John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

~ Carl Jung ~

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

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

Wait for it.
Still yourself.
Stay.

~ Jan Richardson ~

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

~ Marcel Proust ~

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

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

~ Yuan Wu ~

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

~ Dōgen Zenji ~

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

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

+++

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

+++

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desiderata

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Max Ehrmann ~ © 1927

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

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

Another bizarre dream last night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Hermann Hesse~

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

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

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

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

~D.T. Suzuki

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t be dissuaded about reading this post when you come upon sections that seem dreary or downright depressing. I’ll just leave it at that.

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During my morning perusal of BBC.com I encountered several videos I intend to view, but haven’t yet (my house guests are still asleep, so I do not want to wake them with noisy videos). First, there’s a video about The Truth Behind the Nordic Myth of Endless Wealth, that ostensibly answers the question: “How does Finland, which has repeatedly been ranked the world’s happiest country, set limits on individual greed?” Second is a video that addresses who has the sexiest accent (voix de chambre à coucher, or “bedroom voice”) that gives some speakers superior powers of seduction.

How could I not want to view those videos? I continue to be extremely impressed with BBC content, both online and on television. BBC seems less interested in promoting itself than in promoting the enjoyable acquisition of knowledge (both valuable knowledge and stuff that’s simply interesting). I like 3-10 minute videos that shake the cobwebs out of my head and cause me to laugh or tilt my head inquisitively or drag from my eyes unwilling tears.

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But even in the face of joyous experiences with BBC online, chaos continued, unabated, overnight while I slept. A monstrous fire in a Baghdad hospital killed more than eighty people and left well over one hundred injured. Ash and debris from La Soufrière volcano continued to coat the Caribbean island of St. Vincent. International news media continued to report on the deaths of 53 crew members on an Indonesian submarine that was in the midst of a training exercise off the coast of Bali.

We wish it would all just stop. Give us a break from the carnage and pain. Just stop! But we know it won’t, because we live on a planet with so many opportunities for chaos and apocalypse. Instantaneous news coverage causes us to absorb far more evidence of the horrors of life on our planet than ever before. Maybe there’s more today than yesterday, maybe not. But it seems like the world is swirling toward a cataclysmic end. Welcome to every day of our lives.

I suspect the other side of the coin today, though, is equally moving. What of the heroic efforts to save people from the Baghdad fire? What of the neighbors protecting neighbors and giving one another shelter in the shadow of La Soufrière? What of the intensity of the efforts, albeit unsuccessful, to find and save the Indonesian crew? As awful as circumstances can be, I have to believe the responses to catastrophe and devastation are collectively far greater and more impactful than the carnage to which they react. Admittedly, it’s hard to stay even remotely positive in the face of everything we hear and see, but belief in humanity is our only option, lest we give in to the sense that we are spiraling toward oblivion.

As fervently as I argue that we must acknowledge that all the negativity is just a fraction of our experience, I regularly give in to the sense that our hope for good news is pointless. Somehow, though, I think we have to encourage one another to lift ourselves up out of the quagmire of anguish and desperation. Somehow.

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Today’s weather in Hot Springs Village should help improve moods. The weather forecast—for sun and mild temperatures—offers the expectation of a pleasant day. My friends will leave today, I suppose, despite my wish they could stay. But at least they should experience good weather on their drive back home. And I should have a nice day that might encourage me to blow pollen and leaves off my deck; and get back to cleaning up the garage, a task I’ve put off since I was younger, taller, and better looking. I promised myself this weekend would be one of laziness; there’s still time to keep my promise.

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Last night, my friends and I reminisced about the old days, those times in the late 1970s and early 1980s when alternative news weeklies had want-ad sections that included “seeking” ads like this:

You were standing in the lobby of the Grand Theatre, wearing a peach blouse and black slacks. I stood next to the box office; longish blond hair under a brown fedora, wearing black leather jacket. We should meet. We belong together. Call me at 88-43-3533.

That conversation reminded me of a film, Desperately Seeking Susan. I remembered virtually nothing of the film but the name. The female component of my pair of friends recalled that it starred Madonna and Rosanna Arquette (my friend’s memory is incredible…I think she remembers every detail of every experience we’ve ever had or discussed). That film, I think, was one of several that I saw around that time (mid 1980s) that I liked but about which I remember virtually nothing. Then, again, I remember virtually nothing about films I’ve watched in the last year, or six months, or six weeks. I wonder whether my memory has always been as poor as it seems to be now? Perhaps I should be taking memory-improving drugs. Modafinil might be that drug. According to an article in Scientific American from March 2016, the drug is safe. But, at the time of the article, studies on the long-term safety and effectiveness of the drug had not been completed. If I were more passionate about the topic, I would have followed up with more recent research. Apparently I am not especially passionate about the fact that my memory is very, very, very short-term. Oh, well.

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The promised/warned onslaught of attempted seductions has not materialized yet. I rather suspect it won’t either. I’m talking about the assertions people have made about my status as a widower. People warned me (or promised, depending on perspective) that my new classification as widower would result in a frenzy of single (or married but adventuresome) women making overtures toward me. It has not unfolded. And, as I think about it, I doubt that it will. Why, I ask myself, would it happen now in my geezerhood when it never happened before during what might have been considered my prime (assuming I had a prime)? It might be different if I were tall, thin, muscular, and had a chiseled handsome face. But, even then, an alluring personality would be required. In other words, if I were someone else. Instead, I am short, plump in the extreme, have sagging biceps and pecs, a roundish seal-like face that comes complete with multiple chins, and the personality of an angry, intolerant hermit.

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Wine, cheese, hard Spanish chorizo, summer sausage, and far-reaching conversations made for an outstanding Friday evening. And that was after a filling and satisfying lunch at El Jimador. My friends and I stayed up talking and enjoying one another’s company until about 12:30 a.m. I could have stayed up later, but it’s good that I didn’t; if I had, I probably would still be asleep. I awoke just after 6, surprised that I felt so good. And after a shave and a shower, I felt even better. Just before 7, I went to the grocery store to buy bread (how can one run out of bread and fail to replace it when visitors are coming?). When I returned, my friends already were up and drinking coffee. All of us, I think, felt good, with no after-effects of the wine. And I continue to feel good. Today, though it’s a bit dark and dreary and rainy, promises to be a good one. Depending on the weather, we may wander the highways and byways around the Village a bit later. In the interim, we will continue to drink coffee, relax. and enjoy the company of friends.

+++

Today, I am leaving all my “to-do” worries behind; Monday is soon enough. Except one of my friends insists that my refrigerator needs a major reorganizing, which will involve discarding some items. I suppose the refrigerated items older than three years can be safely discarded without great loss. We’ll see. I’ll not worry about that. Just relax. Have fun. Kick back and embrace the opportunity to sit in the company of good friends.

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A few thoughts about gratitude:

• “You cannot do a kindness too soon because you never know how soon it will be too late.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~
• “Gratitude turns what we have into enough.” ~ Anonymous ~
• “Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.” ~ Buddha ~
• “When I started counting my blessings, my whole life turned around.” ~ Willie Nelson ~

And there you have it; a way to start a day with a positive spin.

My memory is a bit dim as far as when and where, but I remember seeing large numbers of benches and tables in a public space, like a park. Every one of the tables was occupied by two people, sitting across from one another, playing checkers or some similar games. Most, maybe all, of the people sitting playing games were elderly. Wherever this took place, I assumed all the people lived in nearby apartments. I wondered what their day-by-day lives were like when they weren’t playing games in the park. Did they read, watch television, sew, do crafts, clean up the apartment, cook, etc.? Or did they have partners or helpmates who did the more strenuous work for them? Had they ever worked? Were they retired? I think this image might have been from a trip I made overseas; maybe in China? Or, I suppose, it could have been somewhere in New York City. I wonder why it’s on my mind this morning? Usually, when such scenes just pop into my head, they are prompts I will use in writing a piece of fiction. We’ll see.

+++

I look in the mirror and see who I was, not who I am. I see the countless flaws which, like knives, carved away the meat and left me with fat and gristle, molded into the shape that remains. If I can be happy with the fat and gristle, I can be happy with myself.

+++

There was a time, not so very long ago, that I felt certain I would walk through fire to protect the woman I loved.  Now that she is gone, the passion and resolve to do that unimaginable, unthinkable thing is gone, too. Nothing matters as much any more. I do not care as much about anything as I once did.

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1:30. 2:30. 3:45. My third waking was the charm. I got up, shaved, took a shower, got dressed, made the bed, put a load of clothes in the washer, tidied up the kitchen a bit, made coffee, and sat down here to think. It’s 4:59, just seconds away from straight-up 5:00 a.m. And away I go.

With several more episodes of Good Girls under my belt (I’m now into season 2), I went to bed around 10:00. I did not watch news at 5:30, at 6:00, at 10:00; so I am clueless about the situation around the state, the country, and the world. I suspect I would have been awakened had we entered into a nuclear conflict with India, so that prospect doesn’t concern me much at the moment.

I got a haircut yesterday, opting to go to Great Clips in Hot Springs, which I thought would be quick, easy, and cheap. After checking in, I waited twenty minutes in my car before being summoned to enter the building. Apparently, I had gone to another outlet in the chain and had given my cell number; my haircut person (are they known these days as barbers?) examined my record and told me how I wanted my hair cut. I accepted her word for it, not recalling how it might have been cut during another visit to an outlet in the chain long, long ago. When the haircut person had finished, twirling me around to take a look in the mirror, I realized I prefer my hair considerably shorter on the sides. But I opted to accept the finished product, making a mental note to return to my regular barber henceforth. As for cheap, it cost me two dollars more than my regular barber, plus a tip, bumped up to parallel the higher cost of the haircut. But, at least I do not look as shaggy as before, so I have no legitimate complaints.

Before the haircut, I went to Lowe’s, intending to buy some light fixtures to replace the unreliable ones in the crawlspace beneath my house. The visit was a waste of time, inasmuch as the fixtures I had hoped to buy (and previously bought online for another application) were nowhere to be found. I suppose I made the trip to town mostly to get out of the house; it’s so damn much easier and more convenient to order online. I can then have the product either delivered to my house or to my car in the parking lot, avoiding a trip into the store. I’ll order online. But there’s no rush.

+++

I’ve stopped and started on this post so many times I’m not sure what I’ve written. Between spells of writing, I’ve moved clean clothes from the washer to the dryer and hung the clothes after they dried. I paused to cook and eat the bacon remaining in the refrigerator. I’ve had a glass of tomato juice, jazzed up with a few shakes from the Tabasco Sauce bottle.  And I explored the news a bit, since I missed it yesterday. It’s now past time to hang the hummingbird feeders; I took them in early yesterday. After I took them down, I saw a few hummingbirds fly up to the empty space where the feeders had been; I heard their tiny voices curse me for taking their nectar away early. Hummingbird curses are extremely crude; even the Blue Jays in the area find the hummingbird obscenities offensive.

+++

My mood this morning been swinging like the bob of a pendulum. At the moment, it’s high on the trajectory across its arc. But when it’s low, it seems to slow to a crawl. I think I need to do something to elevate and smooth my mood. I know just the thing! In an ideal world, my mood would always default to the positive. But in this world, the default seems to at the opposite end. I must figure out a way to change my default.

My desk chair is wholly inadequate. It does not maintain my vertical position. Slowly—sometimes suddenly—the back of the chair tilts so that I find myself reclining in front of the computer. I’ve been advised to buy a nice, sturdy, ergonomically correct executive chair. I would do exactly that if I had some idea of reasonably-priced brands or models. I consider $1679 for a new Herman Miller Aeron chair—even $699 for a refurbished model –exceptionally pricey. But what do I know? I think the chair in which I’m sitting cost around $125 when it was new, about ten years ago. And it wasn’t especially high-end, even then. Another “to-do” item to add to my ever-expanding list.

+++

I learned, from an online NPR article, that Cy Vance, Jr., Manhattan’s District Attorney, announced on April 21 that he is requesting dismissal of around 900 cases related to prostitution and unlicensed massage. In addition, he is seeking dismissal of another 5,000 cases involving the state’s anti-loitering statute, which was removed from the New York State penal code earlier this year. Prosecutions for “loitering for the purpose of prostitution” will be vacated under Vance’s new policy.

I am in favor of removing the damage inflicted on people for engaging in “victimless” crimes. But frequently I hear and read commentaries that argue the sex trade is not victimless; that workers in the sex trades often are abused—either physically or emotionally or financially—by their customers. The argument often suggests the customers, but not the workers, should be prosecuted. My view, for this fleeting moment, is that customers who engage in inflicting such things on sex workers should be prosecuted; otherwise, leave people alone. Some form of regulation of the trade may be the best way of protecting workers. I have no idea how the number of sex trade prosecutions compares to other offenses, but I suspect it is not significant. Yet removing those prosecutions from the courts and removing policing (which, from my reading of the article, is not clear but probably is not a given) would no doubt help prosecutors and police. Interesting stuff to think about, though. Little changes in society, happening a bit at a time, are what brings about big changes.

+++

Sometimes, it takes months of personal contact with a person for me to begin to get a “reading” on what sort of person is beneath the façade. Other times, it’s just a matter of days. And yet others it takes only a momentary observation of a behavior to determine what a person is like, at the core. And, of course, I’ve known people for years, thinking I knew their core personalities, only to discover that either I was wrong all along or their personalities changed. And these “readings” or knowledge or whatever I might call them can be positive or negative. I have had occasion to judge and/or dislike a person for a rather lengthy period and, to my surprise, change my opinion in time. But that’ a rarity. Usually, shifts in my judgments, if they appear, go toward the negative.

Obviously, when I determine what a person is like “at the core,” it’s just my judgment; but I rely on it. When my judgment proves harsh and wrong, I’m disappointed in myself, but glad for the disappointment, too. When my positive assessment proves wrong, I’m disappointed in myself for making a bad call. And I am disappointed in and extremely wary of the person I misjudged as someone better than I subsequently believed them to be.

+++

Every day, my stamina seems to decline a bit more. My breathing becomes more labored. My wheezing intensifies. My strength slips, at least a shade, from the day before. I am too young for this. But I’m quickly approaching an age-appropriate point; then, all my symptoms will be normal and natural and in keeping with the predictable decay that comes with old age.

+++

My coffee no longer seems to have the teeth it once had. Its strength seems to have slipped a bit. I wonder whether my coffee brand has changed its sources or processes? Or, perhaps, I grew to like the French press version so much that the old standby no longer holds the magic. One day, soon, I will visit a couple of coffee shops where, ostensibly, I can get very good coffee. Those visits will help me determine how I got into, and how to get out of, this predicament.

+++

Sometimes, it is best for me to simply allow my fingers to do what they will with my thoughts. And, then, I learn by reading what I’ve written and thinking about my state of mind when I wrote the words. Today, I began with a complaint and ran with that theme all the way through. I do not want to end this post on a negative note, so I will quote, again, from The Essence of Zen. And, with this quotation, I will restart the day.

Calm in quietude is not real calm.
When you can be calm in the midst of activity,
this is the true state of nature.
Happiness in comfort is not real happiness.
When you can be happy
in the midst of hardship,
then you see the true potential of
the mind.

~Huanchu Daoren~

I have mixed feelings about yesterday’s conviction of Derek Chauvin in the death of George Floyd. While I think justice was served (who could think otherwise, having seen the video of Chauvin’s knee on Floyd’s neck?), I am conflicted by that very thought. I “think” the jury made the right decision, but I did not hear all the arguments presented by both sides in the trial. My sense of justice is no doubt colored by the symbolism of a White cop deliberately pinning a Black man on the ground; under the White cop’s knee, no less. I had decided, before the jury even heard the opening arguments in the case, that Chauvin was guilty. Now that the jury’s verdict has validated my personal sense of vigilante justice, I feel vindicated. I suspect my satisfaction with the jury’s decision was influenced by my belief that the jury “finally got it right” by convicting a White police officer who, in the line of duty, murdered a Black man. Again, though, I do not know all the facts in all the cases. My strong belief that systemic racism frequently plays a part in the terrible outcomes of engagements between White officers and Black suspects seems to override another strong belief. That the justice system, not I, should be allowed to make the final call. But the justice system seems to be even more imbued with systemic racism than other elements of our social structure. Conflicted. That word keeps coming back to me. The definition of justice depends on which part of the spectrum of “justice” is most visible; the point at which truth prevails or the dark places where truth is hidden, supplanted by lies masquerading as facts?

+++

I spent a fair amount of time writing, reviewing, and rewriting the paragraph above. It’s still not satisfactory; I left out too much of what I wanted to say because the paragraph would have grown to the size of a novel. Finally, though, I abandoned the effort because I realize my thoughts on the issue do not matter; not in the overall scheme of things. Whether John Swinburn thinks justice was served is irrelevant; and so is the fact that he saw fit to write about his perspective. Too often, I mistake my perspectives about matters of substance for contributions to broader understanding. Until my perspectives shape others’ viewpoints, my unique take on issues is no more important than the diameter of a particular mosquito’s right front leg.

+++

One of those rare, fragmentary memories I have of my childhood involves looking through the eyepiece of a microscope. The microscope belonged to me, though I do not recall how I came to have it; my parents, I assume, bought it for me. Looking through that microscope was like entering an utterly enchanting world. I examined blood cells and human hairs and salt crystals and who know how many hundreds or thousands of other fascinating things. There was a trick, as I recall, to placing objects between glass slides before viewing the objects. I think the top piece of glass was placed at the end of the bottom piece, then slid over. But memory tells me that wasn’t always the proper way, because some objects or materials would slide to the edge of the bottom slide as the top slide slid over it. I must have been eight or ten years old when I got my first microscope. I think I had more than one over the years. I have no memory of what happened to them. I suspect I simply tired of using them and they collected dust in the closet until someone—me, my parents?—discarded them or gave them away to friends or donated them to a school. I wish I had access to a microscope now, though I have no idea what I would use it for. Maybe it would serve only to trigger memories. Or maybe it would languish in a closet, the way the better of my cameras has done.

+++

Only recently have I returned to my daily practice of thumbing through my precious little book, The Essence of Zen: An Anthology of Quotations, every morning. I used to go to it each day before I began to write. Reading random quotations seemed to help calm the start of the day just a little. I’m trying to get back into the practice. I am rediscovering how it can arrange my thoughts so they are aligned with an objective of achieving at least a taste of tranquility. I should have read this one before I began writing this morning:

What a delight it is
When I blow away the ash,
To watch the crimson
Of the glowing fire
And hear the water boil.

~Tachibana Akemi~

As I contemplate the words I’ve just typed, it occurs to me that I do not need others to think about me or to give priority to my comfort or happiness. I need only to take comfort in the little things that serve as my protective cocoon.

+++

These lyrics came to mind, just now, from Father and Son, by Cat Stevens,

But take your time, think a lot
Think of everything you’ve got
For you will still be here tomorrow
But your dreams may not

Ten years ago, on another of my blogs that’s still visible but to which I no longer post, I wrote this:

Unlike me, my father was not a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve. But he had emotions and he appreciated the poetic expression thereof. It’s interesting to me that one of his favorite poems was this one, If, by Rudyard Kipling, which in my estimation offers accolades to the suppression of emotion:

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

I have no idea why I felt compelled to seek out that ten-year-old post and to re-post it here. But I did. So there you are.

+++

The room in my house with the best “contemplative view” is the one with big, double-pane stationary windows in need of replacement. It’s the room off the master bedroom, the room whose participation in the house’s HVAC system is tangential, at best; the ducts running to the room are small and inadequate. The room with the best “contemplative view” is the one that would be my writing retreat if its climate were more congenial. But sunlight causes it to bake, even when outside temperatures are moderate. And the windows’ heat loss during the cooler seasons is so great the room is frigid and inhospitable. For seven years, I’ve complained about the room. A few times, I’ve explored what it would cost to replace the window panes and augment the HVAC system by way of adding a mini-split. Always too expensive. A conversation with one of my brothers yesterday afternoon prompted me to think again about rehabilitating that room. If I assume my life expectancy will be only half of what I’ve been banking on, I could pay for the room’s upgrade and still die with a few dollars in the bank. All other things being equal, of course. No hyper-inflation. No major illness or incapacitation for which Medicare and supplementary insurance would not pay. No other unplanned major expenditures; like the oldest HVAC unit cratering and requiring replacement. Hmm. It’s worth serious consideration. After I get all of my late wife’s IRAs, etc. straightened out. After the bureaucracy of death has been sliced into shreds. Hmmm.

+++

I drove into town yesterday to ship two small boxes to two friends. The contents per box were worth, maybe, four dollars. The cost to ship each one was roughly thirteen dollars. Something is awry with this situation. High volume shipping to low numbers of addresses may be the solution. I need to find a way to ship massive amounts of the same stuff to a single address for distribution. But I wonder whether truck shipping would actually be less costly? Who knows? Someone is bound to know. But will they reveal their secrets? Will they? And who are they?

+++

After my shipping surprise, I went to a local festival of sorts. It was one of several going on in and around Hot Springs Village. The one I visited included a booth for the Village Writers’ Club, which has attempted to self-immolate during the pandemic (the Club, not the booth). The Writers’ Club is the reason I went; actually, an invitation by a friend to drop by is why I went. I’ve lost most, if not all, of my interest in the Writers’ Club. I just don’t have much interest in engaging in communication with other writers. Well, not with most other writers. Locally, I mean. Only a few of them take writing sufficiently seriously to realize it’s not necessary to talk about writing all the time. And only a few of them realize taking themselves too seriously as writers is akin to unearned egotism. “Writing ain’t no special gift from god, dad-gummit!” Someone must have said that, because it’s about as true as anything I’ve read or heard said in a long time. But I digress. The little crafts festival was small but modestly interesting. I could have spent some money there, had I wanted to fill my house with tchotchkes that I would eventually discard. I have other, more intriguing means of throwing away money on material possessions that have no intrinsic or extrinsic value.  Despite the fact that these little festivals are monuments to minor creativity and major avarice, they can be fun. I used to enjoy going with my wife, looking at everything and buying little or nothing. I’m glad somebody buys stuff, though; otherwise, we would  have had nowhere to go and nothing to look at (in the way of festivals, anyway). Where the hell was I going with this paragraph? No telling. But it’s certain I took a wrong turn somewhere.

+++

Late in the day yesterday, I went to Clampit’s Country Kitchen , where I bought some hot and spicy beef jerky, a jalapeño sausage, and a one-pound New York strip steak. The steak will make two enormous meals for me one day. This morning, I’ll cut it in half and freeze one half. I’ll smoke and/or grill the other half within the next few days, treating myself to an increasingly rare opportunity to be fiercely carnivorous. I grilled the sausage last night, along with jalapeños and onions. A sliced tomato finished the meal. I did not need to buy food yesterday; I just felt like it. I haven’t have big steak in the house in what seems like a year or more. And that may be the case, though I won’t bet on it.

+++

This afternoon, I’ll visit my next door neighbors for wine and conversation. We’ve talked about having little gathering at one anothers’ houses for years. Only recently have we begun to execute our intents. They come here, then I go there, then they come here, etc. Today, it’s my turn to go there. Though when I spoke to her yesterday, she said I need not bring anything, I may take a bottle of wine. Or maybe not. Maybe, when we host, we should host: the place, the chairs, the wine, the munchies, the whole ball of wax. Yes, that’s it. That’s neighborly hostitude, isn’t it? It is, indeed.

+++

I am not even remotely interested in doing paperwork today, but I suspect I will do some, anyway. I have to get in the habit of keeping my financial paperwork up-to-date. And that includes documenting and organizing receipts. I will do that, if for no other reason, to honor my wife’s long-time practice of knowing where every single cent is spent and where every nickel’s worth of income comes from. After I do that, though (or maybe before), I will consider tackling some other projects:

• Vacuuming the car and making its interior more or less liveable
• Neatening the garage and discarding unnecessary “stuff”
• Sweeping the garage floor and cleaning up the “workspace” behind the garage
• Making the guest bed (I washed all the sheets and towels in the house yesterday; everything’s been finished except making the guest bed…I feel so productive!)
• Pressure-washing the deck, removing massive amounts of pollen

Who am I kidding? I’m not going to pressure-wash the deck today. I hope I get around to sweeping the garage. I may just loll about on the deck, inhaling pollen until my lungs can take no more.

+++

Later in the week, I’m going to have a dermatology APN burn or freeze or slice pieces of my flesh, leaving what’s remaining as smooth as possible. I’m afraid my geezer skin will not permit truly soft and smooth skin, but I hope for an improvement. My hands, my face, even my toes, need some work. A lot of work, I think. A friend’s blog tagline (attributed to Suzuki Roshi) on a blog to which my friend hasn’t posted for eight years, is “You are Perfect as you are and you could use a little help.”  I like that. My skin is perfect as it is and could use a complete replacement.

+++

The temperature in the house is 65°F, a tad nippy for me but not cold enough to merit reverting the HVAC system to heating. I changed it several days ago to cooling, when outside temperatures climbed well above 80°F. The house was starting to feel like an oven, so I thought the time had come to leave winter behind. But winter kept its claws in us; it’s around 48°F outdoors right now, so the indoor temperature doesn’t seem so cold by comparison. Daytime highs for the next week are forecast to range from the mid-fifties to the mid-sixties. I may revert back to heating, yet.  But a sweater and sweat pants may be adequate during waking hours; a blanket is adequate for sleeping, as long as indoor temperatures remain above 60°F.

+++

An ad, attempting to tempt me into entering into a contest to win a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van, coupled with an $80,000 conversion, nearly triggered my finger this morning. I was ready to throw reason and rationality to the wind and “register to win.” But I stopped before handing over whatever personal information the contest sponsors hoped I would reveal. I do not need a mini-RV worth $115,000 or more, though I will admit I would love to have one. Tiny kitchen, fresh water filtration, toilet, queen-sized bed, 24.5 gallon gas tank, solar heating and cooling, bike rack, jaba jaba jaba jbab. A little home on wheels that would go with me wherever I choose to go. I could take my home with me to Nova Scotia (if Canada would let me in) or drive to the remote regions of North Dakota or Arizona or New Mexico. I could take my house to desolate beaches on Florida’s west coast. Where, though, might I find seriously desolate, isolated, unmolested stretches of land that would welcome me and my little house on wheels? I don’t know. I’d have to look. But I don’t think I’m ready to throw $115,000 or my personal privacy at the chance to find it. That could change, of course. I change a lot these days. I no longer recognize myself. There’s someone else before my eyes when I look in the mirror. That is not necessarily to say that I despise him; in fact, I may grow to appreciate that new version of a loner, this one more willing to leave everything and everyone behind for a stretch just to see what he’s like truly on his own. Unless, of course, he can’t cope. That would be a disappointment of epic proportions.

+++

Here it is, another day closer to a visit by my long-time friends. When I think of their visit, my desire to leave everything and everyone behind for a stretch just to see what I’m like truly on my own fades into vapor. Instead, I return to a fantasy of living with them in a co-housing arrangement (along with a few like-minded people, perhaps) that would give all of us adequate privacy but in an environment in which we all depend on and are there for one another. I suppose some might consider it a commune of sorts; it’s like a commune for rational people who have abandoned the irrational facets of communal lifestyles in favor of comfort and independence and compassion. Do I change day by day? A little. Like a chameleon on speed, I think. But beneath the swirl of changing exterior appearances, there’s an absolutely reliable, dependable core. Like an apple, it’s surrounded by a fleshy substance subject to softness and rot. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?

+++

My friend and guest is leaving today, having spent a week here. It was truly nice to have someone in the house, but I think a return to a hermit lifestyle for several days will readjust my biorhythm (or whatever it is) to “new normal.” I loathe that phrase. “New normal,” as if normalcy and justifiable paranoia belong together. Of course, my “new normal” has little to do with paranoia and much to do with life under the classification of “survivor.”  That’s another term that, depending on context, can grate on me. It’s almost become a badge of courage that warrants respect, pity, and admiration. Who wants to be considered “courageous” and simultaneously pitied for being thrust into circumstances over which they have absolutely no control? Enough of that. For now.

+++

Have I mentioned that my guest, the one leaving today, brought a French press with her? The coffee that accompanied it is gone, so I’ve been drinking my old standby French roast, but the flavor from that French press may have convinced me to get one. But, do I have the discipline to spend the time and energy to grind and brew coffee every morning, abandoning my Keurig for the French press? I do not know with certainty, but if I know me I’ll bend to sloth and the mediocrity of convenience. I dislike that about myself. Just not enough to change, I suppose.

+++

Today’s news from CNN, a network I’ve come to consider just as biased as FOX News, includes the “stunning” announcement that “Loneliness won’t end when the pandemic ends” and another one that “Cuba’s Raul Castro steps down, ending the era of his famous clan at the country’s helm.”

And AP reports that Kate Rubins, an American astronaut, and two Russian cosmonauts touched down in Kazakhstan this morning. All three had arrived at the International Space Station six months ago, on October 14. Of the seven people remaining on the ISS, another woman, Shannon Walker, is among those who came aboard in November on the SpaceX Crew Dragon Resilience, the first ISS docking under NASA’s Commercial Crew Program. I’m pleased that the news article did not focus on the fact that two of the people in the news story are women; I had to notice that for myself. One day, we will not notice anything “special” about the involvement of women or people of color in such projects. It will be no big deal that a physicist like Walker is a key participant in multinational endeavors.  But in the meantime, while our astronauts and Russian cosmonauts are involved in radical cooperation in space, our respective countries are effectively at war over matters whose solutions should be far less complex than traveling to and from an orbiting space station.

+++

Elements of last night’s dream: my church reopening was massively different from what anyone expected. Almost impossible to get stuff stored near the pulpit. Sand everywhere. I could not get the heavier pieces over the edges where the waves were trying to wash away the beachfront. And that’s all.

+++

And in Hot Springs and the State of Arkansas and in the State of Chaos, life goes on.

Last night, I went to dinner with four friends; three local, one distant, but all close in the sense that they contribute significantly to my ability to absorb life a little better on the heels of emotional somersaults. As is so often the case, I was the sole male in a sea (in this case, I guess it was more like a pond) of females. But in smaller groups, I don’t feel so out of place. In fact, I felt connected, as if I had adapted to a mold or the mold had adapted to me or, perhaps, we had collectively sculpted a three-dimensional puzzle of which we all formed a part. Such a sense of connection never lasts long, but in its short life it offers evidence that pieces of a puzzle can form art without sharp edges.

Part of the atmosphere of comfort last night can be attributed to the casual atmosphere of the restaurant. A small place devoid of pretention; a refuge where beer and Mexican food and Mexican music and workers who enjoy their work conspire to create welcoming space. We were among the very few diners there last night, but the evening felt full and inviting.  Regardless of the contributions made by the food and the beer and the music and the workers, though, dinner would have been nothing without the pieces of the puzzle.

+++

I chose to create a separate page to house a poem written by a man I’ve never met but who is a long-time friend of a friend.  I hope visitors to this post will visit that page. I was moved beyond words by the poet’s ability to translate my scorched words into a clear expression of what I felt. And feel. He wrote his poem in response to my post on what would have been my 41st wedding anniversary.

+++

Next week, two other friends and I will gather around our computers, beer in hand, to discuss matters of global significance: the way beer tastes and how it invades and conquers the land of the mundane. Video-calls have become vitally important ways to maintain connections that, in days past, might have withered or hardened or turned to dust in the absence of face-to-face contact. On my end, I have begun to call these regular video chats J³. or J-Cubed.  Clever, that…in that our names all begin with the letter J. I stun myself with my blatant self-congratulatory creativity. 😉 This small gathering, all male, is more “evidence that pieces of a puzzle can form art without sharp edges.” Although some of the edges are a little rough; but only enough to create frictional frivolity. Usually, I hear or see one or both of my friends’ spouses in the background; we’re all friends, albeit I am the older, more geezerly, decrepit one among us all. I am fortunate to have access to relative youth to help me interpret the world in which I live.

+++

Soon, I will have more houseguests, friends of well over forty years! I am looking forward to their visit with the anticipation one might expect in such relationships. Though we don’t communicate with dependable regularity, we talk or text or video-chat enough to keep connected. The fact that we soon will be able to see one another and embrace “like the old days” will be exceptional. We’ve not been physically together in more than a year; I expect embraces will have to be powerful and lasting to overcome an absence that long. One or both of the pair reads my blog posts almost every day, so I expect they will be able to imagine the breadth and depth of my smile on my face as I am writing this. I learned to say “I love you” from them without feeling awkward. Expressing love, even to close friends, has never been easy for me for reasons beyond the scope of this post. But I can say that now to them, thanks entirely to her easy way of saying the words to me. Would that we all, all of us on this planet, would find it easy.

Perhaps as important as anything about our bond is the fact that they, too, are “loners.” Their circle of friends is small, like mine and like ours was when my wife was with me. The knowledge that we are, to one another, extremely important links to extra-familial closeness, must be vital. It must be. I think, perhaps, my circle is expanding ever-so-slightly, though, perhaps in response to the sudden loss of such a vitally important piece of my emotional well-being.

+++

In the days to some, I think my blog posts will be a little less “bouncy” than this one. Although this one seems themed on “friends.” But I might be feeling some stability that will add strength to my rubbery legs. In the interim, more coffee. And time to prepare for the housekeeper’s visit; must straighten and otherwise “clean up” so I will not appear to be the slovenly creature I am.