John Swinburn

Once again, heavy rains took their toll on yesterday’s plans; lunch with friends at a country diner, postponed from Wednesday to Friday due to weather, had to be scrapped again for the same reason. Fortunately, though, weather was not a factor in the gathering with my extended family (siblings, spouses, nephews, nieces, etc.) on Zoom. Thirteen of us logged in to the event. For about an hour, we updated one another about the mundane and the meaningful. I was glad that mi novia and my late wife’s sister (still my sister-in-law, yes?) were able and willing to be on the call. It was good to all the faces and hear all the voices. We all (or most of us) agreed a face-to-face gathering in the foreseeable future is a legitimate goal; whether one or more of us takes the bull by the horns, initiating such an event, remains to be seen. Inasmuch as I am the one writing about it, I think I should at least lend support for it; and with more than just words. Time will tell. It always does.

+++

Very early this morning, around 4, when I was awake and caffeinated and restless, I skimmed some Facebook posts.  Images of the broken remnants of the stone entryway to Hot Springs Village dominated the feed. Late yesterday afternoon, a car smashed into the wall of stone that served as the backdrop for the Village sign, essentially destroying the imposing entrance. Though those images dominated, it was another one that captured my attention and interest.  A Facebook friend, Trish, reposted an image originally posted by someone who identified as Gabrielle is Dreaming. The photo showed the interior of the National Gallery Singapore and its caption indicated the image was from the show, “Century of Light.” It took a tiny bit of sleuthing to learn that the show was held from November 2017 through March 2018. And the photo I found so intriguing apparently was not a piece of art from the show but, rather, an image that seemingly shows temporary walls and arches created for the exhibition. The walls were painted deep cobalt blue and the arches/archways were ochre. Even before I noticed who had posted the image, its bold colors made me think of Trish; the colors are among her favorites, I think. She sometimes posts photos of her house (she lives in Mexico City), which she has decorated in bright, bold colors. If memory serves me correctly, cobalt blue and ochre are among the colors of some of the walls in her house.

But I’ve gone off track…again.

The colors, especially the ochre, sparked my interest in learning more about it. For some reason, pairings of cobalt blue and ochre, and the sharp contrast between them, are suggestive of north African and Middle Eastern environments. I suspect I have seen such pairings in pictures of those places, but I cannot recall specifically where I might have seen them. During my exploration of ochre, I learned (re-learned is probably more accurate) that ochre is a family of earth pigments whose main ingredient is ferric oxyhydroxide. Yellow ochre, which is the color with which I was so intrigued, is a hydrated iron hydroxide, also called limonite. That bit of information spurred me to look for examples of the color in art, which led me to a video of an artist demonstrating how various colors can be mixed and matched to create complex textures of color that suggest different moods or emotions. It was fascinating. But, just now, when I tried to find it again, I could not. That’s a shame, because it was exceptionally well-done and very informative.

That deter into color, during which I barely touched on cobalt blue, took me to just before 5. It was then that I returned here to memorialize my morning thus far. And here I am.  Thinking about repainting the house with variations on cobalt blue and ochre. No, not ME repainting the house. Someone else with far more patience, more flexibility, and considerably greater skill. It’s probably a bit too early to do that; my domestic partner might take offense to the idea.

+++

I had a telephone conversation with a friend yesterday afternoon, before my Zoom call, that troubles me still. My friend was upset and frustrated with circumstances I fully understand. I empathize and sympathize, but it was clear from the conversation that my suggested approach to dealing with the matter does not represent who my friend is. That, I suppose, is part of what troubles me. And it’s what prompted me to think of Shakespeare’s famous lines from As You Like It: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” Though it’s not necessarily what Shakespeare intended to convey, sometimes we have to harness our natural emotions in favor of behaving in ways that, although uncomfortable, might reduce conflict, resolve tension, and secure resolutions to problems. Yet I realize there is a fine line between promoting harmony by “acting” outside our normal personal styles and succumbing to the pressures of a situation by placating other people. I think that fine line can be radically different from person to person. In fact, I am well aware of how that line is different for the person I am today compared to the person I was ten or fifteen years ago. Today, I am far more willing to flex and bend and mold myself around circumstances I find unpleasant. So, advice must always be considered—and taken or rejected—in context. I suppose what troubles me is that my advice and the arguments I made in support of it might both be at odds with my friend’s personality. And my advice might have been too accommodating to the person with whom my friend had a conflict. But the bottom line is that I offered only advice; my friend was (and is) free to take or reject it in whole or in part. I hope my friend understands my advice, whether fitting to my friend’s personality or not, was offered with the best of intentions. Sometimes, I think I can come across as too invested in a situation; as if I would be hurt or offended if my perspective is not adopted at the “right” one. I need to work on that.

+++

I am wicked hungry. If I had been less slothful yesterday, I could prepare something wonderful to satisfy my cravings right now. If I were less of a lazy slob, I would have gone to a grocery store and bought some sausage or bacon or some other form of cruelty-laced but deliciously tasty protein suitable for breakfast. I would have prepared for today’s breakfast, had I been more energetic and forward-thinking. Instead, I stayed home-bound all day. As a consequence, I will be limited today to a meatless breakfast, which might consist of cereal or eggs or cantaloupe or some combination thereof. I’ll survive. I just won’t be as thrilled with breakfast as I otherwise would have been. Oh, I could have eggs and chicken, but who mixes those ingredients for breakfast? I would, but I might get an unhappy glance, or worse, in response. Such is life in the food desert.

Tilting at windmills can be a fruitless endeavor,
a noble enterprise that may yield nothing more
than witnesses’ glazed eyes and gaping yawns.

Convincing one’s unwilling army the enemy is real is
the first step in vanquishing one’s adversary.
Even when loss is certain, each battle is for hope.

Belief in a cause is a dangerous avocation,
a thrilling engagement that can leave a person
weary and impotent, dejected and alone.

Attempting the impossible can crush one’s spirit, yet
it can spark renewal of fiery passion—fueling
life-changing ardor that alters the course of history.

Fighting against the odds can lead from a lonely path
to a thoroughfare of like-minded warriors who share
their weapons and galvanize their followers.

The honor of trying and the majesty of refusing to surrender
may be the only guaranteed outcomes of the engagement,
yet tilting at windmills can snare one’s soul.

Defeat is possible only if surrender holds some appeal,
only if giving up in the face of overwhelming odds is an option,
only by refusing to fight an imaginary enemy that is real.

+++

It has been several years since I last visited Kontiki African Restaurant in Little Rock. An article on the BBC website, lauding the bold flavors of the foods of Sierra Leone, sparked my memory of the place. Kontiki is the only west African restaurant I’ve ever visited. West African cuisine is markedly different from the other African cuisines I’ve tried: Ethiopian, Moroccan/northern African, and South African. West African cuisine, while not my favorite, offers some standout dishes I would love to have again: pepper soup, jollof rice/stew, and roasted meats marinated in a spicy peanut butter concoction. As I think about the relatively few African dishes I’ve eaten, it occurs to me that I’ve probably missed an enormous swath of cuisines. Africa is, after all, a huge continent. I suspect the ingredients and methods of preparation vary widely across the continent, just like they vary widely between Ethiopian and west African and Moroccan dishes. I should make it a mission to explore other African cuisines; not necessarily to prepare them myself, but to taste them as prepared by people who are intimately familiar with the foods. Finding those people, though, may be just as much of a challenge as finding restaurants that serve the cuisines. Arkansas probably is not be the place to find them. Oh, well. Just a little dream.

+++

I listened to and watched “the hearings.” Riveting, frightening, and motivating. But also a little annoying. The opening statement by the officer who waxed poetic about her grandfather’s love of country and her own…it seemed so utterly staged. That bothered me. But the rest of the presentations were riveting. Illuminating. I wish the rest of the world, at least the Trump-loving universe, would watch and listen and force themselves to realize their hero is, in fact, a psychopath unlike any others.  Well, we’ll see. I am afraid that universe is, like its hero, unable to differentiate truth from sick, deluded fiction.

+++

My ego got quite a boost last night.

The boost was the culmination of circumstances that began last Sunday, during a pot-luck lunch at church. A friend sitting across the table from us mentioned that she had to leave soon to participate in an evaluation of auditions for an upcoming “radio-play,” in which the players will read the script of a play in what amounts to a purely acoustic performance. This friend suggested that we should go audition. On a whim, and knowing nothing more than that, we decided to do it. We left the church and headed directly to the site of the auditions, arriving five or ten minutes after auditions had begun. We were given paperwork to complete, had our photos taken, and were advised to deliver our completed “packages” to the assessors (all the while, others were auditioning by reading from sample scripts). Both of us (mi novia and I) were asked to read parts, which involved reading lines while others read their lines in response, etc. We both read parts from the radio-stage-play version of Alfred Hitchcock’s 39 Steps. An hour or so later, we were done. It was an interesting diversion for an early Sunday afternoon.

Now, to the ego-boost part. Just as we got home from mi novia‘s birthday dinner with friends, I got a call from the casting director, who invited me to accept a leading role in the play. She said I had “knocked it out of the park” with my reading. Though I suspect her compliments were amplified to help convince me to accept, they were sufficient to give my ego quite a boost. Unfortunately, I learned during the phone conversation, the rehearsals for the play would conflict with our former neighbors’ 50th anniversary celebration and our road trip to California. Bottom line, we could not accept. I said “we.” That’s because mi novia, too, was invited to accept two parts—two parts—in the play. The casting director told me both of us really impressed the people responsible for casting the plays.

I apologized to the casting director for being unable to participate (and for essentially wasting their time and, because they picked us, derailing their casting efforts for a bit). I wish we had known more about the rehearsal schedule, etc. before we went to the auditions—we would not have gone, had we known. But, then, we would not have had the opportunity to realize the interest and excitement of a “radio play.” We talked last night, after the phone call, about possibly exploring it again in the future. I almost wish we could postpone our other obligations.

We will be back from our road trip in time to go to the performances. Now, after our experience with the auditions, we will be certain to get tickets. I will play close attention, especially, to the performance of the people who will be reading “our” parts.

+++

The weather yesterday and the day before seemed, to put it mildly, close to cataclysmic. Yesterday’s fierce thunderstorms, with blinding rain and constant rolling thunder—and lightning that sometimes seemed almost like a strobe-light on steroids—put a crimp in our plans. After consulting with the friends we had planned to meet for lunch, we postponed our get-together; the weather was bad and unpredictable. We almost postponed our dinner plans, as well, but the skies cleared in time to permit us to get together (though not where we planned…more details below). We saw photos and videos, posted online, taken yesterday of spillways in the Village; the rain caused the spillways to resemble dangerous rapids.  But as wild as yesterday’s weather was, a thunderclap the day before was unlike any either of us have ever experienced. The house literally shook and “undulated” in reply to the unprecedented crack of thunder. It felt like the house was rippling in response to the earth heaving beneath it; almost like an earthquake demonstrating the fragility of human habitation.

+++

Dinner last night was excellent. We ate at Dolce Vita Italian Ristorante, which was surprisingly packed with patrons. We had assumed everyone but us would have given up on dinner plans, considering the heavy rains and fierce winds that finally let up around 5 pm. Wrong. But we had no trouble being seated. And, as usual, the dinner was superb, made even more so by the presence of good friends and good conversation.

We had planned to go to the recently-reopened DeSoto Club. However, we finally got through to the restaurant just before 5 after trying all day. After an utterly unprofessional handling of the first moments of my call, my call was passed on to someone who asked how I could be helped. I asked to make a reservation; he told me reservations could be made only by email and that I would get an email in response if my request was “approved.” He told me the place was terribly busy; booked and crammed and crowded…etc. When I expressed incredulity at using email for reservations, the man on the other end of the line became downright rude; he snapped out the email address and said that’s the only way to make reservations.  After dinner at Dolce Vita Italian Ristorante last night, I decided to stop by the DeSoto Club to see what it was like, in person.  At about 20 minutes to 8 (they close at 8), there was no host or hostess up front. There were quite a few empty tables.  I waited for a couple of minutes when, finally, a guy sauntered up and asked if I could be helped. I asked how I could make reservations. He reiterated what I had been told earlier; only by email “until we have our systems in place.” I told him I had tried to call all day; he said “our phones lines have been messed up.” When I asked whether email requests would be answered, regardless of whether or not reservations were available, he said “they are supposed to respond.” He added that there would be no way I could get reservations for Thursday through Sunday; “we are totally booked.” And he said he would advise not trying to get reservations for groups of more than 8 people. Apparently, 8 people stretches their capacity to cope. The email I sent yesterday at 5 pm is still waiting for a response, despite the fact that “they are supposed to respond.” I had very high expectations for the DeSoto Club. I am beyond disappointed; I am deeply annoyed at what I consider raw unprofessionalism. I have rarely encountered incompetence and rudeness so blatant as I did in my interactions with that restaurant. It is quite a surprise, considering the fact that the restaurant owner’s other restaurant in Hot Springs has been so well-managed. I may give the place another try in a few months; if it hasn’t ironed out its unforgivable ineptitudes by then, though, that will be the last time.

A couple of days ago, I read, online, about someone else who claimed to have had a similar experience with the restaurant. My immediate reaction was to dismiss the bellyacher as having embellished the experience; moreover, I thought, he probably was a chronic, crybaby complainer. After my interactions with the place, I am embarrassed that I misjudged him and that I questioned the truth of his description of his experience.

+++

Enough complaining. I plan to build an extraordinary day out of the upcoming hours.

History—even recent history—tells us country names change. The place we now call Botswana once was known as Bechuanaland. Zimbabwe was Southern Rhodesia, then Rhodesia. Zambia was Northern Rhodesia. Croatia, Slovenia, Macedonia, Serbia, and Bosnia and Herzegovina, collectively, were called Yugoslavia until not so many years ago. Myanmar was Burma. Iran was Persia. Sri Lanka was Ceylon. And on and on and on.

Therefore, Turkey‘s announced change to Türkiye (pronounced tur-key-YAY) should be neither difficult nor surprising. The name change, like every other one before it, originated at the confluence of political agendas and the thirst for recognition and hunger for power. And from a dazzling array of evolutionary socio-political triggers that, once the events fueling them are started, cannot be contained by simple power of will. The change of a country’s identity and “brand” from one thing to another is a bit like a runaway train; there comes a point beyond which there is no stopping it. And, who knows? Should we even try?

Whether the emergence of Türkiye is evidence of nationalistic fervor or not, nationalism and/or patriotism often reveals itself when power is in the balance.  It is just one of those things that happens on a planet populated to a great degree by nationalists whose allegiance is limited geographically and intellectually by artificial and by natural borders. Humans are innately tribal, though our tribes can be massive and geographically diverse. And fiercely competitive. And enormously selfish. We call ourselves patriotic; painting ourselves as merely loyalists in an attempt to hide our true identities: selfish and greedy partisan chauvinists. Patriotism is, in fact, just nationalism light; an acceptable—indeed, demanded and expected—form of jingoism. To question the rectitude of the philosophies or actions of one’s tribe is called unpatriotic; tantamount to treason. “We the people” willingly buy into that mass hysteria, seldom questioning whether our loyalties arise from being deliberately manipulated. “My country, right or wrong” is a symptom of a successful propaganda campaign. We are taught to “pledge allegiance” because people whose allegiance is unshakable are easy to control, especially when asked to embrace the unacceptable; to believe the unbelievable. Witness our incursions into Vietnam and Iraq, for example. Deliberate social manipulation brings us patriotism, nationalism, heterosexism, homophobia, racism, gender stereotyping, and a host of other social ills that masquerade as armor to protect us against darkness and evil. When the legitimacy of one of these restrictive controls (sexism or racism, for example) begins to crumble under the weight of truth, the forces of bigotry are corralled in an attempt to protect the other “isms” from a similar fate.

Well, that was a surprise. I did not expect my comment about the name change of the country we once called Turkey to lead to a political rant about the ills of nationalism and its psychotic cousins. That’s just the way my mind works. Free-association thinking, flavored with personal beliefs and biases.  Sort of like a rorschach, but without the ink splotches.

+++

Today is mi novia‘s birthday. We will meet friends for lunch in a small town forty-five minutes west of us. We will deliver my collection of vinyl records to them at that place. The vinyl is just an excuse; we’ve been wanting to see them for a long time. The perfect birthday gift (especially to me, since these people have been my friends for forty-five years or so).  Later, we will have dinner with some other friends at a recently re-opened restaurant about which we have high hopes. Whether the restaurant meets our expectations or not, getting together with friends for a celebratory birthday dinner will be a pleasure. At some point in the not-too-distant future, I will take mi novia out to an upscale restaurant for a post-birthday celebration. We simply haven’t have the time or the inclination lately to think about such things, though. Our minds have focused on moving and unpacking. The more we think about how much we have to unpack and put away, the clearer it becomes that it probably will be Christmas of 2023 before  we complete the task.

Mi novia and I agreed, at some point, that we would not buy one another presents for birthdays, holidays, etc., etc. However, she has a habit of buying things for me year-round; if she observes that something is lacking or if she believes I will like something she encounters. she buys it. I have never been good at buying gifts. The problem is this: I often think of the “ideal” gift for a person, but if I do not act on the thought immediately, it gets lost in the muddy morass that is my brain. No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what the “ideal” gift was. And I simply cannot think of anything else to get in its place.  I actually prefer unplanned gift-giving. Spur-of-the-moment gift-giving, in my opinion, seems more genuine than giving prompted by the calendar. And gifts are not necessarily “things.” Gifts can be experiences or simply thoughts articulated in a way that clearly demonstrate love and caring.

+++

The dim light of dawn begins to unfold, of late, around 5:30. At the same time, bird calls commence and get louder. This morning, I hear the distinct calls/songs of cardinals piercing the silence of the morning. I can hear the sounds quite well, even though the doors and windows are shut; glass and wood cannot keep those noises from entering the house and making their way to my ears.

+++

Be a good person, but don’t waste your time trying to prove it.

~ Paulo Coelho ~

+++

Yesterday, I went in for a stretching/cupping session, my first one, but the therapist opted not to do the cupping because I was (and remain) insufficiently hydrated. Cupping without proper hydration, she said, could pour poisons trapped in my tissues directly into my bloodstream, which would cause me (and I quote) “to feel like shit.” My next session, scheduled for early July, will include cupping; that session will determine (for me) whether I want to pursue it. I had planned on a simple massage, but mi novia’s ex-husband’s raves about his experience with this therapist and this therapy convinced me to give stretching/cupping a try. The stretching part involved moving my arms and legs and other body parts in ways and over distances to which they are unaccustomed. I think that is good. I need to get outside my physical comfort zone and give my blood vessels and muscles and the tissues of tendons some challenges of motion. But, really, I’d love just a plain old massage, too. Really. I want a strong-hands massage to ease the tension in my too tight muscles. Soon, perhaps. Maybe.

+++

When people inquire about “how are you?” the correct answer depends on context. Who’s asking the question? How close are they to you? Do they really want to know? “Fine” is the normal, generic, safe response. Even when you’re not fine at all. Even when you want to reveal anguish or fear or deep, unending sadness, “fine” is the best response. Depending on context, of course. It’s hard, though, to know whether the question is simply an automatic one meant only to get or keep a conversation going. If that’s the case, a truthful answer probably is not the right answer. Even when the query is genuine, the time or place may not be right to let loose with all the challenges facing you. Rather than wait for the appropriate context, though, it’s best to seek out the right listener if things really are not “fine.” But that is not easy, either. Because, how do you know? How do you know who is both sufficiently interested and invested in you? How do you know who is able and willing to listen in a way that’s helpful and non-judgmental and genuine? Sometimes, it’s a crap shoot. Deciding when and to whom to reveal that things are not “fine” is a risky proposition. Knowing that, though, may enable you to armor yourself against disappointment. If the risk proves worthwhile, good. If not, your coat of mail protects you. And you move on to the next context. Or you crawl back into your lair.

+++

And off I go into the morning!

There should be no disagreement, no debate: white men live with enormous amounts of unearned privilege. The simple randomness of birth gives us opportunities not available to people of color or to women. We are, in a word, lucky. Some of us feel guilt or embarrassment or humiliation or shame at our undeserved privilege. Wait…it is, without question, unearned; but is it also undeserved? Given enough time for silent meditation, I hope most men would finally reach the conclusion that our privilege is both unearned and undeserved. We should not have opportunities placed in our laps if those same opportunities are not equally available to everyone else. Whether we “should” have advantages or not, we do.

So, the question arises: should we refuse to accept those unearned privileges so that others might be given opportunities to which they might otherwise denied? The immediate reaction may be, “Yes!” But thinking about it leads to an intellectual dilemma. If my rejection of privilege would then damage the opportunities available to my newborn daughter or my year-old son, would my decision to refuse privilege be moral? Might my refusal to accept the advantage of privilege constitute BOTH a moral act and an immoral act? And if my action would be both moral and immoral, what moral alternatives might be available? Yet, if I had to choose between my obligations to society and my obligations to my children, who would I be expected to sacrifice at the altar of morality? Put another way, should my children be penalized because society has decided to confer upon me privilege that I refuse to accept it? A corollary question: should the children of others be penalized for society’s decision to lavish upon me unearned entitlements? Ach! Life is undeniably hard. But for many of us, there’s a soft underbelly of comfort from time to time. Would that the soft comfort would extend to everyone.

+++

Finally, another visit to the grocery store parking lot in just a while this morning; there, the items I purchased online will be delivered to me. Placed in my car for me. I will not even have to exit the vehicle to collect the bounty of my shopping spree.

Talk about privilege! I was lucky enough to be born into a white family whose parents taught their children how to get along in a middle class world, even though I think we were, economically, on the fringes of the middle class. Those parents willingly sacrificed their own comforts so the kids would have opportunities to prosper. And here I am, living in a gated community; groceries being delivered to my car. Had I made a few more wrong moves—or had my parents and older siblings not modeled respectable behaviors and attitudes—I might be living under a bridge today. Or not living at all; the victim of sickness or violence or despair.

See how easy it is to slip into a perspective from which the dark side of even innocent good fortune is visible? But the ease of seeing the “bad” in the “good” exists in reciprocal circumstances. When faced with obstacles and challenges or worse, the flexible mind can quickly adapt by going into “learning” mode. That is, a person can adjust his or her perspective by looking for the lessons in negative circumstances. Sometimes, of course, one has to tell oneself some lies or at least mislead oneself in order to find those lessons. But it’s possible. I’ve done it.

+++

Today’s local weather forecast calls for possible thunderstorms, high levels of pollen in the atmosphere, and uncomfortably warm temperatures coupled with high humidity. I’ll just have to accept the weather; it is what it is, as some might say.

Rain is a distinct possibility this morning.

The early morning sky seems heavy, as if burdened and in need of relief. Rain can relieve the sky of its uncomfortable heaviness. Or so I’ve been told by clouds, who have a close relationship with rain, so they should know. If it were possible for me to converse with clouds—and if they had the decency to respond without mocking the fact that I speak to them—I could learn a lot. I could learn what the world looks like from far, far above the ground. Though, to be frank, lately the clouds have hugged the earth as if they were afraid the earth would wander off without them. I could learn something from those earth-hugging clouds, too. I could learn whether they consider themselves one and the same as fog or whether they think of themselves as distinct from it. And how do they differentiate themselves from fog—if they do—when clouds and fog collide on the sides of mountains? So many things to learn! So limited in my ability to experience the perspectives enjoyed by inanimate objects…assuming, of course, inanimate objects can experience joy. Doesn’t “enjoy” mean “to experience with joy?” I think it does. And, if so, can clouds or rain or fog experience joy? Can they enjoy their experiences in the universe? Humans assume only animals can feel pain and love and joy and sadness. We are so sure of ourselves. Actually, though, we know next to nothing. We know less today than we will know tomorrow, but there will never be enough tomorrows to know all we do not know today.

No, I am not experimenting with LSD. Nor any mind-altering drug. Just thinking. Maybe it’s whimsy. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s an attempt to wash away the ashes of yesterday.

+++

I ordered incense from Amazon a few days ago. Unlike many things one can order from Amazon, incense is not delivered overnight. Or even a few days after ordering. I do not know why I have to wait so long; perhaps it is shipped from Bangladesh or Pakistan. Or, maybe there is an unpublicized incense shortage; my order’s delay is simply evidence that incense is in short supply. At least the patchouli scent; that’s what I ordered this time. Last time, I ordered an assortment of scents. I was not thrilled with several of them. I like patchouli, so I ordered an entire box of patchouli-scented cones. According to Wikipedia, “Patchouli is a species of flowering plant in the family Lamiaceae, commonly called the mint or deadnettle family.” Until this morning, I had never (at least, not as far as I remember) questioned the origin of patchouli. Perhaps I assumed it was a mixture of hippie-sourced smell crystals, created under cover of darkness in isolated mountain passes is the Colorado Rockies, far, far from the prying eyes of law enforcement and evangelical ministers. But now I know otherwise. Assuming, of course, one can trust the pronouncements of Wikipedia. At any rate, I look forward to receiving my patchouli-scented incense. I’ve been burning a rather unsatisfactory cinnamon-scented incense I bought many years ago in downtown Hot Springs.

+++

Robin Williams is quoted as having said, “I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.” In hindsight, given our knowledge now of his battles with depression, I think he may have had insights that most people, thankfully, will never have. But his insights can be informative, educational, perhaps even life-saving. Feelings of worthlessness probably cannot be overcome by urging people to “buck up” or providing evidence that they are valued and loved. I suspect feelings like that must be addressed at a much deeper level with the help of people who understand the genesis of depression and know ways to pry it out of a person’s mind and discard it where it cannot be resurrected.

+++

The “coo-coo-coo” of mourning doves greets me around dawn every day. I rarely see them, but I hear them. When I lived on a mountainside, in the morning I heard the crowing of chickens and lowing of cattle. Now, I hear mourning doves and Carolina wrens and pine siskins. And crows. And other birds.

What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

~ George Saunders ~

George Saunders’ 2013 commencement address at Syracuse University preceded his book, Congratulations, By the Way: Some Thoughts on Kindness. A transcript of his commencement address, posted to the New York Times website three months after he delivered it, was viewed more than a million times within three days after it was posted. Saunders, for those readers here who might not know of him, is a writer—of fiction, essays, and children’s books—who was born in Texas (Amarillo) and grew up in Illinois (Oak Forest). I think he still teaches at Syracuse University. His background does not matter, I suppose; it’s his message. When I read a bit about him this morning (following a rather circuitous route from this morning’s edition of The Marginalian), the quotation (above) about his greatest regret being failures of kindness struck me in the head like a two-by-four. Those failures are at the roots of my most unpleasant, shameful memories. Circumstances which called for kindness from me but, instead, drew from me meanness or indifference or outright cruelty. Those are the failures for which self-forgiveness is very nearly impossible. Despite the fact that those events or episodes…whatever the proper term…are far outnumbered by instances of kindness, they are the ones that contribute more heavily to my self-image. My memories of those unhappy recollections are not necessarily crisp and clear, but their presence is sufficient to sully the image when I look in the metaphorical mirror.

As I ponder the character traits I value in people, it occurs to me that kindness has always been one of those I value most. Until I thought about those traits in light of my appreciation of Sauders’ comments, I might have said compassion or empathy were the ones I find most admirable. But kindness gets to the core; it encompasses both compassion and empathy, as well as genuine caring. Kindness embraces tenderness and humanity and a trait that is hard to define but easy to see: decency.

It is easy to be kind when the objects of my assessments share my philosophies and behaviors. Even then, though, I can (and too often do) fail at being kind. But when the objects of my judgment think or act in ways anathema to my view on righteousness, kindness frequently is left to languish in the recesses of my hidden human decency. I justify my lack of mercy by arguing that reciprocal treatment is “deserved.” I judge people all the time; but only when my judgments are positive do I tend to be kind. And that is a failure of kindness. When I say “I,” I probably should say “we.” I am not necessarily any more guilty of the crime of unkindness than most of us. The world would be a better place if we all practiced kindness more expansively.

+++

The close-up image was taken from the master bathroom window, looking down. The smaller, head-on shot, was taken about forty feet in front of the fawn. Both of them were taken in our side yard. We went in search of our missing hose “pot” (for storing the watering hose), when my sister-in-law spied what looked like a mushroom in the middle of the side lawn.

We left the lonely fawn to loll about in the morning sun, only to find it was gone when we returned for a look a short while later. I learned that does often leave their offspring resting alone during the day to avoid predators. The doe apparently rounded up the fawn after we saw it and led it away to a more safe setting, with fewer inquisitive humans.

+++

Today’s church service will formally welcome several people as new members. Most of them have been friends of the church for a while and decided to join when the time was right for them. A celebratory salad and dessert lunch will be held afterward. Then, I will come home and nurse my chigger bites.

+++

Behind my knees. Below both hips. Both butt cheeks. The top of my left left, beneath the butt. The tops of both feet. The right side of my right ankle. Those are a few of the locations of the current round of itchy, itchy chigger bites.  Every year, during the long, long, long chigger season (AKA late spring, all summer, and early fall), I question my sanity for staying in Hot Springs Village. I loathe chigger bites. I scratch them mercilessly, despite using anti-itch ointment especially formulated for chigger bites, leaving raw, red spots where the beasts have feasted on my flesh. The idea of living someplace where chiggers do not thrive (and, preferably, cannot survive) appeals to me more and more with each passing year. Why in the name of all that’s holy have I just purchased another house in the Village, when I could have relocated to a near-paradise, where chiggers are treated as never seen mythic pests, not as an unfortunate reality of daily life. Bastards! I hate chiggers. I would be willing to risk thermonuclear war if it meant the end-times for chiggers.

+++

The coming week includes appointments that, I hope, will change me. First, I have an appointment to get a haircut at a barber shop where I’ve never been. I may take a photo of me, taken about ten years ago, in which what little of my hair is visible is exactly how I want it cut but have not had done in ten years or so. Or I may not. Another appointment is for “stretch therapy with cupping,” which I take to mean “massage.” I have not had a professional massage in a very, very long time. I hope it will be as relaxing as I remember a massage to be. Relief of the stress that, over time, builds up in one’s neck, back, and shoulders is a magical sensation. When that tightness disappears, the world becomes a happier, brighter, more appealing place.

+++

Time to begin the process of making myself presentable, which is a considerable effort. Shower. Shave. Get dressed. It is SO. DAMN. DEMANDING. I prefer being slothful, staying dressed in über-casual morning clothes all day. Oh, well. One does what one must to be welcomed, or at least tolerated, on the fringes of civilized life. If my being clean and dressed makes other people feel better, then I should practice kindness. I must be kinder.

The proceeds of the sale of the “old” house are in the bank. I should be ecstatic that the long, tiring episode is behind me. I am glad it’s over. But I expected a degree of elation that, as of yet, has failed to materialize. Instead, I feel somewhat stunned and surprised at the absence of euphoria. I waited for it. I expected it. I looked forward to it. In its place, there is a modest sense of relief, as if a heavy stone was removed from my backpack. I feel appreciation that the burden is not so great, but the expected ecstasy apparently escaped from an open door. That is a disappointment. Considering the investment of mental and physical energy and the time, money, and stress involved in the process, this mild feeling of relief does not seem a fair trade. Perhaps it’s just shock; maybe, once the reality sinks in, enthusiasm and unrestrained delight will course through my body in a happy adrenalin rush. I hope so. But then what? Where will the next infusion of happiness come from? This dull reaction and odd sense of “so what?” does not belong here. After putting so much into it, there should be an unending wellspring of joy. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe a few days of being lazy—napping and lolling about without feeling compelled to accomplish anything—would resolve the disappointment. Perhaps I will see. At the moment, I am not dancing. But, then, I have never been a dancer, fearing what others would see if I tried.

+++

On occasion, the idea of writing a blog post holds absolutely no appeal for me. In fact, it seems burdensome, similar in effect to looking forward to a drive to my office, through heavy traffic, for a face-to-face meeting with a remarkably stupid and deeply arrogant client. I no longer have to drive through heavy traffic to my office. I have no stupid, arrogant clients. This morning, at least, I will not insist on writing a lengthy blog post. Instead, I will expend my mental energies elsewhere.

Four-plus years ago, I wrote a post I entitled, The People Who Feed Us. In it, I mentioned almost in passing that I wished I had the opportunity to meet and talk to the farmers and farmworkers and the other people responsible for getting food to my pantry and my refrigerator. I expressed an interest in talking to people involved in every facet of feeding me, even “the person who artificially inseminated the cow that gave birth to the animal from whose carcass my steak was carved.” That curiosity—about people who have a significant impact on our lives in one way or another but about whom we know very little—continues to grow.

I thought about a related issue again yesterday afternoon, when I realized too late that I had ordered something through Amazon but had failed to update my mailing address. The item already had been shipped. It will be delivered to a house I no longer own nor live in. As I contemplated what steps I would need to take to update my mailing address, I thought about the incredibly complex web of people who might be touched by my mistake or others like it, people who:

work to ensure that Amazon’s online systems are as simple as possible so that purchasers can correct such errors (until items are shipped); deliver my package; are involved in managing the intricacies of processing credit card payments; designed the products I bought; manufactured and marketed those products; produced the website content that enabled me to order the products; measured the demand for products like the ones I ordered and/or determined the need to supply them…the list of people is almost endless.

What if, I wondered, I could have a brief conversation with each of these people? Not necessarily to learn about their jobs so much, but to learn a little about their lives. How much insight into the challenges and obstacles facing them might I gain? How much appreciation for their successes might I have after these brief conversations? And how much greater an understanding might I gather about people who are very different from me? Or might I come to realize that they all are essentially the same, at their core; people just like me?

I have had similar “brainstorms” in the past. Many, many similar brainstorms. I imagine, on occasion, stopping people with whom I interact in various settings, to take a few moments to tell me about their lives. I don’t, of course, because they often are in a time crunch to perform their jobs…or my inquiry might confuse them and throw them off.  But I would find it fascinating to engage in conversation with them; about their lives, not their jobs. People like:

the person delivering my mail; the UPS or FedEx delivery person; the bank teller; the grocery store cashier; the fast-food clerk or manager; the waitstaff at restaurants; the guys who do yardwork; the HVAC maintenance person; the hotel or motel desk clerk; the pharmacist; again, the list is almost endless.

Intense thoughts about both the mundane and the exciting aspects of our lives helps me realize how deeply involved I am with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other people. People who impact my life in ways large and small, but about whose influences on me I rarely consider. No matter how withdrawn from the world one might try to be, the structure of our society demands almost labyrinthine involvement with others. We depend on one another for almost everything. We are far more engaged with one another than we tend to think we are; perhaps not always face-to-face, but engaged, nonetheless.

Thinking about how much the comfort my life depends on other people—by and large people I do not know personally and generally never even meet—causes me to realize I do not express my gratitude enough. In part, of course, because I do not even realize I should be grateful. Only after I think deeply about the role other people play in my enjoyment of life do I realize how much a debt of gratitude I owe to so many.

Too often, in the face of unpleasantness or obstacles, I quickly forget how grateful I should be. The tendency to erase that realization is a constant struggle. I admire people who seem to have overcome (or who have never had) the tendency to forget gratitude. They seem to me generally happier and more at ease in the world than the rest of us. I may constitute  small percentage who fail to adequately recognize the need for gratitude. But I don’t think so. I think I am among the masses who should nurse an attitude that demonstrates that we realize the importance of human connections. Even mundane, transactional connections. They all are important. I realize that now. I may forget, but I’ll try to remember.

+++

I was told the buyer of my house has finally signed the purchase documents and that the title company has the money from the lender. And I am told the funds will be wired to my account today. Hallelujah! Based on what I was told, I should get a phone call confirming the transfer just about the time an MRI of my right knee is being done. So it goes.

These photos do not even begin to do justice to the environment surrounding the new house, but they will have to do until I find the time and inclination to take and organize and post more photos.

Photos that show the inside of the house will have to wait until the process of unpacking and organizing has been completed. Perhaps shortly after Christmas 2023.

But, back to these photos. The image with the red dot was an attempt to capture a photo of a summer tanager (the red dot). The bright red bird is a male; the female is colorful, too, but less flamboyant. Her coloring includes muted orange and green, coupled with a bit of red. The pair (and several of their friends, it seems) live for the moment in the forest directly behind our back deck. Watching them flit back and forth is relaxing. Listening to their songs and their calls is equally pleasant. The image looking out my office window (in the front of the house) captured a small ground squirrel attempting to get access to the bird seed in the feeder. The feeder has since been moved, replaced by a much larger one that attracts cedar waxwings, among other birds. The photo showing long, straight pine tree trunks is one view off the back deck; look in another direction and the view is full of the lush greenery of mixed hardwoods. Finally, the photo of the deck was taken from the seat I tend to occupy when I sit outside on the back deck. A panoramic view from that spot would reveal a mixture of dense hardwood forest and thinner piney woods above a thick layer of brown leaves on the forest floor.

+++

As I’ve told myself many times of late, we (most Americans and many others) are far too enamored of “stuff.” We attempt to fill the emptiness in our lives with tangible evidence that our lives have meaning. We collect sofas and televisions and electronic gadgetry in the hope that ownership will convince the world around us—and ourselves—that our efforts mean something; we try to equate material wealth with both happiness and relevance. In reality, simple comfort (and not material wealth) seems to be more closely associated with happiness than does wealth. As for relevance, that is an open question…I suppose that perpetual question of context may be at play…

Sitting on the back deck with a glass of wine or a gin & tonic, listening to the music of the forest, argues against the importance of material wealth. Of course, in today’s world at least moderate material wealth is necessary to provide simple comfort and to afford access to the setting in which I find myself. But sitting outside in this gentle setting reinforces what I already know: that “things” can be anchors and distractions from the actual beauty of life all around us. I know this, but too often I permit myself to be swayed by misplaced and very temporary desire. I “want” a new sports jacket or a new television or something else shiny and attractive but, ultimately, unnecessary. I quickly learn that that shiny something is no more capable of bringing me happiness than I am capable of emptying the ocean with a single swallow of water.

+++

Yesterday afternoon I wrote what I now consider a wholly inadequate response to an extremely generous comment left by an occasional follower of my blog; she left her comment on the post I wrote yesterday morning. She expressed hope that I will continue writing my blog; I will, though I may take a little break sometime soon. After reading her comments, I felt like calling her to tell her how good it felt to read her complimentary words. But I don’t have her number. And she might have been shocked to have received my call, anyway, in that we have not spoken with one another since about 1979, when we worked together. We’ve had the rare interaction online in the last year or two, but no voice communication. I was intrigued by the exceptional language skills that her comment revealed.  And her talent for boosting a person’s spirits with words is enviable. I doubt she will read these flattering words and the content of my comments in response to hers. I think she visits the blog rarely; but I hope she will someday see them and that my appreciation for her compliments will give her some pleasure.

+++

My expectations about the completion of the sale of my house have been repeatedly dashed or delayed, so I will refrain from announcing any such expectations this morning. Suffice it to say the process still has not come to an end. I have signed papers, but that is where is stands. The aphorism about counting chickens and eggs in baskets is apropos; for now, I simply will continue to learn about the torture of real estate transactions by observing them as coolly and as calmly as I can.

+++

Three hours hence I will take my Subaru to an automotive service shop a few miles from the Village for its somewhat late 90,000 mile service. I opted to go local, rather than to the dealer an hour away, for various reasons, including both time and money savings. The local service shop gets high praise from a friend, which is reason enough for me to trust the place to do good work.

+++

It is light enough now that I can walk outside without fearing I will stumble into a tree or a raccoon or my parked car. My computer tells me the temperature outside is 73°F; that is comfortable, though my computer also tells me the pollen count is high. So, I may walk outside, bask in the cool comfort of the still quite dim morning light, and sneeze as I feel my eyes itch and water. Still, this time of morning is lovely. It fills my melancholy soul with promise that today will be enough; it will be all I need.

My “readership” as measured by “Statcounter” traffic monitors is down considerably. Especially the “regular” traffic, the number of returning visitors, is down. That’s a sign that what I write is not gripping enough to cause readers to want to come back. In other words, my posts increasingly bore regular readers. Maybe I have been stuck in a rut, documenting my thoughts in excruciatingly unexciting detail. Or perhaps it’s a sign that other people, people around me, move on. Their interests ebb and flow, just like mine. Their desire to know what I am saying wanes. Television news anchors lose viewers when major events absorb the majority of their face-time; people tire of hearing the same damn thing, over and over again. Even riveting news gets old. So, too, with blogs; especially blogs without the rivets. So be it. I’m not aiming for high traffic numbers. But I will admit that it pleases me to see high numbers of return visitors. Even though they rarely, if ever, comment or indicate any interest in what I write. Their numbers are down. Such is life. I keep saying I write for myself, not to engage with or please an audience. And so it is.

+++

I envision crossing the Texas panhandle, watching the sky for signs of hard summer weather, the sort of weather only storm-chasers—in their adventuresome madness—seek out. Finally. The long-delayed road trip to California is on the calendar again. We set aside roughly three weeks for the California trip. When we finally determined it was pointless to wait for a “safe” time to go, we had to decide when to take the trip. The decision is made. We will go. The trip will be an exhilarating, joyful adventure.  Soon, we’ll be off!

+++

The calendar is never empty of obligations; we had to make the call to miss some important “dates” in favor of the long-deferred travel.  That fact—that the calendar seems perpetually to hold obstacles to freedom—is on my mind again. Calendar commitments are harnesses that constraint my movement. The calendar restrains me from…no, it’s not the calendar. Too often I acquiesce to the calendar’s commands—commands I place there after agreeing to the commitments they entail.

Bondage to the calendar seems to sneak into my posts on a regular basis. I blame the calendar, but I allow the calendar to engage in slavery. I do not object strenuously enough against subjugation to a schedule. I fail to cast off the chains of enslavement to pursue freedom. Instead, I obey the calendar, ignoring my cries for freedom from the confining embrace of voluntary commitment. It’s my fault for permitting events to control my movement and my time. I won’t promise myself that I will forever reject making those commitment; but I will promise to take them less seriously. That, alone, will make it easier to make changes to my personal time commitments.

+++

Dignity is missing. And empathy. Compassion. Morality. Other attributes one would hope to find in people who call themselves public servants. Instead of those qualities, they possess (and brag about) attributes more commonly found in common criminals: dishonor, indifference, animosity, dishonesty. Somehow, though, these latter attributes seem to make them popular. As if unprincipled braggadocio were a badge of honor—a peculiarity that demonstrates a criterion for holding public office: unworthiness. Voting could turn them out, but we do not vote in sufficiently high numbers to do it. Instead, we sit back and bitch about the decay of democracy, blaming the politicians. We should be blaming ourselves and each other. Voting should be a public bade of honor; failure to vote should trigger mechanisms to publicly shame the eligible voter who stays away from the polls. And that includes me when my intention to vote is secondary to other things that seem more important. Almost nothing is more important than voting; failing to vote essentially gives control of one’s life to someone selected by a fraction of the public.

+++

We take ourselves too seriously. We do not allow ourselves time to “play” as much as we should. Adult obligations must be met, but we need not seek them out to the extent that they crowd out opportunities for enjoyment unconnected to a social purpose. Fun. Plain old fun. Silliness. Mindless banter. There’s room for such stuff in our lives. We can devote our energies toward ensuring religious freedom or to protecting wildlife habitat or to the right to control one’s own body or to control of handguns and assault rifles…but that should not precludes us from laughing at television comedies or enjoying a glass of wine with friends around conversation that intentionally avoids the “serious” stuff. Maybe some people look at a person with my attitudes and judge me to be too frivolous or insufficiently concerned about what we are leaving to future generation. I say let those people judge me as they wish. I will respond with mockery and derision, but only a little; because I’ll be too busy having a little fun between my bouts of deep involvement in social issues.

+++

I hope the buyer closes, today, on the purchase of my house. Getting word that has occurred will relieve an enormous amount of pressure on me. Pressure, I will admit, I permit to cause me to feel tightly wound and nervous. I wish I were better equipped to unwind my stresses.

+++

I may take a vacation from writing this blog…see if the world collapses in response.

Despite having been to neither city, Traverse City, Michigan and Ann Arbor, Michigan have a fascination for me. I am especially enamored with Traverse City, the smaller of the two, with a population of roughly 16,000. But Ann Arbor, considerably larger at 121,000, has special appeal, too; a college town, I imagine the diversity of options for education and entertainment is significant. By the way, I realize the winters in both places can be brutal. The average high January and February temperatures in Traverse City are 28°F and 29°F, respectively. The average highs in Ann Arbor are only a few degrees warmer; 31°F and 35°F, respectively.  But summer temperatures in both places are absolutely delightful, especially when compared to anyplace in Arkansas: Traverse City’s average summertime  high is only 80°F and Ann Arbor’s average high reaches only 84°F.

It’s not just Michigan that holds an allure for me. What I’ve read and heard about Schenectady, New York appeals to me, too. The summer and winter average temperatures are similar to those of the Michigan cities. And Schenectady has a population of only around 66,000. Plenty of other smallish cities throughout New York and Pennsylvania and Connecticut and Massachusetts, etc. may be appealing, too.

Given that my move from one sprawling house to another has just been completed, I may be out of my mind to even fantasize of moving to either place. Actually, my move has not been “completed.” Unpacking and organizing is apt to take months. And, in the throes of moving, I heard myself say “I will never move again.” Never mind. Promises to oneself are easily broken. Especially when those promises ignore the challenges of summer heat, humidity, chiggers, and deeply-engrained irrational hyper-conservatism. Yet promises need not be steadfast “either/or” propositions. Perhaps there is room for compromise, wherein promises are met, but with appropriate adjustments. Maybe the process of “moving” becomes, instead, “temporarily re-situating.” As in, living in one place for part of the year and another place for another part. Lots of people do it—people with the financial wherewithal and the temperament that enables them to adjust. They exchange the brutal summers of one part of the country for the milder, more comfortable summers of another place. Or they flee frigid winters in favor of more temperate climes.  There is enormous appeal, to me, for living in places more hospitable than Arkansas; at least part of the time. But, for the moment, I’m putting the reins on my fantasies, keeping my options to a small but manageable number. I say “my options” when I now must say “our options,” given that I am no longer utterly and completely free of ties. We have talked, off and on, about living in other places. Not since we made an enormous financial commitment to another house and invested months’ worth of intellectual and emotional energy in the move. But we have talked about it. So it’s not a new concept, dropping out of the sky like a balloon, laden with steel spikes.

I have done a bit of exploration of the fantasy cities. All of them offer the potential of friends with some common philosophies in the form of Unitarian Universalist churches/communities. Not that the existence of a UU congregation is the only source of progressive thinkers nor does it offer the assurance of suitable commonality…but it helps. All the places are small enough, but large enough, to provide interest and options. Yet the cost of housing is, like everywhere else in the known universe, rising—perhaps to unsustainable heights. Ownership is no necessarily attractive, anyway. But I have yet to explore the availability of affordable short term rentals/leasable living space.

I’ve long since abandoned the idea of pulling or driving an RV; the work involved in upkeep, not to mention the challenges of keeping the thing on the road and avoiding collisions with other vehicles are more than I want to consider.

At some point, I think one becomes too old to enjoy the excitement of change and newness. At some stage of life, the challenges of altering one’s routines and adopting new ones becomes a burden. Before I reach that point, if I haven’t already, I want to continue to experience the excitement of adjusting to new places and being exposed to different points of view. I do not want to regret having missed the opportunities afforded by changes in place and the attitudes places carry with them.

Making the kinds of changes I am considering/fantasizing about, though, has one distinct and painful disadvantage: it adds time and distance between friends. No longer would I be in a position to drive to the other end of the Village or the western edge of the state to visit friends, nor would they be in a position to make a quick trip to visit me. Visits would require extensive planning and the commitment of both time and resources. Though I think I would be willing to spend the time, money, and energy to make those treks, I doubt I would feel comfortable asking the same of friends. And, in reality, I wonder how often that might occur; not frequently, I suspect.

I thought I had completed this entire thought process before; I thought I had reached a firm, almost irrevocable decision. But here it is, again. Wanderlust might be part of it. But that’s not all of it. Part of the reason my fantasy found its way back in to my consciousness has to do with the fact that I never really gave sufficient consideration to what I’ve been seeking. And I do not know, still. It’s just something else. An emptiness in a part of me that I want to fill; but I do not know just what or where it is.

+++

It’s not quite 5:30. I’ve been up for more than two hours, though I did get quite a lot of sleep last night/yesterday evening. I slept for two hours in the recliner in my office, thanks in large part to spending part of the afternoon on the deck, drinking gin & tonic. But that rest probably would have been necessary even without the G&T. Yesterday morning was devoted to unpacking and sorting and putting things away. That’s more draining, more demanding, than one might think. At any rate, I went to sleep and then, two hours later, I went to bed. And then, at 3:18, two hours after interrupting my sleep for a pee break, I was up for the duration. As I gaze out the window of my office, I can see through the trees tiny dots of very dim light. Morning light will be here soon. The birds will begin their morning music and I will commence my watch, attempting to spy them as they alight on the feeder outside.  This has already become a new routine for me.

+++

And now, a diversion, as I delve into my imagination:

I pull off a long, empty highway into the parking lot of a 24-hour roadside diner, after having driven several hours overnight. I order black coffee, two poached eggs, two thick strips of pepper-laden bacon, a baked tomato, and some mushrooms cooked in just a touch of butter. Yes, this place will accommodate my desire for a baked tomato and sautéed mushrooms. And, unlike most roadside diners (and most other places that serve coffee), the coffee would be brewed from freshly-ground French roast Kona beans. The waitress, Alison Bates, is a forty-something woman reconfiguring her life after the death of her husband. She is brown and sinewy, as if she has spent her life outdoors in a physically demanding job…maybe on a farm or as a roughneck in an oilfield. But she describes a different life. She tells me her twenty-year marriage was, essentially, twenty-years of wasted time. Her husband, a salesman for oilfield service equipment, spent most of his time on the road; when home, he spent his time watching sports on television and golfing with his buddies. Alison says she spent twenty years living alone with a man she barely knew, wondering how she could escape the prison to which she had willingly, but mistakenly, committed herself. Her husband’s sudden death from a blood clot in his brain unlocked the prison gates. Though she graduated from college, she had never used her degree professionally; she had worked in administrative jobs just to stay occupied. But the money she earned was her own and she saved almost all of it during those twenty years. After his death, she took her husband’s insurance money and her savings and hit the road. She stops occasionally to explore new places and have new experiences. Like this job as a waitress at an all-night diner. She says she plans to leave here in the next few days. I ask her where she’s going. “I don’t know, yet. Any suggestions?” I suggest she join me as I head west to Española, New Mexico, where I built three adobe casitas that serve as temporary bed and breakfast getaways for city dwellers looking for something their lifestyles forgot to give them. I offer to deviate from my planned route if she’d like me to take her all the way to Albuquerque. “No,” she says, “Española is just fine. And I’ll be glad to stay a few nights at your B&B if there’s room. Incidentally, Bates is my maiden name. I kept it because I never wanted him to think he owned me.”

+++

Alright, it’s now 6:08 and I am getting hungry. I think the meal Alison served me simply triggered my appetite. The idea of a baked tomato is extremely appealing to me. But the oven looks unfriendly and uncooperative. Plus, I still do not know where to find cookie sheets or Corningwear dishes or the like, the dishes I normally would use to bake tomatoes. So, instead, I will rummage around the kitchen and the pantry, looking for something that might calm my growing appetite. Or I may wait and suggest to mi novia that we go out and get a carry-out breakfast from a fast-food joint. Oh, the joys of living in a restaurant desert.

One year ago today, the seduction began in earnest. It started weeks earlier, but it culminated with a visit to see his masks. His masks! How apropos! A visit to determine which of his personalities was the real one. Was it the quiet one, the one who intensely observed the world around him, but chose to limit pronouncements about his observations—except through an almost-hidden social media presence? Was it the reserved, but moderately cheery one, who watched “Trivia” players reveal their spheres of knowledge and the degree to which competitiveness defined their personalities? Or was it the solitary man whose fascination with creating ceramic whimsy matched well his obsession with language? Perhaps a little of each? With elements of energetic, opinionated anger thrown in the mix?

Or was it something unexpected? Was the man behind the masks, in fact, a hunter…a predator? Or an admirer who set a trap—no, that’s too harsh a description; call it alluring, tempting bait—to entice an attractive potential paramour into his den? Wait! Did he initiate the seduction? Or did she? Who was the seducer? Was it the bold woman who invited herself in, ostensibly to view his ceramic masks? Or was it the man behind those masks? Had he already decided the intelligent, bold, beautiful woman was enormously attractive—irresistible, in fact? Had he determined, well in advance, that something had to be done to lure her into his life? Were his public proclamations of his plans—to divest himself of his connection to the Village in favor of a nomadic lifestyle in search of…something—simply calculated to be temptations that would bring her to his doorstep?

Perhaps both core scenarios have some truth to them. But he really was planning to go. Yet he was feeling ambivalent about leaving without knowing whether his fascination with her was mutual. The bottom line, from his perspective, is that she clearly was the seductress. She decided to act before it was too late; before his plan to become a vagabond became reality. She has said as much. And as much as he misses what he expected would become a long, possibly unending, adventure on the road, he is glad his plans were derailed by hers. Today, one year to the day after the formal “seduction” was launched, they share a new home and unending possibilities. Perhaps the future even holds some elements of a nomadic lifestyle. Happy Anniversary, mi novia. What do you think? Who is the man behind the masks? And who is the woman he found so irresistible? Is she the same one who showed up at the door with wine? Was Malbec the right choice? I think so. 😉

+++

Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.

~ Boris Pasternak ~

+++

It was no surprise to me that I woke at 3:38 this morning. What surprised me is that I was able to stay in bed, attempting to fall asleep again but failing in my attempt, until 4:21. While I have no interest in “sleeping in” until 7, it would be nice to wake up and see the clock report that it’s 5:05.  I enjoy watching darkness slowly dissolve into barely visible light, but I prefer that gradual, plodding dissolution to last no more than an hour or so.

I hear the call of a mourning dove announcing that dawn is here. It is light enough to see the trees across from my window. I even can make out their leaves in different shades of green.  Still, though, no deer in the driveway. No birds at the feeder. I should go outside to feel the cool morning air. And I will.

Where is “home?” Is home the place of one’s birth? The place—or places—where one spent one’s formative years?  The place where one settled in adulthood? But what is home to people whose lives define the word “wanderer?” Is home a place, or an idea? Or is it, in the final analysis, a myth? A wish for roots that do not exist or, at least, do not grow in stable soil?

I do not know where home is for me. Or, even, whether I have a home. Or have ever had a home. Even though I spent my formative years in Corpus Christi, Texas, I do not necessarily think of that city as home. Nor do I consider Austin, where I went to college, home. Or the towns and cities where I lived after school. Or the places where my jobs took me. Houston. Chicago. Dallas. Even in retirement, am I home? Is Hot Springs Village, Arkansas home? But if not a place, I do not know where—or what—constitutes home. Some say one’s family is home. But family may be scattered to the wind. Family may be the remnants of the people of one’s childhood. Or, for some, family may be the people with whom one is most comfortable; friends, acquaintances at work, people at church…and on and one.

Family and home are ideas, not things or places. But ideas change. So, too, do the concepts associated with “home.” Maybe you can never go home again because you were never “there.” “There” may be an illusion, a wish, a dream, a desire—a vision without substance.

It’s something to think about when considering whether anything or anyone ties me to a place or, for that matter, to people. Home may be oneself. And only oneself. One can go anywhere and be with anyone or be entirely alone and be home. Or homeless.

+++

Fear gnaws at flesh and bone because the ugly emotion needs the sustenance we too readily are willing to give. We freely feed fear, giving credence to  an absurd, warped rationale: if we feed fear, it will go away.  In reality, fear dies of starvation. Fear withers when faced with confidence and when confronted with a refusal to acquiesce to its appetite. Resisting fear is not always easy, but the effort almost always is preferable to the paralysis that accompanies giving it to its hunger.

To him who is in fear everything rustles.

~ Sophocles ~

+++

Sleep continues to elude me. I woke last night at 11:30. Then again at 1:30. Then at 3:30. Except for the last time, I was able to get back to semi-consciousness—for a while—within half an  hour. After the 3:30 waking, I gave up after half an hour of trying. Four o’clock on the nose. If I thought I could get back to sleep, I would return to bed. But each of the earlier attempts involved attempts to overcome aches and pains in pursuit of sleep; arthritis and its cousins made it clear by 4:00 that there would be no more conquests of arthritic pain for a while, so getting up was the best option. At least I can give Motrin some time to work…if, indeed, it will work, even a little. Dammit! I don’t know whether a massage would do me any good this morning. Maybe a steaming hot bath. Probably not. I’ll just tolerate the aches, instead, and complain.

+++

Plans and predictions change. If all goes according to expectations, the closing on the sale of my house will be complete next Tuesday, with funding on Wednesday. I’m crossing my fingers and toes.

+++

I cancelled a massage this morning (my first one in many, many years) because the closing on my house was scheduled for today. At this very moment, my neck, back, shoulders, and the back of my head are in dire, dire, dire need of the healing power of strong hands.

The closing on the sale of my house has been postponed. Ach! Probably until Tuesday. But I may still be called to the title company to sign various documents that, I hope, will facilitate the closing process whenever it actually takes place. I have come to the conclusion that people involved in real estate transactions—professionals who engage in property ownership transfers professionally—may be sadists. The complexities associated with title searches, easements, easement exclusions, mortgage calculations, etc., etc., etc. seem purposely designed to impose stress on both buyer and seller. The processes could not be more stressful if they involved agreeing to consume Rohypnol in advance of having Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer over to the house for a forced sleepover. Jeez!

But I have to look at the situation through the lens of a practicing Buddhist, who might rightfully say, after doing all I can do, I should just let it be. It is what it is. What will happen will happen. Yeah. Easy to say, not quite as easy to feel.

+++

Word people. When I ponder the meaning of that two-word phrase, I realize the two words, taken together, can convey as much meaning as an entire book. Those words categorize people—people who belong and those who are excluded from the coterie. And the phrase subtly acknowledges differences within those who are included. Word people may be adept at using words to convey description and, possibly, emotion; the canvas and the paint of language. At least two—but probably three or more—classes exist within that broader category: those whose technical proficiency with language is most evident in the quality and structure of the stretched canvas, those whose virtuosity with blending words creates stunning visual and emotional images, and those whose genius merges technical skills with creative brilliance. Of course, each of these capabilities exists on a three-dimensional continuum that incorporates degrees of proficiency with the other capabilities.

I know this because I observe it from the perspective of someone who has achieved enough understanding to comprehend the enormous distance between his own capabilities and mastery. But I know it, too, because there exists a usually unspoken and often publicly unacknowledged camaraderie between word people. Even between relative novices like me and undeniable experts like Salman Rushdie or Margaret Atwood or J K Rowling there is a connection. The connection between word people may be invisible to those who do not belong to the group, but it is evident to those who do. The connection can be quite strong, too, like brothers or sisters or lovers. It can be evident even before they identify one another as word people. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. The connection is mysterious; two word people can stand in a room, far from one another, and feel an odd sensation. Like a diaphanous shawl wraps around their shoulders, binding them to one another. That is not always true. It is especially not true of the word people I would call  technicians: the prolific writers who produce voluminous, formulaic materials that rarely need editing but that also fail to believably capture and convey emotions.

I’m rambling on about a subject for which I have no credentials. I spout off my opinions and beliefs as if they were indisputable truths. They are indisputable truths. To me. At the moment. But I can change. And I often do. I shift between the persona of a poet and the character of a novelist and the identity of an essayist or short story writer. An aspiring actor, in other words. Or someone who tries on different personalities to see which ones best fit his mood at the moment.

+++

Yesterday’s visit to the dermatologist’s office yielded this: the spot on my nose that was biopsied quite some time ago is basal cell carcinoma. The recommended treatment (the “gold standard,” a nurse told me) is the same one performed on my left hand several months ago: a Mohs Procedure. That is, a dermatologist/surgeon (?) slices out tissue around the offensive area until no cancer is found in the extracted tissue. Then, it’s sewn up and left to heal. The alternative treatment is thrice-weekly application of a chemo-cream for six weeks. I chose the latter. Mi novia was unhappy with my choice. I will think on it. My body seems to be telling me it may be time to just give up. Let nature takes its course. Decay gracefully. I joke about it, but sometimes I really do feel like quitting the fight. The amount of time and energy dedicated to doctor visits, treatments, etc., etc. takes away from time I could spend on road trips or visits to animal sanctuaries or spending money in ridiculously expensive restaurants or…whatever.  Decay. That’s what it is.

+++

I am hungry. I may have some yoghurt and bran flakes. Yoghurt substitutes for milk, which ran out two days ago.

It won’t be long now. Just a matter of weeks. Maybe a month, at most. Once the house-warming activities and events are behind us—once the visits to see the new place have all been made—and once I have finished unpacking and have ordered my life here in these new surroundings, I will work on changing who I am. Not uncovering the man beneath hundreds of layers of masks but, instead, creating a new person.

This new person may include a few scraps of the old one, but he will be built largely from scratch. The new person will adjust to his surroundings, just as the old one is doing. Yet he will not simply adjust; his surroundings will become part of him. He will be part forest, part bird song, part dim light of the sun struggling through the trees to make its way to the ground. He will consist of cool breezes and torrential rains and the steam rising from hot summer mornings. And he will be part human, but only a little bit. He will minimize the human part because…because he has seen what humans can do and be. He will want no part of those hideous aspects of humanity, so he will replace them with gentle philosophies and gratitude and acceptance of a world unchanged by arrogant intervention. But he will build barricades, too, and stockpile the armaments necessary to repel intruders who might try to provoke a return to the way he was before he rebuilt himself into someone new.

I am not very familiar with the Bible. I have never studied it. I have never believed it was more than an amalgamation of stories intended to convey messages that often compete with one another. But it includes elegant slices of philosophy. And it contains language stunning in its splendor. Once passage I have read many times, usually with conflicting emotions, is Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.

To everything there is a season,
A time for every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born,  And a time to die;
A time to plant,  And a time to pluck what is planted;
A time to kill,  And a time to heal;
A time to break down,  And a time to build up;
A time to weep,  And a time to laugh;
A time to mourn,  And a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones,  And a time to gather stones;
A time to embrace,  And a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to gain,  And a time to lose;
A time to keep,  And a time to throw away;
A time to tear,  And a time to sew;
A time to keep silence,  And a time to speak;
A time to love,  And a time to hate;
A time of war,  And a time of peace.

There is, indeed, a time for everything. There is a time and a place for rage and for grief and for unrestrained passion. The time, always, is now. Now is all we have. Tomorrow is just a hope and yesterday is only a memory. Now is the time for everything. Now is the time to act. Yet didn’t I begin this post by saying “It won’t be long now. Just a matter of weeks. Maybe a month, at most.” The process must begin in this very moment. Planning is not acting. But acting without planning offers little hope for tomorrow becoming the “now” one wishes to experience. And, so, I plan for tomorrow’s Now, knowing Now may never come.

+++

“Why did they do this to us? We’re good kids. We didn’t do anything wrong.” The words of a little girl who survived the Uvalde massacre. I can barely stand to think about the unendurable pain the attack caused, and will continue to cause, for victims and their families and friends.

+++

The time is twenty minutes to six. Dim light in the sky beyond the darkness of the trees suggests the day is here, but the forest clings to night. The forest shields me from approaching day, but it cannot do it for long. Soon, trees will be fully visible out the window. The birds I hear now may be visible as they plunge from the trees toward the feeder, snatching nuts and seeds and flying away again. Everything outside my window is grey now, though, as if I were peering through the viewfinder of a camera that reveals the world beyond its lens only in black and white and grey. But there’s little white out there now; just black and grey. I can see the hood and top of my car, though; white. Both cars are in the driveway at the moment because the garage is jammed with stuff we have yet to unpack. We may decide some of the stuff is unnecessary. We may continue thinning for months. Or years. I look at that garage and long—again—for the time when everything I own will constitute what I am wearing and what I am carrying in a knapsack. Ach! Morning light is spreading like wildfire! Soon, the day will have irrevocably arrived.

Two and one half hours from now, I will join a group of male members and friends of my church for breakfast and conversation at Debra’s, a little diner four or five miles “in” from the west end of the Village. The road that runs from the west end of the Village to the east end is roughly fifteen miles long. I used to say Debra’s was in the center of the Village, but I know better now. I wonder how many people I’ve lied to over the years about the location of the place.

+++

Two chigger bites that I know of, so far. I loathe chiggers. I ache to live somewhere chiggers cannot survive. But I probably could not survive there, either. Damn. Time to stop dreaming about a chiggerless existence and get on with tackling the day’s challenges.

Anguish. Inconceivably painful, debilitating, powerless anguish. It is the never-ending emotion facing the families and friends of the children killed in mass-shootings. Mass-shootings that have become so common that the public seems hardened to them; accepting of them. Anguish once gripped all of us when one of these horrific events unfolded. But now we join the “leaders” of our nation and its states, who raise their voices in condemnation of these horrendous crimes in which innocent people…children…are gunned down. Like the politicians, we scream and cry and offer empty thoughts and prayers and condolences to the families of the victims. But, also like the politicians, we do almost nothing. We weakly insist that “something must be done” about gun violence, but we do not become so enraged that we absolutely, unequivocally demand action. We keep electing impotent, self-serving narcissists, people whose unprincipled adoration of an ambiguous Second Amendment overrides their extremely modest levels of compassion and responsibility. Until inconceivably large numbers of people surround legislative buildings in Washington, DC and in state capitols, screaming for action and refusing to permit the ineffectual political hacks to leave until satisfactory action has been taken to control guns, we have no choice but to blame ourselves for the continuing gun violence and mass shootings that plague our nation. Until we empty legislative bodies of the power-mongers who occupy them and replace them with genuine public servants—people who take their responsibilities to the public seriously—we are complicit in the bloodshed.  Admittedly, it’s not just the easy availability of guns and ammunition; it’s a thousand other triggers that release mental meltdowns. Those, too, must be addressed. But, first and foremost, it’s the weaponry. Second Amendment whores be damned, we must control guns. Their idiotic arguments hold no sway with me. The “right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed,” does not apply unrestricted to nuclear or biological or chemical “arms,” nor should it to guns. Reasonable restrictions must be imposed on gun ownership. Else bloodshed and our associated guilt will continue unabated.

+++

The “old” house is empty and clean. Nothing demands that I return. Yet I remain emotionally attached to the place. Especially the view to the southeast. And the room my late wife used as a study, and office, and a getaway. I’ll have to get over that attachment, though. Or, at least, that attachment will have to reside only inside my head; not be expressed by my physical presence.

I spend time the last few evenings sitting outside on the deck of my new house. I’ve quickly grown attached to it. The view is radically different from the one I was used to, but it is just as emotionally engaging. The dappled light through the tall trees and the sound of the wind in the leaves are calming. The deep privacy of the place wraps around me like a blanket, enfolding me in comfort; an escape from the madness of the world outside our little pocket of gentle solitude.

+++

So much remains to be done in our new home. Months of tailoring it to ourselves await us. While I’d like to snap my fingers and see it all completed, part of the enjoyment will come from doing it slowly, methodically, deliberately. It will unfold as it should.

+++

Wrinkles still abound in the fabric of the sale of my old house. I still await completion of a convoluted process involving restricted “release of easements.” Friday’s closing depends on that process being completed…today. I can only hope that occurs; I have no control over it not. It is in the hands of others. And I learned yesterday that funding will not take place on Friday; I will have to wait until Tuesday, at least, for the proceeds of the sale to go into my bank account. Although I have faith that everything will proceed as planned, it is my nature to worry. I feel tightness in my neck and shoulders and chest. My mood is clouded by easily-provoked eruptions of unnecessary concern…or anger. When this process is finished, I will try to remake myself into someone who is smoother, calmer, easier to be with. Easier for me to live with. The entire process—of buying a new house, selling another one, emptying the other one of too much “stuff” and filling the new one with it—calls attention to the need for greater simplicity. It reinforces my sense that attachment to material things is restrictive, confining, and unhealthy.

+++

I learned yesterday that my brother and his wife, who recently returned from a trip to Portugal that included both a river cruise and visits to various sites throughout the country, contracted COVID-19. They are recovering, but their trip was plagued by their illness. Despite all their precautions and the precautions taken by the cruise line, etc. they contracted the virus. We have a friend who also contracted the virus, after her husband did. Though she says she has only minor symptoms, the virus is forcing her to isolate, thereby infringing on her usual carefree and very active lifestyle. COVID-19 remains a threat to everyone. It will remain with us for the foreseeable future, I think, as will all manner of other diseases and maladies, including monkeypox.

I had only heard of monkeypox in passing until this morning, when I explored a bit about it. According to a U.K. based website, most people who have been diagnosed with the virus have self-identified as gay or bisexual men who have sex with men. While that fact may limit the likelihood that the rest of us could be infected, it is of course possible that it’s not limited to men who have sex with men. And even if that were the only means of transmittal, everyone can be affected by it because it affects people. It could become more than a vague humanitarian concern, too, because people who are important in our lives could be affected by it.

+++

It’s just after 5:30. I’ve been up for about an hour and a half after having slept about six and a half hours. Early to bed, early to rise. Healthy: not so much. Wealthy: I wish. Wise: Meh. I had another bizarre dream last night. It involved going to see doctors with my late wife. Both of us were there for an unknown (to me) reason, but the doctor seemed to think it had something to do with weight loss and stamina. He asked me if I could walk a mile. I said I used to walk 4 miles a day and some days walked 10. He said that was good, but what about now? He and his female counterpart, who was seeing my late wife, led us through a set of doors that led into a house. There, we encountered more of the doctors’ colleagues: an older British married couple whose bulldog puppy took a liking to me. After I said something (a greeting, perhaps), the man asked if I was British. I said, “no,” and he said he thought he heard an accent. My recollection of the dream falls apart after that; I know it continued, but have no idea what occurred afterward.

+++

I sold my collection of 150+ vinyl LP records last night, unexpectedly, to a good friend. She will come collect them in the not-too-distant future. I had listed them for sale on Facebook; when she saw I was selling them, she jumped at the chance to buy them. I then offered them to her for free, but she says she insists on paying me. She is right there at the top of my short list of favorite people, people who matter deeply to me.

+++

Rain, which I’ve heard falling since I got up, is now visible in the morning light. The birds have begun singing their morning songs. I will take those as signals for me to get up out of my desk chair and get to work in the kitchen.

This disjointed post is now finished.

Another early morning. I woke a bit before 4, but opted to stay in bed until the clock struck four. My office is very dark, except for the light from my notebook computer’s screen. I need a night light in this room so I do not stumble into a box or otherwise cause myself some grief. Even with the light from my computer’s screen, I cannot see my coffee cup on the desk next to me; I need a night light to avoid the unpleasantness of coffee spillage.

Most of yesterday’s scheduled activities went according to plan. But we did not make it to Little Rock for dinner and the Bonnie Raitt concert. I’ll write another time about the reason we missed it. In lieu of driving to Little Rock, attending a concert, staying overnight in a nice hotel, and driving back early this morning, we continued watching another television series we began night before last. I think we may be the only two people in North America who have not already seen Mad Men. Thus far, I’ve found the first few episodes of season one interesting; at least interesting enough to keep me watching. Based on the rave reviews I’ve read and heard, though, I was expecting to find the show absolutely riveting from the start; maybe a few more episodes will put the rivets in place.

+++

By twenty minutes past five, there is barely enough light from the sun to see very, very dim outlines of trees in the forest outside my window. The darkness of night, even with a street light not far from the house, is stunning. Pitch black is an apropos term for it; looking outside is very much like looking into a pit of coal-black tar. But the definition for pitch, used as I just did, is not easy to come by. Used as a noun, dictionaries seem intent on limiting the word to music or inclination or slope. My usage refers to what one online source refers to as “a viscoelastic polymer which can be natural or manufactured, derived from petroleum, coal tar, or plants.” I prefer “pitch” to the longer, more precise definition. But, back to the near-absence of light. I like this mysterious, dark, nearly hidden part of the day. Darkness in the early morning has a different character from darkness at night, even late at night. Early morning darkness has a special feel about it, as if it is in silent communication with the person experiencing it. Early morning darkness and I have a special relationship; an intimacy available only to those of us willing to break with the habit of sleeping in past dawn’s light.

+++

This morning, the last major donation resulting from our move will be made. ReStore, the Habitat for Humanity retail outlet, will pick up the too-tall bed frame and a few other items. And we will load the last of the items in the garage into the borrowed truck and take them to the new house, where we will try to find a place to put them. Despite having had the old house cleaned yesterday, I discovered at the end of the day that the cleaning person missed an entire room; the one off the garage. So, I will have to do a bit of clean-up in there. And I will leave a note for the buyer, giving her details about all the odds and ends she needs to know. I’ll need to go back, too, to clean the oven; I did not ask the cleaning person to do it, so it is up to me. After that, though, there will be no reason to return, except perhaps for one last look at the place I spent the last seven years with my late wife. It is surprisingly difficult, this divestiture of the place where death caused our marriage of almost 41 years came to an unexpected end.

+++

Filtered light has begun to make it possible for me to safely walk outside without tripping or running into trees. Birds have begun to sing and call loudly, alerting the world to the fact that it’s morning. I will go outside now for a brief exploration of the driveway and beyond.

Time speeds by early in the morning. I awoke before 4:30 and, as I begin to write this post, suddenly it is 5:45. My time spent revising an informational letter to the buyer of my old house took much longer than I expected; my message to her may be overkill, but I feel compelled to give her as much detail as I can about the house, the neighbors, and related stuff. I have always had high expectations that people from whom I buy homes will give me enough information to ease my transition into the new house; my expectations rarely have been met. Regardless, I want to be the exception, the surprisingly helpful seller who genuinely wants the buyer to have an easy, positive experience as they move into their new home. Little things, like letting them know when garbage is picked up and what brands and colors of paints were used in various rooms of he house, can be helpful. And leaving a book full of instruction booklets that came with the HVAC system and the stove and the microwave, etc.  It’s all so easy to do and can be so helpful. I wonder why it’s not as common as I think it should be? But, as someone said to me recently, some people simply don’t care. The instruction books, etc. may discarded the moment a buyer moves in. So be it. If that is what they want to do, they can do it. It won’t stop me from making the offer, though.

Now, it’s 5:53. I spent eight minutes ranting about my philosophy of the propriety and protocol of home ownership transition. Why do I document such trivia? I don’t know. Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe it’s symptomatic of a mental disease. Maybe it’s a hopeful effort to encourage others to behave as I wish they would. Or maybe it’s just my fingers needing exercise and finding the opportunity in forcing the keyboard to express my take on home ownership transition etiquette.

+++

The day on the other side of the glass is taking on a dim, silver-grey look, as if the reflection of light bouncing off a massive sheet of tin is bathing the world outside my window. I suppose it’s the cloud cover that’s doing it—not a sheet of tin. I wonder why I would interpret this morning’s appearance in that way? It’s the prism inside me. It’s the way my eyes and my mind refract and interpret light. I look at the world through a set of lenses that behave like rose-colored glasses—except my glasses this morning are tinted with tin or silver or some mixture of silver and grey…which is the color I ascribe to tin. My prism is not always silver-grey. Sometimes it is peach or deep, forest green. Sometimes it is fragile tan, the color of bleached sand. Other times, it varies from purple to orange to cerulean blue. Moods affect changes in perception. Colors appear to change, depending on one’s psychological context. Dark and brooding. Light and cheerful. Detached and distracted.

+++

I dreamed last night that I was driving a borrowed car, trying to get home in time to meet my wife (she was still alive in my dream) to go to dinner with friends before the Bonnie Raitt concert. Somehow, I got lost. I had been driving on a highway, but found myself on a dirt road in the middle of a tiny town in Central Texas. I asked a teenager I saw on the roadside for help finding the highway; he advised me to contact the local police. It was then I noticed that I was wearing only underwear. I was carrying the handset of my (now-defunct) landline telephone. Scene shift: I was inside a police station. Two female police officers said they would arrange for me to be taken back to the highway to my car (apparently I had left the car on the highway and walked?). But first I had to agree to return to the little town and clean out an abandoned building. Scene shift: I was inside a bus, which ostensibly was taking me to my car. But the driver would not talk to me. And I noticed the time; it was well beyond the time I should have met my wife for the drive to Little Rock. I had no operable phone and no one on the bus was willing to let me borrow theirs.

In real life, mi novia and I are going to Little Rock today to see Bonnie Raitt in concert tonight. We will meet friends, who also will attend the concert, for dinner beforehand. I will double check to make sure we both have our phones. We hope we do not need to worry about getting lost—unlike last time we went to the concert hall, when we missed an exit, thanks to massive road reconstruction. Road construction that, according to reports I have read and heard, is only getting worse and more confusing. I will double check to make sure I am wearing more than a pair of underwear before we depart. I will not board a bus in advance of the concert.

+++

I have a rather busy schedule today: 1) meet a guy at my old house so he can pick up some outdoor furniture I am giving him for his mother’s house; 2) meet with a woman who I will pay to do a thorough cleaning today of my old house; 3) take what seems like a vast amount of trash to the local dump; 4) move everything still left inside the old house to the garage; 5) take what I can out of the garage to store somewhere in the new house; 6) call the electric company to stop service in my name as of next Saturday; 7) shower, shave, and put on presentable clean clothes; 8) handle a few other administrative errands; 9) drive to Little Rock; 10) have dinner in Little Rock; 11) go the Bonnie Raitt concert; 12) sleep like a log—I hope. It’s not really as complex as I make it sound, but it’s plenty complex for me. I crave a day free of worry about what I need to do that I haven’t done—a day so utterly free of demands that it will make my nerves and my muscles relax into absolute leisure. When will that day come?

+++

Breakfast this morning will consist of avocado on a whole grain English muffin with a bit of lemon juice and salt on top. And, then, I will commence my busy morning. Now, I will go cut the avocado, whip its flesh with a fork, and ready myself for a delightful taste experience. Right here in my imaginary casual fine-dining restaurant adventure, called the French Kangaroo, now operated by mi novia and me.

Last night’s ferocious rainstorms, punctuated with brilliant flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder that shook the rafters and rattled the walls, brought dramatically cooler temperatures. I love violent rainstorms, but when they grow into beasts that spawn tornadoes, my love diminishes considerably. Last night, our phones suddenly screamed tornado warnings and advised us to seek shelter immediately. I do not know yet whether any tornadoes touched down in our vicinity or beyond. Yesterday’s 85°F felt even hotter, thanks to the humidity. The storms brought about significant change. Today’s humidity remains high, but this morning the outside temperature is in the mid 50s; the high is forecast to be just 62°F. Despite the cloud cover, the atmosphere is clean and clear. The pollen has been washed out of the air, so even on this dim, grey morning, the forest looks crisp and vivid. The edges of the leaves are well-defined. The look sharp and certain, unlike their shriveled, overheated selves of just twelve hours ago. When I walked outside, I was met with an abrupt, cool slap in the face. It felt good. A nice way to start the day.

+++

Nature is never other than serene even in a thunderstorm.
~ Frank Lloyd Wright ~

Today will, again, be dedicated to emptying and cleaning the old house. A few more loads in the car and/or truck should be all that’s necessary. Then, it’s a matter of cleaning and tidying the place in preparation for the buyer, who is scheduled to take possession on Friday, after the closing. Before I head over, though, I will sit and gaze out my window as birds attempt to get their fill from the bird feeder hanging a few feet away. Like yesterday, blue jays swoop down from their perch on the shepherd’s pole from which the feeder hands. They cannot perch on the rim of the feeder, as they are far too heavy; the feeder would tip over from their weight. But it’s not just the blue jays that have trouble perching on the edge. Much smaller birds, too, seem to be unable to simply perch on the edge of the feeder and get their fill. They, too, grab and dash, though they can stand on the edge for a moment before they must fly off.

When I sit, mesmerized by birds, I try not to let myself think about what kind of birds I am watching or otherwise be curious about their sizes or wing shapes or profiles. That sometimes is hard (especially when the bird I’m watching is obviously a blue jay or a cardinal). I try to empty my mind of knowledge and curiosity; simply be entertained and enthralled by them. These incredible creatures defy gravity. They fly through the air, between tree branches and around leaves, at break-neck speed, never crashing into limbs or trunks or twigs. I am in awe as I watch them.

+++

As much as I loved the view from the deck on my old house, I think I love just as much the feeling I get as I sit on the deck of the new place. Here, the deck is covered and the trees are clustered nearby. Forest creatures, including birds of course, are just a few feet away. There’s a quiet serenity on this deck that was not available in the open air of the deck at the other house. While both places have their unique appeal, I think this view is more peaceful and comforting. Looking out from the deck at the other house seemed to increase my wanderlust; I could see distances and I wanted to be in those distances. Here, though, distance is invisible. Here, I look out from the deck and I see the edges of my cocoon; the arms of Nature embracing me.

+++

I am not comfortable writing everything on my mind. At least not in a place readily accessible to anyone and everyone. Some things are too private, too personal. One’s thoughts can cause one embarrassment if revealed to the world. Or they can be subject to misinterpretation, creating illegitimate but understandable grief by people who misinterpret them. Or they can be so intimate that they belong only to oneself; they cannot be shared even if one were to make every effort to share them.

Even with those caveats, I wish I could write all my thoughts. Document them so that, one day long after I die, someone might come upon them and discover things about me know to no one else—not even me. But how does one write something that reveals one’s own unknowns? That is a trick no one has ever learned. But people have discovered the writers have done it, if only by accident and without realizing it.

The admonition here is this: write, write, write. Write what you don’t feel comfortable or confident revealing. Just write it down. Empty your heart and mind through your fingers. One day, someone will learn something about you that you never knew.

+++

Even though I have more work to do than I can accomplish if I spent six months trying, I still feel the need to get away. A road trip. A significant, lengthy, time-consuming road trip. Will I do it. Time, alone, will tell.

Belatedly, after two full days in the new house, I baptized the new tile shower this morning. My intent was to finally wash off the sweat and grime before I went to bed last night (the sheets were already in dire need of a washing machine bath), but sleep overtook me before I could carry out my intent. But this morning, after waking quite a bit later than has been my custom of late (just after 5:30), I inaugurated the shower. The tile floor and gentler-than-I-like water pressure will take some getting used to, but getting clean felt wonderful this morning.

Now, the time is barely past 6:30 and dim daylight is an hour old. A dull grey cover of clouds shields the forest from the sun, but high humidity clothes it with a feeling warmth befitting a sunny midday. When I walked outside, the air seemed thick with heat, though the temperature is only 73°F. The conditioned air inside the house, warmer than outside, was more comfortable. So, I sat in front of my computer, ready to spill my thoughts onto the keyboard, when I saw a blue jay swoop down from a tree branch and land on a pole from which a bird feeder hung. The bird quickly decided the bird feeder had no place to perch, so it leapt from the pole, snatched some seeds in its beak, and flew away. This happened a few more times. During a lull in the fly-and-dash meal, a ground squirrel shimmied up the pole. It eyed the dangling feeder, trying to decide how it could get at the seeds. Its only option would have been to jump from the pole onto the feeder; finally, it determined the effort and potentially catastrophic result of missing the jump would not have been worth the effort. It left, dejected in its inability to secure massive amounts of what might have been delicious seeds.

+++

I took a break to have an early breakfast with mi novia, who got up just after 6:30, a good hour earlier than her normal time to arise. She reported she did not sleep well. Ideally, she would have gone back to bed to give it another try, but I think she feels obligated to help with the remaining efforts to empty the old house. I could do it alone, but she can be stubborn and would reject that notion. Now, she is showering. I will end this rumination and head to the old house. One more day of this endeavor, I hope, will be adequate to empty the house. Then, all that is left to do is a thorough cleaning. And, then, pursuit of a new life in a new place.

The first full day in the new house unfolded in an almost orchestrated way, as if designed to reinforce a message delivered the day before: friends know the right time to appear, delivering comfort and brushing away stress. The two of us unloaded and unpacked boxes and we moved more belongings that we did not ask the movers to move, even though the previous day’s exhaustion had not dissipated. The pressures of the move continued to build, with little opportunity to relieve that mounting tension. Until good friends checked in with us, late in the day. And then came to our rescue. They visited, with relaxing conversation—and bearing an assortment of good things to eat and drink. As I sat there, feeling the stress drain from me, I thought of a Joe Cocker tune: With a Little Help from My Friends. Friends—who were there for us on the day of the move and the day after, both physically and in spirit—matter. Quite a lot, in fact.

+++

Today, it will be more of the same. And a trip or two to the landfill to discard stuff that should have been abandoned long ago. And lugging still more stuff to the new house. It will get sorted out, eventually. In the meantime, though, it will look like chaos, but it will be peaceful chaos. When the electrician has come and gone, when we get the washer and dryer properly hooked up, when we reconfigure the laundry room to accommodate the second refrigerator, when we get towel bars and toilet paper holders and such on the walls, when the pictures are hung, when the boxes have been emptied and new shelves have been readied to accept boxes of books and the items from my long-stored collection are properly displayed…then we’ll have made a big dent in the to-do list, the list that seems to have been growing since the beginning of time.

+++

The day looks grey, so far, a prelude to haze and heat. Tomorrow’s forecast includes the possibility of strong thunderstorms. Today is the day, then, to empty the old house and to get the discards to the landfill. Quite the task. It’s hard to think about such stuff, distracted as I am by the birds dropping in on the feeder just outside my study window. But think about them I must. So, it’s off to prepare for the tasks at hand.

Exhaustion. It can arise from too much physical exertion or too much emotional stress. It can emerge from the realization that abstract wishes and dreams may not lead to concrete experiences. I blame this morning’s exhaustion on an amalgamation of causes that, taken together, make me feel a little like I had a losing altercation with a brutal prizefighter. Though I did very little of the heavy lifting involved in yesterday’s move, I feel like that’s exactly what I did. Heavy, heavy lifting.

But the stress of the day was eased, dramatically, by my sister-in-law whose rescued the day by responding to my call for help at 5:30 in the morning. And by a wonderful friend who delivered coffee and pastries a few hours later. And by another wonderful friend who offered to buy lunch and who, late in the day, came by the new house to help celebrate the launch of a new experience in a new place.

As the day wore on and the aches and pains of moving day settled in for the duration, I thought about how much I have come to depend on the generosity of people who care. That caring was so evident during the day yesterday. Some lyrics from a Greg Brown tune, Spring Wind, came to mind…

My friends are getting older
So I guess I must be too
Without their loving kindness
I don’t know what I’d do

I am too tired to keep writing. But not too tired to get back to unloading “stuff” in the car; the energy necessary to continue unloading last night just wasn’t there. I hope I have enough energy today to continue emptying the old house. It’s not an option. It’s an absolute necessity. Back to the wars.

Almost hidden beneath layer upon layer of more mundane recollections is my memory of a  childhood fascination with volcanoes. Though the details are long gone, I recall receiving a treasured gift—from my parents, I think—of a book about all sorts of geological wonders. The book was full of four-color photographs and illustrations, eye candy to a kid enchanted by the wonders of the natural world. Among the pictures were cross-sectional drawings of volcanoes and photos of red-hot lava pouring from fissures in the Earth. The accompanying text explained, in terms a child could easily understand, how liquid rock beneath Earth’s surface sometimes burst to the surface, spewing molten lava and dust into the atmosphere. I do not recall whether the allure of volcanoes preceded or followed the gift of that book. Regardless, that book became one of my favorites for what seems, now, like years.

Today is the forty-second anniversary of the massive eruption of Mount St. Helens, classified as a stratovolcano, in the state of Washington.  By the time of that event, my fascination with volcanoes had cooled, though news of what would be classified as the deadliest and most economically destructive volcano in recorded U.S. history triggered a resurgence of interest. But my interest in the geology of volcanoes was eclipsed by astonishment at the sheer magnitude of the volcano’s explosive power. According to an online summary published by the U.S. Geological Survey, 57 people died as a result of the eruption. “More than 185 miles of highways and roads and 15 miles of railways were destroyed or extensively damaged,” the summary reported. It says “more than 200 houses and cabins were destroyed” and “many thousands of acres of prime forest,  as well as recreational sites, bridges, roads, and trails, were destroyed or heavily damaged.” Referencing a National Geographic article, Wikipedia asserts that “Geologists predict that future eruptions will be more destructive, since the configuration of the lava domes there require more pressure to erupt.” Despite that frightening prediction, the economy of the Mount St. Helens area, heavily reliant on tourism, has not only returned to pre-eruption levels but has surpassed them. That is also despite the continued volcanic activity, until 2008, after the eruption. 

The little boy who found volcanoes so intriguing all those years ago is still fascinated by them, though their allure is not as strong. Thinking back through the fog of years, I wonder how different my life might have been today if I had followed the passion, professionally. Would my interest in volcanoes still be infused with a sense of wonder or would I, instead, look at them through a lens of detached professionalism? Impossible to say…with any degree of certainty.

+++

I woke up at 3 this morning. It is now an hour and a quarter later. Less than four hours from now, a crew from a Hot Springs moving company will arrive and will pack up the “big stuff” to move it to the new house. Before they arrive, I will empty two refrigerators and their freezers into some ice chests, hoping the frozen foods will stay frozen until the refrigerators are operational once again. That is hopeful thinking, considering the fact the widespread advice that refrigerators be left unplugged for between four and twelve hours after moving to allow refrigerants, etc. to return to equilibrium. Failure to give them time to “settle” could result in massive failure of their ability to cool. Hmm. Here’s hoping the food will survive the move.

Let your home be your mast and not your anchor.

~ Kahlil Gibran ~

After the “big stuff” is moved, we will continue to move the “small stuff,” an undertaking that seems to be taking approximately forever. I hope the house will be empty before the scheduled closing, which is set for a week from this coming Friday.  Tonight will be the first one in the new house, surrounded by boxes that will not be unpacked and their contents put away for some time to come. The sheer volume of belongings being moved is another strong argument for a minimalist lifestyle. Living out of a knapsack continues to have real appeal, though I suspect I would change my tune if that came to pass.

After days and days and days of packing and moving, my joints and muscles are sore. My body is not accustomed, nor well-suited, to such abuse. I think I may need a six-week recovery period involving a full-body massage, daily. What I need and what I get, though, are different beasts. Ach!

+++