John Swinburn

Cod. I like it. Its firm flesh has both the texture and the taste I like in a white fish. Yesterday, I thawed a piece of cod for last night’s dinner. I seasoned it with Italian seasoning, pepper, salt, garlic powder, and red pepper flakes, then seared it briefly on both sides before adding thin slices of zucchini to the pan. I then added canned tomatoes along with more of the same spices. With the piece of cod nestled among the tomatoes and zucchini, I covered the pan and poached the fish for a few minutes. Both the cod and the zucchini came out firm and extremely tasty. It was a healthy, low calorie meal. I felt proud of myself. And then I munched on pretzels, completely obliterating all the just pride I had in “eating well.” Oh, well. There’s tonight. I can try again.

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My right shoulder hurts like bloody hell. I must have slept wrong on it. When I move, even a little, I feel pain in a spot that I cannot reach (not that I’d know what to do if I could). The pain woke me up over and over and over again in the early morning hours. Once, I must have been in a dream-world as I awoke; I felt a soft hand caressing the shoulder and heard a woman’s voice ask if that made it feel better. I started to answer that it did, but suddenly I was awake and there was no hand or voice, just an annoying, piercing pain. I suppose I should look for the heating pad. Or ice packs. I never remember which is supposed to be good for such pains.

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Music, I think, is a stand-in for lengthy attempts to explain one’s outlook on life and the way one views the world around us. I spent time last night and again this morning listening to music, following links to several tunes sent to me by a friend. It’s interesting to pay close attention to both the sounds of instruments and, when the music is accompanied by lyrics, to the words that accompany them. Together, those sounds and those words can reveal a great deal about the person who finds them appealing. That’s not always the case, of course, but knowing a person’s musical tastes and, especially, specific pieces a person finds especially captivating can be almost like reading a private diary. Okay. That may be taking it a bit far. But maybe not.

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Five months ago today, my wife died. My wonderful, loving wife. The woman who made it possible for me to believe I mattered. The person who convinced me there was a place for me on this planet. Her absence still aches more than I can put into words. The confidence in myself she gave me is no longer intact. I know I can’t keep going on forever marking these awful “anniversaries” with tears and anger and despair, but I don’t yet know how else to acknowledge these painful dates. One does not celebrate the anniversary of a loved-one’s death; one simply marks it and tries to use the occasion to add another threadbare bandage to cover a gaping wound in one’s life. Eventually, the wound will become a scar. And we can live with scars, whereas wounds can become deadly if left untended.

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I finished watching Undercover last night. I did not start anything else, nor did I return to any of the several series I have begun but not yet finished. I wasn’t in the mood for television. I was in the mood to have a long, unstructured conversation with someone interesting and interested. But, instead, daydreamed and left the dinner dishes in the sink, where they remain. In a few minutes, I will take care of that. If my shoulder permits. It continues to hurt like holy hell. I wish I had a stash of morphine handy. Or even Advil.

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I am making progress. Significant progress. I am spending time with people I like. I am interacting with people with whom I feel I am developing especially meaningful connections. But my perpetual lack of self-confidence keeps rearing its head, insisting I ask myself whether overtures of friendship that I perceive are, instead, expressions of compassion from acquaintances. I sabotage myself by allowing self-doubt to infect even the most enjoyable circumstances and interactions. That self-doubt and its twin, skepticism about others’ motives, prevents me from taking the initiative in building acquaintanceships into friendships. Yet I tell myself I am making progress. It takes time to rebuild. There are times—most times—when I wish I could get a personality transplant.

A friend mentioned a psychotherapist to me a few weeks ago. I decided I might explore talking to this psychotherapist to discuss issues of stress and related “stuff” that I think would be best handled than simply bottled up. I still haven’t called her, though. I am not quite sure what to ask. Maybe that’s where I start. Let her ask probing questions that will  magically lift a veil, taking with it all my anxieties and troubles. Yeah.

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Today, I will have lunch with a friend, again at one of my favorite places, Las Americas. I know already that I will order two tacos: one lengua and one barbacoa. I would like to order a taco al pastor, as well, and perhaps a taco de carne asada, plus a few more. But I would burst. They’re big tacos. I have a vision that four or five people would each order two tacos of different varieties and would then share them. That’s the way to experience a broad assortment of food. Too bad I don’t feel comfortable approaching strangers in restaurants and asking if they would share a bite or two of their meal. Or maybe it’s good that I don’t feel comfortable doing that; I could be treated badly if I asked the wrong person/people.  I do look forward to my visit with my friend; it has been way too long. I am interested in learning from him what has been going on in his life since last we visited.

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I just moved in precisely the wrong way, causing pain to explode from my shoulder like a volcanic eruption. If this doesn’t get better, soon, I’ll have to ask a doctor for something to ease the damn pain. Typing doesn’t help, so this is it for a while.

As usual, I opened my little anthology of Zen quotations this morning to a random page and read the quote aloud. When I read it, I suspected the Universe had been listening in on my thoughts and was offering advice unexpectedly by picking the page I read. I do not believe that, of course, but the coincidence is more than a little…coincidental.

To gain enlightenment,
you must want it
as much as a man whose head
is held under water
wants air.

~ Attributed as ‘Zen Saying’ ~

That quotation, along with a video I watched yesterday (and about which I’ll write in a few moments), triggered some sharp, self-critical thoughts that, I hope, will generate some much-needed changes in my behaviors or attitudes or daily activities or all of the above.

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Before I continue, I want to acknowledge that my posts are too long, too disconnected (both internally and between themselves), and probably difficult to read and follow. At least sometimes. I really never expected people would want to read them. They’ve almost always been for myself…like talking to myself without making noises that might get me committed to places I don’t want to go. That notwithstanding, I’m flattered and appreciative of the people who read what I write. More than anyone, you must be the people who “get” me, to the extent I can be “got.” And I thank you for that. This post is too long, like so many others. But, considering that it’s being written by a monkey, its length is really of no consequence, is it? Can the monkey really have too long a tale?

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Most of the last five or six years, a great deal of my time has been spent listening to how horrible Trump is. I spent plenty of that time saying the same thing. And I believed it and still do. But the fact that it’s true does not mean that I have to keep harping on it. A few days ago, I spent several hours hearing the same thing again. The conversation could have been complimentary about how Mother Nature had sparkled up the day or about how we all hope Biden’s leadership will lead us in positive directions. Or we could have talked about music or growing fig trees in northern Canada or learning to create leaded glass art or the alleged threats posed by China and Russia to freedom, democracy, and the American Way. But, instead, it was like a broken record. And, I’ll admit, I threw in a few of my own golden oldies. But I’ll admit, too, I am sick of it. Let it rest for awhile, while the prosecutors do their work. Let it rest, even if Trump and his minions are screaming bloody murder and installing automatons in Congressional slots to do their bidding. Do what you will; write letters, send emails, send texts, organize visits to Congressional offices to argue your case. But do it quietly. Curse Trump under your breath at home. Let me attempt to forget his name and his legacy.  Rant completed.

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I am concerned that the CDC may have bowed to social and/or political pressure when it made dramatic changes in recommendations about wearing masks. Suddenly, we can take them off almost anywhere, so long as we’ve been vaccinated. That is at odds with what was being advised (and the reasons for it) just a month or two ago. And the history of the CDC’s advice during the last year is a bit like the history of a ping-pong ball during the course of an international table tennis match. It’s understandable that the CDC does not have all the answers, but it’s own history of backtracking should cause its leaders to give pause before announcing major policy swings. That’s my concern at the moment. Will I wear a mask whenever I am around others? Probably not. It will be a circumstantial decision, based on a number of factors I will assess on a case-by-case basis. So, maybe I am just as inconsistent as the CDC. It’s not the worst thing anyone has ever said about me.

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Yesterday was, for the most part, a drab, grey, rainy, coolish day. I left the house only long enough to reach the end of the driveway, collect the mail, and return. Once inside, I was inside for the remainder of the day. Expecting any visitors would call well in advance, I did not bother to shower or shave. And I remained in my comfortable shorts and ragged t-shirt all day, the clothes I put on when I got out of bed. Today, regardless of the weather, I will shower, dress, and become more or less presentable early on. I cancelled a commitment I had this morning to take care of some business around the house. And I expect a visitor sometime around mid-afternoon. Either before or after, I will go to the post office and to the grocery store, where I will pick up some fruits and veggies. I have plenty of protein in the house, wrapped up in various forms in the freezer or awaiting the can opener (tuna, salmon, oysters, etc.). As far as I can tell, I have no other outside commitments. So, I will focus on stuff here at home; there’s more than enough to keep me busy for ten years.

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In the first paragraph of this post, I alluded to what I’m about to address. I did not respond well to the traumas I encountered during the last year. Unlike so many people who seemed to have been inspired by the challenges of COVID-19, my energy seemed to dwindle. Later, when my wife became ill and went into the hospital and rehab facilities, my strength ebbed even more. I think I noticed it first in declining enthusiasm to fulfill commitments I had made before the world appeared to begin to unravel. Rather than confront it, I more or less ignored it. “It’s temporary,” I thought, “I will come out of the doldrums soon, after I’ve taken the time I need to adapt.” The time I needed to adapt expanded to fill the time available. And, it seems, it’s still expanding. I’ve given myself permission to stay in a state of moderate lethargy for months and months and month. After a few months, I think I more or less forgot about it; I allowed my new low-energy persona to become normal.

Part of the reason I’ve recognized this state of affairs again is that I watched a video yesterday, which kicked off a new fund-raising drive for church, that called attention to all the volunteerism that grew out of the the challenges of the year. Responses like the ones I SHOULD have had. A lot of people were unwilling to let COVID-19 quash their enthusiasm. Their love for the people who comprise the church was amplified, it seems, by being put to the test by a threat. They jumped in and did even more than they had before. I, on the other hand, let things slide. I drifted away from my commitment to a group who committed to promoting environmental responsibility in the church and the community. I delayed following up to ensure that efforts continued to implement long term plans. I volunteered to undertake a project, then let it slide when confronted with disappointments. At about the same time, I had agreed to assume something of an apprenticeship to take on oversight of a major program. It wasn’t long before I realized I had overcommitted in an area about which my enthusiasm was not sufficient to begin with, and it just continued to decline. I will give myself a slight pass on the latter issues; during that process, my wife’s condition worsened considerably. But while my wife’s illness and death no doubt contributed to my apathy, I am responsible for failing to take action to overcome that dispassionate detachment. It was like I no longer cared as much; at least not enough to actually follow through on my commitments the way I normally would.

Recognition of the drop in my activities in support of the church sparked my thinking about the matter. But the decline in my church involvement is by no means the only result of my response to trauma. Every aspect of engagement seems to have suffered. While I’ve never been much of a fan of telephone chats, I seem to have almost abandoned the phone, which translates into fewer interactions with people I care about. And I’ve virtually stopped writing the kind of stuff I used to love writing, opting instead to devote most of my writing to journaling, as if I’m writing a diary instead of a blog [like this]. I do not even get in touch with old friends the way I used to. My periodic promises to get in touch “soon” often go unfulfilled.

Another response to the traumas of COVID-19 and my wife’s death has been very significant weight gain. I talk about and think about “doing something about it,” but to date all I have done is allow it to continue, unchecked. Instead of taking positive steps to relieve my growing level of stress, I have reacted by attempting to mask it in various ways, not the least of which has involved my consumption of food and booze. I made some half-hearted attempts to replace those crutches with another one, medicinal cannabis, but that has been rare and not especially useful.

All of these defects in my commitments and enthusiasm lead only to one conclusion: I have to reverse course. I won’t kid myself into thinking a quick “aha!” moment will fix everything. It took time for my physical and mental exhaustion to take their toll and it will take time for me to recover from months and months and months of lethargy. I hope my commitment to recover something of my “old self” will take hold; I desperately want to fulfill that one. I intend to be selective in my commitments from here on and more assertive when I decline to take on new ones. I’ve said “no” only a few times when asked and I should have used the word exponentially more. I plan to be more practical. Time will tell if this, like so much else, is just an explosion of words that disappear into the ether. Splash! I’ve pulled my head out of the water and taken my first breath of air in far too long. Now, do I want enlightenment as much?

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This especially long post may be one of the last ones that will take up so much space and time. I have things to do with myself.

My mind has been occupied, during many evenings the last few weeks, by watching a Flemish-language/English subtitled crime series called Undercover, a Netflix crime drama set primarily in Belgium. Much of the current season’s action is set on a country dude ranch in the Belgian countryside. The prior season (season 1) was set mostly in what I would call a trailer park, but which was given a more genteel name in the series; I don’t recall what they called it, but the permanent homes among the trailers were called “chalet.” Like most television, especially foreign crime drama television, the plots are impractical. But these plots are incredibly gripping. Yet even with their impractical nature, coupled with impossible storylines, they are impossible to dismiss. I am addicted to them as if they are crack cocaine and I am Casey Jones—the protagonist in the Grateful Dead’s musical masterpiece. Speaking of Casey Jones, I wonder whether people who are familiar with the Dead’s music are aware of the ballad that preceded it or the very real railroad engineer upon whom the ballad was based? I guess I’ll just keep wondering.

This focus on Undercover and, before it, strings of Pine Gap, Good Girls, Schitt’s Creek, Deep Water, etc. has kept me married almost exclusively to Netflix. Another set of reasons to drop Suddenlink cable like a box of rabid rattlesnakes that are high on crystal meth.  As if I know what that would be like. Suffice it to say I need, desperately, to cut the cable. There is no legitimate reason to keep paying obscene amounts for access to television I never, ever, ever watch. My recall of Pine Gap, etc. reminds me that parts of some or all of those series remain for me to watch. I do tend to skip around from series to series over the course of several days, simply because I get a tad bored, even with the most riveting programs.  Strange, that. An oxymoronic idea, is it?

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If I were to leave Hot Springs Village, I think I might do it under cover of darkness. Or, at least, with as little fanfare as possible. I would slink off without saying goodbye because I am not good at remaining stoic in such circumstances. My eyes would fill to overflowing with tears and my mind would insist on expressing my emotions. I would feel a requirement to explain the intellectual framework upon which my decision to leave is based; and that would devolve into an emotional rainstorm. So, best if I just crawl away when the time comes, weeping all the while.  But maybe I’ll stick around for years to come. I doubt that, though. A compelling reason—a relationship to which I was so irresistibly chained that I simply could not shatter it by leaving—would be necessary. That doesn’t not exist, so I probably will slink out without notice.

It occurs to me that a thirst for change exists only because something either is missing or is unacceptably difficult in one’s current state of affairs. Those really are the only legitimate propellants that drive the desire for change. The argument that “nothing is keeping me here” is specious; either “here” is too painful to stay or is missing a strong magnet that exists elsewhere.

Even if the wish to change is driven by a desire to live on the seashore or in a big city or on a desolate, high-mountain peak, something is missing. What’s missing are those environments. Conversely, if the driver for seeking change is personal or emotional or financial difficulty, the desire to leave problems behind is what motivates change.

With those things in mind, I am trying to psychoanalyze my own thought processes; the ones prompting me to consider moving somewhere as yet unknown. Why am I going through those thought processes? Is something missing? Is my current state of affairs difficult, meriting an escape attempt? My efforts to psychoanalyze are for naught; I just don’t know. And “somewhere” may not be another community; it may just be another house. I simply don’t know.

Given my interest of late in looking at RVs and hitting the road, I wonder whether it’s all just an advanced case of cabin fever that might be cured with a few long trips. It’s possible, I suppose, but it feels like more than fever; it feels more like an incurable condition whose symptoms can be quelled from time to time with change. I do not recall whether I wrote it or simply thought it recently: there may be something to the “seven-year-itch” theory. Like the biological imperative that drives cicadas to emerge from their underground protection every seventeen years, maybe the seven-year-itch can infect humans in either a physical or psychological way that drives them to long for change.

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I had another long, convoluted dream last night. I worked in an office. I drove a shiny gold Toyota Previa van; it was nearly new. Twice in the dream, it was vandalized. The second time, it was damaged beyond repair. I tried to call the police, but I could not find the number of the Addison police (a clue that this dream took place in Addison, Texas). There was much more to this dream, all involved in working in an office for at least two different associations. I awoke while unsuccessfully attempting to get the phone number to call the police.

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Once again, I did not sleep well last night. I tossed and turned all night, from the time I went to bed early, around 10, until I got up around 5. In the interim, I got up to pee or to get some water at least four times. This sleeplessness has been going on for most of the last week. I haven’t been able to nap during the day, either, so I’ve been sort of dragging and unproductive during the day. Maybe that’s what I want to get away from; weariness and exhaustion.

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I wanted this post to be less diary/journal and more philosophical treatise, but I was derailed at the first though of Casey Jones. Somehow, the idea of a train’s engineer trying to make up for lost time just grabbed me by the collar and pulled me into a personal conversation.

Last night, I tried to lessen the aches and pains in my joints by inhaling a little medicinal cannabis. I suppose it helped the pain a bit, but mostly it just wrecked my intention to avoid munching on pretzels all evening. It did not have the hoped-for side effect of lightening my mood by a factor of ten. I suppose that would have required one or more similarly-engaged companions with whom I could converse in hilarious half-sentences.

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I have no dogs or cats to feed and I am unwilling to risk getting my feet wet simply to satisfy hummingbirds, so I’m not going outside. At least for a while. Instead, I’ll have more coffee and continue to muse and ruminate, but without letting those thoughts slide out of my fingers onto the screen; I’ll keep those thoughts secret for a while.

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Significant tension exists between living in the here and now and planning for the future. Living for today tends to reduce worry, but potentially sets the stage for avoidable problems in the future. Planning for the future—and attempting to circumvent those avoidable problems—tends to sow the seeds of worry and diminish the joy of living in the moment. Recognizing the pitfalls of either,  or both, incorporates stress into processes that are meant to do just the opposite.

The “obvious” response to the dilemma might be to seek the proper balance between living in the moment and contingency planning or mapping one’s future. But what is the proper balance and how does one go about identifying, much less achieving, it? I wish I knew. I wish I had the gift of prescience; that might make living in the here and now less dangerous to the future. Or, on the other hand, knowing what’s coming might make living for today virtually impossible. Foreknowledge of misfortune would virtually assure a pointless exercise in worry.

These matters are on my mind as I contemplate today and tomorrow and all the tomorrows that might follow. Contemplation is not the same thing as worry; but they’re blood relations. I can contemplate how I am living my life at this moment, but living for today almost certainly involves an element of recalling yesterday and anticipating tomorrow. Have I recently equated anticipation and worry…right here on this blog? I think so. I think the same relationship exists between the admonition to ” be here, now” and irresponsibility. If all we do is to focus on the present moment, we are shirking our responsibility to adjust for the moments to come. That is irresponsible. Isn’t it?

Depending on one’s personality, worldview, and mindset, the discussion I’ve set up with these paragraphs might be considered either a stupid, pointless worry or a philosophical sphere within which there both are no answers and every possible answer. Some people would laugh off the entire discussion as the rantings of a fool, while others would give it more weight and merit than it deserves. I firmly support both perspectives, as well as an indefinable middle ground somewhere along the spectrum.

The reason this convoluted, labyrinthine matter is on my mind this morning is that I am considering whether to sell my house. I told myself I would wait a year to make any such decisions; I think I lied to myself. I think now is as good a time as any, probably better than most. Though my wife’s death occurred just five months ago, her hospitalization and time in rehabilitation centers began ten months ago. So, in that context, a major change in my life began almost a year ago.  With that in mind, I’m wrestling with just playing it by ear or aggressively exploring my options now. What would I do if I were to sell? I am not sure; that’s one of the horns of this dilemma. Would I stay here? Would I move? If I were to move, where would I go? With whom would I spend my time if I were to go someplace else? Who would I miss most? Who would miss me most? How would I rebuild my life around a new set of circumstances? Why move? Why not? Am I overthinking? Probably. And maybe I’m just reacting to the upcoming five-month anniversary of my wife’s death. Or maybe I’m allowing myself some freedoms to explore ideas I was unable or unwilling to explore before. Should I buy a motorcycle and lure an adventurous woman to join me on a cross-country exploration of the culture in which I live? Or, perhaps, I should give myself a years to explore living in Portugal. This is all such madness. But it’s not, really. It’s not. I need to remake myself. Or I need to try to be satisfied with who I am, though that’s much harder than changing, I think.  Time, as always, will tell.

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Yesterday’s plan to smoke a pork loin went up in clear, tasteless vapor. The bloody electric smoker apparently has a short. After I plugged it in, I went to get the pork out of the garage refrigerator. The refrigerator was not working. I quickly found a tripped breaker. I flipped the breaker switch, only to have the breaker immediately trip again. I suspected the plug on the deck, where I had plugged in the smoker, might be at fault. After a short investigation, I discovered it was the smoker. I then developed Plan B, which was to use the propane grill. I removed the apple wood chips I had placed in the smoker and wrapped them in aluminum foil, put the foil pouch on top of the burners at one end of the grill, and fired it up. Bottom line: inadequate smoke, but at least I was able to cook the loin without making a mess of the oven. The meal was acceptable, if not outstanding. Now: where can I discard the heavy black rectangular box that once was an electric smoker? The smoker was cheap to begin with; it would no doubt cost more to repair than to replace. But I will not replace it too soon; I may not want to haul a smoker around the country on the back of a motorcycle.

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Getting close to people has both benefits and disadvantages. The emotional benefits are numerous, of course, but those same benefits can have a painful side. When one separates from people with whom he has grown close—whether that separation is intellectual/emotional or by way of physical distance (or a combination thereof)—the pleasures of proximity or intimacy recoil into emptiness and sadness. The only way to avoid that emptiness and sadness is to avoid closeness in the first place. But that provides a petri dish for depression. Reality guarantees that, no matter the way  life unfolds, living will provide innumerable opportunities to feel both joy and pain. It’s best, then, to simply accept reality and to wade through it.

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The sky has been light for more than an hour. The hummingbirds probably are getting annoyed that I have not put out the feeders, so I had better go about doing my job.

Contemplating the clear moon
Reflecting a mind empty as the open sky —
Drawn by its beauty,
I lose myself
In the shadow it casts.

~ Dogen ~

There is something about the simple, thought-provoking quotes I find in my little anthology of Zen-influenced quotations that can help calm a day that seems headed toward tumult. If I can just still the ripples in the pond, I feel more confident in my ability to get through a day without cracking wide open. Not a day goes by that I don’t have at least one tearful meltdown as I think of my life with my wife. But starting the day out with at least an effort toward serenity helps. I am more in control than I once was. And I sometimes look toward the future with something other than dread. Of course, I try to focus on now, but practicality insists on looking ahead, followed by a moon shadow.

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For reasons I do not fully understand, I (and, I think, most of the U.S. population) have not been especially aware of or interested in China’s space exploration program. I only vaguely remember news about the country’s successful moon landings (unmanned, but still…) in areas on the “dark side” that the U.S. has not explored. And I have paid little attention to the fact that China is planning to land a Mars rover on the red planet sometime within the next several days. The U.S., when we landed the Perseverance rover on Mars that began sending back photos and when we launched a helicopter from Perseverance, touted the accomplishment with great fanfare. The Chinese endeavor has received scant attention in comparison. That difference in celebratory news is understandable to some extent; we celebrate our own accomplishments more vocally and visibly than we celebrate the achievements of countries we have been indoctrinated to believe are our sworn enemies. But I would think such stunning technical successes would be acknowledged more broadly, regardless of who attained them. None of this is to say that news of the Chinese effort is ignored by U.S. media; it is just not announced as visibly as I might have expected.

I realize, of course, that neither the U.S. nor the Chinese space programs are universally supported and endorsed; many believe the investments in the programs would have been better spent on humanitarian efforts to improve the lives of people on Earth. But ignoring the philosophical differences, I am a little surprised at the relative degree of ignorance I think exists among the American population about both the American and the Chinese endeavors. Especially the Chinese efforts taking place now.

In my opinion, one key reason we do not know much about, or think about, the Chinese program is likely to be deliberate propaganda. In this case, though, the propaganda does not necessarily  feed information to the public. Instead, in this form of propaganda, governmental discouragement of the release of information may be responsible. And that discouragement may well be disguised; a lack of notice by key officials might be taken by news organizations as a suggestion that the “news” is not really newsworthy. So, we do not hear much about it unless we take steps to keep abreast of world news outside our own rather limited media bubble. For example, I periodically scan the online English-language version of China Daily at chinadaily.com. There, the news about the Mars landing is front and center and lauded by Chinese governmental officials.

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I had placed “road trip” on my calendar for next week, hoping to get away for at least a few days. For a variety of reasons, I’ve put that on hold. I may (or may not) try again the first or second week in June. As I contemplate my eventual trip, it occurs to me that the friends (a couple) in Dallas who have offered to let me stay with them are the only people in Dallas I would feel comfortable asking to put me up for a few days. And if I were to go “way” back to Chicago, there’s only one couple I might be willing to ask; and that would be an uncomfortable request, as we were never really close. Fortunately, I think my family will put me up when I eventually visit them, but it strikes me that I have so few non-family connections who I would feel comfortable asking. And that, of course, makes me wonder how I would feel about returning to Hot Springs Village for a visit if I were to move away. How many people would I feel comfortable asking to host me for a few days? The answer to that question, I think, is the gage of where along the spectrum of friendship my relationships with people fall. It’s possible, of course, that there are more people who would be willing to host me in various places, but the issues is my comfort in asking. How close do I feel to them (and how close do others feel to me) in the context of offering or asking for a place to stay? Interestingly, I know from experience that I am willing to host many people who I would not feel comfortable in asking to host me. Odd, that. Maybe I’m just overly-conscious of and concerned about “putting someone out.” Someone mentioned to me recently that she overthinks things. Bingo! I tend to do that.

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It’s Saturday, the day I plan to smoke some pork and have neighbors over to share it. These are the same neighbors who so generously have me over for dinner on a pretty frequent basis. It’s about time I reciprocate. I have done it before, but my hosting does not compare to theirs. I bought a 1.5 litre bottle of one of their favorite wines to accompany dinner. I would have planned to prepare a couple of side dishes, as well, but my neighbor said she plans to make some, so I will defer to her. My sister-in-law, who knows my neighbors pretty well, will join us for the gathering. I am much less formal than my neighbors, but I will try to upgrade my formality just a tad so they will feel more comfortable. It’s good to have such genuinely good people as neighbors; people who, I believe, would do anything in their power to help me if I needed it. I’m grateful for them.

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Once again, for the past several hours, my dreams mingled with my waking consciousness. In one scene from the dream, my wife was extraordinarily upset with a coworker, to the point that she was crying and screaming at him for interfering with her efforts to get her work done. I was angry with the coworker for upsetting my wife, but felt constrained against confronting him. Then, apparently in the same dream, she and a different coworker invited me to join them for lunch. But when we finally got through a cafeteria line, the three of us sat at different tables; I could not understand why she would not sit with me. And in another scene, the same coworker and my wife and I entered a badly disorganized office, where we intended to fax a lunch order, but the fax machine was tied up with an enormously long incoming fax. The entire episode was filled with interruptions and angry phone calls. We finally left the office and entered an old elevator, the inside of which was covered with graffiti. Between these scenes, and in some cases in the middle of them, I awoke and was aware of the dreams and the fact that my wife is dead, but my consciousness seemed to slip in and out of the dreams. I felt the sheets on the bed, I even uttered a few words aloud (regarding the dream), but I then returned to the dream…while partly awake and aware that I was dreaming. During this lengthy dream-wake state, I spoke aloud several times, telling myself I was dreaming and that I should stop. This started sometime shortly after 2:00 a.m. and continued, off and on, until about 4:45 a.m., when I got up.  I was, and remain, exhausted from the dream’s emotional impact. I have to get over that exhaustion, though, so I can do a tolerable job of smoking some meat for dinner.

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For those who took the time and made the effort to tell me why you read my blog, thank you. I appreciate the feedback. And I am grateful that you read what I write, in spite of its jangled, tangled nature, which reflects how I think.

I believe there is a market for RV rentals—a market that does not require renters to drive or drag miniature homes along the world’s highways. While the market would require renters to drive to the markets, at least the damage the drivers do to the highways and byways would be less than the wear and tear done by heavy RVs. What I have in mind might be considered equivalent to “roughing it motels;” RVs permanently positioned and connected to water and sewer connections in RV parks. Renters would drive to their reserved spots, climb inside the RV occupying the spot, and enjoy the comforts of “the RV lifestyle” without the stress and danger of “the RV lifestyle.” Another benefit of “roughing it motels” would be a dramatically-reduced need to build RVs suited to the punishment delivered by travel over bumpy highways. These “roughing it motel” suites would not require roadworthiness beyond simply getting from the factory to their permanent home. Meaning, of course, they would be cheaper to build. Tiny houses, now enjoying a mammoth resurgent in popularity (as I understand it), could be used in place of RVs, of course. My point is that people who love the idea of simply getting up and hitting the road and “camping” in the wilderness or in semi-rural forests or other less populous environs could do it without the bother of taking their little homes with them.

I understand, of course, this market would not spring into being instantly. But I have an idea that might prod the process along. Many (most, perhaps?) RV owners today who do not live permanently or semi-permanently in their RVs must keep their little homes in storage when not in use. “Roughing it motel parks” could take the place of storage, at least in the short term, giving both the park owner and the RV owner a stream of income. Existing RV parks could provide space and management for “roughing it motels,” bringing in revenue with each rental.

The nay-sayers will find dozens, probably hundreds, of reasons this idea will not work. Not now, not ever. But they said the same thing when Al Gore invented the internet and when Robin Hood invented criminal philanthropy. All I ask is for people to let the idea percolate. Then, when its brilliance becomes apparent, I only ask for a $1,000 contribution toward implementation of the concept.

I realize the term “roughing it motels” is not appealing and would not serve the concept well with regard to marketing. So, I’ll need to come up with something sexier, flashier, and more appealing to both the would-be renter and the would-be park operator/RV owner. Give me a few days. In the meantime, be among the first to invest. The first 1,000 investors will receive a complete set of kitchen knives and a slab of thick-sliced bacon.

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My next idea is for a bicycle with a vibrating seat. I’m calling it the Orgasmicycle^TM. Contact me for details and investment opportunities.

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If it’s not obvious yet, I’m in a strange and whimsical mood this morning. Perhaps it’s because I have temporarily eliminated the burden of the impending tax deadline. While it’s only a temporary reprieve, it is enough to make me moderately giddy, at least for a while. A few months, if I delay it to the maximum. But I think I’ll just allow myself a breather, then return to the process. It’s not as complex as I originally thought, but it’s still an annoyance that need not be so intrusive and irritating. I doubt, though, that will change.

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Tomorrow, I plan to smoke some ribs and, possibly, a pork loin, with the objective of feeding my very nice, generous, kind, and generally pleasant neighbors. I will brine the pig meat this afternoon and evening, readying it to smoke for a few hours tomorrow afternoon. This assumes, of course, that the smoker remains useable. It has been sitting inside the screen porch since the pandemic began. I have not opened the door for more than a year. It’s entirely possible its inside metal lining has rusted through, rendering the device unusable. In that case, I will attempt to use the gas grill as a smoker-alternate by heating just one end of the grill and placing the pork on the other end. On the grate at the heated end, I will place a hand-crafted aluminum “sack” filled with applewood chips. Voilá, a smoker-alternative! I hope I do not have to do that, though, because I have no idea whether it will work. It could simply result in burned pig meat with a smoke-laden crust of inedible carbon. Time will tell, I say.

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My coffee is cold, but the house is sufficiently clean and ready for its periodic cleaning by a professional. That means, essentially, the floors will look far better this afternoon than they do now.  Damn! I’ve just torn a scab off my left hand, resulting in a tiny flow of blood. I must stop and either find some Neosporin or call 911.

At the moment, the BBC.com website makes available several intriguing video-shorts on various subjects. One of them, entitled Why Extroverts Have Their Own Extreme Language, would be especially interesting  to people with an interest in language and its relationship with emotions. I found interesting the following statement made by the narrator:

Psychologists now conclude that extroverts require more cortical stimulation from their language than introverts in order to feel any impact, opting for extreme vocabulary such as ‘sweltering’ over ‘hot,’ or ‘tragic’ over ‘sad.’

The piece goes on to say we actually feel (physically) what we say. For example, if we use language that has the most impact, the impact is felt physically.  We feel extremely hot if we describe the temperature as sweltering, versus describing it as simply hot.

What any of this has to do with extroversion remains a mystery to me, in that neither the narration nor the imagery explains the connection. From my perspective, when in my role as an introverted purveyor of words, the connection is tenuous, at best. Selecting more impactful words is a habit that writers tend to develop because those words tend to “grab” the reader more forcefully and they animate the story or the character or the scene more vividly. The use of  “more extreme” words does not make writers extroverts; more often than not, in my opinion, writers are considerably more introverted than most, in part because writing is a solitary endeavor that requires considerable time alone with one’s thoughts.

Something to think about, though. Thinking about the subject makes me wonder: does  the difference between an individual’s spoken and written language vary more profoundly in writers than in people who do not spend a great deal of time recording their thoughts? I suspect it might. While a writer might say, in conversation, “the morning sky was beautiful,” he might write something like, “the morning sky displayed streaks of orange and red and yellow against a wash of blue and grey clouds against the horizon.”  I know, in my case, I tend to use language like that. I frequently break a cardinal rule of writing by using many more words than necessary; the attraction of spare language has never quite made it to the part of my brain that controls my use of words. I’ve always said, with only modest facetiousness, that I find it pointless to use ten words when one can easily use thirty words to accomplish the same function.

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The video-short about extroverts’ language choice was only one of the videos and articles I viewed and read this morning. Another one I found fascinating was an article entitled What Your Colour Choice Says About You. Another article, The Secret History of Angostura Bitters, explores the history of and the lore surrounding the product, made in Trinidad & Tobago. After reading the article, I anxiously await an opportunity to use Angostura Bitters, making drinks I would never have thought to make before reading it. The title of another video, Signs You’re More Intelligent Than You Think, seems designed to attract viewers by stroking their egos. As tempting as it was to view it, I opted to leave it for another time, a time when I’m feeling especially stupid. Another article, which I’ve yet to read but which is intriguing simply because of its subject matter, is entitled Is ‘Melancholia’ the Greatest Film About Depression Ever Made? The article, about the film made in 2011, suggests it is the premiere work about mental illness, specifically depression. I had never even heard of the movie until this morning, but a quick skim of the article sparked my interest. I’ll see, after reading the article in its entirety, whether that interest remains.  My point in mentioning these BBC.com offerings is both to remind myself of them and to again appreciate the diversity of the BBC.com website and the people behind it.

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My interest in RVs is changing. I’ve almost decided the ones I’ve looked at are too big for me. I’m more interested, now, in a van-sized vehicle, I think. But I cannot be depended on for certainty about that topic. It seems I change my mind hourly. I received an email this morning from a friend from church, who included a link to a fascinating article about a couple of RVers who described their experience RVing in the Canadian Maritimes, my dream destination. It was almost enough to make me abandon my abandonment of the larger RVs…but not quite. I’m still hoping to check out some smaller vehicles, something I can feel comfortable driving after getting used to a much smaller car. We’ll see.

Today will again be devoted, in large part, to personal business, but only after the “men’s gathering” at the church. This time, inside the building again, the second time since the pandemic began. Hallelujah! I need not bring a chair and hope I am dressed appropriately for the temperatures. Tonight, I will again join a group of rowdy church-goers for a game of trivia (complemented by food and drink) at the only actual pub within miles of Geezer Village. I welcome diversions. It’s late in the morning for me. I got up after six and dawdled a bit. So, I must now rush to shower and shave and finish my cup of cold coffee.  Off to engage with the day!

Though the number of people who read my blog is quite small, I do not know who comprises those who regularly view my blog posts. I know a few people who frequently view my posts, but I do not know why even they visit. And I do not know the identity of several people who seem to be “lurkers.” (By the way, lurking generally is my style of reading blogs, so I do not consider “lurker” a negative term.) All of that having been said, I am extremely interested in why people read what I write and what, if anything, brings them back.

So, the purpose of this out-of-the-ordinary post is to ask visitors to tell me why they visit and whether they visit frequently, occasionally, or rarely. Please, just leave a brief comment (or a lengthy one, if you wish). You can comment anonymously if you like, too, (although I will be able to see the email address you use to submit your comment…but you can use a fake email address if you like…maybe something like lurking1@puppydog.com). Alternatively and if you prefer, if you have my email address, you can send me your comments by email.

If you would give me just a little feedback as to what attracts you to this blog, I will appreciate it. It’s really just a matter of curiosity; I will be grateful to you if you would help satisfy my curiosity.

A simple question asked of the wrong person can trigger unhinged fury. I know this from personal experience. Lesson learned. Do not give an irrational person possessed of an incoherent animosity even the slightest opportunity to twist reality to suit their insane, malicious agenda. I write this as a reminder to myself, of course. I will not reveal the identity of this raving lunatic, but I will remember her. She tries to present herself as a sweet old woman, but that “sweetness” is artificial. A brutal, poisonous hatred brews beneath her saccharine façade. I saw it long ago in stories about familial and other relationships gone bad, but did not pick up on the clues until I was in her cross-hairs. My wife’s reaction to her long ago should have been ample warning to me, but I persisted in believing the woman was simply a quirky character with a good heart. I should have listened. Oh, well. Fortunately for me, I can simply avoid the maniac from here on. While there may be circumstances in which I cannot avoid her as long as I live in the Village, I can be stoic and silent. That may not shield me from her rage, but I will not utter a word to give her an opportunity to unleash it.

I realize the paragraph above might trigger guesses among those who read it as to the identity of this lunatic. I will not reveal her identity, nor will I respond to speculation about it. Writing about her is simply my way of ridding her from troubling me.

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I spent part of the morning yesterday participating in a Zoom meeting in discussion of Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking. The event was the second in a multi-session online class about the author’s memoir style. I did not attend the first class, so did not know the assignment for yesterday’s class was to read the first five chapters of the book. However, I had read the book years ago, so I recalled some of the basics of the book and was able to follow and participate, to a limited extent, in the discussion. I learned quite a lot in the short, 45-minute session. I think I’ll enjoy re-reading and discussing chapters 6-11 next week. Though I’m not planning to write a memoir, discussing writing style is intriguing to me.

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Most of the rest of the day was spent going through tax materials and beginning the process of entering information into my Federal return.  I am of the mind that the Federal government knows exactly how much income I have and from what sources, as well as how much Federal tax I have paid, so I should not have to regurgitate information the IRS already has. My only role should be to identify and justify expenses, etc. that would reduce my tax burden. But my opinion does not matter in this matter. I must simply do as I am instructed; follow the rules, without questioning them. This free society of ours is not as free as we would like to think. We have constructed, or allowed to be constructed, an elaborate, malleable cage that bends and flexes in response to the amount of capital available to individual inhabitants. The more the capital available to an individual, the more pliable the cage; the less the capital, the more rigid and sharp the cage’s bars become.

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I am angry at myself this morning for allowing a neurotic flake to get under my skin. In order to exist in some semblance of serenity, that anger must vanish. I must allow the present moment to wash it away. As usual, I find some insights in the little book I keep at my desk:

Do not dwell in the past.
Do not dream of the future.
Concentrate the mind
on the present moment.

~ Buddha ~

Now is what matters. Now is all there is. And now has no place for anger, nor animosity, nor resentment. Even the exasperation I expressed in the first paragraph of this post and the indignation I sometimes feel for past slights or attacks against me have no place in this moment. Now is what matters. Love is what matters.

Yesterday, a woman friend with whom I am secretly and passionately in love (I guess the secret is out), suggested in a text message that I exhibit signs of “existential depression.” I had never heard the term before, so I looked it up. Here is one psychologist’s way of explaining it: “When one’s depression is brought on by questions about the meaning of life, life itself, or death, this is considered existential depression.” He (Dr. Gregory Estadt) then goes on to describe characteristics that may describe a person with clinical existential depression:

• You can feel and see what most other people don’t.
• You hold yourself and others to high expectations.
• You are kept awake at night because of interpersonal ideas and conflicts.
• You are very passionate about upholding justice and fairness.
• You get obsessed with the things you love.
• You are very curious.
• You must always speak the truth and cannot stand hypocrisy.
• You crave freedom and autonomy.
• You have an independent mind.
• You are strong-willed.
• You do not like explanations that do not make sense.
• You are bothered by the gap that exists between others and yourself in the wider world.

If you answered yes to many of the above, you may be a trailblazer. You have a deep capacity for connection and joy but may have over the years struggled with self-doubt, bouts of anxiety, inferiority complex, and existential despair.

That list does, indeed, describe many of my characteristics. The information about existential depression on his website is much more detailed and extensive. Simply identifying with those attributes/characteristics does not assure that a person has existential depression, but other contextual clues suggest with a high degree of likelihood that I suffer from that mental malady. My reading of the material caused me to self-diagnose, and so I agree with my friend. It’s sort of like reading through the symptoms of diseases on WebMD. “See, there, I knew it! I have rabies!” Whether I have allowed myself to slip from “moody” to “existentially depressed” is something for a competent clinician to verify, of course, but I’m betting on my friend’s assessment. Among other things, she can read minds and can extract from me memories I had forgotten I had. She is a psychologist; lacking the credentials, perhaps, but possessing fully the knowledge and skills.

Despite my flippant treatment of the subject, I really think she came on something important to me. Dr. Estadt’s comments on treatment/therapy are encouraging:

Treatment has to carry us down a path of soul-searching and self-discovery. Many people develop their very own auto therapy such as journaling, writing, creating music or art, and learning from others. This is a learning process that gets better over time as you learn how to nurture, comfort, or console yourself.

I think I’m well on the way. I just need to pay heed and nurture, comfort, and console myself.

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Last night, after joining a Zoom meeting late, I heard one of the most moving accounts I have ever heard of the experience of an infantryman in World War II. The man who described his experiences did so in connection with his discussion of how he came to be involved in the Unitarian Universalist church. It was a tale describing the experience of a deeply introverted young man who had very limited “worldly” life experiences as he confronted the wider world. He faced horrors, the likes of which most of us, thankfully, have not and will never experience. His telling revealed how he matured both emotionally and intellectually when the demands placed on him were simply to “follow orders” in incredibly difficult situations. Though for a number of reasons I do not like to use the word “spiritual” as a descriptor, I have to say he seemed to have transformed his demanding and difficult life experiences into a spiritual journey on which he continues today, in his ninth decade. I hope the session was recorded so I can view and hear the quarter of an hour I missed; I believe the session will be available to view later this week. If it is, I will post a link to it on my blog. The entire hour or so is worth watching, regardless of who you are and what you have experienced.

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I started the day today by picking up an order of groceries from Walmart. I’ve taken to ordering online like a fish takes to water. I’d rather order from Kroger, but Kroger’s online ordering system is archaic and almost impossible for me to maneuver compared to Walmart’s.  Unlike the in-store experience, online ordering is easy, fast, and generally pleasant. And, when I pick up my groceries, the person who delivers them and puts them in my car is cheerful, friendly, and seems pretty articulate, intelligent, and generally nicer than many of the staff inside the store.

I’ve begun my taxes. For the rest of this morning, I will spend time sorting through paperwork on which I will depend to complete the forms for the IRS and the State of Arkansas. But, first, I will participate in (or, at least, listen to and view) a Zoom session on writing, recommended by the would-have-been buyer of my Camry who also is a writer. Then, it will be back to the task at hand. And I will take another mental health break to eat and to write a little more, though not in my blog (you’re welcome).

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Genetic flaws are not unique to Americans. Video evidence of ruptured DNA belonging to Canadians, Mexicans, Italians, Russians, Iraqis, Chinese, Swedes, Norwegians, and Peruvians, exists as well. An example of this video evidence includes a Canadian woman berating a teenaged grocery store clerk for asking the woman to wear a mask; the woman claims to have a “medical exemption,” bullies the girl, demands to see a manager, and otherwise acts like a world-class bitch. Another example shows a man in Italy (presumably an Italian) screaming at a driver for honking at him. Even after being told the driver honked to alert the man that his car was dragging a mangled bicycle from his rear bumper, the man did not cease his bizarre rant. Another video shows a woman with a camera-equipped smart-phone threatening to call the police on a young man who had chased her car and motioned her to pull over; a gas station hose dangling from the rear fuel filler of the demented screamer’s car told the story. Dozens of other such instances of dangerously flawed DNA exist in cell phone videos across the globe. It might be argued that the presence of cell phones is what causes these corrupt genes. I think not. But the one that hurt me the most was the Canadian woman; my romantic notion of Canadian intelligence and civility was badly damaged when I watched that video. Yet it’s not just my disappointment in the Canadian that has me feeling a little low. It’s the fact that human flaws are so pervasive. And it’s not just the mad rants and abusive treatment of their fellow creatures that bother me; it’s that “they” are “we.” We desire a world in which we’re all just one people who love one another, but in fact it seems we’re a global village of people who loathe one another.

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Those moments when the vastness and wonder of Nature fill me up are the moments I wish I could share with others. But I think such experiences are uniquely solitary. They cannot be shared. The circumstances in which I am overcome by Nature do not require magnificent scenery like towering waterfalls or majestic peaks. They can be simple glimpses of treetops beneath my deck, innumerable shades of green as far as I can see. Or seconds or minutes of staring at dark grey clouds hovering above me. Those moments when my entire being is bursting with awe at the world around me are the ones I wish I could share, but I will never be able to transfer that sense of wonder. It comes only from within and only when a person is ready to experience it. And, I’m afraid it does not always last. When it fades, I feel dejected and somehow abandoned. I know I do that to myself, but I do not know how to stop it. Yet I know it will always return; that feeling of such intensity that I might explode with sheer joy. Life is odd. And it is so brief, so terribly temporary.

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The skin on my arms and hands betrays my age more than any other aspect of my physical being. Even absent big, visible wrinkles, the top layer reveals millions of tiny dry cracks and reddish scars left by minor wounds in months and years past. I have come to the conclusion that one’s skin offers the earliest testimony to advancing age. What once was supple and gently firm becomes almost brittle and unpleasantly soft to the touch. The skin drinks up moisturizing cream, only to absorb the salve in minutes, leaving its surface as dry as the desert. Tiny imperfections, which multiple exponentially as we age, become stunningly apparent as sunlight and dehumidified air take their toll. I wonder whether my skin would recover at least a fraction of my misspent youth if I drank a pint of olive oil every day and bathed at least once a week in a tub filled with Noxzema skin cream? I doubt it. It’s too late to recover the supple façade of my salad days. But my mind can and will remain firmly planted in my youth. I remain just as mischievous and childish as ever, the sort of kid who could be suspended from school for adolescent pranks and juvenile innuendo.

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Yesterday’s church gathering under a large lakeside pavilion was energizing. Seeing and talking with and hugging people I haven’t seen in more than a year felt good. The turnout was exceptional, made even more remarkable by the presence of people who had joined as members and friends during the pandemic, without ever having set foot inside the church building. That fact emphasized the reality that the church is not the building; people comprise the church.

As the event ended, and after most people had left, I stayed to visit with several stragglers who, like me, wanted to milk the moment for all it was worth. One of them, a woman largely responsible for bringing the event together, mentioned to me that a non-church wine group (of which she and her husband and I are all members) would be coming together again soon. I told her I looked forward to it. She mentioned that I would be welcome to come back, “plus one” if I wished. “Plus one?” I said I did not understand. She replied that it meant I could bring a date, if it wasn’t too early for me. I suppose it’s not too early, I told her, but I had been out of the dating scene so long I did not even understand the lingo. I said with a smile I would be happy to, if she would set me up. I haven’t dated in forty-five years or more, so I don’t know the first thing about it. How awkward I would feel on a “date.” The word seems dated (pardon the pun). I think my style, if I have one, is to allow an unplanned, unscheduled, unexpected relationship to grow organically. And while that can happen quickly and without warning, I suspect it is more likely to evolve over time. Or, perhaps, it will never happen. That may be the more likely scenario. Most of the women I know belong to the church and the ones to whom I am naturally attracted are married or “involved.” Following that attraction would be a recipe for danger. And excitement, maybe . But there’s probably too much danger of rejection or unforgiving husbands/boyfriends or both to warrant the pursuit of that excitement. I said I am mischievous, not suicidal.

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This morning I am torn between wanting to go test drive an RV or searching for a private piece of land where I could live my lifelong dream of having a “place in the country.” The arguments in my head involve both monetary value and emotional value. And they involve time and how much of it I might spend with either endeavor. And, of course, I have to weigh whether my interest in an RV might be temporary; my interest in a place in the country is by no means short-lived. Both may be possible, but probably not practical. The idea of being a solo traveler has both appeal and concern attached to it. Would I tire of having no one to help me work my way through RV ownership? I know my friends who have RVs would be happy to help me learn, but I could not rely on them for round-the-clock support. But, then, who would help me till fields or repair broken tractors or do the million other things that must be done to maintain a place in the country? I can tell, already, this dilemma is not one with a satisfactory solution. Choices, by nature, require both attachment and abandonment. My thought process has to be my own. I have to reach a conclusion by myself; no one else to congratulate, no one else to blame.

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Years ago, when I was a very young man, I had a very, very brief relationship with a young, beautiful woman whose beauty reminded me of the female star of the movie, “10,” but whose intellect was far superior to the actress. It was a short-lived but incredibly passionate relationship that did not survive to reach its potential at maturity. Every incomplete experience leaves us wondering “what if?”. What if I had accepted the job offer with the Department of Agriculture? What if I had trekked across Nepal and India with my friend Paul as we had planned? What if I had move to Morgantown, West Virginia to accept the job with the association of cost engineers? What if I had insisted on buying that place in the country? What if I had bought an RV? What if I had pursued that passionate relationship? All of those “what if” questions leave us with a slight aching sense of dissatisfaction; a realization that we can never know the answers. Ideally, that dissatisfaction will dissipate and, ultimately, dissolve over time. But some of those questions will always remain, tucked someplace in the back of the mind.

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For well over a year, I have treated this blog as a journal, mostly recording my thoughts and experiences instead of exploring ideas and serving as a repository of my fiction and nonfiction writing.  I have a feeling that will come to an end soon. It may either revert to its original purpose or take a long rest, in which case my writing will return to Word documents saved to my computer. I doubt my daily thoughts hold more than passing interest to most visitors who land here, whether by intent or by accident. So, either direction will not be a shock to the universe. The only shock, I think, may come in the form of a shock to my habit of coming to this site first thing every morning. I’ll simply have to groom a new habit; opening a Word document first thing in the morning, instead. I wonder whether I’ll do that, though? It’s so easy and has become so natural for me to come here and spill my thoughts onto the screen. Time will tell, of course, whether old habits are impossibly hard to break. I suppose I need to find out whether I can force myself to break out of habits that seem to have confined me to perpetual sadness. There’s a song entitled Somebody that I Used to Know that includes the lyrics “you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.” And that seems to be true. So, perhaps it’s time to break the addiction by taking away the needle, as it were.  I’m babbling again, as I am wont to do.  Time for more coffee and a breakthrough attitude. And some breakfast, I suppose.

Yesterday began as a magnificent day and continued along that course. I joined three friends in a jaunt to North Little Rock, where we had lunch at Brood & Barley, an extraordinary restaurant. The menu is remarkable; everything on it was appealing. In spite of the wonderful menu, I opted for a daily burger special, which was beyond wonderful. The four of us shared appetizers of fried olives (absolutely addictive), octopus, “shush strings” (asiago-slathered thin fries), and seared tuna. I desperately wanted to have one (or all) of  three different presentations of mussels, but I decided I will have to return, repeatedly, to continue wading through the menu. I had a stout with hints of chocolate and jalapeño, as well as a light IPA tinged with the flavor of tamarind. After lunch, we went across the street to Flyway Brewery, where I had another spectacular light and crisp brew, a farmhouse ale called Saison Avifaune. Though the food and the beer were exceptional, the most delightful aspect of the day was the company. I continue to be enormously grateful that, among the congregation of my church, I have found what one of the congregants have called “my people.” I look forward to getting together with another of “my people,” another favorite, in the coming days. If I could just convince “my people” who live upstate and elsewhere to join me here, I might be deliriously happy. Even in the shadow of profound sadness, I am finding something I thought was gone forever.

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The outdoor temperature is roughly 68°F and the humidity is inching upward toward ninety percent. Yet it feels a tad cooler, thanks to a wind strong enough to strip leaves and twigs from the oak trees encroaching on my deck. The day is grey and wet. Depending on which weather forecast I might believe, the day will involve fierce, windy, rainy weather or intermittent sun and clouds with rainy periods interspersed with almost clear skies. The forecasts agree, though, that the temperature will drop late in the day and this evening and into Monday, bringing much cooler temperatures tomorrow. At least that’s what they’re saying now. This afternoon, my church is hosting a “Ladies’ Day” celebration at a local covered pavilion, where if everyone shows almost 100 people will be present. That will be the largest gathering of the church since the pandemic began, I think. Everyone, I assume, will have received their full vaccinations, so it should be a pretty “safe” event. But the weather may scare some people off. We shall see.

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I woke quite early this morning and wandered through some old, unfinished electronic files, drafts that have never seen daylight. And I viewed a few hastily scribbled notes that I had recorded in the small spiral-bound notepads I tend to carry in my shirt pocket. Those notepads serve as  my memory when I know the real thing will fail me; when I have an idea that intrigues me. My intent was to try to find something that snares my interest and attention…something that might spur me to write something, anything, of personal interest. Mostly, I encountered dull drivel, stuff that could suffocate me if I let it. But a couple of snippets seemed to have some “shock” potential, though probably not as fodder for blog posts—yet here they are:

I stumble through transparent darkness until opaque light washes over me. I wipe away tears of ecstasy, replacing them with the incomparable joys of despair.

             and

She urged him to fondle the hinge of her thighs, her cannabis mood eliciting sighs.

There was plenty more, of course, but those two thought fragments seemed to capture two ends of a wide spectrum. How can two such divergent thoughts exist in the same brain (though, admittedly, not at the same time)? I should hasten to add that neither snippet was based on actual experience; like much of my writing, both were based on my imagination and, I learned, memory. The first one has no discernible history, as far as I can tell. I wrote it, I think, with the idea of using a provocative oxymoron (or two) to make a point.

The second one, though, includes “the hinge of her thighs,” a phrase I must have stolen from the lyrics of the Leonard Cohen song, A Singer Must Die. The string of words from which the phrase was lifted goes like this: “In the rings of her silk, in the hinge of her thighs. Where I have to go begging in beauty’s disguise.” My use, obviously, does not carry the poetic weight of Cohen’s lyrics. My notes revealed that “he” was a character about whom I have written many times: James Kneeblood. One day, he or his offspring/cousin/ nephew/whatever  (Calypso Kneeblood) will make it into a completed story.

I have literally hundreds of snippets, ranging in length from phrases a few words long to vignettes three or four thousand words long, waiting for me to do something with them. The tough part remains clearing away the detritus and debris and cleaning up the usable syllables that remain. The two examples above are unlikely to make the first cut, but if they did they would require more than a little cleaning.

+++

After yesterday, I should not be hungry for several days. Weeks, even. But I am a little peckish. So, I may go foraging in the kitchen, seeking something that will sustain me until this afternoon, when I will consume BBQ from Clampitt’s, courtesy of the church. Or, because I got up so early, I may go back to bed for a while. Nap a while until I feel my energy has been adequately replenished. That is always a good idea. At least sometimes it is.

Wasps occasionally alight on the outside of panes of glass in the big windows along the back wall of my living area. When they land, the wasps tend to stay on the glass, unmoving, for several minutes at a time. I sometimes take advantage their lengthy rests by looking very closely at them through the glass. A close-up view reveals enormous complexity in the structures of their bodies. By looking intently at them, I can see tiny jaws, miniscule “whiskers” emerging from their heads, hair-like structures rising from their legs, sophisticated joints between parts of their bodies—incredibly intricate forms that seem, to me, almost impossibly complex for creatures so small.

But, then, when I am outside on the deck I regularly see other much smaller insects, critters a tiny fraction of the size of those wasps. Yesterday, I spied what I call a worm, for lack of a better term, that would have been nearly invisible except for my eyes just happening to see a tiny spider nearby. As I gazed at the spider, I saw the tiny worm scooting along the deck railing. It appeared to have two almost microscopically thin “noses,” one on each end of its body. Between them, its body was invisible except for incredibly small tufts of white hair that hid what I assume was a midsection. The tips of the white hairs were black and red. Simply by looking at it, I could not tell which end was the front and which was the back. I assumed the front was the end moving forward…it could have been backing up, though. I watched it, fascinated at its size and the fact that I could actually see its distinct parts; they were so amazingly small.

Those creatures are just two of what must be hundreds or thousands or even millions of miniature life forms I overlook almost every day. Unless I push myself to look very closely at what exists before me, I often miss the beasts all around me. Another creature is so small I can see only that it is there; it is a tiny red-orange dot, much smaller than a pinhead, that is visible only when the dark charcoal of the deck railing is behind it. It body structures are far too small for me to see, much less differentiate one part of its body from another.

When I take the time to focus my attention on the wasps and beetles and worms and almost microscopic beings all around me, I feel a child-like sense of awe well up inside me. I cannot adequately describe the feeling; it’s something like enormous gratitude that I am fortunate enough to see things so stunningly beautiful, but that’s not quite it. I think it must be equivalent to what the first astronauts (and all since, I’m relatively sure) feel when they look back at Earth from space. I read, recently, about one of the first American astronauts who described what he saw when he looked back at our planet and explained that he was overwhelmed by the fragility of the little dot on which we live. The sense of awe is so precious I wish I could capture it and use it to reawaken in me that feeling of wonder when sadness or despair overtake me. Maybe that feeling is akin to how religious people feel when they think of what they consider God.

+++

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. A day early, here is to all the mothers—past, present, and future—and all the women who might have been or might be or may never be mothers—past, present, and future. I honor them for their vital contributions to humankind and their tendency to represent the gentler and usually more reasonable aspect of humanity.

Like so many other “holidays,” this one largely has been appropriated by commercial interests anxious to appeal to our love and sentiments for mothers as a means of reaching into our pocketbooks. What the hell, though. Flowers and chocolates and thoughtful gifts that emphasize our love and appreciation for women can overwhelm the raw greed of capitalism on this day, allowing us to overlook the more base aspects of our money-driven culture.

+++

Yesterday was a magnificent day, weather-wise. And it turned out to be a very nice day otherwise, as well. I spent several hours with a friend, who was kind enough to introduce me to her friend who is in the process of preparing a very nice small RV for sale, which he allowed me to tour. The RV, while enormous compared to my vehicle, is “smallish” at 25 feet in length for a Class A version. It comes complete with a double (or queen?) bed, kitchen, bath, retractable awning, etc., etc., etc. I may test drive it on Monday.

The afternoon began with lunch at a coffee shop, followed by the RV tour. Then, I went to my friend’s house, where I sat in her RV and met her four dogs, her parrot, and her neighbor, Charlie, who had installed a new sway bar on my neighbor’s RV the day before. My friend, who enjoys writing, suggested we exchange our work and encourage one another’s writing. So, we’re planning to do that. Extremely nice day, yesterday.

+++

Today, I I am fortunate to have been invited to join some friends for a short road trip to North Little Rock to enjoy a meal and some good, locally crafted beer. I am almost as fully engaged in “awe” of good food and good beer as I am with spectacularly complex tiny life forms. Let the day begin in earnest! One of these same friends prepared Jerk Chicken a few nights ago and generously delivered some to share with me, knowing my affinity for spicy foods. My God, it was so good! Jerk chicken, atop a bed of spicy rice laced with peas and beneath a topping of strips of bacon…I ate it last night and felt like I had been given a gift of unmatched flavor. I wish I could have shared it with my wife; she shared my love for spicy, flavorful foods. 🙁  I feel so incredibly fortunate at this moment. Somehow, this day seems to be unfolding as another one of those rare days when gratitude for living seems to be just bursting out of me.

+++

I am drinking coffee from a Boston Stoker mug, courtesy of the Dayton, Ohio branch of my family. They sent me a surprise package of goodies that arrived yesterday. Some days are just spectacular reminders of how fortunate I am to have people in my life who care for me. And that was not all that was waiting for me when I got home yesterday. A hand-written note card  from someone who has kept me reasonably sane for months came in the mail, too. I am in love with the world right now. It feels good.

Some people tend to view their experiences in metaphorical terms, looking at their lives as chapters in a book. That is a reasonable metaphor, I think, but our lives might just as easily be collections of short stories. Chapters of a book have connections to one another. Short story collections can be threaded together with a theme or thrown together in chaotic fashion, eschewing a common theme in favor of a series of disconnected experiences.

Until the death of my wife, I unconsciously looked at my life as a book whose chapters were relatively simple and straightforward. And, I suppose the book was plodding along as intended until, suddenly, the final chapters became impossible to write. Now, that simple and straightforward book can no longer be finished. So, I am faced with deciding whether to cobble together chapters to tack on to an unfinished manuscript. If I do that, I must recognize that the body of work cannot be edited to accurately reflect the way the past moves into the future. The other option: abandon the unfinished book and start something new.

A few years ago, as I was entering retirement, I worked out a plan I called the “New Trick Tour.” My plan was to arrange to work for one week at a time at a wide array of jobs, from manual labor to service industry positions to technical service roles to professional engagements. The idea was to either work without pay, at the employer’s option, or with some modest stipend to cover the cost of lodging and meals for the week. I was willing to cover the costs, if necessary, but I hoped to get some support. During my fifty-two weeks of one-week-at-a-time employment, I would write about each experience, which I envisioned would be eye-opening and exciting. At the end of the year, I would assemble my writings, week by week, and would edit them into a book-length manuscript. The idea, as might be obvious, was to produce a book promoting the idea that you can “teach an old dog new tricks.” For various reasons, not the least of which were learning of competing endeavors and encountering insufficient support in finding even the first few weeks of “employment,” I dropped the idea. My wife was relieved, as she thought it was akin to “the impossible dream” and she envisioned me being away from home most of the time, spending money we did not have. But I hated to leave the idea. And I still wish I had moved ahead with it, somehow. Bygones will be bygones, though, whether we like it or not.

Yet I have never given up on the idea in its entirety. It has gone through multiple iterations, but none of them have seemed doable for one reason or another. Now, though, some of the constraints that prevented me from acting on the ideas no longer seem insurmountable. And while I am no longer considering the same scenario as I was back then, I think I might be able to create a series of experiences that might well fit into a “short story collection” of sorts. Change is hard, though, even for someone like me who likes to think I embrace new experiences and discard broken ones.

Perhaps I will attempt to craft a tapestry instead of a book. A tapestry made of new experiences in new places with new people. Or alone. And my tapestry may take the form of vignettes, my favorite form of writing fiction. Except, in my case, the vignettes will not be fiction. They will be—if I weave them—autobiographical. Perhaps with a twist. I could manufacture a companion, visible only to me, with whom to share my new experiences. A dog, perhaps, or a woman with sparkling eyes and a sense of adventure. Or maybe this will slip into the dustbin of ideas that grows so heavy it is impossible to empty.

+++

Years ago, I read The Year of Magical Thinking, by Joan Didion. The book details Didion’s experiences concerning her husband’s death.  Lately, I’ve realized that I, too, have engaged in magical thinking surrounding my wife’s death. I speak to the beautiful wooden urn holding her ashes as if she can hear my apologies for the mistakes I made during our years together. I cling to certain of her clothes; not with any specific purpose in mind but with a fear that if I give them away I will lose an important connection with her. There are dozens of other bits of “magical thinking” that take place in my mind, with respect to my wife’s death. I try to understand them and get over and through them, but I suppose the only way to do that is to allow healing time to move ahead on its own schedule. It is approaching five months since she died and ten months since the fall that led to her hospitalization and her time in rehabilitation facilities. The pain is rarely as sharp as it was when she died, but it comes in waves that almost equal those first few days. I do not remember the “lesson” from Didion’s book. Was her magical thinking a necessary part of the healing process? In Didion’s case, her grief was magnified by her daughter’s illness and, ultimately, her daughter’s death. But are there really lessons to be learned from the book? Perhaps I should read it again. I won’t, though. I have too many other books waiting to be read; I blame the delay on the insufficiency of my eyeglasses, but I know it’s more likely my ADHD or whatever it is that keeps me from finishing almost everything I start.

+++

I try to make it a point not to mention my wife or my grief when I am around other people these days. I know from experience how listening to and witnessing the depression of grief can be draining. It is not that one tires of hearing about it; it’s more a matter that one needs protection against falling into the pit from which the griever is attempting to escape. But I know from experience, too, that avoiding the topic can amplify the emotions connected to it. When I am alone, I unleash the pain and try to come to grips with competing emotions, which is perhaps the most difficult aspect of my personal grief. That is, I deeply grieve for and miss my wife, but at the same time I long for some kind of connection to fill the void. That longing, taking place at the same moment as my grief, causes me to feel guilt, as if I am simultaneously missing my wife and looking for a replacement. Allowing these emotions to exist in the same mind at the same time could rip me apart. Some days, I wish I could simply become utterly detached and unfeeling. Even that wish, though, makes me feel guilty for wanting my natural pain to subside and be replaced by unnatural serenity. I can’t win for losing. Or something like that.

+++

Today, I will have lunch with a friend and then will get a tour of her RV, which I have seen only once in a photograph she showed me. She is about to leave on a ten-day trip that will have her staying at several “uncommon” places. She belongs to two organizations that give her access to somewhat remote but attractive RV sites: farms with just one or two RV hookups, lakeside retreats with limited RV capacity, etc. These are places where she can relax without the noise and hustle-bustle of other RVers. Though I’m not nearly far enough along in my thinking to believe I will buy an RV, I’m curious enough to want to explore the idea.

+++

I woke up a little earlier than usual this morning, about 4:45. That early start prompted me to put in a load of clothes, including two pairs of jeans, one of which need a belt loop repaired. Because I have never learned to use a sewing machine, I will again have to take the jeans in to a seamstress, a woman who operates a sewing and embroidery shop nearby. The cost of cheap jeans increases quickly when I have to have her repair belt loops; apparently, I regularly grab the same belt loop to “hike up” my jeans, causing it to fail. This would not be a problem if I would lose enough inches around my waist to allow my jeans to sit just above my hips. Maybe. The fact that I have no butt to speak of doesn’t help. There’s very little upon which the jeans can sit. So they attempt to slide down to uncomfortable levels. But that’s not what I started to write about. I was writing about my laundry, an exciting subject if ever there was one. I washed almost all of my regular day-to-day clothes this morning, so I’ll have to wait to get dressed until the dryer finishes (I just put them in). So, no point in showering until I have something to wear. I could shave, but that will have to wait until I finish writing, won’t it?

+++

I am hungry. I should feed myself a glass of tomato juice and an olive and quit eating for the day. But I will not do that. I will have tomato juice, thank you, but the olive will wait. Instead, I will have something a bit more substantial. What, remains to be seen.

During a phone call from my sister and oldest brother yesterday, a book was recommended to me: The Code Breaker, by Walter Isaacson. Subtitled, Jennifer Doudna, Gene Editing, and the Future of the Human Race, descriptions of the book make it sound like an enthralling story of the extraordinary pursuit of inventions that can, and probably will, transform our species. A paragraph describing the book, from the Amazon website, reads as follows: “After helping to discover CRISPR, Doudna became a leader in wrestling with these moral issues and, with her collaborator Emmanuelle Charpentier, won the Nobel Prize in 2020. Her story is a thrilling detective tale that involves the most profound wonders of nature, from the origins of life to the future of our species.”  “These moral issues” include matters such as whether, if we are wealthy enough, we should be able to pick and choose physical attributes of our children, cure illnesses, prevent depression, etc. I look forward to reading the book.

Something struck me about my reaction to learning about, and then reading more about, the book. The fact that the book is about the extraordinary intellectual accomplishments of a woman seems especially noteworthy. In spite of the hundreds and hundreds (many thousands, more like it) of examples of women making enormous contributions to humankind, I felt enormous gratitude that here is yet more evidence that women are equally as capable as men in every sphere of human endeavor. Despite my personal emphatic certainty of that fact, I still find it gratifying to have my beliefs validated. As if they need validation. But, still in our society today, the absolute equality of women is by no means universal. We must, still, fight unfounded beliefs in male superiority. That upsets me. I can only imagine how much it must rankle women. And I can only imagine how the history of female subjugation must make women acutely aware of how important it is to ensure that the gains made over time never be allowed to slide backward.

Too many people, I think, assume the advances made in pursuit of universal human dignity cannot be reversed. The upsurge in public displays of racism during the last several years should provide ample proof that gains made cannot be assumed to be permanent. In spite of the fact that racism had seemed subdued (though by no means eliminated), it was simply lurking just beneath the surface. When opportunities arose for it to be announced without repercussions, racism spewed forth like a geyser. The same is true of sexism and misogyny. It will require constant vigilance to keep it buried and, perhaps one day, to kill it. I am afraid its death, though, will require also that the people who grasp so firmly to it die, as well. But, as is true with racism, it seems to spread with DNA. Perhaps CRISPR can help address that ugly disease.

+++

I want to recommend something perhaps less earthshaking than The Code Breaker, but interesting to me, nevertheless. For several years, I have subscribed to a free usually-daily e-newsletter, Fast Forward, published by/through the Boston Globe. You can sign up here. The newsletter, written by Teresa Hanafin, is baldly biased toward liberal thinking and Boston-based sports (the latter is not my thing, but actually is interesting to me). Hanafin is an extremely clever writer, very funny, and offers an easy, quick read. But she does not steer clear of weighty subjects, nor does she avoid issues that are not in the least funny. Until you start reading her newsletter, it’s hard to know why it’s so engaging. But, then, you know.

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Every place has its attractions and its detractions. Hot Springs Village is located in a naturally beautiful area in which the weather is sometimes wonderful and usually tolerable. And the cost of living is quite low. But in that same naturally beautiful environment exists some of the most offensive politics and most depressing poverty I have encountered anywhere. And the summer chiggers are monstrous. And pollen in the spring is almost intolerable.

Boston has its own beauty and a history unmatched by anywhere else. Plus, it represents a pocket of extremely liberal politics in a liberal state. But its winters can be brutal. And it’s expensive.

The west coast of the U.S. is beautiful and offers someone like me, a proud and progressive liberal, an appealing body politic (but not always). The weather in the west, especially near the coast, is delightful much of the time. But the earth in the western U.S. tends to attempt to kill its inhabitants from time to time with excessive shaking and blazing wild fires.

Canada offers stunning beauty and lovely weather on occasion. But it attempts to freeze its inhabitants to death in some parts of the country every winter. Yet the general tenor of the country seems so much more civil than this country of ours. Perhaps our reputation for being less-than-civil is the reason the Canadians make it so damn hard for us to infiltrate their country, though our intent is not to change them, but to be changed by them.

No matter where you look, everywhere has its ups and downs, its pros and cons. But, if you’re like me, you keep looking. You keep hoping to find that ideal sweet spot where life could be just shy of perfect. Nice, friendly people whose political perspectives are their own and not shared except in the voting booth and in public forums dedicated to the purpose. Wonderful climate. Low cost of living. Natural beauty. Ample water. Friendly insects that do not bite. Trees and shrubs and flowers that choose not to choke inhabitants with yellow (or any color, for that matter) pollen. No crime. No poverty. Yeah, a place we can forget that the rest of the world exists, if just for a while. But if we find such a place—and if we’re decent human beings—we can’t help but feel for the people whose lives are not so idyllic; guilt won’t let us. Most of us, I hope, carry that empathy and sympathy and compassion in our souls, though those attributes might be buried deep in some of us.

+++

I am beyond fortunate. I live a charmed life, I think. In spite of its traumas and occasionally excruciating pain, my life in general is happy. I keep telling myself that. And it’s true, except when it isn’t. Today, it is true. I will meet with friends tonight in a local pub to play trivia. A friend called last night to invite me to join her this weekend at an event involving beer and food…how could I not?  How is it that I deserve to be in the company of such good people? I probably don’t deserve it, but I’ll keep quiet about it until I’m found out.

+++

CNN, once an around-the-clock news channel, has become just as trustworthy as Fox News, but with a different political perspective. Trump did not have to say a word about the channel for me to reach that conclusion. Long before he began attacking the channel, it was evident to me that entertainment ratings were more important than a reputation for reliable news to the powers-that-be behind the channel. So, two of the major sources of “news” are, in fact, not news organizations at all but, rather, politically-driven propaganda machines. It has gotten to the point that weather reports coming from either one are just as suspect as their “analyses.”

Qatar’s Finance Minister, Ali Shareef Al Emadi, has been arrested on suspicion of embezzlement. The U.S. birth rate has reached its lowest level since 1979. Trillions of cicadas are about to emerge in the U.S. Peloton has recalled 125,000 treadmills after first insisting they were safe. The Canada branch of the Proud Boys has dissolved itself after the Canadian government added it to a list of terrorist entities. Those bits of news are from Aljazeera, which is in my opinion far more trustworthy than either CNN or Fox News. Now, if Aljazeera can refrain from slipping into becoming its own “analyst” of the “meaning” of its own news, it will continue to get my readership.

+++

And a quote from my little book, The Essence of Zen:

We deem those happy
who from the experience of life
have learned to bear its ills
without being overcome by them.

~ Carl Jung ~

Now, my objective continues. Bear the ills without being overcome by them. Isn’t that what all of us are attempting to do, whether we recognize or acknowledge it or not?

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Occasionally, I look to see where visitors to my blog come from. Yesterday, according to the traffic log, visitors came from Mumbai, India, the Republic of Korea, Berkeley, California, Dayton, Ohio, Austin, Texas, Syracuse, New York, Fort Smith, Arkansas, and United States (that nails it down very specifically, doesn’t it?). Most of those are shown as one-time visitors, which suggests they “stumbled” upon the blog and probably left right away. But, by far, the largest number are from Hot Springs Village, Arkansas. I know a few people locally are regular visitors (they comment or tell me), but I do not know who most of the Hot Springs Village visitors are. I wonder whether they are gathering information to use in my ouster from my church? I do suspect most of those unknown visitors are from my church…I don’t know many others.  😉

+++

Off to shower and shave. And, then later, to the church parking lot to hear what’s up in the world outside my tiny dominion.

This morning, I have a follow-up appointment with a respiratory APN. She will ask me questions about my breathing, wheezing, shortness of breath, etc. And I suspect she will suggest alternates for the daily two-puff inhaler she last prescribed (and which costs a small fortune). I do not know why I seem to insist on early appointments when I can get them. They never begin on time, so they stretch into much later appointments. I linger in the waiting room for longer than I’d like. Sometimes, I schedule myself so that the predictable lateness interferes with plans later in the morning or the day. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today I’ll have no trouble getting back home in time to participate in a Zoom session on spirituality (that word I try not to use).

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Today is Cinco de Mayo, a geographically-limited holiday celebrated by people in and around Puebla, Mexico and appropriated by masses of US citizens who wish for a reason to celebrate with liquor. Okay, it’s not quite that blatant, but Cinco de Mayo is not a major Mexican holiday. In the USA, this is a day—fueled by alcohol—for dancing naked on tabletops and engaging in lascivious behavior with strangers or passing acquaintances. It might as well be celebrated as a day of unrestrained casual drunken sex with no consequences. But, of course, there are always consequences. Jealous spouses. Embarrassed co-workers and neighbors. Outraged employers. STD and its aftermath. Yet, with all its not-so-hidden sexual overtones, the real focal point of Cinco de Mayo in the good old USA is tequila. Tequila shots. Margaritas. Tequila sunrise cocktails. All manner of tequila-based drinks, some disguised to seem sweet and harmless. But those cleverly disguised “harmless” drinks are not, of course. They are powerful enough to unleash wanton demons aroused by the flavor and magical powers of the agave plant. I suspect  DUI/DWI arrests spike on Cinco de Mayo; so, too, might arrests for public nudity and lewd behavior. And employment termination for cause may spike on or after the celebrated holiday.

But not in the Village. There is very little lust in the Village and no sex, I suspect. Age and post-middle-class indoctrination have calmed libidinous urges. Not in everyone, though. I am confident there are some who would disprove my assertions about the innate chaste purity of Village people. Or, at least, the innate sense of puritanical decorum.

The second year (and maybe the third?) after we moved to the Village, we hosted Cinco de Mayo parties, complete with frozen margaritas by the gallon and taco bars. Because we were so new to the neighborhood (and probably because our neighbors were/are hesitant to readily shed inhibitions), there was no dancing on tabletops and casual drunken sex with strangers or passing acquaintances. We would have been shocked and alarmed if there had been such behaviors. Obviously, the introductory paragraphs of this post notwithstanding, Cinco de Mayo is not synonymous with drunken orgies. But we expected a party lubricated with tequila would loosen everyone up enough to get to know our neighbors better. It worked. But it was work. And it was expensive. So our parties were short-lived affairs. But they were fun! I remember them fondly.

Oh, well. These days, I’m more likely to nurse a shot of top-notch añejo tequila than to throw back a few frozen margaritas made from cheap tequila. But this afternoon or evening, I may make a “rocks” margarita using good reposado tequila, triple sec or cointreau, and freshly-squeezed lime juice. It will be a hat-tip to the Mexican army’s defeat of the French in the Battle of Puebla, not necessarily a signal that clothing is optional.

+++

My television watching habits have changed a bit lately, though I’m glued almost exclusively to Netflix. I’ve been watching Good Girls, a gritty and utterly unlikely crime comedy. But it’s fun.  And I watched Pine Gap, a one-season political thriller set in Australia and highlighting tensions between the USA, Australia, and China. Recent rumblings about “war” between China and Australia made the improbable show a little more realistic. I started watching Green Zone, the film, last night; I’m not sure about it yet.

I did not finish it last night because I kept drifting off during action-packed sequences. I finally gave up and went to bed early, leaving dinner dishes in the sink (where they remain). My lack of discipline has extended through the early morning hours so far, too; I haven’t made the bed, either. And I could happily take a nap, except that I still have to shower and shave and dress for my engagement with the medical profession. I should have tried to make this a remote video appointment. I’d still have had to get dressed, but I’d have more time to laze about.

+++

Some mornings—even the mornings I wake up thinking about road trips and my future and where I will be in two months or a year—I feel sort of lost. As if no road leads where I need to go, because I don’t know where that is. This morning, I read a poem from the book, The Cure for Sorrow. These words, the last two stanzas from the poem, Stay, resonate with me at this hour, though I’m not quite sure why:

You cannot know it now,
cannot even imagine
what lies ahead,
but I tell you
the day is coming
when breath will
fill your lungs
as it never has before,
and with your own ears
you will hear words
coming to you new
and startling.
You will dream dreams
and you will see the world
ablaze with blessing.

Wait for it.
Still yourself.
Stay.

~ Jan Richardson ~

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Last night, I slept with the ceiling fan on, the door to my “sky room” open, and for most of the night just a sheet covering me. Off and on, I awoke and pulled the sheet back so I could feel even cooler. If not for the pollen, I would have opened the windows in the “sky room.” The weather forecast for today is nothing short of spectacular. Clear skies, cool temperatures warming to roughly 70°F, and cooling again tonight to 48°F.  If I could live in a climate that mirrored last night, I think I could be happy with the weather.

+++

Time to begin preparing for the day, though the day will come whether I prepare or not.

Coffee tastes awful this morning, angry at filling a cup when it could have stayed comfortably unbrewed. Yet, still I drink it. It’s a habit, a ritual. I think, for a moment, that I rarely pay much attention to the flavor, but I realize that is not true. Sometimes I relish the bitterness that is softened a little when I allow the cup to cool just a shade. But when I rush to drink it, the liquid is too hot to cushion the bite. That’s when, like this morning, the brew feels and tastes caustic, as if I am its enemy. And perhaps I am.

It is possible that I have allowed a restless night to stay with me. Just as I was returning to bed from a 1:00 p.m. pee, the NOAA weather radio let loose with the first of four or five screams of the night, warning me of approaching thunderstorms with wind and hail that could damage roofs, cars, siding, and trees. It seemed that, thereafter, every time I had almost drifted off to sleep, the radio emitted another ear-piercing noise. It hasn’t been many days since I wrote another complaint about the NOAA radio. This time, I vacillated between unplugging the monster and crushing it under multiple blows from a sledgehammer. I did neither. So, at 5:00 a.m., I got out of bed. I took my morning pills and combed my unruly hair. And now, an hour later, I sit writing about the same damn thing, again and again. In the intervening period, I made coffee and read about last night’s collapse of a subway overpass in Mexico City, killing 23 and injuring 70 or more. That chilling news should have lessened my concern with the coffee. But the two mental processes are quite different; one personal and intimate, the other distant and, though cataclysmic, removed from my immediate experience.

+++

My calendar today is empty so far, but I have plenty to do if I can summon the discipline to do it. Taxes. Masses of paper to sort and file. Boxes of paper to shred. Walls to paint. Windows to clean. Floors to sweep. The list is a long as the sun is hot. But I have chosen not to calendar those functions because a full calendar would interfere with my shiftlessness. There was a time when I would have attacked those needs with a vengeance.  Now, though, I realize how little they matter. Taxes are the only ones with potentially consequential impacts if I were to elect to ignore them. The rest: they’ll wait. Even until the end of time or a little later. Yet doing those chores might improve my mood. It could use improvement. It’s not my mood so much that needs improvement. It’s my personality. And improvement may not be the word for it. Replacement, perhaps. A sunny disposition. I am not always this morose. But, usually? I don’t know.

+++

Lately, I’ve been daydreaming quite a lot. I imagine taking long road trips, but those dreams are not as satisfying as they once were because I am so conscious of the fact that they would be lonely. I keep revisiting that fact. On the one hand, hours and hours of driving with nothing to distract from my thoughts, other than avoiding collisions, has enormous appeal. On the other, the comfort of having a companion sitting silently next to me would be missing. That fact, alone, would make the trip longer and less fulfilling. The moment of checking into a motel along the road would initiate a seemingly endless period of time of utter solitude in an unfamiliar place. By the time the morning came around, I would be desperate to leave the emptiness of a strange room where only strangers, before me, have slept.

As I contemplate this dreariness of my imagined travel, my eyes fall upon a page from my book, The Essence of Zen, causing me to think in a different way.

The real voyage of discovery
consists not in seeking new landscapes
but in having new eyes.

~ Marcel Proust ~

I need to remake my eyes. Give them the ability to see and feel beauty in the mundane world around me. That thought leads me to thumb through my book again. This time, I find another pearl that forces me to think in perfect circles; or maybe it’s spherical thinking:

There are
no mundane things outside of Buddhism,
and there is
no Buddhism outside of mundane things.

~ Yuan Wu ~

I could transcribe the entire book in an effort to remake myself. But of course I would still be the same man with the same blemishes and the same attributes. It’s possible that I would better understand them, though, and may be willing to forgive some of the worst flaws. Yet I’ve had the book on my desk for years and have read every word in it many times. A couple of years ago, I extracted the following from Pema Chödrön’s book, When Things Fall Apart, and incorporated it into a blog post:

What makes maitri [the Buddhist practice of loving-kindness toward oneself] such a different approach is that we are not trying to solve a problem. We are not striving to make pain go away or to become a better person. In fact, we are giving up control altogether and letting concepts and ideals fall apart. This starts with realizing that whatever occurs is neither the beginning nor the end. It is just the same kind of normal human experience that’s been happening to everyday people from the beginning of time. Thoughts, emotions, moods, and memories come and they go, and basic nowness is always here.

To date, I have failed the lesson. I keep returning to it, attempting to absorb it, and then promptly replacing it not with loving kindness toward myself but with loathing. The twists and turns in my psyche are like switchbacks on an extraordinarily steep trail.

+++

My house smells like roasted chicken thighs. Despite a modest concern that I had left them, thawed, in the refrigerator for too long, I cooked them last night and ate them. So far, no untoward after-effects of the meal, so I think I’m safe. Today, I will oven-roast a chunk of pork tenderloin which will make at least two or three (or more) meals. I brined the pork all day yesterday and last night, so it should be beyond ready to cook. I’ll find out later whether my brining and today’s slathering with a spicy rub will result in a tasty outcome.

+++

It is almost 7 now, time to stop ruminating and musing and, instead, get to work. I have a dishwasher to unload, hummingbird feeders to hang, and breakfast to make.

Late yesterday afternoon and again this morning, I watched and listened to the YouTube replay of yesterday’s Sunday service for my church. The theme and topic of the minister’s sermon was “tenderness.” The woman who introduced the day’s service, always vibrant and welcoming, seemed especially spirited and genuine. I think anyone who was introduced to the church by watching yesterday’s video would have felt a sense of authentic welcoming at the start of the sermon. And the minister’s presentation was heartfelt and moving.

After watching the video, I wished I had been able to participate in yesterday’s Zoom conversation about the sermon. The topic, tenderness, struck a chord with me. For me, the concept gets at the heart of what I hope we’re all after in our dealings with other people. Though we often allow ourselves to get derailed or, more frequently, derail ourselves, I think most people seek out tenderness, whether they recognize that is what they are after, or not. The “dramatic moment,” one of the signature elements of the minister’s sermons, was a video I have seen several times on Facebook. Children, as they entered their classroom, touched an image on the wall next to the entry door to signal to their teacher, who greeted them as they entered, how they wished to be welcomed into the classroom. A valentine’s heart signaled they wanted a hug, a pair of hands said they wanted a high-five, and a musical note indicated they wanted a little “dance” with the teacher. I hadn’t consciously equated the interactions between the children and the teacher with “tenderness” before watching the sermon in full, but as I listened and watched, it became clear to me that giving the children a say in how they wished to be greeted was, indeed, a moment of tenderness. And, the more I think of the message and of my own feelings about interactions with people, the more aware I become that my own quest for tenderness, both giving and receiving, is important to me. The key, I think, is for me to behave in tender ways; to show tenderness, not necessarily overtly, but at least as a foundation of how I engage with others. Too often, my interactions are guided by skepticism, guardedness, fear, mistrust, or other shields against emotional injury. I wonder what proportion of people “in the world” are, like me, suspicious and behave in ways they think are self-protective but, in fact, keep others at a safe but uncomfortable distance? Who knows? I don’t. At any rate, tenderness is among the millions of things on my mind this morning.

+++

My wife’s sister visits me regularly, coming over in the morning to have coffee, talk, and play Words with Friends on our smart phones as we sit across the table from one another. Her visits started while my wife was in the hospital and rehab and have continued since my wife died just before Christmas. I think those visits may well have kept/are keeping me moderately sane. Many—maybe most—days those are the only interactions I have with other people, aside from an occasional phone call or email.  That’s not really new, though, in that when my wife was at home, we were one another’s only company most of the time. Perhaps that’s why I think of myself as a loner. But a couple of days ago a friend commented about my frequent suggestions that I’m a loner, saying ” I see you more as someone who equally enjoys being with his friends and savoring solitude.” And I agree with it. I do deeply value my solitude, but I feel energized and alive when I am able to spend time with good, friendly people. Without expressly acknowledging it, I think I of those times as “tender” times. I suppose the sermon is infecting my thinking this morning. I am curious as to whether I’ll let the infection spread to other aspects of my thought processes. Hmm.

+++

Sometimes, reading others’ thoughts about reality using words and approaches I normally do not consider are worth as much to me as days and days of intense introspection. Here’s one such depiction:

Enlightenment is like the moon
reflected on the water.
The moon does not get wet,
nor is the water broken.
Although its light is wide and great,
the moon is reflected
even in a puddle an inch wide.
The whole moon and the entire sky
are reflected in one dewdrop
on the grass.

~ Dōgen Zenji ~

This is not new to us, of course, but it merits an occasional moment of focus. Considering that he expressed those thoughts between 1200, when he was born, and 1253, when he died, the ideas he documented have been with us for a very, very long time. Those little focal moments when we give deep thought to old ideas brought forward to modern life can change the course of our lives, if we let them. And, naturally, if we want to change course.

+++

Today I must track down the church parking lot bidder to clarify his bid and his understanding of our wishes. The day has a purpose. Or, at least, I have a purpose for the day.

This is post number 3600. I wrote the first post for this blog roughly eight years and eight months ago, which translates into an average of roughly a shade more than thirty-four posts a month. Some months have been far more active, some considerably less. Regardless, I have devoted a LOT of time to writing and posting here. Toward what end, though? That’s hard to say. The direction and tone and content of my posts have varied wildly over the course of these eight-plus years. And the content of other blogs I wrote during the six or seven years before I created this one were just as schizophrenic. If nothing else, though, the fifteen years, more or less, I’ve been blogging account for one hell of a lot of words. Just over three months ago, I wrote my 3500th post. The spigot remains almost fully open. I keep talking about extracting from all of that a stand-alone volume of related pieces and producing a book. So far, it’s been all talk, with very little action. Maybe one day. Uh huh. Enough reminiscing. On to more consequential stuff. Maybe.

+++

When I receive handwritten letters (an extreme rarity, I must say), I am touched that someone has taken the time and devoted the energy to write something directed exclusively to me. Even though the content sometimes suggests I was only one of several recipients of the message contained therein, receiving them feels like a special gift. While I would love to reciprocate (or initiate them), my handwriting is so utterly abysmal that the recipient would be unable to read them. So, when I “write,” I type. Better than a sharp stick in the eye, say I. But I have been thinking about typing some letters that the recipients would clearly understand were written exclusively for them. For example, including in the letters some recollections about how we met or some event or activity we shared or some other obviously personal matters. I think the inclusion of memories exclusive to the recipients and I might be moving. But such letters might also be distressing to the recipients, who with very rare exceptions would have never before received a letter of any kind from me. The receipt of such letters might trigger in them fear that I have become obsessed with the recipients. The recipients might understandably think I have become too focused on our relationship, whatever form it had theretofore taken. And they might well wonder what possessed me to suddenly write to them. I can imagine the thoughts going through their minds. Instead of thinking “I’m flattered that he’s thinking of me,” their thoughts could be “I’m afraid that this letter signals that he ‘wants’ me.” A simple letter, intended as a gesture of goodwill and friendship, might result in avoidance and fear and, perhaps, a call to the local police to express concern and seek protection.

But, still. personal letters have such appeal. And I know my idea is not unique. A woman in my church mentioned, during a recent Zoom meeting, that she regularly mails letters or notes or other form of personal communication to people. She understands the value of that personal touch and how it makes the recipient feel. Ah, yes. Good intentions. Will the road to Hell be paved with more of mine? Whether I follow through on the idea remains to be seen.

+++

It is hard to believe the calendar has turned to May. I have only a vague recollection of the first four months of the year. It’s as if I have been under the influence of low-dose anesthesia for much of the last several months. I have memories, of course, but they seem distant and nebulous; almost like they belong to someone else who has allowed me limited access to their experiences.

+++

I arose later than usual this morning, around 6:00 a.m. Two hours earlier, I awoke and considered starting the day, but the allure of a comfortable cocoon-like spot in bed was too much. So, I spent another two hours in soft comfort. The cool outdoor temperatures permitted the air inside the house to cool to 72°F, ideal for sleeping with only a light cover over me. Though only seven degrees cooler than the point at which the air conditioning would kick in, the temperature inside the house at that hour was perfect; I had no choice but to sleep in.

+++

Yesterday morning, while I was playing Words with Friends with my sister-in-law who was sitting across the table from me, my phone rang. It was the minister of my church, inquiring about the Mexican restaurant/tienda about which I’ve been singing praises on Facebook in recent months. He was considering having lunch there and had a few questions. I haven’t heard back yet about whether he ate there, but I hope if he did it was a positive experience.

I rarely get legitimate phone calls on my landline, so often I just let the phone ring. In fact, I’ve been considering getting rid of the landline. That would be a shame, though, because only a few months ago I bought a new set of phones (a base plus five stations) to replace the ones killed by a lightning strike (which also killed a television and my cable TV provider’s TiVo box). One of my brothers calls me on the landline with some regularity. And my oncologist’s office calls that number with reminders about appointments. (Sometimes I feel like Beverly, from my oncologist’s office, calls just to talk. But I know that’s not the case…she’s just so friendly and casual and familiar, despite insisting on calling me Mr. Swinburn. I will almost miss those occasional calls when I complete my three years of regular follow-ups.)

It’s happened again, hasn’t it? I do it with some frequency; starting one topic only to allow myself to follow a stoned rabbit down its warren—filled with magic mushrooms—and ending in another dimension or on another planet.

I should get on with my Sunday. I have a body (my own) to wash, hair to shampoo, barely visible facial stubble to shave, and teeth to brush. To you reading this stream-of-consciousness post, thank you! And have a good, productive, enjoyable day!

Restlessness. That’s what it is, right? It’s not necessarily a permanent change of heart. It’s not necessarily a signal that it’s time to move on. But the “seven-year-itch” seems to infect  many aspects of our lives. In years past, I have tended to long for a significant change every seven years or so. It was true of the time I spent in several jobs, the length of time we owned various of our homes, and the time I spent living in various cities. I couldn’t set my calendar by those upheavals, but there was a correlation between that period of time and major dislocations in my life.

I’ve lived in Hot Springs Village for about seven years.

So maybe my restlessness does represent a permanent change of heart. Maybe I am ready to uproot myself. Try a new place. Become a new person. Leave some of my baggage behind. At some point, though, I think moving on begins to feel more like it equates to abandonment; both abandoning and being abandoned.  And the older I get, the attraction of change is not quite as “shiny” as it once was. I could talk myself into either exploring another adventure or settling in to what has become familiar. I just haven’t been able to decide which is more appealing.

Yesterday, during lunch with a friend, I mentioned I had been thinking, again, of selling my house, buying an RV, and hitting the road. My friend, who has extensive experience as an RVer, told me a bit about her experiences. She showed me photos of the RV she bought not long ago. We talked at length about what’s involved in living and traveling in and RV. Following our conversation, my previous interest in the idea grew stronger. I looked online at several RVs and she forwarded links to others. During the course of last night and early this morning, I questioned myself about whether I am really serious or simply daydreaming. I have not come up with a definitive answer.  I just don’t know.

I promised myself (and others) I would not make any firm decisions about what to do with the rest of my life until at least a year after my wife’s death. But in recent weeks, especially, it has occurred to me over and over that I may not have the luxury of letting the passage of time guide me. “Give it time” is great advice for someone younger than I, but it does not make as much sense for someone my age.

I think some of my acquaintanceships where I live have begun to morph into friendships. For me, that sort of transition takes a very long time to develop. Moving, whether to a new place or into a nomadic lifestyle, could and probably would derail that evolution. And I may not have time again to plant the seeds and hope they grow. My history of sowing the seeds of friendship has not been especially successful except for a few notable exceptions. For reasons a psychologist might be able to explain, most of the seeds I’ve sown in the past seven years have sprouted almost exclusively into friendships with women. Not that that is particularly relevant to whether I stay or go.

My thinking is composed of fragments like pieces of unrelated jigsaw puzzles. I can’t get the pieces to fit together. The appeal of moving on is strong, but so is the draw of stability and connections to people. Yesterday, during lunch, my friend and I both said we had felt like we had found “our people” here (a tiny pocket of progressive thinking within a sea of deeply malignant ultra-conservatism). How strong, though, are those bonds? Are they like strands of almost-impossible-to-break twisted wire or are they as fragile as a delicate crystal Christmas ornament?

I suspect anyone who regularly reads my thoughts is as tired of my on-again, off-again vulnerability as I am. I just can’t seem to find a steady spot where I can get my footing. An anchor to either keep me firmly attached to realty or pull me toward the bottom is what I need.

Today promises to be cloudy and warm, though the humidity shouldn’t be as stifling as it has been. To clear my head, I need sunshine and a crisp, cool day. That’s an argument for change, in that the weather today will not be cooperative. Maybe I’ll stick my head in the refrigerator for a while.

Grey is either an extremely dark white or a very light black. I’m almost sure of it.

I ate too much last night. The evening’s leftovers remain in the refrigerator, begging to be eaten. But I refuse to be manipulated by what was advertised as potato “skins” that, in reality, are whole potatoes, cut in half lengthwise, baked, scooped out, and refilled with the highly-processed remnants mixed with God knows what. I thought I was buying an appetizer for the table; no one else at the table partook. I might as well have bought a full meal for three. And that was on top of my brisket dinner. Others at the table knew better; they all ordered only appetizers or dessert. I should have been the last one to order. Instead, I was among the first. In addition to the food, I shared two pitchers of beer, Skullcrusher IPA, with the other male at the table. I could have done well to have stopped at one.

The food and drink fest was prompted by a gathering of friends at the Beehive, the purpose of which was to play Trivia. I was the inept addition to the team; I knew the answers to only a fraction of the questions. That notwithstanding, I had a lot of fun. It was nice to get out with a group and kick back for a bit. I think the group has, in the past, gathered regularly on Thursday evenings for Trivia. Now that we’re all doubly vaccinated, we can do it again. But I suspect there’s a limit on the number who can participate per team. I think some “regulars” were missing from last night’s gathering, so if I am involved in the future, it will depend on available slots. Which suits me; regular commitments, even enjoyable ones, can seem confining to me. But, even in my ineptitude, I could come to enjoy playing the game. Of course, it’s not the game that’s so enjoyable; it’s being with the people.

+++

If nothing else, writing forces me to think. It requires a measure of critical thinking, which demands that I attempt to look at points of view that might differ pointedly from my own. Even when, internally, I successfully refute viewpoints at odds with my positions, I tend to become less strident in defending their opinionated stance than I was before. The reason, I think, is that others’ attitudes can seem more reasonable upon careful inspection. That is not to say I agree with them; only that often they can represent plausible considerations of the issues at hand. This emphasizes to me that my way of looking at the world is not necessarily the right way. Nor is it necessarily the wrong way. It may simply be another way, a different way, that leads to conclusions that differ from others’.

My tendency to attempt to balance viewpoints often makes me seem indecisive or hesitant to commit. So be it. Speeding toward a bad conclusion is worse than expanding time to reach a good one. That having been said, giving matters plenty of time to roll around in one’s head does not always lead to the right decision or position. I have plenty of experience thinking long and hard before reaching what, in hindsight, was a bad decision. But simply allowing myself to think about matters from different perspectives gives me the sense that open-mindedness is preferable to prejudice. Interestingly enough, though, there are those who argue forcefully that “overthinking” is akin to promoting weakness. That is, one can be too open-minded, too willing to consider other points of view, too forgiving of opposing positions. I see ruptures occur in the social fabric when, for lack of better terms, self-preserving bias confronts excessive tolerance. It’s then that the characteristics that help mold viewpoints become the points of contention, rather than the viewpoints themselves. This entire discussion rests on my untrained psychological assessment; that does not mean it is invalid, only that it has no credentials. 😉

+++

Yesterday, I exchanged emails with one of my brothers, who waxed philosophical about the pleasures of Lockhart, Texas: barbecue, courthouse and church architecture, etc. His comments triggered my memory of a one-day road trip, almost eleven years ago, on which  two friends of mine and I embarked. We left the Dallas/Fort Worth area early in the morning and drove non-stop to Lexington, Texas, where we stopped at Snow’s for a morning taste of barbecue. We then drove to Lockhart, where we sampled the fare at three more well-known smokehouse BBQ joints. Finally, we tasted BBQ at a place in Llano, Texas that was always among my favorites, before returning to D/FW. One of my friends later had some beer cozies made to commemorate the trip: 558 miles to visit 5 BBQ smokehouses in 15 hours. We promised we would do another trip to check out some other places. But we haven’t yet. One of the guys moved to Iowa, the other moved to Virginia, and I moved to Arkansas. Still, the allure of the road trip is strong.

+++

Every day, memories of my wife occupy a considerable amount of my time. Some times, the memories are sweet and comforting. Other times, they fill me with guilt and regret; little things that could have been and should have been different. I have been able to successfully (for the most part) tuck many of the memories into places in my psyche that allow me to go about my day-to-day activities without intrusion. Some, though, continue to slice me like a scalpel, sparking sadness that seems deeper than the stars are distant. Her death was only just a bit more than four months ago. But, before that, she was in the hospital or rehab for more than five months. So, it has been more than nine months since she was comfortably at home and we enjoyed “normalcy” at home, to the extent that normalcy was possible during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic (so far). I am far more needy than I ever knew. Or admitted. I miss the comfort of companionship, the reassuring presence that makes me feel I am not alone, even in my most hermit-like moods.

+++

How is it that people can balance pleasure and pain and remain relatively sane? As I contemplate pleasure and pain, it seems they can be reactions to one another; pleasure is a means of overcoming pain and pain is a moderating force that controls unchecked pleasure. But is that true? Are the two sensations opposites? Or do they exist along different spectra that may occasionally intersect, but do not necessarily relate to one another. This importance of this topic (as well as the interest in it), among so many others, can be amplified by getting high, I think. But I don’t need to get high to wonder about such things. It’s too early in the morning to even think about such things.

I have things to do. Get ready for the woman who comes every few weeks to deliver me from sloth by vacuuming and mopping the floors, etc. And I need to shower, shave, and get dressed in time to go meet someone for lunch. So, enough of this rambling for now. More rambling next time I ramble.

At 2:00 a.m., the NOAA Weather Radio screamed me awake, alerting me to the latest tornado watch, which is in effect until 8 a.m. I would have been more forgiving of the howling screech if the alert had been for a warning. Informing me, by waking me from a deep and pleasant slumber, of a watch, though, is very nearly unforgiveable. I may explore whether it is possible to change the settings of the radio so that I am awakened only when deadly weather is imminent. Ach! That is the height of arrogance; thinking I should be able to adjust notifications of cataclysmic weather events to suit my mood. I’ll try to adjust my sense of entitlement to a level closer to one of humility.

+++

Yesterday afternoon, when the sun had peaked out from behind the clouds for long enough to allow exposed wood to dry just a touch, I blew pollen and its worm-like carriers from my deck. The wet stuff had sat on the deck long enough to leave deep, dark stains; a complete change from the day before. I assume I will, eventually, be able to use my power washer and soap to remove the worst of the ugliness. But only time, sunlight, and regular washing will bring back the more or less pristine grey color. I should not feel such animosity toward trees and Nature, but at this moment I do. I should, instead, feel “at one” with the universe and take what it gives me with gratitude and deep appreciation. I’m working on that.

I keep recalling (and recording here, over and over) the words a blogger friend used as her old blog’s tag line:

“You are perfect as you are, but you could use a little work.”

Isn’t that true of everyone? We’re all just as we should be, but every one of us could use a little work. We could be more humble, more thoughtful, kinder, more compassionate, more understanding, more cheerful, more generous, less judgmental, slower to anger, quicker to offer help to those in need, and otherwise just better people. But we’re doing reasonably well, given the circumstances, aren’t we? Or are we? Everyone’s answer depends on experience and context and, or course, the degree of honesty he or she is willing to recognize and acknowledge.

+++

My sister-in-law regularly says things happen as they should; just give things time and they will work out, she suggests. And I often find they do. For example, I recently went to have the dermatology APN wound me with fire and ice (she burned and then froze [I think] some skin growths on my hands/arms/face/scalp). She sent two prescriptions in for me. When I went to pick them up, one of them cost me $10 and the other would have cost me $244. I opted to forego the more expensive of the two, figuring my scalp would survive without being slathered with ointment made of money. Then, a few days later, in a drawer in the master bath, I found an almost-full plastic container of the prescribed medication. Had I paid the $244 and then found the stuff, I would have been angry with myself. But the fact that I opted not to pay led to the circumstance that was “as it should be.”

Despite the difficulty I have in accepting that things happen “as they should,” I cannot argue with the fact that sometimes it seems they do. My sister-in-law is careful to say “as they should” does not mean the same thing as “for a reason.” It’s just a matter that the world is evolving naturally, I suppose. And it is not an uncommon occurrence that evidence supporting it stares me in the face. Perhaps it’s simply a matter of accepting the world as you find it; not fighting reality with weapons made of wishes.

As I contemplate my mixed feelings on the subject, Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata, comes to mind. The last stanza of his prose poem, especially, speaks to me. So much that I think I should include the entire piece before I leave my blog post for the morning:

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter,  for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

~ Max Ehrmann ~ © 1927

+++

Max Ehrmann’s words are words to live by. They are aspirational words, of course, rather than expectations of reality. But, when I read them, they signal me to stop and think and recognize the spectacular nature of the universe in which I am fortunate to exist.

For my own record and recollection, Ehrmann was an attorney, businessman, and writer. He was deputy state’s attorney in Vigo County, Indiana for two years, after which he went to work in his family’s businesses (meat packing and overalls manufacturing), which he left at age forty to write. Ehrmann died at age 72 and is buried in a cemetery in Terre Haute, Indiana. According to Wikipedia, “…the city honored Ehrmann with a life-size bronze statue by sculptor Bill Wolfe. He is depicted sitting on a downtown bench, pen in hand, with a notebook in his lap. “Desiderata” is engraved on a plaque next to the statue and lines from the poem are embedded in the walkway.” That may be reason enough for me to go to Terre Haute one day, just to see the art.

Another bizarre dream last night.

I bought a car from a friend, Craig (who does not sell cars), with a loan made available through an insurance program created to help a Missouri town recover from a devastating flood. Craig used my name in an ad promoting the availability of such loans to purchase cars. I thought nothing of it until I visited that Missouri town, where I saw a one-page ad mocking and shaming me for taking advantage of the flood. The ad, obviously placed by a local car dealer, did not reveal the name of the dealer; only my name, in a context dripping with contempt. There was more (a visit to a tiny law office and a voice mail I could not quite understand, etc.), but nothing that makes any sense.

Whether part of the same dream or in another one, I was in a car with a friend (not sure who) and three teenage boys, one of whom was the driver. The boys were part of a sports team that had just beaten the Arkansas team (I think the game was soccer, but I am not sure). The driver stopped at a street corner, where another teenager approached us, offering to sell us cannabis gummies. When asked how much, he said “$20 each,” as he held out a handful of them. He offered to let us try one, first. The price was too high for all of us and we told him so. But he wanted payment for the one “sample” he gave us. After much unpleasant discussion, I handed him a $10 bill. The others refused to pay, telling him it was a lesson in salesmanship. We left; we may have been headed to that Missouri town.

+++

Last night, I woke up at 1:09. I do not know how long I stayed awake in bed, but it seemed like a very long time. I thrashed about in discomfort, my knees and my hips aching, for what seemed like hours. The air temperature was too warm for me, so I threw off the covers and let the ceiling fan attempt to cool me, to no avail. This morning, around 5:00, I awoke, uncovered, in the same discomfort. My back aches and my knees seem intent on causing me moderate amounts of grief. The word “elderly” streams in and out of my consciousness. I think the dream occurred sometime during that four-hour stretch.

I have not yet bothered to make the bed, though the likelihood that I will return to it before tonight is extremely slim. I suppose I’ll make the bed about the same time I shower and shave and brush my teeth. I should have brushed my teeth when I got up; instead, I sprinted into the kitchen to make coffee and put some dishes away. The coffee would taste better with a slight hint of toothpaste sweetness in my mouth, I think. Too bad I haven’t come across cinnamon roll flavored toothpaste. A quick search of Google reveals that there are a few cinnamon flavored toothpastes, but the appeal for me would be the cinnamon roll flavor. If I can find a way to manufacture such a product, it could be my ticket out of here.

+++

I may participate in another “spiritual practices” Zoom gathering this morning, if said event takes place and I am sufficiently motivated when it occurs. At the moment, though, I am not sure my participation would be wise. I feel snarky and ready to inject arguments into any conversation, not a particularly appealing attitude in an environment dedicated to peaceful immersion in the “here and now.” I could, instead, make obligatory phone calls to church members, urging their participation in Sunday’s annual meeting. Snark is not especially suited to such engagements, either, but what the hell:  it might be fun to suggest to my list of congregants that failure to participate will guarantee them an eternity of hellfire and damnation. But they might not know me well enough to know my sense of humor. Hmm. We’ll see.

+++

The sky remains dark at this hour, but Alexa tells me it is cloudy and 65°F. Today’s high, she says, will be 81°F, with some sun and the possibility of thunderstorms. My agenda for the day includes a termite inspection of my house and little else (other than possible phone calls and possible attempts at spirituality). But I’ll probably go to the post office. And I may take a drive north of the Village just to see whether the forest has changed much during the last thirteen months. In an ideal world I would encounter, on my drive, produce stands along the roadside, where I could buy all manner of fresh fruits and vegetables. I have a hankering for a huge platter of grilled mixed vegetables…squash, onions, bell peppers, jalapeños, tomatillos, Brussels sprouts, eggplant, tomatoes, etc. To satisfy that craving, though, I suspect I would have to go to a grocery store, where produce from Mexico, Guatemala, Canada, and other breadbasket countries end up. I wonder how our grocery stores (and we) would cope without access to foreign-grown veggies? Not to mention fruits: papaya, avocado, citrus, pears, peaches, apples. Maybe peaches and apples (and pears?) would come from domestic sources. And some others, perhaps. People who eschew globalization tend to overlook its impact on their diets, I think. I realize, of course, the CO² and fossil fuel issues associated with importing fruits and vegetables (and damn near everything else), but we must find solutions to those problems.

+++

I crave a hug. A tight, lingering hug. One that lasts minutes, not mere seconds. My church used to periodically, at the end of a service, have people stand up with signs (I think) saying “free hugs” and we would have a mini hug-fest. Those were fun. But the hugs were rather short. I’m looking for a full-on hug FESTIVAL, in which hugs are given until the hugged person decides to relinquish rights to the lengthy embrace. I suspect my idea for a hug FESTIVAL would break some sort of code of decorum or, perhaps, a civil ordinance. Or a State law or Federal regulation. “No public displays of affection allowed.” Something like that. What the hell. Let’s all become law breakers. But participation is allowed only for those who are at least two weeks past their second COVID vaccine shots.

+++

Enough dawdling. It is time to explore frontiers of food and cleanliness.

A few nights ago, I decided to forego my usual practice of bringing in the hummingbird feeders because of rain. Surely, I told myself, masked bandits would not risk falling to their deaths while attempting to slurp hummingbird nectar from a dangerously slippery railing. The next morning, all was well. The feeders survived the night.

The next night, my slothfulness allowed me to leave the feeders out again. And the following morning, it appeared the feeders had again remained untouched. But, while sitting outside, soaking in the warmth of the sun, I noticed one of the feeders seemed oddly tilted. And the feeders were unusually low on nectar. It was then the footprints betrayed what had happened. The beasts had succeeded in drinking most of the nectar without knocking the feeders to the ground. Bidirectional pollen-laden footprints on the deck’s top rail revealed the paths the raccoons had taken as they boldly sought out and drank the nectar intended for hummingbirds. And, so, a lesson repeated for me for the umpteenth time: take the damn feeders inside EVERY night or accept the fact that raccoons will empty them!

+++

This morning’s sky is soft and grey, barely discernible pillows of clouds of the same color spread horizontally across the horizon. The temperature is refreshingly cool. The comfort of sitting outside, coupled with soothing bird songs and calls, causes a drop in my blood pressure. Except for pollen coating every square inch of the Earth as far as I can see, the day thus far is idyllic.

+++

I am in no mood to shower and shave this morning and I may forego both. I stayed out of the mud yesterday, did not exert myself (and so did not sweat excessively), and went outdoors only to visit the post office and to take my recyclables to the transfer station. And to clean the garage a bit. And to blow the pollen and debris from trees from the deck. And a few other occasions. Well, at least I did not sweat excessively. I may shower, just in case I am not as pristine as I think. But it will wait. In the interim, I will sit and write and drink coffee and soak in the morning.

+++

I have no idea how many times I have quoted the following words, but I know the number is significant:

Within yourself
is a stillness and a sanctuary
to which you can retreat at any time
and be yourself.

~Hermann Hesse~

Those words cause me to consider that he was referring to a “place” inside one’s mind that is a peaceful refuge, a place where one’s original self, untouched by external influences, exists. It is a place where the question of “who am I, at my core” is answered. I still haven’t found that place, but I want desperately to find it and retreat there from time to time. Or, perhaps, forever. I wonder whether it is easier to be the person one is at his core or to be the person shaped by experiences and social pressures and expectations?

+++

Some days I think I have exhausted my reserve of whatever it is that keeps me hopeful. Not today, but some days. Those are the days I feel like sleeping all day to keep negative thoughts from tormenting me. But negative thoughts intrude on my sleep, too, even when the hours before were perfectly fine. Last night, I awakened several times from a nondescript but negative dream, then went back to sleep and into the same dream. It was exhausting. At some point, the nondescript (and unremembered) dream dissipated and was replaced by another one. The other one took place on a deserted beach on the Gulf of Mexico. The only other “players” in the dream were another person, an unknown woman, and two horses. The horses ran into the surf and the woman chased after them. When they had reached a depth where only their heads were above water, they stopped. I was terrified the horses would drown and I was angry with the woman for chasing them. Bam! The dream either ended or my memory of it has disappeared. How did this thought morph from my periodic mental exhaustion to dreams about horses? Short circuits in my synapses, I guess.

+++

It’s after 7:30, so I should get more coffee and feed myself and decide whether to shower and shave and get dressed for the day. One day, I will write something more interesting than the daily drivel I have been writing for the past year or so. Food, also known as natural magic, may fix it. Now or in the future.

Zen in its essence
is the art of seeing
into the nature of one’s being,
and it points the way
from bondage to freedom.

~D.T. Suzuki

“Seeing into the nature of one’s being…”

It occurs to me that my entire life thus far has been spent attempting to capture that precious vision, but I remain largely blind. I stare into my own face, in a house of mirrors I have crafted from fragile sheets of glass, and see an endless array of images. Each reflection is distorted by imperfections in the glass. And, of course, by imperfections in me. I would be better served by peering into a quiet pool of water. That image would be more authentic, a more natural reflection of who I am. The chains of bondage I have readily accepted would melt away in the water, leaving me free and more vulnerable than ever before.

We long for freedom, yet thirst for bondage by another name. We strive for indenture, connections that constrain and manipulate us, turning us into versions of ourselves whose marks left by emotional ropes and chains are clearly visible. When finally we recognize the bondage for what it is, the path to freedom becomes either an easy stroll around a peaceful garden or a grueling climb over a dangerous and jagged mountain pass.

With those thoughts as a backdrop, it’s hard to tell whether my current state of intense wanderlust represents a permanent change in me or only a temporary reaction to an unknown trigger. Whatever it is, it feels  strong. Listening to friends talk about places they plan to go—coupled with my own long-time interest in seeing various places first-hand—has sparked another round of hit-the-road fever. One thing is clear at the moment, though. I want nothing, other than my own desires, to tie me down to a place. Obligations are burdens. I cannot imagine how difficult my desire to “just go” would be if I had children or grandchildren who tugged at my heartstrings and crimped my flexibility. But even owning a house is beginning to feel like an onerous commitment, an obligation that cannot quickly be unwound.

My wanderlust is tempered, though, by an addiction to predictability and relative security. I am torn between being an imposter who feigns adventurousness and a timid soul who values safety over excitement. And my wanderlust is kept in check by the fact that, even needing solitude as I do, there is no longer anyone to travel with me. When my wife and I hit the road (a rarity in recent years), her mere presence was enough to give me confidence. Now, though, I do not have that store of confidence. And the people I might ask to travel with me probably would opt to say no. And their husbands, too, might strenuously object. 😉 I try to inject feeble humor at awkward junctures.

None of the internal battles with myself would be visible to the casual observer except for the fact that I spill the bloodletting onto the posts in this blog. I wonder whether I, alone, experience these competing emotions and desires or whether they reflect a human condition that most of us choose to keep hidden beneath protective layers of bravado and false certainty? Who knows? I do not. And I’m not sure whether knowing would be of any value, either to me or to the person who reveals the internal strife. I’m just babbling into the wind, I think. The wind doesn’t mind.

+++

Time to feed the hummingbirds and make a simple breakfast. And, then, who knows? I suppose I’ll shower and shave and get dressed in “daytime meet the public” attire, as if I will meet the public. Except to go to the Post Office, I have no reason to leave the house today. But I may leave anyway. What an adventurer.