John Swinburn

On a few occasions in the recent past, I’ve noticed something moderately disturbing when I take aim at the toilet bowl and let loose with a stream of pee. Instead of witnessing the normal light yellow liquid depart my body en route to the waters below, I’ve seen what appeared to have been the output of a knife plunged into an artery. A day or so later, everything was back to normal, so no worries…until the same cycle happened again a few times. Still, because I had visited a urologist several months ago about the matter and was given a clean bill of health (“nothing to worry about”), I didn’t worry.

Then, a few days ago, I underwent a routine CT scan, ordered by my oncologist as a follow-up to my lung cancer treatment from about three years ago. This time, though, the results of the CT scan revealed  “4.4 mm left mid ureteral calculus associated with hydronephrosis and perinephric stranding.” That is, a large kidney stone blocking a ureter. The oncologist saw me yesterday to review the results of the CT scan with me and then referred me to a urologist “asap” to address the matter. I go in tomorrow morning for a procedure to remove and/or “blow up” the kidney stone which should, I understand, resolve the hydronephrosis and perinephric stranding. Easy for me to write. At any rate, I am glad the oncologist’s cautionary follow-up revealed the stone before intense pain caused emergency room doctors to have a look. I am told kidney stones can be breathtakingly painful; I am not especially good with pain. I hope this process puts an end to the possibility of kidney stone pain.

But this is just another piece of evidence that I have reached the rapid decay mode of the aging process. Last night’s visit to the sleep study clinic (with the objective of improving my ability to sleep through the night without my breath stopping 17 times per hour) was another one. There are plenty more. The lung cancer, the painful joints, the bone spurs, the aches, the million other incidents of deterioration, disintegration, and rot, etc., etc. Bah! I find the whole process unfriendly in the extreme.

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I got home from last night’s sleep study about an hour and a half ago, just as a light mist began to turn into more assertive rain. I have goo in my hair where the technician placed it to hold wires down on my scalp. I imagine it might take days, perhaps weeks, to wash the stuff out. My scalp feels hard and oily, as if I had combed into my hair pellets of almost-frozen bacon grease. I doubt I’ll feel up to the Men’s Group at church today, though I feel bad for having missed a number of consecutive Thursdays. Oh, well. Decaying old men can’t always meet their social obligations, thanks to degenerative collapse.

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The tendency for aging people to talk about and write about evidence of their failing health is just a sign of their/our times. We are decomposing on the fly and have little time to do anything else but attempt to slow the process. So, we have little else of consequence on our minds than the latest effort to prolong the end-stages of what, in our collective hindsight, was a rather appealing lifetime. We’d really like to have that lifetime back so we could live it over again, correcting all the myriad mistakes we were told we were making all along. But we ignored all that advice because our intelligence, we thought, far outweighed the wisdom of experience. Young people are stupid. Old people are simply ripe young people. We’re all idiots, I think, too stupid to realize how stupid we are, yet just smart enough to realize something’s amiss in this dimwitted world in which we live. In the immortal words of Tom Paxton, “It’s a lesson too late for the learning, Made of sand, made of sand…”

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Other lyrics from the same Tom Paxton song are weighing on my mind, now that I’ve remembered Last Thing on My Mind. And these lyrics will be with me forever and beyond, recalling regret that has no boundaries.

Well, I could’ve loved you better, didn’t mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind.

Tom Paxton

Yesterday afternoon, I started feeling rather rotten; another bout of general discomfort similar to the same sensations from recent days, with the addition of pain in my stomach. But yesterday was measurably worse. By the time we were half-way into another episode of Homeland, around 8:30, I felt like trying to eliminate a pain in my gut by sleeping it off. So, I went to bed. I do not know how many times I awoke and got up during the night, but I was awake too often. Even though I watched only part of the episode of Homeland, it made its way into my fitful sleep and dreams. I watched over a Russian spy with whom I had become friendly; our friendship cast a pall over me in the eyes of my spy colleagues. Ultimately, both the dreams and the sleep disappeared into the mist and I got up, sometime around 5:30, nine hours or so after I first got in bed.

I feel better this morning, but not well enough to comfortably make my 7:30 dental appointment, so I called and left a message to cancel. I am sure they hate cancellations so late, but the only other option was to go in and feel miserable in the chair, something I was unwilling to do.  Assuming I feel better as the morning wears on, I’ll go through with my appointment with my oncologist to go over the results of yesterday’s CT scans and, then, will finish my sleep study tonight (wherein I arrive at 10 pm to be fitted with CPAP machinery and monitoring wires, etc. and sleep for at least six hours before returning home).

If I haven’t gone on record before with my feelings about the unpleasantness of healthcare services as we age, let me do so now. It sucks.

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I read an article this morning about a situation in which a Black man, Al Copeland, had a stroke while driving in Boston in April 2019. When police found him slumped over in this car, they assumed he was drunk. Officers claimed they smelled alcohol on him; he had not had a drink since 1995. Even many hours later, when police decided something might be physically wrong with him and took him to the hospital, Copeland did not get immediate care. He sat in the emergency room of Tufts Medical Center for seven more hours, where medical providers also assumed he was drunk. By the time he was treated for his stroke, the damage was done. Copeland and his wife settled with the city of Boston for $1.3 million. Neither the city of Boston nor its police department have reached out to the family; no apology, just a settlement to get the matter behind them and move on.

Maybe a White man would have gotten the same treatment. I doubt it, though. Perhaps if the White man had been wearing dirty clothes and driving an old car, police might have treated him like they treated Al Copeland. But I doubt it. Too often, I think police assume the Black men they encounter are drunk, on drugs, or otherwise are ne’er-do-wells who deserve the dismissive treatment they receive from police officers. In my view, that’s a good reason to reconfigure the services now provided through police agencies; law enforcement and initial emergency responses through the police, with immediate and long-term follow-up provided through social services agencies whose funding is provided by funds redirected from police agencies. That’s not defunding the police; it’s reconfiguring public social service funding. And part of the funding ought to go toward training hospital personnel so they do not ignore patients they assume are drunk and/or do not deserve immediate care.

Racial profiling and its accompanying thousand forms of discrimination is a serious problem that could be fixed if society would recognize it for what it is and commit to changing our culture. So simple a solution, so distant a prospect. The issue, I think, is that we all react to the problem as if we’re engaged in preparing for a fight instead of a preparing for an accord. That’s true of so many social and political problems. We arm ourselves with axes instead of antidotes. For example, my reaction to the article, immediately, was anger. That’s not the route to a solution. If it’s hard for someone like me who really wants a solution, it must be a thousand times harder for someone whose first reaction has to be to defend himself against angry attacks from people like me. We ALL need to change.

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I had a conversation with my my IC yesterday, during which I mentioned that, if we hadn’t come together when we did, I almost certainly would have long since sold my house and moved away from HSV. I might have regretted it—almost certainly would have regretted leaving friends behind—but would have left to attempt to pursue dreams I’ve never had the wherewithal to pursue. That conversation, and my own thoughts about it later, reinforced the realization that we’re always faced with tough choices that leave dreams, or at least pieces of dreams, unfulfilled. And those unfulfilled dreams always leave us with feelings of “what if?” that will plague us forever. What is I had moved to some country acreage? Would I have been able to find friends who are even remotely as compatible with me as those I left behind? Would I ever have found someone I want to live with? Would I recognize what the choice to move forced me to forego? Life’s choices are tough, unavoidable, and probably are more often good choices than bad ones.

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It’s nearing 7:00 and I still don’t feel up to going to the dentist, so I’m glad I made the call. I hope I feel better as the morning goes by. I do, indeed.

The room in the Double tree by Hilton is dark. I have been awake for quite some time; long enough to shower, shave, get dressed, and putter around in the dark while my IC sleeps. Hotel rooms, by and large, ignore the possibility that more than one person—each with different sleeping and waking habits—might occupy a room. So, the morning person is forced either to impose his habits on his room partner or slink about in the dark, bumping into furniture and cursing under his breath.

Last night, we attended the Joe Bonamassa concert in the Robinson Performing Arts Hall. Bonamossa is a highly skilled guitarist. But the sound level in the hall reminded me of a film I saw many years ago. The Shout starred Susannah York and Alan Bates, among others, in a story about a man who could kill people (and sheep, as I recall) with the volume of his aboriginal shout. We left early, but not just because my ears were bleeding and the skin was peeling off my forehead in sheets: no, my IC was ready to leave. We walked next door to our hotel room and made an early night of it. We ate dinner and had drinks at the hotel before the concert; we had decided to treat ourselves last night. Avoiding a drive home to the Village in the dark was a prime motivator.

Anyway, here I sit. It’s just past 6:30 and I suspect I will be here awhile, sitting alone. This one-fingered typing does not suit me, so I will stop soon. Later today, I have more CTs scheduled (this time after drinking delicious barium). Tomorrow, I start the day with a teeth cleaning, spend the afternoon back at the oncologist’s office, and end it at CHI for the second half of a sleep study. I am growing resentful of the health professions.

If I could slip out for breakfast now, I might…but, no, that would not be right. So, I will sit and ponder life.

I’ve spent the last two hours attempting to clear my throat for just long enough to fall asleep in a chair. It hasn’t worked. Three hours hence, I have to be at my oncologist’s office for my periodic labs and checkup. I am tired of this. Dead tired. Will this ever end?

I skimmed the news headlines this morning, hoping for something that would feed a positive mood. The positive motivator was missing from the headlines. In its place, the media reports on admittedly critical matters upon which the future of humanity hinge. Like I need to be reminded that the population of planet Earth has largely handed over responsibility for the future to bumbling idiots hell-bent on maximizing their poll numbers while the planet burns, melts, erodes, and otherwise degrades around them. Cheery thought, eh? But I did find something of interest in an opinion piece in Canada’s Globe and Mail newspaper. Here’s a quote extracted from the article:

To be “woke” today is to acknowledge the factors that intersect with mental illness, but to ignore the illness itself. It is almost taboo to suggest that social inequities are not the sole cause for the development of mental illness.

As I skimmed the article, it occurred to me that many people I know and respect might take issue with the author, Thomas Ungar. Ungar is an associate professor of psychiatry at the University of Toronto and a research consultant with the Mental Health Commission of Canada. He goes on to say “We have moved from a narrower biomedical model of understanding mental illness to a more encompassing approach that touches on three factors: the biological, the psychological and the social. Addressing all three is the secret sauce to best outcomes.” I do not dispute his contention and, in fact, I think it’s pretty damn obvious. No matter what we read, we see arguments that suggest or claim outright that social issues are the most important and powerful contributor to mental illness. Physical and biological causes are almost dismissed out of hand. While I’m not a psychiatrist, I’ve read enough to develop an opinion; and my opinion is that Ungar is correct. We ought to seek balance in our examination of causes and the effectiveness of cures. It may well be that social “cures” are more effective than prescriptions for drugs, but still we need to understand the causes to understand the mechanisms of treatment that are most effective. In examining treatments, we have to acknowledge that conversational therapies, versus medication therapies, may not be the most effective routes of treatment. But, then again, they might. Balance. Openness. Willingness to be led by the results of rigorous research. That, in my uneducated opinion, is what we need to develop treatments for mental illness. And for physical illness. They are, in my opinion, manifestations of essentially the same thing; some kind of damage to the body; which includes the mind.

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Another abysmal night, the cause for which was my breathing—or lack thereof. Actually, much of the trouble is attributable to some sort of obstructions in my airways, like saliva clinging to the walls of my breathing tubes. Each breath in and out creates a noise like a faint whistle. In my ears, the whistle is loud and terribly distracting. I’ve had CT scans, which revealed almost nothing abnormal. The next step is to see an ENT doctor; I hope he can address the issue quickly and completely. This problem has been going on every since my lung cancer surgery in November 2018; to say it’s getting old would be a gross understatement. And it seems, sometimes, to be getting worse. And then it improves. And then it doesn’t. Ach! I shouldn’t complain. I can breathe (though sometimes it’s strained and causes me to feel out of breath), so I should be grateful. And I am. I am a whiningly appreciative complainer.

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Today, I am scheduled to facilitate a conversation at church, after the presentation (which will be a video) on religion and politics. I suspect the crowd today will be small. COVID and the restrictions we’ve imposed in response to it, coupled with the fact that the presentation will not involve the presence of actual, physical human beings, may keep the numbers of congregants small. Whatever. I will ask any who attend to talk about their reaction to the film or, if that’s not of interest to them, about anything else of burning interest.

Back in the day, I used to facilitate strategic planning sessions for association boards of directors. And I was paid reasonably well to do it. But facilitating these church sessions is an entirely different animal. I cannot be as demanding, nor as forceful in guiding the conversation. And I am paid only by the crowd’s restraint; generally, participants do not throw tomatoes or shoes at me.

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I am not happy about having to get “dressed” to go to church today. I would get dressed, anyway, but the choice of clothes will be different because of my destination this morning. I will not wear shorts because…just because. I will not wear an oversized t-shirt because…just because. I will not wear my flip-flops…because. I have no official rules guiding my behavior, but I imagine the expectations of whoever sees me there will be that I will wear, at least, jeans, tennis-shoes, and a button shirt; something a bit less casual than I would like. A bit, hell! A lot less casual than I like! I’ve said it many times before and I’ll say it again: nudity is the natural state of humankind. We wear clothes not to protect us from the elements but to protect us from fierce gossip and judgmental eyes. I wish we were all free to wear comfortable rags or nothing at all, if that’s what feels good. Clothes are largely nothing more than ornaments and costumes that identify the social classes (or castes) to which we belong. But I lack the courage to live according to my beliefs and opinions; I await the leadership of someone else who will convince his or her followers to go about their business, free of clothes and free of fear of what others think. Only after sufficient numbers of obese, carefree, and fearless old men (and women) follow suit will I shed my garments. Because I do not have the courage of my convictions. I weep at my need to cover myself with yards and yards (for that’s what it takes) of cloth. I call on everyone to go naked! (Or, “nekkid” as locals might say.) You can count on me to follow. At the appropriate time.

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Damn! My brother is back in the hospital with breathing problems caused by the accumulation of fluid on his lungs. I hope he can have surgery (to repair the problem causing the fluid issues) soon and that the treatment is quick and completely addresses the issue.

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Speaking of medical “stuff,” I go back to my oncologist tomorrow and, then later in the week, to my dentist’s office for my regular cleaning. Next month, my annual physical. And an follow-up with the dermatologist’s office in December. It seems I have medical appointments every month and sometimes more than once or twice a month. I’m tired of that. I want my youth back. I want carefree youth. Assumed invincibility. Absence of fear about any possible future malady. Someone else said it long before I thought it, but I like what they said: Youth is wasted on the young.

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I need food. Something substantial. But what? Who knows? Time will tell.

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I have never been so damn stopped up. It was as if my sinuses had been plugged with silicone, subsequently thoroughly dried. Ten minutes after getting upright, coughing furiously all the while, I am back to “normal.” The doctors, in all their wisdom, have been unable to uncover the cause or, more importantly, the solution. So, I am stuck. Just live with it. I have no legitimate complaint. Others fare far worse. But wouldn’t the world be a better place if all our suffering drifted away like smoke. Well, I guess it is; like smoke from burning tires.

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Thanks to my sinuses, I slept very poorly last night. Thus so did my IC. We must leave shortly to return home (to retrieve le chien). It is dark outside and I suspect we will leave before dark.

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A few hours later, and we have arrived back in Hot Springs Village and retrieved the dog from the boarding spa. He was, as usual, delighted to see us. But he likes the spa, as well; he plays with other dogs and enjoys his time away from the day-to-day grind of living in a house far too big for a dog this size. Well, I’m not moving to satisfy his expectation of habitatational coziness.  I wonder whether that’s an actual word. I won’t bother looking.

On the way home, we stopped for apple fritters at Shipley’s Donuts in Russellville or Dardanelle. So, we should not be hungry for awhile. But I will make no promises.

I may write more later. In the interim, I’ll just post this.

A couple of days ago, a friend came to visit. During our conversations, it became apparent that many of our desires, with respect to places we might like to live, hinge on climate. Especially the tolerability (or lack thereof) of summer heat and humidity. And, in my case, the absence of chiggers and any related bugs that might drive me insane. Ultimately, the conversation led us to conclude that we could live comfortably in Hot Springs Village during the winter months, but summer’s heat and oppressive humidity, coupled with the presence of flesh beating chiggers, makes summertime an almost intolerable timeframe. The idea of moving to a friendlier place is appealing, but most such places are out of our reach, financially, and would require leaving friends behind, because our friends might have many reasons to stay, long term. The conversation finally steered us to a conclusion: perhaps many of our closest friends might be interested in and willing to join us in an annual migration to more comfortable climes each year–not buying second homes, which few could afford, but by renting places for 1 to 3 months. Perhaps a small group of renters could secure favorable rates, year after year; but that conversation can wait. First, we must identify who might be interested, then collectively decide on a place. Then, take action! Each person or couple would be free to rent a place that suits them, though communal arrangements might appeal to some. Each renter would be free to determine the timeframe, within a collectively agreed window, to rent. The idea, obviously, is to recreate the concept of a nomadic “tribe” that moves in concert with climatic comfort. This may sound outlandish, but we are serious. At least I am. And I think I am not alone. So, fair warning: I may approach you with a serious proposal, hoping for a serious response.

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It took awhile, but we think we have decided: if the nomadic lifestyle we propose works out, we will stay where we are. Probably in the same house; just modified enough to suit us. We’ still poking around in Fayetteville and will explore Tulsa and Little Rock, but we hope to find a friendlier climate solution that will keep us closely connected to our tribe. Solutions often require compromise, especially solutions that are within limited financial means. You do what works to be happy, if you can.

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I encountered a wonderful phrase that might describe friends who might join us as we explore our potential annual migration to friendlier climes:

Travelers in the mist.

We are venturing into the unknown. We are explorers. This phrase is based on an Osage term to describe members of the clan who take the lead during a new migration. I love the way the phrase feels as it rolls off my tongue. I can imagine who might join us in this experience. I hope they will.

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It’s just now 6 a.m. and I am ready to roll. I’ve been sitting in the “living room” area of our miniature motel suite for more than an hour, waiting for the day to blossom. I look forward to a bit of exploration today.

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Minds can change. Lives can change.

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I felt the need to revise today’s post…to add a thought.

It’s possible to feel a melancholy happiness or an uplifting sadness. Not all emotions are cut and dried. Some wither into beautifully humid stalks of mildewed hay, brittle but flexible with the proper grip. I sometimes wear sadness beneath the happy face, allowing its comfort to wash over me and protect me from feeling only numbness. Numbness is sometimes preferable to pain, but not always. Pain awakens reality, causing me to catch my breath before I forget, for the last time, how to breathe. It’s the same with attraction. You have to want, lest you forget how to love. I don’t remember how to forget how to hate.

For reasons that do not matter for the purposes of what I’m writing here, I questioned whether I have ever been really depressed. Or even truly anxiety ridden. Or adequately denied forgiveness. And I questioned, and still do, whether I can ever truly forgive, or be forgiven. I now think the answer to the first two questions is that I have. Both. But my experiences with those emotions probably cannot begin to compare with the painful, ongoing episodes that Jaskirat Sidhu must have experienced and must be feeling to this day. These thoughts came to mind yesterday after I read an article in Maclean’s, the Canadian current affairs magazine, about Jaskirat Sidhu’s experiences. The article, entitled Forgiving Jasirat Sidhu, addresses what it describes as “one of humanity’s most vexing questions,” forgiveness. Sihu was sentenced to eight years in a Canadian prison after sailing through a stop sign and plowing into a bus carrying members of the Humboldt Broncos’ hockey team. The team was heading to a junior hockey playout game. Sixteen people died in the April 6, 2018 crash and thirteen were seriously injured. Sihu pleaded guilty to 29 counts of dangerous driving. He accepted his guilt and never attempted a plea bargain to minimize his punishment as his case went through the Canadian justice system. However, because he is not a Canadian citizen (but was on a permanent work visa), after he served his sentence the Canadian Border Service’s recommendation as to whether he should be deported back to India will be evaluated.

Several of the families who lost members in the crash have taken the position that they can never forgive Sidhu for his role in their never-ending grief. Others have embraced forgiveness as the only way they can overcome the pain of their loss. And whether the Canadian justice system can incorporate forgiveness into a scheme ostensibly designed to punish and rehabilitate has yet to be determined in Sidhu’s case. Reading about the interactions between Sidhu and families of the victims, I see a very good young man who is suffering badly for a serious accident. “My mom and my dad always taught me if you have done something wrong, go accept it. If you have not done something wrong, stand up for yourself,” Sidhu said. “Those are my values, and that’s what I was doing.”

He feels deep remorse for what happened and he understands the families who cannot find their way toward forgiving him. Sidhu understands why some people cannot forgive him.  “I cannot calculate the anger they have inside them. I can’t judge it. They have every reason to not forgive me.” He finds it difficult to understand how those who do forgive him can find it possible to do so. And I, too, understand the unforgiving position taken by many family members. Sidhu’s actions caused the death of their family members. His sentence, whether followed by deportation or not, is nothing compared to their sentence of a lifetime without their loved ones. And those who have not found it possible to forgive must deal with others’ judgments of them: as bitter people unable or unwilling to forgive a good person for an unintentional bad deed.

The almost unimaginable guilt that resides inside Jaskirat Sidhu must trigger a sense of depression and/or anxiety that is just as bad. My anxiety and depression probably does not equal his. My loss of my wife was not instantaneous; it was not an utterly random act that could have been prevented. Still, depression can cause irrationality. I cannot yet forgive the universe for what it did to her and to me. I know that is the embodiment of insanity, but it’s still there, regardless. And I cannot forgive myself for failing to be a better person during my lifetime with my late wife. I am trying to be better now, with a new love in my life. But even that effort is riddled with guilt; why did I not make the same effort before? Forgiveness for that failure is out of the question, it seems.

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One cannot live in a state of constant remorse. It has to be left to decay in a corner, at some point. But does it every truly wither into dust? Does regret and guilt ever morph into something deserving of forgiveness? It’s hard to say. I hope so. But even hoping for a reduction in the pain of regret seems to clamor for more guilt, making forgiveness seem even less likely and its lack more deserved. Another of life’s awful but appropriate Catch-22 experiences.

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Perhaps today’s excursion north and west will cure the emotional ills I’m feeling at the moment. Maybe this dip in my mood was caused entirely by reading an excellent emotional but thought-provoking article. Whatever triggered it, here’s hoping it will subside soon; early enough to enjoy a nice fall day on the open road.

Not long ago, I started writing a poem. Well, it wasn’t really a poem; not a legitimate poem. It was moderately rhythmic evidence of psycho-absurdity. I shouldn’t even admit to writing it, much less to sharing the first two lines of the embarrassing display of childish insanity, but I’ve always been oddly willing to openly reveal my most appalling flaws. So, with little further ado, I am about to unveil to a tiny sliver of the universe an unseemly manifestation of madness. But not quite yet. First, let me say the fact that I recognize the silly stupidity of my poetic license should minimize the contempt and derision with which readers will drench me. But will it? Who knows? If, as usual, my words here prompt not a word, I will take it to mean no one judges me any worse today than any other day. If, on the other hand, my usually-silent readers launch into mockery and ridicule, I will know I have stepped over the line of acceptable childish idiocy. Only time will tell. So, without any further delay:

Mabel was a mutant, she shed her skin each night.
She dined on elephant elbows and sold tickets to the sight.

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In news of the world, the good people of Tempco arrived early yesterday. They spent half the day installing a new mini-split HVAC device in my Sky Room, rendering the room usable year-round (I hope). The cost of the product and its installation was equivalent to roughly fifty percent of the list price of a new 1984 Honda Prelude. I should add that I believe the Honda Prelude had air conditioning and got 26-29 miles per gallon; the fuel economy of my mini-split is unknown and irrelevant.

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I want to know more about Fayetteville, Arkansas. More than its population (roughly 85,000). More than the percentage of voters who, in 2020, voted for Trump versus Biden (50% versus 47%). More than the median cost of houses ($315K). More than the fact that, in neighboring Springdale, the 8th annual ArkanSalsa Fest will be held on Saturday, October 9. I wish I’d known about that last bit of irrelevancy a little earlier, before I locked in a visit to the area on dates that preclude my participation in the ArkanSalsa Fest. I’d like to know more about the area surrounding Fayetteville, too. More than just Springdale. Prairie Grove. Goshen. Benton. Rogers. Etc. Maybe one day I will know more.

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I will devote part of the day to clean-up and straightening up. Eventually, this house will look livable and orderly. But not until I get  my ass in gear and do something about it. And not until I figure out what to do with all the stuff. Stuff everywhere. I need to put it away. Somewhere.

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I woke up late today. 6:15. Crazy! I never sleep that late. Except when I do. A rarity, but not unheard of. And I went to bed by 10:30 last night. About 8 hours in bed. That’s what causes my joints to ache and my head to throb. Six to 7 hours is the normal range of my time in bed. More than that and I behave as if I’ve taken mind-altering drugs. Not that I’ve ever taken mind-altering drugs. But if I had, they would make me behave as if I’d had too much sleep.

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Let me offer just one word of advice for anyone “out there” looking for nirvana. Bacon.

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I wonder what it would be like to wake up every morning to a different artificial reality? For example, awakening to the sensation that one is riding on a very narrow train between windows on both sides. Outside, on one side of the train, the view is an enormous panorama of snow-capped mountains and lush meadows. On the other, the view is of fish and gorgeous multi-color undersea scenery; seaweed, sea urchins, starfish, sharks, etc., etc. The next day, the scenes could be completely different: desert-scapes on one side, forests on the other. And the next day, glaciers and polar bears on one side, street scenes of Mexico City or Beijing or Cairo on the other. Wouldn’t that be a magical experience? Seriously, wouldn’t it?

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I’m off to experience a day full of reality and artificiality. The trick will be to differentiate between the two and to decide which is preferable. In other words, just another day.

Yesterday’s late-ish breakfast consisted of a monstrous burrito, one for each of us, at Taqueria Queretaro, a larger-than-average taqueria in Bryan, Arkansas (where Benton ends and Bryan begins remains a mystery to me). After picking up my newly-repaired car from Campbell Collision, we were on our way to Speakeasy for breakfast at my IC’s recommendation. But, just as we turned into the parking lot for Speakeasy, I noticed Taqueria Queretaro, a place I’d visited on more than one occasion in years gone by. I suppose it was my plaintive whine that convinced my IC to direct me to TQ instead of the original destination. Whatever the reason, both of us were delighted with the choice. Not only is the food exquisite, the place is clean and the staff is pleasant and helpful. TQ is not a place for table service; orders are placed in front of warming platforms for the taco/ burrito fillings. There, all the options were explained to us by a very nice young woman whose accent made it a bit difficult for us to understand her; but she happily slowed the rate of her speech and explained them to us again. She called our orders to her colleague in the kitchen, behind her, who came out with huge, freshly-heated flour tortillas and packed them with our requested fillings. After we paid, we took our food to our table and enjoyed food that made us glad to be alive. Ah, yes!

The rest of the day was devoted to mostly-failed attempts to buy things on our list; no fans, no lights, no faucets. We decided we need to approach those purchases with more information and, perhaps, some professional advice. But we did buy a mailbox and post, which we hope my handyman will install sometime late this week. And my IC later in the day ordered a deck box. So we successfully spend money on items that we both need and want.

Before everything changed (causing us to plan to go shopping yesterday), we had planned to drive up to Fort Smith to look at a house that, after seeing photos online, we both fell in love with. However, everything changed when the real estate agent we called poo-pooed the idea; she learned we had not yet taken the step of getting pre-qualified or pre-approved. Apparently, in today’s real estate market, an intense interest is not enough; to view a house that is for sale, one almost has to have cash in hand or a mortgage company letter promising its delivery. It may have been the agent, who thought an unmarried couple (boyfriend and girlfriend) were not worth her time. The mid-century modern house conjures images of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture, expanded and modernized for the late 20th century and beyond. Would we have bought the house, had we been able to see it? Who knows. Probably not. We aren’t even certain we want to move. We just want some lifestyle adjustments. We may find them without wrenching us from our home and without leaving our HSV friends behind us. We shall see.

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Today, if all goes according to plan, a new mini-split will be installed to heat and cool the room I call “Sky Room,” the all-windows room attached to the master bedroom. That will make the Sky Room livable for all seasons and will give me a new office, where I can write while gazing at the forest and the pastures below and in the distance. I may have to upgrade the WiFi network so my internet connectivity is more reliable in that room, but it’s worth it. I’ve wanted that room to be more livable since moving to this house. The next step may be to replace all the windows in the room, which would make it an even more delightful place.

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If we learn nothing else from the recent enactment of laws restricting women’s rights to controlling their own bodies—and from the Supreme Court’s complicity in taking away those rights—it must be that progressive and restrictive social and cultural norms spin through humanity like recurrent, recycled waves. Back and forth, back and forth, progress is made and then pulled back into the dark ages by people eager to live according to ancient simplistic and over-simplified religious dogma. I don’t know if there’s to be done to prevent the cycles; anything that can make permanent the progress that was made and is now under fierce attack. It’s heart-breaking. Only by incinerating the anachronistic views of people who worship at the altar of deep conservatism might we make permanent progress. But how do we incinerate those views? Who knows? I don’t. It’s just a matter of fighting again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Will either side ever grow weary of the battles? Again, who knows?

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I am tired. Tired to the bone. More than tired. Exhausted. Utterly, completely, thoroughly exhausted. It’s not sleep I need. At least not only sleep. It’s rest. Something to put my racing mind at ease. Mental comfort. That’s it. A long-term pause from thinking about “what if” and all its iterations. But how do you get there? How do you turn off the constant flow of electric energy? Sleep doesn’t do it; dreams and nightmares and their cousins interrupt sleep. Resting on the couch doesn’t do it; thoughts creep in like home invaders carrying axes. The closest thing to it seems to be mindlessly watching television. But even that is temporary and the subjects of the programs do not lend themselves to serenity. I truly feel wiped out, crushed under the inexorable wheels of time. Today will not provide any respite. As much as I want the mini-split, I wish I could escape from its installation. I wish I could spend the day and the next four behind it in a dark, utterly quiet room, sitting on a soft chair or relaxing on a soft bed. No noise, no light, no sensations of any kind. I wonder whether that would cause me to go crazy. Or to just shut off the systems that give me life. I think I’ve read that the withdrawal of stimuli leads to death. Interesting; but no danger of that happening. There is no way to cut off the stimuli.

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I got up about 7, extremely late for me. When I awoke around 4, I felt like I was ready to get up for the day, but my back bothered me a bit, so I decided to try to sleep some more. And I did. But when I finally got up, the slight ache had morphed into a more painful one and it had spread from my lower back to my entire torso. That’s the penalty for oversleeping. I’ll spend the rest of the day trying to undo the damage done by three hours of unnecessary rest.

Today’s calendar is empty, from the standpoint of formal appointments. But we plan to go to Hot Springs to shop for various things at Lowes’s and Sam’s and who knows where else. Among them:

• a ceiling fan and light fixture for the master bedroom;
• a replacement mailbox mount (and possibly and new mailbox);
• a mailbox post;
• a bag of concrete mix;
• bathroom faucets (3);
• a deck storage box;
• etc.

The consortium of mailbox paraphernalia was an add-on from yesterday afternoon, when we noticed the mailbox on the ground a few feet from the post. Apparently, the post had been hit, hard, breaking the plastic mount that held the box to the post and loosening the post from its concrete moorings. I repaired it temporarily, but a new mount will be required. A new post and box, though not crucial, would be a wise investment. I assume an automobile/truck slammed into the post, doing the damage. Such is life in semi-rural Arkansas.

The rest of the stuff has been on my mind since I was years younger; I’m just now finally getting around to doing more than thinking about it. It helps to have someone providing encouragement. Some would call it nagging. But I never would label such positive encouragement with such a derogatory epithet.

Moments ago, my IC suggested we go out for breakfast. I am in favor of that, though I’d rather go to a nearby First Watch, if there were one close by, than to any of the local available options with which I am familiar. In an ideal world (I know, I write about that wished-for universe too often), we could select from Indian or Mexican or Chinese or Ethiopian or Thai or Iraqi breakfast spots. Instead, though, we have only a few more or less tolerable places that open early enough to qualify as breakfast places. To be clear, any restaurant that claims to serve breakfast should open early enough to feed farmers by 5:30 a.m. Dammit! Any later and the place has to admit to being more of a brunch place. And many places that serve what I consider brunch don’t serve appropriate liquid brunch accompaniments. Which is an affront to both breakfastry and brunchery. I’ve heard it said that a brunch without booze is just a sad, late breakfast. And it’s true. I’m not after booze early in the mornings, though. I just want breakfast served at civilized hours; early, in other words. Much earlier than the time at this very moment.

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Our plans may change today. I was just notified that my car is ready, two days early. So, we may take a drive into Benton to pick it up. Hot dog! Oh, well, time to get rolling on this late-starting day. Enjoy Yours.

El alacrán.  Scorpion. Escorpión.  A terrestrial arachnid with pincers similar to those of a lobster. The creature has a painful and poisonous sting, delivered from the end of a jointed tail. The beast can hold its tail, curved, over its back. It looks fierce; even without knowing about its poisonous sting, I suspect anyone encountering el alacrán would assume it to be a dangerous, natural bully with a tendency toward causing terminal mayhem. To me, it appears poised to strike a deadly blow, as if engaged in a life or death struggle with a mortal enemy.

So, why does the idea of a scorpion tattoo appeal to me? Good question. Dragonfly tattoos have the same appeal, but for very different reasons. The reasons underlying both, I imagine, are buried beneath layers of psychological sediment only a seasoned therapist would likely be able to dig through with any success.

In both cases, were the decorations mine, the tattoos would be small and unobtrusive. They would be hidden somewhere, rarely visible to the casual observer, and then only by chance. Fortunately I do not feel a need for anyone to see my scorpion tattoo; so I doubt I’ll have it artfully applied to my body. The dragonfly one day may be a more likely visitor to my flesh; a reminder of my late wife’s fascination with and deep appreciation for the beauty of the delicate being.

It is difficult to wrestle with love of two different people in different temporal dimensions. Both feel, in a sense, like they are betrayals to the other. In reality, it’s even more complex and simultaneously more painful and more fulfilling. Love is not in different temporal dimensions. It exists simultaneously, yet those separate emotions feel like they exist in two distinct parts of me, as if I were two people at the same time. There are times I feel those emotions pulling at me in different directions, putting me at risk of being torn in two.

As I consider the reality of loving two people—being in love with two people—in two distinct “time compartments” of my life, the idea sparks additional considerations about exclusivity in romantic love. Why, when a person loses a spouse, is an additional or “replacement” love viewed as appropriate? It is not a replacement, in fact; it is an addition. Few people would say the widow or widower has replaced a lost spouse but, instead, has supplemented an old love (of a deceased spouse) with a new one that may be just as powerful as the other one. Yet most of us consider polyamory—supplementing an existing love with a another one—morally repugnant or, at least, potentially deeply hurtful. Another example of contextual morality or, depending on one’s perspective, contextual immorality. It’s hard to argue against either consecutive or concurrent polyamorous relationships, except from an emotional perspective. Philosophically…hard to say.

My mind ricochets like this every waking moment. Today, I think of scorpions for some reason and then, suddenly, the thought bounces across the brain and into the weeds, where ideas about tattoos reside. Almost instantaneously, the scorpions and tattoos prompt images in my brain of dragonfly tattoos, which in turn trigger thoughts of loving relationships that seem to exist in distinct emotional and intellectual compartments. From there, the ideas take on what seems like electrical energy, the current sizzling like live wires mimicking seizures. The energy diminishes briefly, while the intellect calms the electrical impulses, only to have them spring to life again as the possibility of the morality of polyamory rears its head. My brain must be fried from such frenetic activity. Instead, my eyes fill with tears as I ponder what’s wrong with me to allow such intrusive, upsetting, troublesome, insensitive thoughts to wash over me. Love becomes a boxing match that’s beating both me and my partners in love into physical and mental exhaustion.

But these ideas open the door to multiple emotional connections; polyamory involving large numbers. Yet those ideas are shut down immediately as I realize the “freedom” of such large numbers would apply not only to me but to my polyamorous partners. Freedom is attractive only to the extent that it has clearly defined limits applied only to others, not to oneself. It does no one any good to think of these things early in the morning, when the fog of sound sleep has yet to vacate the head. My IC might disapprove of these thoughts, no matter how fleeting and purely imaginary they are. When she wakes, I will give her a more powerful than normal hug, appreciation for her generosity of love.

I do not want a tattoo if it will exacerbate whatever’s rattling me so thoroughly this morning, as the clock nears six o’clock. I do not want emotional art of any kind on my body or on my mind. At least not right now. Okay. Maybe an aboriginal design around my upper arm. Or random typographical symbols on the palms of my hands. Or nothing but nudity draped over me.

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We met with friends last night, ostensibly to make plans for an upcoming trip. We got around to that, but on the way to that topic we covered the waterfront. I love sitting with friends and listening to conversations spill, like water over-topping a levee. The flood of ideas is impossible to predict; eventually, everything will be discussed or, at least, acknowledged. Eventually, we settled on our trip plans. Laughter all around. And one of my friends removed the stitches from my hand. It was a worthwhile night on every front.

If we forced ourselves to look three or four generations beyond today—maybe just one or two—would we make the same mistakes we’re making today? Would we correct our errors to the extent possible, preparing the world to be safer and more survivable and more welcoming to those who will follow? Or would we continue to justify our excesses and our gross misbehaviors, convincing ourselves that everything will work out just fine…because it always does?

At the moment, I’m thinking of water, that precious commodity that sustains life. That vital element without which, after just three days, we die. We’re diverting water to farms in areas not hospitable to agriculture, allowing crops to be grown in places better suited to the unrestrained natural world. We’re demanding suburban lawns be planted and maintained, their insatiable demand for water emptying reservoirs and demanding new channels to direct water to deserts. We’re giving priority to watering golf courses over almost every other demand for water, allowing the middle classes and their economic masters and superiors to enjoy recreation at the expense of the future.

A generation or two or three or four hence, unless we mend our ways, water will be a terribly scarce commodity in many places. Places where, today, we waste it because it’s easy to waste. We’re sufficiently selfish that we spend our descendants’ very survival on luxury and convenience today. We build in places that, today, exude luxury but will become ghost towns when the water runs out. We carefully plan resort communities that will shrivel in the sun when rivers dry up and aquifers empty. We tell ourselves that “someone” will craft workable solutions; “don’t worry, it will all work itself out.” I doubt it. Oh, maybe we’ll delay the inevitable by a generation or two, but Las Vegas and the Central Valley and much of Arizona and New Mexico and west Texas eventually will succumb to our self-indulgent greed. And places we think are “safe” will be just as dangerous as supplies of water dwindle. The massive infrastructures designed and built to sustain cities and enormously productive agricultural regions will collapse on themselves, victims of misplaced hope that “someone” will fix the problem.

It’s not just us, today, at fault for the futility of the future. Every generation before us, in spite of all their spectacular advances and all the gifts they have given us, failed to successfully address the flaws imbedded in their, and our, innate optimism. Just because things have always worked out does not mean they always will. We have kicked the can down the road ever since the Industrial Revolutions began. And we bought into the fantasies that a series of Industrial Revolutions and a Digital Revolution would fix all the problems ingrained in our perpetual march toward “more” and “better” and “further.” Perhaps an as-yet unspecified “revolution” will delay cataclysmic collapse for a few more years, but I’m glad I did not count on it. I’m glad I do not have to bear the guilt that my children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren will suffer for the arrogance and selfishness greed of their ancestors—my selfishness, with my decision not to have children, erased that guilt for me.

I opened this piece by musing about whether “we” might correct our mistakes if we could see how they would affect succeeding generations. My answer is an unequivocal “no.” We never have, no matter how much we knew how great a toll our selfish greed would take on those who follow. We choose to ignore that fact to this day because facing it would be too painful and the guilt to great. Accepting our responsibilities for assuring a dystopian future for our children and their children would be too painful, so we simply choose to ignore or reject the blame that rightfully falls at our feet.

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I suspect most people who read this blog, whether regularly or only occasionally, tire of my pessimism. They probably tire of me taking humanity to task for its inhumanity. Their disappointment in me for failing to be sufficiently cheerful is noted; but it doesn’t matter. I only wish we all would take our responsibilities seriously and would, collectively, repair the damage we are doing to the future.

It’s not just water. It’s consumption of all resources available to us. It’s reliance on non-renewable sources of energy. It’s depletion of wildlife habitat. It’s spoiling what once were clean environments. It’s our acceptance of war as a legitimate means of settling differences. It’s mocking or condemning those who are different from us.

What a miserable way to start a weekend; thinking about humanity’s massive failings. But if we insist on “fixing” the mood by sweeping it under the rug and replacing it with happy thoughts of splashing in wading pools with our grandchildren or plans for relaxing on luxury river cruises, we’ll do nothing to assuage our guilt. And  nothing to minimize the contempt the few remaining future generations will have for us for failing to do something; anything.

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I realize, of course, I am a hypocrite for writing this. Like everyone else, I have to get away from reality by enjoying life and forgetting that I am making no significant contributions to a better future for those who will inherit it. But maybe trying to prompt at least a few people to periodically remember what we are—or, more realistically, are not—doing to secure the future will contribute at least a little to delaying the inevitable.

Welcome to a dreary Saturday morning.

The utter impossibility of knowing even an infinitesimal fraction of everything there is to know is the allure of the universe. The possibility that somewhere, well beyond the limits of our reach and our imaginations, the ultimate answer to everything awaits us. Drives us, even in our sleep. What if, we ask ourselves, we could learn the incredible secret that could turn our understanding of space and time and the laws of physics on their heads? What if there is an answer that explains everything; something that reveals all we know is archaic and fundamentally flawed?

We stalk the unobtainable, formulating questions that increasingly reveal that we do not know what we do not know, but for which we thirst with the passion of a lost soul three days alone in the desert without water. Our quest for answers to questions that have never been and will never be asked consumes us. When physics and our own observations fail us, we turn to Zeus and Allah and God and Poseidon and Yahweh and Apollo and Buddha and Jehovah and a thousand others. The incomprehensibility of everything stupefies and intoxicates us. Yet that very futility draws us like moths to a flame. We want to know. We never will. Yet, still we persist.

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Why, though, if we hunger for understanding, do so many of us have such a terribly hard time with high school? Why is college so damned difficult? If we are so driven by the quest to know, why don’t we try harder? I can’t answer those questions for myself, much less humanity at large. A monumental disconnect exists between philosophical questions and practical answers; and vice versa. Humans are simple creatures, but some of us seem to have broken out of our dimly-lit cocoons. Some of us have turned not into butterflies but fire-breathing winged beasts with an insatiable hunger for knowledge.

I am convinced there are several sub-species within the primate conglomerate we call homo sapiens. We recognize and worship the most advanced by awarding them Nobel Prizes in physics, chemistry, and physiology or medicine. The other three categories—literature, peace, and economics—are reserved for those who are intellectually advanced but whose abilities do not quite equal their superior brethren. Those two groups (Nobel first-line and Nobel second-line) constitute the tiny fraction of humanity worthy of pursuing the unknowable. The rest of us are a bit like worker and drone bees but, unfortunately, the two subgroups are all-too-capable of reproducing our mediocre and even inferior selves in great numbers. In time, the workers will produce so many subpar replicas that the Nobel lines will be edged out into oblivion. 

Taking a quick look back in time, I assert that we will find a much, much larger percentage of the population would qualify as members of the Nobel-class than is true today. I would argue that Aristotle and Plato and Socrates and Pythagoras and Cicero and Confucius and so forth comprised a much larger percentage of their cohorts than did/do Albert Einstein and Immanuel Kant and Noam Chomsky and Friedrich Nietzsche and David Chalmers. The gene pool is getting saturated with—depending on your perspective—damaged goods or “deeply mediocre” goods. Over time, the pool will have been sullied to the point that no filter could possibly restore it even to the upper layer of mediocre. I realize, of course, that my perspective could be used in an attempt to label me as aligned with monsters like Adolf Hitler; that is not in the least true, though. I’m not suggesting we do anything about it. I’m just saying Thomas Malthus made some legitimate points about the effects of over-population, though his arguments and mine do not mirror one another (although I buy his arguments entirely, though he was badly out of sync with reality with regard to timespan).

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My knowledge of the subjects about which I have written today (and about which I write everyday) is slim, almost transparent in its thinness. I wish I knew more, but I am lazy and lack discipline, characteristics that together make for deeply shallow intellectuality. I think I know less about more things than most people know about few things. Their (most people’s) knowledge is considerably deeper than mine about things that don’t matter. My knowledge is considerably shallower about things that do matter than it should be. I get the sense that I am attempting to do a comparison between apples and scalpel blades; the margin of error is razor thin, but it smells good.

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If I were to disappear today, my absence wouldn’t be noticed except by those who matter. In this sham of a universe in this sham of a world, we have to always remember that we have no value whatsoever to almost everyone, but we have all the value in the world to someone.

Year after year after year, the public watches helplessly as Congress grows more and more fractious, unwilling to meet in the middle to achieve true consensus. We watch in anguish as the country’s gears grind slowly to a halt, the sand thrown into its mechanisms by corrupt and incompetent partisans destroying the machine built with the blood, sweat, and tears of generations. Did I say “helplessly?” That is patently false. The public clearly has the wherewithal to solve the problem. We just don’t have the balls. We buy into one of several specious arguments: 1) if we were to replace every single one of the bastards, the country would instantly descend into chaos because we would lose the “institutional knowledge” of long-time “leaders;” or 2) if we were to form a third party to challenge the status quo, “our side” (which one we happen to be on) would lose any semblance of power, relinquishing any hope of achieving even a semblance of balance. To which I say, “Bullshit!” Those arguments have been promulgated by the two major political parties as insurance against returning control of Congress to true representatives of the people. And we, the people, are too stupid or afraid or both to call them on their bluff. We have been trained and brainwashed and otherwise led by the nose; the Democrats and the Republicans and their fringe element off-brand offspring have succeeded in convincing us that compromise is un-American. At their behest, we have come to believe that compromise is synonymous with capitulation, at best, or that compromise is the province of, God forbid, communism! So we are willingly led by our noses to vote not for people who honestly want to solve the problems caused by stalemate, but by the very people who benefit most from it.

Braver Angels, formerly Better Angels, was created to foster communication between Republicans and Democrats; to break the deadlock at the citizen level. It was, and is, an admirable thing. But I am afraid it will not accomplish what it hopes to do. It will not rid us of the career criminals in Congress today. We need, instead (or in addition to), an organization that is clearly political in nature, but which aims primarily to oust every single member of Congress in favor of individuals committed, first and foremost, to compromise as a means of achieving their goals. That means conservatives who would in today’s world identify as Republicans and progressive who would in today’s world would identify as Democrats working to achieve their agenda through compromise. In other words, sometime like a return to 1950s and 1960s politics, but with mechanisms to prevent devolution into today’s political morass. Politics, in other words, in which legitimate differences in philosophy are argued passionately but civilly, with the most persuasive winning the debate. Clearly, that cannot be accomplished with today’s crop of seasoned criminals and inflexible ideologues. No matter how much we might appreciate or adhere to their philosophies, we cannot let their uncompromising passions guide our conversations. Calmer heads must prevail. Heads that recognize “you can’t always get what you want.” Heads that recognize that compromising in practical matters does not mean one is abandoning one’s principles.

The way we’re heading today is clearly in the direction of civil war; whether sooner or later I do not know, but I’d bet it is an eventuality. Our option is to drag the bastards, kicking and screaming, from power and to replace them with clearer, calmer, more intellectually and emotionally honest heads. End of today’s rant. For now.

Some mornings beg for words to describe them. Others beg to be left alone in silence. The mornings may possess all the same characteristics; they may look identical in the eyes of an uninvolved observer. But to the person deeply engaged in those mornings, the two appear radically different from one another, calling for two utterly different responses to them. Maybe, then, it’s not the mornings that beg for the two different responses. Maybe it’s the mental terrain of the observer that imbues the mornings with such different desires. I know those utterly different terrains. One seems to echo the scene of a cool, windy, seaside cliff overlooking monstrous waves crashing onto the shoreline below. The other mimics an arid, hot desert scene of muted browns and tans stretching to the horizon in every direction.

Most mornings simply slip by without calling attention to themselves. Whether rainy or sunny, warm or cool, they slink past our consciousness like timid rabbits. Regardless of their tendency toward timidity, those nondescript introductions to the day merit a closer look. They warrant more focused examinations because beneath even featureless experiences can conceal insights or adventure.  Excitement can arise on the dreariest of grey days just as easily as it can spring from sparkling clear and crisp cerulean skies. It pays to pay attention, in other words. Otherwise, opportunities for elation can pass us by, poorer but none-the-wiser for our disinterested poverty.

And, so, there you have it. A warning, an admonition, a clue to the generosity of experience. Days are what they are and what we make of them.

In recognition of what would have been my mother’s 113th birthday, I post this image of her favorite flower—the “Yellow Rose of Texas.” She was 45 when I was born. Giving birth at that age was virtually unheard of nearly 68 years ago. Though no one ever truly confirmed or plausibly denied it, I am quite confident mine was an utterly accidental birth, brought about by a pregnancy that was known about too late to safely end. My mother died when she was 78 and I was only 33. No matter how old or how young, you’re always too young to experience a parent’s death, just as a person is never old enough to experience the death of his or her child. And the same is true of the death of spouses; it tears one’s heart to shreds in ways that make repair absolutely impossible. Yet we all experience these gut-wrenching moments that reconfigure the remains of our lives and deepen both the anticipation and the dread of each new day. Knowing what we do, later in life, we realize how suddenly our lives can turn upside down and inside out. Or simply be snuffed out like a candle with a short wick and too little fuel.

Something has happened to us. Whether we have been exposed to COVID-19 or not, we’ve been exposed to its psychological fallout. Our minds have been irrevocably altered by a combination of fear, denial, bravado, and stunned disbelief.

During the early days of the pandemic, we experienced the most intense phase of the fight or flight response; but the nature of the threat was such that fighting was not an option, so we fled in ways we’d never done before. We stayed indoors. When required to venture out, we avoided people. We washed our vegetables and wiped down groceries. Some of us put on gloves to pick up mail from mailboxes.  And we avoided our friends and families. We eschewed travel, even avoiding trips downtown or to doctors’ offices.

We felt caged. We wondered whether this monstrous pandemic marked the end of civilization; the moment at which humanity’s failings had finally come back to begin our erasure us in an event too horrible to imagine. These were not passing thoughts, either. They consumed us with sensations of gloom so deep and dark we dared not share them with others who might crack under the pressure of psychological torture.

All of these experiences, whether measurable or imaginary, changed us. They molded us into people who now are only half-alive. Oh, we attempt to proclaim our humanity and personhood and interest in “the old ways” by engaging in adventures like we did before. But the enthusiasm is muted and false. It is rote engagement, not the real thing.

Our reading habits have changed. We no longer watch the news the way we once did. We turn off the television when discussions turn to COVID-19 “recovery” or its ugly cousin, mass tragedy.

We are not sure what to do about this change in us. We could attempt to overcome it, but to what end? We could let it consume what’s left of us…but without a fight? I do not know. We try to escape it with road trips or changing our environments, but we know it’s inescapable. So we vacillate between surrender and impotent fury. “This will be with us for the rest of our lives,” the experts have finally begun to say. Now, we ask without even a trace of humor in the question, “how long is that?”

I’m nostalgic for a future that will never be.

~ Rommel Wood, producer, Ask Me Another ~

Rommel Wood’s comment about what he’ll miss about the radio game show he produced echoes some of my emotions about the show, though I was not not even remotely as close to it as he. I learned this morning, while perusing the NPR website, that Ask Me Another, one of those odd weekend NPR game shows I liked to listen to on weekends while driving, is ending. I feel like I’ve let a good friend down by not being there when I should have been. I listened to the show only occasionally. I never put it on my calendar, never made a point of listening to every episode. I missed most of the 1,700 games Ophira Eisenberg hosted during the show’s nine years on the air. But I enjoyed every one I heard. Even though the show sometimes was utterly silly, it often made me smile or laugh out loud. Listening to Ophira’s banter with the ‘house musician,’ Jonathan Coulton, I thought “these are people I would enjoy spending time with.” And, of course, I did spend time with them. We just never met, nor did we ever communicate with one another. I just drank in their camaraderie and their unshakably good moods. Their laughter often made my weekends more fun. Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi lyrics are so true: “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”

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I do not have clothes suited to the place I live. That is, a place where the population is largely elderly and the volume of the newspaper’s obituaries sometimes edges out timely stories that have more lasting timelines. I have no “funeral clothes.” I’ve not owned a suit since I moved here, seven and one-half years ago. Even my more muted sports jackets—the one or two left—that could be paired with dark slacks to mimic “funeral clothes” are no longer available to me. Apparently, they shrank while hanging in the closet, along with those dark slacks. And my dress shirts, the ones that could be worn with ties, no longer button around the neck. It’s the same damn problem; the air in the closet causes shrinkage. If I were to attend a funeral, I would have to rent or buy something. I doubt rentals are available for anything but tuxedos (probably inappropriate for funerals), so I’d have to buy a suit. And it would need considerable alterations, as my suits always do. Clothes have never been designed to fit my body. Or my body has never been sculpted to it inside off-the-rack clothes. I’m a bespoke man; I require clothes produced exclusively for the shape of my body. All of which argues for casual funerals or, better still, no funerals at all but, instead, casual celebrations of life. Even better, people who warrant my attention, appreciation, love, and respect should not be permitted to die. Problem solved.

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After church today, I may work at organizing the garage. Or I may decide to treat today as a vacation day or a holiday or a time dedicated to relaxation. Not just another do-nothing day, but a day of enforced leisure; several hours dedicated to extremely casual recreation. We’ll see. On the one hand, I want to get the garage situated so that a car (preferably two) will fit. On the other, I am getting enormously tired of having my days dictated by an ever-delayed since of obligation to “get things done.” Yeah, yeah, I need to get things done. But it will ever be so; so, maybe the time is right to say “screw it, I’ll do whatever I feel like doing, instead.” Not that the attitude is new, of course. But the dedication to it is not extremely common. We’ll see. We always do.

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I shipped three packages to three friends yesterday. Each package contains cans of two different beers, the same in each package, that will provide conversational fuel for a Thursday evening video chat. My friends and I have done this a few times before and have agreed we want to continue doing it once a month or so. The cost of this little exercise is rather high, but worth the expense. Each of us is obliged to host the video chat and provide the beer, on a rotating basis. So, once every four months each of us buys the beer, ships it, and hosts the call. The cost for beer varies dramatically (I’m buying two six-packs so I can assemble packages of two different beers each of the four of us; about $19). And shipping runs somewhere around $40. Plus boxes and bubble wrap and such. About $70 for me for each hosting period. It’s probably cheaper than golf, though I don’t know what golf costs. The investment in casual conversation over beer for four guys located in four states (Arkansas, New Hampshire, Virginia, and Iowa) is an investment in friendship and in ourselves. The fact that shipping beer is, as far as I know, immoral and against the laws of man and Nature is no deterrent. Rules sometimes are meant to be broken. When the other guys host, I get to taste some extraordinary beers. When I host, they get to taste some good beers and some not-so-good. We try to distribute the output of different craft breweries with each gathering. So, the secret is out. The other guys have access to an app that enables them to purchase beers from all over the country. Arkansas, with its antiquated liquor laws (i.e., its religious zealotry disguised as civilization) won’t allow me to participate in the app. Given what I know about Texas of late, I’d be willing to bet the same it true there. I’m rambling. I’ll stop.

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I realized while trying to decide what to write next that I no longer enjoy writing this blog the way I once did. It has become an obligation instead of an outlet. Instead of letting my philosophical musings flow through my fingers, I’ve been working to produce “content.” That’s not why I write; I write to think and to wonder and to imagine and to hope and to express emotions I can’t full express otherwise. But that has taken a back seat in the recent and not-so-recent past. So I have to think about what I’m doing here. I may decide to close this down (not really…just stop adding content). Maybe this sensation will pass. But if it doesn’t, I’ll find another outlet. I won’t kill the blog, I just may not write in it so religiously. I’m tired of being unable to do more than whine about the challenges of life. I need a break from myself, I think. Or I may just ignore everything I just wrote and keep spilling shit into the internet.

Reveal too much and you expose the fact that you’re a bore. Reveal too little and you fail to spur even a shred of excitement in others about yourself. Yet the amount to reveal that’s “just right” is incalculable; it’s simply a wild guess. And the possibility exists, of course, that there is no “just right.” It’s entirely possible that others’ interest in you is an accident, pure and simple; that curiosity easily can be replaced by other sensations like thirst or exhaustion or craving for an Italian sausage. So, in that context, is underexposure any worse than invisibility? Is overexposure any more damaging than a misinterpreted smile?

My point is this: In the end, it doesn’t matter what you say or what you don’t say. It doesn’t matter what you express or what you hold close. It doesn’t matter what you reveal or what you hide. Any interest sparked by any piece of it will disappear in the mist of time. Or it will succumb to more interesting alternatives. None of what we cling to matters.  At least not to anyone but ourselves. We wish it were not so, because we’re “not like that.” But we are. Or if we’re not, almost everyone else is.

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Real engagement is possible only between two people at a time. Any more than two and it becomes a competition for attention. Limited to two, though, conversations can become intensely personal, if we let it happen naturally. But even limited conversations can be intensely superficial, as if one or more of the participants are unwilling to take the risk of revealing themselves, for fear of exposing weakness or fragile emotions. We are afraid. Afraid to be ourselves, lest that persona be embarrassing or ostracized or something else equally likely to trigger reactions in others that will cause us pain.

The problem with conversations, in general, is that one participant may be deeply interested in a “serious” topic, while the other’s interest may focus, at that moment, on what to make for dinner. A connection between the two can be made, but it will be a connection rife with psychosis; leading, for example, to an absurd unspoken question: “Can broccoli feel its life slip away while it cooks in the steamer?”  Yes, it’s absurd, but it’s about as deep as some conversations get, even those intended to mine intimate thoughts between people.

Conversations with strangers can be more informative than conversations with close friends, because strangers are more likely to listen more intently. That may seem intuitively backward, but it’s not. Strangers know they must pay close attention because the normal cues of inflection, tone of voice, volume, accompanying facial expressions, etc. are foreign. Naturally, then, they are more keenly attuned to what is being communicated. When friends engage in conversation, they tend to anticipate what will be said as much as (or more than) they actually listen to learn what will be said. Friends assume a great deal about one another. That’s why friendships sometimes dissolve; it’s nothing sinister, it’s just a matter of unfortunate, but natural, decay.

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Jokes or witticisms can be troubling. They can suggest truths we do not want to hear or they can expose attitudes we’d rather not witness. Even when their message is unintentional, it can be loud and precise. A joke intended as a friendly jab can deliver a punch in the gut—so hard that one’s internal organs are bruised or ruptured or dissolved into masses of nerve-endings that can deliver to the brain only messages of pain. The same is true, of course, of innocent comments. Under a therapist’s “psychological microscope,” they may not be innocent at all but, rather,  sharpened claws itching to draw blood; to shred tissue and bone.

So we either tiptoe about, fearing we will offend through our accidental (or not) revelations, or we stumble through the China shop, wearing a blindfold and combat boots. In either case, the fight or flight response grows in intensity, with flight seeming easier and more appealing than interactions that could draw blood. And so we flee, looking to find new places and new people to conceal the past. As if history can be erased. History cannot be erased, even when we write the textbooks and burn the historical novels. History remains, serving as the foundation for whatever we build today or tomorrow.

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Despite the topics I’ve mused about this morning, my intent it to transform this day into one in which I can revel and enjoy. I will not allow reality to intervene in my pursuit of serenity. Even artificial serenity, purchased in the form of barely legal drugs and wildly legal liquids, is better than no serenity at all.

And now a couple of quotations about serenity, in the hope one or both of them will trigger an avalanche of the stuff:
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What I dream of is an art of balance, of purity and serenity devoid of troubling or depressing subject matter – a soothing, calming influence on the mind, rather like a good armchair which provides relaxation from physical fatigue.

~ Henri Matisse ~

===================

Decide that wherever you are, is the best place there is. Once you start comparing, there’s no end to it.

~ Sodo Yokoyama ~

What I think I’ve done this morning is this: I’ve tried to tear serenity from the chest of a dragon. The end of the day has the answer to whether I have been successful. I must wait, patiently, to learn whether I am at peace or must engage in a life or death struggle, again, with dragons.

Once again, my plans were slightly derailed yesterday. Instead of getting two CT scans, I waited patiently to be called back for the procedures, only to be told the machinery malfunctioned. The scans are now scheduled for a week later. And the following week, when I had hoped to set forth on a road trip, installation of a mini-split will split the week in two, taking my dreamed-of week-long highway excursion off the table. It’s not as if I had to cancel a vacation to the Amalfi Coast, but these little intrusions into my desired get-aways are beginning to grate on my nerves just a touch. And the interruptions in my short-term plans automatically intervene in my longer-term intentions. Such is life, though. It’s best to roll with the punches, I suppose, than to engage in losing fights.

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One of my brothers, hospitalized for breathing difficulties, learned that he needs a procedure that his “in-network” hospital does not have the expertise to perform. His  Medicare Advantage plan is, like many Medicare Advantage plans, extremely restrictive when it comes to many such procedures. He is in the midst of efforts to convince his carrier to cover the procedure; not a simple or easy process. My advice is, and always has been, to avoid Medicare Advantage plans if financially possible for precisely this reason. They are much cheaper than traditional Medicare, but when important needs arise, they often reveal that their low prices are paid for by inadequate coverage. Once again, a single payer system that covers everyone equally is what we should demand of our corrupt politicians. And then we should send them packing, preferably to the bowels of prisons from which they can never emerge again.

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With luck, I’ll visit Costco next Monday, after I drop off my car at the collision repair center and after Enterprise drops off my rental car at the same place. I have not yet been to the sole Arkansas Costco; I am looking forward to resurrecting my memories of why I liked Costco (back in Dallas) so much. I must remember to take an ice chest filled with frozen blue ice, just in case I come across frozen goodies (e.g., sea scallops) I cannot live without. While there, I hope to find a pair (or two) of eyeglass frames (with accompanying magnetic sunglasses) I can order. I will, of course, take my eyeglasses prescription along with me in anticipation of celebrating the availability of what I’m after. I hope nothing derails these plans.

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I can pardon everybody’s mistakes except my own.

~ Marcus Porcius Cato ~

That quotation is an unfortunate reality. I can easily forgive others’ mistakes, but mine seem so much larger and more unforgivable, so I do not even try to excuse them. Simply put, they shouldn’t have been made in the first place. I recognize, of course, that I can’t expect perfection in myself, but I desire it, nonetheless. I think the reason my mistakes are so troublesome is that, in hindsight, I always see that I should have seen them coming and, therefore, should have avoided them. Yes, of course, I know that thinking is evidence of madness. So there you go; I am mad.

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Today is Friday, the culmination of days of work for many and the commencement of days of frivolity for many more. For me, it is just another day; an unspectacular moment in a string of unspectacular moments.

My friend, Deanna, left a comment on yesterday’s post that triggered recollections of many, many of my previous posts. Those posts reflect a theme I’ve lived with for my entire life, I think. And I suspect it’s a theme woven into the fabric of the lives of everyone who lives, or has lived, on the planet. At least most of us. Her comment sparked, most immediately, memory of a post I wrote in February last year. That post began with a search for the definition of the word, “brim.” The dictionary defined the word as “the upper edge of anything hollow.” For some reason, I was enamored of that definition. As I said in my post, reading it caused me to forget why I had looked up the word. And it caused my thoughts to wonder elsewhere, as these excerpts from that February post reveal:

I looked up brim for a reason, but once I got there and saw the words, the upper edge of anything hollow, I forgot my purpose. Not just my purpose in looking up the word, either. My purpose. My. Purpose. Why I am here. My reason for being. Ma raison d’être. No, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t forget. I’ve never known. None of us have. We make up stories, we create elaborate explanations for our existence. We pretend to know why we, of all creatures on Earth, are imbued with such advanced intellect and knowledge and skills and…all the rest. But we just don’t know. And we never will. We should be okay with that, but we’re not. At least most of us don’t seem to be okay with that imponderable question.

We’re seekers, though, searchers for answers that, we realize with some degree of certainty, do not exist. In that sense, we’re not especially smart. But we put a different spin on it. We say, instead, we are insatiably curious. That sounds more appealing, doesn’t it? More appealing than admitting we’re as crazy as a cat lady on the seventh Monday of February.

I’m like a broken record. I cannot seem to get past that place in my brain where a particular tune repeats over and over again. The needle just can’t skip to the next groove, allowing the song to play out to completion. For my entire life, I’ve pondered those imponderables. I feel an aching need to know why I’m here before I’m gone. But, like all the rest of us, of course, I won’t know.  Well, all the rest of us except those for whom “faith” and “belief” substitute for “knowledge” and “understanding.”

Maybe that’s why the idea of becoming an ascetic monk has always been oddly magnetic for me. Perhaps I should replace “ascetic” with “atheist.” I’m not especially attached to the idea of a life in which the worldly pleasures are withheld or avoided. So, perhaps, a lavish lifestyle undertaken in an isolated monastic environment dedicated to seeking answers to the unanswerable is the life for me. Not “farm livin,” as I’ve always dreamt. Obviously, I’ve slipped from serious to silly here. But I am serious about my lifelong ache to know more about who I am and why I am here. I fully understand it’s an ache that will never be resolved, but that does not stop me from wondering about it every day of my life.

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My IC and I visited a collision repair shop in Benton yesterday. If all goes according to plan, I’ll take my car there next week and exchange it for a rental car for an as-yet-unknown period of time while the Subaru’s scratched and scraped driver’s side is repaired and made to look like new. After we left the place, we stopped for a very early dinner at a little place called Taqueria Azteca, about two blocks from the collision repair place. I had been there once or twice before with my late wife and we liked it (it’s not the best taqueria I’ve ever visited, by a long shot, but it’s good enough to merit repeat visits, in my book). I deeply appreciate my IC’s willingness to go into such places, places that some people would call “dives.” The food is good, the staff is friendly and accommodating, and the place is clean, if not new and sparkling. It looks old and worn, as I’m sure it is, but it’s a well-cared-for worn. And like almost every Mexican food place I’ve ever visited, its “Mexican rice” does not compare to the stuff I make at home, the recipe for which I adapted from my mother’s recipe, which she adapted from recipes common along the border between Texas and Tamaulipas. I may well visit Taqueria Azteca again next week when I drop my car off for tender loving care that will revive its beauty and newness.

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Speaking of my IC, she will abandon me for lunch today in favor of a friend from church who I believe shares my birthday. I think this woman and I share not just the month and day, but the year, of birth. I’ve met only a couple of other people who share my birth day and month; no one else who shares all three temporal elements. For that reason, I have to believe this woman and I have a special connection, despite the fact that we know one another only very casually. (I think we’ve had all of a dozen brief conversations since we’ve known one another, including one that lasted a few hours while she and I and one other person drove to and from a church event at a Heifer International farm.) A “special connection?” Well, not really. Only a birthday. I’ve probably thought about starting (and maybe even initiated) conversations with her, based solely on our shared birthdays. But that seems likely to be viewed as a creepy come-on. That’s the problem with my tendency to be more attracted to friendships with women than with me. Overtures with women, I think, tend to be seen as sexual come-ons as opposed to genuine interest in friendship. It takes time and effort to get past the understandable caution. And, from my perspective, that investment of time often is not worth the effort because the hoped-for “chemistry” turns out to be missing. Interestingly, overtures of friendship with men similarly have obstacles and take time; and they, too, frequently amount to time wasted.

As I read what I’ve written above, it may seem to the casual (or even more intimate) reader that I am more than a little arrogant. I hope that’s not the case. I just want to avoid spending my time (and others’ time) on relationships that have little chance of successfully taking hold. Yet, without the investment of time, one cannot know whether the investment would pay off. I am arguing against myself here, but I’m not sure who’s winning the debate.

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My IC and I are friends with a couple with whom our attachment seems to be growing closer by the day. Every time we spend time with them, my IC and I remark to one another how much we enjoy their company and how much we learn from them just by being in their presence. For whatever reason, though, it’s awkward for me to express my appreciation vocally. I think the reason is that my vocal appreciation would provoke a visible and vocal emotional reaction in me. Despite telling myself it’s okay to be overtly emotional, I can’t seem to get over my embarrassment at my tendency to shed tears at things as moving as television commercials. Maybe next time we have them over, I’ll be able to get past the awkwardness and say out loud how much they mean to me. They both read my blog (the only couple I know with certainty who do), so maybe they’ll steel themselves to my emotional outburst before the visit.

As I consider this issue, it occurs to me that I should express my appreciation and my love to each of my friends. I try to do that, but I think too often I just assume my friends know. It’s time I become a bit more assertive in my emotional awkwardness.

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After a couple of CT scans this morning and a church board meeting this afternoon, the day will belong to me. What I do with it remains to be seen.  I cannot have anything to drink or eat until after my CT scans (I had half a cup of coffee before the 6:00 a.m. deadline for allowing consumption of food and beverage). That restriction, of course, has caused an insatiable hunger and thirst to well up in me. I could drink a gallon of coffee and eat a pound of cinnamon rolls (or eggs or bacon or cereal or pancakes or waffles or corned beef hash or…). Going without food for a few hours or a few months would not hurt, actually. But I do love food. With all my heart and soul. It doesn’t always love me, but usually the feeling is mutual.

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Okay. I’ll stop. I’m just filling time with my fingers at this point. I should probably shower and shave before my CT scan. Whether I do also remains to be seen.

Before I memorialize the unpleasantness of yesterday, I’ll wax philosophical about the future. The future does not simply happen. It arises from what came before it. The future emerges from what we did yesterday, what we do today, and the actions in pursuit of the future. Even if our actions in the past were anathema to what we’d like to see in the future, our behaviors today can rectify, at least in part, the path we take toward tomorrow.

Education is the passport to the future, for tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today.

~ Malcolm X ~

Admittedly, the future we wish for may be unachievable, given the preceding preparation which was necessary—but which we failed to make—to achieve it. But that failed opportunity should trigger changes in our dreams that are, in fact, achievable in the time we have left to achieve them. And changes in our dreams necessarily require changes in our efforts to achieve them; and real, dedicated, intense actions on our part.

None of this is to say that “you can accomplish anything,” because that aphorism is utter nonsense, based on a simplistic view of an incredibly complex world. But realistic planning, disciplined actions, and a willingness to change both one’s efforts and one’s objectives can dramatically increase the likelihood of a future laced with successful accomplishments and the benefits they provide to us. Every step one takes—or fails to take—has a measurable impact on the future. That fact bears serious consideration and close attention. And a passionate allegiance to reaching goals that matter.

Change your life today. Don’t gamble on the future, act now, without delay.

~ Simone de Beauvoir ~

With all the words I’ve thus far written in mind it is important—vitally important—that the future we seek is truly the future we desire with every ounce of our being. We must be certain we are thoroughly devoted to that future, lest we find ourselves having accomplished a goal that serves a future we really did not want or value. For example, one might identify the desire to own a mansion on a huge estate as a desired future and, thanks to his actions taken along the way, he may achieve that dream. But, once there, he may discover that a mansion on a huge estate does not deliver the happiness he was after. Instead, he may realize that it wasn’t a mansion and an estate he was after, it was a modest home of his own on a few acres of rich, fertile soil, close to friends and family. Hence the admonition: “Be careful what you wish for.” Know what you really want before striving to achieve it. Even late in life, it’s not too late to alter what makes one happy.

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Yesterday started out as a moderately acceptable day. But it descended, quickly, onto a path toward the bowels of Hell. Ach, I exaggerate. Not by much, though. My gut, which had bothered me a tad overnight, switched into high gear, making an earnest effort to make me quite uncomfortable. After posting to my blog, I sat in a recliner and fell into a troubled and broken sleep; awake for a while, asleep for a while; and stuck in the middle for long stretches in which I was neither completely conscious nor truly napping. My IC sent me a text message from bed, which I did not hear, asking me to take the dog out for its morning poop/walk. When I did not respond, she got up and took the grateful beast out herself. I remained semi-unconscious, with a troubled gut, until after she returned. Aside from a scheduled telephone conversation with an accountant regarding my tax filing, I slept most of the rest of the morning and, indeed, most of the rest of the day. I felt almost human for an hour or so at a time, punctuated by longer periods when I felt like I should have been taken in for an autopsy. I never completely recovered yesterday, but I improved enough that, when my IC offered to make dinner for me, I gratefully accepted. I ate penne pasta with commercial pasta sauce, followed by two bananas, spaced an hour or two apart. Aside from a cup of coffee and some glasses of water, that was the only food I had all day.

Needless to say—besides the conversation with the accountant—I got nothing accomplished yesterday. No visit to the collision/body shop repair people. No visit to the post office. Zip. However, I did exchange some interesting email and text messages with friends, so all was not lost. Friends are becoming more and more vital to my mental well-being, I think. Today, I hope to rectify my torpid thoughts and behaviors. I can’t quite determine yet whether my gut and my fatigue, both of completely unknown etiology, have completely disappeared, but if they have I will take some actions today that will improve my state of mind and help erase some things off my to-do list.

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I am thinking of friends this morning. Travelers, artists, exposition managers, pottery-makers, poets, people still working, people happily retired. Since I retired at 58, nearly ten years ago, I have come to the conclusion that an even earlier retirement would have been nice; I should have made it happen. But I know I cannot change the past.

I can admonish my friends who have not yet retired, though, to think carefully about what they want in retirement (not what others [or society in general] expect you to want, but what YOU really want). And think whether it’s possible to achieve that dream earlier than you thought possible. A little more frugality today and a little less grandiose the dreams of the future could merge into a reality that accomplishes retirement sooner than you have thought.

For my friends who have retired, I offer some of the same unsolicited advice: do what you want, not what others expect you to want. If what you really want is to sit on the shore drinking margaritas from noon until nightfall, pursue that (knowing that your future might be shortened a tad by your behavior). As for me, I’ve been advised for  years that I really should go on a cruise. After hearing what’s involved on a cruise, I would have absolutely no interest unless I could find one that quite different from those described to me (I have found once such cruise, thanks to my IC).

My point is this: listen to your innermost thoughts and pay them heed. Don’t put it off any longer than you must. You can never know when life as you know it is completely derailed, utterly demolishing your plans. Your years of retirement may be cut far shorter than you hoped or you may find yourself or your partner requiring care that’s both mentally straining and financially exhausting. There’s a fine line between following your dreams and waiting too long to start the voyage. That, my friends, is a line only you can identify for yourself. I hope you find it before it finds you.

Once upon a time, when I was younger, better-looking, and smarter, I spent three semesters (give or take) learning to make questionably attractive or utilitarian “objets d’art” from clay and to throw pottery. “Learning” is a misnomer, as is “art.”  “Dabbling” more realistically describes what I did. I can think of no appropriate term (that can be used in polite company) to describe what I made. Regardless of the fact that I was not by any stretch of the imagination a serious “artist,” I enjoyed playing in the mud and I still miss it. I’ve considered outfitting a spot in my crawl space as a “studio,” but I think the time and expense of doing that would be impossible for me to justify. I could go back to taking courses at the college, but I do not want to spent time around people who are far more serious about their art than I. My intent would not be to enter into competitions or to sell my creations; it would be only a means of occupying my time in a way that I find enjoyable. But I do not necessarily need to do that by playing in the mud. I need a different, more readily doable hobby.

Hobby. I dislike that word. It seems dismissive, as if one’s involvement in it is wasteful and unproductive. While that may well be true, I would prefer not to advertise the fact that I am being an intentionally and willfully unproductive slug. So, instead of having a hobby, I need an avocation. I write, which also is an avocation, but I want something else; something that will exercise a different part of my brain and my body. Something creative, but that does not require inordinate amounts of time to learn. I may have mentioned this before: making objects out of glass. Stained glass may be the term for it, but I may not need stained glass; “art glass” may be a better descriptor. However, I will admit to being enamored of abstract stained glass (and non-abstract, if not overtly religious in nature) in church windows. Still, I will need space. Well, I have space, but it is (and has always been) filled with stuff I do not need nor, probably, will ever use. But if I can get the room emptied, cleaned up, and fixed up just a bit, it might be an ideal studio for my new avocation. Just to be clear, though, this will not happen in a matter of weeks; maybe not even a matter of months. It could take years. It may never happen. But I’m thinking about it. That must count for something.

Under pressure, people admit to murder, setting fire to the village church or robbing a bank, but never to being bores.

~ Elsa Maxwell ~

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I spent too much time indoors yesterday. I had ample opportunity to go out and about, but I didn’t. Instead, I spent most of the day inside, as if I were insulating myself from the world. I did get out long enough to give the car a cursory wash and to  buy gas (the tank was almost empty). And I went with my IC for a ride to the recycling center and to drop off some donations (including an artificial Christmas tree). But the majority of the day I stayed inside, away from the fresh air and sunshine. I made contact with the outside world, via telephone; I spoke to an insurance adjuster who explained what his company would do to repaired my car after his company’s policyholder scraped up the side of my vehicle. After a few other feeble attempts to deal with the world outside my window, I gave up and stuck to what was comfortable here in the house. Some days are better suited to hermit-like behaviors. Yesterday was one of them. Today may be radically different. Or radically the same. Time, alone, will tell.

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When I hear about mass murders or watch television programs rife with gratuitous violence, I recoil in emotional protest to behaviors that seem so utterly inhuman. How, I ask myself, could human beings overcome their natural aversions to harming one another to such an extent that people could do such hideous things? But how could they not? While I think we are innately averse to plunging knives into the chests of people we view as threatening or launching rocket-propelled grenades into caravans of cars carrying politicians, I think I can understand how our minds might allow us to overcome the aversion. There comes a tipping point beyond which inhuman behaviors become natural responses to a monstrous world that inflicts random pain. I do not for a moment justify these behaviors; but I can fathom how they might occur as part of the “natural order.” People simply snap; they respond to a dangerously bizarre world with hideous behaviors that, in their minds, serve as self-protection or to mete out justice where traditional justice has failed. It is madness, of course, yet it is understandable—but not forgivable—madness.

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Measure yourself by your best moments, not by your worst. We are too prone to judge ourselves by our moments of despondency and depression.

~ Robert A. Johnson ~

Yesterday, I dozed—off and on—instead of accomplishing much of value. While I had plenty of sleep the night before, I felt mentally exhausted. Mental exhaustion sometimes is inexplicable to me; I have no idea what brings it on. Perhaps the ruminations that gave way to my blog post yesterday give rise to mental fatigue. Maybe, with enough unproductive contemplation, the brain simply runs out of steam and insists on rest.

Last night, I got six solid hours of sleep. But, when I awoke just before four this morning, I felt like I was midway between terribly tired and “wired.” Rather than try to go back to sleep, which I think I easily could have done, I got up and promptly started thinking about yesterday’s exhaustion. And hoping it fails to catch hold again today. Then, again, maybe a day or two of experiencing utter laziness, time spent in an utterly do-nothing mood, might be just the fuel I need to get back to full speed again.

Yet it may not be mental exhaustion that I’m experiencing. It may be stress, manifesting in ways with which I’m unfamiliar or simply haven’t recognized. I learned yesterday that the brother closest in age to me was delivered to the ER yesterday by my niece; my brother had been experiencing severe difficulty breathing. Later in the day, I learned that he was admitted and had been on oxygen for much of the day; but aside from some of the actions taken by medical professionals, I know nothing of his condition. That kind of information can cause stress. And stress can manifest itself in fatigue or tiredness…or any number of other ways. I’m just thinking with my fingers here. I know nothing; I’m just speculating about cause and effect without any substantive information to go on. I would call my brother, except that I know from another brother that my hospitalized sibling has been trying to sleep (after days of not getting much sleep), only to be wakened by people drawing blood, taking blood pressure, and otherwise intruding on opportunities for peaceful relaxation.

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I spent a little time yesterday crafting a meal plan for the week. Whether I stick to it remains to be seen. But at least I know I’ll have the ingredients I’ll need; between seven and eight this morning, I will pick up the online grocery order I placed yesterday. Assuming I do not run out of energy or inclination before it’s time to make dinner, tonight’s meal will include salmon, green beans, and a green salad. If I had been thinking, I would have bought miso (assuming it’s available from the store where I placed my order) and a few more limes. Oven-baked salmon with a lime-miso dressing  is wonderful. Maybe I have some miso hidden deep in the bowels of my refrigerator. If so, I’ll follow this recipe, more or less:

• 1 clove garlic
• 4 tbsp. miso paste
• ¹⁄₈ cup brown sugar
• ¼ cup lime juice
• ¼ cup rice wine vinegar
• 2 tbsp. sesame oil
• ¾ cup vegetable oil

Later in the week, after another trip to the grocery store to buy ingredients I failed to order, I’ll make a grand and glorious Greek salad for dinner. Greek salads—flavored with calamata olives and feta cheese and lemon juice and herbs and spices and a host of salad veggies—are among the simple pleasures in life. For some reason, Greek salads seem to call out for nice, simple wines. I would go with a sauvignon blanc, but a quick Google search suggests Assyrtiko, a wine with which I am completely unfamiliar (but Google verifies my selection of sauvignon blanc, I’m happy to say). However, the wine may be more than a tad out of my usual price range; a quick scan of prices online suggests $25+ per bottle, which is a price range I reserve for extremely special occasions. Being frugal is what has allowed me to do things like retire seven years earlier than “normal” retirement age. Yet, still, I enjoy little luxuries; just not on a frequent basis. The infrequency of those luxuries helps keep them in the realm of “special.” I think I’m drifting into philosophies that successfully merge pleasure-seeking with economic reality. Long ago, I determined that they are philosophies worth making my own, which I have done.

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A little later this morning, I will attempt to contact the insurance carrier for the guy whose truck did a bit of ugliness to my parked vehicle. I hope to get that squared away very soon, so I can take my car in to have body work done to repair the damage. At the same time, I want to visit the new Costco in Little Rock, where I will refrain from spending all of my money on things I want but do not need. Just some of my money on things I want but do not need. And, while I’m there, I hope I can place an order for new eye glasses, frames and all.

But before my trip to Little Rock, I have a phone appointment with a tax advisor about—what else?—taxes. When I finally file my 2020 tax returns, both Federal and State, I will celebrate by doing a little jig and opening a celebratory bottle of sparkling wine. First, of course, I must buy the sparkling wine.

After these near-term to-do list items are complete, I have other stuff on my agenda, including a pair of CT scans to (we wish for but do not hold out much hope for) determine the cause of my constant nasal congestion, cough, etc., etc., etc. Then, a visit with an ENT doctor to follow up on the CT scan results. Then, a bit later in October, a second-stage phase of the sleep study I started some time ago; this time, fitting me with a CPAP machine to see if that might improve my sleep (assuming I can stomach being encapsulated in a plastic hood over my mouth and nose). But in between these things, my IC and I plan another road trip, as I mentioned a day or two ago. Whether we go to Las Cruces, New Mexico or Fayetteville, Arkansas or other places as yet undetermined remains to be seen. I still want to go to Schenectady, New York and Dayton, Ohio, and Berkeley, California, and Halifax, Nova Scotia and a thousand other places. But medical appointments and weather concerns and a million other troublesome obstacles keep getting in my way. Life is too short to let insignificant challenges spoil adventure.

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Being in a relationship is both freeing and confining. It is freeing in that the parts of oneself that can be revealed only in the presence of a suitable personality are released, creating a sense of joy and appreciation and wonder. It is confining, on the other hand, in that decisions that once were solely the province of oneself must now be strained through the wants and needs and desires and availability of another person.

Last night—during what seemed like interminable commercials while attempting to watch Homeland on Hulu—it occurred to me that I am no longer free to just decide on the spur of the moment to drive to Halifax. And that constriction bothered me. But it occurred to me, as well, that I had that freedom for five months and did nothing with it; I did not even venture outside a fifty-mile radius around the Village. So, is it the reality of personal freedom or only its potential that is most attractive? Why, when I was actually free to do what I wished, did I stay firmly ensconced in my castle; yet now that I have a partner with whom I feel obligated to share decision-making, I feel limited in my ability to act on a whim?

Do other people explore their own psyches as deeply as I seem to try to explore mine? Do others feel drawn to know why they behave the way they do or why they think what they think? Is the intensity of my interest in knowing what drives my passions aberrant? Maybe I should return to visit a counselor, in an attempt to understand me. Because I know I can’t do it by myself. I have tried and failed for far too long to think I will ever be able to figure it out on my own. But what if I knew? Then what? What would it change about me? Would knowing more about myself make me more appealing? More tolerable? More interesting? Would the absence of that mystery make life a little too dull? Too predictable?

The thing is, too, all these mysteries about myself are amplified in number and scope in the people around me. I know so very little about what’s in their minds. Superficial conversations reveal almost nothing about people. Only through exploration—deep, intensive, no-holds-barred exploration—can we know enough about one another to know whether we belong on the same planet. We can think we know enough, but when we realize how little we actually know, it can be stunning in its superficiality. Of course, that’s true of ourselves, too.

My IC and I, fortunately, reveal a lot about ourselves to one another. But even that does not get to the core of each of us; it’s the same with others. I’m sure of it. Someone—I don’t recall who, even if I ever knew it—once said we would not care what others think of us if only we knew how little they actually thought about us. And I’m sure that’s true. People I might think or assume or hope would think positively about me may never think of me at all. I wonder how many—or how few—women have been romantically attracted to me during the course of my life. Does anyone else ever think such thoughts? I have had a few conversations about that question over the years and, invariably, the response has been something like this: “No. And it doesn’t matter. What matters is who you actually had a romantic relationship with, not who thought about it.”  And my unspoken reply: “You just don’t get it. And I can’t explain it to you in a way that you would.” I’m right about that. I can’t explain my interest in knowing the answer; only that knowing the answer might help me better understand myself.  Hmm. Another of the million questions that will forever clog my brain.

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Where do all the ideas in one’s head go when one dies? Does the energy that creates and stores those ideas simply dissipate, causing the ideas to dissolve into disconnected elements that only physicists might be able to explain? Do they remain complete thoughts in the atmosphere that, through random chance, slip into the brains of other people, becoming their thoughts instead of the originator’s ideas? I don’t expect an answer, of course. I’m just rambling incoherently, asking the universe questions it is unwilling to answer.

I’ve run out of juice. I need more coffee before it’s time for me to go fetch my groceries in an hour or so. Between now and then I’ll keep thinking. But those thoughts will not find their way here. They will be lost once I’ve let them spill into the universe without a keyboard to catch them.