A Fleeting Period of Perpetual Rain

Posted on February 12, 2020 by John Swinburn

Endless sunshine always is interrupted by fleeting periods of perpetual rain. The weather has always been this way. The everlasting pattern of dark and wet, then bright and dry, will continue forever, until it ends. Everything is impermanent and has been since the beginning of time. But we know about time, don’t we? Time is an illusion that refracts both truth and experience. One day I will write more about that refraction. Perhaps the story will be told from the perspective of a disillusioned ophthalmologist; but that fantasy is neither here nor there.

I mull over such irrefutable claims because these last few days of on-and-off rain seem to have begun when the earth was young, never stopping for the seasons. I realize, of course, that recent days of sunshine nullify that statement. No matter. Perception is reality.

The weather forecast calls for rain to end by 2:00 p.m. today, but we know that is a promise that is bound to be broken. Rain never ends; it simply moves on to ruin picnics in other places. And it will return again. The meteorologists’ own predictions say we should expect more precipitation within a week.  During that time, we’ll be teased with a taste of Spring and threatened with perennial Winter.

One could look at the fickle nature of weather through a lens clouded with displeasure, but I do not. Even when torrential rain makes taking a walk inadvisable or when ice makes driving dangerous, I enjoy Mother Nature’s tantrums. Though I’ll admit to being miffed when the weather require the cancellation of plans, I am glad weather comprises an almost endless variety of atmospheric phenomena. Tornadoes, ice storms, straight-line winds, torrential rain, sleet, hail, gentle snow, hurricanes, blizzards, even dust storms and stifling heat in the absence of even a slight breeze—it’s all fascinating and delightful, in a sense. Of course, the damage and destruction and loss of life that sometimes accompanies weather events is terribly unfortunate, but the weather itself is amazing. I will admit to frustration when extended periods when weather interferes with my plans; but, in the grand scheme of life in this universe, weather is a good thing. Where would we be without it?

My philosophy (or should I call it my theory?) about weather is this: weather is a tightly woven collection of atmospheric chaos that constitutes a magnificently complex and intricate design. Not an intentional design, but a self-generated design that relies on its own components to generate its form.

The power of weather is stunning in its enormity. Volcanoes, earthquakes…powerful, but impotent in comparison to weather. Nothing else on the planet can hold a candle to it. That statement may be erroneous. Weather, after all, is a child of climate, isn’t it? So isn’t climate the all-powerful force of nature? I think not. Climate functions like a car’s driver. The driver controls the car’s direction, but it’s the car that has the power. So it is with climate. Climate controls the direction weather takes, but weather exhibits the power. Yet an argument might be made that both the driver and the climate have ultimate control. Remove the driver from the car and the car becomes a mass of steel and plastic and rubber, unable to move of its own accord. Remove climate’s guiding hand and…what? Would weather cease without climate to guide it? I don’t know. I have never thought about it until just now; and thinking about it just now leaves me confused. I have no answer.

My smart phone just alerted me to the fact that Garland County, where we live, is under a flash flood watch until 6:00 p.m. today. More evidence of the power of weather. And a sign that I should stop writing about weather and return to fiction, hidden in documents on my computer.

Posted in Philosophy, Weather | Leave a comment

Looking for Serenity

Posted on February 11, 2020 by John Swinburn

Attempting to achieve anything remotely resembling a sense of serenity these days seems to be a fool’s errand. We are bombarded around the clock with news telling us that almost everything we hold dear is under assault in some form or fashion. How can a person find serenity in an environment in which chaos supplies us with the oxygen necessary to sustain life? If I had the answer, I would joyfully share it with the world. Sadly, I don’t. But I have encountered some suggestions I want to try.

Breathe: Take a deep breath, count to three, and release. Repeat it ten times. By the tenth time, a greater sense of serenity (or, at least, a lesser sense of chaos) should have come over me.

Focus: Instead of trying to juggle dozens of tasks that need to be done, focus on one at a time. Do that whenever possible. That approach to “to-do” clutter should be a soothing exercise.

Drop Everything: When the challenges become too great, simply walk away. Obviously, the walk must be short-lived, but I’m told it can be enormously restorative and calming. Even a few minutes away from the demands of daily living carries the potential of revitalizing one’s sense of serenity. Or so I’m told.

Read for Entertainment: It happened slowly, but it happened: I read quite a lot, but I read almost exclusively for information, insight, knowledge. That is great, but I think reading as an escape into a fantasy world or a world that exists exclusively for my entertainment can reduce my blood pressure and smooth the sharp edges in my brain. That I have to remind myself of this is evidence that something has gone wrong. It’s easily fixed. Will it give me some serenity? Maybe; especially if combined with some of the other ideas.

Exercise: This is not news. But, still, too many people (including me, of course) just don’t do it. Stretching one’s muscles, breaking a sweat, putting the body in motion can relieve the tension that builds up over the course of a day’s exposure to stress-inducing thoughts and experiences.

Pay Grateful Attention to Humor: Look for reasons to laugh. Actively seek them out. Share them. I suspect this is one of the quickest ways to sooth one’s soul. I imagine the type of humor matters, though. Light-hearted silliness, I suspect, is the best kind. In my experience, that kind of humor seems to excise rock-hard clumps of stress from within me.

Pay Grateful Attention to People Who Matter: We do that already, right? Maybe. But I think conscious gratitude for people who mean something to us is a little less common. We are grateful, yes, but do we consciously tell ourselves (and them) by paying close attention? Maybe not so much. I do not know how much this will impact serenity, but I’ve seen the suggestion from more than one source that offers advice on retrieving one’s serenity. Whether it works or not, I think it’s good practice.

Recognize that Worry Doesn’t Change Things: Worry is a sure way to crush serenity. One cannot feel serene while engaging in worry about something. The reality of worry is that it has no impact on the object of concern. Worrying about something will not change it. The issue, of course, is to recognize that fact. Worry is especially useless if you can’t do anything about the problem. If you can do something, the solution is to do it, not to worry about it. I know this. But it’s easier to write about than to internalize and be guided by it. I will continue to try, though.

Meditate. Meditation need not be a formal process. It can be a simple retreat from daily stresses by thinking about something soothing, calming, relaxing. Occasionally, I achieve a sense of peace (albeit not necessarily long-lasting) by visualizing a pebble dropping into a glass-still pool of water and then watching the water ripple away from the place the pebble dropped. I think that’s a form of meditation. If I train myself to do that regularly when I feel stress, I suspect I will achieve a greater sense of serenity.

Understand that Serenity is an Internal Affair: In spite of the fact that some of the ideas I’ve written about thus far suggest otherwise, serenity is internal. It’s impossible to look for our serenity in other people or in other places. It’s all inside our heads. By recognizing that we, alone, have ultimate control over our sense of serenity, we should be able to exercise governance over it. And it may be just that easy. Or that impossibly hard.

I think I’ve been so far from serenity for so long that I might not know what it felt like when I found it. That’s probably not the case, though. The sense that I can accept whatever comes my way is, I think, a feeling of serenity. Though I haven’t felt that acceptance in a long while, I do remember feeling it. And I’d know it again if I stumbled across it.

I intend to incorporate these suggestions into my thoughts and behaviors. It would be so refreshing to feel a sense of peace and serenity. Not “would.” “Will.”

Posted in Peace, Serenity | Leave a comment

Wisława Szymborska (1923-2012)

Posted on February 10, 2020 by John Swinburn

Wisława Szymborska was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1966. I did not know that until the morning of February 9, 2020. I do not believe I had ever even heard her name until that moment. But when I viewed and listened to a video of Maria Poplova reading Szymborska’s poem, Pi, I decided I should find and read more of her work. And I will. Someday.

But first, I will explore just a bit more about her. She was a poet and an essayist. I like the titles (translated into English) of several of her works:

  • That’s Why We Are All Alive
  • People on the Bridge
  • Non-Required Reading
  • Salt (I do not know why that single word evokes emotion in me, but it does)
  • A Large Number

I read that last poem, A Large Number, and was intrigued by it. I love her imagery. And her creativity is a delight. She describes a flashlight beam in the dark, illuminating only those random faces over which it passes, leaving the rest in the dark.  Another element of the poem includes a Latin phrase: non omnis moriar. Translated, it means my work will live; literally, it means I shall not wholly die. That simple phrase can offer as much hope to a writer as anything else, even to a hack who will leave only unpublished and unfinished manuscripts.

Szymborska published about 350 poems. I gather that’s a small number for a published poet (who knew?), though it sounds like an impossibly large number to me. I don’t know how many I’ve written, but I suspect it’s in the neighborhood of 175; my entire catalog comprises half of her published work. According to Wikipedia, she was asked why she had published so few poems; her response was: “I have a trash can in my home.” My reasons for my low number would be: 1) I have a creativity deficit and 2) I have a delete key on my keyboard.

Some of Szymborska’s poems found their way into musical lyrics and others found their way into movies. At least two of her poems, Love at First Sight and People on the Bridge, either inspired film (the former) or were made into a film (the latter).

Aside from the Nobel Prize in Literature, Szymborska was the recipient of The City of Kraków Prize for Literature, the Goethe Prize, the Polish Ministry of Culture Prize, and the Polish PEN Club prize, among many others.

I wonder whether my unfamiliarity with Szymborska is atypical or whether the U.S. education system simply doesn’t acknowledge the importance of foreign literary writers and their work. And I wonder whether Szymborska’s name is more widely known in Europe and elsewhere around the world. I realize, of course, it’s entirely possible that I have simply led a sheltered life, protected from education that would have made me a well-rounded citizen of the world. But I sort of doubt that; I think Szymborska’s name might not be well-known in the U.S., outside of erudite literary circles. Maybe not even in those circles; I wouldn’t know.

I said in the first paragraph that I will find and read more of Szymborska’s work. That’s probably not true. My interests tend to be short-lived and shallow. I’ll flit on to something else very soon and will forget Szymborska and her poetry. Maybe the something else will be welding or making wind chimes or painting or going to see plays. It’s anyone’s guess. Sorry, Ms. Szymborska. I do admire you and your work, but probably not enough to do more than I’ve done.

Posted in Poetry | Leave a comment

Structured Thinking with a Bit of Flex

Posted on February 6, 2020 by John Swinburn

A tiny bit more structured introspective assessment, please. Nothing imbued with gravitas, though; let’s keep it light and airy, to the extent introspection makes that possible. Keep it flexible so it can bend the way my mind bends. Mind-bending. Does that suggest the use of drugs? It was not meant to; I’m on drugs, but none that have any enjoyable side-effects to accompany their danger. Already off track.

I wonder whether other people experience intellectual and/or emotional periods in their lives that surprise them? By that, I mean I am curious as to whether others find themselves suddenly thinking, “I thought this issue [whatever it is] was put to bed years or decades ago.”

The issue on my mind this morning is narrative/free form poetry versus rhyming poetry. Until only a few months ago (with occasional interruptions), I thought I had long-since decided I did not enjoy writing and only rarely enjoyed reading rhyming poems. But, then, out of the cerulean sky (I can’t help myself), I found myself rather enamored of writing poems with various rhyme schemes.  As I tried my hand at rhyming poems again after approximately forty years (again, with the occasional dip back in the pool of rhymes), I discovered some of them are rather difficult. And I learned, or re-learned, that poetry can be considerably more complex than I once thought. Though I do not pretend to remember (if I ever knew) all the myriad poetic structures and schemes, I think I remember enough to be dangerous. I remember terms like iambic pentameter, couplets (of various types), stanzas, rhyme patters, and so forth. But beyond that, my mind remains just as cloudy as it ever was.

While I was in school, I was frankly bored with the seemingly endless complexity of poetry. I had no interest in rhyme patterns, pentameters, couplets, and haiku. It was a bit like the visual arts for me; I knew what I liked, though I knew not why. And I didn’t have an interest in finding out why. Did others feel the same way? I can say with certainty many in my schools did. I am surprised I did, though, given the fact that my mother was an English teacher and was enamored of such stuff; she even enjoyed diagramming sentences, which I believed should be made illegal, inasmuch as it amounted to torture. As an aside, though, apparently I learned from her by osmosis; I never even learned all the terminology of grammar, but I know how to frame grammatically correct sentences.

With all that as an unnecessary backdrop, I wrote a rhyming poem during the last couple of days. If my understanding of poetry’s terminology is correct, it is written as a series of heroic couplets that incorporate the same meter (with a number of exceptions that I may one day “fix” so the poem fits the “rules” of poetry; a term I find offensive when applied to poetry for some reason).

I tired of writing it as I neared what is, for now, the end. If I weren’t so damn lazy, I would have continued working on it, rather than simply tacking on an ending. But I’m lazy. So the poem is missing some stanzas; probably a good four our five maybe more. With the addition of those stanzas, it might tell a more complete story. But the fact is, those stanzas remain somewhere in my head and they may never find their way out. I think, even in their absence, this poem is adequate. It could be better. Oh, well. So could I.

Kingdom of the Time of the Dead

When bodies were buried and headstones were carved,
we worshiped at altars and prayed to the stars.
We thought death was transition to more than mere dust.
Our lives seemed to matter, the world seemed more just.

Once we depended on old time religion
when poetry was pure and somewhat Coleridgean.
That time when churches soothed our hard souls,
lives dedicated to loftier goals.

We’ve since abandoned that old superstition.
We’re lost, we’re lost, where’s our sense of contrition?
We’ve grown weary of caring, we tire of sympathy,
gone are our values, we’ve lost the meaning of empathy.

Oh let us recover our sacredness, please,
that piece of existence we once chose to seize.
Oh please let us remember our duty to Love,
to cherish and honor the matters thereof.

I once walked through graveyards and thought of the dead,
of the lives they once lived and the words they once said.
The wind often whispered of those who had died
and it spoke of their stories and the tears they had cried.

But now the flowers are wilting and the headstones are broken
as if memories have faded, their  names no longer spoken.
Those lives that once mattered are just history lost
and the cold winter winds coat the graveside with frost.

The dead don’t remember, nor do the living.
We can’t seem to recall, yet the dead are forgiving.
Now we just leave them to rot in the grave,
with no compensation for the lives that they gave.

We no longer bury them, there’s no ritual now.
It’s easier, faster to just mumble a vow,
as we scorch them, torch them, and set them ablaze,
but we can’t watch them burn, averting our gaze.

Oh this loss of solemnity is truly not real,
this scarce wave of contrition, just sorrow we feel
for the way we squandered the lives we have led
as we enter the kingdom of the time of the dead.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

The Question is a Serpent

Posted on February 5, 2020 by John Swinburn

Dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life

I ask myself the question over and over and over and over, hoping to one day find an answer: “Who am I, under the veneer?” It hasn’t even been a month since I pondered the question, in writing here on my blog, once again.

Yet here I am, clanging my metal cup against the bars to get the attention of the guards in the hope they will release me from my cell. I should know better. I was given a life sentence. The answer to my question, if one exists, is not out there, beyond the prison walls. It is buried beneath the veneer. To find the answer, I need only to strip away the veneer, layer by layer.

Based on comments I’ve received about my question, I gather it is difficult for others to understand. But it may be me; my explanation may be inadequate or confusing. I’ll admit, the concept is a bit abstract. “If I could rid my personality of all the consequences of socialization, training, environmental influences, etc., etc., etc., what would the remaining “pure” personality be like?” A raft of other questions flow from that one: what would I believe? How would I treat other people? How would I treat myself? Would I be compassionate? Would I have empathy? I could go on and on and on.

Some people may understand my question, but some of them may think it’s a stupid one. Or they think it’s pointless to even think about it because they think it’s impossible to answer. But I don’t think it is impossible. It’s just extremely unlikely that I’ll ever find an answer. Even mining the depths of my brain by writing and thinking and probing and writing some more, I doubt I’ll ever get beyond a layer or two of those hard veneers wrapped around the real me that’s buried deep inside. Yet I keep trying. Either I’m persistent or I’m of unsound mind.

I remember attempting to engage someone in conversation about the question; someone I thought would at least have some inkling of what I’m looking to find. The response, though, suggested otherwise. It was, essentially, “Why bother? You are who you are. It’s a waste of energy.”  And maybe it is a waste of energy. But, for me, it’s a compelling waste of energy. I’d like to know, before I die, who I would have been had I not permitted myself to be molded and shaped by other people and by experiences that I allowed to sculpt me into someone other than who I was. I recognize that it’s an odd, abstruse query. It may be one unique to people who are pathologically introspective.

A writer friend with whom I have occasional conversations suggests the question is a manifestation of my belief that I am fundamentally not a good person; but that if I can dig deep enough I might find a kernel of decency. I hope she’s wrong. She’s not a psychologist, so her opinion is not that of an expert. But she makes a reasoned argument.

One of the triggers for my question, I think, goes back to my first job in association management. I went into the job as an extreme introvert but, because of the job requirements, when I finally left it six years later I was able to present myself as an extrovert. Thought I remained, and remain still, an introvert, I changed my behavior. And that change of behavior resulted not only in external changes but internal changes as well. I’m an introvert whose personality was altered in some way by the experience.

I’m sure similar changes have taken place in my head over the years, but I probably do not even recognize most of them.  I am certain similar adjustments to who I was/am took place before my first association job. As far back as early, early childhood. And the changes just kept on coming. My question, then, asks who I was before all those changes took place. Would I even recognize the person I was before I was altered by experience?

Perhaps I am destined to always pursue resolution to a problem for which there is no answer. And in that case, the suggestion that “you are who you are” and that it’s a waste of energy may be the best one. No matter, though. I’ll keep at it. If nothing else, it gives me something to think about and write about.

Posted in Philosophy, Ruminations | Leave a comment

The Capacity for Understanding

Posted on February 4, 2020 by John Swinburn

As I was reading some of my old blog posts, looking for a reason to cling to hope for humanity, I came upon the following words which were included in a longer sentence:

…we must be capable of acknowledging and recognizing the incalculably vast differences between butterflies and locomotives.

One would never know it by reading those words alone, but the subject of the post was the complexity of saws—the devices we use, for example, to cut wood. I wrote about the unique and necessary lexicon, which I discovered by chance while wandering the internet, surrounding saws.

It occurred to me, as I read that sentence from my old post, humans are far more complex, even, than I have acknowledged. Even the dull, dim-witted, downright stupid among us are capable of distinguishing millions—maybe even billions—of unique characteristics and attributes of pieces of the universe around us. We can be trained, or train ourselves, to understand many of the minute differences between elements of the physical world. Surely, then, we can be trained or can train ourselves to understand the similarities and the differences between elements in the intellectual landscape. That is to say there’s hope for even the dull, dimwitted, and downright stupid to grasp, on at least a basic level, the full spectrum of ideas related to any given subject.

All right, maybe my optimism is misplaced. Maybe even a basic understanding of the full spectrum of ideas is beyond many of us. But the fact that almost all of us can readily acknowledge and recognize how butterflies and locomotives differ from one another is worth celebrating. That capacity is a reasonable baseline to describe intellectual facility. Or, at least, it is an attribute worthy of note.

Even after last night’s debacle in Iowa (which has yet to be resolved), I can feel a few shreds of optimism about my fellow human beings. But to be honest, those shreds start to degrade into brittle fibers as I contemplate what Trumpian thugs are sure to make of the situation. Ah, but I must return to the wondrous reality that even Trumpian thugs can see and appreciate and understand the differences between butterflies and locomotives. Though the Trumpian thugs are doing all they can to eradicate the butterflies and replace them with coal-powered locomotives, spewing soot and ash and planet-killing carbon dioxide.

The fragility of my hopefulness is clear to me. I vacillate between low-level joy and overwhelming despair.

I don’t have time for this. I took a break from writing to check on my wife. She was sick all day yesterday with an awful cough and she’s in bed now with an ice-pack on her head. I must devote my attention to her well-being, considerations of the viability of humankind be damned.  I’d better go check on the status of the ice-pack.

Posted in Ideas, Intellect | Leave a comment

Cloaking Fashion in a Different Framework

Posted on February 3, 2020 by John Swinburn

I wonder why men’s capes and cloaks fell out of fashion? That question has plagued me (a slightly dramatic overstatement, perhaps) for some time. Aside from the drama of the question, though, it’s a reasonable question. Alas, I have no answer. Regardless, I am sorry capes and cloaks fell by the wayside. I like the way they look. I think I might rather enjoy wearing a cloak, especially, simply because to my eyes cloaks lend an air of casual sophistication to a gentleman’s dress.

Until this morning, though, I did not know the difference between capes and cloaks. Frankly, I’d never considered that they might be different types of clothing. Hmm. Are capes items of clothing? Same question for cloaks. Or are they fashion accessories? I would argue they are both, but would lean heavily toward the utilitarian; they serve a function beyond serving as eye candy. So, they are items of clothing that supplement and accent clothes over which they are worn. So says John. Who’s to argue? It’s 4:40 in the morning and no one in their right mind would be up and thinking about such things at this hour.

Speaking of the difference between the two items. According to Ravenfoxcapes.com, capes tend to be shorter, falling to the hips or thighs. They tend not to have hoods and they don’t necessarily close in the front. Cloaks, on the other hand, “fall to below to the knees and are often floor length. They typically have enough fabric to be closed for warmth and will protect from the elements.” The same website suggests that capes often serve more of an accessory than an item of clothing. All right. I’ll buy that. So, what I’m after, then, is a cloak. Cloaks would look better than capes on old fat men, too. More fabric to cover and disguise the unpleasant evidence of gluttony and sloth. So, the matter is sealed; I’m not going to be wearing a cape until I shed seventy pounds and at least half as many years. But I might surprise the world one day by showing up in a cloak. I doubt I’ll be buying from Ravenfoxcapes, though; their offerings seem geared exclusively to women; at least that’s the impression I get from the photos of models on the site, all of whom are female.

A bit more exploration revealed a variety of sources of cloaks for men. Most, though, seem geared toward costume-wear intended for people desiring the goth-look. I’m not after costumes; I’m after clothes! And I don’t want to break the bank. An admittedly cursory review of products that look like they are nicely tailored and made from quality materials revealed price points that are beyond my reach. Or, beyond my willingness to part with my money. The range seems to be between $325 and $1500. Damn!

Okay, what if I were willing to spend that kind of money? What more would I have to spend for an entire “outfit” that would look like it was properly assembled? You know, kind of like assembling slacks and a jacket and a nice pair of shoes and, of course, a shirt that complements the rest of the ensemble. I don’t know. It has been so very, very long since I bought a suit and all the requisite accouterments to go with it that I have no idea what it might cost. Frankly, I don’t know (and haven’t bothered to research) what one wears under a cloak. If, indeed, there exists some fashion dos and don’ts for cloak undergarments. Jeans and running shoes seem not to fit, but I could be wrong. If I were to get serious about this, I would do my homework. But, wait, I am serious about this. I like the idea of cloaks. But would I really wear one? Perhaps. I’d hate to find out that I wouldn’t, though, after spending a thousand dollars on one. I’d have to spend money on tailoring, too; despite what Ravenfoxcapes says about them, I’d have to have my cloak shortened so it falls to just above my knees. I think. I’m pretty sure I don’t want a floor length cloak.

Buying a cloak would be a risky endeavor. I’m not a fashion early-adopter or fashion leader. It’s annoying to me that I am a fashion follower; unwilling to risk ridicule and mockery by bucking fashion trends. It’s pathetic, it is. That fear of bullying suggests I’m equally unlikely to engage in other endeavors that stray from the mainstream. Ach! Would that others’ opinions of me did not matter. I pretend those opinions mean nothing to me; it’s an act, executed poorly.

My original question remains unanswered. Why did capes and cloaks fall out of fashion? I really don’t understand why people wouldn’t find them attractive. Maybe I should ask someone. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a conversation with anyone about my heretofore secret attraction to cloaks (now that I know the difference between them, I guess I’ve never really had much of an interest in capes).

I’ve written (several times, I’m sure) about my interest in designing my own clothes to suit my particular tastes and to fit my desires for practicality in clothing. I’ve promoted the idea of multiple pockets in sleeves designed for notepads, phones, pens, and other such paraphernalia. I have argued for the same add-ons for both shorts (which should have much shorter inseams, by the way, than those on the market today) and long pants. I am sure I would want to customize my cloak with the same sorts of practical pockets. But I’d probably have those pockets on the inside of the cloak, versus the outside like I promote for shirts and pants.

***

I went to bed very early again, hoping to get plenty of sleep and to make up for its lack during the last several nights. My SleepNumber app says I went to be at 9:14 and arose for the day at 3:48, for 6 hours and 32 minutes; 5 hours and 56 minutes of restful sleep, 26 minutes restless, and 2 minutes out of bed to pee. Apparently, insufficient sleep leads to strange fascination with Medieval outerwear. I’ve not gotten enough sleep in days and days and days; but maybe “enough” is a relative term. Two more hours until I have to be in the dental hygienist’s chair. I need to drink coffee, then shave and shower, before that takes place. The day begins again.

 

Posted in Clothes, Fashion | 1 Comment

In Lieu of More Poetry

Posted on February 2, 2020 by John Swinburn

My SleepNumber app tells me I was in bed for four hours and thirty-nine minutes last night; four hours and eight minutes of which were identified as “restful sleep.” The 4:08 figure compares unfavorably with my restful sleep average of 5:39. That figure compares unfavorably with my target of 7:30, which I almost never achieve. I suppose I don’t need as much sleep as I target, but I think I probably need more than 4:39 or 4:08 or even 5:39. Yet in recent memory I haven’t collapsed for lack of sleep. So there you go.

***

My cheesy little poem, first post of the day, was a disappointment to me. I posted it anyway. But I wrote another one that I haven’t posted yet because I want to polish it. I wrote the second one with the intent that it constitute lyrics to a song. But I don’t have a tune in mind, inasmuch as I am incapable of writing music. But lyrics, I think I can do reasonably well. I just don’t often share them. Because, well, they don’t sound as good just reading them off the page or screen as they sound (in my head) when sung to a well-written piece of music.

***

This morning, I will facilitate a post-service conversation at church. I’m trying something a little different. Rather than asking participants to watch and them comment on a themed TED-Talk (or other such video speech), I’m going to show a 10-minute documentary video about the posthumous Leonard Cohen album, Thanks for the Dance.  I have no idea how it will go over. But we shall see. I found the video extremely moving and thought-provoking. If it sparks conversation, good. If not, I will chalk it up to another piece of evidence that I am not really as in-sync with the people at church as I once thought.

***

My wife awoke yesterday with a pretty bad cold. I went out and bought Robitussin for her. She stayed in all day and slept for a good part of the day, I think. I went out to lunch with a friend who, after we had lunch, bought flowers for my wife. I love nice people, don’t you?  I Even though I awoke very early this morning (4:35), my wife was already up. Well, she had gotten up a bit earlier because she was coughing. When I got up, she was in her study, trying to sleep in her recliner. She went back to bed almost immediately. Ach. I hope she’s better soon.

***

It’s now 37 degrees. The forecast calls for that number to almost double to 72 by mid-afternoon. How does one dress for such wild temperature swings? Perhaps I should wear a thong under a parka. If I had a parka. And if I had a thong.

Posted in More Thought Bubbles | Leave a comment

The Cost

Posted on February 2, 2020 by John Swinburn

Words left unspoken
Thoughts never shared
Love never given
Hearts never bared
Hurt not softly soothed
Life like a cell
Hate freely given
Tears never fell
Eyes lacking for sight
Regret not felt
Emptiness so cold
Knees never knelt
Heartaches delivered
Memories lost
Dreams left in ashes
Lives are the cost

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The Mouthfeel of Meat

Posted on February 1, 2020 by John Swinburn

The problem is not the flavor. The problem is the texture. I am confident I can achieve the flavor with relative ease. What I cannot imagine being able to do is replicate the texture to a sufficient degree to enable me to turn my vision into reality. I’m thinking, of course, of vindaloo tamales. I’m satisfied I can achieve the right texture if I use lamb or beef or chicken, but a vegetarian version of vindaloo tamales seems out of reach. Not that I’ve tried. I haven’t made vindaloo tamales of any sort. But I think I could if I tried. As long as I use meat. But the thing is, if I want to make a vegetarian version, I need a vegetable base that retains its “tooth.” I’m not sure that’s the word I want, but it will have to do in the absence of anything better. What I’m trying to describe is the resistance to one’s bite; the “mouthfeel of meat,” if you get what I mean. But with vegetables.

I may forego the vegetarian version. Lamb vindaloo tamales sound perfectly fine. Even more than perfectly fine. Beef, not so much. Chicken, even less. But lamb. Oh. Yes. Indeed. So, what I’m aiming for, then, is lamb vindaloo tamales and, if the universe were a cooperative, helpful place, vegetarian vindaloo tamales with the “mouthfeel of meat.” So, when will this undertaking occur? That’s hard to say. I need a cooperative wife or other cooperative partner; a nice girlfriend would do, I suppose, but that might create some friction with a certain wife. Regardless of the identity of the cooperative partner, I also need some lamb. And, if vegetables are to figure into this equation, one or more cooperative vegetables that will deliver the (always use quotation marks) “mouthfeel of eat.”

Here is a recipe I might try (I haven’t yet):

Lamb Vindaloo Tamales

Ingredients
• 3 lb boneless lamb shoulder, cut into roughly 2-in chunks (veggie alternatives???)
• 4 oz red wine vinegar
• 2 tbsp sunflower oil
• 2 tsp sea salt flakes
• 1lb potatoes, peeled and cut into roughly 1-inch pieces

For the sauce
• 4 oz sunflower oil
• 4 onions, 3 finely sliced and 1 chopped
• 6 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
• 3 jalapeño or hot Asian red chile (do not deseed), roughly chopped
• 1oz fresh root ginger, peeled, roughly chopped
• 1 tbsp English mustard powder
• 1 tbsp ground cumin
• 1 tbsp ground coriander
• 1 tbsp ground paprika
• 2 tsp ground turmeric
• 2 tsp cayenne pepper
• 1 tsp ground cinnamon
• 2 tsp sea salt flakes
• 2 bay leaves

Preparation method

  1. Trim the lamb, discarding any really hard lumps of fat and sinew. Mix the vinegar, vegetable oil and salt in bowl until well combined. Add the lamb and turn to coat in the marinade. Cover and chill in the fridge for two hours.
  2. Preheat the oven to 350.
  3. For the sauce, heat three tablespoons of the sunflower oil in a large heavy-based frying pan and cook the sliced onions very gently over a medium-low heat for 15 minutes until softened and lightly browned, stirring occasionally.
  4. While the sliced onions are cooking, put the remaining chopped onion, garlic, chiles, ginger, mustard powder, cumin, coriander, paprika, tumeric, cayenne pepper and cinnamon in a food processor and blend to a purée.
  5. Stir the purée into the fried onions. Add two tablespoons of oil and cook together for five minutes, or until thickened and beginning to color. Remove the mixture from the pan and place into a casserole dish.
  6. Drain the lamb in a colander and reserve the marinade. Return the frying pan to the heat and add two tablespoons of the remaining oil. Fry the lamb in four or five batches over a medium-high heat, turning occasionally until lightly browned. Add a little extra oil if necessary. Add the lamb to the casserole.
  7. Pour the reserved marinade and 2- 1/4 cup water into the casserole dish. Add the salt and bay leaves and bring to a simmer. Cover the surface of the curry with a piece of greaseproof paper (parchment), then cover with a lid. Cook in the oven for 45 minutes.
  8. Remove the casserole from the oven and stir the potato chunks into the curry, re-cover with the greaseproof paper and the lid and continue to cook for a further hour or until the lamb and potatoes are very tender. The consistency of the vindaloo matters with tamales; cook until much of the liquid has dissipated and the meat and potato mix is quite thick. Season, to taste, with salt.
  9. Prepare masa using the traditional means.
  10. FILL, FOLD AND STEAM THE TAMALES Select 30 of the largest husks without tears or large holes. Arrange 1 husk on a work surface with the narrow end pointing away from you. On the wide end, spread 3 tablespoons of the Tamale Dough in a 5-by-3-inch rectangle, leaving a 1/2-inch border of husk at the bottom. Spoon 2 tablespoons of the cooled vindaloo filling in the center of the Tamale Dough. Fold in the long sides of the husk, overlapping them to enclose the filling. Fold the narrow end toward you, over the tamale; it will be open at the wide end. Stand the tamale, open end up, in a very large steamer insert. Repeat with the remaining corn husks, Tamale Dough and filling.
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Shrapnel

Posted on February 1, 2020 by John Swinburn

The confetti from the explosion filled his chest. There was still room for his lungs and his heart and his liver and so forth, but the formerly roomy spaces were clogged with shrapnel. The wounds in his flesh healed over the pieces of twisted steel and bent aluminum and chipped pieces of ceramic. Scar tissue grew to surround the sharp edges of jagged nails and deformed ball-bearings, saving him from opening old wounds or creating new ones when he walked. All in all, he was lucky to be alive and able to get around on his own. But it wasn’t easy. He was in constant pain, though he had gotten used to it during the sixteen months since the bombing. But his anger had not subsided. Not even a little. He wanted nothing more than to find the bastard who detonated that bomb and rip the man’s face from his demented head. Assuming it was a man. And he did. He didn’t think a woman could have done such a monstrous thing. Sixty-one children died in the blast. In his mind, no woman could have killed so many children. It was unthinkable.

Pelvin Cartermore had been a Marine in his younger years. After his six years of service, he finished his bachelor’s degree and found work as a technical writer for an automobile glass manufacturing company outside Detroit. He worked for Pane Autoglass for nineteen years. Then, at age forty-nine, he was let go as part of a downsizing. Shortly thereafter, Pane Autoglass declared bankruptcy. Pelvin’s pension, which would have kept him comfortable in retirement, turned to vapor. His age and the economy conspired to keep him unemployed while his life’s savings dwindled to nothing. His house was repossessed by the mortgage company and, six months later, he was evicted for nonpayment of rent from the apartment he leased after losing the house. Fortunately for him, his 2002 Honda Civic was paid for, so he had a place to sleep at night.

And then came the bombing. The attack, obviously, was aimed at the family planning clinic on the building’s third floor. The daycare centers’ charges on the first floor—children cared for by five co-ops operated by young mothers who just wanted a safe place for their toddlers to learn and grow—were simply collateral damage. So was Pelvin Cartermore. And so were sixteen other people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time that rainy, cold January day in Fayetteville, Arkansas.

The utter chaos of that awful morning was never far from Pelvin’s mind. Cold, grey, rain swept skies often triggered his memories of the event. It was as if a switch was tripped when he drew the blinds on a dull winter day. Instantly, he relived the experience.

“Dr. Davis,” Pelvin said, “will this prevent her from having children?” He was referring to Melanie’s, his friend’s, diagnosis of endometriosis.

“That depends on a number of factors, but in Melanie’s case, it’s not likely, especially if she gets pregnant in the relative near-term. But, Melanie,” Dr. Davis said as she turned toward Melanie Grant, addressing her patient directly, “you’ll have to make some decis…..”

That’s when Pelvin’s world exploded into a monstrous whirlwind of chaos, destruction, pain, blood, dust, shattered glass, and death.  Melanie Grant and Dr. Lisa Davis died instantly. Pelvin Cartermore’s chest absorbed pieces of shrapnel. Surgeons later said they could not be removed without risking his life. Somehow, Pelvin remained conscious during the explosion and its aftermath. He remembered being dug out of the rubble a hour after the blast. He recalled being carried on a makeshift stretcher over blood-soaked pieces of broken sheetrock and bent metal wall studs. He could picture every detail in his mind, even though the event had taken place sixteen months earlier. Now, though, he was well enough to do more than reminisce about the most horrible day of his life. Now, he was prepared to do what the FBI and police and state agencies had been unable to do; he was ready to identify and find the bastard who had killed those children and his friend and her doctor and all the rest. He wanted justice for those people. And he would stop at nothing to get it.

***

Melanie Grant was Pelvin’s friend, but not his girlfriend. She was a young woman Pelvin met one day when he went running on Mt. Sequoyah Woods Trail. Mt. Sequoyah was a hiking trail, but Pelvin went there to run. Most mornings, after he awoke, he drove his old Civic to a trail head early in the morning and went for a run. Running was painful for Pelvin, but somehow cathartic, as well. Early one morning, he came upon Melanie Grant, sitting on a bench near the trail head. She rested her chin on her clasped hands. Even from a distance, he could see that her eyes were red and puffy.

“Good morning. You’re out early,” Pelvin called to her from a distance as he approached. He did not want to startle her by getting too close before he made his presence known.

Melanie’s reaction seemed odd to Pelvin. She didn’t jerk her head in his direction, the way one would expect of someone surprised by the presence of a stranger. She slowly turned her head in his direction and, just as slowly, raised her head so she could look in his direction.

“Yeah. It’s pretty early.”

“Are you all right?” Pelvin felt odd asking the question of someone whose face he had seen only for a few seconds, but he sensed that she wasn’t all right and might need some help.

“Fine. Just meditating.”

“Oh, okay. Do you mind if I stop here for a minute?”

“Nothing to stop you.”

—————

[This seems to be going nowhere. Stilted conversation; not even remotely real. I’m not sure it ever had a place to go. Just another vignette out of the ether. But maybe I can use it some day.]

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Luck is a Happy Delusion

Posted on January 30, 2020 by John Swinburn

Many of the most impactful events of our lives are governed by happenstance. They are just accidents of time and circumstance that intersect at malleable moments. People with whom we become lifelong friends or lifelong enemies; our spouses; careers we follow; jobs offered to us; layoffs that turn our lives upside down—they are simply accidents that subsequently govern our lives. If the time or location or people involved had been just slightly different, almost every aspect of our lives might have contrasted radically with “the way it turned out.”

Some people attribute their lives to divine guidance. Others claim desire and unyielding willpower are responsible for their “fate.” Still others suggest bumbling accidents bore fruit, which became the course of our lives. I am with the latter group. Except for bumbling and stumbling in whatever direction we took, we might have bumbled and stumbled in an entirely different direction.

Had I not decided to join my work colleagues after work for drinks at The Jolly Fox in Huntsville, Texas in 1976 (or was it 1977?), I might not have married the woman who is now my wife. (No, I didn’t meet her there; but that’s where I “discovered” her—it’s a long story.) And if I hadn’t grown close to her after that encounter, I might have accepted one of the job offers I received from the U.S. Department of Agriculture or an Education Service Center; neither of those options would have led to the career I ultimately followed. And had I not followed that career, I might not have visited many foreign countries or explored so many U.S. states. And I would not have met and become close to people who have mattered to me. The “what ifs” are stunning in number and scope. If I hadn’t gone to The Jolly Fox that afternoon, for example, I might have retired at age fifty-five from a career in civil service. I might have drifted into conservatism and become deeply disaffected with college-educated liberal weirdos. The world might have been a different place. But it became what it is.

In my case, most of the coincidences in my life led to good fortune and were the stuff of happy accidents. I have been lucky in the extreme. Not “I-won-the-lottery” lucky, but generally “my-quality-of-life-has-been-far-better-than-adequate” lucky. There is no point in pondering “what if” because what if never happened and never will; history is history is history. But I think the realization that much of our good (or bad) fortune arises out of sheer happenstance, coincidence, timing, etc. is worth contemplation. If nothing else, the pure good fortune that befalls us ought to alert us to the reality that pure bad fortune befalls others and could, at any moment, befall us.

People don’t intentionally make bad choices that lead them in unhappy directions. They aren’t poor, uneducated, malnourished, misguided, or under-employed simply as a result of bad genes; being in the wrong place at the wrong time or, just as likely, not being in the right place at the right time, is where the blame must fall. Sheer bad luck. Or sheer good luck.

Luck is an illusion, by the way. Luck suggests an unknown external “force” exerts some form of mystical control over us; either bad or good. Yet our fortunes, good or bad, can’t be attributed entirely (or, in most cases, largely) to our own actions, decisions, efforts, etc. It’s just happenstance. A chance occurrence. A statistical anomaly. A blip on the screen that displays our lives.

For all these reasons, we ought not be so quick to give ourselves credit for our good fortune nor blame for our bad luck. But we should, I think, take it upon ourselves to respond to circumstances with grateful appreciation when our fortunes are good and, when situations are not our friends, with unrelenting resolve and determination to change when we can. This is, of course, easier said than done. Conditions can beat us down quickly and without giving us the opportunity to respond with righteous indignation. That’s when those of us whose fortunes are better should step forward to lend a helping hand. We should always remember we may one day need that same compassionate support.

There’s a difference between feeling an obligation to offer support or compassion and a deep-seated desire to extend those emotional anchors.

I wish I knew how to trigger the desire in every case, rather than force myself to bend to obligation in some cases. But the fact is I sometimes find it hard to force myself to extend an offer of a helping hand, even to people who deserve it. The effort seems to be something of a burden to me. I try to do it, anyway, but I’m very conscious of the fact that recognizing it as a burden puts me in a very bad light; good people don’t have to be made to feel guilty to do good.

Why all this is on my mind this morning is beyond me. It’s just another episode in my ongoing struggle to drag happy thoughts out of ugliness and failing. What the hell? I have ample reason to be ecstatic, yet I cringe at the thought of all my failings. I’m not really such a bad guy. Why do I treat myself as if I were? It’s a mystery, as they say. A deep, dark, dangerous, demonic mystery. The problem, I think, is the absence of sainthood. Where the hell is my halo? And why is it so damned tarnished, as if it were made not of gold but of cheap brass in an atmosphere laden with salt air and acidic vapor?

I’m so lucky to be able to write and dismiss what I’ve written as vile fluff, deserving of a book burning. Except there’s no book. And the furnace is a faux fireplace lit with artificial candles. Ha! I’m at it again. See? Thinking can be fun.

 

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Along the Bloody Spectrum

Posted on January 29, 2020 by John Swinburn

I am an old infidel. A practicing heathen. A believer in knowledge and a follower of facts. Those truths notwithstanding, I am no longer the active antagonist toward religion I once was.

There was a time I would have called myself an evangelical free thinker or an ardent atheist. But no more. Frankly, I don’t understand why someone else’s reliance on myth to guide their lives should ever have bothered me, except to the extent that they attempted to impose their myths or their prescriptions and prohibitions on me. I’ve reached the point of thinking, with respect to religious belief or lack thereof, people should simply live and let live. If I want to accept the divinity of jalapeño bean dip in my life, I should be left in peace to enjoy my reverie. And I should be gracious enough to do the same for others. The fact is that neither of our views are subject to valid tests; our attitudes about divinity or lack thereof cannot be proven right or wrong, no matter how much we might insist otherwise. Ultimately, it’s simply a matter of best-fit for one’s intellectual and emotional superstructure, coupled with the success or failure of society’s efforts toward indoctrination. We’re products of our interactions with the environment in which we matured.

Now, with that having been said, my philosophy lives in a world that is not necessarily accommodating to its laissez-faire attitude. That is, the pressures of reality infringe on my fantasy of gentle, forgiving tolerance. Because the world does not work the way I might want it to.

People who want or need to live disciplined, highly-structured lives must necessarily accept that the more discipline they require (or acquire), the less freedom will be available to them. And to others, by the way; because others’ freedoms can infringe on my need for order and predictability.

The contrary is true, as well; people who desire high levels of autonomy and self-determination sacrifice the reliability and certainty that structure and discipline might bring to their lives. Their disdain for regimentation has the effect of distancing the protective architecture of structure from those who demand it, creating tension. Both groups of people have to accept the trade-offs that constitute the price of their preferences. They have to, but often they don’t.

And let’s keep wandering down this path of contemplation. An open mind, the sort of field of dreams sought by those who eschew rigidity and structure. sacrifices certainty. Conversely, an insistence on certainty tends to close the door on an open mind.

I think the inevitable conflict is obvious. I wish I knew the solution; a way of tempering the fury of people at the far ends of the spectrum of religious thought. If our teachings would demand tolerance and even acceptance of disparate religious philosophies and beliefs, that education would lead us a long way down the road toward peaceful coexistence. But for some reason, the cult leaders at the far reaches of that spectrum seem to be invested in the idea that humankind’s survival depends entirely on their worldview winning the day.  A strong dose of wisdom might be the cure. But where does one get the prescription? It doesn’t necessarily come with age or experience.

Emotion has ruled me for my entire life, despite my insistence that I rely on knowledge and facts. Emotion flows through my veins in much greater measure than does stoicism. And that, I think, is the problem with humanity. I’m like other people, just more so. We’re all emotional creatures who allow emotions to rule when we would better serve ourselves and our species by repressing emotions. We’d be more successful at achieving peace if we were all stoics. Rather than react with alarm when either our freedoms or our regimentation is threatened, we would be more apt to find joy if we simply adjusted ourselves and our environments to return to a state of happy comfort.

Unfortunately for us all, the spectrum of belief, religious and otherwise, is stained with the blood of people who didn’t need to fight, but thought they did. Many wars have been fought by people who were convinced their way of life was threatened because someone else’s beliefs were different. If it weren’t so tragic, it might be funny.

“They do not eat pork. They must be killed to protect our freedom to eat as we please.”

Seriously, I can imagine a battle between cattle ranchers and vegetarians, each insisting that the “other side” is a danger to humanity. It’s not religion, in that case…well, yes it is. It’s at the very least a stand-in for religion.

All right. I’ve allowed my brain to wander into places it doesn’t belong this morning. I’ve exercised my fingers. Perhaps I should have exorcised them, instead.  If I were smart, I would open a book or write a love letter to the universe after I finish this post. Instead, I think I’ll read the news and make breakfast. Or vice versa. Maybe I’ll forego the news. That’s a better idea. Mushroom congee sounds appetizing. So, off I go.

 

 

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A Course in Catching Fish

Posted on January 28, 2020 by John Swinburn

My blog has long since become too voluminous for me to be able to determine whether I have already written about any given topic. In all probability, whatever the topic, I have. But my memory of having written about a subject may be a false memory; I may remember only having thought about the matter. With that as a means of introduction, let me record my thoughts on this quote, one of dozens of versions that articulate its sentiments:

Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.

I’m relatively certain I’ve written about this before. Probably quite recently. No matter. I’ll dwell on it again. I’ve found no consensus as to the origin of the quote, nor the concept behind it. The first references to some form of the sentiment seem to be from the latter part of the 1800s, in a novel by Anne Isabella Thackeray Ritchie. But there are plenty of other references to an “ancient Chinese proverb,” “native American sayings,” and other sources. Suffice it to say the idea has legs from a long, long way back.

The reason the quote is on my mind of late is this: I am writing an article on behalf of my church, with the intent that it be submitted for consideration of publication in the parent organization’s quarterly magazine. The article will deal with a computer refurbishing program. Old computers are solicited from various sources and are then rehabilitated by volunteers; new parts, new software (thanks to a licensing agreement with Microsoft), and such are installed and tested. Then, the computers are given to needy children, families, and (lately) seniors. The original idea was to give the computers to kids whose families could not afford them; the kids need computers to keep up with schoolwork and to keep abreast of technology in the twenty-first century. But the program was never intended to be simply a “give away” program. The idea was to enable children to become sufficiently computer-savvy so they could advance their own education and knowledge. By giving the kids the computers, the idea is that the children are being taught to fish.

At least that’s the theme I’m planning to use as the basis of my article. I’m meeting the program’s founding father for dinner this evening and will review with him my thoughts on how I plan to proceed. He’s the one who asked me to write the article, so he’s the one best equipped to tell me whether my approach runs parallel to his thinking. I hope we’re on the same track; I will find out this evening. This man and I have rather different ideas about people and politics. He is quite conservative in many respects, compared to my extremely liberal philosophies. Though I hold him in high regard, I disagree with him on many issues on many levels. Even on matters of humor, he and I differ rather radically. As an example of our differences, he recently sent a “joke” (he distributes jokes and memes on a regular basis) that he obviously thought was funny; it was (in my opinion) a crude and offensive attempt to mock people who are offended by this man’s idea of “political correctness.”

The set-up was this: a series of telegrams between President Truman and Generals Nimitz and MacArthur were exchanged in which MacArthur referred to the Japanese who were preparing to surrender as “yellow-bellied bastards.” Truman cautioned MacArthur to be careful not to be so politically incorrect. MacArthur asked what political correctness means, to which Truman responded:

“Political Correctness is a doctrine, recently fostered by a delusional, illogical minority and promoted by a sick mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a piece of shit by the clean end!”

I replied to this man’s joke as follows:

“Perhaps a better term would be common human civility, explained as a doctrine promoted by honorable members of the media and decent people worldwide as a means of showing respect and tolerance, even for those with whom we fundamentally disagree.”

Obviously (at least to me), I found the joke in poor taste and offensive. But it occurs to me that the two of us possess some common sensibilities. We both find value in the computer rehab program. But I wonder how our perspectives on the program might differ? I see it in both practical terms and as illustrative of the sensitivity people have for people who are less fortunate. And I suspect he sees it in the same way. I know that this man is, in many respects, deeply sensitive; I’ve seen him shed tears when describing good people and their good deeds. Yet his appreciation for harsh, mocking, insensitive humor surprises me. It shouldn’t; I am absolutely certain I am equally as harsh, mocking, and insensitive on far too many occasions to be able to hold myself up as the poster boy for decency.

The bottom line for all this early morning thought-fest is that we are very different people who share some significant aspects of our personalities. And that’s probably true of most people, even people who camp at the extreme far ends of philosophical perspectives from one another.  This idea is not new to me; I recognize that people whose attitudes may seem harsh and cruel and utterly uncaring may simply have a different take on circumstances than I. For example, some people view poverty as the natural outgrowth of indolence, while I see it as the natural outgrowth of oppression by the moneyed classes; both of us may want to end poverty, but we have different ideas about how to do it. And in the case of the computer rehab program, I might be more aligned with the “conservative” camp than with the “liberal” camp; I don’t want to simply give people fish, I want them to learn how to set out lines themselves.  There’s a mid-range, of course, which is where I think answers may be found in almost every instance of deep philosophical dispute. Thinkers on both ends of the far fringes are insulated from reality; their (our) philosophies cloud their (our) vision.

If I had more energy and more influence, I might change the world in positive ways. But I lack both. I am not, nor will I ever be, a charismatic leader. That’s too bad; I think I have some pretty damn good ideas from time to time. Yet I’m preparing to write about people doing good work instead of actually doing the good work. There’s a disconnect in this scenario; an emphasis on thinking instead of doing. It’s good to think, provided that’s not the only thing one does.

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It’s Over

Posted on January 27, 2020 by John Swinburn

You wanted to tell her how much she meant to you, but you waited too late. You waited until she didn’t mean as much. You waited until her faults flooded your brain and drowned your good intentions. You put off the compliments and the accolades and the heartfelt expressions of admiration and appreciation and, ultimately, the pronouncement of love. You delayed so long those flattering phrases no longer applied, leaving only invective and insult in their wake. You erased the gratitude, replacing it with condemnation. You supplanted esteem with contempt.

You had the chance to bestow upon her a gift that might have lasted a lifetime. Instead, you left her with a scar she may not even know she has, one that will never heal; a scab that forever will be picked and left to bleed.

But she could have quelled this tide of malice. She could have told you the truth about where she was when you were to be together. She could have explained why something or someone else was more important than you. Though it might have hurt, it would not have dissolved your trust in her. It would not have erased all those emotions, those soft protections in which you wrapped her, just waiting until your lives could safely intertwine.

Yet it’s done now. It’s over. The pain has become dried clay, its delicacy surpassed only by the fragility of your heart.

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Extinction

Posted on January 22, 2020 by John Swinburn

I wonder at what point I would finally break. What would it take for me to risk everything including my family, my friends, and my life to achieve freedom or democracy or whatever it is you might call an environment of political self-determination? How far would the Senate and House have to go? What stunning action would the President have to take? How much further would the rupture of civil society have to go for me to finally say “no more grotesque, damaging, dangerous individualism and unbridled greed…we must collectively serve one another for the greater good!” Would I ever reach that point?

Haven’t they already done those inexcusable, impermissible things? Haven’t they already crossed that solid line over which no government can be permitted to cross without intense, overwhelming, enraged repercussions? So what are our options now, now that we have accepted servitude and shackles?

I think we’re all too afraid and too weak to do anything but whimper and complain. I think we’re praying we’ll be saved by a cadre of truly fierce and patriotic citizens who will risk chaotic civil unrest and their own lives and freedom by being the brave ones to rein in Washington’s elite with bullets and shrapnel and burning gasoline. I think we hope for a bloody revolution, but we want to take no part in the bloodshed. I think we are hoping for what I would call the equivalent to a Buddhist coup, where suffering is swept away in a river of decency in which the political class is drowned in the acidic, fetid juices of their own self-aggrandizement.

We are, indeed, pathetic. We await a savior to undertake the tasks we should have long since undertaken ourselves. What we need, but will not admit, is not democracy but, rather, a tempered version of anarchy. We need anarchy guided by the ages-old admonition to “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” We have only the hope, but not the stomach, for anarchy.

The more I think about it, I think it’s not political self-determination we need, nor is it democracy. It is a hybrid of morality and obligation, tempered with individual responsibility and commitment. Anarchy with heart and soul. We need the desire for the collective safety nets that breed government, but without the stranglehold such tangled nets seem to spawn. Governance without the government. Collective caring.

The dystopic futures so frequently portrayed in science fiction stories probably will come to pass. Creative people tend to see through the fog of societal evolution, enabling them to see a clear image of what is ahead. I think they have seen the unraveling of human society. As a species, we have outgrown our ability to accept our differences. We’ve been turning inward for centuries. It has reached the point that we are incapable of looking outside ourselves. And so we slog forward toward those inevitable dystopian meltdowns, thrashing about helplessly as we propel ourselves ever faster toward oblivion.

I read an article yesterday that argued the extinction of humanity is inevitable. I remember thinking, years ago, that I wished I could be here for the end of human civilization, just to see what its disappearance might be like. I think my wish may be coming true.

Posted in Anger, Democracy, Frustration, Government, Greed, Power, Rant | Leave a comment

Straining

Posted on January 21, 2020 by John Swinburn

I hear it often: “If a person doesn’t love himself, first, he can’t love others.” Frequently, that sentiment is followed by “And if he can’t love himself, no one else can love him, either.” If that’s true, a person who can’t love himself is sentenced to a truly cold and hopeless existence. It condemns him to either find a way to love the unlovable or to accept emotional isolation; being shunned by the only people who could possibly reach him. There’s no way out for him, because it’s not really a choice. It is a penalty.

Why might a person be unable to love himself? There are hundreds of reasons. Recollections of past thoughts or actions. Recognition of attitudes or behaviors that fly in the face of accepted social mores. Belief in his inability to be the kind of person others would be willing or able to love. Regret about actions taken, or not taken, that would have proven his decency or his humanity. The list is as endless as the shades of human thought and behavior; it goes on and on and on.

Whatever the reason for a person’s self-loathing, if that’s what it is, the inability to love oneself is far easier to tolerate and to accept than the belief that others might find him unlovable. That is the soul-crushing aspect of a person’s failure to find self-love within; he is told his inability to love himself is just cause for others to feel the same about him. So, not only is his loathing of the person he lives with every moment of his life his fault, so is the fact that others can’t love him, either. It’s all on his shoulders. The only way out is to, somehow, find a way to love himself. That’s not even remotely possibly without help.

I know this. I’ve written, or at least thought, my way through these characters. Every facet of their personalities. They will not, cannot, change without some form of intervention. Usually a painful, embarrassing, chaotic intervention. And those interventions often fail to achieve the desired outcomes. They drive him deeper into a dark hole where he buries himself under more and more condemnatory accusations that he is unworthy of love.

The more unworthy he feels, the more unworthy he appears. His defenses against the pain of being unworthy of love become offenses against those who would love him, but for his behavior. The only way to break the cycle is for someone who matters to him to lie to him; make him believe he is worthy, even though he might not be. That’s the kind of intervention that might work, but often fails. But to get to that point, someone who has suffered the agony of dealing with him and his inability to love himself must be willing to wade through even more suffering and risk even more. That person is the hero in the story, if he or she succeeds; he or she becomes the savior. But if the outcome is failure, no one emerges victorious. Everyone is further damaged. The attempt at salvation becomes a tragedy of the human spirit; love is burned in effigy and its ashes are smeared in the rubble of humanity.

These are the kinds of thoughts that can make for a depressing day. But that’s just what emerged this morning, so they are what I’ve written about. I’ve been thinking about people I write about and how they sometimes suffer. I think understanding them helps me write more convincingly about them. Experiencing what they experience, though, is sometimes too hard. So I have to lay it out as an abstraction and attribute it to two-dimensional characters. That makes it easier to peel away, as if they were sheets of paper or layers of an onion.

This morning, I will go to Jackson House to help prepare and serve meals to people who are hungry. I am going alone, as my wife has said she is not interested in going. Maybe I’m doing it in an attempt to make up for my own failings. I’d like to think I’m doing it because I feel compassion for the people I will help feed, but I’m afraid that’s only a fraction of my motivation. I’m afraid my motives are more selfish than selfless. I’m afraid it’s  like praying, in the hope the light of my good deeds will dim the spotlight on my faults.

Last night, I met with volunteers who will participate with me in organizing and orchestrating the church services auction in April. Though I agreed to participate, I wouldn’t call my decision to do so a voluntary act; I allowed my own guilt at considering refusal to push me toward doing it. I did it two years ago. I have little interest in doing it again. But I guess no one else offered and so I am the default fallback. And, rather than balk, I readily acquiesced to the gentle inquiry as to whether I would do it again.

There, again, is a difficult situation. I don’t want to do it, but if I refused, I would feel like I am being selfish. Yet by accepting I feel I am an easy mark who can’t say “no.” No matter which way I go, I feel it’s a no-win situation for me. I just want to withdraw from everything and everyone. Just uncoil and unwind and remove the tensile strain of being pulled in directions my mind and body do not want to go. But it’s not external forces. I’m not being pulled. I’m pushing myself. I’m allowing myself to be cajoled and coaxed, not shoved and dragged. It’s not “them,” it’s me. I am the one doing it to myself. Willingly, but against my will; it doesn’t have to make sense to be true.

I don’t feel like showering or shaving this morning. I may do neither. I can fake looking presentable before going to Jackson House. I hope. But if I don’t succeed at faking it, so be it. At the moment, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just go feed the hungry and be done with it.

Posted in Love, Self-Loathing | 4 Comments

The Bad Poet

Posted on January 20, 2020 by John Swinburn

The bad poet mangles words and scorches meanings,
bludgeoning beauty until it resembles a bloated
corpse left in the desert sun for an entire season.

The bad poet ruins ideas, polluting them with bias as
thick as an atmosphere of hatred and as baseless
as claims air is unhealthy unless it can be seen.

The bad poet forces syllables into unhealthy relationships
with Roman numerals and mathematical formulas,
recording the sordid fornication on magnetic media.

The bad poet tears words into deformed letters—bent
and broken and devoid of meaning—and reforms those
fragments into lies and broken promises.

The bad poet treats language like an object of derision,
mocking its inconsistencies and berating phrases as if
they deserved vowel resection without amnesia.

The bad poet crosses the threshold between language
and life, spreading disease and distemper with every
step, and infecting the mundane with the monstrous.

The bad poet breaks guitar strings and plays the
violin with a rusted bow fashioned from a cross-cut saw
dipped in tree sap and smeared with thick tar.

The bad poet gives haircuts with pinking shears and
shaves with Mussolini-era safety razors stored in
in a jar filled with equal parts of urine and salt water.

The bad poet howls with laughter at funerals and weddings,
toasting the main attraction with absinthe and coca-cola while
hawking nude photos of the Pope in compromising positions.

The bad poet grins at the sentencing judge and threatens
her with language that would cause starving artists to
welcome anorexia and creative amnesia into their lives.

The bad poet cloaks herself in a juror’s robes and
sentences his audience to immortality, locked in an
echo chamber where only the poet speaks.

The bad poet tears beauty from the sky and
tramples it under muddy feet in sodden graveyards
filled with beautiful ideas made profane in his presence.

How do we deal with the bad poet, this broken piece
of the universe whose words shatter our souls
and bring tears of pain and rage to our eyes?

How do we cope with his pervasive distrust of everything
human and her broken heart and their cries for mercy,
hidden beneath layers of aggression and fear?

The bad poet is only as bad as the darkest night of
the darkest soul, but he is as ubiquitous as the view
in every reflection in every mirror.

The only cure for the bad poet is compassion and
understanding—an open mind and an open heart—
and patience as deep as the deepest black sky.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

Small Talk About Things That Matter

Posted on January 16, 2020 by John Swinburn

What is fiction? It is truth clothed in costumes. It is the view from the other side of the mirror. It is the tragic/comic outcome of unrestrained authenticity. It is reality disguised to protect the writer from judgment or institutionalization or both.

***

Season two of Happy Valley is history. I gather the decision was reached  in 2016 that no further episodes would be produced. That’s a shame. The sixth and final episode of the second and final season was an emotional powerhouse. It drained me completely. And it left deep and provocative thoughts pressing heavily on my mind when it ended. I wanted badly to do something to lessen the pain of the main character as the episode ended; of course I know this is manufactured stuff. Of  course I know it’s not factual. But, still. It was so horribly believable and so painfully real and so devastatingly heartbreaking.

***

Yesterday’s almost monstrously warm temperatures won’t return today. At least that’s what the weather forecasters say. Today’s high is expected to reach only the mid-40s, twenty degrees or more cooler than yesterday. I will wear layers today. I will be warm when I venture out into the uncomfortably chilly day.

***

I discovered yesterday that a two to three minute eulogy is extremely short. I’ll have to pare down the eulogy I wrote before I deliver it on Sunday. It now stands at longer than the time allotted for it. It’s hard when there’s more to say than time to say it. Brevity is the soul of wit. Sometimes, I am witless. I will carve away words that don’t add meaning and value. I may slice it down to considerably less than the limit; sometimes, the fewer words said, the more reverential the message.

***

Today, I return to the oncologist. Every time I go back, even when there are no test results to review, I’m nervous. I guess that’s because…duh…I’m going to see the oncologist. After seeing the oncologist, we’ll go out to lunch. Or maybe I’ll go alone, depending on whether my wife goes with me. She was up again today when I got up at 5; had been for a long while. She went back to bed when I got up for the day. Depending on many things unknown or unexpected, perhaps we’ll embark on an unplanned road trip, if we’re feeling half-way decent and fully adventurous. I’d like to go to Mississippi or Louisiana. Neither state is likely to actually become a destination for today; lingering colds, lack of planning (oh, how I hate to have to plan spur-of-the-moment trips; it seems so utterly oxymoronic), and a variety of other intrusions are apt to interfere with my fantasies. Oh, well.

***

A minor character in Happy Valley, John Wadsworth (played by Kevin Doyle), exemplified the decent man whose mistakes reveal fundamental character flaws suggesting he is not really a decent man, after all. He’s the “average Joe” who pretends to be a good man but who, beneath the veneer of respectability and decency, is rotten. At his core, he is selfish and self-indulgent; he blames others for his own unforgivable deeds. Yet he remains vulnerable and he retains the viewer’s sympathies even as his brokenness is revealed. I admire the writing (and the acting) that paint such a complex  character with so few strokes. He’s not constantly in front of the camera, but he is constantly part of the story. Brilliant writing. John Wadsworth exemplifies the “good guy who does bad things” who I want to write, but with some fundamental differences. Wadsworth is not really a good guy. But he’s not really a bad guy, either. He is caught up in a web of his own making, but one from which he desperately wants to escape. Yet he’s not good; he would be willing to snare innocents in order to protect himself. Bastard. My good guy would not do that; his decency would not permit it. But my guy would slaughter an entire family if he thought they deserved to die for their bad deeds. I know this guy I want to write about. I’ll have to explore his thought processes in more depth.

***

I tire of my trauma. My mental trauma. It’s an ongoing, unnecessary, self-inflicted immersion in a vat of hot water and acid that is neither healing nor necessary. WTF, then? Who knows? I ought to be able to examine emotional drivers by now, considering all the time I’ve spend exploring characters about whom I write. Yet I can only speculate. Maybe I should see a therapist; at least that would add fodder I might be able to use in my fiction. Or my fact.

***

Posted in Stream of Consciousness | 2 Comments

Thinking Through Spider Webs

Posted on January 15, 2020 by John Swinburn

Finally, I seem to be returning to my “normal” waking habits. Today, I was up around 5. Lately, I’ve awakened at wildly different times, almost all considerably later than has been my typical pattern for years. I’ll attribute the deviance to my monstrous cold. Perhaps I’m finally shaking it. The early rising this morning comes on the heels of a later-than-normal night last night. I hope I’m back to my old routine, though I’d really rather awaken closer to 4 each morning. Those few hours of total seclusion constitute my decompression time.

***

Once again, I’ve become addicted to a “foreign language” television crime drama. Well, not really. It’s a British crime drama. But the accents and my television’s subpar sound quality conspire to muffle dialogue. So, I’ve turned to subtitles. On an English-language crime drama. Actually, since turning on subtitles, an already riveting program has become even better. The program? Happy Valley, originally released on BBC in the UK and subsequently released by Netflix (which is how I’m able to watch it). I’ve watched all of season one and about half of season two. Only two seasons were produced (in 2014 and 2016). The series is not high art, but it’s well-done television (in my view). The fact that I have only three more episodes to watch is depressing. I should get a television-equipped treadmill so I could get more than entertainment value from watching lengthy television series. What I need is a television that will not work unless I am walking at a speed of at least two miles per hour…maybe three. I would become a night-walker. I think a story might emerge from that thought.

***

I am even more of an introvert than I have always believed myself to be. I enjoy being with and around people, but my enjoyment has rather strict time limits and short duration. When those limits approach, I either must get away and be alone with my thoughts or I turn cranky, surly, and generally unpleasant to be with, to live with, and just to be, in general. How is it, I wonder, that it has taken me so damn long to figure that out? It’s not like the pattern has ever been hidden beneath a layered puzzle; it’s right out there in the open for the world, including me, to see. But I’ve just now finally been able to understand it. I need time to think, without intrusion. That’s what my morning isolation is all about, I think. Odd, though. It’s as if I’m engaged in conversation with myself, which I can tolerate and in fact often enjoy; during that time, though, conversation with anyone else would be unwelcome. It’s not that I’m unpleasant or unfriendly early in the morning if I don’t have my time in isolation; but if I’m deprived of that time for a long period, I do become edgy and unhappy. How have I not noticed before now?

This new revelation has me thinking about other people and what they might need. What do extroverts need? Do they need interaction with other people around the clock? Do they feel out of sorts if they can’t spend time in conversation on an ongoing basis? I’ll have to ask some extreme extroverts I know. But the timing has to be right.

An artifact of introversion is the tendency to keep things bottled up. Perhaps it’s simply the lack of someone “outside” to talk to. Or maybe it’s that introverts consider some matters personal, even when talking about those matters may be vital to one’s mental well-being. Introversion and isolation go hand-in-hand. Sometimes, the isolation gets out of hand, to the point that the bottle holding those personal matters explodes, leaving a shattered psyche that must be pieced together from shreds of fragile glass. If only the cap had been loosened or removed, the explosion could have been avoided.

***

I can’t see the point of writing these thoughts over and over and over again, almost every morning. It’s as if I believe writing my thoughts down repeatedly will somehow change them. But maybe writing is an alternative to alcohol; it deadens pain, or at least diverts one’s attention from it. Better to write every morning than to suck on a bottle of vodka at daybreak. Maybe that’s not necessary, though; the wine from the night before may still be in the system. Maybe. Maybe that’s the point of writing the same things, using different words. An author I know once advised us (me and others in the workshop she led) to be brutally honest in our writing. “Write through the pain,” she said. Don’t worry about who might be hurt, she advised, because you’re writing for yourself. As I think back on that, it’s an incredibly selfish attitude. It offers justification for shifting pain from oneself to others. That’s inexcusable, especially if others are innocent bystanders who simply cannot get out of the line of fire before the bullets start flying. Yet I understand what the author was advising us to do. And it makes sense. But only to a point. And only after a very real assessment of damage, both direct and corollary, and the relative good that might come out of the damage. Abstractions. These all are abstractions. You cannot think in practical ways about real consequences when you’re dealing with abstruse abstractions.

***

I may cut my hair, or my throat, today. I’m not sure which one is needed more. I’ll probably go for the one that’s not particularly painful and costs less. $15, including tip.

These early morning diatribes allow me to blow off steam and to ratchet down the tensions that build during the course of every day. That’s what they are good for. Sometimes fiction is what I need to write, sometimes I need to write stream-of-consciousness drivel. Sometimes it’s poetry. I guess it all serves a purpose of one kind or another. Even though it sometimes seems that I’m thinking my way through masses of spider webs, I suppose it’s worth doing.

 

Posted in Stream of Consciousness | Leave a comment

And Then Where Would I Be?

Posted on January 14, 2020 by John Swinburn

Since I wrote yesterday’s public blog post, an absurdist unfinished fantasy, I’ve written five more pieces. Most of those drafts, if not all, will never see the light of day on this blog. They may find their way into longer stories or elements of expansive essays or components of deeper contemplation.  But they probably won’t end up here. That’s the fate of much of my writing; it springs into being, only to be shoved into files that tend to be forgotten. And that’s only appropriate. Given the volume of my written words, the vast majority is likely to be unusable swill; it’s just a statistical statement as close to fact as statistics can get. Why some of my swill slips around the gates and onto the blog is a question for which I have no answer. It just happens, like a dog slips through a door, though it’s opened for only a split second.

That’s how my writing strikes me sometimes. It’s an adventurous dog with an urge to explore beyond its boundaries, pulling at its leash and, occasionally, breaking free and sprinting down the street. It’s not sure what it is looking for; maybe temporary freedom, maybe the chance to see what the real world is like. The world outside that smells so new and fresh and exotic. I may write a story one day in which my writing takes on the persona of a six-month-old boxer puppy. Or maybe an elderly mixed-breed. They would see the world through different eyes; their different experiences would color their perceptions of what their lives mean. Perhaps a series of stories, telling the same tale through different dogs’ eyes: a boxer puppy, an aging mixed-breed, a middle-aged chihuahua, a bulldog unchained to an age descriptor.

One’s age, whether one happens to be human or dog, is too often used by others to categorize. Young means inexperienced and energetic and willing to take absurd risks. Old means lethargic and risk-averse and drenched in the wisdom of experience. Middle-aged is a period of questioning and uncertainty. I can say from experience, though, that the challenges of middle age last into old age; maybe beyond. In reality, though, our tendency to judge and categorize on the basis of age arises from intellectual flaws. We make assumptions that, if we gave serious thought to them, we would not make. Our assessments of actual people (and pets) follow generalized abstractions that simply don’t apply, in practice, to individuals. We know this. But we continue to judge and assess and categorize anyway. Because we’re lazy, I suppose. Or we’re heartless bastards who don’t care what is real; it’s what our biases tell us that matters, by God! Who knows? I certainly don’t.

My mind this morning should not be drifting haphazardly along in a stream of consciousness, smashing into both sides of the channel and spilling chunks of the banks into the stream. Instead, I should focus on writing a eulogy for a friend’s remembrance. I was asked to deliver the eulogy during next Sunday’s service, which is dedicated to the memories of those members of the congregation who died during the past year. Ach, I will do it. But not yet. Not until I am ready. And then it will flow. I am confident of that. Who am I to second-guess myself as to what should occupy my mind this morning? An interloper. My other personality needs to leave this one alone. Or vice versa.

Back to my five drafts. I have assigned titles to them, which are: Disciplined Ascetic, Gin with a Miscellany Chaser, Breakfast Book, Incoherent Music by Another Name, and Shrapnel. Shrapnel is the only piece of pure fiction, though Incoherent contains a rather long set of song lyrics that one would either consider fiction or evidence of insanity. My mind sometimes works faster than my fingers (it should always work faster than my fingers, but it’s a bit slow), so I don’t capture everything I think about. That’s either good or bad, depending on perspective.

Our plans for later this week, a visit with friends in Fort Smith and a trek to Crystal Bridges for a dose of culture have been put on hold. The female component of our friends came down with a cold, making it inadvisable for us to visit and her to spread her germs in public places. It’s been over a year since we’ve seen them, I think, so it’s well past time. We’ll figure it out, eventually. Hell, we could meet for lunch once a week halfway between our homes. Maybe I’ll suggest it when she’s better. I’d like much more frequent visits. We’ll see what we’ll see.

I still have an appointment with my oncologist on Thursday morning. I expect her to say there’s nothing new to report. Maybe she’ll schedule another CT scan or an MRI (I’m willing to try an MRI again; my back/neck may be in a more tolerable mood). I suspect so; that’s really the only tool they have to determine whether there’s anything “there” that merits more invasive exploration. I do look forward to finally getting the word that I am “cancer free.” Until I’ve been “free of evidence of cancer” for five years, they won’t say I’m “cancer free.” Another four years to go, assuming all goes well.

Most people would choose to keep private the kind of stuff I put on my blog. I don’t. I don’t know why I don’t. I do have plenty of “journal” entries that I keep private and that will never be viewed by another human being. Those entries must be painful or embarrassing or damaging or…something. I’ve got to stop here. I could go on until the Internet runs out of space to store my words. And then where would I be?

Posted in Stream of Consciousness | Leave a comment

Biological Hallucinations in the Coming Century

Posted on January 13, 2020 by John Swinburn

Whether dragons were real or not, is it possible we might be able to create them? I think it would be great fun to build a dragon manufacturing facility. The dragons would be crafted from one hundred percent biological components. No plastic, no metal, no ceramic sheathing; nothing lacking a living cellular structure. I want no part of creating artificial dragons; it’s the real thing or nothing. That is not to say I insist on replicating creatures that may (or may not) once have wandered the Earth. I require only that the beasts emerge from biological structures. Cells and the like. Hell, even if the cells are plant-based. I just want biology involved from the get-go. Because I am a purist.

My interest in bio-mechanical beasts is non-existent. Carnivorovegan creatures, though, I can deal with. Yes, I realize it’s not a word and that, furthermore, it wouldn’t make sense even if it were. If that’s a problem for the reader, so be it. I may adopt carnivorovegan as a descriptive term for flesh-eating creatures arising from a crop including vegan “parents.” I use the term parents somewhat loosely, inasmuch as a creature may have as many as several thousand components, each coming from a different biological source. For example, eyes derived from root-eating rodents, livers from koalas, tongues from horses, stomachs from cows, and so forth. And, of course, vegetable-based elements: skin from potatoes, reproductive systems from tomatoes, bones from California redwoods, lips from vegetarian fish, and so on. Not stitched together, by the way, but grown in laboratory media and “bio-melded” in facilities as clean and as meticulously organized as operating-rooms. It’s clearer in my head than in my fingers, hence the difficulty you may be having in understanding what I am attempting to describe. Bear with me; you will understand it fully before you reach your 248th birthday, I promise.

I wonder, is there a word for plants that get their sustenance not from soil but, instead, by digesting other plants? A vegetarian cannibal, as it were. Vegetable has already been used, but we know the English language tends to use words without regard to previous copyright or trademark protection. But how about words in other languages? Might there be a seed-bank equivalent to linguistic lineage? If not, there should be. Every known word from every known language recorded on magnetic media and stored in mountainside ice-caves. Temperatures in the caves must be maintained at zero degrees Celsius; once temperatures reach 100 degrees, the words vaporize, never to be written, spoken, or read again.

Flesh-eating dragons formed from plants and animals whose sustenance came entirely from plants. That’s it. A bizarre carnivorovegan hybrid that reproduces through pollen fertilization, leading to seed pods that form on the dragon’s scales.

Seed pods drop to the ground and burrow into the soil. The seeds inside the pod are fed by a fleshy substance surrounding the seed; the pods act much like a womb, protecting and feeding the embryonic dragon. When the tiny beast is sufficiently mature, it cracks open the seed pod (which looks much like an egg and, when it breaks, acts like one) and emerges into the air. The baby dragons immediately take to the sky, searching for their parents (male and female dragons participate in this process, but it’s too involved to describe at this moment). As it happens, the parents also are searching for their offspring. Once they connect, they form family units that stay together for between six weeks and four hundred years, depending on the baby dragons’ speed of development. Needless to say, it’s a long story.

The truly interesting part of this process is the fact that the original parents were manufactured, as described. Yet all subsequent dragons evolve and reproduce like animal-plant hybrids, as described above. The process was described in painstaking detail in notebooks maintained by Charles Darwin. Unfortunately, those notebooks were destroyed during the Gemenids meteor shower in December 1862. He had published On the Origin of Species just a few years earlier and was preparing to publish the seminal When Dragons Return: A How-To Guide when his notes burned in a celestial conflagration the likes of which no one had seen before nor has anyone seen sense.  Darwin was crushed by the loss of his dragon notebooks and was in no mood to try to reproduce them. Consequently, we have had to feel our way in the dark in pursuing this deeply intriguing subject; we could not depend on Darwin, nor on his notebooks. Because, as I said, they were burned in a meteoric inferno of epic proportion. That situation, by the way, should serve as a lesson to us all: notebooks about dragon development and reproduction should be kept in subterranean vaults, safe from raining meteors. Of course, care should be taken to ensure that the vaults are not subject to flooding, infestation by animals, mold, and other potentially destructive hazards.

Dragon milk contains capscaicin concentrations equivalent to between 100,000 and 500,000 Scoville Units. That is to say, it is hotter than Hades by a factor of about 1000. The capscaicin is the reason dragons often are pictured with flames erupting from their mouths. It’s actually not the capscaicin that causes the flames; it’s the combination of capscaicin fumes with methane in the presence of a spark. One of the oddities of dragon physiology is that they do not fart in the traditional way that animals do. Instead, their belches accomplish what our farts do; they expel enormous volumes of methane created during the digestive process. When combined with capscaicin, dragon belches can be literally explosive. The first “human-created” fire came about when a cave-dwelling human threw a flint rock at a dragon that was poking its head in the cave the human occupied. The flint rock struck another rock, causing a spark and, BAM! Flames like you’ve never seen. The cave dweller, anticipating the discovery of fire, had accumulated about six cords of firewood, fuel to provide heat during the coming winter. It went up in smoke in thirty seconds. By the way, that was before the more recent redevelopment of dragons. Just in case you were confused.  At any rate, dragons have been assumed to breathe fire since that very day. And perhaps they do.

If I could share with you my conversations with dragons over the years, I would. I think you would find them (the conversations) interesting and you would find them (the dragons) tender-hearted and deeply intelligent. Copernicus learned almost all he knew from a dragon named Stetson Myers. Stetson took a liking to Copernicus from the moment they debated heliocentrism. Ah, but you didn’t come here to read about Nicolaus’ interaction with Stetson Myers. So, I’d better stop writing. Otherwise, you might be subjected to more information than you want to fill your head.

Posted in Absurdist Fantasy | Leave a comment

Mediterranean Course Correction

Posted on January 12, 2020 by John Swinburn

I inquired of Google this morning: “What is the Mediterranean lifestyle?” The first answer I found—and the one I intend on adapting as my own—was this, from a blog entitled, The Mediterranean Dish in a post labeled Live the Mediterranean lifestyle. That lifestyle comprises the following:

  • Follow the Mediterranean Diet (more on that in a moment)
  • Be with Family & Share with Loved Ones
  • Move Naturally
  • Laugh Often
  • Live (More) Simply

In my opinion, the components of the lifestyle most impactful on one’s health would be the diet and the admonition to “move naturally.” The diet is nothing new and, in fact, probably shouldn’t be labeled a diet in the sense of weight-loss. It suggests a simple dietary regimen that emphasizes fruits, vegetables, whole grains, olive oil, beans, nuts, legumes, seeds, and herbs and spices. That base is supplemented by occasionally enjoying fish and seafood, less frequent (daily to weekly) diversions into poultry, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. Much less frequently, meat (beef, pork, lamb, etc.)  and sweets are enjoyed; the “special occasion” foods. All of the dietary intake is washed down with plenty of water and moderate consumption of wine. Importantly, there are no food restrictions in the Mediterranean “diet.” It relies on common sense and moderation. The dietary regime, though, is not complete without the foundation involved in “moving naturally;” that is, being physically active.

I think the social aspects of the lifestyle, i.e., being with and sharing with loved ones and laughing often must contribute quite a lot to the lifestyle. And living simply, too. I am ready to adopt the Mediterranean lifestyle. One missing element, though, is this: the Mediterranean. More and more frequently, my mind wanders to the coastlines of Italy and Greece and Egypt and Turkey and Libya—all places I have never actually visited. But I imagine life in and around the Mediterranean. I dream of ready access to fresh seafood. I imagine myself strolling through olive orchards, filling woven baskets with fresh olives that I will deliver to olive processors in return for batches of processed olives. By the way, the olives we eat have undergone at least one of several rather time-consuming processes to leach away their bitterness; “natural” is not a term I would apply to table olives. And I wonder why olives are so expensive; well, there you go. But continuing on with my dreams, I conjure images of taking long, leisurely walks along the Mediterranean, watching and listening to the sea birds and “writing” poetry aloud, guided by the muses in the sand and warm salt water.

How long would it take, I wonder, to learn to speak Greek or Italian? I’m afraid I do not have time to live the Mediterranean lifestyle to its fullest. I am not interested in being a tourist. I’d rather be a resident, someone who adapts to intense summer heat without air conditioning and who relishes and takes great pride in a minimalist lifestyle. But that’s probably not who I am. I grew up in an intensely selfish culture, spending sixty-six years absorbing and perfecting an attitude of self-centeredness, greed, and gluttony. We, as a culture, take pride in accumulating things we don’t need in the light of global paucity and poverty, as a means of demonstrating to the world how utterly devoid of decency we can be. “We buy things we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like.” This is not the kind of mood with which I’d wanted to start the day. Perhaps I can change it?

How does the adage go? “I may not be able to change the world, but I can change myself.” Is that it? Not long ago, I read something about changing oneself for the better. It went something like this:

  • Stop comparing yourself to others.
  • Be as genuine and authentic to yourself as possible.
  • Adopt empathy as one of your most powerful traits.
  • Be generous whenever possible.
  • Improve or change the things closest to you that need to be changed and over which you have some control.

This post demonstrates the difficulty of getting out of the “I want” mindset. I’ve spent time and energy “wanting” what I don’t have, without shedding the things I have I don’t need or want. Ach! And, then, I turn on myself, whip and cudgel in hand, and beat myself mercilessly for being who I am instead of who I think I want to be. This is not a new scenario. It is an ongoing pattern that seems designed to illustrate and highlight failures. Is it possible I’m a very slow learner? The evidence suggests there’s something to that idea.

That last suggestion about changing oneself for the better keeps chirping at me: Improve or change the things closest to you that need to be changed and over which you have some control. Hello? What’s closer to me than my thoughts? Who controls them? I think I may be picking up on something here. This could be a “thing.” I might have something to work with. Rebuild John. From the ground up. Or from the mind down. Or just little pieces, one at a time, until the new model is like the old one, only dramatically better.

The idea has been planted. It needs nourishment. And action. And more than myself. So, I should share this seed with loved ones so they, too, can help it grow and can do the same. I do not think I am capable of writing a self-help book, but I may be able to write an autobiography one day.

Posted in Change, Compassion, Doing Without, Empathy, Essay, Generosity, Philosophy, Ruminations, Self-discipline, Selfishness | Leave a comment

As If I Were Weather

Posted on January 10, 2020 by John Swinburn

This morning is another of those days reminiscent of late nineteenth century London, as described in stories about serial killers going about their business under cover of pea-soup fog. When the air is this opaque, I do not know whether we’re surrounded by thick fog or, because of the altitude of this place, whether we’re the targets of clouds with drowning on their agendas. I suppose it doesn’t matter whether it’s fog or clouds. Thick, wet coatings wash every surface exposed to the hazy vapor. Tree limbs bend under the weight of humid air.

As I look out the window, the opacity of the air diminishes. I can see across the street now. A few minutes ago I could not be sure the trees that were standing there yesterday remained. I wonder if the fog or the cloud sensed that I was writing about it and decided to move along, lest a police officer come calling to investigate an attempted drowning. That could be it.

I came across a book (I’ve not read it; only read about it) entitled London Fog: The Biography, by Christine Corton. I think I want to at least skim the book. For some reason, the title reminds me of another book I skimmed long, long ago entitled (I think), The Autobiography of Jesus. With a title like that, you’d think I would remember it; but I remember only the title, and I’m not sure I got that right. It might be Christ instead of Jesus. Not that it matters. I like book titles that surprise me. A biography of fog surprises me. I can imagine appreciating a book entitled, How Tornadoes Choose Their Victims.  Yes, I think anything that anthropomorphizes natural phenomena has a certain odd appeal.

Lately, I find that nonfiction has more appeal to me than fiction; at least in reading. I’m still intrigued by writing fiction, though I enjoy writing nonfiction. And perhaps it’s obvious that I enjoy marrying the two genres into webs of deceitful entertainment, if indeed my writing is even a little entertaining. Deceit is too strong a word; fantasy fails to capture the threads of reality I weave into my stories; there may be no word for it because there is no call for it. Who knows?

I write about odd topics or off-kilter approaches to common topics because no one seems to want to engage in conversation with me about them. So, I write. I haven’t decided whether it’s the topics that people find off-putting or it’s me. I just sometimes enjoy blue-sky chatter about nonsensical stuff. My wife sometimes indulges me by conversing about nonsense; we’re both on the same page at the same time and we find it fun. I more than my wife. And I far more frequently than my wife.

My thought processes and my writing all drift in the same direction. They attempt to explore who’s thinking these thoughts and who’s writing these words.  The silliness I incorporate into a good bit of my writing is, I think, an effort to lighten up an otherwise deeply solemn search to determine whether there’s value buried beneath layer after layer after layer of veneer. A year or so ago I questioned whether “if I strip away the soft flesh of a life of ease, would there be a worthy skeleton beneath?” A question, I fear, that will remain forever unanswered.

Maybe my superficial explorations of a thousand topics is simply an effort to determine whether I have anything of value to add to the “body of knowledge” on any subject. Throw something at the wall and see if it sticks, is the idea. Maybe that’s it. Maybe fog is the right topic. Or maybe anthropomorphosis. Or dragons or philanthropy or imperialism or witchcraft or poetry or modesty or kindness or vulnerability or…  Almost five years ago, I wrote another post, entitled “Old Men Who Turn to Writing.” The concluding paragraph of that piece included this (edited for clarity):

Old men who turn to writing want to find a part of themselves that’s buried under the mulch of a lifetime of experience. They spend time routing around those parts of their minds unexposed to the elements, looking for something worthy for the world to see. They are looking for ways to know who they are so other (people) might understand (the writer) when (others) read what (the writer) leaves behind. And (the old men) are looking for ways to apologize for mistakes they’ve made, for the people they once were.

As for me, I wasn’t an old man when I “turned to writing.” It has been a life-long interest. It became a passion several years before I retired. I wonder whether passion is the right word. I don’t know that I have any passions. Superficiality is too much a part of me to allow any passions to slip in.

I’m a little like the fog this morning. A moment ago, I looked out the window and it had again become so thick I could not see the street or the trees on the other side. Along came a breeze and the fog lifted enough to allow me to see those trees clearly. And, just now, it descended again, blocking my view completely. That’s me. Thick then thin then thick then thin then thick again. Deep, shallow, deep, shallow. Here I sit in the comfort of my home, comparing myself to expressions of weather. Only moderately arrogant. Now I’m thinking of the fog/cloud as a cocoon, wrapping me in a shawl of anonymity and protection. It’s not trying to smother me. I know that much.

My fingers are tired of all this “me, me, me.” Time to explore the real world and leave my inner world to wither for a while.

Posted in Essay | Leave a comment

Doing Alone

Posted on January 8, 2020 by John Swinburn

When friends’ shoulders aren’t there for the crying,
when love is a wall made of stone,
when life seems a prelude to dying,
when you’re lonely and weeping alone.

That’s when you create your own salvation,
you craft it from sweat and from sand.
You burst out of the bitter stagnation
and build a new life, build it by hand.

The fire in the furnace inside you
is stoked with the pain of the past.
You stare into the face looking at you
from that mirror behind broken glass.

And you scream at the monsters and demons
calling them out for the fight.
You board the ships of the seamen
and sail from the harbor at night.

You chase them with hatred and laughter,
you seek them with snarls and love.
You call them before and then after
and watch them below and above.

[This unfinished poem will almost certainly be scrapped before it is either finished or replaced because, well, it is crap. But at least it challenges my rhythmic poemmaking equipment.]

 

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment