John Swinburn

A certain philosophy admonishes us to, in effect, “live for today, for tomorrow you may die.” Increasingly, I find myself accepting that philosophy’s premise. I do not subscribe to a related philosophy that excuses an utterly careless lifestyle that involves taking wild, unnecessary risks, but measured risks definitely have their place. One of those risks is abandonment of unchecked “rainy day thinking,” which involves the anticipation of potential financial problems.  This sort of planning emerges either from experiences, stories about, or fears of financial ruin. The Great Depression is probably one of the most powerful and most recent experiences that prompted “rainy day thinking” in the extreme.

Do not save what is left after spending, but spend what is left after saving.

   ~ Warren Buffett ~

While saving money for a “rainy day” is wise, some of us tend to put too much emphasis on depriving oneself of satisfying experiences now in the fear that that circumstances might rob us of having such experiences later, unless one is prepared. That, in my changing view, unwise. The trick is to save proportionately to the intersection of one’s ability and one’s desires. Warren Buffett’s advice is sound; it is like a stop sign that requires us to stop and take action each time we reach that intersection.

We do not even know whether we will be here to enjoy experiences in the future. Or, if we survive into the future, we have no way of knowing whether we will be healthy enough to pursue experiences that, today, we might find appealing. Saving money so one can leave as much as possible to one’s beneficiaries is perhaps generous, but it is also uncharitable to oneself. There is a difference between frugality and miserliness. It may be a slight difference, but it’s there. My advice to myself: cut loose on occasion. Come to grips with the possibility, I tell myself sometimes, that I might outlive my money. If that happens, be prepared to make the end of life and the end of financial resources take place as close to simultaneously as possible. That is not to say one should buy a Corvette and charter a jet to Nova Scotia if that would mean taking an overdose of sleeping pills at the end of next week. But reasonable efforts should be made to enjoy life while maintaining adequate resources to keep happy for a sufficiently “long time.”

If you can afford it after you pay the bills and distribute some of your largesse to help people in need—take the vacation; buy the 1958 Chevy if you will derive long-term pleasure from it; buy the RV if if will become a significant part of your lifestyle; give generously to causes for social justice if that brings joy and meaning to your life. In other words, do with your money what matters to you. Do not wait until it’s too late. Do not put yourself in a position of looking back with regret that you did not pursue experiences that would have been fulfilling.

The preceding paragraphs were written as admonishments to myself, by the way. If they have meaning to others who may read them, all the better. Time will tell whether I heed my own advice.

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Saturday was a good day. Two good friends stopped for a brief visit on their way to Fort Smith from Little Rock. They demonstrated their kindness and love by showing up with a bunch of cut tulips and a six-pack of Guinness Stout. We went to lunch at the Blue Elephant, where the food was pretty good and the service was laughable; our friends’ good sense of humor made the service tolerable.

Sunday was a good day, too. After the church service, where we were able to visit with many of our friends (but we missed seeing several), we accepted my sister-in-law’s invitation to come meet her cat-sitting charge, Judge. Judge is an extremely well-fed, enormously friendly, and exceptionally intelligent cat. Judge’s masters, who asked my SIL to look out after their feline family member, have a nice home with a nice television. Thanks to winning a bet with my girlfriend about the identity of one of the church service speakers (on video), before long we will have a television much like the one Judge’s family has. The television responds to voice commands (including responding to questions like “when will season 5 of Yellowstone be available?” and “what’s the weather forecast for Belgrade, Serbia?” and “what color emerges from mixing blue and yellow?”). And the television’s size convinced us that large screens deliver a far richer, more engaging experience than do smaller, 42-inch models. Personally, I am now hungering for an 85-inch television. [John, what have you said in the recent past about consumerism gone awry? What words have you used to describe avarice and greed? What kind of person do you want to be?]

Ambition is but avarice on stilts, and masked.

   ~ Walter Savage Landor ~

After a nice day, successfully avoiding work I should have been doing on the new house (if we’re ever going to be able to move in), my girlfriend took charge of the kitchen to make a delightful meal of salmon and green beans and apple/cabbage slaw. Then, we watched an episode or two (or was it more?) of the series, Pieces of Her on Netflix. We’re hooked. (I promise I’ll watch Last Tango in Halifax in the not-too-distant future. But I may have to come watch it at your house, Deanna). I have an enormously long list of films and series I want to watch; but I have to be in the right mood to watch any of them. Some require intense thought, if they are to be of value to me. Others require simply staring at the screen, receptive to being entertained. Still others appeal to my need for emotional prodding. And others probe issues that get at the core of my social consciousness. I want to watch them all. At the right times.

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There should be terms that better describe romantic relationships. Girlfriend and boyfriend are grossly inadequate. And partner or companion or cohabitee or significant other are too clinical and cold, though modifier words can improve their suitability for describing a relationship. Lover is a bit too personal, on one hand, and somewhat flippant, on the other. Sweetheart harkens back to the clueless fifties and can call to mind dull, shallow innocence. Confidante may be close…but no cigar. Soulmate, too, may be getting near the right term, but…

Ladylove would work for me to describe girlfriend, but what is the corresponding term for boyfriend? So that probably would not work. I could turn to foreign languages: findanzata and fidanzato are Italian terms that might work, though I’ve already dismissed their English counterparts. I think I may settle on the Spanish term: mi novia, roughly translated into “my girlfriend,” sounds like a winner. Let’s see if I can stick to it.

But I can’t leave the subject without calling out a cultural anomaly: Women can speak about “my girlfriends” and we understand that they are referring to their friends who are female. But if men say “my boyfriends,” we assume they are referring to their gay sexual partners. And there, again, is an issue that should have long since been discarded in the waste-bin of history but remains there, sometimes hidden and sometimes blatant: many people remain uncomfortable even with acknowledging, much less accepting, homosexuality (thanks in large part, I think, to idiotic religious perspectives). But I’m getting away from my point: the English language is hypocritical. And unfriendly to certain concepts, like non-sexual relationships between males. We limit ourselves to terms like “pals” or just “friends,” whereas we could adopt and use terms that more completely describe them. There’s a word, used chiefly in the southwestern U.S., that describes friends: compadre. It’s a Spanish word that has been adopted for use in English; because our language is inadequate and we’re too lazy to create our own term. I’m happy with compadre. And I think it can be used to describe either male or female friends or both. Maybe I’ll adopt that term, too, to refer to all my friends, whether male or female. Except I still like mi novia for the woman living with me. And mi novio should work for her to describe me (if she chooses). Those two words could work for unmarried female and male couples, too.

Here I am, trying to solve the world’s linguistic missteps.

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My Mexican brother sent me the text of an interview between Ezra Klein and Margaret Atwood, which appeared in the New York Times on Friday, March 25. The article, entitled, Margaret Atwood on Stories, Deception and the Bible, is quite long but extremely interesting. For those of you who might subscribe to the NYT, it’s well worth finding it and reading it. It is especially compelling reading, in my opinion, as we attempt to understand what is behind Russia’s war against Ukraine and what the long-term holds for that conflict and the planet at large.

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For the last two days, I’ve made a breakfast of clementine segments, sliced avocado, sliced tomato, and small bits of feta cheese. The avocados are gone. I may revert to cereal (the old standby) this morning or poached eggs with toast. We have bacon and sausage, but it’s frozen and I do not feel like thawing it. One day soon, I will make a Japanese breakfast: miso soup, a tiny piece of pan-grilled salmon on a small bed of white rice, and some slices of radish and cucumber. At least that’s my version of a Japanese breakfast. My Chinese breakfast, pork congee, can be used for any meal at any time of day. But so can any meal from any culture; we just have to be sufficiently adventurous. And we have to overcome our usually irrational biases against eating certain things at certain times of day. It’s perfectly okay to have Pepsi and scrambled eggs at lunch. And coffee with milk and cereal for dinner is just fine. A ribeye steak and baked potato at breakfast would suit me just fine. After all, there exists and admonish that we ought to: “eat like a king at breakfast, like a prince at lunch, and like a pauper at dinner.” I’m game.

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Today, I have two doctor appointments and I absolutely must do my income taxes. But at least we will have a nice evening with a friend. We’ll take her dinner and chat with her about all manner of “stuff.” And we will turn her swivel rocker upside down to get details on the manufacturer; we’d rather buy a chair like it than be forced to steal hers. 😉  I suppose we will end the evening with another episode or two of Pieces of Her.  Life is good.

The clothing we wear is dictated, in large part, by our social environments. Our social environments emerge from innumerable factors that combine to create our cultures. According to notes from a University of Michigan “women’s studies” course entitled Gender and Popular Culture, “Culture is a system of learned behavior patterns which are characteristic of the members of a society.” Specifically, according to the originator and proponent of that concept, E. A. Hoebel, “Culture is the sum total of integrated learned behavior patterns, which are characteristics of members of a society and which are, therefore, not the result of biological inheritance.” So, the styles of the clothes we wear represent one component of learned behavior patterns.

But why, I wonder, have we learned—in this society, at least—that men and women should wear clothing that, by and large, is unique to the sex of the wearer? Of course there are plenty of unisex clothing styles, but our society generally encourages (or requires) men and women to dress differently. While I have no interest in wearing flowery dresses or blouses awash in sequins (probably because I’ve been taught, successfully, those things belong only on the bodies of women), I wonder why our culture has decided such clothing is “feminine?” My limited research this morning suggests some ideas. First, it is important to understand that “sex” and “gender” are two distinct concepts: “While gender is a social, psychological, and cultural construct, our reason to polarize gender is influenced by sex, that is, the biological dichotomy of male and female.” (from encyclopedia.com, “Gender, Dress, and Fashion”). In our society, we clearly base our clothing parameters around both sex and gender. But so do other cultures; just in different ways.  That same encyclopedia.com article offers this: “In Indonesia, parts of West Africa, and in traditional Scottish dress, men wear an article of clothing that closely resembles a Western definition of a skirt. In Indonesia, both men and women wear the sarong, a length of cloth wrapped to form a tube. The wrapper, a rectangular cloth tied at the waist, is worn by both sexes in parts of West Africa. The Scottish kilt, still worn at many social gatherings to establish a social and cultural identity, represents the height of masculinity (Kidwell and Steele 1989). In North American culture, the sarong, wrapper, or kilt would rarely be seen on men except within the theater, film, or in the context of couture or avant-garde fashion.”

Question everything. Learn something. Answer nothing.

~ Euripides ~

Everything I read seems to explain the “what” of different types and styles of clothing for men and women, but says virtually nothing of significance about the “why.” Why, for example, is a kilt the “height of masculinity” in Scotland, whereas in the U.S. a kilt is nothing more than a rare glimpse into another culture or a statement of defiance?

If I were to invest more time and energy into the question of “why,” I am sure I would find plenty of explanations. But that investigation would almost certainly involve a much deeper search and far more time than I am willing to commit. So, I am condemned to simply wonder. As I wonder, it occurs to me that I do not know what I would do with the answer, if it were presented to me. Would it prompt me to wear culottes and high-heeled shoes? Probably not. (Nothing could prompt me to wear high-heeled shoes; they obviously were the creation of callous, lustful men who did not care a whit about the safety and comfort of women—only about the shapeliness of women’s legs.) Although, during summertime, especially, I think I might find capri pants much more appealing than pants with legs that stretch almost to the floor.

As I contemplate clothing styles and wonder why styles are so remarkably different between men and women in this culture, my thoughts return to the general absurdity of clothing. Except to protect us against the elements, the idea of clothing is fundamentally puritanical. We wear clothes to hide our bodies from the eyes of others; generally, but not always, others of the other sex. I believe, with all my heart, that is a silly social constraint we place upon ourselves and willingly accept. Yet I am not the one to lead the charge for public nudity. Although I would gladly defend the person brave enough to do it. As I look at my own body in the mirror, I can imagine that our modesty may not be based entirely on wanting to hide our sexual paraphernalia but, rather, wanting to hide evidence of our gluttony and lack of body-toning activities and exercise.

The different standards applied to men and women with regard to clothing has always bothered me. Men can go shirtless in many situations; in those same situations, women would be arrested. Men have nipples, too, but apparently the size and shape of the breasts to which nipples are attached has something to do with the concept of public indecency. What idiocy. Intellectually, I can condemn the double standard, but in practice I find myself magnetically drawn to the exposed breasts of women, whereas I do not find men’s exposed breasts at all interesting. Is my intrigue based entirely on socialization; is my culture’s teaching responsible for my interest, or is my attention dictated by my genes? Could clothing styles be, in some weird and convoluted way, cultures’ responses to sexual (mostly male) arousal? But, then, why do other societies’ styles of clothing no mirror ours? If sexual interest plays a part in defining socially acceptable style, why in some societies (like some in Africa) are women free to expose their breasts publicly? Do different societies teach their members different lessons about sexuality? Are breasts in those African societies not considered sexual, whereas in most western culture they represent female sexuality?

A mind that questions everything, unless strong enough to bear the weight of its ignorance, risks questioning itself and being engulfed in doubt.

~ Émile Durkheim ~

How well I know, Émile. Entire disciplines have emerged from questions like those I ask, so I do not expect short, crisp, clean answers. But I love to think about the questions and I enjoy exploring possible answers. That is one of the things about life that makes it interesting.

How could I have lived this long without being exposed to the incredible allure of the poetry and prose of Gretel Ehrlich? Reading her words is like absorbing a powerful, painful, yet addictive shock–one that cries out for more of the intensity and stunning beauty of her facility with language. Her writing is vivid and forceful, yet the emotions it elicits are fragile; it is as her words erupt from tornadoes that surrender, untouched, the delicate buds of the trees their winds leave behind when they depart.

We Americans are great on fillers, as if what we have, what we are, is not enough…. We have only to look at the houses we build to see how we build *against* space, the way we drink against pain and loneliness. We fill up space as if it were a pie shell, with things whose opacity further obstructs our ability to see what is already there.

   ~ Gretel Ehrlich ~

I was introduced, last night, to Gretel Ehrlich’s splendid artistry with the English language in episode 4 of season 5 of Yellowstone. The series’ incredibly harsh character, Beth Dutton, recited a few lines from Ehrlich’s The Solace of Open Spaces. Beth’s unfettered anger and fierce loyalty to her father drench every episode; the words she uttered from Ehrlich’s book, though, turned her almost one-dimensional character into a complex human being.

Subsequent to hearing Ehrlich’s words on-screen last night, I explored more of her writing. When I woke this morning, I spent an hour or so reading quotes extracted from various of her several books; those quotations further amplified my desire to read her work. People whose comments on Goodreads quoted her convinced me that she and I have similar sensibilities, though she is a better writer than I, by far.  This morning, I ordered a used paperback copy of The Solace of Open Spaces this morning. However, I successfully convinced myself to hold off on ordering several other of her books: Unsolaced: Along the Way to All That Is; Islands, the Universe, Home;  This Cold Heaven: Seven Seasons in Greenland; Facing the Wave: A Journey in the Wake of the Tsunami; and A Match to the Heart: One Woman’s Story of Being Struck By Lightning. I could stay occupied for weeks, just reading Ehrlich’s words. As if I have nothing else to do. Sigh.

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We went to the nearest liquor store yesterday morning, shortly after it opened, to buy a bottle of good tequila.  I had managed, the day before, to learn from the flooring installer that his preferred spirit is tequila. We have been extremely impressed with the work he and his son have been doing, so we wanted to show our appreciation—beyond simply telling him and telling the owner of the flooring store for which our installer is doing the work. When we dropped off our gift, he expressed his thanks in words and with a hug for each of us. I suspect the guy is regularly showered with gifts of appreciation when he takes over from other installers who, though nice folks, cannot compare with his professionalism and commitment to doing a thorough job and keeping his workspace clean and well-organized.

I dropped by the house late yesterday afternoon, just after 5, and they were wrapping up. They had finished putting in the quarter-round and were vacuuming and dusting as they moved their tools out of the house and into their truck. Though I did not inspect the place, I am confident the job is finished and the house is reasonably clean; that being said, we definitely will need to spend considerable time and energy to remove dust from walls, ceiling fans, light fixtures, cracks, crevices, and every other exposed space. With apologies to Robert Frost, we have “miles to go before we sleep.” But the end is in sight.

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I have a new pair of shoes. They are nothing special, just a pair of New Balance athletic shoes. Nothing special except for the price: they are the most expensive pair of shoes I’ve ever owned. I feel like I should insure them separately from the rest of my belongings. How the hell did the price of  “tennis shoes” ever reach beyond $200? Granted, that includes tax, but, still… For that price, I feel that the shoes should not only be incredibly comfortable, they should make me look and feel considerably taller. They also should, once and for all, cure me of whatever ails my sinuses and/or lungs. And my arthritis should be a thing of the past, thanks to this pair of magical shoes. Holy cripes. I prefer open-toed, soft-soled flip-flops. Even those, though, cost through the roof. I should have delayed my retirement by ten years and saved every penny of my income during that time, just to be sure I will have enough money in retirement to buy clothes. I may be forced by economic necessity into a nude lifestyle by the time I reach 73 and a half.

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Coffee—caffeine, more appropriately—has never had the same effect on me that it is said to have on other people. It does not keep me awake. It does not get me wired. It is not the morning drug that activates my nervous system. That having been said, I enjoy coffee. I like the strong taste left behind by exposing ground dark-roast beans to very hot water under a bit of pressure. I’ve recently begun to question whether I allow enough time and ritual to enjoy coffee to the fullest. My answer: no, I do not. I simply let my machine pump hot water through a clump of ground roasted coffee beans and then I go about my business. There once was a time when I spent more time with my coffee. I spent time grinding the beans myself. I measured out with some degree of precision the amount of ground coffee and water I wanted to use, then let the water slowly seep through the ground beans. Today, it’s a matter of slam, bam, done. I may return to the “old ways.” I have long since given away my French press, I think. I should find another one. I should make a meditative ritual out of preparing and partaking of my morning coffee. I already use my mornings to prepare me for the day.

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Speaking of the rituals that I use to begin my day, a friend suggested that, with my morning rituals of solitude and introspection, I am already on my way to addressing my fluctuating moods. She recommended to me a video based on a book, Breaking The Habit of Being Yourself, by Joe Dispenza. She said Dispenza’s “clear explanation of how you change ingrained patterns of thought, behavior,  and feelings” prompted her to direct her attention to his suggestions. Though I haven’t yet explored in depth the video or the book, I plan to look into it. Something we all know, I think, but we tend to ignore in the heat of the moment when need it most, is that the most important first step to accomplishing change is to want it and to recognize that we must begin to take action in pursuit of achieving it. Taking control of one’s moods seems simple; just a matter of discipline and choice. But it is not that simple. It is a matter of changing one’s thought patterns and changing the way we interact with the world around us and how we interact with ourselves. At least that’s how I see it this morning. This morning, I have a fairly intense sense that there are several things about me I want to change. In some cases, I want to return to an earlier version of me. In others, I want to rebuild, from the ground up, the framework around which over time I have padded thoughts and behaviors. It feels a little odd, as my advancing age, to want to start over in a sense. But feeling odd is nothing new to me.

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I would like to have control over the manner and time of my own death. That desire is confounded by the realities of aging, illness, and other contexts over which we have little or no control. But, at its core, the desire seems perfectly reasonable to me. To the extent possible, we should be able to decide how and when we go. After that, it’s not up to us; whoever takes responsibility for my corpse is responsible for its disposal. But until then, I want to exercise control. The State should have no right to intrude on something so exceptionally personal as one’s death. The idea that the State should prohibit suicide, for example, is absurd. And the idea that one can face jail time or worse for facilitating the death of someone who has reached the decision to die is abysmal. My two cents. I wish I could carry with me, in a tiny decorative cannister I would wear around my neck, a pill or two that would allow me to quickly and painlessly end my journey. Given that every human being ever born has ultimately died—or will before a century passes—one would think we would be sufficiently comfortable with death to allow people to choose the mode and moment of their demise. Alas, we are afraid of the inevitable. We prolong it, sometimes beyond the time it should have come. I suspect, if humanity survives its own genocidal tendencies, one day people will be able to choose when and how they die. I know, I’ve said it all before. One tends to repeat oneself in one’s later years, the years leading up to decline, decay, and death.  😉

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I volunteered to take a meal on Monday to a friend who’s house-bound. Though I originally thought of pork congee or bang-bang shrimp, I may change my mind and do something a little different. It has to be fairly quick and easy, as I have a oodles of appointments on Monday. I think I’ll stick with shrimp, though I may vary from the bang-bang preparation. I may veer into shrimp cocktail territory, but with a full-meal twist involving roasted asparagus, along with a spiralized zucchini & tomato “salad” with a pesto dressing. I enjoy cooking. Let me rephrase that: I enjoy meal preparation. It’s not just cooking. It’s design and delivery. It’s flavor and fire and flare. It’s treating food as more than simply fuel for day-to-day activities. Okay, I know how to do this. I’ve done it before It’s just a matter of a few basic ingredients combined in a last-minute swirl of creativity and practicality. Preparing meals is like anticipating passionate kisses.

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It has reached 7:30, time for me to stop writing and start doing.

I thought the problem was my computer. Or my smartphone. But it’s clearly not them. They are not to blame. Google is to blame. Google’s Gmail is refusing to accept some messages sent to me, yet Google notifies no one of its refusal. Messages simply vaporize. For weeks, I’ve been cursing my phone for failing to allow me to forward photos to my email account. Yesterday, messages that were either forwarded or that included content or attachments that Google apparently and inexplicably deems inappropriate were “eaten” by the internet, AKA Google. All of this by way of notification: if you forwarded a message to me or sent a message with an attachment, it’s quite possible it never reached me. You would not know it. I do not know it. Only by happenstance would either of us be aware of the fact that Google Gmail is refusing to deliver mail to me. Damn it! I wish I knew how to fix the problem.

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For a couple of weeks, I have been allowing some of my extremely sparse facial hair to grow, unshaven. A few days ago, I suggested I was about ready to give up; it’s just too thin to have any hope of ever looking even remotely “attractive.” But I was persuaded to give it a couple of more weeks, just to see if it fills it. I agreed. But it won’t. I was born with a light beard; lighter than any other male in my family. My brothers have grown beards, though none of them have (to my recollection) been especially full and worthy of shaping into attractive trichological expressions. It’s a genetic thing. And, as the last of a string of offspring, the DNA controlling my trichology began its follicular life at a distinct disadvantage.  At any rate, for a while longer I will look like an elderly prepubescent teen, attempting to assert my masculinity through uncooperative facial hair. I’m in favor of every man bathing in Nair, thereby removing the distinction between hairy and hairless.

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Once again, even though I continue to attempt to use humor and anger as tools in the battle against it, I cannot seem to shake this sense of anxiety or depression or whatever it is; a general feeling of being at a low ebb. I think it’s grief; perpetual, unending, insurmountable grief. I know better than to try to overcome it. Nothing can. People just have to learn to live with it; to accept the guilt and emptiness that comes with it. But I am not its only victim. Anyone who must deal with me has to cope with it, as well. And I realize that is patently unfair. Yet trying to mask it has fallen flat. I’m not even sure it’s really grief. It may be my mind coming to grips with my own mortality. A friend advised me to look more outward than inward as a means of dealing with grief. While that may be good advice, I am not sure how to alter my perspective on the world. Some days I just want to draw into myself and withdraw from engaging with the world. That’s probably the wrong direction, but it seems to be the one that makes the most sense. I’ll figure it out. Thus far, I’ve been able to spring back from these deep bouts of grief-infused ennui. And I suppose I always will. But it gets so damn tiresome, bouncing up and down from day to day. I just wish everything would stop for a while.

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Consciousness is much more than the thorn, it is the dagger in the flesh.

   ~ Emil Cioran ~

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I stopped by the house yesterday to check on progress. The flooring has all been laid; what’s left for the flooring installers are the quarter-rounds, some replacement baseboards, and a few other odds and ends. And, then, cleaning. And more painting. And touch-up. And fixing the doors. And moving. And on and on and on. I am not certain I have the strength or willpower or discipline to finish it. My ADD (assuming that’s what has kept me company all these years) keeps arguing with me to just abandon the effort and simply start jamming furniture into the unfinished house with the idea that it will be finished eventually. Ugh. I have to brighten up so I can fulfill my obligations as a human being. Those requisites for life will not go away.

When I woke from a dream this morning around 3, I made a point of focusing on the dream so I would remember it when I awakened for the day a few hours later. Then, later, when I finally got out of bed around 6, I remembered the odd dream. I was a guest in the new “getaway” home of a gay couple I knew from before I retired; two very nice guys who, when they got married after we moved to Hot Springs Village, invited us to their post-wedding party. This new home—that I somehow knew was an apartment in a tiny enclave of extremely modern-looking underground apartments—was entirely a product of my imagination; I have seen photos of their grandiose custom-built house in Sedona, Arizona, which is nothing like this little apartment. In addition to these two men, another guy from earlier in my business life—who had been a member of the Chad Mitchell Trio—was present. The three of them walked ahead of me toward an elevator, but I when I saw an ashtray on a table along the route of our travels, I paused to light a cigarette. The smaller man of the couple paused to wait with me while I smoked, but the other two men went ahead into the elevator. But when I realized I had not been told it was okay to smoke, I put the cigarette out. When I looked up, the other man was gone, too. I was alone in the room and did not know how to get to the elevator, though I knew the direction I should follow. And I followed it; but I had to try to step over some large rectangular stone boxes filled with water to go in that direction. I felt embarrassed and out-of-place. Suddenly, the former singer from the trio appeared and told me smoking without being authorized to do it was a serious faux pas. And that’s all I remember. I haven’t smoked in eighteen years. And I haven’t been face-to-face with my singer friend for at least twenty-five years. Odd what can emerge from one’s mind in the midst of sleep.

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It just occurred to me that my little black book of Zen-influenced quotations is not on my desk. I do not recall the last time it was there, within easy reach. The only book within easy reach is The Shipping News, by E. Annie Proulx, one of my all-time favorite pieces of fiction. It is there because I took it off a bookshelf in my study to give to my girlfriend, who has not read it; she looked at the size of print and said she would rather order and pay for it for her Kindle so she could read the words. I flipped open the book just now and saw these words, which will have to do in place of a quotation from my Zen book:

Through the great storms of life he did his best,
God grant him eternal rest.

Hmm. Those words do not convey a message of the kind I like to include in my blog posts. But they will have to do, in the absence of my Zen book and given my sloth and unwillingness to do an internet search for meaning.

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I woke up considerably later than normal, so I am out of sync with the day. I detest having to cope with days that do not begin with isolation, serenity, and calm reflection. Dream recall does nothing to smooth out the rough edges of an unexpectedly strange morning. Perhaps later in the day I can find time alone to attempt to meditate myself into a state of placid renewal. Between trips to the new house to check on progress and before the church board meeting. Off I go in an attempt to become the gentle, cool, and unruffled man I know is hidden somewhere beneath my skin.

How is it, I wonder, that an ongoing, but unspoken, longing transforms from an aspiration to a concrete action? The answer, I think, is hidden beneath the rubble of private thoughts; wishes kept in a locked box, its key concealed by time and obligation. Once articulated, a desire becomes an ambition. An unexpressed hope becomes a declared request. Interest and opportunity then intersect to incite action. It is that simple and that complex. A friend—who views the universe through a similar but slightly different prism than the one that informs my vision—might attribute the transformation from one person’s wishes to another person’s unplanned and uncoordinated and unconnected response to synchronicity.  That may be it, too. Or it could be simple, random coincidence. There’s too much to think about in the overall scheme of life in this expanding universe to warrant giving the matter any more sustained thought. I will simply bask in my good fortune and refrain from demanding that the universe explain its rationale and its actions to me.

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Finally, our new house has two new toilets and two new faucets in the master bath. And Habitat for Humanity‘s ReStore picked up old light fixtures, ceiling fans, and so forth yesterday; the garage looks far roomier today than it did yesterday morning. Today, the flooring crew is returning, a day earlier than originally planned, to work toward finishing the floor. Either today or tomorrow (or another day, perhaps), the same crew will install newly-stained quarter-rounds along the baseboards. And, perhaps, we shall see evidence the house is nearing completion. Except, of course, I have plenty of painting/touch-up yet to do. Now, though, the floor is down and I have to be much more careful not to spill paint. Earlier, I could be careless because paint splatters fell harmlessly onto the subfloor. No longer. The house requires a gentler touch; a softer interaction; more focus and less wild abandon. I now need to ask you who are reading this post: do you want to buy the house I live in? If not, do you know anyone who does? I’d rather handle the sale without a Realtor’s commission; but I will share the savings with you, of course, if you help in that regard. 😉

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After falling asleep early on during our viewing of season three of Yellowstone a couple of nights ago, I finally caught up last night to the spot where my girlfriend stopped watching. But before I did, I found myself drifting off almost immediately after I sat down to watch. Television series and film, no matter how much I enjoy them, act like an instant anesthetic, the sort of stuff they administer in advance of a colonoscopy. I have to fight to overcome their sleep-inducing power. At any rate, we’re well into season three. Despite the fact that the series is most definitely modeled after the soap operas I recall my mother watching after she retired, it is riveting entertainment. The differences between this soap opera and the ones to which my mother was addicted are these: 1) this one does not take place entirely indoors on a small, stage; 2) this one is laced with all manner of profanity; 3) this one comes with nudity, sex, gratuitous violence, gunfights, bar room brawls, stunning horsemanship, and other such attractions that draw the viewer into the story; and 4) this one’s setting is a place with magnificent scenery. Oh, and the story line in this one is exceptionally well-conceived, although remarkably complex. I’m glad to know that season 5 is or soon will be in production. Thanks to Deanna for recommending we watch it!

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I took a break from blogging this morning to visit with my sister-in-law, who dropped by for coffee and conversation on her way to the post office and to cat-sit for a friend. Her responsibility for caring for a cat reminded me of the responsibility we had until recently (mostly she, not me) for caring for a marvelous little dog. I miss that guy. He was a good companion, even when he was not in the mood to sit in my lap or play “catch” with a soft doggie toy. Yet missing the joys of engagement with a pet carries with it the relief of responsibility for caring for the animal. No more necessary walks (to avoid unpleasant accidents requiring cleaning up smelly doggie droppings). No more regular delivery of doggie medications. No more arrangements for doggie housing to enable us to take trips. But, still, even with those responsibilities, the pleasure of having a grateful, playful creature around the house was great. Maybe we will do that again one day. Maybe not. At the moment, there are too many competitors for our time and energy. And money. Let’s not forget the cost of pet caretaking. Carefree pet ownership requires significant cash reserves or a lottery windfall.

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This afternoon, we will treat two good friends to dinner at a nice restaurant. And Saturday we will treat two other good friends, who will visit briefly, to lunch and a tour of our house “under construction.”  Before long, we will invite a few other good friends to join us for a meal and a tour of our new home. Recently, we went to the house of other good friends for dinner. Our circle of close friends is small but extremely important to our contentment. There are times—many times, in fact—that I wish our friends shared my vision of a “tribal” compound; a place with private homes, “public” shared space for gatherings, wide open outdoor spaces, and sufficient distance from neighbors and the hubbub of commerce…but close enough to commercial convenience that going to and coming back from it was not an onerous chore. A dream, in other words. Enough dreaming. I need to reenter the real world and make some progress today.

Fierce rainstorms—replete with high winds, brilliant flashes of lightning, and house-rattling claps of rolling thunder—began yesterday afternoon and grew progressively more powerful during the night. At the moment, the incessant noise and blinding lightning seem to have settled down; I hope the storms have moved on, but we may just be in a lull. Reading the news this morning, I learned how fortunate we are to have suffered only pounding rain, thunder, and lighting strikes in our vicinity. East, Central, and North Central Texas were hit by much wore weather yesterday and last night, including probable tornadoes in the Houston and Round Rock/Austin areas and west of Fort Worth. I feel for all the people who were impacted and continue to deal with the powerful storms. The weather forecasts for today suggest the middle Gulf coast, among other areas in the southern U.S., will be in for a monstrous siege of dangerous storms.

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Take any word, any word at all, and say it out loud a dozen times. Do it again, using the same word. By the time you’ve said the word two dozen times, it will sound like gibberish. If it doesn’t, you’re not doing it right. So do it again. Eventually, you will conclude that the word is meaningless; it’s simply a nonsense sound—equivalent to the way mud made from dusty dirt mixed with honey to form a slippery waxen goo feels as you try to hold it between your fingers.

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I got nothing done at the new house yesterday except to survey the work in progress and to get a report on when the project may be finished. I seriously doubt it will be this week; I hope I am wrong, though. Most of the flooring, except for the master bedroom and master bath, has been laid.  Installation of new toilets is on the calendar for today and newly-stained quarter-round is scheduled for installation on Thursday. But the flooring guys are not scheduled to return until Thursday, so that may be wishful thinking.  Once the flooring is complete, though, we can begin the task of cleaning up construction dust and debris, after which we can begin moving boxes into the garage for later distribution throughout the house. Still remaining is installation of new plumbing fixtures (faucets) in the master bath, new stationary and door glass in the master shower, and work getting doors in alignment and having them adjusted so all of them properly close and latch. And I am sure there’s plenty of touch-up painting. And I have to repaint the master bath and to put a coat of primer and paint on what we call the TV room (also known as the guest room). We’ll move in, eventually. And I need to sell the house we now live in. Fortunately, only minor cosmetic work is needed on the current house; I hope that minor stuff will help accelerate the sale of the place once it’s on the market. I desperately need a long-lasting stress relief treatment; perhaps a marathon process of chewing gummies so their effects will continue until the projects are completed.

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The official announcement of nominations for the board of our UU church was distributed by email yesterday. My name will be on the ballot as the Nominating Committee’s nominee for vice president and my girlfriend’s name, as the committee’s nominee as board member at large, will be on it, as well. It’s certainly possible that one or both of us will be challenged by nominations from the floor, but I expect that will not happen (if it does, so be it). Assuming we are elected during the May 1 Annual Meeting, we will take office on July 1. I expect our terms will be both challenging and rewarding; I know I will have to be far more engaged with church work than I have been heretofore. Fortunately, the church has a vibrant committee structure to support and implement policy. As I reviewed the bylaws and the church’s master schedule early this morning, the breadth and scope of responsibilities for which I will be responsible became clear. My plans for road trips, etc. will need to account for responsibilities for such activities as scheduling meetings of committee chairs, reviewing documents that detail committee duties, etc., etc., etc. Calendars help me stay organized; so, it’s a good thing I have a calendar to keep me in line!

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The number of Bradford pear trees in the Village is staggering. Early spring is the period when those trees become like beacons, erupting with flowers so thick the trees look like white cotton candy on brown sticks. Though not nearly as prolific, but at about the same time, Eastern redbud trees compete with Bradford pears for attention and beauty. In the space of our three days absent from the Village, the volume of white and pink real estate among the treetops  grew exponentially. But the white petals of the Bradford pears will disappear almost as fast as they sprouted; they will litter the ground and streets beneath them and will disappear in the wind in short order. On their tail, though, green leaves will emerge from their barren branches and limbs, and from other newly-awakened flora, changing the views into the forests into clots of impenetrable green rubble. And the pollen will soon be upon us like a thick yellow blanket, transforming my love of Spring into ambiguous loathing laced with admiration and hate. It is pointless and irrational to hate pollen, but I believe Nature has the capacity to turn us—me, anyway—into irrational demons capable of stripping the bark from trees with our bare teeth in pursuit of a solution to pollen allergies.  Not to worry. Summer will be here soon enough, leaving pollen as a mere memory; the hatred of pollen will transform into intense loathing of heat, humidity, and chiggers. These thoughts are beginning to prompt me to consider moving to a different climate with different flora and fauna. Where, though, would I be free of Nature’s demonic needling?

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Here is the final stanza of a poem by Pablo Neruda, “Ode to Broken Things.” Something about this poem, especially this last stanza that relies on the ones before it for substance and meaning but stands on its own jus fine, resonates with me.

Let’s put all our treasures together
— the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold —
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway

~ Pablo Neruda ~

We got home last night, a day earlier than we originally had planned, because weather forecasts suggested today would be a miserably wet, unpleasant drive. This morning’s weather forecast presented a somewhat different outlook, calling for light rain in the morning, developing into potentially fierce thundershowers overnight. Still, it was best to have avoided even light rain during a 400-mile drive. We will make our next trip to visit my brother in a small rented box truck, big enough to carry the teak dining table and stainless-steel-topped table he is giving us but small enough to safely and comfortably maneuver during a long drive. And we’ll be able to carry the big mother-in-law’s-tongue/snake plants we had planned to bring back yesterday…but which we were unable to fit on the floor of the backseat of the car.

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Since we’re home earlier than planned, I look forward to going to the “new” house this morning to see how much was accomplished Friday on laying the new floor. Depending on progress and the need (or, better yet, the lack thereof) for additional floor sanding, I may be able to get back to doing some painting and/or touch-up today.  After watching my niece’s incredibly strong and nearly-acrobatic husband work on Saturday, I feel the need to redeem myself by at least climbing ladders and stretching to reach the ceiling, paintbrush in hand. My girlfriend frets when I get on a ladder, concerned that I might tumble to the ground and break my neck. Though I am sure I will not do that, I understand her anxiety.

I will never be an old man. To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.

   ~ Francis Bacon ~

I remember when my then-sixty-five-year-old (or older) father built a shed in the back yard of his home in Corpus Christi; he climbed a ladder and scurried around on the roof of the shed-in-progress like a man half his age, which I thought was utterly inappropriate and terribly dangerous for an “old man.” I now understand he was not an “old man” at that age and he was exercising appropriate caution while engaging in work he found fulfilling.

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It’s just after 7 and it’s light outside. Time for me to give up on this blog and go take a look at the house, instead.

The motel breakfast bar is bustling this morning with several of the same people who started the day yesterday with dark roast coffee and assembly line eggs and sausage. That description of the breakfast service is not meant to be negative, by the way; it is exceptionally efficient, if not creatively inspired.  That description could well fit the people the breakfast bar serves, too, though I cannot know that. It’s just a stereotyping hunch. A group of guys dressed in jeans, heavy lace cup work boots, flannel shirts, and knit caps or baseball caps look like they might be preparing to work on electric power lines or oil field equipment. But I can’t know that. Hell, they could be surgeons out for a weekend of spelunking or calf-roping.  We are—and by that I mean I am—too quick with our assumptions about people. People about whom we know nothing except what we see in a slice of a moment. My brother remarked yesterday that he tends to make instant and often correct assessments about people—whether they are good, decent folks, for instance. I, on the other hand, tend to incorrectly judge people based on erroneous first impressions. My brother noted that it pays to make note of how dogs size up a person—if a dog dislikes someone, it is wise to be wary of that person. I agree that animals tend to have a “sixth sense” about human decency…or indecency.

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I woke late (for me) this morning, probably as a result of helping but mostly watching my nephew-by-marriage tear down a dangerous set of stairs and build stairs to replace them. He is incredibly strong and has an uncanny ability to apply his numerous technical and intellectual skills with remarkable speed and accuracy. He accomplished in one day what would have taken me a week to do. And his end product was a reliably strong, stable result, whereas mine might have been a rickety and dangerous mistake waiting to claim its victim. I could say his youth (46 years) was his edge; that would have been only a half-truth…maybe a lie. His real-life experience and innate ability to apply experiences in one setting to any other setting had much more to do with it.

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Part of my objective this weekend is to help my brother prepare to relocate to the city where his son/my nephew lives. My brother settled on a new deadline for moving—July 1. That’s two months beyond his original target. That is more than enough time to get it done. But I need to get in gear this morning if I am to help him meet that obligation. Onward with the day.

Huntsville changed dramatically in the nine or ten years since my last visit. Even then, it had morphed from the sleepy college community of the mid-seventies into a sprawling rural town trying desperately—but failing—to be urban. Now, roughly a decade later, it seems to be the young, unsophisticated wanna-be, rife with desire to be a grown-up but perpetually branded by its unrefined rural demeanor. It has the trappings of culture but it carries them poorly. Traffic-clogged streets, evidence everywhere of failed folksy attempts at refinement, and unrestrained consumerism and gluttony abound. Restraint could have channeled development into sophistication. Instead, the town represents what could have happened to Houston without adult supervision and absent the wisdom of experience.

The paragraph above represents my impressions after just one brief evening looking for a place for dinner. In spite of the brevity of last night’s exposure and the paucity of experience it represented, I stick with my assessment of the town. At least for now. I am admittedly judgmental of a town that grew too fast with too little planning and too much desire for unchecked wealth. It would have better served its future had it stayed smallish and rural and tied exclusively to its roots as a college town whose primary industry was incarceration. Its collegiate foundation and its reliance on the Texas prison system for its economy remain obvious, but its development outstripped its ability to maintain any semblance of a unique identity. Today, it relies on economic gluttony to shape it into anytown America, a place with few unique, defining attributes. It could just as easily be a suburb of Minneapolis as an exurb of the Houston-Austin-Dallas Triangle.

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Despite my unfavorable review of Huntsville, we had a decent steak dinner in Huntsville’s downtown last night. At least the chimichurri sauce was good. The steak was adequate. But the town’s small downtown has been effectively abandoned in favor of “urban” redevelopment and new eastward growth. “New” seems to be what the community values now. Speaking of which, we are staying in a very nice, new, upscale motel. New, luxurious, clean. And like any new offering by the same hotel brand anywhere in suburban America.

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I look forward to getting back to our renovation project. I want it finished. But we learned yesterday that our shower will have to wait another four weeks (or more) for a door. By then, I want to be in the house, showering in the guest bath.

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It,s hard to think philosophically in a dark motel room, typing with one finger. I may go search for coffee.

Even in the midst of turbulence and trouble, some days wrap their hours around you in a tender embrace. They remind you that life is, for most of us, tender and gentle. Yesterday was such a day. The few gratifying hours I spent with a friend, over lunch and coffee and conversation, were rewarding, both emotionally and intellectually. Engaging in conversation with a person I genuinely like and in whose presence I feel perfectly at ease is an excellent way to assuage the stresses of home renovation.  Then, last night, my girlfriend and I had dinner at the home of other friends. That same sense of casual relaxation prevailed over an outstanding meal of sous vide coq au vin, followed by conversation on the deck of their lakeside house, as we watched lightning light up the sky and listened to thunder rumble.

As I reflect on other days in recent months, spent with these friends and others, I am grateful that I am fortunate to love and be loved by a small group of people who have become a vitally important element of my life; some of us call this collection of people our “tribe.” And, as I bask in my gratitude for these people, I realize I have begun to regularly write about how important they have become to me. As I told my friend over lunch yesterday, if not for this collection of people who are so important to me, I feel certain I would not have stayed in Hot Springs Village for more than a year or two. But not all of my tribe are here. Two very important friends live in Fort Smith. Others live in Virginia and New Hampshire. Others are in Dallas. Another in Kansas. Others in Tennessee. And my family ranges from California to Texas to Mexico to Ohio. I realize, as I write—again—about my sense of gratitude for this group of people who are so important to me, both their physical presence and their presence in my thoughts keeps me moderately sane. I am fortunate, even while battling what seems like a never-ending renovation; even living with the anxiety about the horrors and wars a world away that could erupt into a global conflagration. Even with concerns about a global pandemic and political tensions and wave upon wave upon wave of stupidity rippling across “civil society,” I am incredibly fortunate.

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We will hit the road this morning for a quick trip that I expect will help me shed even more of my tensions. When we come back, the work on the floors of our new house will be nearing completion. We may have arranged to complete some other aspects of our renovation project—selection of the style and  material for the shower enclosure glass, installation of toilets and faucet hardware, adjustments to doors, etc. And spring may have asserted itself even more aggressively than it has already…a day or two can make a big difference in the buds on trees and shrubs. And we might be nearing decisions on which furniture stays and which goes. And on and on. Things change. And we’re changing with them. We react and respond to change and we cause change. Life is like that. Time to shower, shave, and get ready to hit the road.

My habit of getting up early and—thirty minutes to an hour after I wake—spending a like amount of time writing for my blog, is firmly entrenched. It is sufficiently habitual that I feel uncomfortable when circumstances prevent me from keeping to my routine. I have been doing it for so long that the ritual has become part of me, just as much as are the snapshot memories of my past. This morning, one of those snapshot memories sprang to the surface as I was watching and listening to a BBC video entitled, “Inside the stunning ‘new Athens’ of Central Europe,” a six-minute production about Ljubljana, Slovenia by Martina Zoldos. I recalled sitting with my late wife on a boat as we cruised along the Ljubljanica River. We marveled at the city’s spectacular architecture and at what seemed like an elaborately-planned city, designed for pedestrian enjoyment. I remember taking pictures of the Ljubljana Dragons on the Dragon Bridge and wishing all cities had been planned and executed as beautifully as Ljubljana.

I learned from the video, subtitled in English and delivered in Slovene, that the city was reimagined by Jože Plečnik, a Slovene architect who designed the city as it stands today after an earthquake in 1895 devastated the city. Plečnik called the project The Slovenian Acropolis; he was inspired by the design of Athens, Greece. After Ljubljana’s rebirth, the city served as the model for many other European cities, giving pedestrians precedence over automobiles and ensuring a grand, spectacular cityscape for pedestrians to enjoy.

Though we spent only a couple of days in Ljubljana, we fell in love with the place and occasionally talked about the possibility of returning there on our own so we could experience it at our own pace. Our time there, in 2019, was near the tail-end of an Overseas Adventure Travel (OAT) tour. Though the OAT tour was excellent, it did not provide enough relaxed, unscheduled time in any one city to really get the flavor of the place. That said, it was well-designed to provide more time on one’s own than most such tours, I think.

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My intent with the section above was to express my thoughts about my habit of rising early to write. Yet I allowed myself to hijack my own thoughts with memories that my thoughts sparked. That is how I think; in labyrinthine webs that layer upon one another until their intricate design is obliterated by the tortuous paths they follow. My thoughts are connected, but they sometimes seem random or their connections appear irrational—even to me. Because of the way I lay out my thought processes—unfiltered and lacking in discernable planning—I sometimes think people who hear me talk or read what I write must believe I am remarkably stupid. I know I am not remarkably stupid; not stupid in the least. But I can understand why people might sometimes think I am. Perhaps I should give more time to plan what I write. But that would put a restraint on me that I do not want. So I will continue taking the risk of being viewed as intellectually challenged. Even when I look back at what I say or write and feel deeply embarrassed for the way it came out.

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I spent part of the day yesterday cleaning up and organizing the three-car garage in our new house. The work was meant to be only a temporary “fix” to the disorder in the garage caused haphazard placement of workers’ tools and materials , old fixtures littering the floor, and junk left by the previous owners.  Once some of the stuff is removed and shelves and pegboard, etc. are put in their permanent locations, the garage will be extremely useful. I intend for the third “bay” to be our work area. At some point, I hope to get some power tools and related products (table saw, chop saw, drill press, router table, etc.) so I can have a reasonably decent, though not professional quality, shop. And I may eventually invest in some welding equipment and a plasma cutter. I cannot possibly justify the investment associated with obtaining all this equipment except to call it an expense related to a nascent hobby. It will not be an investment; it will be an expense. If I actually spend the money. We’ll see. What was I thinking and saying, recently, about acquiring things?  Experiences are what makes one happy, not “stuff.”

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Yesterday, during lunch, my girlfriend and I talked about the possibility of buying a neighbor’s party barge. The neighbors have talked about selling it, but have not made any firm decisions. My GF and I would love to be able to cruise Lake Balboa any time the mood strikes us. Buying a boat is another “investment” that is, in reality, an expense. And I am not sure I want to be throwing money at something we probably would use rather rarely. But the idea really appeals to me. If we can’t have a lake property (and we can’t), maybe we can have a marina-based boat at the ready when we’re in the mood to cruise. Hmm. I need to be cautious about spending money that I may need to survive in later years. I should have won the lottery. But you can’t win if you don’t buy tickets. And even then, you probably won’t win. Wait. Didn’t I just reiterate what I said a day or two ago? About “…acquiring things?  Experiences are what makes one happy, not “stuff.” Listen to your wisdom speak, John.

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Time for an early breakfast, then off to the new house to see what I can do to prepare for the flooring guys, who are set to return today after being on other jobs. They worked part of the day last Sunday. They may finish up on Saturday, but I doubt it. I suspect it will be Monday or even later. We’ll see.  Off to the races.

The weather forecasters predict today will be another of those late Winter days when Spring attempts to burst through the wreckage of the previous season. They forecast the day will start clear and cool—temperatures in the low 40s—and will finish just as clear, but warming to the upper 60s or low 70s. I can attest to the fact that the temperature at this early hour—5:30—is, in fact very cool and comfortable; about 43°F.  The light of day has yet to begin to spill from the horizon, so the sky remains dark except for the dim light of hundreds or thousands of stars. When I stepped outside a while ago and looked up at the sky, I felt that sense of childhood awe for a few moments; that sense of intense wonder at the extent of the wide universe beyond our tiny place in it. That’s what into a night sky does for me, even when the glow of nearby communities pollutes the darkness with dim, almost invisible light. Looking skyward, I am struck by the stunning beauty above us. And even when the star lights are dim, like this morning, I recall how brilliant and crisp the stars look—and  how many millions I think I see—when I have been far, far away from the lights of “civilization.” Places like Big Bend National Park and isolated beaches on the big island of Hawai’i and the empty plains of Kansas. Everywhere I’ve ever been…if I am far enough away from bright or numerous lights…a clear night sky is among the most mesmerizing experiences I can hope for. Perhaps recalling those experiences is part of the reason I find seclusion and isolation and desolate places so compelling; so magnetic and fulfilling.

Last night, as we watched another few episodes of Yellowstone (already into season 3), I imagined what the night sky would be like on the Dutton Yellowstone ranch. I suspect it would be very much like the skies I fell in love with when I was in Big Bend and Hawai’i and Kansas and a few other places where nighttime delivered a gift of almost absolute darkness, punctuated only by the tiny twinkling lights of more stars than I could possibly count.  Looking at a dark, dark, dark night sky is an incredibly moving experience for me; it delivers for me a serenity sense of both safety and vulnerability that are at once incompatible and perfectly matched. Odd, that. I suspect believers in religious stories look to emotional experiences triggered by the night sky as evidence of their beliefs. From my perspective, the night sky offers evidence that those stories are simply that—stories. As I see it, the awe inspired by the darkest night skies is much bigger and more powerful than any that could be inspired by belief in a supernatural being.

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Back on Earth, work continued on the new house yesterday. A guy came out to measure for the glass door/wall for the master bath shower. The walls of the master bath, where the old jetted tub was removed, were patched; today, they will be textured. I painted a small area of the master bath with a light grey paint; later, my girlfriend took a look at it and gave it her approval. I will repaint the walls, which earlier I had painted beige, with the grey paint. The grey paint is a much better match with the newly-tiled shower that was the beige—which was a good match for the old, now gone, shower. I do not mind repainting the bathroom, as I think it will contribute to a stunning, modern look to the master bath. When it’s all finished, I think the house will be worth the effort.  Not worth the money, perhaps, but worth the effort.

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Late yesterday afternoon, on a whim while we were out on an errand and a sightseeing drive, we stopped for dinner at a nice little Italian restaurant in the Village. It’s a small place not far from our new house. The owner is almost always there and he circulates among tables, thanking patrons for their business and making small talk. He’s a nice guy, at least he seems that way from my limited interactions with him during several visits to the place over the past few years. Last night, my girlfriend complimented him on his t-shirt, the back of which was imprinted in big, bold letters with “Legalize Marinara!” The waitstaff at this restaurant is always professional, cordial, and attentive, which reflects the owners’ training and staff selection practices. Other—most—restaurants in the area would do well by learning this guy’s secrets and putting them into practice in their own places of business.

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A couple of days ago, a friend returned from a Norwegian cruise to the Arctic Circle. Viewing her Facebook  posts, some of which included images of the Aurora Borealis, sparked a renewed interest in travel to that part of the world. Norway has always been on my wish list of places I would like to visit. I look forward to hearing my friend talk about her experiences and what she saw; and, perhaps, seeing more photos of the places she visited.

Thinking of travel spurred me to retrieve memories of my trip to France a few years ago. My late wife and I joined my sister on a roughly ten-day Road Scholar tour to Provence in the south of France (Marseille, Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, Arles, the Camargue, etc.). Afterward, the brother who lives in Mexico and his wife, along with the brother who lives north of  Houston joined us at a villa in Cabrières-d’Avignon. My sister arranged to rent the villa to celebrate her seventieth birthday. Both the formal Road Scholar tour and the subsequent excursions, using the villa as a home base (and, of course, the time at the villa itself) were extraordinarily memorable experiences. I would love to go back there. My girlfriend and I talked yesterday about the possibility of one day making a similar trip, inviting my sister to join us. It occurs to me that “one day” would have to be soon; all of us are approaching the last few years of the time available to us.

Travel to places where the cultures are different from our own tends to expand one’s view of the world. It broadens one’s horizons and demands we abandon insularity and arrogance. No matter how much one “loves” one’s home country, there always are places “better” in some ways; places one automatically admires because they are different from what we are used to experiencing. We become more open and welcoming and less self-important. Travel opens our eyes and our minds. And, for those of us fortunate to reap the benefits of living in the USA, travel makes us appreciate what we have and makes us more willing to share it with people whose lives would be made better by having what we have.  From my personal perspective, travel also has made me feel embarrassed for our abundance and ashamed of our arrogance; often, travel has led me to want to live someplace else where human dignity is more valued than wealth and prosperity.

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Despite being in the final phases of completing renovations to our new house, lately I’ve been feeling increasingly drawn to a nomadic life. While having a home base is a comforting concept, the idea of being tied to a place disturbs me. Maybe my restlessness is a temporary thing; I’ve felt it before and it has dissipated. But it feels different and strong. Yet as I age at astonishing speed, I suppose a nomadic lifestyle might become too taxing. But being chained to a mortgage may be even more onerous and stressful. If I could forecast with relative precision how long I will live (in possession of my ability to get around on my own), I think I would spend my money accordingly, so that my last penny would be spent as I took my last breath. I would invest in experiences, instead of “things.” “Things,” in many respects, are substitutes for joy. They take the place of experiences. While they may bring temporary comfort or satisfaction, “things” are like addictive narcotics; they must be replaced and replenished with more, more, more in order to deliver the same high.

God, I’m really rambling. I must stop. I have to prepare for a full day of making preparations; taking actions to attach my ball and chain to my ankle so I will be unable ever to leave my cell. A bit dramatic, perhaps, but reflective of my attitude at one single moment in time on this Wednesday morning.

A couple of days ago, at my invitation, my sister-in-law came to my house to go through my late wife’s jewelry. Even though my wife died fifteen months ago, I have been unable to force myself to do anything with her earrings, necklaces, pendants, rings, and other pieces of jewelry. I have no idea whether any of it has any significant monetary value—I rather doubt it, as my wife was inherently frugal—but I did not want to simply give it away to a charity. The idea of turning items of sentimental value into transactional trinkets was—and remains—anathema to me.

As my sister-in-law examined each piece of her late sister’s jewelry, she commented about specific pieces, saying this ring or these earrings or this necklace called to mind specific memories that said, to both of us, “this is Janine.” I was grateful to my sister-in-law for choosing specific pieces of jewelry that she wanted to keep and wear; wearing those pieces would honor my late wife’s memory and keep recollections about specific moments of her life alive.

Most of the items in the jewelry boxes held no specific meaning or memory for me. But I was grateful that most of those that were meaningful to me also were meaningful to my sister-in-law. I was grateful that she would keep them and wear them from time to time.  Some of the items, though, has so much importance to me that I wanted to keep them; to treasure them by bring them out from time to time and letting the memories they evoke wash over me. I know those memories will bring me to tears; they did as we went through the jewelry boxes.  I have no use whatsoever for those pieces of jewelry. But I cannot give them up. I know that, when I open those old jewelry boxes and see those things my wife used to wear and treasure, powerful emotional memories of my late wife will turn my grief at her absence from old and controlled to immediate and acute.

At the same time we were going through emotion-laden jewelry, it occurred to me that my grief at my late wife’s absence might be hard on my girlfriend. My girlfriend, who was away at church while my sister-in-law and I were going through the jewelry, has been extremely understanding of my fragile emotions. But, I thought, might my ongoing grief be hard on her? How would I feel, I wondered, if the shoe were on the other foot? As I mulled over theses issues, it occurred to me that the shoe is on the other foot, though it is not as tight on my foot. My girlfriend was divorced from her husband only a few years ago; and she maintains an amiable relationship with him and his girlfriend. I am happy that their relationship is good; that they can talk with genuine care and interest about their daughter and grandson. And I do not take offense when my girlfriend talks about experiences with her ex-husband—places they visited, foods they enjoyed, experiences they had, etc. So maybe my memories of my late wife, which often are expressed through indirectly through tears, are not intrusive on or injurious to our relationship. I hope no. Yet, even though I think my emotional attachment to those memories is a natural phenomenon, I still feel guilty that I may be unintentionally sending the message that my “old life” was more important or more fulfilling than the one I am living now. On the other hand, I sometimes feel guilty that I might be dishonoring the memory of my late wife by getting such joy from my relationship with my girlfriend.  Both feelings probably are natural, but neither feel “right.” I wish I could erase the feelings of guilt from my life, but I suppose that’s impossible. Those feelings, too, are natural.

Not long after my wife died, I participated briefly in grief support groups. I did not feel like I got much out of them, but I do remember—very clearly—conversations about the part that guilt plays in a person’s grief. What I do not remember, perhaps because it was absent from those conversations, is how to eradicate or minimize the feelings of guilt associated with continuing to live one’s life after the loss of a loved one who was so important to one’s identity and reason for living.  And I remember from those few grief support sessions the admonition that grief is not something one “gets over” or “gets through.” It is a life sentence from which one cannot be granted a reprieve. It cannot be commuted or pardoned. It is eternal. Either one learns to live with it or lets it take on the power of executioner.

I do not need these emotions right not. I am in the midst of making massive changes in my life. A major resurgence of grief and its attendant guilt can have no place during this period of metamorphosis. They must be overcome; tamped down or snuffed out or otherwise prevented from consuming me.

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It is likely that I will regret writing this post. I will regret even more posting it for the world to see, if the world happened to stop by for tea. But, if memory of what I learned in my brief excursions into grief support groups is true, I think expressing my thoughts is better than bottling them up in the hope they will go away. Still, maybe it’s better to express them to someone who can help deal with them. A therapist or counselor, perhaps, instead of a small group of people who may or may not read my posts. People—most of whom obviously are not sufficiently engaged by my posts to comment about them—who may not feel any real connection to me. I’ll throw this question out to those who have read this far: how can I overcome, or at least deal with, being consumed by grief and guilt and a tangle of related emotions? Or might that be an impossible wish, a dream that cannot be fulfilled?

I realize, of course, how insignificant my pain is. When the people of Ukraine are struggling to stay alive, my emotional traumas are utterly meaningless. Yet they refuse to shrink back and let the truly important, life-or-death experiences a world away take over my psyche. And that, too, adds to my feelings of guilt. How can I allow myself to turn inward at a time the world around me rightfully demands my undivided attention and action? There’s no temporary solution. Only the final solution ultimately will resolve the matter. And even thinking that way is enough to make the dams fail, releasing the pent-up energy of all the planet’s oceans as they rush to drown Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Everest.

It’s nearly 6:00. Time for another cup of coffee and some silent reflection, giving my fingers a rest and my mind a respite from the roar of thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   ~ Samuel Johnson ~

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

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

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

   ~ Hermann Hesse ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.

~ Henry Louis Gates Jr ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Arthur Schopenhauer ~

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

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

~ Adlai Stevenson I ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Sri Sri Ravi Shankar ~

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

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

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Time to launch into the day.

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

    ~ Lao Tzu ~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    ~ Basil the Great ~

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

    ~ Frédéric Bastiat ~

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

    ~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn ~