John Swinburn

Crushing disappointment, arising from a collision between unwarranted euphoria and shattered expectations, leaves the victim of that horrific experience feeling empty and immeasurably sad. Such is the situation when the victim dreams that his hopes are on the verge of being met—but is stunned when he confronts an utterly different, deeply painful, reality. He immediately realizes he has no more control over the actions of characters in his dreams than in their actions in the real world. His dream seems to cross the line between fantasy and nightmare. But the horrors that accompany nightmares is missing; in its place, despondency settles in every cell of his body. He is not suicidal, but he no longer values his own life the way he did before. Before an imaginary, artificial experience. Dreams have the capacity to upend one’s life. And they have elements of actuality embedded in them. The dreamer may not have any control over his unconscious experiences. He simply feels them wash over him; they take control of his reactive emotions. And they take up permanent residence in his brain, where they build a home with impenetrable walls, guarded by malevolent sentries.

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The screening, Part 2, of the clinical trials continues this week. If it were local, I would have to contribute only one day to it. But distance and scheduling require considerably more time. That’s the way the ball crumbles or the cookie bounces.

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I can barely tolerate newscasts. They duplicate one another in some form, suggesting they use a single source as a model. If we would take the time to explore them in depth, I think we would find that only six pieces of “news” (maximum) are delivered to us daily, but the formats of their delivery represent at least sixty ways of reporting them. We are fooled into thinking there’s more to know than is truly the case. Most “newsworthy” items are kept confidential, available only to a select few authoritarian regimes. I once would have said such an assertion was complete BS, but today I am not entirely sure. It’s entirely possible that a cabal of power-hungry political beasts have absolute control over information delivered to us in the comfort of our own homes. On one hand, I don’t want to be a mindless conspiracy theorist; on the other, I don’t want to fall victim to the dictatorial mindsets of a power-hungry cabal. This all would be funny if it were not so disturbingly possible.

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Most of the seafood consumed in the U.S. is imported, according to something I read within the last few days. If that is true, tariffs probably will dramatically reduce the supply of seafood and/or will make seafood quite expensive; unaffordable to most of us. Well, we have been overfishing the world’s oceans for far too long, so perhaps there’s a silver lining to the blanket of tariffs being used to smother global commerce. In place of seafood, we can dine on insects, which remain plentiful. Chigger chowder and mosquito meringue pie might make a magnificent meal. Remember, though, buffalo used to be plentiful; so we need to be conscious of what our appetites for insects do to the insect population.

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If every job function were assigned a measure of value and all positions involving various job functions were given calculated measures of their collective value, we might be able to classify all employment job functions according to their relative importance. For example, we could determine how vegetable harvesters compare in value and importance to grocery store cashiers. And how trash collection crew members compare to personal injury lawyers. And how chemists compare to sculptors. And so on. But an objective process (to the extent possible) to measure values would no doubt lead to arguments, hurt feelings, pleasant surprises, and rage. Assume, for example, the relative importance/value of a cannery worker is found to be greater than that of a plastic surgeon, not accounting for the demand for each position. The surgeon might be enraged, embarrassed, and argumentative; the cannery worker might be thrilled, proud, and assertive. A job analysis project across every position in a culture could change the dynamics of the workplace and of society at large. If grocery store cashiers were found to be less valuable than migrant farm workers, the cashiers might find their salaries slashed, while the farm workers might see their compensation enhanced significantly. The importance of candy makers might be devalued, while beef feed lot workers could be determined to have substantially greater value. Decisions would have to be reached with respect to people who create or manufacture products versus those who market and sell products…that process might be intriguing and dynamic. With proper weighting of the value of every aspect of a job function, the collective “scores” might turn the workplace and every place that engages with it upside down.  During the evaluation process to determine the relative rank of importance of all jobs, psychological counseling would skyrocket in value, I believe.

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Staring into the clear, dark night sky from a remote spot—someplace far from evidence of civilization—is a breathtaking experience. It is an encounter with the unknown, stunning in its unlimited vastness and terrifying in the realization that it is unknowable. Distances in the night sky are incalculable. The tiny stars we see, we are told, may be—or may have been—thousands of times larger than our sun. Their light may have taken hundreds or thousands of years to reach us; more than enough time for the stars to have shriveled into empty nothingness.

The same sense of awe accompanies us when we stand at the edge of an ocean. Distances across the waves are more understandable than the space between the stars but, like the sky, the secrets of almost impossibly deep water are beyond our understanding. Neither deep space nor deep water permit us to breathe without relying on clunky apparatus, as if warning us not to venture too far into the unknown. Yet our curiosity about worlds beyond readily accessible boundaries keeps pushing us to move deeper into the stunning and terrifying unexplored. Perhaps the most frightful aspect of exploration into the unknown and unknowable is its inherent loneliness. We are compelled to pursue human companionship, but it distracts us from giving sufficient focus to absorbing and trying to understand secrets beyond our realm of comfort. And so we must go it alone; we must make difficult choices.

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This week, next week, the following week, and the week after that…I am obligated to visit Houston for a day at a time for all of them. And for each day, around 17 additional hours will be spent in making the round-trip to and from Houston. This week will be the official “screening” process (though I’ve already signed the consent form and been “accepted”). This first full month of involvement in a clinical trial increasingly sounds overwhelming. That’s life in the real world, I suppose; waging peace.

Some mornings I go to the FOX News website to see what the conservative network is reporting. My intents are: to learn the perspectives and philosophies of people who think differently and; to try to find common ground that could lead to a less adversarial outlook. No matter how I approach those objectives, though, I leave with a high degree of confidence that the network is no more than a conservative propaganda factory, with the occasional innocuous story thrown in occasionally for “balance.” CNN and MsNBC are similarly biased, but from the other end of the political spectrum.  I watch the two of them to learn about the left-leaning propaganda they report as factual. I watch or listen to NPR and NBC and PBS, as well, to minimize blatant bias, knowing that they, too, put a slant on their reporting. It’s hard to find believable sources of news that has no inherent bias. Even much of other countries’ English language media seems tainted by a tilt in one direction or the other. For example, if the tilt is to the left, the right-leaning guest commentators that ostensibly are to provide “balance” are weaker, either intellectually or with regard to the believability of their delivery. The same is true in the other direction. Both ends of the media political spectrum gleefully call out the biases of their opposition—but they refuse to admit to their own. And I think the vast majority of their respective supportive audience members cling to the assertion that “we are right, true, an pure and the opposition is a prevarication factory.” I think I woke with my cynicism in full bloom.

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Depending on perspective, many of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s National Weather Service (NWS) offices either are badly understaffed or, like the rest of the Federal government, are drains on the American taxpayer, places where waste long has been supported and encouraged. Of course, the perspective one adopts often depends on seasonal weather—when parts of the country are at risk for hurricanes and tornadoes. A person is more likely to rely on the NWS for information during such times than to wait patiently to learn what Elon Musk says in defense of round-after-round of reductions in force.

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I am in favor of establishing a national Pest & Insect Eradication Service (PIES). During the first two years of its existence, PIES would be funded entirely with funds reappropriated by Congress. Subsequently, its continued existence would depend on its own performance and its revenue. For example, the Nasty-Assed Mosquito Eradication Division (NAMED) might require achieving a 50% reduction in the mosquito population from year to year to qualify for funding. During its first two years, PIES might disburse funds for NAMED to establish a program which would pay citizens a bounty for each dead mosquito they brought to a NAMED regional office. The same concepts would be used to attack the chigger population (Filthy Annoying Chigger Eradication Division, or FACED), the Dangerous and Appalling Rodent Eradication Division (DARED), the Feculent & Loathsome Insect Elimination Service (FLIES), and other such pests and insects.  The more I consider it, the more I think we ought not to require the pests to be dead; we could simply sentence them to Disgusting Rodent & Insect Prisons (DRIPs) in third-world countries, which would welcome the revenue they would receive by housing  convicted Pest/Insect Terrorists (PITs). The PIES program, if properly managed, could be beautiful! All Americans would benefit greatly from the Reduction in Pests (RIP) concept. The first two years of financing PIES, by the way, would come from funds redirected from FEMA and the NWS. This is all utter nonsense, of course. Sometimes, absurdity is the only experience that will secure another day to fight battles that have no point and no purpose but that must be fought, anyway.

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Nuclear winter may follow natural spring. I hope not, but I have lost my confidence that sane people with influence over, or control of, decisions about whether to engage will stand in the way of calamity. And it may not be nuclear; it could be semi-traditional. I hate that there is a “traditional” way to be embroiled in war—a horribly violent way of securing domination over another country. Is war really a natural byproduct of civilization? I have always hoped civility would be civilization’s product.

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Today’s high temperature in Hot Springs is not expected to surpass 46°F. I understand that Amarillo, Texas yesterday had an April 5 snowfall that broke a 130-year-old record. I might not be surprised to learn that a massive iceberg, having found its way into the Gulf of Mexico, slammed into the coast of Texas, ripping open Earth’s crust as it moved inland. The subsequent volcanic eruptions and spitting and hissing flows of lava would heat the air that comes in contact with the iceberg. The clash of atmospheric conditions might create ideal conditions for the formation of bipolar tornadoes; molten rock swirling at high speed in the center and sheets of thick ice spinning around the red-hot core.

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I dreamed I had been taking a college class that covered seven or eight subjects but had not even glanced at any of the assigned readings. On the day of the final exams, I was worried that I would fail every exam. The exam was “open-book,” but only books distributed by the professor (who, it happens, was my boss at my first association job…who has also been in other of my recent dreams). Somehow, accidentally picked up materials that were prohibited during the exams. At least one other student and the professor implied that my mistake was intentional…cheating. I wanted nothing more than to complete my exam—knowing I would  fail—and get out of the room and away from the situation. End of dream.

At what point would insurrection be an acceptable response to a totalitarian regime? And who would need to accept that response to legitimize it? I think about such things far more frequently than I would like. Today’s world makes thinking about such matters compelling. When the idea of being killed or imprisoned for participating in an insurrection becomes more than an imaginary fear, choosing to act in response to the boundary between freedom and bondage becomes deadly serious.

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We have enslaved the rest of the animal creation, and have treated our distant cousins in fur and feathers so badly that beyond doubt, if they were able to formulate a religion, they would depict the Devil in human form.

~ William Inge ~

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After days of frustration and changes in plans to address the causes of those frustrations, I may have finally addressed the primary cause of one of the matters that have disturbed me.  Unless things change (as they are wont to do), I will not need to be in Houston earlier than planned, simply to have someone determine whether my chest port (from which blood is drawn and chemotherapy drugs are infused) will work. The story is too long and boring to explain in detail; it is enough to say I have received assurances that the staff at M.D. Anderson (MDA) that my port will work just fine. MDA technicians and nurses should be able to access it without any problem. The other concern, just how [and the extent to which] I will be reimbursed for my travel and lodging, has not yet been clarified. It’s looking like next week’s visit to Houston will still be considered a “screening” visit, which is not reimbursed. Oh, well. I can use some of the little remaining in my retirement accounts (after 47’s brutal attack on the mental, physical, and financial well-being of everyone but the richest Americans) to cover the expenses of the visit. It is comforting to know that crickets and kittens and camels share my perspective on the nature of the current leader of the free world. Tongue-partially-in-cheek.

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The Japanese language includes words that are not directly translatable into English. Other languages, too, contain such words that speakers of English cannot utter with a single English word. Japanese comes to mind because I frequently encounter such Japanese words: kyoikumama [a mother who pushes her children to achieve academically]; tsundoku [buying a book and leaving it unread, usually surrounded by a lot of other unread books]; komorebi [sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees, creating a dappled appearance; sokaiya [a man with a few shares in several companies who extorts money by threatening to come to the shareholders’ meetings and cause trouble]; and many more. A few other non-English words that have no words of direct translation include: utepils [Norwegian for sitting outside on a sunny day and enjoying a beer]; culacinno [Italian for the ring left on a table from a moist glass]; gökotta [Swedish for waking up early to hear the first birds sing]; and gluggaveður [Icelandic for weather that looks beautiful but is unpleasant to be in]. I have come across these foreign language words online, so I cannot be sure they are real. Whether they are or not, though, I like the idea of single words whose meanings encompass broad concepts or emotions.

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Another night of angrily emphatic bone-jarring thunder and jagged flashes of blue lightning that illuminated the sky. I write in the past tense, as if the storms have come and gone. In fact, they continue to roar through before 5 A.M., proving forecasts of a day or two ago wrong. The NOAA weather radio howled warnings of tornadoes and flash floods more than once during the night. Spring weather has intensified during the eleven years I have lived in Hot Springs Village. Just last year, a tornado tore through the Village, uprooting huge pine trees, splitting the trunks  of massive oak trees, and otherwise leaving arboreal carnage all along its path. We were fortunate, in that the worst of the wind damage only took down two big pines near the house. Roughly the distance of a city block away, long and wide swaths of forest were leveled. Streets were blocked, power line downed, and houses damaged along the miles-long route of the tornado. Mother Nature seems to be responding to our arrogance…our assumption that we are stronger than our environment.

Both major political parties in the U.S. emphasize their support of positions near the ends of opposing philosophical spectra. And both parties demonize the other’s leaders—and supporters. The other parties, in general, focus on one primary issue, appealing to a relatively small group of one-issue voters. I sense that a significant portion of voters who support each of the two major political parties—as well as the majority of voters who hold their noses and vote for the least offensive candidates from one or the other—are not hard and fast political partisans. In other words, they could support more centrist candidates, provided those candidates acknowledge the need to address issues of high importance to those voters. Though I have almost exclusively supported Democratic candidates (with few exceptions) my entire life, I no longer consider myself a Democrat. My attachment is to progressive philosophies, not party loyalties. I suspect many people who tend to identify as Republican or Democrat are more closely affiliated with conservative or progressive philosophies than with the party that claims alignment with those ideologies. I think a political party whose tenets were more centrist, in general, and willing to openly acknowledge and discuss deeply held, but conflicting, perspectives could appeal to a much larger pool of voters than either major party, with its “fringe” doctrines. The successful formation of such a party would require an articulate, well-known, highly-regarded, and charismatic proponent. That person (and those who join him or her in supporting the new party’s formation) would need to differentiate the party’s philosophies from those of the two major opposing groups. That differentiation would exclude attacks on other philosophies and parties—only rational explanations of the “centrists'” positions and a willingness to discuss, without judgment, “sensitive” issues. Handled with impartiality and understanding, voters on both sides of such sensitive issues might come to a willingness to recognize and respect, though not accept or endorse, opposing points of view.

My respect for both major political parties has diminished during the past several years—to the extent that I cannot say I am a party loyalist. For that reason, as well as because both parties seem to have taken the position that “if you’re not with us, you are our enemy,” I favor exploring creation of a new, more broadly appealing party. While forming a new, more moderate, party would be risky and would require dedication and hard work, today I think it would be worth the effort. It would also require people who now stand on “both sides of the aisle” to step to the middle. The idea may be quixotic; that’s not news, given my history as a utopian dreamer. I should ask myself in six weeks whether I still hold this fantasy. I have a history as a capricious idealist and an aggressive adversary. I am guilty of the charges I make against “the other side:” I too frequently demonize its leaders and followers, taking on the persona of the pot in an altercation with the kettle.

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Chirping birds keep interrupting my thoughts. These are not imaginary birds; they are actual animals (capable of flight) just outside my window. I cannot see them, because the sun has not yet risen. But even in darkness I know they are perched in nearby trees. They may be watching me—peering into my well-lit office from the eerie darkness. Another 30 minutes have passed. The birds are silent. Fog hangs in the air, attempting to create a scene from a park in London. Dim sunlight barely finds its way through the fog, suggesting today may be better suited to a day indoors than a day exploring Village life on the last “workday” of the week. I have my work cut out for the day: pursue a final disposition of the situation with regard to the port in my chest. It looks increasingly likely that my earlier hope that I will not need another port will be dashed. If so, we will have to go the Houston early so the implant procedure can be done the day before my day-long “first day” can proceed along the timeline the hospital desires. Perhaps the birds simply wanted to make sure I was awake and ready to deal with the issue…they’re such thoughtful birds.

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I once considered sleep to be a “time-brake,” a way to slow and then stop time for a while, allowing sleepers to pause long enough to recover energy lost during their waking hours. We know now, though, that sleep does not slow, nor stop, time. Sleep consumes time at the same rate as does wakefulness; consciousness hesitates to allow for sleep, but sleep does not permit even a brief interruption to time. Time consume a bit of consciousness during sleep, the way fog consumes a bit of light. Not the other way around.

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I think polished chrome has no color. Just like mirrors, polished chrome is invisible. When attempting to look at the bumper of a 1950s car, one does not see the bumper; one sees only the reflection of items around the bumper. The same is true of a mirror; no one has ever seen a mirror—only visual regurgitations of the environment around the mirror. When looking at a clock, one does not see time; just an approximation of the measurement of time. And watching a car’s speedometer does not allow a driver to see the car’s speed, only an appraisal of how fast the car is moving. So many things we assume are real were, in fact, drummed into us from an early age. We equate the experience with reality, but it is only an approximation of reality in a form we can understand. Look at a clear water glass. You’re not looking at the glass, but at what is on the other side of the glass. You may see what you believe are the sides and bottom of the glass, but in fact you are seeing light from nearby objects as it bends around the glass. And you may see a reflection of your face in the glass. Again, it is just a visual regurgitation…in this case, of your face.  When you see a car on the street, you are not seeing the whole car; you seen only the parts of the car that are not visually obstructed by the parts you see. We have gotten used to imprecision in describing what we see, hear, feel, taste, smell, and think. In some cases, we communicate in a form of “shorthand” that enables us to take less time than it would take to describe our actual experiences. There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as we recognize and acknowledge our shortcuts. But if we don’t, we could find ourselves in a prison for perception prevaricators, where the guards sew an inmate’s eyes and mouth shut and restrict access to the other sensory organs. The moral of this tale is this: avoid places with guards.

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Time to explore truth and beauty.

The ferocity of last night’s wind and rain and thunder and lightning felt and sounded like the final storm had come to wash all of us off the surface of the Earth. But both of us are (I think) still here. Our continued existence suggests others, too, probably escaped termination. I will not know until after sunrise whether the fierce winds took the trees that surrounded our house. If all that’s remains are scarred, rolling fields—empty of everything but broken limbs and unidentifiable ruin—I will rethink the storm’s power.

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A few days ago, our oven died when the “bake” button was pressed. All the electrical components refuse to show any signs of life. The oven’s breakers in the garage seem to work just fine. Perhaps a breaker internal to the wall oven went out. Fixing a 20-plus year-old appliance is not likely to be a wise investment. So, we’re in the market for a new oven. While we’re at it, we’ll look for a new countertop stove, a new microwave, a new dishwasher, a new sink, and new countertops. All of them, as far as we know, are just as old as (or older than) the oven. The cost of these replacements, I suspect, will be astronomical. Fortunately, we can consider selling the cat (don’t tell Phaedra, yet) and my soul (see next item, below). If we’re still short on cash, there’s a neighbor or two, a few blocks over, whose houses we could consider selling when they go on vacation; they might fetch a tidy sum. And if we still need funds, I would be willing to sell a South African billionaire at a deep discount. I am serious about the appliances; not so much about the sources of money to pay for them.

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Dictionary.com presents a number of meanings for the word “soul,” offering fifteen senses for the term. But the Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), published in 1989, lists 430 senses for the verb “set,” the most meanings of any word in the English language. Those statistics suggest to me the English language  has considerably more definitions than it has words, the latter estimated to be 171,476 words in current use (and 47,156 obsolete words). So, no matter how you define “soul,” the definition you use probably is correct. The definition that comes closest to my definition is this one from the OED (but I cannot fully accept every aspect of the definition):

the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans, regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body, and commonly held to be separable in existence from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part.

When I think of the “soul of the United States of America,” I think of the original principles embedded in the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and—importantly—the original people who wrote, approved, and adopted them. Today, I believe the original principles are conveniently overlooked or rejected by the people who hold the most power. Unlike the people instrumental in forming the United States, I believe today’s political leaders do not consider the three formative documents sacrosanct. Beyond that, though, I think those people are perfectly happy to ignore the principles incorporated in those documents. And, from what I read and hear, they have massive numbers of supporters whose definition of “soul” is not one of the OED‘s fifteen. Instead, they have adopted a fluid definition that relies on a bastardization of religious beliefs and easily changeable self-serving attitudes. I fear some OED definitions of “soul” will be surreptitiously eliminated in future editions and new, unseemly ones added—the English language thereby increasingly becoming a political tool of social control.

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I thought the appointments for my first four trips to M.D. Anderson (MDA) were settled. But I learned yesterday I will have several additional appointment for the second, third, and fourth visits. Today, I hope to settle whether MDA can adapt to my chest port for blood draws and IVs. If not, they are suggesting they want me to have a new, MDA-suitable port implanted…before next Thursday. I seriously doubt that’s going to happen; but with passing time, I’m learning of more and more unexpected expectations. As I wrote yesterday, I do not want an implant and I would rather not subject my veins to direct needle attacks. Ach! If only they could (and would) sedate me for the duration of the clinical trial…

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The outside temperature has already reached 57°F, today’s high. The rest of the day is expected to be generally stable at 55°F or 56°F. If I had thought to do it, I would have arranged to have the ingredients for chili delivered to the house yesterday because, as you know, 55°F to 56°F is the right temperature for a chili festival. Whether my stomach would tolerate chili, though, is an open question. I—who used to have a cast-iron digestive system—have grown quite sensitive to hot and/or spicy foods. I miss biting into foods that bite me back. Even only moderately spicy salsa at Mexican restaurants whose primary customers are Gringos is questionable for me these days. Damn chemotherapy! (On the other hand, chemo may be keeping me alive, so I should not complain.)

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I suspect I will return to the warmth of a comfortable bed for an hour or so. When I wake, I will call MDA about the port issue…

Tiny chartreuse leaves have sprung from the twigs and branches of large trees visible from my office window. A few days ago, those leaves did not exist; or they were so small they were invisible from my vantage point. Each day since then, when my eyes were able to barely detect them, they have grown and unfolded a bit more. In a few short weeks, they will have exploded in size to the extent that they will hide the branches that hold them. Today, they are the color of yellow pears. They will shed much of their yellow hue in the coming weeks, changing to darker greens. I would like to train a video camera on them, so I could play the images back at high speed to watch them develop. Have I written of that desire before? Probably…and recently. Spring is a magical time. And, as weather forecasters will attest, a time of natural rage.

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Today’s weather: Warm, Wet, and Vicious. For several days, weather services have delivered what a Weather Channel headline calls a Rare ‘High Risk’ Severe Forecast. The subheading is even more concerning: ‘Weather service warns that numerous tornadoes, along with multiple long-track EF3 or greater twisters, appear likely.’  As if those dire warnings were not enough, meteorologists go on to announce: ‘Tornado Outbreak Expected Today In Midwest And South.’ Day by day predictions for today through Saturday put the chances of rain and thunderstorms at one hundred percent. As for temperatures, today’s peak is expected to reach 75°F and forecast nighttime lows in the upper 50s to middle 60s are  expected. Times like these make me wish we could seek protection in a tornado shelter or apocalyptic retreat.

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Yesterday, I visited the hospital medical records office to request details about the port implanted in my chest on Valentine’s Day last year. My objective was to obtain information about the device to give to the people at M.D. Anderson, in the hope that medical technicians can use the port to draw blood and infuse chemical treatments. The veins in my hands and arms have become uncooperative, treating needles like attackers to be thwarted. I have the details now; next week, I will learn whether the existing port can be used. I do not want to have another one implanted.

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Colors hide themselves in darkness and express themselves in the presence of light. A rock that is bright blue in the daytime may be brown or black on a night when clouds make the stars invisible. But, of course, the rock does not change colors; the difference in its appearance is governed by the amount of light that bathes it. White light. If the rock is illuminated by light that appears red, the rock may appear purple. If light from a spectrum invisible to the human eye bathes the rock, the rock does not become invisible…but what happens to it? What color is that same rock when washed in white light, but viewed by a dog? My understanding is that the dog sees blue as a shade of gray or brown. If I look at the rock at the same time, what color is the rock? Does color depend entirely on the eyes viewing it? These are matters we discussed in elementary school; if we learned from our discussions, we would understand the nature of colors. How would our life experiences be different if sounds were different, depending on the human ear hearing them? For example, if you heard a word as “nomenclature” and I heard the same utterance as “gasoline,” would language confuse us? Or would our thought processes make the necessary adjustments so both of us would understand the difference sounds to mean the same thing?

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I hear a cat’s complaint. She has been fed, so it’s not food she’s after; it’s freedom…or human contact…or domination over human beings.

I want a back massage. I may NEED a back massage. Almost every day for the past week, intermittent pain in my upper and middle back has been a source of discomfort. It’s not terribly bad, but sufficiently irritating that I want the practiced hands of a massage specialist to do what must be done to eliminate the pain. I’ve probably been sitting too much, sleeping too much, and delving too deeply into the sedentary lifestyle. I do not want to stop doing any of those things; I just want their consequences to be happily and comfortably resolved.

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Legislators might be more careful and more honest in writing laws—and voting to enact them—if lawmakers knew their children would be held accountable for legislation later found to be intentionally flawed. That is, laws crafted to serve a legislator’s ulterior motives. One consequence of “legislative parental sin” laws probably would be a significant reduction in the number of laws on the books. Another would be a sharp decline in the number of people willing to—much less desiring to be elected to legislative roles. Such circumstances would be utterly unfair to the children of criminal legislators. But, then, self-serving laws supported by dishonest or lazy legislators do a disservice to legislative constituents. Perhaps a process by which legislative dishonesty is penalized through intensely harsh public flogging of the bad actors would be more fair to the children… though their parents’ punishment would embarrass the kids.

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There are Men Wolves too Gentle to Live Among Wolves Men. James Kavanaugh’s poetry equated men with IBM eyes with wolves. Sometimes, that seems such an insult to wolves. In reality, too many gluttonous men…and women and children…unnecessarily adopt the “kill or be killed” predatory styles of hungry forest creatures. How many is “too many?” I ask myself. How many is “enough?” How many is “too few?” Every answer to those questions implies some level of predation is acceptable. That’s the problem; we ask the wrong questions. Every answer, though, if properly framed, can be acceptable if the right question is asked.

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Taxes and medical records, neither of which I dealt with yesterday in their entirety, are on my agenda today. Retirement—a time of rest, relaxation, and comfort—is sometimes interrupted by obligations that interfere with its more pleasant aspects. At this very moment, I am adjusting my agenda to provide for a brief respite from planning for the rest of the day; I will sleep again before the day begins in earnest.

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Another day will begin before long. Ach.

The blood vessels beneath the skin on my right arm and right hand are more than simply visible. They appear to be just barely shy of the surface—working their way toward contact with the air around me. The tangled webs of veins on the tops of my hands are thin and blue. They are thicker and fewer as I look at my forearm, but still quite visible. In my upper arm, they have disappeared beneath layers of skin and muscle and, I suppose, bone. Not so many months ago, the now-visible veins would have been largely hidden under thicker muscles and skin and fat. Today, though, much of the substance of those layers has disappeared. Once-plump, young extremities have shriveled into reminders that age and a sedentary lifestyle take their toll. And, of course, chemicals pumped into my body in an effort to destroy cancer cells tend to amplify evidence of advancing age. I get the sense that I could actually witness the deterioration by videotaping myself standing motionless and then playing the video back at high speed. I doubt I would find that appealing, though.

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Almost thirty years ago I visited New Zealand. The first stop was Auckland, then Wellington, then Christchurch. Last night, as we watched another episode of A Remarkable Place to Die (set in Queenstown, NZ), I was reminded of my whirlwind visit. Most of my memories have been muffled and muted by time, but viewing the landscape on the south island sparked some pleasant recollections. I wondered, though, how different my memories must be compared to the realities of today. My recollections of Chicago during the four-plus years I spent there in the second half of the 1980s are, I know, quite different from the city today. I suspect New Zealand has changed as much. But I imagine I would find return visits just as exciting today as was my time in years past.

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Books and movies take us to interesting, exciting places. We experience emotions very different from the emotions we have in our “real” lives. What is it, I wonder, that we find so appealing about venturing into imaginary worlds? If we lived in those imaginary worlds, would we find visits to the “real” world just as appealing? I suspect we might learn that “appealing” and “tolerable” are interchangeable, depending on situations that are “normal” versus situations that are “unusual.” Context…again. Everything is contextual. Everything exists along a spectrum. I am a broken record. Maybe not a record, but broken.

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Today’s high temperature is forecast to be 68°F. Yesterday’s high was 84°F. I am growing partial to daytime temperatures in the mid-80s. At night, 70°F-72°F seems about right; with a light blanket. Higher with just a sheet.

Anger, to achieve its ultimate objective, must be controlled long enough to grow into a hidden, but unquenchable, lust for retributive power—absolute domination. That is the point at which pure anger is unleashed in the form of volcanic rage, enveloping everyone and everything around it. Pure anger—volcanic rage—seldom displays itself, simply because it is such a rarity. When it does, though, it spreads like an infectious disease. Civil wars erupt when populations that embrace powerful competing philosophies are encouraged to forcefully reject opportunities for reconciliation. Lethal anger becomes an appealing state of mind, the consequences be damned.

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Pundits talk about ‘populist rage’ as a way to trivialize the anger and fear coursing through the middle class.

~ Elizabeth Warren ~

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I wonder whether the very last cigarette I smoked—21 years ago—is the one that triggered my lung cancer. Or, perhaps, it was one I smoked one year or ten years earlier. There’s no way to know, of course. It’s safe to assume, though, that somewhere along the line I smoked a cigarette that initiated the collective damage that spurred my body’s response to those years of smoking. Even after years of reading and hearing warnings about the dangers of smoking, I kept at it. Evidence of my stubborn idiocy. Some mistakes cannot be undone. Every day, I am reminded that I could have rejected cigarettes before smoking became habitual or before I developed an addiction to nicotine. Or I could simply have stopped smoking long before I did. Regret is not a useful emotion with regard to smoking.

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Here it is, almost noon, and the woodpecker is back at it…attempting to find bugs hidden in a tree—and take the tree down in the process. As I look up at the trees outside my windows, I see no birds. But I notice that leaves have grown significantly since yesterday, as if the world is plodding along as usual. Mother Nature seems unmoved by the global political and social upheavals taking place in response to a dangerous cabal of power-hungry demons. Perhaps Mother Nature knows something I don’t; maybe she knows those monsters will fall victim to winds causing heavy tree limbs to pin the beasts to the ground. Today is not the first time I’ve wondered whether Mother Nature and I share similar feelings about the members of the cabal(s). If I were a tree limb, I would not be blamed for crushing the monsters. I suppose I would be accused of having motives that led to their demise. Yet we assume trees are not moved by motives. But do we question whether the winds that move tree limbs have motives? I suppose it’s best to assume tree limbs and the winds that move them are not sinister. I wish the same assumption would be made about me. The trees are swaying in the wind, as if reacting to my words. They know more than we think.

I heard a piliated woodpecker (I think…it could be another type of woodpecker) hammering on a tree. It sounded like a distant jackhammer; used in an effort to bring down a huge pine tree. How would I know how a jackhammer sounds in an attack on a tree…especially a particular species of tree? My ears and my brain obviously are working together in an effort to make sense of this unusual noise. I have no reason to doubt the results of their collusion, but neither do I have evidence to support my conclusion. So, it’s not obvious, after all. Once an idea stakes its claim to a comfortable space in one’s head, though, dislodging it is monstrously hard. Every subsequent clue is manipulated to support the unjustified verdict. Images of the enormous bird appear in one’s head, adding unwarranted certainty to an erroneous suspicion. A fleeting glimpse of a few red feathers in the trees tricks the eyes into joining the incorrect assumption about the sounds of a jackhammer. One becomes even more steadfast in his belief that the noise is, indeed, a piliated woodpecker damaging a pine tree. One confirms all the evidence to verify the unjust belief. If one originally had interpreted the sound as an ocean-going freighter, the brain might have recalled an image of a ship. And the red “feather” might have been assumed to be paint just above the water line. But the idea that a sound and a sight might have been created by a ship in the forest is sufficiently nonsensical to lead to the idea’s rejection. Woodpeckers, though…we just cannot bring ourselves to reject the idea.

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“Very high pollen today,” reads a text announcement on my computer screen. Next to the text is an image that looks like an exploding glass of red wine—or an exploding red tulip. I suspect it was intended to look like a tulip, with pollen erupting from it. My eyes have been watering for weeks. Lately, though, the flow has increased dramatically, as if I have been weeping inconsolably. Tulips, I am sure, are not responsible for the flood coming from my eyes. Instead, I think grass and tree pollen are responsible for my eyes’ itching and watering and staying constantly red and generally unhappy. Every time I blink, I feel like my eyelids are behaving like windshield wipers, scraping a full tablespoon of sand or ground glass across my eyeballs. This sensation is, no doubt, punishment for some terrible transgression I did not realize was such an awful act. Had I only known, I would have done something beneficial for humankind, rather than engage in such egregious behavior… whatever it was. Who knew there really was “hell to pay,” even in the absence of knowingly committing a “sin” or whatever I apparently have done?

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The average size of detached (standalone) homes in the UK is 1582 square feet, according to the David Wilson Homes website. US Census data reveal that the average size of new single-family homes in the US declined from a high of about 2300 square feet in 2021 to 2177 square feet in 2023. In the 1960s, the average size of US single-family homes was 1500 square feet. Considering that larger home sizes tend to correlate with higher construction and maintenance costs, US homeowners probably spend considerably more on housing than their UK counterparts. What else might the difference in home sizes between the two nations tell us? That the British are more frugal? That Americans are avaricious? That the British focus more keenly on need, whereas Americans are more likely to be driven by desire or greed? But, the differences might be better explained in other ways, depending on whether we’re more interested in facts or or whether we’re after simplicity. The average house in New Zealand is slightly larger than the average house in the US. The average house in Hong Kong is 484 square feet. What does it all mean?

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The volumes of text messages and emails I received yesterday was higher than normal, thanks to notices about appointments made for me at M.D. Anderson in Houston. I have five appointments (so far) on my first day of my participation in a clinical trial, beginning at 7:00 a.m. and lasting for most (or all) of the rest of the day. Appointments have been set for one day each in the following three weeks. Seventeen hours round-trip (give or take) required for each visit is beginning to register with me; an additional 68 hours on the road before the end of April. That’s 85 hours, including the 17-hour initial trip already made. Well, I’ve complained that I miss spending time on road-trips; I’ll make up for that before the end of April.

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George Orwell foresaw something many people still refuse to comprehend.

The call came yesterday afternoon. I signed, electronically, the consent form to participate in a clinical trial of a cancer drug that has not yet been given to humans. While I do not expect the drug to magically cure my cancer, I really wish it would. The much more likely outcome is that it will do nothing substantive or, at best, slow the progression of the disease. So, why bother? It’s possible that this clinical trial will lead to significant advances, in the future, in battling or even curing cancer. That makes it worth a shot. And the highly unlikely outcome—that it might magically cure my cancer or significantly extend my life—is enough to make me want to go for it. So, my involvement in the first phase of the study probably will begin some time in the first two weeks of April. More round trips to Houston than I’d like to make, but that’s required and I will gratefully make them. Assuming, of course, the government’s “slash and burn” approach to “saving money” does not somehow stall or cancel the study.

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I no longer trust the U.S. Government. The rising tides of falsehoods emerging from desks formerly occupied by moderately trustworthy officials are drowning us in blatant lies. There was a time when I was suspicious of statements issued by “federal authorities.” No longer. Today, I am absolutely confident those statements are deliberately misleading, at best, if not outright fabrications. We are witnessing the willful dismantling of reliable sources of information—replaced by entirely unbelievable propaganda. I wonder why people who tell such glaring lies bother trying to deceive us—their deceit is so obvious even their partners in deception must question the point of crafting their stories. Perhaps it is because they want us to doubt them on those rare occasions when they tell us the truth. If that is the case, they are more cunning even than I thought. And we—those of us who are the targets of their misinformation—must use every tool at our disposal to repel their psychological warfare. Otherwise, we’ve lost the war before the first battle has begun.

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Is it my printer or is it the computer? Something is wrong somewhere; I cannot print anything. The Printer Assistant Tool is not functioning; I have no idea what that tool does. What it does NOT do at the moment is provide me with any assistance in printing. Not from Word, not from Excel, not from a PDF file…zip. My next step will be to turn off my computer and my printer, wait for a few minutes, and then try again. If that doesn’t do the trick, I may threaten both devices with an axe handle or a sledge hammer. Threats have never worked in the past, but “there’s always a first time.” So they say.

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I have several pocket knives, but the one knife I carried with  me all the time has long since disappeared. I am sure it fell out of the watch-pocket of my jeans. None of the other knives is sufficiently appealing to cause me to carry it in place of my old favorite. So, one day soon I will buy a Case brand pocket knife. But I rarely wear jeans any more, opting instead for a stretchy pair of long gym pants with zipper pockets on both sides. No matter what I carry in the pockets, the stretchy fabric causes the item…wallet, phone, knife…to bulge. It’s unseemly. I want a pair of custom stretchy pants with multiple pockets, similar to cargo pants. Until I get them, I’m forced to put my carry-around-stuff in my man-purse. I wish I had done that with my pocket knife. A lot of stuff I kept in my pockets has disappeared over the years, which should have taught me a lesson or two. Damn. I hate that I lost my weapon/tool of choice.

A phone call yesterday afternoon brought me one step closer to participating in a clinical trial (research study) of a product intended to battle cancer. Later today or tomorrow, if the process plays out as explained to me, I should receive another phone call with instructions on how to electronically sign a form giving consent for my inclusion in the research. The potential dangers and side-effects of participation are a little scary, but so are the risks of the chemotherapeutics I have been receiving for the past fifteen months. So, the decision to participate in the study probably will not expose me to perils much different from the ones I’ve already experienced. My involvement has not yet been fully confirmed, but once I sign the consent form I officially will be a research subject. The older I get, the greater the risks of an earlier-than-expected-expiration I am willing to take.

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My entertainment choices for the last two nights have been duds. Two nights ago, I watched The Twister: Caught in the Storm; ostensibly a documentary about the 2011 tornado that devastated Joplin, Missouri. It featured several people who had lived through the event; either the direction they were given was awful or they were bad actors or both. If I had been thinking, I would have stopped watching after the first ten minutes. Apparently, I was not thinking. Watching it was an unwise use of time…time I can never recover. Last night, I watched Trap, another waste of time. It was a film written, produced, and directed by M. Night Shyamalan. For some reason, I assumed his involvement in the film would assure a positive experience for the viewer. After exploring some other films in which he was involved, I cannot understand why I made the assumption. The setting for Trap was primarily an arena during a teeny-bopper concert, which was organized as an FBI sting operation designed to catch a serial killer who chopped his victims to pieces. Before deciding on Trap, I thought about watching a kid movie: Wallace & Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl. That would have been a better choice, without a doubt. I shouldn’t complain about movies, of course, because any movie I were to create probably would be far worse than either of the ones I watched. Ach.

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Remember when “earth-tones” were extremely popular? Both exteriors and interiors of homes used those colors extensively in the late 1970s and early 1980s. I have noticed that those same palates seem to be growing in popularity again. Magazine photos of redesigned living areas are rife with browns and tans. Subtle hints of washed out orange, too, are appearing among paint swatches. And light sage green is showing up as a complement to other soft tributes to the gentle colors of spring and fall. I suppose bold, assertive colors lose their appeal after a while; after a certain amount of time has passed, they become unpleasantly harsh and aggressive—overpowering. I would like to think unpleasant orange—no matter how light or translucent—will disappear soon, along with other orange annoyances. I remember visiting a classy restaurant, Earthtones, in Houston when I lived there. Like the color palate for which it was named, the restaurant lost its luster; its appeal withered when brighter colors began to be popular.

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Two of my favorite woods are mesquite and olive. I’ve seen a number of kitchen bowls and utensils made of olive and a smaller number of desks and credenzas and coffee tables made of mesquite. It’s hard to select just two “favorites,” though. Teak, pecan, and several others also delight my eyes. If I could have my pick of wooden furniture, I would select Swedish/Scandinavian and Mission styles, each piece constructed of a different species of wood. Maybe. I also like fine leather and sturdy fabrics. I’d have to pick the right climates, too, to ensure the materials would tolerate humidity and temperature and exposure to sunlight. Those requirements might force me to have homes in different parts of the world. Actually, I would not need to be forced; I would need plenty of money, though, or furniture building skills I have never mastered. The trick to picking the right wooden furniture is a thorough understanding of how to build comfort into the contours of every element of the furniture’s design…and, of course, selecting a highly-skilled artisan/craftsman who knows how to translate raw wood into pure comfort.

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Flipping a switch is so easy when seeking light. Looking for darkness, though, is not such a simple undertaking. I wish we could easily flip a dark switch. Flipping a light switch off does not result in the same rapid response as flipping it on. That is especially true during daylight hours, with a light next to a window. Flipping that switch off may cause the ambient light to dim, but darkness does not follow. Even in a space with no light fixtures, light can slide into the room beneath the doors. But a well-lit room does not grow dim when darkness slips under the door.

My fascination with the absence of sound probably had its origin when I realized that, even in a place insulated from sound, I could hear…something. Whether it was blood coursing through the veins in my ears or constant, faint noises that mimicked distant crickets, I could was…and am…always in the presence of noise. I simply cannot experience silence. The knowledge that silence is forever out of reach frustrates me, because I so deeply desire to experience what silence is like. On the other hand, though, I want that experience to be under my control; perpetual deafness would be far more challenging, I think, than permanent noise. Even extremely faint sounds. From what I have been able to gather, sounds louder than 130-140 decibels are painful. Faint sounds of 20 decibels or less are at or near the lower limits of humans’ abilities to hear; but the level of barely audible sound produced by our breathing is said to be about 10 decibels. I seek the elusive absence of sound: zero decibels. Perhaps the sounds produced by a butterfly’s wings in flight is as close to silence as sound comes. The loudest sound ever recorded, according to Google‘s AI, was the eruption of Krakatoa in 1883, at roughly 310 decibels. But measurements above 194 decibels are considered blast waves, not actual sounds; how that level was determined to be the point of differentiation between sound waves and blast waves is beyond me. I am sure I could find out but, to use one of my favorite sayings, “the game is not worth the candle.” That is, the effort produces results that do not warrant the energy expended to obtain them. Put yet another way, my interests wane in direct correlation to the time I spend in pursuing them. Or, I am easily distracted by the nearest shiny objects.

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Inside the house, a variation of only 2°F can make the difference between comfort and discomfort. A temperature of 72°F can feel uncomfortably chilly, while 74°F can feel warm enough to be tolerable, at least. Add another degree or two and the air can make me feel like the ideal temperature is at hand. In the summertime, though, 74°F can feel uncomfortably cool; only by warming the air by 10°F can comfort be achieved. That’s just me, of course. And that’s contextual; the same temperatures and temperature variations can feel comfortable or uncomfortable, depending on physiological variables that are too complex for me to understand without conducting extensive research. And I’m not interested in doing that research today. All of this is a lengthy introduction to the fact that the present outdoor temperature is about 55°F and the forecast for the day predicts a high temperature of 75°F. I think a 20°F rise in temperature may seem like the universe is conspiring to roast me. There is no ideal temperature. Temperature is like everything else; its appeal is contextual. The context, though, is hard to measure and harder still to articulate. We have a hard time expressing certainties when there are none.

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We’re living through the twilight of American economic dominance.

~ Shia LaBeouf ~

Google‘s AI reports that the first fully synthetic plastic, Bakelite, was invented by Leo Baekeland in 1907. Baekeland’s Scottish rival, James Swinburne, made it to the patent office a day later. Had Swinburne made it to the patent office two days earlier, my surname (even though it lacks the “e”) might have been much more widely known. But, then, how well-known is the surname, Baekeland? “What if” questions are interesting but never can be answered with certainty. Roughly forty years after Bakelite was patented, the use of plastics began steady growth, with an exceptional growth spurt in the 1960s and 1970s. Today, plastics are ubiquitous and essentially eternal. I glance around my office and see plastics all around me: the barrels of pens and highlighters; the grips of scissors; my computer monitor; the body of my paper-shredder; the majority of the parts of desk chairs; the body and many other parts of my ink-jet printer; all the visible parts of my aging calculator; the cap of a protein drink; and on and on. What if plastics had never been invented? How different would the interiors of automobiles and airplanes be, compared to what they are like today? No one can provide reliable answers. Nor can anyone say with any degree of certainty how the English language might have evolved in the absence of Shakespeare’s contributions. “What if” questions cannot be answered with facts, but they provide fodder for the imagination. In other words, curiosity can generate fiction. But it also can lead to facts, like the existence of Bakelite.

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Almost every time I drive through an automatic car wash, two thoughts run through my mind: 1) are they better for the environment, or worse, than manual car washes? and 2) wouldn’t it be nice if high-pressure air driers (like in car washes), appropriately heated, were available for home showers? Not only would the home shower air driers dry one’s body (in luxurious warmth), the direction of their pressurized air could be directed to glass doors and shower walls, making the use of squeegees (to combat water spots) unnecessary. Towels might become anachronisms, too, if pressurized air were available. But would the energy required to power the air jets be wasteful? The differences between luxury and necessity are striking. Luxuries, though, have come to be expected…to the extent they often are considered necessities. In reality, necessities are rare; most of what we call necessities are, in fact, luxuries redefined. Humans in many cultures and societies have become demanding; to the point we cannot differentiate between what we need and what we simply want.

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I wonder whether the generally agreed (by psychologists and psychiatrists) definitions of anxiety and depression are legitimate? It seems to me the two states of mind represent differences in degree along the same spectrum. Yet I rarely (if ever?) read that anxiety can “mature” into depression or that depression can “soften” into anxiety. The symptoms of the two are described in ways that make them seem similar, but despite those similarities, professionals often insist the two mental conditions are unique. Professionals may have a deeper understanding than do I; they may differentiate between anxiety and depression in ways similar to how diagnostic specialists might differentiate between eczema and psoriasis. I have no business questioning medical professionals’ classification systems; unless, of course, incorrect classifications could put me at risk. At that point, I become a doctor of Googlish medicine.

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Silliness does not always wash away concerns. Laughter is not a guaranteed cure for worry. But they are better analgesics than perpetual weeping. Yet none of them can compare to dreamless sleep.

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I will spend as much time as necessary today (and tomorrow, if necessary) working on gathering and organizing materials my tax return. I would rather work on the tax return for the world’s richest man, in preparation for his lifetime sentence for tax evasion. But, alas, I must focus my efforts on my own 1040. Where is the justice, I wonder?

When I look in the mirror, I see someone I do not recognize. Pronounced wrinkles replace the once-smooth skin around my eyes. Unruly tufts of ultra-thin white wisps have taken the place of my “salt & sand” head of hair, courtesy of more than a year’s worth of chemo. My decidedly overweight body has shed much of the evidence of seventy-one years of accumulated overeating, leaving confirmation of inadequate exercise. I wonder which image represents the real me…the overly-portly, well-fed man or his shriveled remains? And I question whether the two men are, indeed, the same person or indecipherable echoes of one another. Do the same kinds of thoughts reside inside those two brains? Did those men take different roads in a yellow wood? Are the lives they led radically different from one another?

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I woke up from a different dimension this morning, a place hidden from all the other places in the universe. My role in that distant dimension was to translate nonfiction books written in every language into every other language—but without the benefit of fluency in any of them. A solution to the problem was provided by detectives responsible for a small city’s police department library. They suggested I use the multi-language flash cards carried by police officers. Those cards, which served as language prompts for alleged criminals to understand charges against them, could be used in place of full-fledged translations in connection with my translation tasks. I tested the cards by using them to transform a German text into Tagalog, in neither of which I was fluent. My task suddenly changed from translation to conversion; I was to arrange for Tagalog to become the universal language. With that adjustment, I suddenly wanted desperately to return to a dimension that was more familiar to me; I woke to the sounds of police sirens and gunfire.

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An eraser—the sort commonly found on the ends of number two pencils—was in my hand. I was not sure what I was to do with it, but decided I should erase some strings of text from an open book that sat on the desk in front of me. Just as I was about to rub a line in the book with the eraser, a teacher screamed at me in a panic: “Don’t do that! If you use that eraser, part of your life will disappear forever!” The teacher’s panicked shout startled me enough to make me yank the eraser from the page, thus saving my teen years from oblivion. Who would put such a dangerous weapon in the hands of an irresponsible child?

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I haven’t shaved in days, but only by rubbing my face or neck would that inaction become obvious. I’ve never had a heavy beard, but ever since chemo initially robbed me of my hair, my facial hair (and the hair on top of my head) has been slow to grow. And it has become white and much softer. I wonder whether my “normal” hair will ever return? How does chemo change one’s body chemistry to cause hair to fall out and, then, change color and texture as it returns? No one has ever explained the process to me; perhaps because they do not understand…perhaps they believe the process involves voodoo or magic or electro-chemical storms taking place just beneath the skin where hair follicles happily reside. “They.” Who are “they?” All people who have never explained the process to me? That would constitute all people the world over.  And those on the International Space Station. And people who were secretly involved in the first human moon landing and who have resided there ever since. Did you know about them? Of course not. They landed there in 1959, long before the publicly announced “first moon landing.” The Australian Space Agency was delighted that their competitors (the U.S., Russia, and Peru) kept the secret, of course.

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My mood this morning may seem overtly strange. That is because I am using a complex coding structure to communicate a message of truth and beauty throughout the space between the stars. But you can only see it at night.

Gentle breezes cause the wind chimes hanging from the deck’s cover to make soft, metallic tones. Strong winds and powerful gusts over the last few days accelerated and amplified those sounds, turning soothing notes into constant, jarring “clangs,” loud and assertively disruptive. Two sets of chimes, each of which makes its own unique sounds, respond with anger to disturbing blasts of fast-moving air. My brain reacts badly to the noise, placing shared blame on the weather, my ears, and the furious pieces of frenetic metal. I seek silence, knowing full-well that silence is an unachievable fantasy. Frustration with the world around me replaces the quiet appreciation that accompanies sleep. Finally, though, I surrender to the irrepressible noise; I hear the sound, but I seem no longer to be aware of it. Only when an especially fierce gust causes the chimes to scream loudly do I realize the clamor remains. I simply have gotten used to the constant disorder.

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Tomorrow, I will visit my local oncologist to discuss the possibility that I will participate in a clinical trial for a drug that has been tested, so far, on just two or three people. Normally, I would spend several hours at the cancer clinic, receiving chemotherapy. But, because commencement of the trial would require that I have gone one month without treatment, I will not get treated tomorrow. Instead, I will discuss the proposed trial and ask my oncologist questions about when—and whether—I could resume chemotherapy after the conclusion of the trial. And I will ask several other questions related to whether I should continue taking some of the ancillary prescription drugs she prescribed. So many questions…so many that cannot yet be answered. I strongly am leaning toward participating in the trial…assuming I am accepted. On the other hand, the idea of simply ending treatment has considerable appeal; but I would want to hear an educated estimate of how long I would survive without it. Yet I do not know how that estimate might influence my decision; this part of the cancer experience is new to me.

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The time is fast-approaching when I will have lived in Hot Springs Village for eleven years. It’s hard to believe I have been here so long. September, only a few months from now, will mark the tenth year since buying the Subaru Outback I drive (occasionally) today. My eleventh year anniversary of moving to the Village coincides with another anniversary…the last time I had Ethiopian food. Dallas had several excellent Ethiopian restaurants when I lived there; the entire state of Arkansas has none. Arkansas and Texas are alike in that the governors of both states are, in my opinion, right-wing lunatics. The majority of voters in both states voted for Trump in the last presidential election. I do not need, or even want, to live in a place where the vast majority of voters share my social and political and economic philosophies. But I would prefer an environment in which rational discussions, based on verifiable facts and defensible opinions, prevail over irrational screaming matches. How long has it been since political discussions were reliably civil? We allow time to slide by without capturing its most precious moments—moments of civility and kindness and caring and respect. As usual, this morning’s post is wandering in unpredictable ways in every direction, as if the writer had been TUI—thinking under the influence—or TWI—thinking while intoxicated. Neither is the case, but I can understand why a reader might think so.

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We watched Conclave last night, a fictional story that follows the selection of a new pope after the pope’s death. I was unconvinced, when I started watching the film, that I would find it interesting. It did not take long before I was convinced. The ending took me completely by surprise. Whether viewers are Catholic—or religious or not—I think most people would find the film intriguing. Assuming the processes and protocols reflect reality in the Catholic church, learning about them from the film was an absorbing experience.

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The results of the brain MRI that was performed on me while in Houston yielded nothing of substance. No cancer, no other obvious abnormalities. Fortunately, the MRI did not reveal the thoughts that pulse through my head. Even if it had, I would not document them here. Some thoughts are meant to remain hidden forever in the thinker’s mind.

It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.

That quote is attributed to Grantland Rice, American sportswriter. Those words place honor, integrity, virtue, honesty, and “sportsmanship” above performance. In other words, results matter less than the righteousness of the way in which results are achieved. A slurry of words attributed to Pete Rose, the baseball player and gambler, convey an entirely different perspective, asserting that the person who uttered that well-known aphorism was “full of it.” Having never had children, I cannot say how easy or difficult it must be to teach them to embrace Rice’s philosophy, rather than Rose’s. But I think parents should make every effort to instill Rice’s attitude in their children.

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I have stopped watching the evening news. It invariably is a rehash of information I’ve already seen (despite attempting to avoid it) online during the day. My next quest for peace probably will involve steering clear of social media. Social media has become a deeply disturbing repetitive hybrid of anxiety-producing “news” coupled with increasingly rare posts that hold even a hint of interest for me. Burying one’s head in the sand is not one of the recommended ways of dealing with bad news and boredom—but when nothing else works, it’s worth a try. I think my growing affinity for isolation—seclusion, solitude,  hiding—is spurred on by numerous signs that civil society is in a period of sharp decline. It can’t be just me who is trying to escape the demise of civility. Many others must find themselves growing progressively remote; using both physical and emotional distance in the hope for protection against the ravages of social decay. At the same time, though, I continue seeking more candidates to become members of my “tribe,” outcasts who desire connections with people of like minds and perspectives. I envision small communities of people who value social connections utterly unlike the ones available through Facebook and Instagram and Threads and so forth—instead, real human connections based on common interests, curiosity, respect, civility, and kindness. A form of commune, I suppose, that provides both privacy and engagement in a comfortable atmosphere of mutual support and freedom of expression. Another fantasy. I’m full of them.

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Several times last night, as I tried to sleep, I heard Phaedra yowling loudly. Finally, at around 4 this morning, it occurred to me that she might accidentally have been closed in the hall closet or the pantry before we entered the bedroom (she is not permitted in that space, for fear she might exercise her claws by ruining the bed’s cloth headboard). But when I opened the bedroom door, she was waiting—loudly and impatiently—right outside. She must have spent a significant portion of the night in the same spot, highly unusual for her. Her behavior suggested she had not been fed for days…perhaps weeks…but the remaining dry food in her dish said otherwise. While I prepared her morning meal, she weaved around my legs and rubbed her head against my feet. She looked longingly at the canned food I was readying for her, expressing the urgency of her desire to be fed. This wee-hours howling is highly unusual behavior for her. She yowls and howls freely during the day and early evening, but not while we are trying to sleep. I hope this either is a one-time event or I can sleep through future unrest.

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I thoroughly enjoyed a British miniseries we watched recently and a two-hour film we watched last night.

The four-episode series, Adolescence, is a Netflix crime drama that focuses on a 13-year-old boy who is charged with the murder of a classmate, a girl. Each episode was filmed in a continuous take, prompting one of the actors, Ashley Walters (who played a police detective), to call the project the most difficult of his career to date. Though the first episode was a bit slow to grab my attention, the style of presenting the story and the unique way in which the drama unfolded quickly overcame that minor negative. The writing was excellent, the acting outstanding, and the theme of the series contributed to a first-class viewing experience.

The film, The Six Triple-Eight (also on Netflix), deals with the experience of an all-Black battalion of the US Women’s Army Corps (WAC) who were charged with dealing with an enormous (two year)  backlog of mail that was hurting soldiers’ morale throughout the theatre of war. Facing what appeared to be impossible obstacles in a racist and sexist environment, the women of the battalion met the challenge. Through discipline, creativity, and under the leadership of Major Charity Adams, they accomplished the objective of completing the task in three months, half the unrealistic timeframe of six months that they were given. Based on real events and people, this piece of historical fiction is both inspirational and entertaining.

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I sometimes daydream about sitting on desolate rocky outcroppings where a continent meets a rough ocean. Waves crash against huge stones, slowly turning the solid landmass into grey boulders and then into pebbles. Eventually, in my mind’s eye, the pebbles will wear down, into sand. In the interim, though, I watch the slow motion transformation of the intersection between land and water. I wonder how I came to be perched at the edge of two distinct worlds; one about which I know almost nothing and the other about which I know only a little more. Occasionally, a stranger comes upon the place where I sit. We engage in casual conversation, during which we discover that desolate places appeal to both of us. And that commonality creates a bond between us—two people who, otherwise, may be utterly unlike the other. Sometimes, in this reverie, I live in a small stone cottage just up the hill from the water’s edge. And sometimes I make coffee or brew tea to share with the stranger. Sometimes, the stranger is male; more often, she is a woman. These daydreams may be spontaneous or they may be the result of deliberate thought. They never have an “ending,” though. Perhaps that is intentional. Perhaps I want or need to know that rocky outcropping will always be available to me—a place I can take refuge when my emotions tell me I need a place to take shelter.

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Periods of the past come flooding back in the form of precious memories. But alongside those treasured moments are recollections of choosing between painful options, all of which left wounds that never heal. Foresight and hindsight collide in unpredictable ways that—with enough thought—could have been accurately forecast. Too little contemplation, too late, leaves a history strewn with shrapnel of unintended consequences and its accompanying regret.

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A few years ago, I briefly fostered a dog—Bob—who was a 50 or 60 pound Mountain Cur, a short-haired breed. He was a delightful dog, but his need for a lot of exercise and his tendency to pull me when I took him for a “walk” were enough to convince me he was not the dog for me. A smaller, less muscular, more sedentary dog would be more my style, I decided. Not long after I arranged for Bob to be sent to Connecticut to a waiting family, I was introduced to another dog, A.J. He was a tiny Shih Tzu who had been adopted by a woman, who would soon become mi novia, several years earlier. A.J. was gentle, friendly, and a non-shedding long-haired dog to whom I took an immediate liking. But he was already getting old when I met him and was suffering from ailments that would soon require him to be euthanized. We went without a pet for some time, but one day mi novia saw a Facebook post about a kitten, available for adoption at the nearby recycling center—she decided the kitten would be the ideal pet and I reluctantly agreed to adopt her. Soon thereafter, the cat showed signs of being pregnant; the veterinarian dealt with that and “fixed” the young cat. Since then, the long-haired, hyper-shedding kitten has taken over most of the house and leaves massive amounts of white fur on every surface. I am told cats tend to live long lives, so we can expect Phaedra (her name) to live for many more years. The lesson in this tale is that when one has had few pets and when one’s agreement to get another is “reluctant,” it deserves plenty of time for consideration before one’s agreement is confirmed.

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When I woke this morning, I was already tired. That fact made me think about the requirement for me to make frequent 8-hour trips to Houston if I participate in a clinical trial for drugs intended to slow the progress of lung cancer. The first month of the trial would require me to make four 16-hour+ round trips. Flying would involve a bit less time per trip, but the hassle would mimic or exceed driving. I suppose I could relocate to Houston for a month, but the cost of a hotel would be astronomical. I’ll just have to get used to the idea of a lot of highway travel, if I move forward with a clinical trial. Unless, of course, there are volunteers just ACHING to serve as my transportation. 🙂

Selecting a cancer treatment option legitimately feels like a life or death decision. But the choices do not have clear consequences—only that one may extend one’s life (or not) and the other(s) have have the same potential effects. The selection requires coming to terms with the fact that every available option may be the wrong one. Or accepting that none of the options may be right. How one comes to terms with reality is unclear; perhaps it involves a simple flip of a coin and, then, reliance on chance.

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My thoughts ricochet inside my head as if they encountered no substance to slow them as they bounce off the inner surface of my skull. I cannot seem to capture any of those fleeting ideas and attitudes for long enough to fully explore them. They tumble and dance by with such speed that I can barely grasp even the subjects on which they focus, much less any substantive details. Tangled threads overlap one another to the extent that every idea is at least partially hidden, making it impossible for me to understand my own thinking. If I could sleep, I would, but the buzz of random thoughts is too loud to permit it. I have spent the majority of an hour and a half trying to calm my brain enough to allow me to write coherently. Instead, my brain is a collection of frenzied noise that blocks messages intended to guide my fingers on the keyboard.

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One of the questions posed to me by a clinical trial coordinator in Houston was: “Do you ever wish you could go to sleep and never wake up?” I said “no,” of course. But the thought has entered my mind on occasion. It’s a selfish thought, one that does not acknowledge the cruelty of the idea. Yet eternal absence of emotional and physical pain—the permanent elimination of consciousness—sometimes seems exceptionally appealing…though not sufficiently so to act accordingly. This morning, mi novia heard from a friend in California who is experiencing extreme pain caused by cancer. When that level of pain becomes part of one’s daily life, I think I could more fully understand the desire for an “endless sleep.”

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In a little while, mi novia and I will go out for a mocha frappucino and a pastry…or something equally appealing…leaving the house empty for the housekeeper. Having the housekeeper visit every two weeks makes life considerably more pleasant. Not only are the floors clean and the house dust-free when she finishes, her presence sends us out of the house for a while. Getting out for a bit is enjoyable. If the outdoor temperatures were several degrees warmer and if the winds would remain calm, I might enjoy a short walk. That time will come.

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Almost two hours have passed…still nothing consequential flowing from my fingers. There will be another time when coherent ideas will flow…just not now.

If I had no sense of humor, I would long ago have committed suicide.

~ Mahatma Gandhi ~

My exploration of possible options with M.D. Anderson (MDA) continues today; two scheduled telephone meetings with representatives of the Clinical Center for Targeted Therapy to discuss two clinical trials for which I may qualify. Monday, I expected to be in Houston at least through Tuesday, but learned—for the immediate next steps—I could continue via phone and my MDA patient portal. So, we drove back home yesterday; another grueling 8-hour drive. It is entirely possible I will need to return to Houston next week to continue the vetting process…assuming I decide to continue exploring clinical trials. If I join one of the clinical trials, the first month of my involvement will be intense, requiring me to spend from one to three days at a time at MDA. Thereafter, I would be required to go to Houston at least once a month during the course of the trial. I think. In reviewing the protocols for one of the studies, the complexity of clinical trials became exhaustingly clear to me…yet a bit difficult for me to fully grasp. MDA decisions about my suitability for the clinical trials will follow my own decision about whether I want to move forward. If I say “yes,” the trial sponsors and researchers will still need to confirm that I fully conform to all requirements of participants. I think I already wrote that another option would be to transfer my “standard” treatment (perhaps including genetic treatments) to MDA, which would require me to relocate to Houston for the duration. I have ruled out that option.

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The number of people seeking care at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center is staggering. Several thousand people every weekday receive treatment and/or counseling and/or undergo tests related to every conceivable type of cancer. The weekend numbers are smaller, of course, but significant. Sitting on a bench in one of several lobbies/gathering areas (in one of several large medical buildings), just people-watching, is an education in and of itself. People of every size, shape, and color pass through; some drift by slowly, some scurry, some look lost or confused, and some seem to know precisely where they are headed. The staff members are easy to identify; scrubs or white jackets. Most, though, are not staff. Most are patients and their family or friends, looking for help in slowing or stopping the progression of debilitating or deadly cancers. Many have gone to MDA as a last resort, after having been treated unsuccessfully or unsatisfactorily elsewhere. Some of them were stunned, almost paralyzed, when they were diagnosed with cancer. Others were disappointed with, but not overwhelmed by, the diagnosis. Without knowing anything specifically about any of the people passing by, it is safe to assume that the range of emotions behind their faces is extensive…from terror to acceptance to exhausted resignation.

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The sky this morning is beige, the result of unrelenting winds drawing dust into the atmosphere. There could be other causes, of course; brush fires, forest fires, chemical mists dispersed by strong breezes, smoldering landfills set alight by arsonists or children playing with matches…the list could go on for all eternity. I’m going to stick with dust and high winds. The same high winds that buffeted the car during yesterday’s long drive; those winds that attempted to overturn trucks loaded with spindly pine logs or undocumented families seeking a safer environment than they had in their home countries. I often wonder what semi rigs are hauling in the big boxes behind them. In all probability, most of their loads are legitimate commercial cargo. But some of them might be transporting massive loads of semi-automatic rifles destined for right-wing insurrectionists or stolen cartons of cigarettes on their way to smokers who believe the cost of tobacco products is too high, thanks to taxes and corporate greed. And there may be at least a few big rigs carrying packages of fentanyl and methamphetamine hidden beneath pallets of almost-ripe tomatoes.  The optimist in me sometimes hopes many of the trucks are full of missiles and heavy artillery on the way to left-leaning patriots preparing to overtake and overwhelm the right-wing insurrectionists.  Seriously, though, I would love to know what each of those semis are carrying. A sign on the back of the trailers would do the trick: “Levi’s jeans” or “piñatas” or “tweezers, paper towels, hand soap, butane lighters, marijuana gummies, canned tuna, and whole human blood.” But the wind probably would blow the signs away. Another hope dashed.

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I barely noticed the changes in terrain and vegetation as we traveled to Houston last Thursday. But snapshot memories of the drive illustrate the transformation…from hilly pine forests to coastal plains littered with scrub brush and oak trees. And redbud trees, already well into their beautiful shows. Light green lace on the tops of big trees along the route proved that Spring is about to announce the termination of Winter. News reports already confirm the ravages of powerful Spring storms. Weather forecasts predict more to come. When Nature expresses anger building into rage, all we can do is take shelter; hide from the fury.

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Only time can protect us from the future…for a little while. Nothing but amnesia can protect us from the past.

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Time to wander into the week…find out more about the M.D. Anderson plan. In reviewing the volumes of data they have amassed about my medical history, I learned that I am no longer as short as I was…I am shorter! A full 1¼ inches shorter than at the peak of my youth. There was a time I would have been quite self-conscious about my shrinkage, but reality no longer hits me so hard—especially reality over which I have no control. Based on my reading of the doctor’s notes from our Friday meeting, the limited remaining treatment options might involve gene mutations…somehow. Apparently, I have one such gene mutation that could make me a candidate for gene therapy. I am sure I will learn more as time slips by.

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Fortunately, the costs of the trip down here are within my means, even the cost of replacing my windshield. Just as we reached the outter fringes of Houston, a pebble/ rock hit the windshield, creating a small crack. Simply another annoyance to add to the pile of irritating circumstances that I sometimes allow to get under my skin.

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I could write about switching hotel rooms because of the toilet being so low that anyone taller than 4’3″ would be unable to safely use it. Or I could complain that this lovely hotel’s temperature is kept at 55 degrees Farenheit. Or I could describe the attire of most of the hotel’s guests (cowboy hats and boots…thanks to the fact that the Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo is in full swing. I wish I could write about visiting my niece and her husband, who live in Houston, but I have felt so weak and lethargic that I decided to spend my free time sleeping, to the extent possible. Next trip, I hope.

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Time to shower and get dressed for the day. It’s going to be a long one, with a brain MRI beginning at 6:15 late this afternoon. I’m ready to go home.

The view from the 15th floor of the Houston Hilton, looking west, is deceiving. If I didn’t know otherwise, I would assume the string of tall buildings springing up from the distant horizon and growing more dense in the view to the right is “downtown.” And I would assume the vast stretch of trees and occasional rooftops between me and those high-rise buildings are in the suburbs. But I know better. The tall buildings follow alongside or near freeways that encircle or pierce into downtown. The “suburbs” are a mix of high-priced residential and commercial areas. Just below me and to the right are mansion-sized homes with pools. Out of my view, to the left and right and behind me, is downtown, the Texas Medical Center, big sports facilities, Rice University, and an astonishing blend of obscene wealth and abject poverty. Just another big American city.

I lived in and around Houston for roughly eight years…from about 1977 to 1985. The traffic was almost unbearable then. Driving into the city on Thursday, we saw a traffic back-up several miles long, caused by a single wreck. The prospect of dealing with such matters on a daily basis would drive me into an inescapable depression. Had city planners and funders acted in full support of good, comprehensive mass transportation…100 years ago and continuing to the present…the stresses of Houston traffic could have been reduced to a fraction of what it is today.

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Sleep is my refuge from a sharp-clawed world.

I met with several oncology staff specialists yesterday, but missed an x-ray I was not told was scheduled. Nothing on the books until Monday…a meeting with a researcher to determine whether I qualify for one or more clinical trials and a brain MRI to determine whether some noticeable stumbles the doctor saw in my gait might be caused by migration of cancer to my brain. The MRI is scheduled late (6:45 p.m.), suggesting they will want me here on Tuesday. Ach! I guess I will have the x-ray on Monday.

If I were to have M.D. Anderson take full charge of my treatment, I would have to relocate to Houston during the course of treatment. That’s not an option I would consider, so it’s either a trial or nothing, at this point. The doctor concurred with my Hot Springs oncologist that the latest PET-scan showed the cancer worsening. No one can tell me what that means, in terms of time. Most of what I’ve read suggests “improvements” in survival rates/times with new treatments tend to be modest. But I don’t know what that means…survival improvements from what base?

I have mixed feelings about whether spending time seeking unknown extensions or spending that time enjoying whatever time is left. Both are unknowns…weeks, months, years. I thought this process would give me a spurt of optimism. It seems to be doing just the opposite.

Time will tell.