are decent, generous, good people. Or they may need to see those attributes in themselves; through public acknowledgment of their generosity, they may be more likely to believe themselves to be decent, generous, good people. Public acknowledgement of their acts of kindness may be among the only ways they can see measures of their value as human beings.

One of our friends recently saw a news or social media story about groups of people going out to eat together and, at the end of the meal, each leaving a $100 bill, giving an enormous surprise for the waitstaff. She immediately latched onto that idea and initiated it on her own. Despite having some misgivings about how the idea could be implemented, we applauded it. And, after the fact, we learned that it was done with no fanfare, no media pictures…no big deal. Even though I know I cannot see inside a person’s head, I know my friend.  I strongly suspect what prompted that act of extreme generosity was a deep, abiding goodness…the sort of intensely wonderful humanity that makes my eyes water and make me want to deliver a big hug.

My IC, by the way,  is incredibly generous. I’ve witnessed her leaving very big tips for people she “senses” really need the money. I’ve watched as she bought a young couple breakfast; again, she sensed it would help them in a way they needed help. She donated quite a bit of valuable furniture to people who could use, it instead of selling it as she could have; in one instance, she gave a couch and coffee table to someone just out of drug rehab and struggling to live on his own. She visits Habitat for Humanity’s ReStore frequently with perfectly good items she could have sold but, instead, donates because someone else needs what she takes in more than she needs the money selling it could bring. My point is that she gives. A lot. She does not promote her generosity, though. She does not seek recognition for it. She just does it. All of this is to say I can imagine she might feel that people who publicly proclaim their generosity may be self-serving. But, no, obviously she does not see it that way.

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Last evening, I tried to call my brother–the one who was just released from the hospital and is in a rehab facility now–but my calls immediately went to a rejection message. “The subscriber you called has not set up the voice mailbox yet…” I suppose I should call earlier in the day. Maybe he turns his phone off after 7 pm or perhaps he was on the phone with someone else. I must try not to get sidetracked today; I must call by mid-day. I wonder why it’s sometimes so hard to stay focused on something so simple as a phone call reminder? I wonder whether my increasing sense of forgetfulness is another product of my advancing age? Who knows? I certainly don’t, but I have my suspicions.

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It’s nearing 6. I’ve been up for almost one and three-quarters hours, yet I’ve had only part of one cup of coffee and nothing to eat. Although I usually do not eat until after my IC rises, I may break my fast early today.

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Smiling at Something

Finally, after several grey days of clouds, rain, fog, and humidity high enough to drown aquatic animals, today’s expectation is for mostly sunny weather. The day is starting—at 27°F—with a decidedly frosty feel, but the forecast calls for the temperature to reach 50°F at the peak. Still quite cool, but when coupled with the sun and a comfortable sweatshirt, better than just tolerable.

A big window in the bathroom of the new house will let in enough light to permit me to see what I’m doing when I take down the master bath light fixtures in the new house. After the walls have been textured and painted, new fixtures will help transform the room into a somewhat more modern, inviting environment. But the removal of light fixtures will have to wait until tomorrow, when the weather is expected to replicate today, because today I have a competing schedule to follow. First, we’ll go to town to deal with errands: regular vehicle maintenance, along with handling a recall matter, for my IC’s car; picking up lighting and ceiling fan items ordered for the new house; and assorted other minor demands on my time.

Then, this afternoon, I return to my dentist’s office to be fitted for a device designed to hold tooth-whitening bleach. I hope to transform my life-long overly-yellow teeth into chompers with a whiter bite.

I know. It’s naked vanity. My objective is to draw others’ attention away from noticing my mammoth mid-section and direct it, instead, to my soon-to-be-brilliantly-white teeth, which may—as a potential downside—highlight my diastema. The thought processes behind my decision to whiten my teeth may help me fathom the rationale behind the application of make-up. I’ve never quite understood why women (mostly) use make-up so freely; it has seemed like an enormously time-consuming process that covers natural beauty with an artificial façade. I may have a better feel for it now; make-up is meant to highlight that natural beauty, rather than replace it. I suppose it’s something similar with my teeth, though they are not naturally attractive. Whitening may draw attention away from some of the unsightly aspects of my face, giving prominence to other elements of my outward appearance. Time will tell. It always does.

So, the light fixture surgery will wait until tomorrow. Speaking of surgery, yesterday, even with the drabness of a cloudy day, I was able to remove more than a dozen switch-plate covers for telephone wires  and cable television cables. It involved more than just unscrewing covers. In every case, the wiring/cables were affixed to the covers, requiring sometimes delicate surgical procedures to remove the covers without severing wires that could, some day, need to be connected again. I am proud to say I completed the surgery without, to my knowledge, killing any of the patients.

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Busywork sometimes keeps me from erupting like a volcano. I need to work on cooling that sea of magma within me. Busywork simply acts as a plug in a crater; unless the cauldron of molten rock beneath cools, the plug will pop like a cork, letting a rush of melted material spray like a geyser, The way to cool the flow of magma is to find alternate ways of releasing the pressure that arises from capturing explosive heat in a sealed vessel.

There should be a lesson in a metaphor. But, like some similes, the instruction sometimes is as clear as mud.

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Off we go, avoiding people as much as we can while conducting business with people who, often, do not believe in science as much as they believe in the divinity of idiots. COVID has not only revealed gaping wounds in our culture, it has somehow infested the wounds with maggots that feast at the site of the injuries, making the wounds ever larger and harder to heal.  What a cheery way to launch a trip into town.

 

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Sharp Ideas and Mind Games

August 24 is Knife Day. It is not too early to begin preparing to celebrate. For me, the celebration must involve paying homage to knives of all stripes, from the 8-inch chef’s knife if the kitchen to the pocket knife I carry with me every day.  The day should acknowledge all the other knives and knife-like devices in my life, too: paring knives, razor blades, boning knives, swords (I rarely carry one, by the way), machetes, carving knives, mezzalunas, scalpels, and all the dozens (or hundreds) of others.

[Note that I mentioned paying homage. According to Webster, it’s pronounced HOM-ij or OM-ij, not oh-MAHZH (I say OM-ij). The incorrect pronunciation is understandable, in that the Francophiles among us know the French word for cheese is fromage, pronounced froh-MAHZH. Even on NPR, when I hear the word “homage” mispronounced it drives me approximately insane. Unfortunately (in my ears), the mispronunciation is enjoying growing acceptance, so the erroneous noise may already have found its way into some dictionaries. Language is a living, changing aspect of our lives, so I should not find those alterations so offensive. I know. But I do, anyway. Dammit.]

Lest one think my mention of Knife Day is a superficial, off-the-cuff comment, let me say this: I’ve put this year’s Knife Day (it’s a Wednesday) on my Google calendar. I will pay special attention to our kitchen knives and my collection of pocket knives on that day.

Unlike many people, though, I am not a connoisseur of knives, nor of other things sharp. I do not have enormous numbers of them, all cataloged and displayed for all to see as if they were hand-written copies of the Bible, autographed by the authors. I am more of a casual aficionado whose attention span is too short to devote an inordinate amount of time to them. One day a year to celebrate is ample for me. I like knives year-round, but I try not to worship them.

Speaking of knives, a company I found online sells a line of knives call Deejo. Each knife can be personalized as to length of blade, type of handle, image embedded in blade, image on handle, blade material, and text printed on the blade. I was so enamored of the images I saw in the company’s marketing website that I almost ordered a “custom” knife. Until I realized the company sells mass customization. For some reason, that concept suddenly turned me off completely. It’s like I almost bought into being tricked into believing I was about to buy a knife made especially for me, when in reality I was about to buy into a psychological mind-game that could manipulate and read my desires. Ech!

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Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives.

~ Barbara Kingsolver ~

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My mind, this morning, shifts from serious to silly at the same pace that my heart beats. It’s odd, feeling deep sadness when I inhale and unmitigated joy with I release my breath. I shouldn’t say it’s odd; it’s actually fairly common for me. It would be odd if I sensed that other people experienced the same hyper-high-speed manic-depressive moments on a regular basis. To put it in other words that might be easier for me to fully embrace and understand: It’s like tears running down my cheeks. When they reach my mouth, I taste them and smile widely as I enjoy the salty flavor. But at a much higher speed than tears can stream down one’s face. Imagine that scene in a film; now, imagine it run at three times normal speed. Now, double it. There you go.

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I estimate that, over the years, I’ve owned a couple of dozen pocket knives. Several of them still sit, rarely used, in an open-topped box in a drawer. Most of them came to me as second-hand items. I do not recall how they came into my possession. I can only surmise I bought each of them from someone who attached a reasonable price (in my world-view) to them. Or they were gifts. Or I found them. Or they were found in retail shops; new and cheap and attractive. I am not a collector of pocket knives, but I feel compelled to latch onto them when the price is right. I lust after pocket knives. They hold a spell over me I simply cannot explain.

I would love to own an exceptional pocket knife, one that is both beautiful and functional and that exudes quality of the highest order. But I would be afraid of losing it, so I would keep it in my open-topped box. I have lost some very nice knives in my time; some of them beautiful and functional and that exuded quality of the highest order. The loss of more than one superb knife is the reason I cannot bring myself to buy the kind of knife I long to have. No matter how careful I have been with them, I’ve managed to let some outstanding knives disappear from my possession. So, instead of carrying an expensive, exquisite pocket knife, I usually carry a utilitarian cutting utensil disguised to look like a pocket knife. And I lose those, too.

For several years, I carried a rarity: an all stainless-steel knife (including the handle) I bought new. It was cheap in the extreme, but perfectly useful and reasonably attractive. Eight dollars, brand-new. When I found another one just like it, I bought it, as well. Finally, after losing the first one, I took the second one from the open-topped box in the drawer and began carrying it. A month or two later, it was gone, too. I don’t lose just the good ones.

The ideal pocket knife, for me, is small—between three and three-and-a-half  inches long, closed—with a bone or pearl handle. It would be a stockman-style 2-blade or 3-blade knife. The ideal blade would be of chrome vanadium steel. I searched for my “ideal” knife this morning on Deadwood Knives’ website. The Deadwood search yielded zero results out of 1300 knives with either a bone or a pearl handle. So, if I were to find my ideal knife, I guess it would have to be custom-made. Considering the cost of many of the knives I like quite a lot run from high two-figures to mid-three-figures, I imagine my “custom” knife would top $1,000. Not bloody likely!

The knife I’m using now is longer than I’d like; barely fits into the watch pocket of my jeans (which I treat as a knife pocket). The one it replaced, the replacement $8 stainless steel knife, was the perfect length. But it wasn’t a stockman-style; it had only one blade, but it was perfectly useful, nonetheless. I remember when I lost that first $8 knife and when I lost the second one. I was so angry with myself I could have slit my wrists.

No one but me cares what kind of knife I carry, nor the kind of knife I want. So I’m not sure why I’m writing about my knife-lust again. Just to write, I suppose. And to prompt me to be on the lookout for another inexpensive, short-handled Stockman-style knife. Something that will fit in the knife pocket of my jeans.

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All right, then. Let’s embrace the day, regardless of weather.

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Word Prison

I sit at my desk, hands on the keyboard. Once I begin to type, I cautiously expect words to flow from my fingers like water from an artesian well. Sometimes, my expectations are met. Too often, though, words struggle to escape, as if the alphabet were holding them in a subterranean linguistic prison, waiting to release them until I pay an unspecified ransom.

The ransom, though unnamed, is obvious to me. The alphabet refuses to release the flow of words until I commit to removing my disguise, using tools crafted from words those letters will make. Frequently, I am too afraid to express those words. Writing those words would require courage beyond my capacity to be brave. On those frequent days, I dance around the truth beneath my disguise with self-directed insinuations and innuendoes; occasional glimpses of reality show through the shower of syllables. In the face of possible revelations, I divert my own attention by creating words of my own. “Insinuendo” throws a gauze blanket over the intellectual secrets I hide in plain sight, staring out from the litter of several thousand paragraphs.

My emotional armor is made of aluminum foil, strong enough to block out the sun yet delicate enough to rip in a soft breeze. Even a nearly invisible crack in that protective layer causes it to tear off in sheets, revealing that it took the place of my skin. Beneath that metallic membrane, a gossamer web of nerves reacts to the slightest affective tremor; recoiling in pain and embarrassment at the overly-sensitive creature who resides under the disguise.

When the words refuse to flow from that artesian cavern well of letters, I think of myself as a counterfeit wordsmith. A pretender whose embrace of the emotional capacity of language is limited and artificial. I think of myself as an imposter. But over time, even imposters can get so good at pretending that they make the transition between imposter and actor. So, too, with counterfeit wordsmiths. With sufficient practice, the stories they tell to hide their secrets can become indistinguishable from reality. With their words, they can fool even themselves. Fiction becomes reality. Pain becomes pleasure. Discomfiture becomes self-confidence. Secrets become revelations. Truths become lies.

Metaphors and similes are axes and firearms. They are like locks that keep secrets hidden away in transparent—or should that be translucent?—vaults.

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Restless and Pensive and Recollective

I see my father in my face in the mirror. I never saw him there until a year or two ago. Maybe that’s because I was never this age before. When he was this age, I was nearing my twenties; that point in my life about which at least some of my memories remain relatively clear. So when I see this man in the mirror, I see glimpses of my father when he was my age. But I never knew my father well. Not well enough to have long conversations with him. Not well enough to know much about what was on his mind. Not well enough to know whether he worried then about the same things that worry me now. But I am pretty sure only a few similarities exist between who I am now and who he was then. We were always different people. But, today, I see faint shadows of his image in my mirror. I wish I knew more about what he thought. My memories of him are generally positive; they’re just not complete. I knew him briefly as the grandfather to my niece and nephews. As I recall that aspect of him, I wonder whether he was that same man to his youngest child.

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Through zeal, knowledge is gotten; through lack of zeal, knowledge is lost.

~ Gautama Buddha ~

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I have been following on Facebook, off and on, the recent travels of my ex-sister-in-law’s brother and his wife. Their experiences cause pangs of longing in me.  I feel a deepening desire to explore the world of this country far beyond my little part of it. But because we are in the midst of working on our new house before moving into it and before putting mine on the market, that longing will remain unfulfilled for a while yet. It has remained unfulfilled for most of the last eight years. But now that sense of needing to hit the road is so strong that I can barely contain it. A quick trip to Tulsa or Fayetteville or the empty corn fields of Iowa is insufficient. I feel like I am a balloon; the stale air inside me is expanding to the point that the brittle film containing it may burst unless I release it all. Little jaunts relieve the pressure for a while, but each time it builds again quickly and threatens to explode.

Even after 400 generations in villages and cities, we haven’t forgotten. The open road still softly calls, like a nearly forgotten song of childhood.

~ Carl Sagan ~

Carl Sagan, as wise as he was, may have lost his hearing. It’s not the soft call of a song of childhood I hear, it’s a piercing scream, a howl so loud and fierce that it threatens to shatter my eardrums and crack the bones that hold my body together.

The occasional day-trip, though, will have to suffice for a while longer. Even a day in Little Rock or Benton may have to do; those excursions may barely suffice. They may be the pressure relief valves that can stop the balloon from bursting.  Until then, my trips back to New Mexico—to Gallup and Española and Santa Fe—and to the Florida coast and to the desolate beaches of Padre Island in the dead of winter will have to wait.

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A story, online, about the one-game suspension of a coach of a girl’s high school basketball team highlights a key difference in personal philosophies—but the “correctness” of one philosophy over another does not seem so clear. The Catholic high school coach was suspended because his team won a game by a score of 92 to 4. Through three quarters of the game, the score was 80 to 0. Administrators of the winning team’s school apologized for the lopsided win, saying the school “values the lessons taught and cultivated through athletic participation, including ethical and responsible behavior, leadership and strength of character, and respect for one’s opponents.” Further, the school’s president said, the win “does not align with our values or philosophies.”

The point made by the school’s administrators did not align with the philosophies of many of the people who read the story. What should the coach should have done? Instruct his team to stop trying? Remove three quarters of his team from the court? Tell his players to refuse to throw the ball toward the basket? Offer the opponents free opportunities to get points, without interference? Some commenters assumed the winning coach sent in back-bench players when the school became so lopsided. Others said it is the team’s obligation to try to win big, not to attempt to give “participation trophies” to the losing side.

Clearly, the philosophies of the coach and the school administration were at odds. Their objectives were different. Who was right? Obviously, the answer depends on one’s personal philosophies about the purpose of school sports. But that’s not the only issue. The issue also revolves around how to achieve that purpose. And it involves deciding what tactics best suit even a shared, agreed purpose. Assuming that teaching “sportsmans-like behavior” is shared by coach and administrators alike, how does one teach that trait in such circumstances? Does telling the winning kids to stop trying work? Does telling the losing team that the winners are being instructed to “go easy” do the job? At what point, if any, should the losing team’s coach have decided to forfeit the game instead of playing to the bitter end? Same question for the winning team’s coach. And does a humiliating defeat teach the losers a more valuable lesson than would have artificially inflating the losing team’s score? The philosophies between supporters of the coach and the school are, apparently, quite different.

I think sportsmanship is knowing that it is a game, that we are only as a good as our opponents, and whether you win or lose, to always give 100 percent.

~ Sue Wicks ~

I do not have the “right” answer. While I feel sympathy for the losing team’s humiliation, I do not think punishing the winners’ coach is appropriate. Nor do I think it appropriate to effectively ask the winning coach or his team to effectively “throw” a significant part of the game simply to save face for the losers. But I would hope that, somehow, the players on both sides of the court would have been taught a deliberate lesson about the value of sympathy and empathy and humility. A public apology by the administrators of the winning team and the suspension of its coach seems, to me, an artificial and inappropriate lesson.

Incidentally, the teams were Sacred Heart , a Catholic high school in Hamden, Connecticut, and Lyman High School. The game was played on January 3.

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I’m in the mood for a conversation that expands into a long exploration of the thoughts and wants and experiences of someone I may know, but not well enough. That could be anyone, though, couldn’t it? But it’s not. I want to explore the mind of a reticent poet. An artist who must create. An adventurer who craves action but happily settles into relaxation as respite from frenzy. Someone flush with cash but struggling to buy food. A person seeking a way out, but gladly planning for ways to stay in. Everyone, that is. And no one. Ach! Errands and objectives call to me this morning and for the rest of the day, the week, and—it sometimes seems—all the rest of Time. Best to get on with more coffee, and a bit of breakfast. And a shower and shave to get the day off to a clean start.

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Sitting With You

Imagine, if you will, you and me sitting together on a worn wooden bench in a secluded area of a park-like setting. Miles from the nearest town, we are alone. This oasis is ours, alone. Only the glimpse of a deer darting into the underbrush in the distance or a bird silently slicing through the sky reveal the existence of any other creatures. It is just us. Sunlight drenches our shoulders in warmth and a gentle breeze caresses us with its soft touch. Aromas of wildflowers fill the air. We look into each other’s eyes, hoping to learn something about life. But when our eyes meet, we hold one another’s gazes only briefly. We’ve been taught, if only accidentally, that looking into another person’s eyes is permitted only between lovers, so we look away, but our gazes always connect again. Yet we keep looking away. Because we are not lovers. We proclaim our belief in universal love, yet we are not lovers. Ach! That is a conversation for another time.

Now imagine me transforming into a person you loathe. Hold onto whatever emotion held you while you and I glanced at one another. But now you see someone else sitting next to you. A person you despise. Yet you attach “my” emotion to that person.  Whether it is love or tolerance or simply friendly acceptance; you now feel something different about that “enemy” of yours.

Now, instruct your imagination to change that enemy into someone with whom you have an intimate relationship. But hold on to the emotional framework which began when you and I sat together. No longer do you feel the comfortable intimacy with that person. Instead, you feel the awkwardness you felt looking into my eyes; so you look away.

As you instructed your mind to see different people sitting next to you, what did you sense around you? And as you attempted to require your emotions to be stable, attaching them to someone you do not like and then to someone with whom you are extremely close, what did your environment look like? Did you continue to feel the sun as it bathed your shoulders in warmth? Did you smell flowers and see wildlife? My bet is that—if you were able to change the “partner” on the bench next to  you—you did not feel the sun or the pastoral experience you felt with me. If you had begun the experience sitting next to an enemy or someone extremely close to you, I think the environment would disappear with the changes in your bench partner.

Why am I spending so much time setting up an argument I can neither win nor lose? I wish I knew. I wish I understood what fascinates me about the psychology of thought and personal interaction. I wish I could see through the façades of context and into the heart of emotion.  And I wish those who actually attempted (whether they succeeded or not) the exercise would tell me what happened. But I do not expect it. Expectations lead to disappointment. And disappointment leads to depression. And depression leads to places we would wish on no one we care about.

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Another bizarre and deeply disturbing dream. Or should I classify it as a nightmare? At what point does a dream darken into a nightmare? I suppose there is a thin line beyond which fear turns to terror. Or are there gradations? Concern building to anxiety, then to apprehension, then alarm,  then to fear, and finally to terror? One more ribbon on the emotional spectrum? Yet another example of an affective continuum?

Many of last night’s (or this morning’s) details turned to vapor when I woke, but those I recall are these: 1) I was hosting a President and his small entourage in my home. 2) I had done something (I do not know what—but it was something minor in “normal” civilian life, but equivalent to treasonous in the context of the President) that, if discovered, would put me in danger of imprisonment. 3) I hid something damning among a collection of vinyl records. 4) One of the President’s entourage, a past acquaintance (a man from a long-ago job environment in real life), initiated a search of my vinyl LPs. 4) The searcher came across a Gatemouth Brown record he could not cross-match against some form of information that would prove me innocent of my treasonous infraction. 5) I tried to call Gatemouth Brown in the unreasonable hope he would corroborate my innocence (knowing he did not know me). 6) The person who answered the phone said Gatemouth  Brown is not taking calls.  And that’s it. I’m sure there were many, many more details, but that’s all I can remember. Except I know there was more. I know the President distrusted me. I know something preceded and prompted the search of my collection of records. I know there was a specific plan to unveil my bad deed.

They’ve promised that dreams can come true—but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too.

~ Oscar Wilde ~

In my dream, I was almost paralyzed with fear that my simple treasonous act would be revealed and I would be both embarrassed and imprisoned. When I woke from the nightmare, my heart was beating very fast and I was shaking. Bizarre and disturbing, indeed. Embarrassed? Yes, I felt embarrassed for some reason. More embarrassed, perhaps, than afraid; though my fear seemed akin to both panic and terror. I was glad to be awake, when it was over. Perhaps I should say “regardless of whether it was over.” Because I do not recall how or whether it ended. I shudder, even now, at the sense of dread I felt when I entered a room—where I had earlier been in conversation with the President and his entourage—to find my long-ago colleague rummaging through my LP collection.

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My IC and I went to Little Rock yesterday, despite our misgivings. The wildfire-like spread of the COVID-19 Omicron variant concerns us. We have decided to minimize our contact with other people to the extent we can, while still taking care of necessities. Yesterday was a necessity—handing a recall involving an upgrade from 3G to 5G telecommunications technology on my Subaru, about which I was notified just after mid-December and which I was told must be completed by January 15 or the process would be at my expense (oh, I will write a scathing letter or two about that). What I first was told would take about two hours, then was told would be a 3-4 hour process, then was told would take “a while longer,” finally turned into six hours. And, after being promised a loaner car (verified late in the afternoon day before yesterday), I was told on arrival that no car was available. Thanks to my expression of dismay and low-level anger (and to the service advisor’s response to it), we were given a loaner. We did a couple of errands, keeping our distance from people as much as possible, then went to visit The Good Earth Garden Center in Little Rock.

I love The Good Earth Garden Center! Spending hours there is easy and soothing. I think I could spend days there. I could live there! Acres and acres of magic. Though huge areas of empty outdoor displays revealed the extent to which plants were missing, waiting for Spring, the place is a playland. Ceramic planters and outdoor art litter the landscape. Stone and gravel pathways steer the visitor into enormous hot-house sheds full of tropical and semi-tropical plants. A huge building filled with beautiful fountains of every size and shape prompted us to want to landscape our new home with paths and fountains. We spent most of our time at The Good Earth Garden Center outdoors, thanks to reasonable comfortable temperatures and lots of sun. If we were not the sole customers, we were among the very, very few. Though we did not buy anything, we know we will one day. If I win the lottery, I am confident I will buy a lot from that place. I may even buy the place and build a comfortable cottage in its center, where we will live, comfortably distant from the plague.

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I have a busy day scheduled for today. Whether being busy equates with being productive remains to be seen. Time—in its incredible ability to see through moments like they were made of the clearest glass—will tell.

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Unexpected

Tenderness is rare compassionate warmth; a gentleness reserved for those for whom one feels deep affection. Or admiration. Or pity. Tenderness cannot occupy the same mind—at the same time—as the mind that harbors red-hot hatred or blind rage. Because tenderness feeds on the same emotional fuel required of those altered states. The mind distills experience in a manner similar to the way an oil refinery distills crude oil. Either jet fuel or petroleum jelly may emerge from the process, but not simultaneously.  Similarly, emotions can create either Florence Nightingale or Charles Manson, but not in the same person and not at the same time. Or can they? Can the manner of combustion of flammable emotional fuels lead to two very different outcomes? For example, will causing an electrical spark lead to a different fire than striking a match? The answer is as simple and straightforward as coffee is clear and sweet.

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Everything exists along a continuum. Whenever I think deeply about a subject—any subject—I come to the inarguable conclusion that the object of my thought is a tiny spot within an unimaginably long spectrum. Invariably, every item and every idea is inexorably connected to every other item and idea. The connections initially may seem tenuous, but with enough attention those couplings become as real and as unbreakable as the links in the stainless steel chain to an anchor the size of a planet. I can visualize the way everything is connected to everything else like this: On a globe of any size, select a spot. From that spot, draw a line that bisects the globe. Then, draw another line perpendicular to the first. Continue one, each time halving the distance between the lines until the lines are so close together it is impossible to see any spaces between them. Pick any other spot and do the same. Keep selecting spots until ever spot on the globe and go through the same process until spot has been selected. In every direction, each spot is connected to every other spot. Perhaps my description does not do the concept justice. Maybe the concept is suited only to philosophy and not to graphical expression. Regardless, I stand by my assertion. Everything exists along a continuum; a spectrum of connections that links everything with everything else. Now, what do I do with this “knowledge?” That question is what propels me toward the oblivion toward which we all hurl. There is no reliable answer.

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Imagine a world in which the future is dictated by the selection of a paint color. Choose green and the universe will unfold in one way. Selected grey and the universe will provide a very different experience. Pick red and the future will appear utterly different from the one arising from the other color choices.

Knowing the choice of paint color will determine the course of the future, but not knowing precisely how the choice will impact the future, how much time would you spend making the selection?

Every choice we make is like the decision on paint color. Every. Single. Choice. Picking salmon over herring for dinner can alter everything for all time. The blue shirt instead of the brown one; ditto. The discrepancies between outcomes may be imperceptible, but they are real. If you choose the brown shirt, you may be party to the exploitation of laborers in Guatemala…people who worked in slave-like conditions in un-air-conditioned factories to make your shirt. The demand for the product manufactured in that factory—your choice of a shirt—could be the trigger that leads to an uprising and a revolution. Yeah. And the choice of a paint color could lead to the decimation of Amazon rain forests. Or, by contrast, to the transformation of entire cultures from living in barely-survivable conditions to lifestyles of comfort for every member of the tribe. Choices have far-reaching consequences. And indecision is a decision, in and of itself. No matter how hard we try, we cannot escape either blame or responsibility. Or both. You might as well choose deliberately.

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An unexpected message can brighten one’s day. This one is for you. It can mean anything you want it to mean. This secret message is for you, alone.

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Acting and Reacting

Malignant populism found its moment with the election of Donald Trump in 2016. Whether that moment becomes a lifetime remains to be seen, but indications increasingly suggest it will last at least that long. Trump’s brand of populism continues to metastasize into what I am afraid may already have become a terminal disease. Democracy—already fragile from decades of abuse as a civic bludgeon, rather than a method of vesting the power of government to the governed—is morphing into a totalitarian tool. Both ends of the political spectrum are guilty of having used it to advance their narrow views of how society should function. Blame does not belong solely to the right wing fringe; it is shared equally by the left, which has been just as insistent on behaving in “my way or the highway” mode. Compromise could have served as an antidote to extremism, but both sides refused to relinquish their “principles” for the good of the people.

Many years ago, when I read the dystopian political novel by Sinclair Lewis, It Can’t Happen Here, I remember thinking, “no, it IS possible,” but also thinking how incredibly unlikely it would be for the scenario to play out.  Trump’s defeat in 2020 did not end the march toward totalitarianism. In fact, the mindless support he and his henchmen still enjoy today suggests the struggle is, in many ways, just beginning. Today, open talk of civil war—usually by people at opposite ends of the current political debate power struggle—offers an eerie similarity to the novel’s story, in which civil war rages on.

Just like the gullible public in It Can’t Happen Here, today’s unsophisticated Trump supporters blindly long for and accept his and his followers’ promises of a “return to” patriotism, traditional values, and economic prosperity for the mostly blue-collar underclass. I wish I felt optimistic that the struggle might end peacefully and without authoritarian rule by economically powerful overlords, but I do not. Those with ready access to unthinkable riches and unchecked political power will, I fear, impose their totalitarian control over everyone else, including their most ardent supporters. Those supporters will not understand—that what little power they had has been taken away—until it is too late.

And on that cheery note, I launch into the first Tuesday of what may be the final tragic year of the remnants of democracy in the USA.

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If we desire respect for the law, we must first make the law respectable.

~ Louis D. Brandeis ~

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Switching gears (because otherwise I will empty a few bottles of hydrocodone and slit my wrists), when I fell asleep last night, I was imagining upgrades and changes we might make to our new house.  New paint throughout the interior, new light fixtures inside and out, new ceiling fans, pressure washing the exterior, painting the paintable exterior trim (excluding, unfortunately, the hideous vinyl siding, which should be illegal), and various and sundry other updates and upgrades were on my mind. My imagination works a lot faster than my hands or my pocketbook, so realistically the process of transformation will be a long one. But, now that the holidays are behind us, we will get in gear to begin the undertaking. I have no idea when we will be able to move into the new house, nor when I can finish preparing my current house for sale. But it won’t be too awful long. I hope. I am anxious to move on with the next stage of my life. Even though COVID-19 is making travel extremely inadvisable for now, we may eventually be able to hit the road a bit, but not until the new house is sufficiently habitable. Oh, it is “habitable” now, but not sufficiently so to make me want to call the movers just yet. That will take some time. In the interim, perhaps dreaming of what I want the place to look like will work as sleep aid. Aside from two or three trips to the bathroom during the overnight hours, I slept reasonably well until a quarter after 5. I felt like I was sleeping in.

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

~ C. S. Lewis ~

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Yesterday, I had a follow-up appointment with my oncologist. This morning, I have an appointment to have my teeth cleaned. Tomorrow I have to drive to Little Rock for an optional recall matter on the Subaru (something to do with the “on call” emergency button, etc.). Too damn many obligations getting in my way of working on the house!

Enough of this. I need to eat breakfast, take a shower, and otherwise prepare for whatever this day brings.

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The Perils of Comfort

One can find wisdom about almost any topic just by seeking what others have said about it. Someone, somewhere, has expressed a profound pearl of wisdom on the subject simply by uttering a few words. The following quotations comprise three such profound expressions about the perils of being comfortable with one’s position or condition in life.

Comfort can be dangerous. Comfort provides a floor but also a ceiling.  ~ Trevor Noah
Sometimes the place you are used to is not the place you belong.  ~ William Wheeler, screenwriter
When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.  ~ Lao Tzu ~

These three gems emphasize the hazards of complacency—the acceptance of known comfort over potentially life-altering distress. That is not to say one should automatically abandon safety and security wherever it is found. Yet choosing adequacy instead of taking risks can be a risk in itself. Avoidance of the possibility of failure or pain can carry with it unintended avoidance…of success or advantage.

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Act too quickly and you might find that you’ve made a mistake from which you cannot recover. I have learned that lesson more than once—which means the lesson did not register the first time. Or the second. Or the third. For example, early in my relatively short exploration of personal financial investment (in the absence of a competent financial advisor), I got some hot tips about stocks that were almost guaranteed to increase exponentially in value. A $1,000 investment quickly dissolved into a value-less waste. I could not sell shares of the stock, even at the collective putative value of less than $10.  That lesson was repeated, with equal impact, a few more times. Thanks to the insistence of my late wife, I finally paid heed to several earlier lessons.  Years ago, I did not act on my enthusiasm for buying a very expensive (in my financial context) piece of art I loved and believed would quickly escalate in value. She gently insisted that I acknowledge I had little to no expertise in art investments and that our money could be put to better use elsewhere. I have no idea now of the identity of the artist or the current disposition of the art; in hindsight, though, I recognize the $5,000 we did not spent on a piece of art was an important contributor to our nest egg. Today, even if I were to learn the art had escalated in value into the millions, I would still be comfortable with the decision we jointly made. It was a rationale one, unaffected by unchecked emotion.

Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea, off and on, of buying a self-propelled recreational vehicle. Those multiple lessons about acting too quickly have served me well as I contemplate that possibility. The purchase of such a vehicle would be an expense; not an investment. Unlike the purchase of real estate,  the reasonable expectation of which is the reliable appreciation in value, buying an RV comes with the expectation of both enjoyment and probable depreciation. Acknowledging that, whatever decision I ultimately make will be made rationally. And knowing that emotion can take hold of one’s better judgment, I know better than to decide, either way, too quickly.  For some people, the expenditure of  $100,000+ for an RV makes good sense for many reasons. It might represent a second home, for instance, that provides an opportunity for lease income form a primary home. For me, though, that kind of expenditure could conceivably represent a financial mistake from which I could not recover. So, before I make the call, I have to remove as much emotion as possible from the decision. That’s the key lesson. Forcing oneself to extract emotion from important decisions to the extent possible. Easier said than done, of course, but worth the effort in the pursuit of solid happiness.

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I read a piece yesterday, courtesy of wordgenius.com, about diacriticals in the English language. I wish diacriticals were used more in English. They are extremely helpful with understanding pronunciation. Plus, they look nice. 🙂 Here, for my own reference, are some important bits of information extracted from the article:

Acute Accent
café
Examples
fiancé
résumé

Grave Accent
Examples
à la carte
crème
vis-à-vis

Diaeresis
Examples
doppelgänger
naïve
Brontë

Circumflex
Examples
château
crêpe
maître d’hôtel

Cedilla
Examples
façade
garçon
açai

Tilde
Examples
jalapeño
piñata
quinceañera

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Musing About Introspection

The year 2014 was a period of intense self-reflection for me. I do not know with certainty what prompted such deep introspection, but I suspect it might have been the knowledge that my life was in the midst of dramatic change. I knew from the first day of the year that my my wife and I would move away from the Dallas metroplex, where we had lived since late 1989. That would have been enough, I suppose. But there was more that made me want to take a look inside; I wanted to know more about me than I had known before. Part of that thirst to know more about me prompted me to commit to writing, every day, my “thoughts for the day.” From the first day of that year through the last day of the year after, I wrote at least one and sometimes two very brief blog posts with my “thoughts for the day.” A significant trigger for my daily posts, I think, was my desire to lift myself out of a years-long low-level depression. Self-motivation; an attempt to cure an ailment about which I knew virtually nothing.

On that second day of the year eight years ago, among the few words of my short post were these:

Today, I will dance for no other reason than to celebrate movement.  Today, I will think for no other reason than to celebrate thought.

I remember, all these years later, how I hoped my words would motivate me to break free of the melancholia. And I recall that they did; they urged me to try, at least, to shed my low opinion of myself. For two years, never missing a day, I awoke to express in words something that would change me or, at least, help me understand myself. I posted pithy comments, short rants, and the stuff of motivational posters; an eclectic blend of words that, I hoped, would reveal me to myself and would enable me to become someone I could  like more than who I was. I compiled the entire year’s Thoughts for the Day for 2014 as a means of sharing what a year of my life meant to me, as I lived it. I did the same for 2015. I had planned to publish them in two separate softback books, one for each year. For various reasons, I abandoned that idea. I still skim through the two drafts on occasion, wondering why I ever thought anyone would find them of even passing interest.

Even though—after two years—I abandoned the self-imposed requirement that I write a short piece every day, I have continued writing almost every day since. My writing now usually is a significant departure from what I wrote during those two years; it has no single, focused purpose. Today, I write because I cannot NOT write. I have to express what’s on my mind; even when I find it hard to think about what to write, I MUST write. It’s therapy, I suppose. I imagine it’s still an effort to explore who is inside me and an attempt to find something truly loveable or likeable. There’s a  sense of “Catch-22” in all this, of course. Self esteem is the sine qua non of admiration and admiration is the sine qua non of self-esteem.

So much of what I wrote in 2014 and 2015 comprised the same substance I write about today. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just rehashing everything; like I have an incredibly small sphere of ideas and emotions that I recycle repeatedly, just using different words. It’s almost like I’m wrapping words tighter and tighter around a hard piece of an inaccessible something and the tighter I wrap it, the harder it gets. A nut impossible to crack because it has morphed from something soft into a diamond-hard rock. It’s pointless to keep recycling these things. I sometimes laugh at myself for thinking, in 2014 and 2015, that I could accomplish by writing what I couldn’t accomplish by living day to day. The accrual of wisdom sometimes coincides with the accumulation of sheer stupidity.

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According to my computer’s weather widget, the temperature as of 5:50 a.m. was 25°F. It’s now more than an hour later; I suspect it may have dropped a degree or two. The high today is now forecast to stay at or below freezing. That sort of weather is uncomfortable, of course, but because of extended periods of sub-freezing temperatures, it also has the potential for troubles such as broken water pipes. Ach!  Fortunately, our HVAC system is holding its own, so the temperature inside the house is comfortable. But the system is cycling on and off rather frequently, evidence that it is working much harder than normal to keep inside conditions close to ideal. I hope that situation continues, both here and in the “new” house. I put hose bibs on all the faucets at the new house day before  yesterday; yesterday, I went over late in the afternoon to set the faucets dripping slightly. I did the same here. With good fortune, all will be well. I’ve experienced burst water pipes and their aftermath before. I do not want to experience either again.

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Finally, these two quotations provoke me to contemplate what is so deeply hidden i

Remember always that you not only have the right to be an individual, you have an obligation to be one.

~ Eleanor Roosevelt ~


What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

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To the New Calendar Year

As I am wont to do of late, this morning I peered back to review what I’d written on this day last year. The first paragraph of my post, First Words, included these comments:

…I bid good riddance to a year laced with pain, sadness, heartache, fear, anger, and lies. With that boot to the rear of an ugly year, I also welcome a year that holds promise and potential that can be met only if humanity collectively applies itself to correcting the errors of the past. I wish I felt more optimistic about the likelihood that the potential will be met.

My optimism was, in large part, unwarranted. In that same post, I noted that I had received, the day before, a phone call that can best be called “transactional”—informing me that my wife’s ashes were ready for pickup. Then, a confirming text: “…you have a scheduled pickup…”

I will remember 2021 as the second gut punch of a fierce attack that began in 2020. But the year also brought me into the good fortune of a relationship with my IC, an experience which I believe saved me from myself. The occasional ray of brilliant, healing light can illuminate even the bleakest times.

The occasional ray of brilliant, healing light can illuminate even the bleakest times. 

My expectations for 2022 do not overflow with enthusiastic optimism. It’s better to be pleasantly surprised than to be thoroughly and painfully disappointed by dashed expectations. Yet I vacillate between wanting to be more of a realist or more of an optimist. Pain tends to accompany both mindsets; one a long, enduring, crippling ache and the other a sudden and sharp stabbing wound. Yet that brilliant ray of light can yield  unexpected succor; something that can turn dull worry into joyous appreciation. Life is what it is. One’s expectations, in fact, clothe either hope or dread that can be stripped away in an instant. Perhaps it’s better simply not to allow expectations to muck with one’s life experiences.

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I will end this short and less-than-overwhelmingly-enthusiastic post in a completely different vein, courtesy of an adaptation of an Irish blessing I find smile-inspiring and mood-altering. To you, my friends and family, as well as the unexpected and unknown visitors to this blog:


May you be poor in misfortune,
rich in blessings,
slow to make enemies, and
quick to make friends.
But rich or poor,
quick or slow,
may you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward, in this New Year
and all that follow.

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Kolbjørn’s Return and The Ambiguity of Time

Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That’s its balance.

~ Osho ~

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This morning, I sense that I am feeling around blindly, reaching for the branches, trying to stretch past the edge of the sky into the heart of the galaxy beyond. Yet I cannot get loose from the roots wrapped around my ankles, preventing me from shuffling off the mortal coil that straps me to my consciousness. I suppose that’s what a celebration of a break in time does to one. We shed an aching, angry, painful, distasteful old year and attempt to capture a new one, full of promise and potential. That break in time is artificial, of course, but we make it real by our behaviors. We transform fantasy into reality simply by accepting an imaginary tear in the fabric of time as a real rupture; something that allows us to burst free of an atmosphere full of noxious gases into an environment that is pure and clean and unchained to misery.

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I think I need to retreat into a protective fictional cocoon; just enough fact to confuse me into believing it’s real.

Kolbjørn Landvik, my imaginary ancestor who is related to me through DNA transported over time (and through the consumption of a vegetable broth, if memory serves), is back. He’s somewhere in my head, dreaming about the beauty of the Norwegian coastline of more than one hundred years ago. It’s tragic, really, that he died at sea—a rope attached to an anchor got wrapped around his ankle and dragged him to a watery death. At least that’s how I remember it. Though he was alone in the boat, I was there with him when he was pulled overboard by that impossibly heavy piece of seafaring iron. But that was a long time ago, even before I became convinced that he and I were blood relations.

My own DNA test results suggest my relationship with Kolbjørn Landvik is and was all in my head. The test hints that my genetic relationship to Kolbjørn is an artifact of my overactive imagination, augmented by strong coffee and a desire to be free of this godforsaken wasteland of a planet on which I live. It’s not the planet, though. It’s the people who inhabit it. Many of them are decent, good, compassionate souls who represent the very best of the human race. The others, though…the human equivalent of demented vultures with rabies. But I digress.

Yet DNA tests have been wrong before. Haven’t they? Are the tests wrong, or might the DNA samples been mishandled? Or were they contaminated? Or, perhaps, were my DNA samples accidentally switched with someone else’s…too damn many possibilities. Ach! I could simply acknowledge the hideously strong likelihood that I am, at my core, of almost pure English descent, with nary a cell of Scandinavian blood in me. That reality advances the theory that I am thoroughly and utterly insane. That’s alright. I can live with madness. I always have, haven’t I?

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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~

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My fiftieth high school reunion, if there is to be one, will be held in 2022. I have not attended any of the reunions thus far. Not ten years, twenty years, thirty years, nor forty years. I had envisioned that I would attend the fiftieth, though. I’m not sure why I looked forward to it. I have absolutely no close connections to anyone from my high school days. Even the distant, tenuous connections I have are through Facebook pages. And while I cannot rely on Facebook to give me reliable information concerning people about whom I cared little during high school and even less now, it gives me clues. And the clues tell me most of my high school cohorts are deeply conservative people (plenty of Trumpers, I’ve discovered) who measure human value with financial accomplishments. Why in God’s name would I want to plunge into that cesspool? No, I think I’ll forego the fiftieth reunion, too, if they hold it. I suspect many—perhaps most—who attend have refused COVID vaccinations and refuse to wear masks.

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Leonard Cohen’s fourth studio album was entitled New Skin for the Old Ceremony.  Years later, he released an album called The Future. Until this morning, I had never quite made the connection between them. Coming across the Rumi quote, below, I began to see the connection. Or, perhaps, I’m just making up a connection where none exists. But I choose to think Cohen intentionally expressed that connection in albums almost twenty years apart. Am I alone in seeing the tune, Anthem, as a future “new skin for the old ceremony” in the form of a restatement of Rumi’s words?

The wound is the place where the light enters you.

~ Rumi ~


Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

~Leonard Cohen ~

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Finally, the last day of 2021 has arrived. As I pondered what to write this morning, I looked back at what I wrote on this day in 2020. My post on that day was very, very long. It was a mixture of chit-chat about my experiences the day before and my plans for the day after, along with a smattering of unrelated ruminations. Last year on this day, my wife’s death twelve days earlier consumed my every thought. But I tried to write as if that fact was not on my mind. I remember writing that post, intentionally expressing happiness and joy in place of what I really felt.

This final day of another year is better in many ways than last year. My IC is here, which emphasizes the fact that I am the beneficiary of extremely good fortune. But COVID remains rampant worldwide and seems to be getting worse. And political and social divides seem to be reaching a point at which our society could violently explode. We humans have had many, many thousands of years to perfect societal harmony, yet we seem to have spent those years planning for and perfecting the means of implementing society’s ultimate collapse.

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In spite of the fact that I’ve used this post to expel some ugly thoughts and nasty ideas, deep inside me I am optimistic. We can overcome the challenges we face, both those manufactured by our own hand and those forced on us by Mother Nature. All we have to do it give it our best and help everyone around us do the same.

I wish every person who reads this post a year in which joy overwhelms sorrow. May 2022 be a year that brings happiness, good health, and prosperity to you and yours and everyone else on Earth, the only planet ready and able to sustain us.

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Occasionally

Reading letters or emails or text messages a person sends can give clues about the sender. Spending hours reading her personal diary can provide a modicum of wisdom about her. Looking at the images he posts online can offer hints about his emotional or intellectual condition. But those mechanical expressions of an individual’s fundamental state of mind—the core of who he is, at his core—are just pointers. They give tips about who’s “there” behind the public mask. Only by face-to-face interaction does one stand a chance of really knowing someone. Even then, she may reveal who she is only after weeks or months or even years. And that revelation may be made to such a small number of others that only a sliver of his social sphere may have a reliable inkling of who he is. In fact, the revelation may be made only to a mirror. Or not at all. The “real” person may be forever buried beneath layer upon layer of intentional or inadvertent artifice.

I’ve probably written something like this before. That’s because I regularly encounter surprises. People I think I know by virtue of distant interactions suddenly seem to be someone else. Even people with whom I’ve had casual, amiable relationships can reveal a fiery, dangerous core unlike the calm, cool one I thought was resting comfortably inside. It’s best, then, to figuratively undress a person, face-to-face. Remove the protective cladding that conceals sharp edges or soft spots. Like peeling back the layers of an onion, remove the protective sheets that mask the person’s unvarnished self. Engage. Talk. Let one’s guard down, in the hope the person in front of your eyes does the same. Listen and watch and assess. The skeptic in me urges me always to be ready to second-guess one’s earlier opinion of someone else. But the optimist in me insists I should reject that mistrustful attitude.

Nothing in particular prompted these thoughts. Well, that’s not true. Something did, but that something was far more innocuous than these paragraphs suggest. I tend to over-think and over-analyze. Another couple of my innumerable flaws. Which are revealed not just in person, but in writing, as well.

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I woke again around 4 this morning, this time from a worrisome point in a hard-driving dream. It was hard-driving because I was either walking alongside or riding a poor-quality mountain bike most of the time. During the first part of the dream, possibly “day one” of an unwelcome adventure, I was with a group of younger people participating in an organized ride on a mountainous trail. Everyone else on the trek was stronger and more experienced than I, but I somehow managed to follow them to a pickup spot. There, while we waited for our ride back to the base camp, we twice saw a vehicle come to a stop at a stop sign, then take off down the road again. Both times, the same dog was behind the wheel and another dog—again, the same in both instances—sat upright in the passenger seat. I was only modestly surprised. In the second part of the dream, the biking group was of similar make-up, except my friends Lana and Mel were included. The trail, this time, seemed to be outside Austin, Texas; I’m not sure how I know this. Unlike the first day, this day’s trek began with the group splitting up. I followed Lana and one other bicyclist, but they quickly left me behind, as I had a very hard time just getting the bicycle wheels to turn. Another bicyclist was beside me at first. He told me Mel was in a group behind us that would start heading our way later in the morning. The other cyclist and I got separated soon after we started. I reached a point where the trail seemed to end at a road; I started heading right, but quickly decided it was the wrong direction. I turned around and headed up the road and into a old neighborhood filled with ramshackle old frame homes. Alleys behind the houses suggested they must be part of the trail. In both parts of the dream, the trail often followed rock outcroppings that looked like the rock had once been worn smooth by water. And, often, the trail required jumping over gaps in the rock; sometimes, the gaps were in fact narrow but deep canyons. Finally, I saw a group of riders ahead of me, stopped at the top of an overlook. Lana was among them. They seemed concerned that we had gone the wrong direction and there was no way back to our starting point. After that point, I have no recollection of the dream. I suppose it ended when I woke.

Though I don’t know why, I expected to sleep through the night last night. My expectation was dashed when, around 1:30, I woke with a need to pee. Getting back to sleep was a bit of a lengthy undertaking, but I finally returned to my slumbers. Sometime later, I woke again, uncomfortable with my position. I tossed and turned a bit, but finally succeeded in getting back to sleep. Then, I woke from the dream. If I can force myself to refrain from even a short cat-nap today, perhaps I can force myself to sleep through the night tonight.

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Today looks dreary in the extreme. I long for sunlight and a climate suited to short sleeved shirts and shorts. Year-round. With occasional bursts of rain, cold, and even snow. But only occasionally.

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