John Swinburn

The headlines from Aljazeera differ radically from those found on domestic news sites:
“In Lebanon, petrol is now priced out of reach.” “A military coup shakes up Sudan.” “Sudanese gear up for nationwide protests against military coup.” “UN renews peacekeeping mission in Western Sahara, calls for talks.”

The similarities between domestic and international sites, though? Pain. Negativity. Upsetting circumstances. It’s hard to get away from the stress of unhappy news. It’s difficult to find reasons to look favorably upon the human race and our ability to make peace or otherwise to engage in refreshing, positive behavior. Strong arguments can be made that we “need” to know about all the misfortunes that befall our species and the planet we inhabit. But equally strong arguments can be made that we need an escape from violence, fear, hatred, animosity, and anger. Yet the arguments calling for black news seem, increasingly, to be winning. For that reason, I rarely watch television news. And I try to avoid online news, though truth be told that is a hard line to hold. I suspect “bad news” has the appeal of a car wreck; it draws us in as if it had a message produced specifically for each of us. I don’t know why that is, but that’s the way it seems to me. I hate it.

On the other hand, news designed as “feel good” fodder would be equally annoying, I think. But a mix of news stories that echoes the reality of the human condition would be welcomed, I think. News that acknowledges the goodness surrounding positive human interest stories, as well as the heartache of human frailties. This morning, I would make a terrible journalist; I would lobby for good news that might change the path of humankind, giving us a reason to be positive and appreciative and grateful for the circumstances in which we live.

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Maybe the constant barrage of unpleasant news is responsible for my recent spate of less-than-positive posts. Or maybe it’s just my natural state. Whatever it is, I hope to turn that around. At least to some extent. So, I will try to avoid the negativities.

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So, one way to avoid the negativities is to relate an experience I had last night and a few minutes ago this morning. My good friend, Jim, who resides in Alexandria, Virginia, texted me the photo (to the left) last night of the twelve-and-a-half pound Prime beef brisket he bought at Costco. He knew I would be in awe of the massive chunk of high-end brisket, which is why he sent me the picture. Jim and I are brisket aficionados; we baptized my first offset smoker while we both lived in Dallas, with a monstrous Choice beef brisket (Prime was not available to the riff-raff at the time…only professionals who owned their own BBQ joints could get the good stuff). This morning, we exchanged text messages about cooking times and temperatures, then spoke by phone for a few minutes (he knows my habit of getting up very early in the morning, so a text and phone call around 5:30 in the morning is perfectly natural). Jim is smoking the brisket for a block party he and his wife are hosting this afternoon. Neighbors and friends are supplying the accouterments, such as a keg of beer. I do wish I were there! (My apologies to my vegan and vegetarian friends; I cannot help myself.)

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I vacillate. I want a lake house, but only if I can afford it. I can afford it only if I sell my present house for a significant sum of money; at least equal to what one Realtor told me my house would sell for. But I question the validity of the Realtor’s estimate. And so I vacillate. I suppose the only way to know whether I could get what the Realtor says is to put the house on the market. But, then, if it sells, I’d have to act quickly to find a place to move. And therein lies the problem. The alternatives are to play the ponies (based on extremely long odds) or buy lotto tickets or work out details of the perfect bank robbery or the perfect swindle (involving the redistribution of wealth from obscenely wealthy but awfully bad people to me). Inasmuch as I’m allergic to incarceration, the latter is out of the question. So, I stay where I am and long for a sudden windfall. There’s no windfall in the offing, so I simply stay put. Unless some other option comes along.

I like my house. But I’d like a house on a lake even more, I think. Well, the right house on the right lake. Ideally, it would be nestled in a quiet spot, with few if any close neighbors. Where is my ideal spot? I don’t know. But I’m willing to find out.

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My IC and I began watching Squid Game last night. It’s bizarre, to put it mildly. But after a couple of episodes, it started to grow on me. We’ll see if it continues to satisfy. If not (or even if it does), we might go for another series a friend recommended: Goliath. I enjoy legal dramas, so I think I’ll enjoy Goliath. Still, I have dozens of Scandinavian crime dramas and police procedurals to watch. I could happily sit in front of my television for months, I think. Except sitting in front of the television can get very old, very fast. We’ll see how it all goes.

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It’s almost 6:30. Time to stop blogging and, instead, play games of one kind or another. I need a diversion. Maybe a nice breakfast would be good.

Several years ago—it must have been at least ten or twelve years ago—my late wife and I flew to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where we rented a car and embarked on an exploration of the wonders of the Land of Enchantment. A day or two into our trip, a warning light inside the car alerted us that the air pressure in a specific tire was low. I remember being impressed at the sophistication of the system’s specificity; not just “a tire is low,” but “the “front left tire is low.”  Yesterday, in the midst of a cold and rainy day, a warning light came on in the Subaru. “The pressure in a tire is low on some unnamed tired.” Or some such generic warning. I still haven’t checked the air in all the tires to determine which one needs air. I wish my car had the sophistication of a twelve-year-old Chevy (or whatever it was) so I could devote my attention to just one tire. Dammit. I realize this is a very minor issue in today’s world, but it rankles me, nonetheless. I wonder how much much I would have had to pay for a car equipped with four-wheel air pressure sensory devices?

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Finally. We watched the last episode of Schitt’s Creek last night. I’ve been offered a number of suggestions for other series to watch. I’m not sure what genre my IC wants to watch, but I’m inclined to snag another mystery thriller along the lines of Lupin. Or, perhaps, another action-packed Scandinavian police procedural like Bordertown (Sorjonen) or The Valhalla Murders.  Fortunately for me, I found some recommendations for just such a set of options on a Travel+Leisure page.  My decision to mark it here was based on selfishness; I just want to know where to look.

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For reasons unknown to me, this morning I wondered when and by whom the first man-made lake was made. Research into the matter yielded information about the largest man-made lake (Lake Kariba, along the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe) and the earliest dams (around 3,000 B.C. in Jordan), but nothing definitive about the first man-made lake. That’s understandable, in that the first such lake may well have been created by an individual or a small group of people who dammed a stream to create a reliable reservoir of drinking water. The underlying reason for my curiosity about man-made lakes, though, was based on my interest in just how much an individual could do to create a lake. That question, of course, probably has a thousand answers (none of which could be satisfactorily verified) and a thousand stories, besides. I suppose my inquisitiveness about the topic springs from another bit of curiosity, this one about myself:

Was I ever capable of doing what it takes to create a lake? Does any individual have the wherewithal to do that, or must lake-creation always be a collective effort undertaken by a group of like-minded people? I realize, of course, the question has no merit in the overarching scheme of humankind’s development. Still, it’s a question that needled its way into my brain and it won’t go away of its own accord. It’s one of those questions that triggers additional questions about oneself—questions that attempt to measure the breadth and scope of one’s strength as a contributor to the evolution of the species.  And those questions always give rise to other questions about how one got to be the way one is.

A million and one “what if” questions. Crazy, mindless, anxiety-inducing what-if questions that have one second-guessing oneself until the end of time. That’s an endless ball of emotional pain, just waiting to be unraveled.

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Once again, I am physically hungry. I feel like a cinnamon roll. Or, perhaps, something that will cause my headache to disappear. Food can do that sometimes. Though this headache may have nothing to do with hunger. It may be related to my sinuses or anxiety or a thousand other reasons.  Yet I think of food or drugs as the cure. Whereas the proper cure could be a hug or a shot of mezcal or ten minutes in a steam cabinet.

And, once again, I am extremely tired. I did sleep last night, though I woke to pee many times. And the time to get back to sleep was always excessive. And the dreams, some involving participation in preparations for combat operations, were a little stressful. What the hell. Life is what it is. I will try to sleep more. That’s what I will do. It’s almost a quarter after six; I still have a good three-quarters of an hour or more to rest, if I can. So I will try.

I don’t think I ever got to sleep last night. All night, I felt like I could not breathe; could not catch my breath. Obviously, I got enough oxygen to keep me alive, but I felt like every breath was an effort. I was up and down all night, hoping just one more change of position might leave me able to sleep. Finally, though, around 4:30, I got up. Staying in bed was pointless. All I accomplished was getting sore muscles and joints.

I made  a cup of coffee, despite feeling monstrously tired. It chilled, untouched, while I sat motionless at my desk. Around 5, I sat in a recliner, hoping to be able to drift off. I did not get to sleep, but after sitting for at least an hour or so, I managed to slip into semi-consciousness for a short while. Before 7:30, after my IC was up for the day, I returned to bed for another attempt at sleep. I drifted off, again. It’s now 9:55 and I assume I’m up for the day. During my “sleep,” I kept fighting with stories about my sleepless experience. For some reason, in my semi-sleep, I called last night’s episode of insomnia “Come from Away.” I know about (but have not seen) that film. I have no idea why its title applies to my insomnia, though.  I had another film title for another segment of last night’s experience, but I do not recall what film.

If I had taken painkillers, I might be able to explain the insanity. But I’ve taken nothing of the sort.

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The recent change in the weather sparked a renewed interest in cooking, though I have not responded to that interest just yet. But I have idea of things I’d like to make. Several versions of lentil soups; chili; sambar; Berliner kartoffelsuppe; leg of lamb; a thousand other things. I wonder why weather has such an impact on my appetite? I wonder why my sleep habits, or lack thereof, impinge on my good moods?

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My creative juices do not seem to be flowing this morning. In their place. viscous mud and cooling volcanic magma appear to be drooling from my brain. That’s an unpleasant thought. But there you go.

We drove to Danville, AR yesterday, where we met friends for lunch at a tiny Lao/Laotian restaurant called Vientiane Cafe. Our friends had suggested we meet “halfway” between their home and ours, in one of three towns: Russellville, Booneville, or Danville. I picked Danville somewhat at random, then searched online for a place to eat. As one might expect, the scope and range of luncheon options in a tiny (less than 3,000-population) town in Central Arkansas are limited. But I was pleasantly surprised to find a Lao restaurant among those options. It was an obvious choice.

We arrived just after 11:00 a.m., before the doors had been unlocked. The place looks old, decrepit, and quite frankly on its last legs. From the looks of it, it’s an old, decaying gas station that has suffered too many poor paid jobs, too much time and neglect, and not enough investment of money and heart-felt interest. Inside, an abandoned buffet-station and a few Formica-topped tables scattered around a haphazard few unused display cases contribute to a look of desolate disregard. It was obvious to me that the décor of the place has been on no one’s mind for a very long time.

The young chef/owner was in the midst of preparing lunch, we learned, for a group of high school students who soon would be let out of class. He also was making lunch for a few other people who either had phoned in their orders or were “regulars” whose lunch requirements automatically went to the top of the line. Our orders, we soon learned, would become priorities only after everyone else was fed. If we had been in a hurry, we would have been disappointed; even angry. Fortunately for all involved, we were happy to have time to simply sit and talk while meals were made for and consumed by the locals, while the tourists (we) cooled our heels. After sharing some egg rolls, having soup from the soup station, and watching hungry high-schoolers come and go, we were served a nice lunch. My IC engaged in chit-chat, as she is wont to do, with the waitress and the chef/owner and we learned a bit about the background of the owner and his family. The owner, a first-generation American, was born in San Antonio, as was the waitress (a cousin, if I recall correctly). I believe his parents arrived at Fort Chaffee, AR as refugees after the fall of Vietnam. The restaurant had been started by, and had belonged to, his mother; she had suffered an injury or illness of some kind and the young man had taken over and, shortly thereafter, was given ownership of the restaurant. COVID-19 took its toll on the business, but hard work and perseverance apparently has paid off and the tiny place is doing reasonably well again. The young guy told us he plans to change the name of the restaurant from Vientiane Cafe to Wok-Man or something like it. I think it would be a mistake to drift so far from its Lao roots, but then maybe my understanding of the preferences of rural and semi-rural Arkansans is not as clear and clean as the owner’s understanding of his customer base. I wish him and his family well. I wish, too, I could feel confident that he will maintain a close connection to his cultural and ancestral roots as he wades through Central Arkansan assimilation. But for some reason, I doubt those root will remain strong.

Yesterday was an interesting day. I already miss my friends. I long to sit with them in the evening, sipping a glass of wine or a bit of Scotch or whiskey, and talk about whatever is on our respective minds. When we’ve done that in the past, I have felt exceptionally part of an exclusive and loving “tribe.”

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My taste in music always has been quite eclectic, but in years past I listened without knowing who or what I was listening to. I could not have told you which artist sang which song, nor could I have recited lyrics to most of the songs to which I listened. Lately, though, I’ve begun listening more intently, I guess. And, in the car at least, I can see the name of the artist and the song displayed on the Sirius/XM device. Inside the house, I can ask Alexa to tell me what’s playing when something of interest pops up.

My IC and I both have noticed that we like music by groups we once essentially dismissed. Groups like Smashing Pumpkins and Pearl Jam and Red Hot Chile Peppers and The Flaming Lips. That is not to say that I have become a devotee of those bands, but I like some of the music they have recorded. Recently, I’ve found myself enamored of some more recent music by groups that, in the past, I might have dismissed out of hand. For example, I find quite interesting a rather new release by Foo Fighters, Making a Fire. But, although I love the sound of the music, the lyrics make almost no sense to me. If I extrapolate and make a thousand assumptions, I can make the music make sense, but it takes real work. Yet simply listening, I love it! Odd, isn’t it, that music can so thoroughly capture one’s emotional attention? I think one of the best ways to verify that is to listen to appealing songs sung in a foreign language with which one is unfamiliar. The words need not be understood for the emotional impact of the music to be felt.

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Once again, I got out of bed this morning just after 4. I had been awake for a good hour or more—thrashing about and coughing and otherwise behaving badly—when I finally gave up the battle and rose for the day. Fortunately, we went to bed early (about 9:30?), though my IC stayed awake until much later, I think, eyes glued to her glowing electronic device. I slept, off and on, for much of the remainder of the night until I just couldn’t stay in bed anymore. I have an imaginary dream that I go to bed at a reasonable hour and sleep comfortably and soundly for a solid seven hours; it’s a fantasy is what it is. A stinking fantasy.

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Last night, for a good hour or two before we went to bed, I was in the mood to drink an Irish coffee. Unfortunately, I have no Irish whiskey in the house; plus, we’ve both sworn off drinking alcohol for a while, intent on retreating in size and weight to a time before, when we were svelt. The real way to do that, of course, is to get more exercise. And I can’t get much more exercise until I solve my problem with stamina. Some days, I feel strongly that I should abandon efforts to look like and be like someone else and simply allow myself to be me—the decadent, corpulent, passionate, food-loving gourmand that I am. Deep down inside me. But abandoning those efforts could lead me to outgrowing clothes at a record pace; that’s too damn expensive.

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I spent an obscene amount of money on new glasses recently. I should have the new lenses in my old frames and the two new identical pairs of sunglasses soon. Prescription eyewear for people whose vision is like mine is more than a little expensive. It is like buying ten-carat diamonds instead of lenses. It is like investing in hundred-pound blocks of crypto-currency (yeah, I know that’s absurd…deal with it). I will not look different. I will simply feel different. And, especially in the car, I will be able to see better when driving in the direction of the setting (or rising) sun.

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I could go on, of course. But I won’t. I won’t touch on my unhappy and unsuccessful experience with Walgreen’s yesterday. I don’t write about my displeasure with myself for continuing to put off “putting things away.” I won’t address a thousand other crinkly things that make me feel like crumpled aluminum foil has been stuffed inside my brain just to annoy me. Instead, I’ll stop writing for now. Back to the salt mines.

The clock tells me it’s not yet 4:30 a.m., almost an hour after I finally gave up in my fight to breathe and sleep at the same time. Now, sitting upright, I can breathe through my nose again. An hour ago, I felt like I was struggling for every breath, whether through my nose or through my mouth.

Notwithstanding the wonderful Greek avgolemono soup and pastitsio dinner (topped off with an extraordinary baklava dessert) we had with friends last night, I woke up about 1:30, very hungry. And starved for oxygen, but that’s another story.  I have done nothing to assuage my desire for food. Instead, I’ve stoked my gustatory libido with a cup of coffee. And I suppose I’ll have more coffee before I have food. Ach! What a fine meal that was!  In line with the known preferences of at least one of last night’s dinner partners, I have a taste this morning for the offerings of a charcuterie board. I envision a board filled with sliced meats, cheeses, olives, hard crackers, nuts, various mustards, and a sampling of other goodies. The contents of the board normally would call out for wine, but it’s a tad early in the day for that. Plus, my IC and I have avoided alcohol for more than a week in an effort to jump-start a bit of a weight-loss regimen. Yeah, and a charcuterie board probably is not on that “diet,” either. Small steps. Everything in moderation.

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In spite of my desire to understand others’ perspectives before making judgments about their motives, I often fail to even attempt understanding. Instead, I make assumptions about why people behave as they do. Often, those assumptions carry with them deeply judgmental attitudes that are, at best, extremely uncharitable. For example, I am biased against people who refuse to get vaccinated or to wear masks as a means of minimizing the likelihood of spreading COVID-19. People who refuse both tend to bear the full force of my sanctimonious wrath. While my indignation may seem almost a coveted badge of honor, in the general context of my personality, I am embarrassed by it. Until I have made a serious attempt to see the world from another person’s vantage point, my dismissal of his or her position on anything of consequence is ill-informed and capricious; it is inexcusable. And my incomplete understanding of another’s position on such matters is just as blind and pig-headed as I judge their opposing point of view to be.

To be clear, understanding another’s perspectives on masks and vaccinations does not mean that I will agree with or adopt those perspectives. Understanding does not equate to endorsement. But understanding the philosophical foundations of an opposing view is absolutely necessary if one’s opposition to those views is the carry any legitimate weight. So, to dismiss a refusal to wear a mask or get a vaccination is evidence of “stupidity” or “blind political allegiance to an idiotic mental framework,” without getting in the head of the person refusing those measures is dangerous. Failure to examine all vantage points weakens opposing arguments. And the obviously harshly judgmental language I used in the preceding sentence does not help keep conversations about the matter calm and rational.

But, God, is it ever hard not to simply write off—as grossly mentally deficient—the people who seem oblivious to overwhelming scientific evidence about COVID-19! It is damn hard to figure out their perspective. But it is possible. I’ve found, for example, that many “deniers” simply do not trust, nor do they believe, government. Many people do not believe the numbers of deaths attributed to COVID-19 are legitimate. They attribute ulterior motives to medical reports about pandemic-related deaths. And these same people do not believe scientists know enough to make judgments about best approaches to the pandemic. Many deniers have seen, in their views, too many about-face decisions about matters such as: mask-wearing versus bare-faces; the necessity of means of virus avoidance (like washing every piece of fruit and every container that crosses a home’s threshhold); etc., etc. In their view, science is either pure truth of pure fantasy; there is no room for incremental understanding of something even as new and unknown as the virus that brings us COVID-19.

It is not enough to assume, with presumptuous dismissal, that those beliefs are mindless. They are not. They have a basis. The basis may arguably be invalid, but it is a basis that must be acknowledged if one is truly to understand the positions. Understanding is not enough, either. Again, acknowledgement, is critical.  Treating an opposing position as having at least some legitimacy is vital. If there is any question about that, I would challenge anyone on “my” side of the argument to consider their reactions to “deniers” calling us “sheep” or otherwise treating our beliefs as invalid and as evidence of our stupidity.

Okay. Rationally, I get my arguments about judging “deniers” and I believe them. But I have a much harder time with them in practice. I admire people who can remain calm in the face of bitter and frenzied disagreement in the context of name-calling and contempt. I admire people who can maintain their composure even in circumstances in which their intelligence or sanity is being loudly and openly questioned or ridiculed.

The next step is to become of those people I admire. I keep trying, but I keep falling short. I just have to keep trying.

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I could go on writing here for days, I think. I am in a conversational mood at this early hour. Now, the clock reads 4:43 (I keep shifting paragraphs around, so this post is not being written in chronological order).

There are few people I think I could call at this hour, just to talk, and have a reasonable expectation that I would not be rejected out of hand. I do not know why that is, although I do try to understand the perspective. If I were to get a call in the wee hours from anyone I know, I suspect I would answer and plan to talk as long as necessary. My assumption would be that the caller needs me to be there, so I would be obliged to be there. I’ve never, to my recollection, had such a late-night or early-morning call, but I’m pretty sure I know me and that I’d take it without complaint.  But my interest in conversation this morning is not a need; it’s just a fancy. In an ideal world, I’d have a friend who likes to go out for coffee and pastries in the wee hours; and, in that same ideal world, there would be a place to go in the wee hours for such a repast. Alas, the ideal world melted into the ether of time sometime in the early part of the last century, I think. Perhaps I belong in a different era; an era in which personal social engagement with like-minded insomniacs was sufficient reason to explore the night.

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Be slow to fall into friendship; but when thou art in, continue firm and constant.

~ Socrates ~

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This morning, we are driving to a small town about fifty miles away, where we will have lunch with a couple of very good friends I’ve known for well over forty years. We’ll meet at a Laotian restaurant in this tiny town and catch up with one another after too much time and too little interaction between us. I have few friends with whom I feel absolutely comfortable sleeping in their homes and to them sleeping in mine. These people are such friends. I would, of course, welcome others to my home—and have done many times—but these are friends who, when they enter my house, are just as much at home as when they are in their own house. They do not need to ask for something to eat; they can raid the refrigerator or the pantry. They do not need to ask for a blanket; they can scrounge around and find one. They are home when they are here. At least I hope that’s how they feel. That’s the way I want any good friend to feel. Completely at home in my house. I wonder whether that’s simply a romantic notion? I don’t think so. I have come to recognize, after far too much time, that I have more friends than I once thought. I am slow to warm up to people—probably a vestige of an earlier need to protect myself from emotional injury—but increasingly I am finding that, once I do, the world brightens a little. I will never be particularly social; I much prefer to listen than to talk (writing is my way of “talking”). But I do enjoy conversation in the right circumstances, even though I might seem invisible in many settings.

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All right, world. I am ready to face you even as the clock continues to plod along, ever so slowly, toward 5:30. My IC probably won’t be up for at least an hour and a half, maybe two hours, so I have considerable more solitude and seclusion to keep me sane for a bit longer. Perhaps I’ll have more coffee. Oh, a sweet roll would be good. Maybe a leftover baklava would be even better! I can sit and absorb a caffeine and sugar boost, right here in my private nest.

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Oh, good morning, Ducky! You’re probably up by now, yes 🙂

After yesterday’s almost summer-like temperatures, today’s high is forecast to reach only 73°F. The forecast calls for virtually no chance of rain. A light breeze should make the moderate temperatures feel cooler, by a degree or two, than the “real feel” temperatures discussed by some television meteorologists. In other words, we might as well be in Hawaii or Ajijic or the Canary Islands or San Diego. But, instead, we reside in the Natural State; Arkansas, United States of America.

Today’s weather is compensation for last last’s howling winds and piercing NOAA weather-radio reminders that we were under a tornado watch. The screams of the radio interrupted my inadequate sleep more than once, but I have grown so used to them that I do not even try to listen carefully to the subsequent alerts, most of which are clogged with static and unrelated noise. It’s highly possible I could ignore a tornado warning of “take cover now!” failing to take heed of the warnings I paid to hear when I bought the radio more than seven years ago.

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Time sails by at incomprehensible speed. Or is it Time? What robs us of experiences, leaving reality to memories and causing us to grip the sides of the roller-coaster we ride at breakneck speed as we reach the summit and plummet, ever-faster, toward hard, unforgiveable ground? What leaves us breathless in disbelief that so much experience in our memories could have taken place in such a short period? And, then, to realize that the vehicle has no brakes; only an accelerator pedal that senses pressure even when there is none?

Mortality lumbers through every day, its pace growing slower by the hour as we are forced to watch it shuffle by and stare at us. As if we constitute its next appointment. I wonder whether there is a physica-spiritual connection between Mortality and Time. That is, do the laws of physics intersect with what I’ll call our “spiritual” dimensions, so that we observe Time through a spiritually-influenced lens? It’s probably all physics, but we have learned so little about how physics and chemistry present themselves in the form of emotions. We have to rely on spirituality to explain the inexplicable. So, we make things up about experiences or wishes or fears we do not understand. It makes sense, but it smells a little like magic.

I loathe the concept of mortality, at least where my family and friends and I come in. There is no place for it in a truly happy existence, all the philosophical arguments to the contrary notwithstanding. The most spectacular joy need not be emphasized by contrast to the most excruciating agony; it’s simply not necessary. But that seems to be the way it goes. Exultation seems to require disconsolate grief for verification of its validity and strength.  The concept is similar to “you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” Well, unless you take “what you got” for granted, that may be true. But if you value everything that matters and acknowledge that value regularly, you “know what you’ve got.” And you cherish it. So I say on this Monday morning in late October, 2021. How did such a long span of year simply vaporize into fragmented memories that seem disconnected and fuzzy and without beginning or end? How, indeed.

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I am extremely fortunate in almost every way. I have enough health, enough wealth, enough desire, and enough attraction to keep me from sinking into the abyss. That’s all we really need. “Enough.” Enough of whatever keeps us reasonably safe and sufficiently content to want to get up in the morning to explore what the day has to offer.

Almost everything could be better, of course. Better health, more wealth, more passion, and more appeal. But, given the limitations on every aspect of who I am, I feel extremely lucky. I feel equally as bereft at times, though; every time my late wife’s memory floods my brain, tears flood my eyes. But perhaps I was wrong about the need for contrast in our emotions in order to emphasize the extremes. Maybe those hard, harsh, almost intolerable pokes with sharp weapons are necessary to illustrate just how healing those physical and mental strokes are.

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I could go on about this all day long. But I do not have time. I have an appointment with an ENT doctor this morning (probably wasted time, if my past experience is any indication) and I have to go grocery shopping early enough to get the ingredients for what I hope will be a spectacular Greek salad. So, it’s off to more coffee and action, action, action!

It doesn’t pay to get up at 4 in the morning, though it’s one of my favorite times of day. This morning, I awoke to the sound of whistling wind and loud wind-chimes, noises that triggered all manner of thoughts in my head. For some reason, one of the thoughts that flooded my sleep-logged brain was my history of television-watching; that I enjoyed it but that it has become more than a bit of an opiate.

Ever since we recently finished watching the series, Homeland, the original which concluded in April a year ago, the television-based tension of our evenings has been converted to the silliness of Schitt’s Creek. It took a number of episodes for me to overcome my aversion to the slapstick nature of the series, but I finally eased into it enough to enjoy it; even the abject absurdity of the ongoing premise of the comedy. That acceptance notwithstanding, I long for something dramatically powerful and absorbing like How to Get Away with Murder or Lupin or Borderliner or Hinterland or…whatever. Whether through the television screen or the pages of a book, I feel a need in the evenings to have my interest captured in some way that requires little of me, other than willing submission. I want to be entertained and engaged through no effort on my part. Even though I enjoyed the Joe Bonamassa concert in Little Rock a few weeks ago and I look forward to a getaway to Galveston in the near future, I seem to prefer my entertainment poured into my head, while I sit in a chair and drink it in.

The attitude of wanting to be entertained rather than to create my own entertainment is more than a little bothersome. I think it’s healthier to enjoy a mixture of different types of entertainment and engagement. One’s mind can become stagnant and his intellectual flexibility rigid and brittle if he depends too much on a single form of escape. Even entertainment in the form of reading or walking can become a mind-numbing anesthetic if we let it.

I keep thinking about “doing” something instead of “watching” something, but to date I’ve done little about it. Art of some form keeps bubbling up in my mind: stained glass, sculpture of some kind, painting…even whittling. I simply must get off my duff and do something about breaking out of my personal cage.

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The wind this morning is more than a little brisk. According to my computer’s weather data, the temperature is a rather balmy 68°F and the wind is blowing at 11 miles per hour with occasional gusts up to 16 mph. If any nearby neighbors slept with their windows open last night, I suspect they are cursing my wind chimes at this hour.

Not long after I got up and made my first cup of coffee, I heard a rather loud crash outside on the deck. I turned on the light and went out to explore, but saw nothing untoward. I suppose I’ll have to wait until daylight to find out what made the racket. My guess, now, is that a branch from a nearby tree blew down, causing a noisy commotion before sliding off the deck onto the ground far below. Just in case the noise had been made by my IC—perhaps she had fallen out of the dangerously high bed—I turned off the kitchen light and opened the bedroom door to check on her. I found her lying in bed, wearing her glasses and looking at a glowing electronic device. No, the noise was not her. But I think I convinced her to go back to sleep.

Knowing I was not the only conscious human in the house at that moment changed the texture of the morning for me. I don’t know quite what it is that solidifies solitude’s hold  has on me, but I discover in such instances that being alone with my thoughts in the early morning hours is very much a part of it. I get distracted simply by knowing that someone else is awake in “my space.” I can be alone in a motel room, knowing that people in the next room are awake, and that’s fine; being alone in a house, knowing that people in the next room are awake, scrambles my serenity for some reason. Perhaps it’s my madness at play.

+++

Not long ago—when my IC and I were in the early stages of our ongoing efforts to pare down our belongings so we can both fit in this house—I finally parted with my 30-plus-year-old espresso maker. I very rarely used it, primarily because I was never satisfied with the espresso I made with it. I think the problem was the coffee beans I used; either not the right roast or insufficiently finely-ground. And, of course, the metal and plastic components of a cheap thirty-year-old device like that can impart off-flavors to edibles or drinkables that contact its elderliness. Whatever, I gave it away to Habit for Humanity. Someone else will use the machine and will find it an inadequate stand-in for access to wannabe espresso.

All of this leads up to my wish for some espresso this morning. I have never been to the Starbucks in Hot Springs, nor to Red Light Roastery nor to any other coffee-hawking establishment. And, given that it’s Sunday in the Bible Belt, it’s probably illegal for them to be open; certainly, it would be considered immoral for them to be open at this hour. But I wish I could look forward to a leisurely drive to a place where the scent of strong coffee would embrace me on this windy morning. I would love to sit inside a little shop, next to big picture windows, and watch the wind tear the leaves from the trees outside, as I sit sipping my third or fourth double- or triple-espresso. Alas, I live in a place and time where such dreams are delusions.

+++

The morning does hold promise, though, for something special. My sister-in-law brought me an avocado the other morning, a post-birthday surprise. This morning, I shall cut it open, scoop out its flesh, and sprinkle a little fresh lime juice on it as I smash it into a smooth paste. Then, I will paint it on a piece of rye toast (and a piece of oat-nut toast for my IC) as an introduction to breakfast. Avocado toast, in spite of its reputation as evidence of outlandishly decadent millennials’ attitudes about life, is wonderful. With just a hint of Kosher salt (or any of its flavorful relatives), it becomes a delight beyond words. And a little later this morning, that’s exactly what will happen. Hallelujah! Joy of Man’s Desiring!

+++

I received a three-page hand-written letter yesterday from my “pen-pal,” a beautiful young woman who lives in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Though I’ve only met her once for just a few hours, more than six years ago, I’ve stayed in occasional touch with her through Facebook and, within the last year, by exchanging letters. Hers are lovely examples of beautiful handwriting and openly-shared emotions—both pleasant and painful—and mine are my normal manic-depressive blather produced on a printer (because neither my printing nor my handwriting are legible). Yesterday’s letter to me came roughly seven months after my last one to her. The delay in responding did not bother me in the least; in fact, I did not expect a reply because I thought our exchange of letters was a simple “blip” in the  young woman’s meandering mind; trying something different to jump-start her interactions with the world around her. But, after receiving her letter, I realized how personal has been the information we’ve shared. And I feel like we may have become a little like life rafts to one another. Not close friends, but strangers willing to listen, without judgment, to what causes heartbreak and joy and pain.

I find it interesting that I call her a “young woman.” I think she must be in her early forties; maybe not quite that old (I am terrible at judging ages). Regardless of her age, she is quite pretty. Blonde with blue eyes and the face of a Slovakian model (she is from Bratislava, Slovakia, the hometown of my niece…the one married to the nephew who lives in Ohio). And I call her young. Because she is. Especially compared to me. And reading her letter, I realize she thinks young, which is another thing about her I find quite attractive. I like people who continue to think young as they mature. My IC, who has a teen-aged grandson, thinks young, too. I know other people of like ages who seem to have abandoned their youth in favor of the drudgery of deliberate and perpetual mental decay. Ach! Such a terrible bondage!

At any rate, I look forward to writing a long letter in response to my young friend. It may take some time, but the letter I write will respond in depth to hers and will add some of my own thoughts and will reveal some of my own emotions. Perhaps a connection with a geezer who aspires for youthful engagement will be good for her. I know already a connection with a young and intelligent searcher is good for me.

+++

I am thinking and learning, at this very late point in my life, about the value of microscopically close friendships. By that, I mean friendships with close, intimate connections that are limited to slivers of one’s experiences. These friendships may not touch on anything but a miniscule fragment of the lives of two people, but those fragments mesh together so well the two people feel momentarily quite close to one another. I’ve only given a name to what I now call microscopically close friendships just this morning. But I’ve thought about them for months. They are surprisingly valuable, though admittedly brittle and not necessarily long-lived, links to other lives. These links expose slices of oneself that one did not necessarily know existed. They prompt self-reflection in areas of one’s life either ignored or misunderstood in the past. Given that I’ve only named these relationships this morning, I think I need more time to reflect on them before I write much more about them. But I shall, one day. I consider my relationship with my pen-pal one such microscopically close friendship. That is true even though the two of us probably would not recognize one another if we passed in the street. This bears more thought. More consideration. More exploration. What if the only friendships I have are microscopically close? What if some of them are broader than others, but still just microscopically close? I mean knowing someone deeply in just one or two or three areas and remaining blissfully distant and unaware of the rest of a person’s personality.

+++

I’ve dawdled too much this morning. Spent too much time thinking, with my fingers resting softly on the keyboard without allowing the weight of my hands to press down on the keys. I think that may be my way of meditating; keeping my hands in contact with the keyboard, but with such a light touch that ideas flow through my fingers, but do not cause the keys to be pressed. Regardless, it’s time for me to stop this and go on about my day. Up next: avocado toast.

+++

Good morning, by the way. I love you. You know who you are. 😉

Reinventing oneself is not only possible, it is necessary. Reclaiming the fresh components of one’s ability to contribute to the world around us—those intellectual structures that led to the earliest evidence of our uniqueness—is vital. Reinvention need not involve trips to the gym or sprints on the treadmill or daily jogs on city streets or country roads; it can constitute, instead, a complete reordering of the manner in which one’s brain cell’s interact with one another and with the world at large. Reinvention does not require a transformation of the physical body—although that may well be a component of one’s plan for understanding and expressing ourselves anew—but it does demand a reordering of the brain’s processes. It necessitates a rebirth of the way in which we perceive ourselves, the space and time in which we live, and how we engage with the world around us. In short, reinvention compels us to shatter the old formulae that drive us and to emerge, newly-formed, from the dust of those broken pieces.

Without periodic renewal, we don’t simply mature. We decay.

Too often, discussions of “reinvention” conjure trite motivational platitudes. Real reinvention strips away the banality of platitude and replaces it with flesh borne of experience and deep aspiration. Reinvention recognizes the danger of stagnation. And it strives to balance heart-pounding risk with almost unimaginable emotional comfort. Reinvention both protects us from decomposition and rot and promises a salve to relieve the wounds caused by fighting battles with life and its warriors.

Reinvention does not always announce itself in advance, it often expresses itself after the fact. It “suddenly” appears, like a new sun rising with its sister in the morning; or another moon pairing with its brother, brightening the night sky. Reinvention reminds me of the way snakes shed their skin, leaving the remnants of a tired, worn existence as evidence that the shackles of time can be released and left behind.

One day, I hope to have the courage and the stamina to reorder the way my mind works. I hope to change myself enough so that I can see a new man within my body and my brain. I hope to see myself in a new way, clearly understanding the time and opportunities left to me in this unforgiving world. I have never been satisfied with myself during this first iteration of who I am and who I have been. If ever I have the wherewithal to make my reinvention take place, I expect it to smash the already broken pieces into dust—the ones that clash with the twists and bends of their environment—and to remold them into something shaped more like the smooth curves of the world.

+++

The other evening, after I got the phone call from my doctor’s APRN telling me to go to the ER right away, it occurred to me that I have yet to update my Directive to Physicians. The reason I thought about that is that the nurse expressed to me that, if I had a pulmonary embolism (which she thought possible), I could die suddenly and without warning. It occurred to me that I had not formally gone on notice to the world at large that, in the event I ever were sick or injured in a way that required heroic life-saving measures to keep me alive, I would not want to be kept alive by artificial means. So, just in case, I sent an email to my siblings, expressing my wishes (though I feel sure they already knew).

This morning, as I was looking through the contents of the bowels of my billfold, I found a little card with the following words printed on it:

To My Family, My Physician and Any Hospital (Living Will)

If there is no reasonable expectation of my recovery from extreme physical or mental disability…

I direct that I be allowed to die and not be kept alive by artificial means and heroic measures. I ask that medication be mercifully administered to me for terminal suffering even though this may shorten my remaining life.

I hope that you who care for me will feel morally bound to act in accordance with this urgent request.

The card bears my signature and the signatures of two witnesses. On the back of the card is a space for an emergency contact to be identified; it is blank. I suppose I should fill it in. It’s been six years since I signed that little card.

Such little formalities can make life much easier on people faced with gut-wrenching decisions.

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I remain angry with Western Civilization. My anger, at the moment, rests on the fact that men who carry purses are looked on with derision. They are laughed at, thought of as “pansies” (to use an old phrase that’s probably still in use among some groups),  their masculinity is questioned, and they are otherwise treated with no respect. I am too weak to go against the grain; otherwise, I would carry a bag (I probably wouldn’t call it a purse for reasons unrelated to masculinity considerations). I envision a cross-shoulder strap with a hook or connector of some kind to which a small pouch could be connected. Inside the pouch (if I were to carry one) would be my billfold, cell phone, car keys, pocket knife, small notepad, breath mints, and any other small odds and ends I might regularly need or want to have with me. Restaurants and cafes would install at every seat a small, unobtrusive hook from which the pouch (or purse) could be hung to keep it out of the way and safe from bag-snatchers.

But our society does not encourage or endorse this. And that angers me. And it angers me even more than I allow myself to be swayed by idiotic societal practices that preclude me from carrying a bag. One day, I may well reinvent myself into someone who relishes the idea of shattering stupid social norms into a thousand pieces and crushing them under my heels.

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Enough of this. I am hungry. It’s a weekend. I may celebrate by having a breakfast not suited to normal “workday” consumption.

Here it is, the day after my birthday. As always, I feel a little let down by it, as is always the case. They do not merit the anticipation they sew in the weeks and days leading up to them. They approach with the promise of blaring trumpets and exciting celebrations. But they arrive with whispers and they depart with whimpers. Non-events, they are, billed as earth-shaking experiences. But we treat them as if they were measures of progress, cast in silver and set in stone. Birthdays measure progress as precisely as clouds measure the light in the sky.

I have long said birthdays constitute artificial mileposts based on a misunderstanding of time and distance. We do not know how long we have been aware of our own individuality. From the start, our consciousness assumed we were appendages attached to our mothers—or that our mothers were appendages attached to us. We can only guess how far we have come and how far we have yet to go in our journey. Because we cannot recall the starting point and cannot fathom where it might end. Yet we stumble and bumble our ways through the unknown, always pretending we follow a road map of our own making.

Birthdays measure time with smoke and distance with mirrors.

I like a quotation about aging, attributed to Frances McDormand:

My position has always been that the way people age and the signs that we show of aging is nature’s way of tattooing. It’s natural scarification, and the life you lead gives you the symbols and the emblems of your life, the road map you followed.

~ Frances McDormand ~

Of course the road map rarely is one of our own making. It is one beset with dead end trails and stretches of long, lonely highways that turn out to be culs-de-sac hidden by billboards. But birthdays do give us some record of where we’ve been or how we got where we are. I like the idea of natural scarification, in the form aging has taken on one’s mind and body, being equivalent to tattoos. But, God, those tattoos can be indescribably, excruciatingly painful. Sometimes, I think death would be preferable to the perpetual pain of the tattoo needle.

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I am inherently lonely. Lonely in a way impossible to shake, no matter who I am with nor what I am doing. The older I get—birthdays notwithstanding—the lonelier I get, as if I am moving further and further away from something central to who I am. No one can cure this loneliness I feel; it is a more a part of me than I am a part of myself. There was a time when I thought I had escaped loneliness, but I was wrong. It was just a temporary misinterpretation of who I was at the time; I thought I was part of a larger whole, rather than simply a disconnected fragment.

These thoughts come to me late at night, hours after I have gone to bed and to sleep. Last night, I awoke four hours after going to bed quite early. In the wee hours, my loneliness stared at me in the mirror, through bleary eyes. It was as if I could see it, physically, as it mocked me for being unable to understand why it follows me wherever I go. Odd, the sense that my loneliness might be a physical being, an entity apart from me yet very much a part of me. It is difficult to put into words how these thoughts come to me. They are not incoherent musings of a man half-asleep. Rather, they are crisp, clear expressions of reality; understanding that comes in the form of intense intellectual self-examination.

Perhaps the loneliness arises from my inability to share these intense experiences with anyone. Oh, there have been times—two or three times—when I was able to share. In those moments I felt the loneliness subside. But those rare moments are long gone. Now, my attempts to share my experiences are limited to sharing them with myself by way of writing about them; it is never sufficient, never adequate in that I cannot capture the intensity of the experience in words. Words tend to be laden with emotion, whereas these experiences might seem emotion-laden, but they are not. Instead, they lack emotion entirely; they are made entirely of factual observation.

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It’s time for the day-after to begin in earnest. I’ve been up for a couple of hours; I wish I’d been up for a couple more. I sometimes need more solitary time than I give myself. I give that time to myself in the early morning hours. Getting up earlier is the way to do that. But even going to bed early doesn’t always allow me all the early morning awake time I need. I have to figure that out.

Onward to face the day-after-birthday sunlight.

Yesterday was too complex, too convoluted, too laced with stress and unexpected sharp left turns into the unknown to be a good day. But it had its moments. I do not condemn yesterday for its flaws. I appreciate the day for turning out far better than it could have done.

A blood test that had been delayed from the day before (due to a technician’s absence) started the day. The intent of the test was to determine the potential for the existence of a blood clot in one or both of my lungs (pulmonary embolism). The origin of the need for the test is too involved to worry with here.

By the end of the day, thanks to a flood of unexpected news and wildly frenetic brain activity, I had forgotten about the test; the technician told me when she drew my blood, though, that the results would be available to the APRN late in the day. But I forgot, thanks to an earlier wash of mind-blowing news.

My IC, who earlier had been experiencing some pain in  her lower back, had felt the pain much more acutely. Her doctor’s office referred her, by phone, to another office that took an X-ray yesterday morning; the X-ray suggested a need for a more precise image, so a CT scan was done. The CT-scan revealed a kidney stone, a bizarre finding in that my own painful experiences of late had been caused by the same thing. We spent the day in mental confusion about the matter. I figured we would talk to the urologist this morning (during my appointment to remove the stent installed during what I believe was my nephrolithotripsy), if possible, about when he could see her to determine what could be done about her kidney stone.

Late in the day, during an early dinner of an order-in Japanese meal, I got a call from my the APRN who had ordered the blood test I had taken early in the day.  She strongly recommended I go, immediately, to the ER for evaluation and any necessary reaction to the results of the blood test. She said the test suggested the likelihood that I had a blood clot in my lung. I suggested I should wait until this morning, when I will be at the hospital for the removal of my stent. “This trumps that procedure,” she said, and told me a blood clot in my lung could cause my “sudden death.” We decided to follow her advice. So off we went to the ER.

Between three and a half and four hours later, the results were in: no pulmonary embolism was found. A number of other potentially troubling findings suggested a need to visit with my cardiologist sooner rather than later, but I could safely return home without expecting to die in my sleep last night. And the fact that I’m writing this offers evidence that, indeed, did not happen.

We got home sometime around 10 (I think). We made the bed (the sheets in the drier were going to be put on the bed after dinner, but that plan got derailed) and went to bed. In a short while, we will head back into town for my stent-removal procedure. And we will consider next steps for my IC’s kidney stone adventure.

Aside from all the stuff I’ve outlined above, yesterday was full of plenty of other frenzied activities (just less frightful). I prefer days with less drama and fewer sharp twists and turns, but yesterday’s outcome made the drama a little less troublesome. I finished the day yesterday with an appreciation of—and longing for—boredom. And I awoke this morning with the same appreciation of—and wish for—a long, boring stretch of the same.

Today, we have reason to celebrate, even in the shadow of circumstances we’d rather not have to plow through. And celebrate we shall.

Yesterday, my IC and I went for a walk by one of the area lakes. The clear blue sky and the crisp morning temperatures were the lures that got us lakeside. We weren’t the only ones on the level trail, but the relative paucity of other walkers make the experience especially refreshing. My stamina remains extremely low and thin, so we trudged along at a slow pace and stopped at a couple of benches along the way, pausing long enough to soak in the serenity crafted by calm water and the occasional call of water birds. A couple of fishermen in bass boats were visible in the middle of the lake and a couple more near distant shores. Walking along the water, and sitting near the water’s edge, made us both long to live in a lakeside home. I think I would be satisfied with a small cottage, provided it was sufficiently secluded; I think she would be happier with a larger place. Our preferences don’t really matter, though; the cost of a lakeside home is out of reach for us, me especially. I am unwilling to get into levels of debt that would rob me of the serenity a lakeside home might provide. We can be satisfied, I think, with the knowledge that lakes are nearby and the serenity of a lakeside walk is just a short drive away.

Yesterday’s experience brought to mind the unfortunate fact that, in our society, money is required to gain access to so much of what we value personally. Peaceful environments, comfortable houses, access to amenities like shopping, entertainment and the like, and so much more require money. And our wishes and dreams and desires seem so often to be just beyond our financial reach. Yet, with the proper attitudes, we could adjust our perspectives so that we look with appreciation on what is readily available to us, rather than with envy on what is not.

The older I get, the more disenchanted I get with a culture that molds our wants and needs around the financial desires of business. We’re coached by advertising and marketing into what we should desire: we want the latest gadgetry, the newest trends in clothing, the most fashionable footwear, the biggest houses, the most up-to-date automobiles, the latest trends in home décor, etc., etc., etc. With just a bit of self-reflection and introspection, I think we’d all be much less inclined to be herded like sheep into commercial chutes to buy, buy, buy, buy. Knowing this, though, and allowing the knowledge to transform our lives are quite different. Though I feel, deep in my bones, that consumerism is, by and large, a nasty virus that ruins the serenity of living in—and being satisfied with—the here and now, I regularly get roped in by the consumerism and commercialization I know is trying to control me. I want, want, want, want, want, succumbing to the desires injected into my  mind-stream by savvy marketers. It’s not a simple matter of rejecting their subtle forms of mind control; it requires a concerted effort and a commitment to rejecting buying for the sake of buying.

So, back to wanting a quiet, secluded, bucolic lakeside house. It’s all a matter of priorities. Must this house be large? What attributes must it have? How many bedrooms? How much land must it sit on? Must is be ON a lake or would a place just “up the road” from a lake do? Must the place be outfitted with the latest fashions in home décor? How close must it be to entertainment? With respect to the latter, priorities have to be established: which is most important, seclusion or access to a bustling environment? There are so many aspects surrounding what is important in one’s life; all of them must be considered and prioritized and evaluated in light of available resources and how much of those resources one is willing to expend to achieve those priorities. I think these decisions should be made in one’s youth and should guide one’s life. But youth is not suited to such decision-making. Youth is a time of trial and error. Too often, it is a repeating circle of the same trials and errors. By the time we reach retirement, we find we haven’t make the commitments to self-knowledge necessary to knowing what we want and need and require for contentment.

And so it goes.

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I think health challenges tend to cause us to reset our priorities, or at least to reexamine them. It makes sense; without our health, living contentedly with whatever priorities we have been able to reach becomes difficult, if not impossible. It’s too bad we don’t find it easier to reset and/or reexamine priorities without being prompted to do it by urgent health concerns.

As the following words of Phoebe Snow illustrate, I am not along in thinking along these lines:

Sometimes when you’re overwhelmed by a situation— when you’re in the darkest of darkness—that’s when your priorities are reordered.

~ Phoebe Snow ~

I think it would make good sense for every person to start each day with a ritual of sorts (despite my previous expressions of aversion to ritual). This ritual would have us first restate for ourselves our own most pressing personal priorities. Then, we would articulate specifically how we are going to pursue the most important of these for that specific day. Finally, we would commit to examining, the next day, how we did in that pursuit. It sounds simplistic, and it is, but that process could help us stick with priorities, rather than letting them disappear into the mist of day-by-day living. And it could help us discover which priorities really have meaning for us and which are simply window dressing that we might be better off by shedding.

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The last several days have been strange, to say the least. After spending most of the day last Thursday waiting for the procedure to remove a kidney stone, I seemed to have plunged into a labyrinthine cage of delirium. Though I remember most of what I thought and felt during the time between Friday and Monday morning, the images I recall seem like fictions I read about, rather than realities I experienced. My memories include pain, coughing spasms, deep depression, confusion, constipation, and groups of people who I tried to convince to join me in forming financial collaboratives. None of these things seemed connected to the others, though they all formed part of a web that appeared interrelated in some way. The complexities of the illusions, delusions, whatever…were impossible for me to understand. Apparently, this odd miasma was not just in my head, either; things I said to others were just as bizarre and disturbing. And one truly troubling thing I remember was thinking, “if this is the way my life is going to be, I want to end it.”

Until yesterday morning, the only thing I had to eat between Thursday evening and yesterday morning, was a piece of cold pizza on Friday morning. I had no appetite whatsoever. I did not even want to drink coffee. Despite the admonition that I should drink a lot of water after the procedure, I could drink only a sip or two at a time until yesterday.

The experience was incredibly odd. Yet none of the drugs I took for the pain, etc. seems a  likely culprit to have created the wild mental storm that took me in its winds during much of those three or so days. Finally, though, the storm subsided yesterday. I saw my primary care doctor’s nurse practitioner yesterday afternoon; she was stumped by the weirdness of it all, too. But, again, the storm is over, I think. I have to go back in Thursday to a stent removed; perhaps, with that, the episode will be nothing but a frightening memory. I hope so.

I feel like I lost several days while swimming in a black hole. I have no idea what took place in my world while I was “out.” I remember what took place in my mind, but not much else outside of it.

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The whirlwind of experiences that were not expected to, or supposed to, happen has left me more than a little stumped and confused. For the moment, at least, I do not feel compelled to or even able to write much more. Suddenly, this morning, I realize this blog is not my life and my life is not this blog. But it will be here, waiting for me, when I am ready to write more. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now, maybe longer. Time will tell.

The visit to the urologist to remove a kidney stone was not the quick and easy process I expected. An anticipated quick trip that would last no more than two hours turned into an all-day affair, beginning around 10:15 and finishing up just before 5:00 p.m. In hindsight, it was simply a matter of managing expectations, both on my part and on the part of the urologist’s nurse. Not a major deal, just a much longer experience than I’d planned.

It was fortunate that my IC had decided to put the loveable beast in doggie day care. And it was fortunate that we had asked my sister-in-law to be available to pick him up in the event we were longer than expected. It was almost noon by the time I had been directed to outpatient check-in in the hospital, where the procedure would be performed; I had assumed it would be done in a “surgical” suite in the urologist’s office. However, I believe I was wheeled into the hospital’s procedure room—where, thankfully, I was sedated—some time after 2:00 p.m. I was taken from the post-op recovery room to the holding room for soon-to-be-released patients around 4:00 p.m. We left for home around 5, after my IC went to get three prescriptions filled at the pharmacy located in the medical center building. I had told the staff of the hospital I wanted Walgreen’s in the Village to handle any prescriptions; unfortunately, Walgreen’s shut down their pharmacy for the day (and perhaps longer) when they could not secure sufficient staff to keep it open.

Ultimately, all seemed well. I was given a couple of pain pills and another prescription for who knows what and given advice on ways to minimize discomfort, etc. And I was advised to call the urologist’s office on Monday to set up an appointment later in the week (Tuesday, I hope) to remove the stent inserted into my ureter. We’ll see.  All in all, I feel fortunate that I was able to get in when I did and that I did not experience excruciating pain that can accompany problems with kidney stones.

That was yesterday. Last night, though, things changed. I woke repeatedly during the night with an urge to pee. When I got out of bed, the urge amplified a thousand-fold; I was afraid I would not make it to the bathroom. Fortunately, I did. But just barely. Between these bouts, I had bizarre dreams involving a failure to reconcile financial records. During trips to the bathroom, I felt certain these financial records would cause a financial institution to come crashing down. I moaned during the night. I kept my IC awake. I kept myself awake; just not coherent enough to make any sense of the records. Bizarre, indeed.

Finally, I woke up this morning around 9:00 a.m. I’ve had a glass of water, but no coffee. I’m not sure why, but coffee sounds unappealing to me today. Food sounds rather unappealing, but I would make an exception for chicken-fried steak drenched in gravy and covered with medium-grind black pepper. And jalapeños, of course.

Back to the kidney stone. It was 4.4 mm in size; apparently pretty big for a kidney stone. I do not know whether the doctor simply scooped it out or whether he blasted it with a laser. I guess I’ll find out something early next week. I should have inquired while I was in the recovery room, but I was incoherent at the time.

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I started writing this post last night. I finished it just now, about 10:15 a.m. It strikes me as being deeply boring. Such is life. My life.

The lyrics to a Loudon Wainwright song, Missing You, keep playing in my head. The first verse, and all that follow, tug at me, hard:

He don’t stay out anymore
No more coming in past four
Most nights he turns in ’round ten
He’s way too tired to pretend
Sure, you might find him up at three
But if he is it’s just to pee
Sometimes he’s awake ’till two
But that’s just ’cause he’s missing you
He’s lying there and missing you.

~ Loudon Wainwright ~

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It is hard to say whether my failure to ask questions in certain circumstances is attributable to surprise, to shock, or to some other emotional reaction to something unexpected. Whatever the cause, I sometimes neglect to make inquiries that might both inform and reassure me. That’s true, especially, when confronting unanticipated news from doctors or other healthcare professionals. For instance, the procedure I will undergo this morning remains something of a mystery to me because I did not ask questions (or, if I did, I did not retain the responses). I did not expect, on a routine follow-up exam, to learn that a completely unrelated issue—a kidney stone large enough that it is causing the urethra and kidney above the stone to blow up like a balloon—needs to be addressed. That surprise, I suppose, was enough to put my mind in a fog that left me a bit dazed with respect to asking the right questions or remembering answers to the questions I asked.

I wonder why our minds do that to us? I know I am not alone in leaving a doctor’s office in something of a fog, not knowing what I just learned, nor fully understanding next steps. In this case, as I understand it, my situation is no big deal; it just needs to be addressed so it won’t become a big deal. But, in other cases, the failure to grasp the news or fully understand enough to ask relevant questions can be serious. Perhaps it’s the instantaneous realization that we’re not invincible; maybe that’s why we leave without fully comprehending what we just learned. Or maybe it’s something else. One day, I will take the time to explore the matter. But not now. Not today. Today is reserved for getting yet another intrusive medical matter out of the way.

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My minor maladies pale in comparison to being  hospitalized. A friend from church is in the hospital, dealing with breathing problems. That’s the sort of thing that makes kidney stones seem nothing but minor inconveniences. Ach! Yet I complain, nonetheless. There are days I get so frustrated with myself for being so damn self-centered, when my problems are so minor and my good fortunes are so extraordinarily broad. Reminding myself of the bounty in my life should be a daily practice. Perhaps that would tend to erase my mumblings about the minor stumbles I make and the inconsequential roadblocks I encounter.

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When eating fruit, remember the one who planted the tree.

~ Vietnamese Proverb ~

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Gratitude for unknown benefactors is healthy. It reminds us that we did not construct the world in which we live, nor did we create the majority of the positive circumstances that make our lives worthy of appreciation.  The following words have been attributed to John F. Kennedy: “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” That’s an even more important lesson, I think. Live by the gratitude we express. That can be hard, sometimes, but it is necessary. Deliberate contemplation about who or what is responsible for our good fortune is humbling. And we very definitely should be humble.

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My IC gave me an unexpected present yesterday (but I owe her for half the cost); she persuaded me to have the tree-cutters who were in the neighborhood come to the house to say what they could do to open up the shrinking view of the farmland below. Today and everyday the atmosphere is willing, the newly refreshed view is enough to make me very happy. More genuine gratitude flowing from my mind into the universe.

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I am a mess in so many ways. I am like a car that has been run for too long without an oil change. And that same car has been in numerous scrapes in parking lots. It has driven over too many deep potholes; its front end is badly out of alignment. I need to be put in the shop. Repair the dents and scratches. A complete paint job. Rebuild the engine. Replace all the hoses and install new shocks. This process is going to take more than a few hours in a doctor’s office. It will take a month or more at the Mayo Clinic; maybe even a year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom Paxton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Travelers in the mist.

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

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

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Minds can change. Lives can change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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