John Swinburn

How would we respond if we discovered that someone we find extremely attractive, but who obviously is “unavailable,” finds us equally as irresistible? The question becomes more than an academic exercise in a context in which the state of “availability” changes. This, of course, may not apply when one is in a committed or a permanent relationship. But even then, it can apply; though the situation becomes more complex, “stickier,” and more dangerous and difficult. Most of the time, I think, such dangerous situations take place only in the mind. But when the distinction between fantasy and reality begins to dissolve, I suspect chaos and confusion can lead us into perilous territory. But perhaps we are immune to such chaos and confusion and, indeed, to romantic or physical attractions if we are steadfastly committed to avoiding such perils. That’s the stuff of novels. Or short stories. Or screen plays. It’s almost formulaic. And “almost” may be giving it too much flexibility.

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Betrayal. The word has several definitions, each of which suggests deep and almost impossibly painful experience. The first definition is something this like: “an act of disappointing a person’s trust, hopes, or expectations.” Another one can be almost equally devastating: “the act of revealing information in violation of confidence.” In both cases, the act of betrayal destroys trust and can utterly annihilate relationships. Betrayal can end or irrevocably damage a romantic relationship or a friendship. The potential damage it can do to any relationship is enough to warrant steering clear of anything that could cause the parties to a relationship to question the relationship’s strength or legitimacy. This comes to mind as I consider jokes I may have told or implicit suggestions I may have made, in poor taste, that may have gotten a little too close to treading on the sacred soil of unwavering commitment. Commitment. That’s another component of relationships that can break into a million pieces, consumed in the explosive destruction of trust in the face of betrayal. But people take risks every day that can destroy it all. Humans are crazy and stupid or, at the very least, unthinking.

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Ready access to money can bend reality, causing the “wealthy” (or relatively well-off) to forget what poverty feels like. The ability to buy products or services that improves one’s conditions, even modestly, can make us lazy and forgetful. I think a mandatory period of three months’ penniless homelessness should be imposed on every citizen. We would learn to treasure the precious things we take for granted. We would internalize compassion in a way that is almost impossible when one’s experiences have almost always been positive; when one’s life is one of almost unending largesse.

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This morning’s cool, comfortable temperatures (presently, 68°F) belie the fact that it’s mid-summer. Only the high humidity (86%) and the sounds of tree frogs and crickets offer evidence of summertime in Arkansas. When I walked out onto the covered and screened porch and, then, to the open air of the deck, I was grateful for a reprieve from the South’s normally sweltering temperatures. On a “normal” morning in late July in central Arkansas, the lowest pre-dawn temperatures are in the mid to upper 70s. Combined with high humidity, those days make one feel a bit like gills would be more useful than lungs.  But not this morning. The high humidity is tolerable when the temperature is below 70°F.

While I’m grateful for the pleasant weather at the moment, I’m conscious of the fact that much of the rest of the world seems to be in a state of climatic chaos. Last week’s floods in Germany killed more than 160 people; I read this morning that the floods there were the worst in more than 700 years. And, as with any natural disaster, the political repercussions are in full-swing, with some political groups using the devastation to their advantage by blaming opposition politicians for the death and havoc. Germany, of course, is not alone in dealing with cataclysmic weather. Heavy flooding in central China has forced more than 200,000 from their homes. Passengers trapped in a subway car are among the reported eighteen dead from last week’s floods there.

Horrendous weather will befall all of us at some point. It’s not a question of whether, but when, The perpetual questions, of course, will revolve around whether climate change is responsible for fierce winds, unprecedented rainfall, withering droughts, ruinous low temperatures, deadly temperature spikes, and all the other natural phenomena. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, there will be those who deny climate change or, at least, the role humans play in it. Arguing about it is a waste of oxygen. Minds in the Year 2021 are not made up through exposure to facts and reasoned explanations; minds in this year are made up through political guidance that’s based almost exclusively on opposition to any positions taken by the opposition. It makes me want to swallow a powerful explosive device and then set it off as it nears my heart as it passes through my esophagus. A personal suicide bombing with minimal collateral damage. Except for the collateral damage of others’ disrupted and ruined lives. There’s no easy and painless way to put an end to perpetual human trauma.

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My mind jumps from idea to idea the way bees flit from flower to flower as they seek pollen. But while bees can behave in seemingly random, frenzied fashion, they ultimately produce honey. I, on the other hand, produce only half-finished (or even less complete) concepts that crumble into dust over time. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, though. Many of my stories and plot outlines and the like have potential still. They have not disintegrated into dust. At least not yet. I will, by God, do something with my writing before I get too old and feeble to make any sense out of my thousands of unfinished drafts.

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I am hungry. Not just a little bit, either. I could eat a monstrous breakfast this morning; broiled salmon drizzled with some miso and lime dressing, some rice, a little miso soup, some edamame, and shredded wakame. Actually, just a small breakfast as described would be just fine. I could lose weight on that kind of regimen.  But that won’t start today. Today I may cook bacon, instead. Ah, the world of good intention and paved roads.

Since visiting the Greenwood Cultural Center and the Woody Guthrie Center in Tulsa last week, I struggle to understand what happened to the enormous power that propelled the social activism of the 1950s and 1960s and 1970s and 1980s. Though remnants of activism remain, today’s fights for justice and equality and economic opportunity seem to be little more than impotent vestiges of the past; tilting at windmills with the full knowledge that “activism” is all for show and is not expected to have real results.

Today’s conservative support for equality and justice seems to me to be contrived and hollow. It seems designed to deceive both its advocates and its opponents into believing it is real, all the while aggressively undoing the advances of the last seventy years. Conservatives have adopted the successful tactics of social activists, turning those tactics on their heads in furtherance of conservative causes instead of promoting integrity and equality. Legitimate calls for equality and social justice are drowned out by opposition to equality that is stronger today than ever in my lifetime. Real efforts to bring about positive change wither in comparison to growing choruses calling for conservative “values.” There is no value in subjugation and economic bondage, except to those who profit from financial enslavement and political feudalism. As much as I support and appreciate today’s efforts to bring about social justice and decency, I think most of those efforts are wastes of time and energy because they are so weak and diluted.

Maybe my own sense of powerlessness and surrender is evidence of the problem. What’s missing is the fervor and the ability to infect others with it. Leaders like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and W.E.B. Du Bois and Rosa Parks and Malcolm X and Julian Bond and John Lewis and others are missing. But what’s especially missing are white leaders calling for equality and social and economic justice. And, of course, the rest of us, willing to stand up for what’s right in our everyday lives. Instead, a smattering of essentially powerless local citizens who have no hope of generating masses of followers are attempting to accomplish the impossible with archaic tools and diminishing support. I do not know the answer; I just know I am feeling discouraged. Hopelessness feeds itself, I suppose; I have consumed far too much and am full to overflowing.

Maybe monuments like the Greenwood Cultural Center and the Woody Guthrie Center and the National Civil Rights Museum and all the other testaments to “the struggle” were created too early, before we actually achieved success as a society. Perhaps we celebrated victory before it was ours to claim. I remember President Bush, standing in front of a banner that read “Mission Accomplished,” saying we had prevailed in Iraq, long before we abandoned the fight and allowed the country to descend into chaos. I am afraid we have a tendency to let up before the fight is over. Afghanistan, too, comes to mind. And, maybe, domestic efforts to accomplish the vision the country’s framers and founders had in mind.

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I’ve long been intrigued by the philosophy of Jean-Paul Sartre, though I will admit to being far too ignorant of the details of his philosophy. His disdain for capitalism and his concepts of “the anguish of freedom” appeal to me. While I think his philosophies were guided in part by a mistaken “purity” of individuals’ choices, I think most of his concepts were solid. Money is, indeed, at the root of most human problems. While the idea of “evil” is magical bullshit, in my view, extreme problems do arise from the existence of money and our reliance on money (or the lack thereof) for our choices. Too often, we credit (or blame) our positions in life on how much or how little money we have. Our career choices fly in the face of the very real facts that we do not have to accept the careers given to us; we could, if we had the requisite courage, abandon banking or real estate sales or truck driving, devoting ourselves to farming or music or a thousand other options. Sartre argued that we, individually and alone, limit our choices simply by refusing to accept that we have the freedom to pursue choices beyond our limited scope of knowledge.

And, so, I ponder whether it’s too late for me to change course and explore new ways to live and to be or whether I’m simply giving myself an excuse to avoid uncertainty and potential failure. I blame Jean-Paul Sartre for insisting to me that any limits I place on my own choices are my limits, alone, and not limits placed on my by “the world” or by some outside force. My choices are my choices, period. I could choose any number of other choices, but I choose to believe my choices are limited. They are not. But it’s easier to believe they are, than to explore reality and find, indeed, my choices are limitless. Maybe not easy. But limitless, nonetheless.

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I think conservatives and progressives, alike, tend to stake rigid, inflexible positions. Out of embarrassment, they are unwilling to change even when facts bear out the fact that their positions are fundamentally wrong. In other words, steadfast conservatives and steadfast progressives (call them liberals if you like) are stupid. We paint ourselves into corners and then insist that’s exactly what we meant to do. We are stupid. Some of us are remarkably stupid, while some of us are only moderately stupid. But we’re all stupid to some degree or another. That’s assuming, of course, that our political philosophies fall somewhere along the spectrum of conservative to progressive/liberal.

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We throw money at problems we personally do not attempt to solve,  absolving ourselves of responsibilities to do anything but fund someone else’s efforts to do what we are too lazy or too incompetent to do. Doesn’t that make you feel good about your role in the world? We’re all (most of us) fooling ourselves into thinking we make a difference to the “bigger picture” by contributing to political causes or social causes or some other cause or another. We’re just buying our way out of a sense of obligation. “I gave money, therefore I contributed in some meaningful way.” Yeah, right. I gave money to a dog rescue organization, so the dog that’s being euthanized in the pound down the street is not my problem; my responsibility was satisfied when I signed the check. I think this is my morning to be skeptical and curmudgeonly and otherwise not especially fun to be around.

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I spent quite a lot of time yesterday on the phone with a mutual fund company, trying to figure out why my late-wife’s IRA has not yet been transferred to my account. Money. It’s the damn problem. That, and incompetent bookkeeping staff at pharmaceutical companies. And nurses and doctors who do not listen and do not complete their obligations to their patients. Oh, there are more. But I’m trying to turn over a new leaf and be so positive and sweet a person could flavor their pancakes with the syrup flowing out of my pores.

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We cannot be completely honest about what we want because that could create all manner of problems. On the other hand, honesty in expressing wants and needs ties in nicely with Sartre’s philosophies. So, I might surprise myself (and others) one day with unrestrained honesty. And I might be surprised at the firestorm that honesty creates.

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Time to face the remainder of the day. More coffee and, perhaps, something out of the ordinary for breakfast. I am passionate about breakfast, sometimes. Or maybe not. I have a title in mind for my breakfast book. Or another book. Time will tell which one gets written first, if one gets written at all.

Two quotations from my little black book of Zen resources. After I wrote the paragraphs below, I read these; I wish I’d read them earlier.

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

~ D.T. Suzuki ~

and

Outside teaching; apart from tradition.
Not founded on words and letters,
Pointing directly to the human mind.
Seeing into one’s nature and attaining
Buddahood.

Walking is Zen, sitting is Zen.
Whether talking or remaining silent,
Whether moving or standing quiet,
The Essence itself is ever at ease.

~ Daish ~

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Even litter along the roadside has beauty if you look at it with a practiced eye and a warped perspective. With the proper point of view, rubbish illustrates our progress as a species. Clumps of clotted wrappers that once held cheeseburgers and greasy fries attest to the fact that we no longer have to forage for barely edible seeds and leaves and roots. Empty tins that once held sardines or tuna offer evidence that our days of fishing for bare sustenance are over. These days, we rely on modern forms of indentured servitude to perform activities for which we once had to depend on servants or slaves. Migrant workers and underpaid semi-skilled foreign laborers do the work today we once did for ourselves. Our use of the roadside as the receptacles for discards shows how far we have come; it’s our way of thumbing our nose at Mother Nature, expressing our disdain for her attempts to teach us lessons we never wanted to learn. Our arrogance, on full display as we empty ashtrays on city streets, was earned by months and years of forgetting all the details of what is involved in stocking grocery shelves and tobacco dispensaries. From mistreating chickens and calves on the farm to spraying pesticides on the food we eat, the things we choose to forget or ignore are legion. Who cares, after all, that the farmers who plow fields die from inhaling diesel fumes while growing tobacco for our chews and our vape pens? The debris and the offal we throw from our gas-guzzling cars onto the roadside inadvertently acknowledges our reliance on purveyors of muck and the residue of wasted lives to feed our reckless pleasures. Oh, yes, detritus left behind to rot and to sully the landscape and the streams and brooks that feed the rivers from which we drink is lovely. It is just as stunning in its refined elegance as the most beautiful oil painting. The byproducts of avarice and gluttony, left to fester on the fringes of our food chain, paints a remarkable picture and tells the compelling story of who we are.

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Season seven of Bosch is available on Amazon Prime. I thought Bosch ended with season six. Or maybe I just forgot Bosch in the face of so many other things I find appealing. At any rate, we binged last night on several episodes of the seventh season of the series before finally giving up around eleven, assuming we would get a good night’s sleep. This morning, after I arose very early, around 4, I followed up on what I have watched and failed to finish on Netflix, etc.  I discovered that the last episode of Hinterland I watched was Season 3, Episode 4; so, I have four more episodes to watch before I finish the series. But I haven’t watched in months, so I may have to start over. I highly recommend the series, but I cannot in good conscience recommend the last four episodes because I have not watched them. But I recommend them, anyway, thinking my conscience will be clean when all is said and done.  There’s much more I haven’t finished, too. And I discovered a bunch of crap I’ve watched but which I do not remember, at all. Maybe if I watched just a tad of some of the stuff on my “have watched” list, I’d recall it; but I am not prepared to do that right now, because…just because.

I have watched some pretty mindless swill on television lately. The Ice Road, for example. Pretty innocuous entertainment, though. But, on Amazon Prime, we watched Unhinged a couple of nights ago. I recommend it only if you’re a psychopath looking for some tips on how to engage in and extend extreme road rage. Why we watched to the end I do not know. Unhinged is unnecessarily violent and stupid from the start.

I’ve watched three of four seasons of Unforgotten. That’s another one I simply must return to because it’s so good. And because I love Nichola Walker. The thing is, seasons 1-3 are free on Amazon Prime, but season 4 requires payment of $15. That may not seem like much, but considering all the stuff I want to watch that requires some form of payment, it’s quite a burden. I feel like I’m being fed stuff Amazon knows will get me addicted, then cuts off my supply unless I’m willing to agree to the terms of their extortion. Ach! I want to scream, but I’m afraid I might be attacked by rabid neighbors who do not wish to be awakened at this hour (which, I might add, is already late, in my book).

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When I woke around 4 this morning, I learned I was alone in getting a reasonably good night’s sleep. I snored and wheezed and whistled and otherwise made noise that made sleep difficult for everyone in the neighborhood. I am surprised the Village police did not come and break down the door to find out what was making the racket. I suspect area forest nightlife was disrupted by my on-again, off-again breathing. The deer and raccoons were no doubt concerned that I might have died in my sleep, poor beasts. Seriously, though, I will visit my primary care doctor today to inquire about solutions to a number of complaints, including my very annoying wheezing and my tendonitis/arthritis. I’ve been advised to request a sleep study to determine whether I might be able to get to sleep, stay asleep, and be quiet during sleep with the help of some form(s) of medical intervention. Perhaps I’d be quieter and breathe more easily and freely if I lost 70 pounds and engaged in fierce exercise. I’m game for the weight loss, but my exercise regimen will never be described as fierce. 😉

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My coffee is cold. It’s only 6:00 a.m. That’s what can happen to coffee when it sits on the desk, barely touched, for almost two hours while I’m dinking around on my computer, attempting to write but failing miserably with respect to engaging fiction. Oh, well. I’ll get around to that one day before long.

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Attention: Fiction vignette ahead: It was as if he were being stalked by someone whose purpose in pursuing him was simply to let him know he was there, just beyond the shadows, hidden beneath the shrubs. The stalker seemed to have no overt animosity toward him, only a desire to make him perpetually uneasy, wondering why his follower was there. He concluded the stalker’s reason for watching him was simply to let him know he was being followed; that nothing he could do would prevent his pursuer from seeing him and knowing his thoughts. Nothing would stop the stalker from dismissing the man’s thoughts as impotent mistakes made by someone whose significance was lost just moments before birth. In other words, the stalker tormented him with his emptiness; that resolute follower reminded him of his ugly hollowness that asserted, loudly, he was devoid of value and pointless in the extreme.

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Among many problems I face is that I am unpracticed in accepting uncomfortable attitudes and actions. I want to control things outside my ability and/or right to control. But I know I have no control, except to accept life as it is or to change it by changing myself. Or, of course, to move away from the discomfort. It’s all more difficult than it should be, though how I know that is open to discussion. Whether I “know” anything is a matter of argument.

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Coffee can be heated or replaced. I will prove this to myself in a matter of moments. And bacon can be cooked, as can eggs. Life is sustained by food, both for eating and for thought.

We encountered heavy rain, on and off, as we approached Hot Springs Village yesterday on our way home from Tulsa, but the rain was not overwhelming. But after we picked up el perro and took him home, we set out for a late lunch at SqzBx; we had been craving pizza for quite a while and my IC had never eaten there but had wanted to for some time. So we set out for Hot Springs. Only moments into our drive, long before we got to the west gate to exit the Village, the clouds above us—apparently behaving like a balloon collecting water—ripped open. Water poured from the sky in sheets, prompting us to abandon our plans for SqzBx pizza. Torrential rains continued, off and on, for quite a long time. We opted to take a pizza from the freezer for dinner. This morning, as my IC was walking el perro, the sky burst open again, drenching dog and woman and causing dog to abandon his morning constitutional. And, so, we’re preparing to go to church; no, el perro stays home, guarding the castle.

Tulsa was great fun, though we did not make it to all the museums we had hoped to visit. The Gilcrease is closed for reconstruction. The Philbrook, on our plans, took a back seat until it was too late to visit. But we saw the Greenwood Center and the Woodie Guthrie Center and had wandered around downtown Tulsa and environs and stopped in at a place whose name escapes me, a gallery displaying string instruments and promoting the skills of accomplished luthiers. And we had lunch with an old friend of mine. And we discovered superb dining establishments and a huge park called The Gathering Place, said to be the largest public park ever built with private funds, $465 million. We will go back to Tulsa and stay longer because there is just so much to see.

During our visit, and our drive to and from, we discussed other places we might want to visit soon. Among them: Corpus Christi, Texas and Asheville, North Carolina. Unless our preliminary plans get derailed, we will visit one or the other (or both) sometime in August. Another road trip in the offing! And we may make a trip to Tucson, Arizona very soon to visit segments of my IC’s family; this trip depends on several factors that may or may not come together. Ah, life is good these days1

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My IC has taken on a new role with the church; responsibility for scheduling volunteers to staff the welcome tables at the front and rear doors of the building. While in Tulsa, visiting the All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church, she hatched ideas for the welcoming process, prompted in part by the way the folks in Tulsa welcome visitors. But my IC has her own spins for the process; I like her creativity and critical thinking skills. I wish I could borrow them, which would help transform my thoughts from idea to execution.

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All this talk of travel leaves me thinking about words I’ve read in my anthology of Zen quotations.  Here’s one piece that seems especially appropriate as I think about travel and travelers, including the way I behave as a traveler and as a human being:

One who excels in traveling
leaves no wheel tracks.
One who excels as a warrior
does not appear formidable.
One who excels in fighting
is never aroused in anger.
One who excels in defeating his enemy
does not join issue.
One who excels in employing others
humbles himself before them.

~ Zen Tradition ~

I have so much to learn, even after completing five decades of life and working toward completing a sixth and, I hope, a seventh and an eighth. The most successful among us learned all these lessons early, so they could teach others along the way. I have been a slow learner in some important ways, all these years. Much of what I thought was important turned out to be inconsequential and frivolous. And what I thought unnecessary is imperative to a life that matters. Live and learn.

It’s too early to know whether today will be just another repeat of 24 sequential hours or something more—or less. We jam so much into little packets of time, expecting minutes to burst, full-blown, into years; but expectations can be sidetracked by seconds that scurry to complete minutes, not lifetimes.  Dreams are like that, too. They cover us with wishes and hopes, only to morph into nightmares in which wishes have wings and hopes crash into the rocks beneath murderous rapids. Vivid visions turn dim and cloudy in the face of sandstorms.

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The highlight of the day yesterday for me was the Woody Guthrie Center. It was the most sobering, depressing experience, too. Hope, so strong and pure and powerful, crashed to the rocks. Wishes for a better, more inclusive, and loving future flew away as the energy of youth morphed into the capitalist greed that still, today, informs our most potent desires.

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Lunch with a colleague from long-ago brought into sharp focus the reality of loss and aging and dismissive acts of artificial appreciation. The “old days” were fine, but they are gone and forgotten by everyone but those who lived them. Those days no longer matter, just like those who lived them. Everything and everyone is replaceable. We’re either too late or too early. And too simple or too abstract to be understood.

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We throw money at the wall, hoping it will stick in the form of excitement and precious memories. It doesn’t stick.

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It is 7 a.m., time to begin digging into the rubble of time to see what’s there.

According to my computer, which has been conversing with The Weather Network, the temperature in Tulsa is 79°F and the humidity is 84%. Those readings were made just before 6 a.m. In my opinion, 79°F should never be permitted this early in the day. In fact, that level of warmth should be illegal except in extremely extenuating circumstances. I recommend President Biden appoint a Climate Control Czar to establish and enforce climate and weather-related limitations. I am sure other countries that are hungry to control all aspects of humanity and civilization would happily jump on board. China, Russia, India, and Luxembourg would, no doubt, become allies in the endeavor. World peace would most certainly follow.

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Speaking of weather, today’s plans could be subject to weather-related change. The forecast calls for the development of thunderstorms this morning and again this evening, with a high temperature of 90°F. Tomorrow morning, too, as we head home, there is a risk of thunderstorms. Well, until the Climate Control Czar makes her mark on the planet’s atmospheric comfort, we’ll just have to buck up and deal with whatever Mother Nature decides to do.

There was a time, when I was much younger, during which many people carried thin plastic raincoats with them. These raincoats were extremely thin and delicate and were folded nicely in little plastic bags. In those days, when the unexpected rainstorm arose, people would pull out their little bags of rain protection and would don the sweat-inducing gear, which tended to stick to the skin at the slightest hint of bodily moisture. The plastic, astonishingly thin, would shred into wet strips of useless petroleum detritus when the wearer attempted to shed the rainwear. These emergency raincoats never lasted more than one wearing. I remember this only vaguely, but I feel sure it’s not just my imagination. I do not recall why we did not use umbrellas in those days, but my guess is that folding umbrellas had not yet been invented. Big, awkward, unwieldy sticks wrapped in water-shedding materials were just too cumbersome, hence the ubiquitous emergency raincoats. Again, if memory serves.

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According to NationalToday.com, today (July 15) is:

• National Be a Dork Day
• National Give Something Away Day
• National Pet Fire Safety Day
• National Gummi Worm Day
• National I Love Horses Day
• Saint Swithin’s Day; and
• National Clean Beauty Day

I believe every day is “be a dork day,” so I behave accordingly. Just ask my IC.  As I was preparing for tomorrow’s celebratory drive home, I learned that July 16 is, among other things, Guinea Pig Appreciation Day, National Personal Chef Day, and World Snake Day. More importantly, though, tomorrow is Guru Purnima. Guru Purnima is a holiday dedicated to paying respect and expressing gratitude to one’s spiritual and academic teachers. Though predominantly celebrated by Hindus and Buddhists in Nepal and India, there is no reason to avoid celebrating here in the USA; in fact, we might be better served to celebrate Guru Purnima than National Corn Fritter Day, another of tomorrow’s special reasons to celebrate.

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My IC is adamant in her assertion that I should devote more of my time and energy to writing. Not just more of this frivolous nonsense, but more serious stuff like fiction short stories and novels. And I think she may be right. I enjoy writing fiction. In fact, I have started several novels but have finished none. Perhaps I should attempt to finish a novel or six. Maybe the one in which Fletcher Kneeblood (I’ll have to change his name, though, as it just doesn’t fit the character) is involved in responding to a plot to extort the U.S. into issuing a formal apology to the world for using nuclear weapons on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I rather enjoyed the research I did in preparation for writing that one. As part of my research, I delved into how South Africa became the only nuclear-weapons-capable country to renounce and disable its nuclear arsenal. Does anyone else remember that? And I enjoyed writing an alternate beginning for the novel (parts of which I used in a later draft), in which the unsympathetic protagonist slept with a prostitute in a French motel, then flew Icelandair home to his girlfriend in the U.S., with a stop in Reykjavik. While on the plane, the guy hooks up with an Icelandic writer who had been in Paris tending to her dying ex-husband. I learned that Icelandair was formed in 1937; what a surprise that was (to me)!

Another just-barely-started novel, also a nuclear thriller, includes a scene in which the leaders of Canada and Mexico meet secretly to discuss how to protect themselves from the lunatic occupying the White House. During the meeting, they reveal to one another that their countries have secretly developed nuclear weapons capabilities. Their conversation continues, culminating in their interest in establishing a mutual defense agreement between their countries, China, Russia, and India.

One of those two novels, I do not recall which, includes a scene in which the voice of a Mexican mother in Nuevo Laredo, speaking by phone to her son who is in New York City, is suddenly cut off. The reason, I reveal shortly thereafter, is that a nuclear device utterly destroys both Laredo and Nuevo Laredo. That blast was a warning of what was to come.

I prefer writing that reveals characters’ personalities through their actions and words, rather than telling the reader about the characters. That takes more time than the simpler, more straightforward telling; but it’s much more interesting to the reader and it engages the reader more.  But one of the problem with my writing is my philosophy that says “why limit yourself to ten words when you can say the same thing with fifty?” Another problem is that I get bored quickly and easily. Though I love to write, my love affair falls apart when I have to stick to a single story for any length of time. So I wander. And I lose interest and move on, leaving the corpses of unfinished novels strewn behind me. There are other problems, too. But I may return to that passion anyway. I have nothing to lose and much to gain (if ever I actually finish something). Maybe I should finish up a few dozen of my hundreds of short stories, first. Most of them will require only the completion of a story arc and some polishing. We shall see. Time will tell, as it always does.

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Thank you to those few blog followers who responded to my plea that you reveal yourselves to me and tell me why you follow this blog. I will try not to disappoint you in future blog posts. This one, I realize, may do just that, though. Forgive me. Sometimes I have to immerse myself in silliness just to get through emotional rough patches.

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Thus ends my mindless rambling for the day. I hope the world gets better with every passing hour.

Yesterday’s lunch with friends in Fort Smith was delightful, but too brief. The margaritas and the meals were outstanding, but would have been just very good without the conversation. Our short time in Fort Smith was a perfect way to break the trip to Tulsa into bite-sized chunks. We plan to come back when our friends’ floor project is complete. And, of course, we’re anxious to have them back for another visit in the Village.

Once in Tulsa, and after several attempts to get a satisfactory room (with everything working), we settled for a slightly smelly room with two queen beds versus one king. We watched a movie until one of us fell asleep. I woke briefly as the credits rolled, then went back to tequila-fueled sleep. I woke around 4 a.m., then again at 4:30, but opted to stay in bed. Finally, around 7, I got up and showered. I spent far too many hours asleep in bed, resulting in my aching from excessive laziness. I should learn my lesson.

This morning, as we were getting ready to get our breakfasts, my IC noted that a man she had seen last night, banging on the outside glass door of the hotel while being refused admission, was milling about the front desk. We went to the desk to check in for the remainder of our stay (the first night was free, courtesy of hotel points, so we had to check in for the paying days), where my IC whispered to the desk clerk, informing her of the previous evening’s experience. The clerk said she already knew and had called the police. (The guy asked the clerk to check to see if his relatives were in some room on the sixth floor of the hotel, which has only four or five floors.) The police showed up moments later. We are not privy to how they handled the guy, but we noted he was not at the front desk when we went back to the room after breakfast.

Our first planned museum visit was to be the Gilgrease Museum, but we learned last night while structuring our day that it had closed for rebuilding on July 4. Crud! So, instead, our first visit was to the Greenwood Cultural Center, where we viewed photographs and watched a lengthy film describing the lead-up to the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921, as well as the actual riots/mayhem and the aftermath. The film and the photographic displays made me embarrassed of my history and today’s participation in white America. The information and historical data were so clear that the incident was spurred purely by racial hatred and white greed. The reason it was not taught in U.S. history until very recently is that it had been covered up and hidden; what little was circulated about it suggested it was a “black” riot put down by patriotic white Americans, leaving a death toll of 30. The reality is that the entire process was triggered by a false charge of rape against a black man and white plans to lynch him. Horrid, horrible, embarrassing, nasty history. Reparations should have been made one hundred years ago.

After visiting Greenwood, we sought out the site of the planned new church building for Tulsa’s All Souls Unitarian Universalist Church. The building has not been started, nor has the site been prepared. If it is ever built, it will be a very long time coming. From All Souls‘ vacant lot, we sought out the current location of the church. We found it, went inside to see it, and said hello to a few nice church people. During our visit, we came across an article on a bulletin board, describing plans for a co-housing community in Tulsa. We took down relevant details to explore later. As we were preparing to leave, we came across a woman who was rearranging a visitor information table (from which we had picked up a few items a short while earlier), who introduced herself as Neffertiti. Nice lady. She invited us back for Sunday service anytime (they have cut back from three to one service on Sundays, by the way).

We then wandered by car just a bit and came across a nice area that had plenty of restaurants, shops, and other intriguing places of interest. My IC sparked a conversation with two women who recommended several location eateries for lunch; they were going to Mi Cocina, they said.  After a brief stroll, we went there, too. Two margaritas each and two orders of brisket tacos, a visit to a bracelet shop and, perhaps, an hour and a half later, we went out again, this time seeking the location of the new co-housing development. We found it, still very much under construction. A phone number from the article on the church bulletin board yielded a conversation with one of the founders. She said they have only a few of the original 18 units available, both very small (1,000 and 1,200 square feet) and both priced at upward of $200K. Hmm.

Thanks to a bit more wandering, we know about some beautiful areas along the river that contain flat, concrete trails. Along the trails, occasional bursts of outdoor sculptural art (e.g., huge moose, wolves, etc., etc.) add delightful attractions. Finally, before we headed back to the hotel later in the afternoon, we stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of wine and a cheap corkscrew; just in case we decide we’re feeling thirsty for cabernet sauvignon later this evening.

Tomorrow, we’ll do more museum-hopping, followed by lunch with an old friend from my days as executive director of the association now called the International Association of Venue Managers (then the International Association of Auditorium Managers). My friend was president of the association during  one of my almost eight years as ED and we got along extremely well. I spoke to him this afternoon (first time in years!). He suggested a place for lunch, where we will go tomorrow. Nice trip so far, this!

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Tomorrow promises to be another wonderful adventure. I miss travel. It’s nice to get back into it, if only on a short trip like this one.

One year ago today, my late wife tripped and fell as she was rushing to her study, phone in hand, to speak with her cardiologist’s nurse. She had called the cardiologist, at my insistence, to discuss her growing weakness and her difficulty with stairs and with walking in general.

The fall itself was not terrible, but because of her heart condition, the aftermath was awful. Edema caused her banged up knee and leg to swell badly. Extremely low blood pressure, likely the culprit causing her to fall, persisted long after the incident. She was in the hospital or rehabilitation facilities for most of the following five months until her death. The incident in July last year did not represent the onset of her condition, though. She had been growing progressively weaker for at least a year, and more likely two years, beforehand. Her condition, cardiomyopathy or congestive heart failure, had been with her for decades.

I’ve concluded, after a lot of thought and self-recriminations and feelings of guilt, that I could have done nothing that could have changed the outcome. Yet that conclusion does not lessen the pain of her loss. But I am extremely fortunate to have developed an extremely close, loving relationship with a woman who understands my grief and with whom I share so very much. I am confident my late wife would have wished such happiness for me.

Anniversaries marking painful events or—in this case—the beginning of long, painful periods, are not reasons for celebration. But I think marking such milestone events can be healthy and can bring otherwise diffuse grief into sharp, but temporary, focus. I am sure I will remember and grieve more today than “usual,” but I also will celebrate my relationship with the woman who is helping me through the remainder of the lifelong process of grief.

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When my IC and I head toward Tulsa, we will stop to visit with two friends with whom I have had the longest and deepest relationship. We’ll have lunch at Rolando’s and we will talk, spending far less time than any of us would like, about life and love and the joys of a couple, one in her early-seventies and one in his early eighties, laying new flooring together. All of my friends are crazy like that; I would have it no other way. But this couple is especially eccentric in ways that I find absolutely compelling; that’s why I love them.

Once in Tulsa, my IC and I will spend a few days exploring several museums (perhaps among them The Gilcrease Museum, the Woody Guthrie Center, the Philbrook Museum of Art, the Tulsa Air & Space Museum, and the Greenwood Cultural Center) and otherwise exploring the city. There’s no way we can visit all of the museums in Tulsa during our brief visit, but we’ll hit several of them. And we’ll almost certainly stop at Costco before we head home (knowing, of course, that a new Costco is scheduled to open in Little Rock in a matter of days). There’s more in Tulsa, of course, and we will do what we can to experience as much as we can without wearing ourselves out.

As much as anything, our trip to Tulsa will be an opportunity for the two of us to get away from the surprising number and scope of obligations we have in the Village. For a couple of retirees, our lives seem extremely busy and demanding; we want and need some down time together. And so we will get it!

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The Affirmation of Covenant in my church is stated as follows:

Love is the doctrine of this church,
And the quest of truth its sacrament,
And service its prayer,
To dwell together in peace,
To seek knowledge in freedom,
To serve humankind in fellowship,
To the end that all souls shall grow
Into harmony with the good.
Thus, do we covenant with one another.

The first time I heard it read by the congregation, when I was a new visitor, something about it felt strong and emotionally compelling. I was especially enamored of the first line: “Love is the doctrine of this church.” Much of what I hear and read in connection with the church and the religion on which it is based reminds me of some of the core concepts of Buddhism as I understand it. (I STILL have a hard time calling Unitarian Universalism a religion for what are probably purely personal reasons related to my lifelong bias against organized religion.) At any rate, this morning my reminder prompted me to read this from my little black anthology of Zen quotations (The Essence of Zen):

It is not that I do not wish
To mix with others
But living alone in freedom
Is a better path for me.

When I think about the misery
Of those in this world,
Their sadness becomes mine.

Oh, that my monk’s robe
Was wide enough
To gather up all
The suffering people
In this floating world.

~ Ryokan ~

The contradictions of life are so fascinating! And ideas that, on the surface, seem unrelated or utterly disconnected, can be intricately intertwined. Thinking is such a rewarding endeavor! I wish everyone would do it.

One of my favorite poems (Atalanta in Calydon), written by Algernon Charles Swinburne (no relation, to my knowledge), includes the following stanza:

Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath:
Night, the shadow of light,
And life, the shadow of death.

That stanza contains so many prompts for intense thought that I think it may be the single most thought-provoking piece of literature I have ever read. But probably not. 😉 Everything in our experiences is another reason to think, deeply, about what it is we are about.

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P.S. Thank you, Debbie, for responding to my request in yesterday’s post.

We are standing in the middle of a railroad trestle, ninety stories above a canyon flooded with raging water. The water, jammed with massive boulders, carves those monstrous stones into sharp scraps and slivers of rock that scrape deeper and deeper into the bed and banks. The trestle, once strong and fiercely adhered to the river bed and canyon walls, begins to shudder and shake, signaling weakness that soon could cause the trestle to fail. As we stand on the shivering structure, we feel a train approaching. It is coming at us at high speed. We turn and see it, watching it sway from side to side as it gets closer to the bridge. There is no place to run to escape the train, nor to avoid plunging into the canyon below when the wooden beams of the trestle begin to splinter. Suddenly, though, we slip and fall into a crevice, almost a cave, just five feet below, that is protected from the collapse. Huge timbers roar past our heads. Massive pieces of steel railroad tracks twist and bend as they spin by us, the terrifying sounds they make as they contort into rings and figure eights more horrifying than screams of death.

Twenty seconds in, no more, and the remnants of the trestle are silent. The train has disappeared into the current, washed away along with the steel tracks and massive wooden girders. Long strips of thick wooden beams dangle from bigger, stronger pieces. Other beams are lodged against canyon walls, forty or fifty feet above the raging water. The rapids below hiss and churn, but evidence of human intervention is silent. Soon, all evidence of humankind will have dropped to the water and disappeared.

Neither Europeans, nor Africans, nor anyone else who comes this way again will know of the tragedy that befell the canyon. But we  saw it. And we survived it. As if adorned in the robes of a deity.

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I wrote the paragraphs above on the morning of June 7, 2021, just a bit more than a month ago. I wrote it as an exercise in transcribing the experiences of my imagination into words on the screen. What precipitated the imagined scene is lost to my memory. Or, perhaps more likely, no specific thought or event prompted me to write that scene; rather, I suspect I saw a fleeting image in my brain and latched onto it, writing experiences around that single image. There is no before, nor an after. The scene is simply an irrational moment with no reasonable explanation. The reader knows only that the writer is one of at least two (“we” is the clue to that certainty) who undergo the irrational experience. No explanation of why the trestle is about to collapse, other than a raging river. No indication as to why people would find themselves on a railroad trestle ninety stories above furious rapids. No explanation as to why they survived and what happened next. Why? Because nothing happened next. The scene, the only one of its kind, is done. Finished. An empty, incomplete experience.

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Some people have the courage to write reality; to paint—with words—pictures of personal experiences so intimate and so private that the sentences they write take the reader’s breath away. Such writers, memoirists or autobiographers, are astonishingly brave. They risk everything by exposing themselves as the deeply flawed human beings they are. They reveal themselves in ways the rest of us would never dare because we are afraid our revelations would destroy us or the way people view and value us.

I reveal a great deal about myself in my writing, but like almost everyone else, I keep the most intimate details and secrets to myself. The simile comparing oneself to an iceberg—far more mass beneath the surface than above—is apropos. Yet the only way we can develop and sustain deep personal relationships is by revealing almost everything about ourselves; taking the risk that the revelations will not consume oneself in flames. We have to trust others if we’re going to take that risk. Perhaps the writers I admire so much simply trust their readers to be compassionate. I’m too much of a skeptic to think everyone who comes across my writing will be driven by tenderness and kindness and sympathy.

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Today, I have two appointments: one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Both are in Hot Springs, separated in time by three hours. I have not yet determined whether I will return home between appointments or stay in town between them. I could have lunch after the first one, carving an hour or so off my wait-time, but that would leave two hours to kill. I’m not good with making use of small snippets of time. This problem is not of sufficient magnitude to merit spending so much energy and artificial “ink” on it, but I’ve already done it, so there you are. Time will tell how it all turns out.

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The remainder of this week will be devoted to experiences. Learning and relearning things that matter to the world at large and, I hope, to me. I may blog or I may not. Time, again, will tell.

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Will it ever end? I mean the COVID-19 pandemic. Will we ever be sufficiently rid of the beast to feel comfortable in every setting? I am not optimistic. Too many people have abandoned intellectual reliance on science and have allowed themselves to, instead, become cult followers of conspiracy theories and theorists. They have become emotionally entangled with lies and political games, causing their intellects to wither.

But if, by chance, it does end, what can we expect in the future? More of the same, I’m afraid. We have become a nation in which half the population remains committed to and supportive of a man who lies for a living. The same man whose mantra is, effectively, cheating and deceit are more valuable than honor and truth-telling. I gag every time I hear his name. But he is history. His infections have spread to the vast majority of the Republican Party and its adherents.

We will continue to suffer the after-effects of science denial for the remainder of our time on Earth. Until the ultra-rich have drained every pocketbook and shoved every middle-class supporter of the Republican agenda into abject poverty, we will be subject to the whims of the 0.001%. It’s getting smaller and more powerful by the second. I hate it.

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All of this hideousness is nearly impossible to stomach. But I am fortunate in that I have a wonderful relationship with a woman who can help me, from time to time, forget the world around me and who can find silver-linings behind some pretty dark clouds.

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I am hungry. And thirsty for more coffee. I will stop writing for now. Maybe for an extended break. Whether my break is short or long, I have a request of those who regularly read  my blog: tell me who you are. I can tell a number of IP addresses from the Village open my blog pages with some regularity, but I do not know who most of the readers are. I’m curious to know who you are and, if you are willing to share, why you read this blog. I know, I’ve asked before, but this time I’m serious.

Yesterday, I wrote a bit about being an introvert. Shortly afterward, I saw a cartoon that explained introverts’ responses to an overabundance of social stimuli; disappearance. With just a few panels, the cartoonist illustrated how an introvert can behave like an extrovert but, unless there’s time spent recovering strength invested in engaging in an extrovert’s behavior, the introvert simply disappears. Where does he go? Inside himself, in seclusion. The introvert needs the fuel of solitude. My solitary time blogging is my way of replenishing that fuel, I think.

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My church responsibilities went off with only a few hitches yesterday. I stumbled occasionally as I read the script I wrote. In an ideal world, I would have memorized it, but I had neither the time nor the talent to do that, so I read it from several pages of 20-point type that still was not big enough to keep me from losing my place when I looked up at the audience. Oh, well, I was among friends who did not openly mock me for my missteps. The only other hitch was that I was not supposed to be moderator of the post Insight service conversation but, not seeing anyone else take on the role, I jumped in anyway. I thought someone would need to get the audience to sit and someone should circulate with a microphone so the audience could ask questions. So I did both. I did not engage as fully as a dedicated moderator, but I took on a role I was not asked to do. Perhaps someone else had been tasked to do that and I unintentionally stepped on toes. Or, perhaps I am not the only one who did not recall exactly how the post-service conversations go. All in all, though, it worked out just fine. In spite of my self-consciousness, I give myself a reasonably high score for yesterday’s church sessions.

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Yesterday afternoon, my IC and I went to look at an RV some friends recently bought. It’s a smallish van-based drivable RV. I sort of fell in love with it, but I doubt I’ll be buying one like it in the immediate future. My guess is that a fully-outfitted vehicle like theirs would command a very high price (especially in the context of John Swinburn’s limited solvency)  in today’s market in which RVs are in such extremely high demand. But if I were to win the lottery, I would include such a beauty on my list of things to buy. Oh, and some acreage with a huge barn to accommodate it when not in use. And, perhaps, contract “followers” who would follow the vehicle and would, when signaled, handle both set-up and take-down so I would not have to do the hard work associated with the RV lifestyle. I’m going out into the weeds, here, so I should return to the real world of wishes versus financial wherewithal. Such is life. I think I was born to filthy rich parents but was switched at birth and went home, instead, as the sixth child of an impoverished couple. I believe I inherited the greed gene from those rich biological parents; it did not come from the parents who reared me.

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I am off to Little Rock today to give my car its periodic spa treatment, i.e., fresh oil and a tire rotation. I could get the same treatment for it locally, but I feel that the Subaru dealer is more likely to inform me of any other issues they encounter. Plus, I like driving to Little Rock from time to time. It keeps my wanderlust and road-trip cravings fresh and potent. Later in the day, I hope to have certain unpleasant growths removed from my arms and hands and to have other itches and such examined and magically cured. Or, at least, treated with prescription ointments, salves, oils, and the like.

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I feel like writing much, much more, but today calls me to be fast and efficient, so I will cease this blather and move on toward a happy, successful, life-affirming day.

This morning, I will attend church, physically, for the second time in umpteen months.  At approximately the last minute, with several seconds to spare, I was asked to introduce the guest speaker for today’s insight service. I reluctantly agreed, because that’s what I do; reluctantly agree. The reason for my reluctance stems from my diminishing ability to speak coherently in front of groups. Once, I was a practiced public dissembler, lying to audiences about all manner of things I was asked to say or about matters on which I wished to mislead them. As I’ve grown older (and older and older and older), I’ve become more conscious of content when engaged in public speaking. So, when I relay information that seems less than entirely true or that seems intentionally and transparently translucent, I stumble a bit. I’m no longer paid to mislead (and to protect the interests of morally repugnant slugs) and it’s a little tough to speak on matters about which I have less than full buy-in. But all of this has little to do with church, right? Yeah, I suppose. But I slipped it in, just because I could. Anyway, this morning I will do the introduction; I will base my behavior on what is admittedly poor recollection of what is supposed to happen. By the end of this morning’s program, I may well be the first Unitarian Universalist excommunicated by popular demand. I’m really not very good at public speaking and never was. Why I came to enjoy it (but now I don’t), I will never know. I think I’m somewhere in the middle, now.

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My IC and I went to a friend’s birthday party last night at the sole pub in the Village. A band made up of extremely young people, Bad Habit, played for part of the time. They are good, no question. The pub is loud, no question. I’m growing more tolerant of loud, smelly, hot places suffering from COVID-related understaffing. Tolerance and enjoyment live in different states, by the way: New Hampshire and Baja California (so, technically, they live in different countries).  Eight-dollar drinks, though, are growing a little tiresome. I may open up a limited-access pub in my home, complete with a dart board. I would require only that patrons bring their own liquor/mixers or other drink or chewable of choice and that music be kept to decibel levels my ears can enjoy. My hours of operation might be a bit iffy, though.

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I found myself enamored, yesterday, with a two-bedroom, two-bath condo located in the heart of the Argenta district of North Little Rock. For only $250K, we might have been able to snatch a place within easy walking distance of excellent pubs, restaurants, a baseball field, entertainment venues, and the like. We wanted to go view it up close and personal on Monday. But we found out that, unfortunately, it was under contract. The Argenta district is hot. Condos, especially, are in very low supply. There are a few more houses, but not as easily walkable as the condo. I  hate that someone snatched it before we could even give serious consideration to the place. Admittedly, giving serious consideration would require us to do things like decide on who’s selling what, who’s paying what, and a host of other matters. But acting on whim is fun sometimes, even when it doesn’t yield solid results.  I still miss living in Chicago, thirty-plus years later. Instant access to city amenities is addictive (in Chicago, that included excellent public transit).

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I was awakened by a very loud noise this morning. Since getting out of  bed, I’ve decided it was a dog shaking itself awake while wearing an assortment of collar tags. The poor beast was shaking in abject fear last night during the worst of the thunderstorms, so he was allowed to sleep in bed as a means of comfort. But he woke me at 4:00 a.m. with his shuddering percussion, which made me feel less compassionate. I took him outside to pee (him, not me) while a light rain continued to fall. He did his business, but was in one hell of a hurry to get back inside. But, hey, it was already 4:00 a.m. I suppose he wanted to hurry back to sleep. I figure I’m up for the day. So here I sit, communing with the keyboard.

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Eventually, against our most fervent desires, we all grow up. Even those who claim to be wild and crazy in their old age have grown up; through pain, regret, love, anger, and a string of other emotions too long to measure. Emotions—the ones that bathe us in love and those that bury us in despair—thicken our skin and scuff our souls. But they can leave scars that cannot be covered up. And the retained pain in those scars can cause us to behave in ways we disdain, but cannot avoid because we’ve not grown up. Until we realize we must. We have no choice. The scars on scuffed souls cannot be used as alibis forever; eventually, we have to grow up and behave like adults.

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Self-deprecating humor always carries a kernel of truth. At least I think that must be the case. The comedians I’ve heard who use self-deprecating humor base their bits on their own lives. While humor is sometimes an exaggeration of real life, it is not always an exaggeration. Sometimes it is the only way a person can deal with a piece of his or her past that is just too painful or embarrassing or uncomfortable to share uncovered. I’m not sure why that came to mind this morning. Maybe it was because I was thinking about Robin Williams a couple of days ago; his self-deprecating humor was so funny. Now, in retrospect, some of his humor was not so much funny as it was poignant. And, looking back, perhaps a cry for help that was never heard until it was far too late.

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My public persona—an attempt at appearing a semi-pseudo-quasi extrovert—sometimes overwhelms the real me, the introvert. The introvert needs far more uncommitted time and less time in the middle of the action than the “average joe.” He needs more time to think than the normal person on the street. He’s just needy in an isolationist, hermit kind of way. Anyway, as much as I enjoy being around people I love, I sometimes need them to be in the next room or sitting quietly next to me.

The other side of me, a side I only occasionally recognize (but may be more common than I think), is the incessant, highly annoying talker. That side of me might be an attempt to show actual extroverts what it feels like to have the social needs of an introvert. :-).

What are the people with whom I socialize really like? I realize, of course, they’re “really like” the way they are with me. But I mean in the absence of other people who matter. I mean in the midst of personal challenges and traumas. Are their public personas really who they are, or is there something hidden behind that façade? We may never know, not even in the midst of heart-to-heart conversations. We may never know what’s hidden just a little deeper. But if we ever do, we should treat it as the honor it is.

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I may back away from some of my commitments at church. I’m not feeling overwhelmed. No, I’m feeling constricted. I can’t make plans without consulting my calendar, which makes me crazy. I don’t want to have commitments I can’t simply ignore. I have enough of those in the form of doctor appointments and their ancillary stuff like x-rays and CT scans and such. Aside from those necessary obligations, I want to have no responsibilities. What was I saying about being grown up?

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It’s only 6:10, but I might as well wrap this up and scrounge for breakfast. Or, I could wait and eat at church. What shall I do? Who knows?

Recently, I read the final column written by contract columnist Bernadette Kinlaw for the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. Though I do not subscribe to the publication, I have had the privilege of reading her columns for quite a while, thanks to a kind and generous friend who regularly forwards to me links to the articles. Kinlaw’s articles always addressed the humor, quirks, and absolute joys of language; its structure, usage, and related matters. One of her columns a couple of months ago addressed the crucial importance of apostrophes, while mourning the death of the founder of the Apostrophe Protection Society. I fear it’s not just the danger to apostrophes we must fear. Rather, I believe the breadth, depth, and scope of the English language is in danger. And I admit my role in putting the language at risk. Thanks to my increasing acceptance of informality, incomplete sentences, and my own commission of grammatical crimes, I have to concede that I have some responsibility for imperiling the language. I suspect it’s not just English, though. I would not be surprised to learn that the modern world also exposes Mandarin Chinese and Italian and Portuguese to the hazards of informality and colloquialism gone awry. Rather than simply screaming about the death of language purity, though, I take action by sleeping with the enemy, as it were, while plotting the resurrection of modern languages circa 1960-1970. That’s all I can say at the moment except that I am, for the moment, the sole under-cover member of De Resistentia: Societas Linguae Puritatem, AKA The Resistance: Language Purity Society.

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I hosted a small gathering of wonderful friends, all female, yesterday for an afternoon of conversation, laughter, and varying degrees of inebriation. Fortunately for those driving home, that level was very slight. For some of the rest of us, it was more intense and significant. My friends brought massive amounts of food and drink, leading to my open display of gluttony. Mostly, though, my friends’ presence led to a state of supreme enjoyment; so very glad to have such good people in my life. I owe my original exposure to each of them to my church. Who would have thought, even five years ago, that I would belong to, much less be actively involved in, a church? So, in spite of my misgivings about the very concept of “church,” I am much happier because of it.  I mentioned “all female,” to punctuate the fact that the majority of my friends are female. I’ve discussed the fact that most of my friends are female with several people (mostly female) over the years. I have concluded the reasons for the overabundance of females in my society sphere are these: women generally are comfortable with a much broader range of conversation topics than men; women in general are kinder and more compassionate in their world view than are men (in general); women tend to view simple conversations as simple conversations, not as opportunities for competitive advantage. There are more. But that’s enough for now.

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Men could learn a great deal from women. While that statement might, to some, seem a welcome and long overdue admission from a male, it is a stereotype hidden within a compliment. The statement carries with it the implicit assertion that women are in some sense superior to men in some areas. “Yes, yes, we’ve saying that all along,” some women might say; to which I might reply, “Uh huh, so it’s okay as long as the stereotype is in your favor?” Like it or not, all of us are prone to making stereotypical judgments about one another. We seem to be innately biased, bigoted, and otherwise intrinsically judgmental. In my opinion, we need to be conscious of and willing to rectify our biases, no matter who is put on a pedestal or thrown under the bus. By the way, women could learn a great deal from men, too. Because that’s just the way the world works.

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From my ever-present book of Zen wisdom:

This is what is strange —
that friends, even passionate love,
are not my real life unless
there is time alone in which to discover
what is happening
or has happened.

~ May Sarton ~

As I mull this pronouncement, I consider that “time alone” does not necessarily mean hours or days. It can mean just moments after waking or in the stillness of night, alone with one’s thoughts though not necessarily alone in bed. Time alone can be the solitude of sitting silently on a couch next to one’s lover, reading a book. Or it can be the empty hours of a solitary cross-country drive or in an airplane. Time alone just means time to reflect; it can be seconds or days.

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Every time I hear it spoken or read it silently, my appreciation of my church’s doctrine increases just a touch more: “Love is the doctrine of this church.” That, especially in the absence of church dogma, is enough. Knowing that a solid group of people in the congregation take that to heart is enough. And with that I’ll plunge forward.

Fame and fortune, by and large, are accidents of time and circumstance. Changing otherwise insignificant aspects of when and how would alter the outcome. 

That profound couplet would be equally as valid to all aspects of human endeavor, not just fame and fortune. For example, people stumble into romances, friendships, animosities, and schisms purely by chance. The right (or wrong) word at just the right (or wrong) time can lead to estrangement or matrimony or a thousand variances thereof. We may attempt to create floral arrangements, but our efforts would be doomed to failure in the absence of seed and soil coming together at just the right time in just the right place. So, does this mean that our relationships and our accomplishments and every other aspect of human endeavor is either “meant to be” or happens merely by chance? In a word, “no.” No, it’s not “meant to be;” instead, it’s a combination of “luck of the draw” and our response to the opportunities placed before us by time and circumstance. At least that’s what I think. As of this moment, anyway.

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Do we often allow ourselves to be the willing victims of extortion? That is, do we frequently acquiesce to explicit or implicit threats that say, in effect, either you behave as someone desires or you will be punished in some way?

Pay at least the minimum due on your credit card account or you will be subject to penalties and interest. Satisfy your employer’s expectations or you will lose your job. File your tax return or suffer the consequences. Comply with your mother’s expectations for doing household chores or lose telephone privileges. Behave exactly as your spouse or partner demands or lose conjugal benefits. Extortion is a fact of our everyday lives; but we treat it as such and demand it be stopped only when it reaches a certain point beyond which we refuse to be bullied into changing our behavior. That imaginary line is blurry and is different for each of us, of course, but life would be far easier if we would insist of calling it what it is: extortion. That honesty might alter our behaviors to the good. And it might cause extortionists to modify their behaviors, as well.

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Today’s high temperature in Hot Springs Village, Arkansas is forecast to reach 90°F, eight degrees beyond what I believe to be the upper limit of comfort. If I were all-powerful, I would prohibit the sun from baking me and the rest of the inhabitants of Planet Earth with such obscenely high temperatures. I simply wouldn’t have it. I would not extort the sun by punishing its bad behavior or rewarding obedience with my wishes. No, I’d say it once and would expect compliance.

Compliance. That’s an interesting word. The Property Owners Association has a “Compliance Division.” Intended to bully people to toe the line, I guess. “You will comply and you will like it!” I think of Gestapo tactics when I hear the word compliance. Forced adherence to rules. Far more forceful than mere extortion; it’s more like Mafia demands of payment for protection.

I believe I drifted slightly off-course from my diatribe about unacceptably high temperatures. That must be a sign that I should stop attempting to write and should, instead, get on with the day. I will have guests in my home today. Church board members, mostly, who will meet to plan to year ahead. Later, I will host a small and highly important group of friends for a period of relaxation and social intercourse. Ah, the innuendo is flowing; I can feel it around my ankles. 😉 Or, to coin (again) a word: insinuendo. Onward, toward a happy day!

Lately, several people have mentioned to me that this blog has become more of a personal journal or diary than a blog; and I have agreed. I’ve responded that it used to be more of a repository of my fiction and philosophical ramblings than a recounting of my daily life. But it always has been a salmagundi of whatever happens to find its way into (or out of) my brain. This morning, I skimmed the first full month of this blog’s content—September 2012—and found an assortment of posts about weather, poetry, my love affair with early mornings, a screed about the “new Malthusian imperative,” reviews of previous days’ activities, a travelogue or two, comments on religion, and a conglomeration of other such stuff. I found no outright fiction writing in that month.

But the blog did morph into a repository of fiction a bit later, yet all the old stream-of-consciousness assortment remained. So, the truth is this. My blog always has been what I intended it to be: a place to store what’s on my mind, both factually and creatively. Some people who claim to know what a blog is “supposed” to be might dismiss my internet real estate as an impostor; an artificial pretender that’s missing the requisite theme or threads. And that’s fine. I do not care whether my blog meets their criteria for blogdom; it meets mine.

Back to my assertion that this blog is a repository of my fiction and philosophical ramblings; it definitely is that, too. When I pick “fiction” from the drop-down list under the “categories” selector on the right side of the page, a list of blog titles (along with a few introductory lines from posts) is presented. Among those titles are Telenovela, Farmers’ Rebellion, Shrapnel, Elbow, The New Realm, Convolutions, Visionarium, Meticulous Chaos, Vishnu Islam Apollo Poseidon Chaucer-Townsend, and many, many more. Every one of them are pieces of fiction; some finished, some simply vignettes. But all of them represent what was on my mind from the perspective of fiction-writing at the time.

I’ve often contemplated stitching my fiction together into a collection (as I’ve written many times before, but which I’ve still yet to do). The same is true of my essays. And my “generic” explorations of emotion (“generic” in that they do not directly address my personal emotions). And a few other such ideas for collections. When those ideas come to mind, though, I run into a roadblock in my mind: why do a compilation/collection of materials that already exist online? Though I always overcome the roadblock, mentally, I never seem to get over it from a practical point of view. For example, why bother? Who would consume those collections? And many more.

With respect to fiction, too, much of what I’ve written either are short pieces that have never made it into the blog or are much too long (e.g., several of the novels I’ve begun but never finished). Those facts remind me that too many writers fall into my category: wanna-be. A writer who never finishes his novels or never submits his short stories for publication is not an author; he is a wanna-be author who writes. Becoming an author requires discipline and commitment. I’ve never had sufficient burning desire to be published to get beyond that wanna-be stage. So I’ve settled for blogging;  that requires neither the energy nor the dedication to get beyond low-risk, low-reward self-publishing. I suppose I want my ideas to be “out there” to share with whoever stumbles upon what I write. Yet I have not had adequate motivation to get beyond it. Somewhere along the line I’ve read quotes something like “I do not want to write; I want to have written.” I understand. In my case, “I do not want to publish; I want to have published.” More evidence of my slothfulness.

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I’ve purposefully refrained from making today’s post a rehash of yesterday’s activities. Despite the fact that yesterday was an interesting, rewarding day, I do not necessarily have to document it here. No matter how badly I might want to do exactly that.

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And, finally, today’s quotation that I will consider as I face the fact that I have neither attained Perfection nor will I ever:

He who wherever he goes is attached
to no person and to no place by ties of flesh;
who accepts good and evil alike,
neither welcoming the one
nor shrinking from the other—
take it that such a one has attained
Perfection.

~ Bhagavad-Gita ~

Onward, now, to face the day. Breakfast at a local café, I’ve been told, has replaced the parking lot gathering. I will go this once, even though I am not a golfer.

Unexpected shocks reverberate through the night, their echoes loud enough and sufficiently strong to keep even the dead-tired alert and on edge. Last night, one such shock came in the form of a phone call from a neighbor, informing me that her 92-year-old husband had suffered a stroke a night or two before. The jolt hit hard enough that I did not retain details of the timeframe; only that it was quite recent and that her husband remains in the hospital. He is in no immediate danger, it seems, but needs to be transferred to a short-term rehabilitation facility as part of an effort to enable him to regain enough strength and mobility so his wife can take care of him at home during his convalescence.

Though they are Friends of the church to which I belong, they attend only on very rare occasion. I suspect it has been three years since they attended a service. My guess is that I am among the few church people who know them; I know them only because they live next door. Their infrequent and tenuous connection to the church notwithstanding, I decided during a sometimes-sleepless night that I would ask my neighbor if she would mind if I inform the congregation of the development. While I will do what I can to help her/them during the coming days and weeks, I suspect they will need more than I can give. And though I do not know them extremely well, the fact that I rarely see any activity at their house suggests to me their circle of friends may be small and dwindling. So, I think a message to the congregation might launch at least a bit of external support that could do them some good.

My neighbor told me last night she had spent most of the last day or two at the hospital, but had errands to run and had decided today she would go see her husband later in the day. I offered to do anything she might need; she thanked me but had nothing specific for me to do. So I suggested I would go visit her husband this morning, keeping him occupied for a bit while she was out doing errands. I just realized a church event to which I committed is scheduled about the same time I planned to make the visit—I may adjust my plans accordingly.  The echoes of the shock continue to bounce off my mind.

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My IC and I watched a couple of episodes of Lupin last night, the first time I’ve watched the French series in a very long time. I’d forgotten a good bit of the story, but it came back quickly. Even before we sat in front of the television, it occurred to me that I had not watched any television in several weeks; not even Netflix programs I enjoy tremendously. And it registered in my mind that I have watched nothing but Netflix programs for several months. I have avoided the news and all the mindless, vacuous programs that fill the airwaves and wires leading into our homes. That, in my view, is a good thing, although my knowledge of world events largely has been limited to online summaries available from AP and other news media outlets. I haven’t been getting the gory details we seem to have come to expect and relish. I do not think I have ever relished it, but consuming massive amounts of ugly, disturbing, anxiety-producing facts can become a habit. It’s a habit we all should break. Ideally, access to the gory details and unnecessary facts associated with day-to-day trauma should require some aggressive digging; we should have to want, badly, to get at the ugliness before we reach it. And, then, we should be willing to subject ourselves to psychological evaluations to determine whether we pose a danger to ourselves or others. The ideal world. It does not exist.

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Over dinner the other night, my IC and my generous and friendly and oh-so-delightful neighbors (other side from the ones experiencing trauma) commented how much better we have it than so many people around the world. Most people, in fact. And their comments are absolutely right; dead on. Yet sometimes I think the world is too damn harsh for all of us. We may have good food and good friends and comfortable places to live, but the emotional toll of living in the real world takes a heavy toll on everyone. We’re buffeted by emotional pain every day, coming at us from all directions. Some of that pain is self-induced, but much of it arises simply from being a human in a brutal, unyielding world. Seeing and hearing about others’ trauma and torture can be just as ruthless as first-hand experience, I think. There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves. It hasn’t been long since I resurrected my memories of that book/poetry from my youth. Though it is, in many respects, a hopeful treatise on humankind, it acknowledges the anguish we humans face so frequently. We all need more love in our lives as salve to the wounds of living.

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And there you have it. My mind’s wanderings this warm, warm summer morning.

Several hours ago, my wonderful neighbors treated my IC and me to a wonderful dinner consisting of a marvelous salad, steamed snow crabs, and rice pilaf. That was accompanied by a delightful sparkling white wine, Amrita Cuvée, from Oregon’s Willamette Valley. To say the dinner was good would be a gross understatement; it was truly outstanding. Before dinner, my IC and I were given the grand tour of the neighbors’ house, including their unmatched collection of artwork. The artist in the house, creator of dozens of spectacular pieces of art (mostly oils, but several encaustic paintings, as well) showed his work, which I find quite remarkable. His talent, mostly released after he retired from a career in producing dental material, must be at least partly genetic in origin. The quality of his father’s pen and ink drawings are incredible; they are so well-done and so creatively unique that I cannot help but think they could well be worth literally millions of dollars to art collectors. I left their house last night with one of my neighbor’s paintings, which he agreed to exchange for one of my masks. He has yet to select a mask, but he will do it soon. I will not limit his selection; he is free to select any one of the masks I have on my walls or sitting, unhung, around the house. I am fortunate, in that his paintings represent highly-developed skill and creativity, while my masks represent only an under-developed interest in making art. But he likes my masks, so I take that as a great compliment to me.

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But food and masks should not be top-of-mind this morning. As the clock approaches 4:00 a.m., I wish my clogged sinuses would cooperate with me and let me sleep. I wished the same before 3:00 a.m., when I awoke to a condition I call “nasal compaction exacerbated by headache, surly mood, and lack of oxygen in the lungs, which causes all manner of other maladies and complaints.” “The condition,” which is easier to repeat, is not news. It began, so much did, when I was younger and stronger and better looking. I cannot remember a time when I did not suffer sinus issues. But doctors have assured me that my only allergy is to German cockroach urine. B.S. I must have an allergy to something else that causes sinus issues. Maybe I’ll find out one day.

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In spite of the joyous dinner last night, this morning I feel the loss of my wife in an especially keen way. I have no idea why grief suddenly grips me by the throat and chokes me until I feel I cannot breathe, but it does. I am sure it has nothing to do with my relationship with a woman who I have grown to love intensely; my wife would have wished that for me, I am sure. But it must be triggered by something in my day-by-day life. I feel at once overjoyed with my new relationship and utterly devastated by the one I can no longer have. I want never to forget my wife and my life with her, but I want to be able to leave the pain behind me so I can devote my emotion to my IC. I feel a new sense of freedom and curiosity and interest and intrigue, while simultaneously shackled to a past I cannot have. I do not want my memories to intrude on my future, but I feel guilty for a desire to seal the past away in a box I open only rarely. I suppose I’ll get over and through this; but, for now, it is almost as painful as anything I’ve felt. It is what it is; just soldier on; keep a stiff upper lip. Bullshit advice; in the wise words of Leonard Cohen, “there ain’t no cure for love.”

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Some days, I feel like embracing fifty percent of the people I encounter to express my deep appreciation for having them in my life. The remaining fifty percent could be eliminated from the face of the Earth without me shedding a tear. (In fact, I just might celebrate their departure with a toast to Karma and a benevolent universe.) Other days, I feel more compassion for the beasts I might happily send to their demise. I know those people, too, have struggles with which I can never be familiar and, quite possibly, their offensive behaviors result from those awful challenges. I try to make those days more the rule than the exception, but too often I do not succeed. I wish, so deeply, I were a better person from my very core to the surface. Why is it, when people know what kind of person they should be, we stumble through life as though we were mindlessly unsympathetic, uncaring, intolerant, unkind, monsters? Perhaps it’s just so much easier to be cruel and inhumane. Perhaps we take the easy road, rather than invest the time and energy necessary to be decent, warmhearted, merciful human beings. If only we could and would recognize, on the fly, when our behavior is so damned malevolent. Again giving Leonard Cohen his due, if only I could recognize my own inhumanity when it is “curling up like smoke above his shoulder.” But he was referring to a highway, not to inhumanity. Maybe they are somehow related.

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It’s after 4:30 a.m. I think I’ll try to go slip back into bed and complete my interrupted sleep. I have no inflexible obligations today, so if I sleep in, I’ll try not to feel like a slug.

I had a late night last night, hence may failure to write my usual morning blog post. Given the diaristic nature of my posts lately, that’s not a significant loss, except to me and my reliance on my blog to later jump-start uncooperative memories. Yet it still feels funny, as if my day is forever incomplete, if I don’t write at a little something. Hell, even posting a recipe is better than leaving an empty screen that screams for my fingers to give it at least a moderate amount of meaning. So here I am, late in the day, attempting to breathe some life into a blank, dying page striving for one final opportunity to revive itself by taking a breath. If I fail to revive the poor beast, I’ll end in mid-sentence and slink away in shame, having allowed a blog that never did anyone any harm to perish for lack of attention.

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Last night, my IC and I visited the beautiful home of my IC’s friend and the woman’s husband. Their home has arguably the very best view of any in the village; enormous west-facing windows reveal a vast panorama of pastures, hills, distant mountains, and a sky as big as the ones I recall from my times in south and west Texas. In the pastures far below, herds of cattle wandered in search of food and water. The edges of the pastures were clearly defined by heavy forestland consisting of mixed pine and hardwood. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful except in paintings. Even the clouds above the distant horizon were lovely; pink and orange and white wisps and billows competing for prominence in the dimming sky late in the day.

Just before sunset, and after a wonderful dinner of smoked ribs, cole slaw, corn, potato salad (made by my very own IC), we cleared the table to play a game called Wingspan. I will readily admit that I am not much of a game player; I am a fan of neither card games nor board games nor games in which one rolls the dice, though I will acknowledge that I have played several games I’ve enjoyed over the years. Last night’s game involving cards, dice, a board, multiple game pieces, and enormously convoluted rules made even more maddening by a focus on the habitat, diet, and egg production of abstruse sets of birds. The game is made even more offensive by the incorporation of economics involving the capitalistic exchange of marketable bird-related “goods” for desired assets. Despite the fact that our hosts were nice, pleasant, intelligent, and cordial, I believe them to be several levels more advanced than humans, which leads to only one conclusion: they are aliens whose understanding of monstrously convoluted games is useful to them in measuring the relative mental deficiencies of earthlings. Yet their house was filled with beautiful artwork, no doubt a tactic for deluding guests into thinking they are normal human beings. Obviously, based on their deep understanding of and apparent love of Wingspan, that cannot be the case. Other than that, though, they seem harmless and, in fact, pretty nice people to be around.

After the sun set, we went outside and were treated to a magnificent fireworks show over Lake Balboa, about four miles away. Though we were distant, the exploding fireworks were fully and completely visible. I suspect our seats were among the best in the Village. We could even hear the sounds and feel the concussions of the explosions. And, while we were watching the fireworks display, the sky west of us was filled with lightning bugs (AKA fireflies), seeming to light their glowing green bodies in time to the fireworks.  All in all, it was a nice night. But I did not get to bed until VERY late (for me), which led to sleeping in and, then later, napping. So, only now am I writing this blog post.

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In half an hour, we are going next door to have dinner with neighbors, who invited us over for a dinner of snow crabs. Having experienced such a dinner put on by these wonderful people once before, I know we are in for a treat.  That having been said, I am beginning to feel the pressure of social gatherings. I am, deep in my heart, an introvert. I need time to decompress between heavy socializing. I can feel the need to turn inward; it’s growing thicker and heavier and more pronounced by the hour. Fortunately, tomorrow and Wednesday my calendar suggests I can do just that; I will be able to spend time alone with my IC, just talking or simply playing word games or reading or just resting in one another’s presence. That relaxation is exactly what I need.

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Yesterday’s church experience was a delight; just getting to see so many people I haven’t seen in a very long time—and the chance to hug and be hugged by them—was wonderful. I did not get a chance to hug all of the people I wanted to hug. I suppose that may happen on Sundays to come. As much as I loved having free Sundays, getting back into a pleasurable Sunday morning routine will be welcome.

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Crab and wine beckon, so I’ll end this late-in-the-day diatribe. I hope it was worth waiting for, if you bothered to read it. I know I didn’t; so, if there are typos, blame my failure on opting not to ask for a proofer to take a look before I post it.

We conversed, my “girlfriend” and I, about the extent to which altruism may be an expression of egoism. I questioned whether, when we do good for other people, our primary motivator might be as much the pursuit of self-satisfaction as it is the welfare of others. That is, do we do good because of what it does for others or because of what it does for our self-esteem and sense of personal value? As much as I want the motive to be the welfare of others, I have not been able to shake the sense that it’s equally, or more, the senses of accomplishment and self-satisfying morality it brings to us. That attitude is the mental framework of a skeptic. And I don’t like it. I don’t like thinking I help others because of how it makes me feel about myself. I want to believe in “pure” altruism; the pursuit of doing good for the sake of expanding goodness in the world.

Eventually, I came around to her perspective. That is, it’s okay to feel good about oneself when one does good for others. It’s simply a matter of reinforcing good behavior; do good, get a “treat” of positive self-reinforcement. This morning, as I researched the matter online, I came across the following statement in an article by Christine L. Carter, Ph.D., ” I think of kindness like laughter: we might be laughing because we want someone else to feel good about their joke, but mostly we laugh because it feels good. Like laughter, kindness is a terrific happiness habit, good for both our physical and emotional well-being.” Neither my position, nor the one held by Dr. Carter, are new. But it keeps coming up and researchers keep applying various measures to determine whether altruism is truly altruistic. Repeatedly, they find that it is. As a whole, people enjoy doing good for others because they want to do good and it makes them feel better about themselves. And there’s nothing wrong with rewarding one’s own good behavior.

Coming around to that perspective does something else, though. At least it did for me. It tends to overcome the sense that being the recipient of “good deeds” is less an indication of how others feel about you than it is an indication of how good they want to feel about themselves. People want to do good because doing good is good and it feels good.  In a study conducted at the University of Pittsburgh,

“…researchers asked 45 volunteers to perform a task that involved “giving support” in some way. During the task, they had the chance to win rewards for someone close to them, for charity or for themselves. Participants felt better and more socially connected if their support resulted in a reward for someone else.”

In that same study, “direct support was linked to a decreased activity in the fear center of the brain,” the amygdala. Ultimately, whether we behave as we do (in positive ways) because of how it makes us feel or because of how it makes others feel, the impact is the same. People benefit in positive ways from our actions and behaviors. And the evidence suggests that we get more benefits when we do good for people close to us. So, when people do good for you, it’s probably because they want your experience to be better in some way as a result of your actions. In other words, they feel close to you. You matter to them. And, adding my own two cents to the mix, doing good for people you don’t know probably helps to cement the sense that “we’re all in this together.” It’s enough to bring tears to one’s hypersensitive eyes.

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We had a magnificent day yesterday. Despite the electricity being out when we went to the grocery store, despite being told the reason for the power outage was an auto accident, and despite being inconvenienced by those matters, we enjoyed an impromptu exploration of the world around us. My IC directed me up Peaceful Valley Road (off Fox Pass Cutoff), where we saw several houses in semi-rural areas that must have beautiful views. And she directed me to Smokin’ in Style, a BBQ restaurant on the far west side of Hot Springs, where we enjoyed a very early dinner of ribs, cole slaw, and fries, along with a cheap pitcher of beer. And we shopped at a Kroger store that seemed utterly foreign because its layout was completely different from what we’ve been used to. And we came home to a little dog that was delighted to see us. And we spent time on the back porch/deck, sipping a French rosé from Provence and listening to an ever-louder chorus of insects, punctuated at times by the boom of distant fireworks (some of which we could see). I am in love with my place in the universe, thanks in no small measure to a beautiful woman who surprises me constantly with her wisdom and wit and charm. I am a very, very lucky man these days.

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Today will be the first day of in-person church in about sixteen months. The opportunity to sit with friends and experience the appreciation we all have for one another will be a welcome return to something I never really valued. At least not until I finally came to realize that church is not about a deity or lack thereof and it’s not about metaphysics or some abstruse form of spirituality. It’s entirely about people and relationships. While some churches may plunge into the more abstract and difficult to fathom passages of the Bible, mine explores ideas and facts and human decency. I’ve learned a lot of lessons about humanity and the intrinsic goodness of people in general by allowing myself to open up to the reality that church is what I make it for myself. It is as much a home to an old atheist as it is to a fresh-faced Baptist believer. There’s as much depth in church as I am willing to give it.

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When the rasping sound of insects and the noise of loud cars sounds like a symphony…
When smoke on the horizon prompts an appreciation for combustible cast-offs…
When abandoned toilets and tractor tires seem more art than refuse…
When the odor of a skunk resembles the aroma of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls…
When the universe that once seemed intent on crushing one’s soul suddenly smiles and caresses one’s cheek…
Life takes a sharp turn for the better.

It’s just after 6 in the morning. The day has long been engaged in daylighting; when I got out of bed a little before 5, the sky was already amply endowed with sunlight. Though I like the light of day to start early, I prefer to get  up when it’s still dark outside. I always have enjoyed waking in darkness and going to bed in darkness. But I sometimes fail to get in enough sleep during those dark hours, making a nap a necessary if unwelcome pause during daylight hours. Yesterday, I took an especially long nap, lasting something like three hours; that’s sacrilegious, in my view.  But there it is; another violation of the sanctity of wakefulness during daylight hours.

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The weather has changed from summer to early spring. My computer tells me the temperature outside is 61°F. My thermometer tells a different story, asserting that it’s 67°F. In either case, it’s a wonderful change from morning lows that have lately ranged from the low-mid 70s to nearly 80°F. The computer screen says today’s high will reach about 82°F. In my opinion, that should be the legally-mandated upper temperature limit. Why don’t our legislators do something productive, like establish maximum high and low temperatures, with severe fines for deviations in either direction? THAT would be political leadership. Dammit.

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I spent a couple of hours at my church yesterday, rearranging furniture and doing general clean-up in preparation for our first in-person service in well over a year. Yesterday’s efforts were necessary because, over the winter, the building suffered considerable damage due to a burst water pipe. Walls, ceilings, and flooring had to be torn out and replaced; the repairs are nearing completion, but are not yet finished. The volunteers yesterday did cleaning that will have to be done again (or finished) when the painting, etc. has been completed. But, even in an unfinished state, the church looks very nice and will no doubt offer a welcoming experience tomorrow. Although my role yesterday was miniscule, my body this morning is pretending I spent the day yesterday crouching, lifting weights, and contorting into unnatural shapes unsuited to the human form. I am so badly out of shape it is an embarrassment of the highest order. My stamina is essentially non-existent. My lung capacity remains minimal, thanks to the removal of the lower lobe of my right lung almost three years ago (and my subsequent negligence in failing to do exercises intended to expand my lung capacity). Another lesson from the church. Is it proper to call new information “knowledge” if the information is stored away without taking appropriate action?

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During the time I subjected my body to the humiliation of failing miserably in an attempt to relocate church pews and other such heavy pieces of church decór, my significant other (another term for IC) went swimming in Lake Balboa yesterday, part of her 4-times-a-week swimming routine. While engaged in her water-worship, the only other participant (from her roughly-ten-person group) who showed up invited her (and me) to dinner and a game-learning experience tomorrow evening. I am a fan of barbequed ribs; board games, not so much. I acquiesced, though, to satisfy my IC. Though she made it clear she was going, with or without me. It’s a good thing, I guess, I did not simultaneously accept another invitation for the evening. Not that I had any such invitations. But if I had…

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I can attest to the power of a Root Beer Float. Not the kind that has ice cream and bottled root beer. No, I’m referring to the Root Beer Float that mixes vanilla-flavored vodka, root beer flavored liqueur, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and ice. My IC introduced me to this demonically good drink last night. I could have consumed five of them if I’d been able to stay vertical. I stopped at three. Her advice had been to quit at two. Normally, I’m not especially enamored of sweet drinks. These are not normal, though. Abnormally tasty. Almost addictive.

The inebriant quality of multiple drinks of the demonically good drink helped prompt me to call my sister last night. I managed to first talk on the phone with her, then connect with her via a phone-based video app. My significant other and I chatted with her for a while and learned that someone had entered her unlocked door while she was out tending plants and had stolen her computer. People who do such things annoy me no end. Despite my disavowal of the death penalty, I might make an exception for the person who took my sister’s computer. I might take personal satisfaction of publicly disemboweling the fiend in an excruciatingly slow process that would certainly make the perpetrator wish he (or she) had never strayed from good, decent behavior. This attitude, at 6:22 a.m., suggests I might benefit from a nice marijuana-laced gummy. I should chill and accept the mental perspective that says “it is what it is.” Maybe a quote from my little black book of Zen-influenced quotations will help.

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

~ Buddha ~

There. I appreciate where and how and what I am. The past is the past. The future is not assured. Everything is now. In this moment. Right now. So, now that is out of my system, I can turn to face the day with a different perspective.

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According to verywellmind.com, a website about which I know almost nothing and whose reliability is an absolute unknown to me, sex is beneficial. (Really? Who knew?) The website quotes an article from the Archives of Sexual Behavior, asserting that adults in their 60s have sex an average of 20 times per year, compared to 80 times per year for adults in their 20s (I suggest that “adults in their 20s” refers to children who have not yet reached their 30s.) The benefits, according to the source whose reliability is unknown, include numerous physical and psychological/emotional rewards. So there you go. Eighty times per year in my twenties seems like a low number to me, but I may be delusional. I would be inclined to say the average twenty-something who is married probably averages about three times per week, bringing the annual total to roughly 160 times per year. That’s about twice what the article suggests. If the lifetime total is a limited number, that could present potential problems in one’s latter years. You probably don’t want to be reading this, do you? Am I right? Okay, I’ll move on to something more appetizing.

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Grilled salmon. Cooked just enough, but not too much. It must be extremely moist; if cooked too long or at too high a temperature (or both), salmon is dry and utterly unsatisfying. Any fish loses its appeal when overcooked. But so many people do exactly that. It’s a terrible thing to do. I recommend avoiding it at almost all costs. It’s hard to define what “rare” means in the context of cooked fish, but if I could define it, I’d say that’s how fish should be cooked. Especially salmon. And similar fish; that is, all sea creatures with fins and gills. Even some without. Like the octopus and squid. And oysters (best eaten raw, in most cases, though cooked oysters can be spectacularly good). Enough of that for now. I need more coffee and my fingers deserve a rest.  Here’s to a great day for all who read this post. And the rest of you, as well.

Wildfires, hurricanes, a monstrous pandemic, collapsing buildings, an aging and crumbling infrastructure,  and hundreds or thousands of assorted mini-disasters affecting villages, tribes, families, countries, states, and other miscellaneous political subdivisions.

In other news, the world goes on, as if calamities were simply factors with which the universe must regularly deal. And so it is. There’s nothing new about the horrors facing us. The only difference between today and a thousand years before is the speed with which the news travels. Well, okay, some characteristics of the chaos we encounter are decidedly modern. But, in general, humankind and our fellow Earthlings—including birds, insects, animals, and vegetation—have always faced such monumental challenges. And we’ve either survived, collectively or individually, or not. Tragedies are tragic only to the extent that they impact what we wish to be “normal,” even though normal is a fallacy. Everything is normal, in the context of geologic time. Which makes “normal” in terms of our limited-scope definition an aberration. “Normal” is deviant, in other words. We clamor for the kind of deviance that makes us feel like the world is a predictable place. But it’s not.

Now, in spite of my sincere belief in what I’ve just written, I’m not a fan of accepting catastrophic failures of bridges and buildings and geologic structures as “just another day in paradise.” But what else can we do, really? Wring our hands, howl at the moon, and pray to something or someone that very probably is the product of long-dead fears that have been given new lives with each succeeding generation? Yes and no. We have choices, of course. Yet we’re told by “the authorities” we do not. I mean, of course, religious and secular power-brokers who feel sufficiently emboldened to attempt to assume control over our lives.

Recently, I was reminded of a film I watched many years ago. Entitled The Gods Must Be Crazy. Something about it must have triggered my thoughts this morning. But I remember little of the film, just as I remember little of many others. I must explore. I need to relive that film and how it made me laugh.

Except during rare periods in which I purposely post at least twice a day, I infrequently post twice in a day. So, this is an infrequency. Maybe it’s because I suddenly realized half of 2021 has evaporated into the mist of history. Maybe it’s a response to the speed with which my life seems to be accruing memorable moments. For whatever reason, here’s a second post, made just a day after the first half of this year disappeared, never to be recovered and lived again. The first half of this year was our one and only opportunity to experience the six initial months of 2021. I look back and wonder whether I made the most of it. No, I don’t really wonder about that. I know I did not. I wonder, instead, whether that recognition and realization will spur me on to make the most of the second half of this year. Time, alone, will tell.

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I made something of the first morning of the second half of the year. In the absence of a housekeeper for a few weeks, I decided to do a bit more than the organizing and sorting I normally do during the housekeeper’s “off” weeks. So, I dusted and vacuumed the living room, kitchen, dining area, guest room, guest bath, and study. I left the master bedroom for the Roomba; the creatures does a nice job without supervision in that one room. And I cleaned both toilets and did a bit of sprucing up around the sinks. I could have and should have done more, but I felt the need to be moderately lazy for while.

After doing the light housekeeping, I drove to the dump on Minorca, where people like me (who forgot to put out their trash on the day it was to be picked up) can get rid of bags of trash. When I got home, I felt the need to do a bit of “cooking,” so I made a salsa consisting of roasted tomatillos (which left quite a mess on the parchment paper on which they sat while broiling), blackened serrano peppers, a bunch of fresh cilantro, a touch of Kosher salt, and a splash of vinegar. It has a significant afterbite, which I like; foods should feed the fury we attempt to starve into submission, all the while knowing we have neither the mental nor physical wherewithal to do it; all we can do is to let them know we enjoy the rage they foment.

My yard guy arrived just before I left for the dump. While I was away, he did quite a bit of work, despite heavy rain and significant amounts of thunder and lightning. Between squalls, though, he got the work done. After I returned and when he finished, I offered him a beer while I wrote the check in payment for his work. Nice guy. We talked a bit while he gazed out the back window at the black clouds of an approaching storm. He has a three-year-old son who he’s taking to Padre Island in Texas in a few weeks to introduce the boy to the salt water of the Gulf of Mexico. I think he’s a guy I could enjoy conversing with, over a beer and a joint.

I barely heard him knock on the door to let me know he was finished and ready to be paid for his efforts (I drank a beer for lunch which, along with some salsa-doused chips, made me a bit sleepy.  I answered the door and invited him in while I wrote the check. He made a complimentary comment about the aroma of the dragon’s blood incense I was burning. That’s when I mentioned to him that I had been drinking beer and chilling to the scent of the incense and offered him the beer. He took the beer with him, planning to drink it in the cab of his truck while he at lunch in advance of his next job.

After he left, I instructed Alexa to play music by Andrea  Bocelli. She obliged. I love Bocelli’s voice and much of the music he sings, but some of it leaves me absolutely cold. Such is life, I suppose. So, I then instructed Alexa to play some Dire Straits. I love me some Dire Straits.

Eventually, both Dire Straits and opera left me ready to scream, so I made a radical shift. I am, as I write this, listening to Gregorian chants. At the moment, I am listening to Introit Benedictus Sit. performed by the Monks of the Abbey of Notre Dame. I wonder where they gather today, in the aftermath of the horrible fire that destroyed so much of Notre Dame? Oh, the next piece is underway: Kyrie Eleison, performed by the same group.

Gregorian chants can be incredibly calming. But after awhile that calming effect morphs into a desire for the music to stop. And when it does not, the serenity that flows from the sounds begins to change into an angry rage, putting the listener (me, in this case) in the mood to strangle chanting monks and throw their corpses into a fire fueled by wooden church pews and ecclesiastical vestments. Not really. Just kidding. I probably would not strangle the chanting monks.

I have been alone for most of the day so far, as my IC opted to go clothes shopping, something she insists she will not do in the presence of a man, When she left, I decided to wade through various chores alone. Which I did. I should have taken a shower long ago, but I have not done so. I will, though, because tonight is the night for trivia at Beehive. Even though the Beehive is an informal venue…a pub…exercise shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt worn over a sweaty body is inappropriate bar-wear. Real clothes are expected. And a reasonably clean body under said clothes probably is desirable. So I’ll shower, shave, and otherwise try to make myself look and smell presentable. This discussion of appropriate bar-wear gives me another opportunity to advocate for public nudity. We should all wander around without clothes. Soon, the titillation and embarrassing erectitude would melt into normal adult acceptance of the desirability of pure, unadulterated comfort.

Twice today I have felt the need to record the meaningless drivel that escapes through my fingers. I’ll stop now, happy that my second post has not yet prompted someone to murder me. I’ll do the drill now; wash, brush, comb, and clothe. And then I’ll drive to my IC’s house, where she’s visiting following what she apparently thinks was a too-long absence.

Yesterday was a lovely, leisurely day, despite being unnaturally hot. But I do not feel like writing about it, so I will look elsewhere for something to inspire my fingers to express themselves. Damn! I cannot ignore the impact yesterday is having on my thinking this morning, so I’ll have to accept that experience molds thought. So, let it begin.

Although my fascination with a motorized, drivable RV had returned, my certainty of my mental choices had not. So, when I rode in the quiet comfort of a four-year-old Honda Odyssey van (with only  15,000 miles on its odometer), my mind took advantage of the opening to think again about the practicality of getting an RV.  The cons began to outweigh the pros: costs of storage; gas mileage; unwieldiness in traffic; costs of insurance; need for modes of  supplemental transportation; etc., etc., etc. The reason those thoughts entered my mind can be traced directly to the four-year-old Honda Odyssey. It felt comfortable. Its space behind the front driver’s/passenger’s seats could be used for sleeping in a pinch (and in not so much of a pinch). The Honda seemed designed with long road-trips in mind. Whereas the Subaru in my garage seems designed for moderately comfortable treks through an off-road trail in a National forest. Not uncomfortable, but not the lap of luxury, either.

Okay, I’ll get to it. Maybe driving a comfortable vehicle for travel, along with sleeping in motels, would be more appealing and more practical than driving around in one’s bedroom/kitchen/living quarters combo. Maybe, if the “camping” bug struck, staying in a cabin in a KOA campground might scratch the itch in a more practical and considerably less expensive way than going all in for a fancy RV.  So, here’s what I am thinking about today: replacing the Subaru with a somewhat luxurious minivan vehicle like a Honda Odyssey or a Toyota Sienna. The minivan would be a more comfortable road car than the Subaru. The cost savings from not having to park it in an expensive storage shed might offset the cost of staying in motel rooms while road-tripping across the USA.  I’m a target for a mark; this conversation is swaying me in the direction of the minivan and away from the RV. I’m easy. I can trade my principles for a night in paradise…sort of.

We’ll see. I may get over this sudden appreciation for minivans. Or I may not. Probably not. I may decide the old paid-in-full Subaru represents the lap of luxury. I may simply need something new and different and completely unconnected to my past.

+++

I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve drifted off several times as I sit in front of the keyboard. This is not the normal me. Nor is the blood in my urine normal. Fortunately, I have an appointment with a urologist about a week and a half from now. Not that a urologist is apt to address this morning’s narcolepsy. My IC suggests I have a sleep study done to address the oddities associated with my patterns of sleep (and lack thereof). I just woke up again.

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My state of mind and the state of my body’s reaction to the world around it seem strange this morning. As if I’m in an alternate universe, one created by blending alcohol with mind-altering drugs to form a fabric heretofore unknown by humankind. A fabric that Leonard Cohen might say was woven from “smoke and gold and breathing.”  I love those old Leonard Cohen songs; the one from which I quoted is called “Winter Lady,” I think. “Traveling lady, stay awhile, until the night is over. I know I’m just a station on your way, I know I’m not your lover.”  Ah, the old days. The days when everything was a beautiful mystery to be unraveled and then carefully stored in a box hand-crafted from love and wax and wood and truth. Oh, for those old days when life was eternal and illness belonged in story books with lessons laced with compassion. Craziness is the last refuge in a world gone mad. There’s nothing funny about insanity, really. Except insanity might dull the pain of sanity mixed with raw reality.

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Enough madness. More later. Maybe. Perhaps. But probably not.

Four hours from now, we’ll get in a van (or, maybe, an SUV) belonging to neighbors and head into Little Rock for shopping at Trader Joe’s and lunch at Ya-Ya’s. There’s nothing in particular that I require to justify a trip to Trader Joe’s, but I’m sure I will discover many things I want. So, the jaunt will force me to confront need versus greed; desire in the face of hunger-capitalism, tinged with guilt for craving things my money can—but probably should not be able to—buy. Armed with sufficient guilt, though, I can atone for my participation in a greed-fest. It may sound like I’m poking fun at myself for giving in to an appetite for things I do not need. In reality, though, I seriously question the point at which it becomes morally “okay” to cave in to yearning, when the same money I might spend could buy a meal for someone on the cusp of starvation. Maybe that idea gives too much responsibility to my individual actions; I cannot save the world. But, as many have said in many ways before, one act of altruism may not change the course of humankind, but it might change the course of life for one human. And, so, perhaps a charitable contribution to a homeless person on the unforgiving streets of Little Rock will be sufficient penance for my gluttony. Somehow, that seems a little too much like fee-based redemption. If this sounds a little too “religious,” forgive me for unintentionally comparing and contrasting “Christianity” with human decency; they most assuredly are NOT the same thing.

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Try as it seems I might, I cannot supplant my overwhelming joy with devastating guilt. Yet somewhere in the midst of compassion and elation, there must exist a happy and justifiable balance. Or, maybe there’s not. Maybe our only option is to compartmentalize our emotions, taking care to seal the pathways between compartments so neither bliss nor torment are tainted by the other. I think the most likely reality is this: we must simply dedicate ourselves to milking experience for the sheer joy of everything it’s worth, while acknowledging that there are times—many times—when we are obliged to “pay for” our happiness with active, productive, meaningful compassion for others. Absent that real or imagined balance, we’ll go mad.

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And all of that brings me to this: I deserve to be happy. I do. So do we all. The fact that happiness is not a universal state of being, though, does not mean that my happiness is not due me. I deserve my happiness as much as anyone else deserves theirs. I’m learning this from a teacher who helps me unlock what I already know and who also is so imbued with wisdom that I am stunned by her appreciation of life’s lessons.

Do good. Be good. And when doing good becomes overwhelming or too hard, enjoy the fruits of experience without remorse. I think those are among the lessons I am learning and teaching myself.  Now, my job is to implement those lessons in the course of living my life. When I do, I will hear her say, “Good job!” I smile at those words and I embrace her for uttering them.

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I eagerly await the results of my AncestryDNA exploration. While I doubt I will be surprised (I expect my ancestry to be almost entirely (if not totally) based on a history in and around England), I am more than a little curious to know whether I will presented with possibilities I had never seriously considered. Like, for example, what I wrote some time ago about having African ancestors or even African relatives today. If the world were truly just, I would learn with certainty that I am a child of the universe, with strands of my DNA traceable to the birth of the most distant stars and galaxies. But justice is a Homo sapien construct. So I’ll have to be satisfied with amoral reality, whatever that proves to be. Existence is neither good nor bad; it simply is. My Intimate Companion will help me interpret the results of my DNA evaluation in the context of my discoverable ancestry (she is extremely well-versed in how to do genealogical research).

Fortunately for me, scientists have not yet successfully linked DNA attributes with a propensity for being a serial killer or a political assassin, so I need not fear learning horrible things that might explain my most fearful thought processes. I’m really looking forward to learning what I can learn, though. I realize, of course, that I am not going to get earth-shaking news. I know the results of the DNA assessment will only add bits and pieces to an impossibly complex puzzle about which I will never had all the answers. But it will be fun, nonetheless.

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I am a luck man, indeed. While I understand the depths of depression and the pain of loss and the awful knowledge that knowledge is always incomplete, I feel so incredibly fortunate that, suddenly, the sun is bright again. Oh, what wonder!

Sleep sometimes eludes me. I feel it getting nearer, but it fails to fully express itself. Only scraps of sleep find me, pushing me into a state of semi-consciousness but refusing to fully embrace me. Dreams enter my semi-conscious state during these inadequate periods of rest, torturing me with fragments of fantasies and incomplete thoughts that slam me against hard surfaces. I awake covered in imaginary scrapes and scratches and bruises, as if I had been pushed from a speeding car. But how do I know how it feels to have been shoved from a car? How can my imagination fill in the awful gaps between feeling the road rash form on my cheeks and hearing the pieces of gravel dig into my skin?

Anxiety, purely a psychological sensation, feels physiological. It feels just as physical as the abrupt removal of a partially healed scab, emphatically expressed by an alcohol bath. There’s a reason we think of anxiety as a form of pain; because it is. Anxiety gnaws at the synapses  just as surely as does the edge of a sharp piece of torn, rusted steel rips into sensitive skin. Unlike a physical cut, though, anxiety carries with it a sense of responsibility and blame, as if the pain could have been avoided with the right combination of mental strength and stamina. Anxiety feels like an affliction of the weak, a condition affecting only the feeble or insecure. The more anxious one feels, the less one feels in control.

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When I took the small, friendly dog out for his morning romp, the high humidity tricked my skin into believing the day was starting warmer than its actual 72°F temperature. Humidity misleads us into feeling sticky and sweaty and clammy, despite cool and comfortable temperatures. Returning to a much warmer, but less humid, house, 77°F feels almost chilly, as if my body were in the midst of adjusting to a new climate. I suppose that’s exactly what happens; the climate inside the house approximates Oahu, while outside the house it attempts to recreate New Orleans during a rare September cold snap. We can travel great distances simply by opening and closing doors, provided we properly tend to our microclimate machinery. The sun, alone, powers it all. Some claim that we rely on petroleum products for comfort and transportation and eternal forms of pollution, but I know better. We can trace it all back to the sun. The sun, ultimately, is responsible for hydrocarbons and oxygen and water and the flesh of plants and animals we consume as fuel. I blame the sun for all our troubles and the solutions thereto. If I were to worship a god, I would worship Ra or Aten or Aton or Atonu or Itn or Apollo or Nanahuatzin or the same god who goes by any number of other names. Only he, and his female companions, whose power exceeds all the impotent frailties humans claim as their own, warrants my unending adoration. Well, there’s someone else who merits my unwavering adoration, but that’s a conversation for another time.

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I am unable to think this morning. At least not clearly. My mind is a jumble of broken pieces of tomorrow, littered with scraps of yesterday. For some reason, I remember more of my childhood this morning that I ever did before. I remember moments that, heretofore, have eluded me. I do not have time for this. I have people to be and things to see. But I should record those recollections on magnetic media so those memories do not disappear into the mist. The mist is waiting to claim them, too. Enough of this pointless endeavor. I should attempt to sleep, but I won’t. I think I may indulge myself in leftover spaghetti this morning. Or I may not.

I have begun, again, looking longingly at RVs. I had essentially given up on the idea of an RV because I felt like I would feel especially lonely in an RV on the road, by myself, But now I have a willing partner who will gladly accompany me on RV adventures. So, I’m back on the prowl. I’m focusing my attention on a smaller drivable RV that is easy to maneuver, simple to set up, and can be ready to roll quickly. Something that can accommodate a couple of bikes (or something like them). I can feel the excitement growing in me again. Life is, indeed, a nice roller-coaster ride from time to time.

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Last night, I thumbed through a Tim Ernst book that’s full of photos he took of Arkansas night skies. Though the real thing is more awe-inspiring, the Ernst book is a treasure.

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Have I already posted this quote from my little book of Zen-inspired quotations? It doesn’t matter. The sentiments it expresses and the feelings I have when reading it have not changed.

I think these difficult times
have helped me to understand better
than before how infinitely rich and
beautiful life is in every way,
and that so many things
one goes around worrying about
are of no importance whatsoever.

~ Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen) ~

One’s core personality must be fully understood and acknowledged before he steps onto even the safest emotional tightrope. That core—the element of oneself that defines his beliefs, guides his behavior, and establishes the degree to which he is compatible with another person—offers protection against missteps that could plunge him headfirst into the rocks below. Unless acceptable levels of compatibility with another person are assured and guaranteed, stepping onto the tightrope is enormously risky. But it is easy to assume compatibility exists, especially when connections have long been lacking. In fact, it’s not just easy to assume; it’s almost impossible to assume otherwise in such circumstances. The need for companionship is so great that even a casual misfit seems perfect and impossible to improve upon. But suddenly that fit can seem utterly incomplete and tangled, as if problems existed from the start. Which, of course, they did. They always do. Yet if partners to a powerful attraction accept the reality that “perfect” fits sometimes require the shapes of certain pieces to be forced into spaces that do not quite suit the configuration, problems can actually improve cohesion. One’s feet can be attached to the tightrope with safety netting. And, of course, the quality of the netting can be enhanced when both partners accept that allowing tensions to mold and shape certain pieces can enhance the fit.

Both the dangers of incompatibility and the beauty of readily and agreeable reshaping discordant bits and pieces are on my mind this morning. The willingness to bend and flex so the pieces fit most comfortably, especially, is on my mind. I have seen and felt that flexibility; it is a beautiful thing to behold. Perhaps most surprising to me, though, is how comfortable my own flexibility and willingness to bend feels to me. Maybe it’s not the fact of flexibility and bendability that’s so surprising, though; it’s the speed with which it has become so comfortable that has taken me a bit by surprise. I have not become another person by stretching myself to ease a fit; I think I have become a better version of the same man. I feel like I am casting off inflexible pieces of metallic armor and replacing them with adaptable sheets of protective silicone. By reshaping and reconfiguring, I feel like I am improving on the underlying person whose value I had come to question. Maybe, I think, I’m lovable after all. And, as I realize I am not alone in reshaping bits of myself, I am not at all alone in being lovable. Life can be a remarkably transformative experience.

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Today would have been my late wife’s birthday. I grieve for her loss and I mourn her absence, but I feel certain she would be happy for me as I rediscover my life. The guilt I sometimes have felt in response to the development of a wonderful, but unexpected, relationship is dissipating quickly, replaced with love. I miss my wife, but I have begun to love the life that’s replacing the one I had before.

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My intimate companion and I were treated to a nice afternoon involving wine and healthy hors d’oeuvres yesterday afternoon. My late wife’s sister, to whom I have grown increasingly close during the past seven years, invited us over to visit and to introduce my IC to the cat my sister-in-law calls “Junior.” We saw very little of Junior, but we marveled at my SIL’s lovely pollinator garden and at the art that adorns her walls and backyard. ’twas a glorious afternoon that followed a glorious morning. Normally, my IC would have joined her friends who swim in one of the Village lakes, but I think she sensed that I really needed time with her yesterday, so she opted to spend it with me.  I am among the luckiest people alive, I think. I hope I always am able to provide the same comforting presence for her that she provides for me.

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I have begun to revisit and revise my “to-do” list. The degree of productivity I will feel as I plow through the list will be nothing short of remarkable. I feel it in my bones already.

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Though I will spend part of today alone (my IC will join her swim-mates in the lake), I will relish what goes through my mind. Whether happy or sad thoughts occupy my mental space, I have someone waiting for me later in the day who will absorb me and allow me to do the same, making a perfect sphere out of a perfect sphere.