John Swinburn

Given that I seriously doubt I’ll have either the time or the inclination to write tomorrow morning, I’m writing Friday morning’s post on Thursday afternoon, instead. The possibility exists that I will write tomorrow, as well, but if not, I’m covered.

There was a time that I would type long letters to friends and family, but the letters rarely received replies. I am a throwback to a time when people wrote to one another instead of emailing or texting or calling or whatever. I do some of those things, too, but I prefer “writing.” My handwriting is illegible, no matter how hard I try to make it legible, so typing is the best option. I’ve read letters written in the 1800s, though, and their illegibility is simply more consistently attractive than my illegibility. I wonder how in hell people could read the stuff I’ve seen. But I suppose they could; perhaps it’s not my writing’s illegibility that’s the problem; perhaps it’s my illiteracy. Maybe I just cannot read cursive writing. I’m convinced that’s not the case, though; though it could be that I cannot read 1800s style cursive writing. Not that any of this matters much. Back to letters. I made the transition from letter-writing to blog-writing. My blog posts don’t get much response, either, but at least I know they can be read. But, then, so could my typed letters. Maybe it’s not the format; maybe it’s the content. Stream-of-consciousness insanity can be hard to follow and harder still to enjoy.

I have no idea where I was going with this. Suffice it to say I do not want to start over, so I’ll leave it as it is and hope some day I’ll remember what I was planning to write, so I can finish it.

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Thanks to a phone call from a friend who had just gotten her COVID-19 vaccination, I got my first vaccination today, too. She was notified yesterday she had been assigned to a slot at noon today. After she got her shot and was waiting the obligatory 15 minutes afterward before leaving, she was told there was a slight surplus of vaccines for that time slot and that people who arrived before 12:30 would be eligible to get a vaccination without an appointment. Her call came in about 12:15; I thought it impossible to get to the site before 12:30 and I was right. I arrived at 12:39. They accommodated me in spite of my tardiness. And I now have an appointment for a second shot on April 1. So, two trips to Little Rock to get my injections have been avoided. I cancelled my March 11 slot in Little Rock after I got home.

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On a very definitely related subject: the volunteers and professionals at the Balboa Baptist Church, where the shots were given, were extraordinary. The church provided the space and a number of its members provided the staffing to orchestrate and implement a remarkably well-organized process. From parking directors to parking lot ushers to people who checked credentials and provided forms for visitors to complete in advance of the shots, the volunteers were nothing short of spectacular. And the nurses and other professional staff were equally as capable and as friendly as the volunteers. I’ve rarely been so impressed with what amounts to an almost all-volunteer people-management process. Accolades to the Balboa Baptist Church. If they would radically alter their dogma, etc., I might visit occasionally just to express my appreciation.  😉

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Today’s weather has been outstanding. I think it’s about 72°F now and the brilliant blue skies are pristine and clear. Though the day started chilly, it warmed up nicely and very quickly. Word on the street, though, is that the temperature will drop to around 45°F tonight and will reach only 54°F tomorrow, with showers and clouds most of the day. If things go according to plan, I will take a friend in to town for a dental procedure and, then, if the timing is right, I will meet a friend and her partner for lunch at Superior Brewery. A little later, I am scheduled to have a telephone consultation with a doctor about the possibility of getting a medical marijuana card, the purpose of which will be to enable me to purchase products that may address should and neck pain and a few other physical outcomes of geezerhood. The possibility exists that the non-purchaser of my Camry will drop by later in the day to return the car’s maintenance and repair records. If so, I will invite her in for wine, as she seems to be an intriguing person who shares some interests with me. If not, I am not sure what I will do. But since I have wine and televisions and books and Spotify in the house, I have a pretty good idea.

Tonight, too. Anyone want to come over?

A chilling news item was posted twelve hours ago on the BBC.com website. The article indicates that thirteen of twenty-five people traveling in a Ford SUV were killed near Imperial, California when the vehicle pulled directly into the path of a Peterbilt truck loaded with gravel. The SUV’s legal capacity was eight or nine. The article attributes a statement made by a spokesman for the Border Patrol as follows: the people in the SUV “could be farmworkers involved in harvesting winter greens in the mainly agricultural area.” Regardless of whether one thinks overburdening an SUV with so many passengers is negligent, the fact that thirteen people died is horrendous. I surmise (though I may be wrong) that the passengers had few options; many or most or perhaps all of them had no other means of transportation. If they were migrant workers, probably they earned very low wages for backbreaking work. They were scraping by. But maybe not; maybe they simply chose to cram into an SUV instead of driving their late-model SUVs and sedans to work in the field. Maybe their work in the fields was simply a hobby, a way to connect with other wealthy people who needlessly take away jobs from people who really need the money. Yeah. Maybe they deserved what they got. The most bothersome aspect of the attitude that they stole jobs and got what they deserved is that many people actually believe such idiocy.

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Another, more uplifting, video piece on BBC.com explains why we cannot go faster than the speed of light. One of my favorite sentences from the video says “As a kid, I sorta thought of StarTrek as being like a documentary about the future.” According to the animated video (and according to physicists the world over), it would take an infinite amount of energy to go as fast as, or faster than, the speed of light. And if one were already going that fast, it would take an infinite amount of energy to slow down. These concepts are beyond my capacity to fully understand, but I think I may attempt to disprove Einstein’s theory of relativity in my next incarnation. Except that I do not believe I will have another incarnation, so that becomes a dilemma for which there is no solution. A solution can be, among other things, either an answer to a problem, the process by which one reaches the answer, or a homogeneous molecular mixture of two or more substances. The challenges and thrills of language can be almost orgasmic! I sometimes wonder whether language arose out of the innate need to communicate about sudden waves of keen physical excitement or emotions. Not really; I’ve never wondered that at all. I’m just making things up with my fingers.

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If I did not have to meet a schedule today, I think I’d spend the morning watching BBC.com videos on subjects related to physics and science. Consider the following titles available right now:

• Does Our Universe Have a Twin?
• Is Our Perception of Time Wrong?
• The Flaw in Every Recipe Book
• How Your Toaster Explains the Universe
• Probing the Universe’s Dark Energy
• Our Window into the Universe
• Is Our Future Set in Stone?
• The Other Dimensions that Could Exist
• What is the Smallest Particle?
• Einstein’s Big Idea Made Simple
• What Happens Inside a Black Hole?
• What is the Universe Expanding Into?
• Why the Sky is Dark at Night
• Can We Trust What Science Tells Us?

Granted, several of these are extremely simplistic, presenting information most of us already know (or think we do). But they tend to resurrect interests that we might have lost. Or, at least, they trigger curiosity that helps retrieve the awe we felt, as children, when we looked into the sky and wondered what was “out there” or what part we play in the overarching scheme of existence. Too often, I allow myself to overlook the awe I still feel when I look at close-up images of insects and see the intricate patterns woven into their bodies. And I don’t take the time to think deeply enough about what might be hidden from our view on the other side of the Milky Way galaxy. And I fail to give in to the sense of overwhelming wonder at the ability of ants to communicate in the midst of chaos on the ant hill. It’s not science so much that enthralls me as all of existence. Our life spans should be thousands of years long, not just decades; we could absorb so much if we just had the time and took it seriously.

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No word yet on my application to adopt Rosie the Chihuahua mix. I’m patient this morning (believe it or not), though. Whatever happens, happens, when it happens.

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If life were fair and just, my sculpted bronze well-muscled body would not be changed by the unlimited consumption of highly caloric foods. Exercise would be irrelevant, though with a body like mine it would be easy and enjoyable. Excellent health would be my lifelong destiny, no matter my habits, the risks I take, or the environment in which I live. My brain would quickly and complete absorb all information and knowledge passing through it. My unfulfilled desire this morning for two or three jalapeño-sausage kolaches would not trigger feelings of guilt; not even if my desire were fulfilled would I feel guilt. But, alas, life is fickle and harsh and demanding.

It’s nearing 7:00 and I have obligations to meet this morning, so I’ll end my regular morning diatribe and go to battle with the enemies of sloth.

I Care a Lot was not on my list of films to watch. Netflix simply stuck it in my face as I was beginning the process of sorting through entertainment options available on the platform. Too lazy to make my own decision, I accepted the suggestion and began watching the film. The antiheroine is a monstrous witch who cons the court into appointing her guardian for well-off elders. She places them in friendly (to her) nursing homes and keeps them locked inside while she siphons their assets into her own accounts. I’ll leave it there, in the event someone reading this wants to view I Care a Lot. I still have about 20 minutes left to view. I just couldn’t keep my eyes open last night. It was not necessarily the movie; I just needed sleep. Many elements of the film are intended to be comedic. The subject of the plot, though, is a hot button for me. As I watched it last night, I found myself wanting desperately to bludgeon the main character and leave her limp, dying body in the nursing home administrator’s office. Cheery thought to wake up to on a Tuesday morning, eh?

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Yesterday, after my appointment with my oncologist (all’s well), I picked up a check in payment for the sale of my wounded Camry. As I cleared out the console, glove compartment, and trunk, it occurred to me that I have no place to put some of the crap I had stored in those places. Not only do I have no place to put it, I have to reason to keep it. So, I will spend some time today sorting it into piles; keep and toss. I’d bet the toss pile will be considerably larger. The buyer, the garage that accidentally damaged the driver’s side door, is in the midst of repairing the car. A new door will be installed and painted. Who knows what else will be done to the car? They plan on selling it, they say. I have to make sure that, today, I cancel my insurance on the car and that I notify the State that I’ve sold it.

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After taking care of the car business, I followed up by telephone on a letter I mailed more than a month ago to a financial institution, requesting that a joint account be changed into my name. The call led to yet another form to complete and mail. This process may take years to complete, at the rate it’s going. And, then, I went to the bank to accomplish the same objective and to order new checks and deposit slips (though I can make deposits with my phone); a much simpler process. Later, still, I completed an online application to become Rosie’s human; Rosie, the five and a half year old Chihuahua mix. And I submitted another online request for a telephone appointment this Friday. And I left a message with a guy at the Garland County Library in preparation for borrowing a telescope.

It’s turning into a busy week. I have multiple odds and ends on my calendar for the rest of this week. For some reason, I am not finding them especially burdensome, unlike in weeks past. Recently, I felt that a full calendar was maddening and oppressive. I am feeling “chill” about things at the moment.

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Why is it, I wonder, that news organizations tend to give prominence to negative news stories? For example, why does the kidnapping of 279 Nigerian schoolgirls seem to get more coverage than their release? Or is my sense that the kidnapping got more coverage than the release overblown? In both cases, though, the underlying story is one involving fear, crime, treachery, and intense danger. Those negatives seem much more likely to get reported than softer, happier, uplifting events. I suppose news organizations, as much as they try to report “just the news,” respond to public demand. We clamor for more chilling, adrenalin-pumping, heart-pounding stories. On occasion, we love the good feelings we get from reading a positive piece, but it’s the grittier stuff we seem to crave the most. Is it possible to train ourselves to respond more favorably and more vocally and more excitedly to “good” news? The bottom line, I suppose, is that we tend to define “news” in a negative context. It’s more newsworthy to report an explosion at a chemical plant than it is to report its milestone of twenty years without a single safety infraction. I have no answers. Only questions.

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I am jealous. Jealous of people who have a claim on the time of other people with whom I would like to spend more time. I’ve explored the meaning of the word. The definition that most closely fits is “feeling resentment against someone because of that person’s rivalry, success, or advantages.” That’s it. I resent people who rival me for the time and affection of others. But, no, it’s not resentment; it’s envy. I’m not the jealous husband. I am jealous of the husband. I envy the husband. And the friends. And the fortunate pets that can nap comfortably with their heads in the laps of the objects of my affection. I realize, of course, how utterly creepy this must seem. If I were a more skilled and patient writer, it would come across as more benign and beneficent. Affection is a dangerous word. Its meaning and its synonyms range from care and closeness to love and passion. That’s the problem with some words. They can be interpreted, legitimately, to mean much more or much less than might have been intended.

As I think on this somewhat strange topic (which wouldn’t be so weird if I were better at this), I remember a song by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer from my high school days: Lucky Man. The message, essentially, is that envy can dismiss elements of a life of which we would not be envious. The “lucky man” in the song had all the trappings of success until “no money could save him.” I place myself in the position of the “lucky man,” the man who had everything. At the same time, the object of my envy remains in the same position. Suddenly, in my case, the world seemed to snap; no money could save me from a random universe. But friends and affection can. Yet I seem to long for higher dosages. Maybe it’s like an addiction to heroin; more and more and more is required  to satisfy my need for the drug. (Is that the way heroin works?)

Why is it that a man who claims to be so solitary—so introverted, so attuned to aloneness—want or need more and more individual, personal engagement? I was sure I had all I ever needed, with my wife. Without her, though, I sometimes feel utterly adrift and detached and in need of an anchor.  Okay. Enough of this B.S. My sister-in-law is on her way over for our regular morning coffee. If it weren’t for that routine, I think I might be even more adrift.

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Another grocery order is in the offing, and so soon after my most recent one. I did not bother to look closely at what I need. And there is more. So, another order online. Or I may get aggressive and go inside Kroger, where I can find things I miss so very much. Like Zatarain’s Creole Mustard and Minute Maid frozen lemon juice concentrate and Mediterranean oregano leaves And Kroger brand diet tonic water. And various other little luxuries.

My Sunday evening continued, even after I wrote about finishing Hinterland and my experiences over the past few days. Despite feeling tired and ready for sleep, I opted to stay up, thinking I would begin watching Hillbilly Ellegy and finish it Monday. I finished watching it just before 11:20 Sunday night. I enjoyed it immensely, despite its tendency to drag tears from my unwilling eyes. That’s life. I’ve intended, for quite some time, to read the memoir upon which the film is based. I think watching the movie has provided the impetus to get my hands on the book.

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I misspoke (miswrote?) in my last post. The most enjoyable experiences of the last several days did not contribute in any way to my sense of strangulation by kudzu. Those experiences saved me from that unpleasant fate. They provided comfort when I needed it most; they chopped away at the vine, freeing me to breathe fresh air. And, of course, I was wrong about relaxing rather than writing this morning; writing IS relaxing to me, at least most of the time. So here I am again, writing about whatever pops into my head.

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My list of things to do includes making an appointment with an ophthalmologist (or, at least, an optometrist) to update my prescription for eyeglasses. Once I get the prescription, I’m going to invest heavily in coddling my vision. First, I’ll get new glasses with frames that will accommodate magnetic snap-on sunglasses. Then, I’ll get a pair of reading glasses and a pair of computer glasses. Even though my “normal” glasses will include an invisible band of the lens for reading, a lens dedicated to reading is the only way I will be totally content as a reader. And the computer glasses will enable me to avoid kinks in my neck from trying to see the computer screen clearly. First world problems, to be sure, but this is a luxury I feel is a “necessary” luxury.

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Eventually, our brains quench the fires of the unattainable. Over time, intense desire dissipates into a clutching fog that clings to us forever but finally loosens its powerful grip. At some point, we can move on, damaged but not destroyed.

But in the midst of that fierce longing, we feel certain it will never release us. We don’t believe there will be an end to hungering for that which will never be within our grasp.  Futile craving can lead to madness if we cannot tolerate the wait or do not believe waiting will ease the pain of impossibility.

So, that’s how I will frame the position of a character I one day will write about. He will be secretly in love with a married woman who senses his desire but who, he decides, does not feel the same way about him. He dares not reveal his feelings to her, and the impossibility of having a relationship with her tortures him. But, suddenly, the woman’s husband leaves her for another woman. And then, almost as suddenly (and before the character gathers sufficient courage to approach her), the woman enters into a relationship with another man.

This sounds a little too much like soap opera stuff to me. It needs massive rethinking and, very probably, disposal. That’s what happens to many of my plots. They go nowhere because they start from nothing and end in the same place. Maybe that’s why I’m writing so much stream-of-consciousness non-fiction.

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A friend called my attention to a CNN piece about international soups. I found the piece online and copied the article. Among the soups are bouillabaisse (synonymous with Marseilles, the article says), chorba frik (a North African soup popular after sunset during Ramadan), chupe de camarones (Peru), gazpacho (Spain), moqueca de camarão (Brazil), yayla çorbasi (Turkey), among others. I am fascinated by international cuisine, so I will make it another of my missions to seek out recipes and ingredients for many of these soups. The CNN article seems to have emerged from a book entitled Soup: A Global History, by Janet Clarkson. I’ll have to look for it.

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Enough of this for now. Three more hours until my appointment with my oncologist. In the interim, I have to shave, shower, and otherwise make myself presentable to the world outside my window.  And I wasn’t going to write this morning. I am a dissembler, apparently.

During the past several days, my budding social life (such as it is) blossomed into a garden. Dinner on Wednesday, followed by wine and hors d’oeuvres on Thursday, followed by two delightful hours with a good friend on Friday, culminating with another dinner on Saturday.  In between times and after, I had lunch with a new acquaintance and coffee and games of Words with Friends and Mexican Train with my sister-in-law, and a sprinkling of other social interactions. While I should perhaps consider the whirlwind of activity the equivalent of dancing in a field of fresh clover, even the most enjoyable elements began to collectively feel a bit like  kudzu vines attempting to strangle me. Each of the experiences were enjoyable, but rare and pleasant experiences are meant to provide the punctuation, not the full-diagrammed sentence structure of a paragraph. Or a novel. So, this evening has been a nice respite. I finished the series, Hinterland, before 8:00 p.m. so I could take a break and write/journal a bit. Whether these words find their way onto my blog remains to be seen. They may, instead, join thousands of others I keep locked away for my own eyes, though my private collection is shrinking in comparative size. Lately, I’ve tended to share damn near everything except for the most intimate things that would embarrass me or embarrass the people on my mind or subject me to potential arrest and imprisonment.

I don’t recall who, but someone, told me within the last few days that I am gregarious. I think it may have been the neighbor who does not know me well (though, in all fairness, most neighbors don’t). Whoever it was doesn’t recognize artificial extroversion practiced by deeply introverted people. I learned the practice during my first actual “executive” job (the one that first introduced me to dictating equipment and provided me with secretarial support). Unless I aggressively injected myself into conversations and, especially, discussions at meetings, I would have failed at my job. I had an aversion to failure, so I cringed and jumped in, learning from my actually gregarious boss. It was an incredibly stressful situation, but I was able to go home after work and decompress in solitude with my equally (or more) introverted wife. Since then, I’ve been able to withdraw into much greater comfort; I can simply observe and jump in only when I think I have something to say that matters. Which is, as I think I’ve said recently, rare. I do not miss most aspects of association management, the career I fell into entirely by accident. If I had it to do over again, I think I would attempt to escape into something that had a greater likelihood of making a positive difference in the world. Like trash collection or urban planning or rural water supply systems or cartography or auto oil change. Or almost anything else.

Now that the available seasons of Hinterland are behind me, I have a thousand other options. But my list of “must see” is too large, so I avoid looking at it; too many options can paralyze me. That’s when I think seriously about stained glass and sword-swallowing and jumping out of moving automobiles. Not really. I never seriously consider sword-swallowing.  But thinking about professions, I remember this adaptation of a silly meme from Facebook:

The photos were taken during my efforts to grow my hair. I succeeded, by the way. These photos were during the shorter period, before my hair grew down past the middle of my back; before I was able to have it pulled back into a pony tail and before, at the every end, my wife agreed to have my sister-in-law do a French braid. Those were the days when my hair regularly blew into my mouth, causing me to develop an intense dislike of long hair on my head.

I’m writing Sunday night because I think I’ll feel a bit lazy tomorrow morning and will want to kick back and relax with my coffee, rather than write. I’ll shave, take a leisurely shower, and then dress when I feel like it; as long as I can get downtown before 10:00 for an appointment with my oncologist. After that, I’ll go pick up the check in payment for buying the old Camry and then come home and relax some more. Maybe I’ll be able to convince myself to go through a mass of papers that I desperately need to sort and file and otherwise act on. Maybe by then I will have received a reply to an email I sent to a friend this evening, making inquiry about life in general. We’ll see. We will, indeed.

Considering the number of times I mention BBC.com in my posts, one might think I have stock in BBC. I don’t, but perhaps I should. Just this morning, I read a piece about Yaupon and learned that it is North America’s only known native caffeinated plant. I learned, too, that it once was a popular plant used to brew tea by almost all indigenous tribes. And it’s readily available throughout the southeastern United States. Where else but BBC.com is one apt to read about such a common native plant in a context that includes sentences like this:

At the Spanish outpost of Saint Augustine in northern Florida, yaupon was consumed to such an extent that in his 1615 chronicles of New World medicinal plants, botanist Francisco Ximenez noted that, “Any day that a Spaniard does not drink it, he feels he is going to die.”

Exactly! For that experience, and so many others, I nominate BBC.com for some unknown prize that will recognize the extent of its deeply interesting journalism and the fascinating ideas that spring from it.

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Last night, among the topics of conversation after dinner was a discussion of nudity. My neighbors, at least the female component of the couple, commented about the nude beaches in Germany (from whence her husband came). This was in response to something I said, questioning the prudishness of Americans and pointing to Americans’ almost pathological fear of the human form. She responded that the nude beaches in Germany displayed unappealing nudity; taut young bodies with sculpted shapes and rippling muscles are one thing, she suggested, while elderly pot bellies and flabby arms and drooping boobs are quite another. Clearly, we have different perspectives. I implied, but did not say it outright, that I advocate teaching kids, from an early age, that nudity is no more unpleasant or unappealing or embarrassing or wrong than full-dressed people going to work every day. I guess nudity is right up there with BBC.com in terms of the number of times I mention it and the potential for its use as an educational tool. I think the single most appealing aspect of common public nudity would be the potential erasure of body-shaming. People should not be embarrassed of their own bodies. Of course, I readily admit to being embarrassed by mine and it’s unlikely I will lead the charge for public nudity. I would follow a charismatic leader, though.

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The neighbors I hosted for dinner last night (the ones with whom I discussed nudity) enjoyed the eggplant parmesan I bought from Dolce Vita, as did I. We had good conversation, a nice dinner, and plenty of laughs. They sensed I was tired, though, so they insisted on leaving before they would normally have gone home. I suppose my attempts to dissuade them from leaving were silly, given that they were right and I probably looked and sounded like I was ready for them to leave. Long before they left, I had developed a splitting headache and a very sore throat. I noticed a slight cough, beginning around 7:30 p.m., that got progressively worse. After my neighbors left, I felt like I might have had a fever, but the thermometer disagreed, measuring my temperature at 97.6°F. In these days of COVID-19, I was a bit concerned, though the symptoms were not entirely in line with COVID.

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There was no way I would be able to sleep with the headache, I decided, so instead I did a search on animal adoption sites, looking for a potential companion dog. I found Rosie, an adult Chihuahua mix, who looks like she might enjoy being in my company and vice versa. On a whim, I sent an inquiry. I got a response around 11:20, inviting me to complete an application. By that time, though, I was about ready to try to get to sleep. During my search of animal adoption sites, my headache improved and then returned with a vengeance. I decided to try to get some sleep. I was able to fall asleep fairly quickly, but I woke several times with a very dry mouth and a sense that I had just emerged from a troubling dream about which I had (and still have) absolutely no recollection.

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My headache, not nearly as severe as it was last night, remains (or has returned). My neck and shoulders remain stiff and achy. I would pay handsomely for a neck and shoulder rub, though I would prefer caring caresses given freely. Caress is probably not the right term; strong hands and significant pressure would be far more comforting at this very moment, I think. But I probably wouldn’t refuse caring caresses, either. A massage from my forehead all the way around to the back of my head might help, too. I’ve tried it myself, using only the fingers on my left hand, to press hard enough on my forehead so that the pain might be relieved; it helped, but it’s not quite accomplishing the alleviation of pain I had hoped for. The pain is not bad, though. Coffee, alone, may take care of it.

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Passion. When does it fade into the background in our lives? At what point do our passions develop protective crusts that hide them from others and from ourselves? I wonder about these subjects and all such matters involving emotion. Emotions evolve over time, I suppose. They tend to become less brittle or, depending on one’s perspective, more flexible. Their hold over us weakens; or, at least, I think passion’s hold over us weakens. Passions tend to lose much of their intensity as we age, though that’s not a universal statement of fact. The urgency of youthful romantic passions mellows in old age, although I think it can be triggered again. We become used to the familiar; the familiar can lose its ability to stir passions. But I think an injection of freshness and novelty and just simple difference can stir them. That’s true not just of relationships between people, but relationships involving activities; a person can become passionate about skydiving or creating stained glass objects or making pottery or caring for abandoned or abused animals. New activities can fill a void, inflaming passions in the process. But that doesn’t happen to all people when their passions flag. Some people just wither, emotionally. That is a dangerous transition, I think. I am afraid withered emotions can suck out one’s energy and leave an empty shell. Passion is a good thing. But it can be overwhelming, I suppose, to be in the presence of someone who is passionate, regardless of the object of their passions, whether the object is automobiles, jumping out of airplanes, tending to stray dogs, or entering into passionate personal relationships.

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I hear sounds all the time. Unusual sounds, like a background noise of millions of crickets. It’s not overwhelming; I can hear everything else, but even in silence, I hear those damn background noises. I say it’s not overwhelming. Sometimes it is. I can imagine, one day, reacting to those constant annoying sounds by detonating a nuclear device in each of my ears, just to make the sounds stop. That might be overkill, but I’m pretty sure it would work.

I’m suddenly so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I have to stop. Maybe a short nap. Enough of these bullet point snippets. I need to sleep and dream an entire novel.

I control an incredibly small section of a tiny slice of an almost impossibly minuscule fragment of a microscopic piece of the universe. My control is equivalent to the power over the gravitational pull of the sun possessed by a one-hundred billionth segment of an organism barely visible through the most powerful electron microscope. But that power is absolute, within tightly defined infinitesimal parameters. In other words, the power I possess is insufficient to cause a tiny, almost imperceptible, movement of the hair on a gnat’s back by a micro-fraction of a Planck Length.

But I behave as if my power were as expansive as the sky; as boundless as the edges of the most distant galaxies. Because I know no better. None of us do. So we claim powers we do not have because…power. Power, we seem to believe, equates to redemptive capacity. We have the power to redeem even the most irredeemable among us. Which, of course, is absolute nonsense. Some of us are too stupid to warrant wasting the air we breathe. Some of us are too dull to be allowed to continue consuming water than could go to a more deserving cause, like quenching the thirst of a long-dead cactus, shriveled on the surface of a desert so hot no human being could ever hope to live there. But we continue to allow breathing and consumption of water. Because. Just because.

And with that, I welcome everyone to the ninth Saturday of the two thousand twenty-first year. Our artificial measure of time based on events that took place long after the formation of the planet on which we live, not on a sequence that began with that formation. No matter, it would all be artificial. I like the definition adopted by an online dictionary:

“the system of those sequential relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future; indefinite and continuous duration regarded as that in which events succeed one another.”

An arcane explanation of a concept impossible to grasp except in the most elementary terms. “Time” for us Earthlings is an abbreviation for a sequence that relies on the relationship between the movement of the Earth and the Sun.

In fact, though, time is not so mysterious. It is what allows us to understand our experiences. Without time to serve as a guidepost, we would be lost. Even though we don’t fully understand time, we are in love with it, even in instances we want it to stop. As in situations such as the one I will mention briefly in a moment.

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I had a delightful afternoon yesterday, the sort of experience I wish I could have every day. It was full of the kinds of casual interactions with a friend that weave a relationship made from threads of friendship and love. My friend came to my house and we sat and talked the entire time she was here. I haven’t laughed so much and so freely in a long time. I haven’t felt so utterly at ease for so long it is impossible for me to remember the last time. Those few hours made me feel relaxed and comfortable with myself and the world around me. But now the absence of that sense of deep comfort has dissipated; I will have to wait until the next time to feel so comfortable with and close to someone.

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Tonight, I’ll have neighbors over for dinner that I will buy at La Dolce Vita, an Italian restaurant nearby. I’ve already arranged for three orders of eggplant parmesan, along with side salads. In a short while, I’ll go to the liquor store to buy a large bottle of their “go-to” wine. These people are neighbors who have invited me over many times for dinner. They did it again, but I suggested it was my turn to treat them; fortunately, they were happy to accept. There’s really not much I need to do in preparation, other than straighten up a bit and pick up the dinners. As much as I enjoy cooking, lately I’ve not felt much like getting into it. Maybe my attitude will change as I start to see evidence of Spring.

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Yesterday, I arranged to go. on Monday, to retrieve the contents of the 2002 Camry and pick up a check in payment for its purchase. I’ll sign the title over to the new owner, go deposit the check, and mark that task off my to-do list. I went to the garage late yesterday morning, where I was to meet the former potential buyer of the car to discuss the matter with the business owner. He was not there, but it all got resolved later. Inasmuch as it was around lunchtime, the former potential buyer of the Camry mentioned that she was in the mood for barbecue at Clampit’s. I invited myself to join her. We sat and talked over lunch for an hour or so. She is interesting and energetic and very intelligent. It was a nice opportunity to relax and learn some intriguing facts about a person I did not know much about.

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Despite my social calendar of late, I am not a “social butterfly.” It just happens I’ve been much more social in the past few days than ever before. As much as I enjoy these interactions, I find they tire me out, especially with people with whom I am not extremely close. Which is, of course, most people. Yesterday afternoon was the exception.

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I got up very late this morning. Though I awoke around 5, I went back to bed and slept until almost 7. When I got up, I was slow to get going. By the time I had made my first cup of coffee, my sister-in-law called to suggest we have coffee after she had breakfast and got dressed. She came over and we chatted for a while, then played several games of Words with Friends. It’s now about 11, five hours after I dragged myself out of bed. I have yet to shower and shave. That’s my next “chore.” Then, it’s off to Cork & Bottle for the wine. Even though time is a mysterious thing, I can feel it passing, so I better get to work.

I awoke in front of the television some time ago, just before 3:30, a full glass of wine sitting on the table beside me. I turned off the television, wondering how much of the series, Hinterland, I missed. And I thought of the clothes I had put in the dryer “a few minutes ago.” I took the glass of wine into the kitchen, poured it down the sink, rinsed the glass, and put it in the dishwasher. I then took the dry but wrinkled shirts out of the dryer and put them back in the washer. In all probability, there is a setting on the clothes washer for “rinse and spin only for items left in the dryer,” but I could not find it, so I picked the minimum setting I could find, hoping to gently wash the shirts so I can once again dry them. This time, I will listen intently for the buzzer and will hang them up immediately.

I did not watch much of Hinterland last night, pausing the program when the now-former-prospective-buyer of my Camry called around 8:30. She told me she spent the day in Little Rock, getting the first dose of the COVID-19 vaccination in her newly-eligible arm. And she bought a car, a 2014 Lexis sedan. We were on the phone for just shy of an hour. She plans to meet me in a few hours at the mechanic’s garage, where my car awaits; there, I will request a check from the garage in payment for the old Camry. I’ll take the car’s title with me, along with a bag to collect my belongings from the glove compartment and trunk. I do hope this goes smoothly. I have no interest in wading through a lawsuit to collect payment.

After my hour-long conversation with her, I sat down to continue watching Hinterland. That lasted all of ten minutes, I think. My promises to myself that I would not allow myself to fall asleep in the recliner in front of the television, thereby doing unnecessary damage to my back, have been broken too many times. It’s time to get serious about the matter. I will relocate my television viewing spot to the mid-century modern sofa in the living room, where I must sit upright with my feet on the floor. It’s harder to go to sleep there; certainly harder to stay asleep.

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“The relationship between Christianity and sex has never been simple.” Thus begins a BBC introduction to a very short video about “what you find when you remove the fig leaf.” The video and accompanying text reveal that a fig leaf was affixed to a Roman statue to cover the genitalia originally in full view on the form. I was surprised to learn that the fig leaf was an addition to cover “that which should not be seen” on such statues. The one revealed in the video was one at Crawford’s Art Gallery in Cork, Republic of Ireland. The full documentary, Shock of the Nude, is available on BBC Select. Unfortunately, I do not get BBC Select, as far as I know. The concept of hiding nudity from innocent eyes has always seemed quaint and prudish to me, to use a phrase from the video short. Nudity on statues is not in the least titillating, in my opinion.  Hiding original nudity on statues is silly in the extreme, though. Again, my opinion.

I love BBC‘s practice of developing very short videos for its website to introduce website visitors to more in-depth explorations of various topics, whether videos or articles. The people behind the videos are excellent marketers; and they know how to pique interest in topics that otherwise might go unnoticed.

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Shortly after I wandered into the kitchen this morning, glass of wine in hand, I saw a flash of lightning to the south. Seconds later, a rumble of thunder shook the house, causing some of the pots and pans on the pot rack in the kitchen to vibrate and move enough to gently clang in response. The online weather forecast calls for thunderstorms this morning, turning to showers that will end before midday. We can expect a high of 55°F today, dropping to 46°F tonight. The next couple of days will be rainy and cool, if the prognosticators’ prognostications can be trusted. I am ready for some moderately warm, clear days with no obligations clogging my calendar. A two-hour or three-hour drive north would do me good, I think. It would help me clear my head and gently re-introduce me to the practice of taking day-trips. But I rarely took day-trips alone, so it might be emotionally jarring, too. Just thinking about it is having that effect on me. I will redirect my thoughts elsewhere.

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The latter part of yesterday’s church board meeting conflicted with another obligation, so I withdrew from the meeting early. Something happened in my absence that apparently caused a stir, but I don’t know precisely what it was. My involvement in the church board has largely seemed to be one of observation versus active participation. I listen to the conversations, but rarely have anything of substance to add, so I remain silent. On one hand, that’s just my style; I don’t feel any need to contribute unless I have something relevant to add. On the other, my style may make me appear disconnected and/or disinterested. Or just not especially bright. I suspect I decided, during all the years I managed associations and worked with their boards, that “active participation” often meant board members talked for the sake of trying to appear valuable to the group, even when their contributions were meaningless drivel. So I may have learned to keep silent unless the conversation went in a direction I found damaging to or inadequate for the issue at hand. But silence can be interpreted as ignorance. At this stage of my life, though, I’m beginning to realize I don’t, and shouldn’t, care. But not really.

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On my way back home from my blood-letting the other day, I listened to a radio interview involving two lesbian women who once operated lesbian bars (before the pandemic). One of them now operates a lesbian online “bar.” Though I haven’t given much thought (maybe none at all) to lesbian bars, my immediate reaction to the conversation was something along the lines of “what’s the point of a bar strictly for lesbians?” I further thought lesbians should feel comfortable in any bars, not just lesbian bars. The more I listened, though, the more I learned. The women said “lesbian bars” are not necessarily exclusive to lesbians. Male gays also are welcomed in many such places, they said. The one comment that stuck with me most, though, was that lesbian bars are “safe,” in that people of the same gender can be comfortable knowing they can approach others in the knowledge they, too, are gay. It never occurred to me that gays, whether male or female, would be in danger (either emotionally or physically) if they were to “hit on” someone in a straight or non-exclusive bar. While they might be rejected in a lesbian bar, they would be much less likely to be attacked. That’s what I took away from the radio interview. But it wasn’t just the relative safety of the places the two women emphasized. It was giving patrons a sense of camaraderie. Something else that occurred to me was that straight people probably would not be welcomed, at least not with open arms, because they would cause confusion; their presence would make the place no longer “safe” for gays. So it’s not a matter of pure discrimination; it’s a matter of maintaining a reliable atmosphere. Not that I have had any plans to go into a lesbian or gay bar in the past, but now I certainly won’t, simply out of respect for their maintenance of the atmosphere of safety. I also learned that the number of lesbian bars is in sharp decline and had been even before the pandemic; I think I missed the cause of the decline, but now I’m curious. It’s interesting how much one can learn just by listening.

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Before my phone conversation with the former potential purchaser of the Camry, a scene in Hinterland struck a chord with me. In the scene, a person was walking along a concrete pier, I think, on a desolate stretch of oceanside beach. Seeing that scene made me long to be in such a place. I used to love walking along the beach on Padre Island in Texas, but only in the winter. In the winter, when cold winds blew, the beaches were desolate. Other times of year, especially summer, they were clogged with people. I feel certain that’s even more true today than in my youth.

The beach on television, though, is a present-day location that’s probably just as secluded as I would like. The series was filmed in and around Aberystwyth, Wales, according to Wikipedia. Much of the filming was done in rural areas near the town. I think I would love the area, though I might have a hard time communicating with people there, even those who speak English with Welsh accents. The people who speak Welsh would be even harder for me to understand.

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Late yesterday afternoon, I visited my neighbors, Ted and Sharon. We sat and drank wine and talked about subjects ranging from the view out their back windows to airplane turbulence to wi-fi signals to COVID-19 vaccinations to ways we would be philanthropic if we won the lottery. They are extremely nice people who generally keep to themselves but who have been very outgoing in all of my interactions with them. Before I left, we agreed (which we have done before) that we should get together once a week for wine and conversation. I look forward to that.

Almost immediately upon entering their house, Ted gave me an old but very high quality adjustable camera tripod. He said he bought it for $5 at a garage sale; he said he had no use for it but he couldn’t pass it up at that price! I should have offered to pay him for it, but I didn’t; I was stunned, I think, that he greeted me with the offer of the tripod as a gift almost the moment I walked in the door. When I got home, I dredged out my rarely-used Lumix camera to see if it would work with the tripod. It does, just as Ted assured me it would.

+++

I’m having biscuits for breakfast. Big, fluffy, highly-caloric, fresh from a tube and baked in the oven biscuits. I smell them calling my name.

The prospective buyer of my 2002 Camry was doing her due diligence yesterday afternoon. She asked me whether she could take the car to a mechanic to have it checked out. I agreed. But something went awry. I wasn’t there, but apparently the mechanic left the gear in “reverse” (or it somehow slipped into reverse) with the door open. The door ran into an object unwilling to be pushed aside. Bent metal tells the rest of the story. The mechanic’s shop has offered to have the damage repaired and/or buy the car. The prospective buyer does not want me to sell to the mechanic, but she still wants to have another mechanic, a friend, check it out before committing to buy it. I’m mulling it over, attempting to decide what I should do. It was just an unfortunate accident; it could have happened to anyone. No one should be penalized for a simple accident. But, in this case, especially not me. Yet I don’t want to protect my financial interests at someone else’s expense. This should not be a particularly difficult issue; so why is it so troublesome?

+++

More about yesterday. As I am wont to do, I was very early getting to the place where I was scheduled for my CT scan yesterday; closer to 7:30 than to my scheduled 8:00 a.m. appointment. After checking in, I was told my lab results were not yet in; the staff would call at 8:00 to check on them. Before that time arrived, though, I got the bad news: either the blood had not been shipped to Florida or the results of the lab work had not made it to Florida (I’m not sure which…The American Oncology Network is headquartered there, I know). But the staff would check to see if my oncologist’s office, where the blood-letting took place the day before, to see if they still had some of my precious red fluid. If so, I was told, they could send it to the hospital for lab work and I would be able to have my CT scan…just a bit late. As in one or two hours late. “You can leave and come back, if you like,” I was told. Where would I go, I wondered to myself. I decided to stay. Finally, my blood work results came back; results that could have halted plans for the CT scan were not found, so it went ahead. I had an 11:00 a.m. online meeting scheduled. I had already explained my situation to the leader, saying I might not make it. Fortunately, though, I missed only a few minutes. I joined the meeting in progress without any hiccups.

+++

News about my online grocery order came by email a little less than half an hour before I was to pick it up. Four items were out of stock and five items were substituted for ones I had ordered but which were unavailable. When I got to the store, I was surprised to see a line of cars waiting to pull into the limited number of online-order-pickup parking spaces. I waited for a touch more than an hour before my order was placed in the back of my car. My patience must be improving. I waited the entire hour without getting upset with the universe. I simply acknowledged to myself that the grocery store was inundated with demand after a long period during which everyone was snowed and iced in. I used the time to look lovingly at a grey and tan pit bull puppy in the car next to me. It wanted out of the car, but its human prevented that. Occasionally, the puppy erupted into the most wonderful wolf-like howl.

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Day before yesterday, Governor Asa Hutchinson announced that COVID-19 vaccinations would be made available to people over 65 (it had been available to people over 70). Being barely eligible, in my relative youth, I inquired about where I might be able to schedule my injection. I tried, to no avail, several places that had been suggested to me; they were already full. Finally, though, a friend called to tell me of a place in Little Rock where she had been able to schedule her vaccination. Immediately, I went online to check. Bingo! I got an appointment at 4:06 p.m. on the same day in early- mid-March as my friend. We’ll drive together to get the shot on that day.

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Last night, a writer acquaintance (and fierce Republican, I might add) and his wife treated me to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant. I have not seen or spoken to them in at least a year, I think, except recently by phone. They had invited me to come by their house beforehand for a drink before dinner. I entered their house wearing my mask, but they were not wearing masks. I succumbed to my discomfort and ill-ease and removed mine. I hope that and the visit to the Italian restaurant were not mistakes. He has had his COVID-19 shots (his 85th birthday is approaching), but his considerably younger wife had not. Not that having the vaccination reduces transmissibility. We did not even touch on politics or on religion (though I was asked about my church). It was a pleasant dinner and the food was good. I was home by 8:00 p.m. I think I left my to-go container of leftovers on the table at the restaurant, though. Or else I will someday stumble upon a container of rotted, malodorous food in some inexplicable place in my house.

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I read this morning that China is celebrating the official end of extreme poverty. That’s certainly something to celebrate. But I have my doubts.

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There are so many things on my mind this morning I could write all day. But I won’t. Time to pause and breathe.

With enormous thanks to JoAnn, who yesterday met me in a hospital parking lot to notarize a document, my to-do list became a tad shorter. Afterward, I did another couple of errands and, by the time I got home to make a copy of the document for my records, it was too late for the day’s mail pick-up, so I’ll drop it in the mail today. At the rate of progress I am making, I will complete my financial transactions checklist by my ninety-fifth birthday, when finally I will file my 2020 tax return. The world will be significantly different by then. The problem of global warming will have been solved and COVID-19 will be a distant memory. People born after the pandemic will be celebrating their 28th birthdays. Bitcoins and other cryptocurrencies will have superseded old-style currencies in every corner of the globe. All but the most determined churches will have acknowledged the superior religious value of Spirituol, a once-a-week pill offering feelings of fulfillment, charity, completion, and other forms of mental and spiritual richness. Plastics, once a blight filling the planet’s oceans, will be a memory, thanks to human-guided mutations of bacteria that voraciously consume all forms of plastics. However, as the reserve of plastics declined, the bacteria mutated many times over, developing a hunger for coastlines. The resulting shrinkage of coasts will be among the most serious problems of the day. Hmmm. I think my reserve of mind-altering substances must be shrinking, as well, inasmuch as this little dance down the pathway toward madness appears to be winding down.

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I had to make a point of getting up especially early this morning, because my pre-CT scan instructions are to avoid anything by mouth for the two hours leading up to my 8:00 a.m. scan. Food is easy to bypass at this hour. Liquid is not. While I sometimes (but rarely) forego coffee, in those instances at I require, at a minimum, water. This morning, I’ll have had some of each by the time my cell phone alarm warns me to stop. And at 6:15, my alarm will encourage me to shower and shave. I’ve been doing that daily for the last few days. As much as I resist, I feel much better after acquiescing to my arguments in favor of expending the energy to do it.

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A woman came by yesterday afternoon to drive the Camry. Fortunately, I was able to jump-start it before she arrived (I told her over the phone it may have a dead battery). She seems to like it, but she wants a mechanic friend who lives in the Village but works in Little Rock to check it out. She asked whether I would allow her to drive it to Little Rock to have him check it out during daylight hours, if it becomes necessary. I agreed, but I am having second thoughts. I have only basic liability coverage on the car (it’s 19 years old). She made clear she is a hard bargainer. I told her I am somewhat flexible. I did not tell her I am not an easy mark, though. We’ll see. I’m in no particular rush, but I’d like it out of the driveway. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll take it to McCann’s Auto Mart.

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It’s about time for my shave and shower. Perhaps I’ll write something later. Perhaps not.

Apparently, lab work is required before my routine CT scans, which take place before my regular visits with my oncologist. I guess I vaguely recall that to be the case. But when I got a call to schedule my CT scan, lab work was not scheduled. Yesterday, I got a call to get the lab work done; today. Because the CT scan is tomorrow. And my visit with the oncologist is early next week. My plans for today thereby are interrupted and otherwise made irrelevant. But I still need to get some paperwork notarized, so perhaps I can do that while I’m out and about. Although I cannot get a Medallion Signature Guarantee stamp, which is required for one of the processes I’m trying to complete; because my bank stopped providing them. And because other banks and financial institutions provide them only for clients who have been customers for at least six months. It’s the little things that can cause otherwise normal people to snap, causing them to do bad things like setting off nuclear devices in crowded sports stadiums.

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I’ve actually never contemplated setting off nuclear devices in crowded sports stadiums. Not really. I mean, I’ve fabricated such ideas to make a point, but I’ve never given them any serious thought. Few of us have. Which is a good thing. Not that many of us have access to nuclear devices. But people have done equally sinister and horrible deeds. Like bombing the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, which killed 168 people, or killings dozens of people at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. I could go on and name dozens, if not hundreds, of equally horrible incidents of mass murder. I can never hope to understand what goes through a person’s mind that allows them to do such horrific things. I would think that a thought of just one decent, innocent person dying as a result of such an act would dissuade a potential perpetrator from carrying out such an act. Apparently, though, either those thoughts do not enter the heads of the monsters who inflict the carnage or the thoughts do not have the effects I assume they would. Whatever good deed those beasts may have done is for naught; they make their marks with the blood of the innocent. The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones.

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The cupboards are beginning to look bare. I went shopping yesterday, online, and I continued this morning. I removed a few items from my order and added some to take their place. I will pick up the order (or at least some of it…I am told store shelves are bare) tomorrow afternoon. Online grocery shopping is convenient, but it is equally dangerous. I find it extremely easy to “click” on items I do not necessarily need but discover I want as I peruse the lists of products in front of me on the screen. The marketers and web designers who determine what and how to display products are brilliant in that they know the psychology of buying. If I search for “zucchini,” the screens they design show me zucchini, but also a host of “related” items that look extremely interesting. And I can “click” on those items so easily. I wrote about the documentary, Social Dilemma, recently; online grocery shopping perfectly illustrates the technology and psychology shown in the film.

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I’ve run out of steam. I have no interest in writing anything more at the moment. I should shower and shave to get ready for my trip to town to get lab work. I do not want to . I wonder if the technicians would notice my stubble and my day-old odor?

The rare recollections from my youth—mostly a lengthy period about which memories seem to be deeply hidden—sometimes occur with absolutely no “trigger.” That is, I cannot determine why I suddenly remember an incident or an emotional experience from my childhood. Such is the case with this morning’s memory of a secret desire to have my tonsils removed. Many of my classmates at Montclair Elementary were having their tonsils removed, generating compassion and gifts of ice cream, and keeping the children out of school for a few days. I wanted the sympathy and ice cream those kids were getting. Alas, my tonsils did not warrant removal. They were not subject to frequent tonsillitis, thus surgery was unnecessary. Though I think my desire to undergo a tonsillectomy was short-lived, it seared itself in my brain with sufficient depth to be dredge up many decades later. Tonsillectomies are not as common today as they once were, so I doubt many children these days long for the benefits of their removal.

Braces, on the other hand, could have done me some good. The diastema between my two front teeth, wide enough to get a glimpse of my tonsils through my closed-mouth smile, could have been closed. Braces, in those days, were expensive (are they still?). And my parents struggled to support six children. As the youngest, I was subject to the wisdom of five child-rearing experiences. Apparently, they had concluded that expenditures on braces did not supersede purchasing food for the family. I don’t think I ever asked for braces, because they looked painful and caused wearers to slur their words as if they were drunk.  Forty years later, a dentist suggested to me that she could give me a smile of which I would be proud if I would permit her to add bonding material, color-blended to match my teeth, to each of my front two teeth. I demurred on the basis that I thought the outcome would make my teeth look abnormally wide and artificial. These days, I vacillate between wishing my diastema would magically disappear and accepting the assurances from other people that it’s barely even noticeable. Sometimes, people lie out of charity.

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When the sun rises this morning, most of the snow on my driveway will have melted. Much of the snow on and around the Camry, though, will remain because the house shades the spot where it sits. Even if all the snow is gone, though, my street will remain icy because tall pine trees shade long stretches of the road. I know this from experience. After the last significant snow storm, the melting snow refroze during the night, creating areas of black ice. I made the mistake of driving down the hill toward a main road. When I reached the bottom, the main road was impassable, so I turned around. Even after multiple attempts, I could not get up the hill. The car slid sideways and backwards. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver it into a driveway, where I left it. I walked home, taking great care to avoid slipping and falling. Much later, I returned with a shovel and a box of Kosher salt. I walked the equivalent of a city block, breaking ice with the shovel in one hand and pouring salt in the wounds with the other. That enabled me to drive to an area where I could then get good traction and get back home. I’d rather not have that experience again.

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I’ve not ventured out of my house, except for attempting to shovel snow with a round-nosed shovel, for more than a week. Surprisingly, I am not going stir-crazy, though a drive to the grocery store would be a welcome respite from wandering around the house, putting off things that must be done. I could have been sorting paperwork I’ll need to file tax returns. Instead, I’ve blogged and read and watched television and cooked and washed clothes and paced and paced some more. My moods have spiraled upward and downward with surprising speed almost every day. I’ve felt elated when I’ve allowed myself to pretend something magical was beginning, only to nose-dive into a funk when reality sets in. In those ways, my experience probably is not much different from others who are experiencing the same thing. I am extremely fortunate to have reliable electricity (and, therefore, heat) and water. That’s not been the case for so very many people in Texas during this monstrous winter storm. So I have nothing legitimate to complain about.

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I explored, this morning, a place/concept/ideal/dream called Arcosanti, about seventy miles north of Phoenix, Arizona. I think I learned of it sometime before, as it seems quite familiar to me, but I cannot be sure. The idea was hatched by Italian architect Paolo Soleri in 1970. It was created/is being created as an experimental utopian town intended to combine architecture with ecology (arcology is the term Soleri used to integrate the two). So many large-scale architectural initiatives are designed to incorporate experiences for large populations that it is clear to me that architecture and sociology sprout from the same seed. In fact, the term for branch of architecture that explores new ways of living in community should merge the words architecture with sociology (perhaps there already is a term for that?). I have always sensed that the more expansive and grander explorative forms of architecture are as much social science as engineering endeavors.

While I might have chosen a more hospitable place than a water-starved, oven-hot place like Arizona to create my dream community, Arizona seems to lure architects with grand plans. I still haven’t been to Taliesin West, but I want to go. I’d like to go to Arcosanti, as well.

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Yesterday, I found the skeleton of a story I started writing about twenty years ago. It was science fiction, a genre I’ve not explored much in my own writing. The story deals with a massive earthquake, a medical manufacturing plant that makes artificial blood and blood plasma, and a foreign plot to “sink” the U.S.

In this distant future, blood banks have long been outmoded and unnecessary, thanks to technologies that create perfect duplicates of every type of human blood. The plant central to the story is one of only three such plants and is by far the largest in terms of size and capacity.

A massive earthquake in the central U.S. causes catastrophic damage, huge numbers of injuries, and a great deal of death from the Canadian border to the Gulf coast. The demand for blood, of course, is enormous and the subject manufacturing plant, located in southeastern Georgia, immediately is called on to deliver to its capacity and beyond. But just as the surge in its production begins to leave the plant, critical sections of the plant are leveled by explosions.

The investigation into the explosions quickly determine that sabotage was responsible. Further explorations link the plant explosions to what several highly-respected seismologists say was an earthquake created through human intervention. Brazil, which by that time has absorbed Venezuela and the other countries to its north, is the likely culprit.

That’s as far as the story goes. It’s too involved and has too many holes in the plot to warrant fixing it (actually, a lot of it hasn’t been written…only concept notes exist for much of it). Even though I don’t write much science fiction, I like writing it when I do. It allows my mind to be completely free of the limitations of facts, although I always seem to get bogged down with wanting my “facts” to be conceivable.  Another story is much more recent; less science fiction than political action thriller with some questionable science thrown in. It has to do with a cadre of elderly Japanese military men and their adherents who manage to steal nuclear materials and weapon-making capabilities from various nuclear powers, intending to blackmail the U.S. into issuing an apology for the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki—”either apologize or we will initiate our own Manhattan Project.” I did a significant amount of research on that one, even driving to Manhattan, Kansas and learning about its nuclear reactor on campus. It was fun until I lost interest for some reason.

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I’ve been going back and forth between the kitchen and my desk, writing for a bit and trying to decide what to do for breakfast. I’m tired of writing, so I’ll go back to the kitchen now. I think I’ve made my decision: warmed-over leftovers of yesterday’s okra and tomatoes. Yesterday’s lunch becomes today’s breakfast.

SORRY. I intended to save this, not to post it. It was to be a draft I might have posted later today. But by hitting the wrong button, I ruined it.  Please ignore.

The words of experience and pain and compassion that spill from the lips and fingers of people with whom I have even a tenuous connection can take my breath away. An experience yesterday triggered this reminder and recognition that unbridled honesty, while perhaps brutal, can be stunning in its raw beauty.

If, as we all wish we could believe, people are inherently “good,” why do all societies (at least all with which I am familiar) establish law enforcement authorities of one kind or another? Clearly, either deviance is a naturally-occurring phenomenon or societies’ efforts to inculcate in their members the morals and rules of the the society are insufficient and unsuccessful. But if society must resort to training its members to be “good,” then “goodness” must not necessarily be natural. In my view, societies’ rules typically are universally accepted by a limited universe of its members. The others, who do not naturally subscribe or acquiesce to the rules must be taught or bullied to comply. And punishment of some form must follow either repeated incidents or massive failures to follow the rules. So, it seems, we have two universes; one (the majority) that falls in line, the other that deviates from the path. We (the majority) claim laws and the consequences (punishment) for infringement are meant to protect all of society. But is that true? Do we not infringe on the minority by stripping them of their rights to deviance? If we could actually demonstrate potential harm to the majority for each act of infringement, prohibitions and punishment might be defensible as legitimate. But if we cannot demonstrate actual harm, we are punishing deviance only because it is deviant. I could go on about this and I probably will; just not right now. I’ve thought about this dilemma for more than fifty years. With coffee as fuel for the deep thought necessary to find a workable solution, I believe I could find a way to universal compromise in a matter of days. But who wants to go days without sleep? That’s the stumbling block.

Before I leave the subject, I want to argue that both deviance and normalcy in human behavior depend on perspective. But I won’t at least not for the  moment. I’m trying, with some difficulty, to resurrect my thoughts from dusty old sociology classes. While I’m able to wipe the dust away from some of them, I’m having a bit of a challenge comparing my long-buried thoughts to what I would read in newer sociology books and what I would hear from more recently hatched sociology professors. Some of what I might read and hear are simply old ideas clothed in new garments. But I might experience an occasional epiphany. Epiphanies are delightful, except when they shatter long-held convictions. Thinking of new clothes hiding the same, old tired bodies reminds me of the title of a Leonard Cohen album, “New Skin for the Old Ceremony.” And that leads me to a final thought this morning on normalcy and deviance: everything is normal when circumstances require it, just as everything is deviant when normalcy insists.

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My dream last night was very, very long and convoluted. It began as I was driving—far too fast—on a crowded freeway when, as I was about to round a long, sweeping curve, I lost control of the steering. I could not make the curve, instead leaving the freeway onto a side road. The car was still operable, though the steering was very difficult. I wanted to re-enter the freeway, but I was at a point at which it was impossible. Instead, I followed a road that paralleled the freeway as it curved.

The street I was on ended as a cobblestone path in front of an old-fashioned motel, where I asked a man how to get to the freeway, heading north. He said his wife has to take a road that parallels the freeway to work, but she must walk several blocks and then catch a bus. He then turned his attention to some young children who were going in and out of two doors to motel rooms.

It was then I realized the problem with the steering. A small wheel, between two smaller ones, on the end of a metal fork (like a bicycle tire) was missing. I had been driving on just one of the smaller wheels, because the other one was broken. This made sense in the dream, though it is laughable now. Somehow, I managed to find another road I had been looking for and followed it, with very bad steering, for a while. I realized the street was awash in people walking, riding bicycles and scooters, and otherwise taking up every square inch of pavement. I had to just ride along at the same slow speed. The road entered a tunnel in which the walls and ceiling were elaborately decorated with tiles. The tunnel was well-lighted and on both sides of the street were shops of all kinds. The people around me were an incredibly diverse lot; I heard them speaking Spanish and German and all sorts of Arabic languages.

I awoke from the dream while listening to the unintelligible voices all around me and staring in wonder at the beautiful ceiling of the tunnel. The instant I awoke, I wanted to tell my wife about my dream, because she would know the freeway curve where I had to exit. Instead, I am doing a poor job of relating the imaginary experience here on the blog.

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While I was typing, the sky brightened. Unlike the little corner desk where I used to write, this desk hides me from the light. There are no windows from which I can see the sky and the forest floor beneath me. But if I turn my head, I can see the light through the shades. The light reminds me that it’s time to get out of my chair and make breakfast. Today, I will make congee. I will flavor it with ground pork (yet to be thawed) and grated ginger that I now store in the freezer to keep from going bad. It, too, must be thawed; first, I will cut off a finger or two of the stuff and peel that piece. I’ll cook the rice in either vegetable or chicken broth until the rice grains break down so I can crush them into a thick porridge. When it’s done, I’ll ladle some into a bowl and dress it with sliced green onion, soy sauce, and sambal oleek. And, then, I will moan with pleasure as I taste the first spoonful.

It’s 7:00 on the button. Time to do my thing.

I attempted to shovel the snow from my driveway yesterday. That effort is pointless and fruitless if the only shovel one has available is a standard round-point shovel, which is what I attempted to use. Shoveling snow with any degree of productivity requires a light-weight snow shovel, which I do not own. After about twenty minutes, I had moved fourteen inches of dry snow off of an area about five feet by five feet. At that rate, my twenty-two-feet wide and sixty- or eighty- foot long curving, steep driveway would take two heart attacks and several months to clear.  I think I’ll wait until higher temperatures eventually melt the snow. Or perhaps I’ll borrow a snow shovel from a neighbor; yesterday I watched him methodically clear a path from his garage all the way up to the street for his wife’s car. And his driveway is far steeper than mine. I can see my neighbors’ driveway and their house only during the winter months, when the trees are barren. And even with bare trees, I cannot see it all clearly; but I could see enough yesterday to know my neighbor was productive. I, on the other hand, was not. The Camry, sitting in the driveway instead of in the garage where it belongs, remains hidden under fourteen inches of snow. I suspect the battery is long since dead, given that temperatures during the last seven days were below freezing and dipped as low as 2°F. I’ve been stuck inside the house (except for an occasional foray outside to be blinded by snow) since last Sunday. I used to own boots suitable for trudging through the snow. No longer. I used to own outer-wear suitable for walking in frigid temperatures. No longer. It’s a bit late to relocate to Costa Rica, I suppose.

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Thanks to a friend who possesses both curiosity and investigative skills, I learned that I may be in love with the actress who plays a character on the second season of a rather strange Netflix series called “The Sinner.” Or I could be in love with the curious and intelligent detective. It all depends on how much stock I place in the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator (she is an INTJ). Well, not “all,” but “some.” Though I’m not giving my full-throated endorsement of the series, I’m intrigued by the character of Vera, played by Carrie Coon. I doubt I’d ever heard of Carrie Coon before, though perhaps I should have. She plays in the series Fargo and in Gone Girl, among many other series and films. At any rate, I watched some interviews with Carrie Coon and was delighted to see that she is articulate, intelligent, and well-educated. I realize, of course, this paragraph will confuse most, if not all, who read it. Don’t worry; it confuses me, as well. What? What’s the back-story? What does the MBTI have to do with acting? Who is the guy writing this stuff? Where did John go?

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I think “temperamental” is a more appealing word, in most cases, than “moody.” In my mind, moody suggests grey gloom and perpetual sullenness, whereas temperamental has greater range. Moody calls forth a sense of depression, while temperamental portrays a manic-depressive experience. But as I think about it, the words belong in different contexts that need different descriptive expressions.

What is it, lately, that causes me to think of everything in relation to its context? Not that there is anything wrong with thinking about context, because context is so important in defining the relative degree of power that events or ideas have to influence our lives. But I wonder why, lately, do I think of everything in terms of its context? I seem to see everything in a framework of cause and effect, with the causes subject to external (or internal, depending on the situation) influences that have the capacity to change everything about the circumstance. Even my thoughts about those convoluted relationships are convoluted.

Why so some people find some words likeable and others not? Moist is one of those words that many people find offensive for some reason. Humid is not so troublesome. And wet is just wet; it does not trigger emotional distaste the way moist does.

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A few years ago, when I was in the midst of one of my weight-loss initiatives, I discovered that I enjoyed sugar-free popsicles. I bought scads of the frozen treats as my alternative to sipping a glass of wine while I sat in front of the television. Sipping wine in front of the television can be habit-forming. So can sucking on sugar-free popsicles. Popsicles are cheaper than drinkable wine, if memory serves me correctly. I wonder, though, whether sugar-free popsicles are readily available during the depths of winter? A quick look online suggests they are, but it seems I cannot get the flavors I prefer without accepting others of which I am not especially fond. I like orange and cherry flavors, but grape is just barely tolerable. I cannot find grape-less packages. If I have to have grape flavoring, I prefer wine. And the whole point of sugar-free popsicles is to eliminate the calories in wine. So, if I want to avoid the calories, I have to accept grape-flavored popsicles as the cost of dietary discipline. Why is the world such a brutal, inflexible place?

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If we chose not to worry about others’ opinions of our actions, would we behave in radically different ways? I suppose what I’m thinking about are inhibitions; how would we behave in the absence of inhibitions? I think it would be interesting if, for just a single day, we would all drop our inhibitions and say and do what we want to but which we don’t because our inhibitions tell us not to. That probably would create everlasting chaos and discord. I wonder about these things, though. Psychological experiments can tell us a great deal about such matters; if we’d only remember them and their lessons.

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It’s almost 7:00 a.m. I’m out of milk and bacon and most “typical” breakfast foods. I’m thinking of thawing a filet of tilapia and cooking it in a greased pan on the stovetop, putting just a dusting of flour and cayenne on the fish before cooking it. Tilapia and radishes may be just the perfect breakfast this morning. Or I may find something else.

It’s becoming a habit I need to overcome. I sit on the reclining loveseat, watching the only television series in which I’m particularly interested at the moment. After a while, I decide I need to take a break, so I hit the pause button. As I sit, motionless, I slowly slip into a trance; conscious but consumed with thoughts that gradually erase my consciousness. Sleep, or something like it, replaces my reflective thoughts. I sometimes awaken a few hours later, in the middle of the night. I make my way to bed, my back aching from too much time in the recliner in a position not suited to good back health. Watching television has become a tactic for emptying my head of intrusive thoughts. Television and wine, in combination, temporarily erase concerns. Things like taxes and paying bills and repairing dangerous walkways and fourteen inches of snow blocking my driveway and empty rooms and actions not taken and decisions I wish I could reverse. The pairing of mindless entertainment and alcohol frees me of things that tug at me as if I were a just-roped calf and the world around me a cowboy intent on taking me down and tying my legs together.

My back hurts this morning, though I did not fall asleep in front of the television last night. I think it’s a carryover from a night or two ago. When I stand up from a seated position, pain erupts at the same point on both sides of my back and, a little higher, in the middle. It’s not debilitating pain, but I sense it could get worse if I don’t take some sort of corrective action, though I’m not sure what that might be, except for avoiding the loveseat and falling asleep in front of the television. Or maybe a masseuse who makes home visits.

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Grateful. Some people follow the word with “to” and some follow it with “for.” Some follow it with both, depending on circumstances and context. Recently, I participated in a conversation about prayer. It seems the difference between “believers” and “nonbelievers” can be identified by which of those two prepositions are used in conjunction with “grateful” in prayer. Believers tend to be grateful to some being or entity or nameless power; nonbelievers tend to be grateful for some experience or emotion, without regard to its source. But the latter part of that statement is not true. For example, a nonbeliever might be grateful to farmers for providing the food for a meal.

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One of these days, maybe I’ll move the monstrously-heavy wooden bed frame and solid wood headboard and posts, etc., back into the master bedroom. I’ll reassemble the bed and reclaim the master bedroom for my sleeping quarters. But I don’t know how I’ll react to sleeping in that bed again. It may be hard to do, emotionally. My wife owned that bed before we met. We replaced mattresses and box springs several times over the course of 40-plus years, but the big hardwood bed was our steadfast companion the entire time we knew one another. It doesn’t seem right that it should survive our time together. But my feelings are most definitely mixed. I do not know whether I could part with it, yet I do not know whether having it in the house will forever prevent an open wound from healing. Some circumstances force one to decide from unacceptable options.

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Who the hell am I fooling with my silliness and sarcasm and deflection? I’m not sure whether I’m trying to convince myself that “this, too, shall pass” or I’m attempting to convince everyone else that I’m fine so they will leave me alone. As much as I appreciate loving care, I don’t deserve it. So, when it is given so freely, it’s almost like punishment, a reminder that I’m allowing people to feel like I warrant their time and attention, when I think otherwise. On the one hand, I need—or at least want—closeness and care and an arm around my shoulder, but on the other it seems so self-serving and empty to even hope for it, much less strive for it.

This morning, despite a thousand other thing racing through my mind, the majority of my thoughts are on my wife. I cannot rid myself of the feelings of guilt that, if only she had come home instead going into a rehab facility, she might have had an easier time of it; she might even still be with me. People and publications tell me I can’t dwell on “what if.” But it’s impossible not to. Not when I wake up to an empty house and see, by the fireplace, the urn with her ashes. Some days, I think I will be unable to continue living with the guilt and the sorrow and the unending pain. When I notice that I’ve had a day or two of relative serenity, another wave of guilt washes over me, chiding me for having the audacity to “forget” for awhile. It takes more strength than I have in me to go on in a world that promises unending reminders that everything is different now, everything has lost its purpose. The idea that losing weight, exercising, or changing my diet might actually matter becomes laughable and pathetic. I try to overcome those grim recognitions with sarcasm or silly comments or other attempts at humor. It doesn’t work. It might hold the demons at bay for a while, but they circle back and come at me from another angle. I probably should recognize the futility of it all and just acknowledge the inevitable.

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These eruptions of depressive thoughts always subside, but when they do they’re always just beneath the surface, waiting for something to release them into the air. The “something” that releases them can be obvious or absolutely unknowable. Today, I don’t know what brought them up from the moment I got out of bed; even before that. They may dissipate before my second cup of coffee this morning or they may last beyond the weekend.  Regardless, it is best for me to just wade through them alone. Well-meaning attempts to drag me out of the muck would not work and might well unleash evidence of why I don’t deserve loving care.

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This long and laborious post is just full of cheer. I think I’ll go bury myself in a snow bank and emerge in the Spring, happy and carefree.

David Legan’s comment on my post earlier today entitled “Unmet Friend” brought back a memory of an experience I had in late 2009 and the blog post I wrote (on another of my blogs, long since dormant) about it. The strength of the memory is in a YouTube video I posted in connection with an online friend who I later learned had died. Here is the video and the saddest song I’ve ever heard, performed by Liam Clancy of the Clancy Brothers:

Roughly seven years ago, Target Stores‘ house brand, Archer Farms, apparently stopped selling a vindaloo meal kit (everything but the meat). It was about that time my wife and I came upon one of their vindaloo meal kits in a “marked down, must go” bin. I think it was $1 or less per box [EDIT: a post I made at the time said $1.98]. Contrary to the instructions on the box, we used lamb instead of pork  when we prepared the meal, because we have always enjoyed lamb vindaloo. We were surprised when the kit produced an excellent meal; very, very spicy and wonderfully flavorful.  Based on that experience, we went back to Target and bought all the remaining boxes of marked-down vindaloo kits. We’ve been slowly making our way through them since. I don’t recall just how many boxes we bought, but I’d guess we picked up a dozen; probably many more [EDIT: No, my post at the time said 6]. To say I like lamb vindaloo would be a gross understatement. I hunger for lamb vindaloo the way a hormone-crazed teenager craves his first…adult experience.

I prepared the last of those marked-down Archer Farms box meals last night. Printed on the box are these words: “Best by October 8, 2014.” So, six-plus years after the “expiration.” Big deal. I banked on the stuff being quite edible and not poisonous. We’ll see. Check with me later today. So far, so good. I can say emphatically that the meal tasted absolutely wonderful. I last had lamb vindaloo just over a month ago, but that meal was prepared from scratch, not from a box. I’m almost ashamed to say last night’s dinner was at least as good. Or maybe I was just ravenously hungry for Indian food.

The lamb I used was a slice of lamb-leg, boneless, purchased on October 19, 2019. That lamb was one of three remaining packages purchased and wrapped in freezer wrap on that date, four days before the “use or freeze by” date.

The meat remaining in my refrigerator and freezer may be among the last meat in the house for quite some time. Of course, what’s there now will last quite a while; there’s plenty of it. But after it’s gone, I intend to alter my eating habits, geared toward a mostly plant-based diet. Whether that change lasts forever is yet to be seen. But I like the idea, despite my lust for flesh. My reason for considering it has little to do with the questionable morality of butchering animals; it rests primarily with the health benefits of a plant-based diet. But I do feel more than a little guilt for consuming animal flesh when it’s not necessary.

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It’s very easy to tell someone “I’m available for you anytime, 24/7. Whatever you need, I’ll be there.” Fortunately, I rarely have found myself in a position of really needing someone to “be there.” But it’s disheartening, in one sense, to know that the promise made is sometimes more reliable from people who are not especially close, emotionally, than one made by a friend.  On the other hand, it’s gratifying to hear of a promise made by a casual acquaintance turning into an unbreakable bond. The validity of such promises depends entirely on the value a person places on them when making them. It is a matter of integrity. I hope when I offer such a promise it is always absolutely dependable, reliable, and unbreakable.

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As I sat trapped by snow in my house yesterday, it occurred to me that my imprisonment offers evidence of my dependence on luxury. A car. A weather-sealed house. Safe and reliable running water. Dependable electricity. Good lighting. Sources of warmth, from a heat pump to layers of clothing to help me retain my body heat. A refrigerator and pantry filled with food. These are luxuries. They give me comfort, but comfort does not require luxury. If I were not spoiled, like the majority of people in first-world countries today, I could live in comfort with much less. And I might not feel like a caged animal, pacing hardwood floors and peering out large picture windows. I might, instead, trek through the snow in search of something to eat to bring back to my warm tent. I might carefully compare how my feet feel as I shuffle through the snow to the way they feel as I warm them in front of burning scraps of wood that take the place of a hearth. My luxury is further magnified by the fact that I do not have to leave to go to work. But even those who have to leave to go to work live in luxury compared to the person I just described, by proxy. Comfort and luxury, like all aspects of life, exist on a pair of spectra. I think it can pay, at least occasionally, to try to imagine living at the “wrong” end of those spectra. Thinking about it triggers thoughts of what little things I might be able to do to help move at least a few people further along toward comfort and even luxury.

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Alexa claimed the temperature at 5:04 a.m. this morning was 0°F. My computer, disagreed, saying it was -2°F. And the indoor/outdoor thermometer claimed the temperature on the screen porch is 5°F. Regardless of the thermometric discord, it’s bloody cold. Before I went to bed last night, I set the thermostat at 66°F, hoping threatened rolling electrical blackouts would not occur overnight. So far, so good. Maybe I will drop it down to 62°F tonight before I climb in bed.

I learned of the threat of blackouts earlier in the evening when, after three incoming telephone calls from Entergy that did not connect, I called the offending telephone number. I got a recording threatening blackouts and urging me to turn down the thermostat, turn off unnecessary lights, avoid washing dishes and clothes, keep refrigerator doors closed, set my refrigerator and freezer on the lowest possible temperature setting, and one or two others. I turned faucets on to a pencil-lead-sized stream in accordance with advice I got elsewhere. I was all set.

Until about 12:30 a.m.

I awoke to an odd, high-pitched humming noise, like a motor straining. I got up and went in search of what might be causing it. It seemed to be coming from the area of the master bathroom, but I could not pinpoint it. While in the bathroom, I took the opportunity to pee. The moment I flushed the toilet, the noise stopped. But when the water stopped running, it started again. I flushed again. The sound stopped. When the tank was filled, it started. I turned to the faucets. When I increased or stopped the flow, the sound stopped. I found the source of the maddening sound! A little adjustment to the size of the pencil-lead drip took care of the noise. I went back to bed. I thrashed about for a good hour and a half before finally falling asleep. I got three more moderately restful hours of sleep before I arose for the day.

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I still am learning to be vulnerable. It is a long and hard lesson for me, but I suspect it is a much harder one for men who have accepted society’s assertion that “strong” men never admit to or show weakness or display the softer emotions. My lesson is hard because, in spite of my ostensible lifelong rejection of machismo and its kin, fragments of the fiber of society’s assertions still cling to me. Those threads of the social fabric cannot easily be torn away completely after they are woven into the heart and mind at a very early age.

While learning vulnerability now remains hard, I have been working on it for many years. It’s only just now that I’m finding it a tad easier to acknowledge its place in me. One of the reasons, I think, is now see that the artificial strength required to mask vulnerability is, in fact, a weakness. The bravado I sense in so many men, whether visible or not, is simply an unspoken admission of the inability to summon adequate strength to admit one is vulnerable. A paradox.

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Last night, I sent an email to a woman I haven’t seen or heard from in several years. I wasn’t sure the email address I had for her was still valid. And I’m still not quite sure why I sent the message; I suppose it was primarily to let her know about my wife’s death. But I’ve promised myself in months past that I would reach out to people from my past to try to reconnect, so maybe that’s why I wrote. And possibly I wanted to try to keep a connection from yesteryear from disappearing entirely. I was surprised to find a lengthy, thoughtful, thought-provoking response from her this morning. Similarly, this morning I found a reply to a much earlier email I sent to my erstwhile British colleague.

I long for connections, even tenuous connections from the distant past. That’s an odd sensation for an avowed introvert to feel. It’s not that I want close, binding connections (though a few of those would be fulfilling). I just want the past to have mattered in some way. If the past mattered, then maybe the present does, too.

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Recently, two woman from my church dropped by to deliver a monthly goodie package that’s being delivered to all members as a means of keeping in touch during the pandemic. I invited them in (everyone was appropriately masked) and we sat and talked for a while. At some point, when it somehow made sense to say it, I told them I find being in the company of women much more interesting and comfortable than being around men.

Days later, I had occasion to be in the virtual company of several women. I discovered I was somewhat uncomfortable in that setting as the only male. And on another occasion, I was in the company of several men and I felt the same way. But on yet another occasion, when I was one of only three (or four?) men, I did not feel that same discomfort. So, perhaps, it’s not that I feel more comfortable with women than with me. Perhaps it’s that I am more comfortable in very small groups than in “packs.” (That’s not the right word, but I’m drawing a blank.) I still believe I generally prefer to be in conversation with women than with  men, but maybe numbers and composition have something to do with it.

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As much as I want bacon this morning, I will try to choose another options. I want to do my part to minimize the likelihood of rolling electric power blackouts. Unfortunately, I have no milk for cereal. And virtually anything I might eat for breakfast would require cooking. I am vulnerable to breaking my own rules and cooking breakfast. But not yet. Not until the sky is awake.

My expectation when I awoke yesterday was that I would write a post about morality. I did, in a way, but it was not the post I anticipated writing. I got derailed by my own thinking. Today, I will write what I considered writing yesterday. My words will be different than they might have been twenty-four hours ago, but the concepts will be the same. Except they won’t. Not really. Twenty-four hours affords plenty of time to think and re-think and, perhaps, over-think ideas and beliefs and positions on matters both vital and irrelevant. I can’t know, today, what might have been, yesterday, if I had done yesterday what I will attempt to do today. I am different today than I was yesterday. Time and context have altered me in ways I cannot quite understand unless and until I explore my thoughts today and compare them to the ones I had yesterday. But that’s not entirely realistic, is it? Without reliving every moment and recording every thought, I would have no realistic hope of reconstructing, in my mind, yesterday’s experience as John Swinburn. Fortunately or not, I have no such recording to which I might refer and compare. If I did, I might constantly attempt to re-create yesterday in my thoughts, and mimic it today, so I would not have to acknowledge that I change every day, depending on circumstance. I am who I am, not who I was, nor who I will be. But this moment—and my identity—is in constant flux, so I can never be anyone for more than a nanosecond, if that long. These ideas are both enlightening and frightening to me. They suggest I can never know myself as I am, only as I was. And even then, my knowledge of who I was has been irrevocably transformed by my experiences between then and now. So, finally, I know no one, including myself. When I try to understand myself, or anyone else, I am chasing knowledge that is impossible to find.

When I awoke today, I discovered that snow continued to fall last night. My uneducated guess is that about two inches fell. Unless swept away by the wind or sucked into the atmosphere through evaporation, it will stay on the ground. I’ll rephrase that; it won’t melt, at least for quite awhile. The temperature is hovering around 7°F and may fall a degree or two just before daybreak, which is not far off. The predicted high, as of this morning’s up-to-the-minute forecast is 13°F. Brisk!  But my intent is not to write about the weather. It’s to write about morality as a flexible measure of acceptable behavior based on culture and circumstance. Morality probably plays no part in weather.

Because morals cover such a wide range of thoughts and behaviors, I will limit my comments to just three: adultery, murder, and theft. I prefer adultery to infidelity because, in my mind at least, adultery does not so clearly convey judgement as does infidelity. Murder and theft are simply murder and theft; but as I’ll suggest  in a moment, there’s more to them than those simple concepts. Let me start by saying I base all of my comments that follow almost solely on opinions, not necessarily (though possibly) on scientific evidence.

Some cultures (I’m not willing, at this hour, to explore which ones, but I know they exist, so bear with me) permit adultery without judgment. Sex between consenting adults is, in the view of those societies (and my my view, as well), no one’s business but the consenting adults. It’s not that simple, of course. Our society has inculcated in most of us a belief that sex and the behaviors leading up to it should take place between only two people to the exclusion of anyone else, for both partners. We have been taught, as well, to embrace exclusivity as an absolute requirement for a joint commitment between partners. Absent that exclusivity, we have been taught that feelings of betrayal, distrust, and a deep sense of being wounded are natural to be expected from the “harmed” party in a relationship.

But I contend that humans are no more naturally monogamous (as defined in zoology) than they are naturally polyamorous. We shape our behaviors through societal pressure. For reasons that may or may not retain validity today, our society encourages monogamy and we use guilt, stigma, and other emotional and legal tools to enforce it. Not all societies do that. And even those that do use varying degrees of “enforcement,” suggesting the importance of monogamy to society depends on factors unique to a given society.

My point in all this is to suggest that adultery is not inherently wrong. We may not like it, we may not approve, but it’s really none of our business. To the extent that its practice may wound an uninvolved partner emotionally, we can bemoan that fact, but we really have no legitimate stake in the matter. In my opinion, we’d all be better off if we accepted the fact that people can be attracted to more than one partner while possibly being simultaneously more seriously committed to just one of them. I’m speaking hypothetically. Whether I would take that laissez faire attitude if my wife or lover were involved in an illicit affair is an untested unknown.

We have more important matters that should concern us. Like murder.

I mentioned yesterday the idea of accepting or supporting the death penalty while simultaneously believing murder is fundamentally wrong. How can those two beliefs exist in the same head? In my view, it’s not necessarily an example of opposite beliefs. More likely, I think, it’s an example of assigning complex values to the lives of multiple individuals and even to society as a whole. A person can be deeply opposed to murder, as most of us are, but can support the death penalty because the person sentenced to death has presumably taken a life and, importantly, has therefore affected the lives of multiple others. In the death penalty supporter’s mind, the damage done not only to the murder victim, but to the other victims impacted by the murder must be “undone” in some fashion. Repairing the damage done to the friends and family and other supporters of the murder victim may require (in our individual’s mind) taking the murderer’s life. Taking that life outweighs moral opposition to murder by the state. But even more likely, I think, is a sense of revenge.

Consider a situation in which a criminal is about to slash the throat of an innocent three-year-old baby but is stopped by a person who shoots and kills the criminal. Who would consider the shooter’s act immoral? If the situation were different and the shooter saves the baby by wounding but not killing the criminal, how would we want to treat the criminal?

Revenge obliterates moral opposition to murder by “painting over it” in certain circumstances. State-sanctioned murder is, in such cases, not murder; it is an eye for an eye.

Context, then, is critical.

I used to support the death penalty. Fervently. I haven’t, though, in many years. My primary reason is not so much my belief that the state should not be a party to murder (though there is that), but that the likelihood of sending a wrongly-convicted person to die is much, much too high.

Now, for theft.

Society teaches us that theft is wrong. Period. And I agree; not only because society tells me it’s wrong, but because I view the victims of theft as undeserving of the consequences of having their “stuff” stolen. But there are exceptions. And, again, the exceptions depend on what sometimes are extremely complex circumstances.

If someone steals to support his drug habit, I favor forced rehabilitation, using a model shown to have actually worked (assuming there is such a model). That forced rehabilitation should be adequate to satisfy those who call for retribution, revenge, and what have you. But the consequences should be increasingly severe for subsequent offenses. At what point, though, do we say, “enough!” and decide he is not worth the money and effort to rehabilitate him? Do we ever just give up? What part of our moral code allows us to do that without deep feelings of guilt and regret?

If a person steals food to feed themselves or to feed their family, I favor putting the person to work by the state and paying them enough to compensate the victims of the theft and to feed the thief’s family.  Simultaneously, some form of public assistance to find work should be part of the thief’s “punishment.” But, wait. What if the person steals from a bank so he can buy food? Is that different in any way?

But what of a person who, barely scraping by but who does not have the money to buy food for an unrelated starving family, steals food to help that family survive? How should we treat her? Does it depend on who she steals from? If she steals food from a major grocer, is that different than stealing from a mom and pop grocery that is barely getting by?

I’m getting away—far away—from what I intended to write. That’s what happens when I start writing and thinking along the way. My fingers do the thinking for me, sometimes surprising me with their wisdom and sometimes embarrassing me with their gross ignorance.

My points, if they haven’t been clear, are that morality depends in large part on context and that situational ethics are sometimes simply rigid morality made flexible through compassion.

What if I shoot and kill a man attempting to slash the throat of a starving married woman, then steal food to give to her, successfully luring her into an adulterous relationship with me?

Never mind. I start getting giddy around 8:00 a.m., engaging in circular thinking in a square bowl; more coffee should calm me down.

A chance online encounter with the history of The Serenity Prayer led me to read a bit about Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr, the author of the prayer. Niebuhr wrote the prayer in 1951, long after he began his career as a noted theologian. Based on what I read about the man, his religious philosophies and corresponding social and political philosophies transformed over the years from an intensely progressive, left-leaning position to a much more moderate one. In some cases, the transformation was essentially an about-face, rejecting beliefs he had once held in favor of embracing ones he had once rejected. This may be an over-simplification; I did not read a biography, I read only a brief biographical sketch. At any rate, his mind changed in response to both thought and experience. And that’s where my mind is going on this brutally cold morning (15° now, aiming for a high of 18°).

We can change our minds. Our philosophies can morph into almost unrecognizable twins, their common genealogy recognizable only through meticulous study. Given enough thought and consideration of other approaches to thought and analysis, we can become different people: same bodies, same faces, same histories, but different minds. Yesterday’s expected but deeply disappointing acquittal of Trump notwithstanding, there was evidence that some people who had supported him in the past had changed their minds. Presented with enough evidence and analysis, their perspectives on the man and his actions changed. Those perspectives could not have changed without changes in their own philosophies. While I cannot know their minds, I can reasonably surmise they examined their past support, the evidence presented against the man, and weighed their own morality against the actions of the past President. They changed their minds. Seven Republican Senators, some of whom had already crossed the threshold from support of party to support of country, voted to convict him.

Even Mitch McConnell appeared to have changed his mind, in spite of his vote to acquit. He claimed the trial was contrary to the Constitution, so he had to follow the Constitution. He suggested (almost emphatically), had it taken place while Trump was still in office, he would have voted to convict. Yet the Senate had already voted to acknowledge the legitimacy of convicting a person who was not longer in office, contrary to McConnell’s claim. And McConnell, himself, had effectively refused to consider holding the trial before January 20, thus assuring the trial would take place after Trump left office.  I think McConnell recognized the changes taking place in people’s minds with respect to Trump’s actions; McConnel did not change his mind, he simply changed his tactics, paying close attention to which way the wind blows.

So, some people change their minds, some people change their modi operandi in an effort to appear to have changed their minds. So, what does all this have to do with the changes that took place in Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr’s philosophies? The connections are tenuous, at best, threaded together only in my mind. I contend, without evidence, that Niebuhr might have written The Serenity Prayer whether or not his religious philosophies had changed. The changes that took place in the seven Republican senators did not necessarily alter their fundamentally conservative outlooks; while they changed, they did not change completely. And that, I suppose, is where my convoluted thinking is going this morning. The first verse of The Serenity Prayer (which is the one most often quoted) is, in my opinion, a brilliant summation of practical realism. Whether God represents an all-powerful deity or the universe in which we live, it’s the encouragement to accept both our abilities and our limits that’s attractive about the words, I think. Here’s the first stanza:

God grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change;
Courage to change the things I can;
And wisdom to know the difference.

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Well, that wasn’t what I expected to write when I got up this morning. I anticipated writing about morality and how people see the concept differently, depending on perspective and context. Specifically, I anticipated exploring the conflicts between morality as “taught” in homes and schools and churches and morality as internalized in individuals. For example, a person who has learned that marital infidelity is immoral, and who believes it, can still engage in that “immoral” act. How can he or she resolve that conflict? I contend that people convince themselves that extenuating circumstances both explain and permit stepping beyond what otherwise would be considered absolute boundaries. It’s not just marital fidelity. It’s breaking the “Golden Rule.” It’s accepting the death penalty, even in the face of a deep-seated belief that murder is fundamentally wrong. It’s stealing, in spite of taking the moral position that stealing is absolutely wrong.

Yeah, I had those things on my mind. But I’m not going to write any more about them this morning. I may, instead, leave this blog and return to my Word documents that house short stories and vignettes and other “creative” stuff that might get my creative juices flowing. Even though the temperature is not conducive to writing. Perhaps I would feel warmer if I would trade my flip-flops for something warmer. I’ve noticed that, even though I am wearing sweat pants and a sweat shirt, I am cold; especially my feet. I’ve transformed from being warm and comfortable in my bed to being warm and comfortably down to my feet. The transformation is never complete until I put something warm over my toes. I wish I could be comfortable this morning in flip-flops; they make me happy. But I’ll bow to pressure from the atmosphere and cover my feet with something a tad warmer. And drink more coffee.

Until yesterday, I had never heard of Marcel and Betty Lamothe, nor did I know a thing about E. Rendle Bowness. But after writing a snippet in which Marcel and Betty were mentioned, I stumbled upon some material that introduced me to Dr. Bowness (who graduated from the Ontario Veterinary College in 1932). Before entering veterinary school, though, he was employed by Dr. J. R. Cunningham, who operated Canada’s only veterinary practice devoted exclusively to foxes. Later, Dr. Bowness was one of the founders of the Canada Mink Breeders Association. Later still, after his retirement, the Association published a book Dr. Bowness wrote, entitled History of the Early Mink People in Canada.

Yesterday’s early morning accident that led me to the Lamothes also led me to Bodmin, Saskatchewan and my imaginary outpost one hundred kilometers to the west. And later, the intersections of accidental and intentional knowledge gave birth to a passing interest in the people of the area. It was that interest that led me to Dr. Bowness and fox ranches and mink people. Most of what I’ve read about these topics describes a history that may now be only a memory and not a foundation. But I do not know that to be the case. I know only that there is far more to know about Bodmin and the mink people and raising foxes.  It goes without saying that I had never before heard of Dr. J.R. Cunningham, nor of the existence of a fox-focused veterinary practice. I wonder, now, whether the proliferation of mink might have prompted someone to specialize in mink animal husbandry and veterinary practice? I do not know.

Who would have thought, just two days ago, I might develop a passing interest in Canadian mink and fox ranches? The idea of raising animals for their pelts is anathema to me, but intriguing, nonetheless.

While wandering through the rabbit warrens that introduced me to Bodmin and the Lamothes and Dr. Cunningham and mink people, I took a turn and came upon a First Nation name that, when I first read it, seemed very familiar. Noel Starblanket became one of the youngest reserve chiefs in Canada and was elected twice as president of the National Indian Brotherhood, later called the Assembly of First Nations. Starblanket was a name I had encountered before, but I could not recall the circumstances. I searched my blog and, sure enough, there it was. Buffy Sainte-Marie’s son is named Dakota Starblanket Wolfchild; his middle name was another relative’s surname. Starblanket, besides being a surname, is a Cree Indian band and a Cree Reserve in Saskatchewan. When I wrote the piece about Buff Sainte-Marie, I wrote about strange coincidences and spiritual connections. Here it is again. Perhaps I simply stumbled upon Bodmin and that made me stumble upon Starblanket. I am attracted to that name for some reason. It described to me what I was thinking before I wrote about Buffy.

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While I was getting enmeshed in Starblanket and Bodmin and mink people and fox ranches, the tasks that should have commanded my attention went undone. I could have begun the day today by jumping on them. But I did not. This is the weekend, after all. I deserve my rest. I try to wipe the sarcastic smile from my face.

An article on the BBC website, How to Escape Your Motivational Trough When You’re Flagging, might be just what I need to overcome my motivation-deficit. But I don’t know, because I haven’t read it yet. But I did make note of it and will get around to taking a look before long. Maybe.

Something else came to my attention this morning when I opened an email from a friend, whose message called my attention to a book entitled Excuse Me, Your Life is Waiting : the Astonishing Power of Feelings. Despite my inherently skeptical nature, I started skimming the book online and I’ve decided I will spend more time reading it; whether that’s before or after the tasks I’ve been ignoring have been completed remains to be seen.

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This morning’s temperature was 21 degrees when I awoke, according to Alexa. When I said aloud (to myself, I thought), “That’s chilly,” she responded with a lengthy explanation about the location, size, and demographics of Chile, the country. And, after she finished, I said, “Gracias,” she responded with a couple of sentences in Spanish. Some mornings, with no apparent trigger, she speaks Spanish and plays lively Spanish-language music until I say “Alexa, be quiet!” I wonder whether Sebastian Piñera has had my house bugged and is playing mind games with me. Why he would do that I do not know. Perhaps it’s because I prefer Michelle Bachelet’s philosophies.

I scampered down another frigid rabid warren in the Chilean countryside. Cold weather. And the weather gurus expect the temperatures to get significantly colder. Today’s high is predicted to be 36 degrees; that will be that last time the thermometer registers above freezing until Thursday, when 34 is the expected high. Nighttime lows will be 10° or colder, with an expected low of 1° on Monday night. The high on Monday will reach only 16°, they say.

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Last night’s salmon was okay, except for being seriously undercooked. I broiled it, placing it on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper as the recipe instructed. The parchment paper smoked and turned black; I was afraid it would catch fire, so I took it out of the oven. It looked reasonably cooked, so I plated it and took it to the table. The top half-inch was cooked to my liking. The remainder, beneath that layer, was essentially raw; so raw that I could not remove it from the skin. I like rare salmon; I am not sure I’m partial to raw salmon.

Speaking of salmon, I still haven’t made my breakfast. And I’m feeling exceptionally lazy again. So, I’ll probably forego the miso soup and stick to the remaining little piece of salmon, which I’ll pan-fry until it’s cooked to my liking. A little lemon juice mixed with miso drizzled over the cooked fish should be the perfect accompaniment. Maybe I’ll have an avocado, as well. And a mandarin orange. I think I’m ready to eat, so I’ll stop writing. I write, I eat, I think, I write, I eat, I eat. I need to change my habits a little.

Overcast skies, icy roads, and an empty Friday morning join forces. They cause me to imagine what life might be like in a frigid, desolate outpost one hundred kilometers west of Bodmin, Saskatchewan, a place where RE/MAX has no listings. Tonight’s low temperature in Bodmin is forecast to reach -33F; I do not know what the low will be one hundred kilometers west of Bodmin, but odds are it will be brutally cold. I suspect the frigid little outpost is lacking in high speed internet. Whether it’s possible to get radio or television signals is an unknown for me, as well, but as I have no urgent need for them in my fantasy, it matters not. I’ve discovered, outside my fantasy, that it is not easy to uncover much information about Bodmin, even with high speed internet. However I was able to learn that Marcel and Betty Lamothe once operated a store—as well as a post office and a hand gas pump with a choice of red or amber gasoline—in Bodmin. When that was, I do not know, but based on the context of how I learned about Marcel and Betty, I would say it was sometime in the very early 1950s. My knowledge of Bodmin, weak and unreliable at best, slips into virtual nothingness after that time. It’s entirely possible I could learn more about it by reading more about the Lamothes and their neighbors, but reading about them would serve no particularly useful purpose; I doubt that endeavor would give me much more of an understanding of Bodmin as it is today. Anyway, my interest is in the outpost one hundred kilometers to the west. My imagination tells me the place has a wood-burning stove that serves both for cooking and heat. I can feel the ancestors of the people who built the place. They came from Scotland and Norway and who knows where else. At least that’s what my imagination tells me. But cracks are appearing around the edges of my imagination, so I’ll shove it into a corner of my brain where it can either regenerate itself or shrivel and depart this dimension.

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I thawed a piece of skin-on salmon in the refrigerator last night. If I am sufficiently motivated late today, I will broil miso salmon for dinner. Even though miso salmon requires virtually no effort, recent experience has taught me even effortless meals sometimes require more motivation than I possess when it’s time to make dinner. For that reason, I’ve tended to either munch on whatever is readily available in the refrigerator or I’ve “cooked” pre-fab frozen dinners in the microwave. Usually, I enjoy cooking, but for some reason that enjoyment has taken a respite of late.  I really need to cook the salmon tonight, though, and I need to save a piece of raw salmon for breakfast tomorrow morning. Tomorrow’s breakfast is to be a little piece of broiled salmon with a lime, vinegar, and sugar sauce. I’ll serve it with some radishes, a small scoop of white rice, and a cup of miso soup. I bought tofu and mushrooms and green onions the other day specifically for miso soup. When I make miso soup, I always make enough for at least two meals. Whether any of these plans come to fruition remains to be seen. It would be easier to get motivated if I were making these meals for more than just myself.

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According to a survey conducted by ABC News in 2004, sixty-two percent of American men, split evenly in two, reported wearing either nothing or underwear to bed. Only thirteen percent of American men reported wearing pajamas. I’ve never understood the appeal of pajamas. On those rare occasions that I’ve worn them, they’ve tended to get bound up with sheets or otherwise cause restrictive discomfort.

The origins of pajamas (pyjamas in other parts of the world) can be traced to places like Iran, India, and Turkey, where they were/are worn for the day-to-day comfort they afford the wearer in hot climates. Pyjamas have evolved, in some places at least, into loungewear that replace formal business or work wear after going home at the end of the day. Loose-fitting loungewear with either elastic or fabric ties at the waist and a separate pull-over top should be perfectly acceptable clothing, regardless of whether it is worn at home or doing errands. It’s not uncommon to hear people mocking “Walmart shoppers” who wear pajamas to the grocery store; that’s unnecessary mockery, in my book. I admire people who reject unwritten rules of fashion in favor of comfort. While I’d personally rather not see PJs with comic-book duck patterns on them, if that’s what a person wants to wear, more power to them. I’d prefer something a little more muted; perhaps a pair of loose-fitting, soft, grey trousers and a loose-fitting, soft colorful pull-over tunic in a herringbone pattern. Flip flops would go nicely with the outfit; if a little more formality were desirable, then a pair of woven leather huaraches might be just the ticket.

Somehow, I drifted away from sleepwear. I’m in favor of small, soft, white, and simple. But that’s just me. I remember, as a kid, having button-fronted pajama tops that I only wore when I wasn’t feeling well. I have no idea if that memory is real or not, but it’s the only one I have at the moment that involves pajamas. Buttons! I might as well sleep in a dress shirt.

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Not too long ago, I wrote about black objects absorbing light. Recently, I’ve seen some videos on Facebook promoting the almost magical qualities of a blacker-than-black paint that absorbs light better than any other black paint. If I painted a sponge with that black paint that absorbs light, I should be able to retrieve the light by wringing out the sponge. I wonder what happens to light that’s absorbed by black material. It only sounds like a stupid question. It’s not.

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Rye toast with peach jam and a few strips of bacon. Followed an hour or two later with a tomato juice chaser. That’s breakfast today. It’s not yet 10 a.m. and I’m already hungry.

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Absent a better title, I’ll label this post Starfish.