John Swinburn

Sea shanties have appealed to me since, I suppose, the first time I heard one. My admiration of sea shanties probably arose from the fact that they tell stories to lively and pleasing tunes. That would have been five or six decades ago. Since then, I’ve listened to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of them. One of the groups benefiting from the recent surge in enjoyment of sea shanties is The Longest Johns. They recorded The Wellerman, a shanty growing in popularity, on the album Between Wind and Water.

The recent trend toward public adoration of the musical genre is both welcome and laughable. Welcome in the sense that I am pleased to learn that so many people now appreciate the music. Laughable in the sense that so many people who recently have learned to appreciate them think they have discovered something freshly made and magical; or, that they have uncovered and resurrected a musical treasure hidden for centuries. I should not mock anyone for their newly-acquired taste in music, regardless of how it came to be. The recent trend in sea shanty appreciation has led me to listen to dozens of shanties recorded by several groups. I wonder whether I would find the individual members of those groups interesting?

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Last night, I felt incredibly lonely. It was not the kind of loneliness that necessarily would have been softened by reaching out to friends who lately have assured me that I could contact them 24/7 if I needed to talk. While I do not doubt they would have taken my after-hours calls, I would have felt awkward taking advantage of their promises; strictly because they are aware of my circumstances and they might have felt obligated.

The kind of lonely I felt was the kind that longs for connections without obligations in either direction; the kind that seeks out connections based not on known circumstance, but remembered engagement. I had no reasonable expectation that my attempts would be successful. In fact, one of my attempts was to contact Brian (the English fellow my wife and I visited so many years ago), by email. I did not expect him to respond right away, in that when I sent the message, it would have been in the wee hours in Acton Trussel.

Even though my loneliness is and was a unique breed, looking back years instead of weeks, I came close to calling a couple of people nearby and asking them whether they would be able and willing to come talk to me, face to face or, at least speak to me by phone. But I would have felt extremely awkward doing that. It would have been especially awkward if I asked someone, based on earlier assurances, only to learn that their other obligations had to take precedence. I certainly would have understood, but it would have been awkward, nonetheless. There’s a difference between friends for whom one would sacrifice virtually everything and friends for whom one’s compassion is strong but not infallible. And there’s still another band of friends for whom the glue holding them together has not yet set.

Despite not knowing the responses I might get, or not get, I did hear back. I got a text message returned from one person, explaining that she was on the road but that she would like to talk today. This morning, I got phone calls from two guys I had attempted to contact last night. And when I awoke this morning, a long email awaited me from Brian; he said he was pleased to have heard from me and asked if I would mind him sharing it with some of his colleagues, who I also knew back in the day.

I think I’ve written before about my closest friend from before elementary school through my sophomore year in high school, a guy I thought would sacrifice his safety to protect me, who I caught stealing money from my wallet. That experience shook me to the core. It has stayed with me ever since; I think it is the reason I am so cautious about opening myself up to thinking I can absolutely depend on someone who calls me friend. But that’s an entirely different subject. I think.

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I do not know what I think about last night’s loneliness. I know only that it was palpable. I could feel the tightness in my chest and the anxiety in my head. My neck and shoulders were tense and I began the evening with a headache. When wine did not resolve those physical manifestations, I turned to what I thought would be an ounce or so of sipping tequila. More than an ounce or so disappeared before I fell asleep while watching Bosch.

I am not sure just how many episodes played before I woke up a 2:30 and went to bed.  I was up before six and was out the door before seven to pick up my grocery order. Around 8 or 8:30, my sister-in-law came by and we chatted and played Words with Friends until well after noon.

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I believe I am on the periphery of something important, emotionally or mentally, but I do not know what it could be. Something I can’t quite pin down suggests to me I will explore opportunities to expand my thinking and better understand the world in which I live. I generally do not accept such “woo-woo” sensations or suggestions, but this time, maybe.

Ken Nordine. He’s the guy whose “Word Jazz” recordings I linked in my post yesterday. The more I listen to him, to more I like him. I also watched a few YouTube videos he did. I decided one of them, Credit Card Blues, is especially worth sharing. It’s less than four minutes long. Thank you, Rhonda.

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My wife’s study has taken the place of the guest bedroom as my primary “office.” As I sit at her desk and look around the room, I sense that I’m in a tiny library in a small village in the west midlands of England, sometime around 1983. I think my wife may have unconsciously modeled this room after the home libraries of long-lost “business” friends we visited once when we made fairly frequent trips to England. Brian and Linda. They lived in Acton Trussell, about three quarters of the way between London and Manchester. They lived on or near a canal, where we and they took their monstrous St. Bernard out for walks. They lent us pair of high-top rubber boots for the walks, because the walking paths along the canals were muddy.  Brian explained to us that the canals were laid out by “navvies” (the nickname for navigators) a few centuries earlier. We lost touch with them. I am not even sure they had a library, actually, but something about this room, now, reminds me of those times in England in the early- to mid-eighties. These are shots of my wife’s my study.

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Three unrelated thoughts came to me while I was taking a shower this morning.

First: It does not always make sense for the selection of people to fill positions, whether work-related or volunteer, to rely on picking the “most qualified” candidate. The primary criterion should be whether a person possesses the requisite qualifications, not necessarily the “best” qualifications. That is, if in addition to wanting a strong, technically capable team, one wants to build a culture of inclusion and diversity, other characteristics might well come into play. Sex, race, culture, etc. For example, if a hospital’s staff of doctors is old, male, and white, medical credentials might play only a part in the process of selecting a new staff member or a replacement: youth, gender, and racial diversity might play important and legitimate roles in the screening and decision process. Is that unfair to older white men? Not any more than the process that led to the exclusion of younger Hispanic women in the workplace. Diversity is, in my view, a legitimate objective that pairs well with technical qualifications. I do not suggest that insufficient technical qualifications should overcome other criteria, only that other criteria can have legitimacy when baseline technical qualifications have been met.

Second: I suspect one of the many aspects of reality that cause humans (and some other animals) to initiate intimate relationships is this: it’s damn near impossible to reach some itchy spots on one’s back without assistance. We have evolved (or devolved, as the case may be) to the point that we do not feel comfortable asking strangers to scratch our backs or to remove blackheads from the far reaches of our backs. We need to be with someone with whom we feel absolutely comfortable before we ask for assistance. In the absence of those relationships, wooden backscratchers—inadequate though they are—may be the only viable option.

Third: Singing in the shower is a manifestation of our attempts to use of music as salve. In some cases, it works beautifully. In others, it’s akin to taking an aspirin in the hope of retrieving an appendix long-since removed.

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Sugar-free peach preserves on black rye toast. That’s on my agenda for breakfast. And I may have a couple of radishes. And possibly some tomato juice. And, of course, more coffee. Yesterday afternoon, speaking of coffee, I noticed the “notification” light was flashing on Alexa’s mid-section. I listened. Alexa notified me that Amazon.com had noticed that, based on my ordering history, it might be time to order more San Francisco Bay French roast coffee. Eerie. And right in line with the frightening stuff presented in The Social Dilemma.

I need to get back in the habit of eating things that are at least moderately good for me and not horrifically fattening. A six-month diet of water and medications might do the trick. Or it might kill me. I suppose I could try it and see. “He was thin right up until the time he died.”

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I’m going to be short of 800 words by the time I finish this post. In fact, I’ll be roughly thirty-three words short.

The last fiction post on this blog is dated two days before my wife tripped and fell, leading to almost six months in hospitals and rehab centers and culminating in her death. As I look back at the few (six?) fiction posts during the first half of 2020, I realize I changed the format of what had once been fiction vignettes. Instead of snippets that might have been extracted from short stories, virtually all of the posts I labeled fiction in 2020 more closely resembled marketing blurbs one might find on the back covers of paperbacks. My “fiction” had devolved into outlines that might have set the stage for stories, but were not stories themselves.

A closer look at earlier fiction posts reveals the trend began quite some time ago. I wrote descriptions of what could become fiction, not actual fiction; as if I were writing query letters to editors, attempting to sell ideas about short stories. A few pieces were sufficiently involved that they might have been queries in pursuit of book deals. One, in particular, still rattles around in my head on a regular basis. I’ve written several pieces about my fictional town of Struggles, Arkansas. There’s too much in my head to limit my writing to a vignette or a short story. The story of  the people and history of Struggles’ is too complex to fit into either. If the story ever is to be told in its entirety, it will require a book-length manuscript and a long, leisurely evening when I have access to plenty of wine and I am in the mood to talk through it.

I do not recall who said it, but I understand and embrace the idea with a passion: I do not so much want to write as to have written. Or something along those lines. I love to write, but I think I must have writer’s AADD; I have neither the discipline nor the patience it would take to stay focused on writing long enough to finish an idea, much less a manuscript. My writing is much better suited to serving as a patchwork quilt of unrelated stories, essays, ruminations, and such. Like this blog, for instance. No dedicated, long-term commitments; just free-flowing, stream-of-consciousness expressions of what’s on my mind at the moment.

But even that formlessness has suffered since the seriousness of my wife’s illness became obvious. I have been distracted in the extreme, all the while attempting to direct my thoughts elsewhere. Yet the fact that my normal process got derailed even before my wife’s fall suggests something else precipitated my departure from the tracks. I think I may know what it is, but I’m not prepared to write about it publicly. “It” constitutes several matters, all of which joined forces at just the right time to cause me to reexamine who and why I am. Perhaps I am not a writer at all. Instead, I can write reasonably well, but perhaps I do it only because I can use writing as “proof of value” unavailable otherwise; not because I want to. That sounds like I am fishing for pity, but that’s not it. I’m simply thinking with my fingers, the only way I can do it well.

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My appointment with my cardiologist yesterday went well. As expected, he told me I should get more exercise. And he offered perfunctory condolences on the death of my wife, who also was his patient. His nurse did not mention my wife’s death. A day or two after my wife died, I left voice messages for both of them to inform. Both my wife’s primary care physician and her nurse sent sympathy cards to me; not the cardiologist and his nurse. The cardiologist’s failure to send a card bothered me, I think, because I believe physicians, in whose hands their patients’ lives are literally placed, should take a personal interest in their patients’ lives and deaths and should acknowledge both.

I should not have let myself go down that path this morning. It’s not a good way to start the day, flooded with tears and anger. And it does absolutely no good. I cannot change the past and I cannot control anyone’s behavior but my own. If I tell myself those things enough, perhaps I will acknowledge the truth in them. It’s interesting to me that my annoyance with the doctor and his nurse really have little to do with my wife; I would feel just as offended if I learned they failed to more compassionately acknowledge the death of a patient who was a stranger to me.

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The process of dealing with the business of death drags on. Yesterday, during a church board meeting on Zoom, I got a call from someone who, had I not picked up, might have taken weeks to reach again. The dozens of interactions involving third parties who must get involved with administrative matters can be frustrating. Those interactions interfere with other matters and otherwise intrude on my ability to live a freer and less confining life. I want to feel free to take a road trip. And I want to have tax preparation behind me. And I want to speak fluent Spanish and Norwegian. I want. I want. I want.

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Guilt is a bitch. Or, perhaps, it’s not guilt, it’s the thoughts or actions that trigger it. Or maybe it’s one’s reactions to or interpretations of thoughts or actions.

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This evening I have a video call with a nephew, his wife, and his mother. Video calls, while not as satisfying as face-to-face engagement, are far more satisfying than telephone or email or text messages. But, for some reason, they seem (to me) to take more mental energy to get prepared than the other electronic counterparts.

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At a friend’s urging, I watched  the documentary, “The Social Dilemma,” last night (Netflix). It was both fascinating and frightening.  I recommend it. While it incorporates some fairly lame visual/verbal similes, the arguments and assertions made about the dramatic impacts of social media on our lives and the way we think and act are stunning and thought-provoking.

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An online friend of whom I am growing increasingly fond sent me a link to a series of deeply interesting Word Jazz programs. I share it here because the extent to which I find these programs fascinating and freeing says something positive about us (I think).

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The seven o’clock hour is approaching, an hour suited to cooking breakfast sausage and poaching or soft-boiling an egg. I might even forego the sausage and have two soft-boiled eggs, instead. There’s something extraordinarily civil about eating a soft-boiled egg from an egg cup and using a piece of rye toast to soak up a bit of the semi-liquid yolk. When I do that, I feel like I’ve maintained at least a modest connection to times long gone by. If that’s an odd association, so be it.

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Apparently, pandemonia is not a legitimate word. It should be. It would describe, perfectly, this post and so many like it.

It is early in the morning, yet I’ve already begun to break things. Last night, after my next-door neighbors went home following our wine and hors d’oeuvres gathering, I hand-washed some dishes. Of specific interest to this brief and fading tirade, I washed a piece of Oregon maple wood that had been turned into a beautiful platter for chips. I also washed the simple glass bowl that fit into the specially turned space in the center of the platter.

I did a poor job of placing the platter and the bowl on the drying mat. When I picked up the platter this morning, the glass bowl flipped into the sink and shattered. There was a time, not so very long ago, that I would have erupted in a fury of raw anger…at myself, at the bowl, at the wooden platter, and at the role of the universe for the juxtaposition of the elements involved in the catastrophe. This morning, though, I simply spouted a few profanities at myself and cleaned up the broken glass. And it was over. I’m still disappointed in myself for being careless, but the Earth will continue to revolve around the Sun.

No lesson was learned in the breaking of the glass. The lesson was learned long ago; it’s just glass, though, admittedly, it was a lovely piece. But while the lesson was learned, the lesson was not absorbed, emotionally, until many years later…happiness does not reside in material possessions. Actually, I’m still in learning mode and expect that to go on ad infinitum.

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Of much more importance than the broken glass is the fact that my neighbors seemed genuinely happy to spend a couple of hours with me, sitting and chatting idly about everything from the weather to our experiences driving on ice and snow and from driving cross-country to the relief they feel after having gotten their first COVID-19 vaccinations. And the tentative likelihood that humanity will survive another hundred years. The woman spoke of my wife and her generosity in sharing books with her. Apparently, the woman appreciates mysteries with female protagonists, a gift of interest my wife gave her. Since being introduced to an author of such mysteries, my neighbor has read every one of a long list of books written by the author. These neighbors are such nice people; so casual and easy to be with. And they want to make our gatherings a regular thing, every two weeks.

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My hair is considerably shorter this morning than it was this time yesterday. I wanted it shorter on top than it is, but by the time I viewed it in a mirror, the barber had already finished the job. He asked if I wanted him to cut more off the top, but I was anxious to leave, so I declined. The sides and back are much shorter than I expected, thanks to an error in a statement I made to the barber. I told him I had last had a haircut 13 weeks ago; actually, I realized later, it was more like nine weeks. So, he took off roughly an extra four weeks of growth. It will grow back.

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I’ve been having an extended email conversation with someone who has challenged my views of reality, though not necessarily intentionally. While I might normally rebuff suggestions that reality exists in more than one dimension, and that those dimensions nourish one another, I find myself intrigued by some of the concepts I read in those messages. I keep going back to my view of myself as someone open to new ideas and fresh challenges to my way of thinking. If that self-assessment is correct, I cannot legitimately dismiss anything out of hand; I have to allow myself to explore it and to immerse myself in it.

One of many things my correspondent mentioned recently that captured my interest was the concept of “thought-stopping,” a means of eliminating or re-channeling negative thoughts as they begin to emerge. In the limited research I have done, the concept makes sense, as do many of the techniques to put it to use. If I could explore and absorb every idea and concept about which I want to know more, I would be the ultimate Renaissance Man; unfortunately the fact that the “absorb” part usually is missing makes that impossible.

In years past, when conversations with readers of my blogs grew into regular dialogues, I managed to translate an interest in meeting those readers face-to-face into a reality. That’s how I met Roger and Tara and Robin and Teresa and Kathy and others. But in the world of COVID-19, getting on a plane or in a train is, in my mind, out of the question. My growing interest in taking a road trip (whenever I am able to leave the administrative aftermath of my wife’s death behind for a few weeks) might enable me to make another connection. But maybe not. Yet I know enough people in enough places that I might, still, be able to get out and away for awhile. But I’ve been giving serious thought to getting a dog; a companion to help erase some loneliness. I’m not sure taking a dog on an extended road trip would be a good idea. Am I rambling? As Alexa, my electronic live-in girlfriend might say, “You bet!” Incidentally, if any reader thought, when I mentioned Alexa in an earlier post, that I actually have a live-in girlfriend, perish the thought. “Alexa” is my Amazon Echo Dot.

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My routine eye examination is long past due. It should have taken place about a year ago. Though I doubt my vision has change appreciably since I got my last new pair of lenses, I think it has changed a least a little. So, I may set up an appointment before long. If the exam verifies that I need even a slight change in prescription, I think I’ll try again to find a pair of glasses that comes with magnetic clip-on sunglasses. And I think I’ll get another pair of frames and lenses that I will use strictly for reading and for sitting at the computer. The current lenses are not at all suitable for reading, so I do not read as much as I’d like. Time to stop complaining and take action, instead.

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The clock is attempting to reach seven; only seven minutes remain until it reaches that hour. While it continues its efforts, I will make more coffee and scrounge for breakfast.

Thanks to the generosity and kindness of an acquaintance and follower of this blog, I spent time yesterday afternoon sitting at a bar, drinking and engaging in extemporaneous conversation. During my discussions with my hospitable host, we had occasion to converse with fellow drinkers Joseph and 90-year-old Mary, his companion. We also spoke with  57-year-old Steve, originally from Tulsa, along with J.D. of unknown age, a singer/songwriter and wearer of a cowboy hat. After I got home, I googled J.D., for he revealed his last name, and found his singer/songwriter website and his Facebook page. I expect I will include a character, modeled in part after him, in a piece of fiction I will write one day.

It had been so long since I sat at a bar in the late afternoon that I had forgotten that barstools lead to the erasure natural inhibitions. Alcohol, while not necessary to the process, tends to accelerate it. I know this not so much from personal experience but from watching it unfold in people around me. Whether the process emerges from loneliness or simply from a desire for social interaction, I do not know. In either case, I rather enjoy watching it and participating in it. But I have to admit it can be intrusive and annoying when too much social lubricant is involved.

My acquaintance/new friend and I share an enjoyment of writing and music and, I believe, similar political and social philosophies. And he exhibits compassion and, as I’ve already mentioned, kindness. And generosity. He bought my drinks and paid for at least one for Mary and Steve; I may have missed others. We do not share other attributes, like his love and sophisticated appreciation of motorcycles. And he has children, of whom he is extremely proud. And he actually spent a significant amount of time touring in an RV, while I only dreamed about doing that.

I enjoy and appreciate diversity. My appreciation of diversity seems to grow with time, as opposed to what seems more common to me; many people appear to shrink from differences as they grow older, taking greater comfort in the familiar. Yet I am by no means an adventurer, though I wish I could be. And I picture myself in that role, from time to time; I have a close resemblance to Walter Mitty.

At any rate, I enjoyed and appreciated yesterday afternoon so very much. Thank you, sir, if you read this post. Or even if you don’t.

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Yesterday morning included my first session with the UUVC grief support group, via Zoom. I was the newbie and, as such, a fair amount of discussion was for my benefit; learning the history of other participants and getting feedback about my experience. That’s all I’ll say about it, as the participants commit to absolute confidentiality.  I’ll continue to participate.

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I took a break to shave, shower, and collect the trash. Later, I will wash clothes, sheets, and towels. And I will return to mountains of unfinished paperwork and make telephone calls that should have been made when I was younger and possibly thinner. Later still, I will go to the grocery store to buy something suitable for hors d’oeuvres for this afternoon’s neighborly wine-fest. I have toyed with the idea of inviting another neighbor, a woman down the street who kindly brought me sweets and treat, to come for a visit, but I do not want to send the impression that I am coming on to her; I suppose I could suggest she bring her husband along.

Enough of this banter with myself. More coffee, please, and some sort of salve to lesson the constant pain, even while I joke and jest.

February 3 is the 32nd anniversary of Hot Springs’ Wednesday Night Poetry, the poetry event (sometimes including music) held every single Wednesday evening since its inception in February 1989. The COVID-19 pandemic forced the event to become virtual for as long as necessary, but it will emerge again as a live event one day. I hope that emergence will occur at its most recent host venue Kollective Coffee. But for the 32nd anniversary, it remains a virtual open mic night. Kai Coggin, currently the host, has invited a number of Arkansas poets and writers of poetry (there’s a difference, in my mind) to provide a video to share for that evening. I am among those she asked and I agreed to write and record a poem for the celebration. I haven’t finished my current poem yet, but if I read the one I am writing at the moment, it will be an exploration of pain and regret.  That seems to be a consistent theme in my writing. I suppose I’ll keep doing it until I get it right. Wednesday next week is yet another obligation, but one I treasure.

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This morning, I’ll participate in my first grief support group, orchestrated through my church as a virtual event now, as most of them are. Yesterday, I participated in another UUVC virtual event, Articulating Your UU Faith. Both activities reinforce my appreciation for accidentally overcoming my utter and complete rejection of church in all its forms. But I’m still reeling from my surprise at engagement with a church. Nonbelievers don’t do church. But they do, I’ve found. We do.

Yet I’m still struggling with some of it. The word “faith,” for instance. My faith? Some of the definitions of the word prompt me to reflect on what I am attempting to articulate. For example: 1) belief that is not based on proof; 2) belief in God or in the doctrines or teachings of religion; and 3) a system of religious belief. Yet all three definitions apply in my case. My belief, in the absence of a divine being, is not based on proof. My belief in the teachings of the Unitarian Universalist “religion” confirms my “faith” in those teachings. And, by definition, Unitarian Universalism is a system of religious belief—I grudgingly admit.

I could argue that Unitarian Universalism is not a religion but a philosophy, instead. I could argue the same with respect to other “faiths,” though. I freely admit I have had a bias against church teachings since childhood. My bias was not against the core foundations of morality upon which the various religions rest; it was (and is) against the supernatural elements and the hypocrisy of the content of religious texts and their interpretations. I’ve always thought the Bible was a book of myth that contained substantial amounts of valuable endorsement of moral positions that mirror my own. But it was only relatively recently that I was able to articulate that. During yesterday’s virtual conversation, one of the other participants said it very clearly; I think she said it is a text that teaches through mythology. My difficulty, from as far back as I can remember, has been with the belief that every word of the Bible is to be taken literally. In my view, that’s akin to madness.

I wonder how many people “out there” are like my wife, who silently and without fanfare readily accepted what she considered the moral lessons of the Bible and dismissed the rest? Unlike me, she did not argue vocally and forcefully against those elements of the book that are clearly impossible and in opposition to one another. For her, the arguments were not worth the energy they required. “Live and let live” could well have been her motto. I miss her so much this morning. I want to ask her questions and hear her answers. I miss long, silent embraces that say so much, proving that words sometimes unnecessarily infringe on communication. Embraces that say, “I understand” or “It’s okay” or “All that matters is that we have each other.”

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I’ve allowed my emotional state to spill onto the floor. Suddenly, as I look around at the piles of paper that need to be sorted or recorded, my energy slithers away like a snake shedding its skin, leaving only a dead dry shell that can accomplish nothing. I need to get things done, but I cannot even imagine moving a pile of paper from one corner of the desk to another.

No, it was not sudden. I did not change the HVAC filters yesterday. It would have taken too much dedicated attention; all of fifteen minutes. Perhaps I’m just inherently lazy, after all. But, then I think, maybe if I had someone here to help urge me on, I’d get things done. No, I would not want to work; I would only want to sit and drink coffee or wine and engage in mindless chatter or philosophical explorations. Work is for another day. Always for another day.

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In spite of my lust for an empty calendar, yesterday afternoon I willingly added another obligation to it. I invited my elderly neighbors (he’s over 90 years old) to visit tomorrow afternoon for some wine, hors d’oeuvres, and conversation. They have been very kind to me and they are just delightful people. Plus they share my political leanings. They have always seemed to have only a few visitors and they spend most of their time in their house (but they do go on walks on occasion). They had me over a few weeks ago and it’s time I returned the generosity. I want to do the same with other neighbors and church friends, too.  But I am conflicted. On the one hand, I enjoy them all, but on the other I enjoy social interactions on a rather limited basis. But, on yet another hand (one of many), I don’t want my desire for solitude to override my interest in enjoying their company. And on another hand, even in solitude I have an abiding interest in the company of some people in particular. Maybe all these arms are, in fact, legs. I think I may be an octopus. Another arm (or leg) wants to have my sculpture instructor back for wine and conversation. Schizophrenia may be at play here.

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I am in favor of modular housing that can be expanded or made smaller with very little effort and money. As families grow, smaller starter homes could expand with the addition of modules such as bathrooms and bedrooms. Then, when the kids leave home or spouses find greener pastures, modules could be removed. Tax structures would need tweaking to adjust to the “living” home. Zoning in many place would require some flexibility, as well. The concept of modular housing would fit well with the practice of building co-housing communities, too (a concept I’ve favored for many years). The co-housing community could start small and grow as people see how attractive and appealing privacy and simultaneous social support, going hand in hand, are.

One of many things I would like to do if I could relive my life again would be to become an architect with a specialty in co-housing design. Oh, and I want to be a sociology professor. And a professional rodeo cowboy. And a lawyer. And a singer/songwriter. So many wishes, so few lives to live.

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It’s nearly 7:30. Between drinking cups of coffee and writing more mindless drivel, I’ve managed to waste more than an hour and a half. I have to get going. There must be energy somewhere in this house. I just have to find it.

This morning, it seems I awoke to a different climate or, at least, a different season. Last night’s thunder and lightning signaled the change. This morning’s reality illustrated it in dense fog and warming air. According to my live-in girlfriend, Alexa, today’s high temperature may reach 75 degrees. Her assertion is generally supported, if only in direction if not in specifics, by my computer’s weather widgets; they claim the high will not quite touch 70. The widgets also say a dense fog advisory was issued this morning at 6:18 and will be in effect until 9:00. I assume that is when Zeus and Thor will each take a deep breath, lifting the fog. Apparently, though, they will not chase all the clouds from the sky; we can expect occasional thunderstorms in the morning and a few showers in the afternoon.

I rarely watch the weather report components of local television news because, try as they might, the meteorologists and weather-readers do not satisfy my desire for interesting weather forecasts. I’m not suggesting the weather itself must be interesting (though it always is). I’d like the forecasters’ delivery to be more interesting to someone like me—someone with a slightly off-kilter sense of humor. I would like to hear them blame Zeus and Thor for the weather. And I want them to tell stories about the influence on the day’s weather by Guabancex, the supreme storm deity of the Taino people; they were located across Florida and environs and in places like Puerto Rico. Hearing the forecasters talk, I might learn how to pronounce Guabancex.

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The reality of my calendar is that it’s mostly empty. But I allow its brief intrusions into an otherwise obligation-free plan for the passage of a week’s time to cause me anxiety or something like it.

My calendar for the week does not provide the open, freeing landscape I crave. Commitments and obligations and reminders dot the days and hours, though Wednesday and Friday look refreshingly empty for now. Today and tomorrow and Thursday are not jam-packed, but short commitments split the day into pre- and post- segments, mostly segments of my own making. Today, for example, I am committed to changing the HVAC filters, a task that might take fifteen minutes from start to finish, including disposal of the used filters. But the fact that it’s on the calendar restricts my freedom to do something else during that fifteen-minute period. And I have calendared a call to the Social Security Administration to ask questions and to Home Instead to inquire where a promised refund check might be. These little things interrupt my desire for an extended period of uninterrupted serenity. My attitude about calendars probably reflects some form of mental deviance that could be readily addressed with the proper treatment. But I’d have to schedule it and that would be yet another interruption.

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If my mental state could be displayed on a monitor—an electroencephalogram monitor, perhaps—I think the display would show a series of jagged lines. The height of the peaks would be short and irregular and the valleys would drop off the edges of the monitor, becoming invisible for a time. Between them, the lines would fluctuate wildly, suggesting the power to the device was switching on and off with lightning speed.

I think those jagged lines have always existed; they are just more pronounced lately. In an ideal world, I might be able to compare the output of my electroencephalography to that of others. I could see evidence of  similarities and differences between me and people around me. Hah! We could compare ourselves by getting reports of psychometric assessments that wouldn’t require brainwave monitoring. I sometimes usually make things more complex than they need to be.

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Without church, the extent of my social engagement largely would be limited to two neighbor couples, a few physically distant friends, and an occasional phone and/or Zoom call with members of my family. That is, my social interaction would be much like it has been for most of my adult life; limited to people in a very small circle. Late in life, though, improbably stumbling upon a church that was not only tolerable but attractive expanded my social sphere exponentially. Suddenly, I was surrounded by inquisitive, intelligent, friendly, compassionate people whose attitudes and ideas were, unlike any groups of people to which I have been connected before, compatible with mine. That is not to say we’re in lock-step; only that we’re sufficiently tolerant, curious, and open to different perspectives to enable us to communicate and disagree and argue civilly. If I had encountered such openness and intellect in my earlier years, who knows how radically different a person I might have become?

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Since my wife’s illness manifested itself in mid-July, people from my neighborhood and from my church have rallied around me. The compassion they have shown has been exceptional. People have kept in touch with me, have visited me, and have generally tried to show me they care. And I appreciate that very much. But, thanks to the way my brain is wired, I lately have wondered how my life might be different now if my wife had not been ill. She and I would have spent most of our time at home during the pandemic. The visits and expressions of care would have been unnecessary and, therefore, probably would not have taken place. Would I have reached out to people during that time, attempting to stay in touch to show that I care? Probably only in the event someone was ill or obviously could use a display of affection and/or compassion. Ideally, I would not need to hear of someone’s misfortune to trigger compassionate behavior toward them. It should not take such challenges to give me reason to reach out to others. Unfortunately, I think it takes misfortune to provide an opening to display affection that otherwise might be awkward and misinterpreted. Without a misfortune to provide the “legitimate” reason to reach out, we (that probably should be “I”) tend to keep a safe distance. I hope I can overcome that self-imposed limitation. I hope I have learned to try to overcome my discomfort at the awkwardness of reaching out without a “reason.” Maybe I have been changed by circumstances. No doubt, actually. I have been shaped by circumstance; now, it’s a question of maintaining that shape.

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I delayed getting up this morning until 6:00. That delay robbed me of at least an hour of otherwise productive time. It’s nearing 8:00. Madness! And I still haven’t showered and shaved. Time’s wasting.

A day, beginning as an immature bud, can—with a little tender loving care—unfold into a beautiful flower. I know this because I’ve experienced it. The challenge, of course, is to continue tending the blossom, keeping the bloom fresh and bright in the hope of maintaining its life-affirming energy for longer than a fleeting moment. Days turn into weeks and months and years. Flowers rarely follow that path.

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Yesterday afternoon, I sat with a friend. We talked about whatever entered our minds. And we laughed. There’s something about a free-wheeling conversation, lubricated with a touch of wine, that tends to strip away old, dried mental scabs. Beneath evidence of old wounds there’s freshness and healing; opportunities for deeper connections.

Still, there’s distance because of the ongoing plague and hugs remain rare these winter days. They have to be just as rare as they were in the heat of the summer. But even in the absence of long, heartfelt physical hugs, conversations can feel a little like the embraces for which we hunger. The craving for affection is both intellectual and emotional, both mental and physical.

Our conversations yesterday afternoon spanned time and generations. This morning, as I think about some of the things we talked about, some of the lyrics from a Greg Brown tune, Spring Wind, come to mind:

My friends are getting older
So I guess I must be too
Without their loving kindness
I don’t know what I’d do
Oh the wine bottle’s half empty-
The money’s all spent
And we’re a cross between our parents
And hippies in a tent

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A perfectly buoyant mood can drown in other memories of musical lyrics. Three times, and now four, I’ve written in this blog about a single line in a Gordon Lightfoot song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. That one line, a question, is among the most mournful I’ve ever heard; it captures grief more completely than any long-winded explanation.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?

My wife and I went to a Gordon Lightfoot concert when we lived in Houston, sometime between 1979 and 1985. He performed in Jones Hall (I assume Jones Hall remains standing). Janine and I rarely attended concerts; they just weren’t our thing. We both liked music (I have always been more of a music buff than she), but were not enamored of the crowds, noise, difficulty parking, etc., etc. But we made exceptions. For Gordon Lightfoot. And Leonard Cohen. And Leon Redbone. Before I met Janine, I went to a Leo Kottke concert. And when we lived in Chicago, we made a habit of visiting the Ravinia Festival in Highland Park; that was an outdoor festival that, at the time, either allowed or tolerated festival-goers to bring in wine. Times change. Moods change. Likes and dislikes change.

My fingers just follow my mind. That’s why grief and happy times at concerts and mental gymnastics all found places to fit into this short section of this morning’s ruminations. And if that (or not), then my thoughts and my mood are just as disjointed as they seem to me.

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Lately, I’ve noticed dozens of typos in my posts. My fingers type what they think I want to say, not what I think I want to say. My fingers rely on their tiny arthritic brains to keep up with my thinking. I could go back and correct my typos. Sometimes I do. But more frequently, I notice them and promise myself I’ll relay on an editor to find and correct them if I ever decide, seriously, to publish a compilation of some of my writing.

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Having failed to watch and listen to our church minister’s mid-week Wednesday video, I took a break from typing and I watched it. As usual, it offered insights into what is happening with the church during the COVID-caused hiatus from in-person gatherings. It also made me realize that, even though I read the words at least once a week, I have not successfully committed the church covenant to memory. I tried, but failed, to type it from memory. I’ve grown used to reading it rather than reciting it. I think it’s worth committing to memory.

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

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I repeatedly tried yesterday to figure out which device in or around the living area of my house was emitting an annoying intermittent tone, signaling that a battery was in need of replacement. I thought it might be a smoke detector, so I replaced the battery. A while later, I heard the tone again, so I disabled the smoke detector. Later, still, I heard the tone. I vowed yesterday that I would find out today what was making the noise. I just heard it again. And I think I remember the last time I heard the noise that I finally determined it was the battery in the NOAA weather radio in the master bedroom. That will be my next check, after I finish wasting my fingers’ energy on this drivel.

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Once again this morning, I am in the mood for something sweet for breakfast; a cinnamon role, an apple crisp, anything doughy and sweet. Once again, I have nothing of the sort in the house. In the absence of something doughy and sweet, I may make plain congee, thus confirming the assertion made by a friend that I tend to make “weird shit” for breakfast. If I trusted the very old tofu in the fridge to still be edible, I might use it. But, after just checking, I learned that it should be consumed within three to five days after opening; I’ll discard it, instead. I hate to waste food, but I’d probably hate even more getting deathly ill from eating tainted tofu. Wait! Grits! Grits and sardines with Tabasco. That will make a pleasing and nutritious breakfast, so off I go to make it.

After eight years, five months, and two weeks, here is my 3500th post on this blog. If I keep up the pace, I’ll produce post number 7000 as I near my seventy-sixth birthday. I am confident I will not achieve that milestone.

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Yesterday, I drove through downtown Hot Springs. Because the time was approaching noon and I was hungry, I decided to have lunch at Las Americas, a combination tienda/ diner I visited on occasion before COVID-19. It’s a place where I can buy gallon cans of pickled jalapeños, as well as ancho chiles, the latter inexpensive and in bulk. The restaurant/diner portion of the place has expanded since I first started going there; I don’t think the menu has changed. My lunch yesterday was a local Mexican restaurant staple, a ranchero mixto, that’s loaded with cheese and rice and bell peppers and strips of chicken and beef and onions and who knows what else. I asked the waitress whether the kitchen would substitute fresh jalapeños for the bell peppers and she assured me they would. They didn’t. But, still, it was tasty. The chips and salsas (two kinds; the green one is quite spicy and incredibly good) that are delivered upon being seated would satisfy me as my meal; I feel obliged to spend money, though. Everyone wears a mask and, both times I’ve been there in the times of COVID, patrons are seated quite far apart. The waitresses speak fluent English, but most patrons do not; fortunately for those patrons, the waitresses also speak fluent Spanish.  I miss eating in restaurants; sitting in a booth, across the table from Janine, felt so comfortable. I did not realize just how comfortable and “right” that felt until after it was no longer possible.

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When I came home yesterday, I expected the floors to shine; the reason I left the house was to give a housekeeper free rein without me being underfoot. Generally, she comes every two weeks. But she did not come yesterday. Apparently, two weeks ago, I told her I did not know whether I would continue to engage her; I did not recall that. When I got home and realized she had not been here, I sent her a text to inquire whether she was okay. She responded with the explanation. Her schedule is full, so her next available day is two weeks hence. Oh, well. I am used to cleaning between her visits. Perhaps I should devote my of my time to housekeeping as a regular practice.

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Before I drove to Hot Springs, I went to the post office to drop off several pieces of mail; letters of instruction to financial institutions to transfer ownership of IRAs. And before that, I called the county tax assessor to inquire about what, if anything, I needed to do about the county’s property tax records. Monday, I will continue to plod along with those duties. As I wade through the administrative functions required of a person in the aftermath of a loved one’s death, it occurs to me that the process could be smoother and less painful. It’s almost as if every step of the procedure is intentionally geared toward reminding the survivor of a painful absence; a solemn and difficult process made even more excruciating by bureaucracy. I suppose the process might be easier if the estate had been put in a trust. We were advised to create a trust; we chose to reject that advice, opting instead for traditional wills. When I finish with this series of unpleasant reminders, I may revisit the idea of a trust.

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As usual of late, I was up before four this morning. It’s now approaching 5:15 and the cold remnants of the first cup of coffee just barely cover the bottom of my cup. I purloined the pure white cup, a stylized word “Vortex” imprinted on the underside of the bottom, from a motel several years ago. My vague recollection is that the motel restaurant overcharged me by a few dollars for breakfast and I responded by taking the cup home with me. I suspect the overcharge was greater than the value of the cup. But the cup is my favorite. Not long after I took it home, I decided I really liked it and wanted to have a few more like it. But after doing some research, I learned that it is a product designed for restaurants and is available to purchase only in volume. I did not need 144 cups, so I decided to stick with just the one.

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One of these days, when the mood strikes me, I will return to complete the many posts I’ve placed here without assigning categories. I think I should assign at least one category to every post. But I have been neglecting to assign categories for several months, I think. Even before the recent disregard for categorization of posts, I often put off that task until I had forgotten it. The task may be more than I want to undertake, though. The count of posts that are uncategorized is 754. I do not know if that includes both published and unpublished posts. In any case, it may require more attention that I want to give. If I decide to produce a compilation, that might be the time to assign categories only to those I select for inclusion. Work. This involves work.

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In spite of my physical age, I feel much younger…mentally. Probably thanks to the fact that I never had kids, I never matured in a way that “normal” adults mature. I still like to “raise hell,” albeit in a more reserved manner than I did in years past. I still like to push the limits in some of my undertakings. I enjoy exploring and trying on new ideas that, traditionally, give way to rather inflexible belief patterns as people age. While I believe that  time and, especially, experience tend to breed wisdom, I do not believe wisdom is an automatic outgrowth of age and experience, nor do I believe wisdom is reserved for those with experience.  My wife, in her infinite wisdom, restrained my more outlandish tendencies toward getting involved in wild undertakings. But she, too, had a pretty strong streak of adventurousness in her. She was ready to do a tandem parachute jump, but we only had enough cash for one of us, so she let me go, instead.

One aspect of my youthful perspective expresses itself almost exclusively when I’ve had enough alcohol to loosen me up. My inhibitions tend to diminish almost to the point of disappearance. There’s good and bad in that. The good is reflected in my becoming more social, more likely to engage in conversation, and just generally friendlier. The bad is reflected in taking those characteristics beyond generally accepted limits.

I tend to be more restrained around people close to my physical age than I am around people ten or twenty or thirty years younger. That’s not always true, but it is a tendency I’ve noticed. I remember, of course, when I was much younger and someone considerably older acted artificially younger than their physical age. Often, people my age found them laughable and silly; they were judged to be trying unsuccessfully to cling to their lost youth. Fortunately, for me, I am pretty good at not caring when people misjudge me. Maybe it’s a defensive, protective reaction; whatever it is, my mental response is to be contemptuous of those judgmental people. I see the irony in my reaction, of course, but my sense of superiority allows me to overcome the irony.

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Sometimes I wonder whether I unconsciously write about matters I have confronted but that haven’t yet been fully resolved. The age issue, and judgment by younger people, for example. Did that come up because I recently felt the barbs of youthful judgment? Hmm. I don’t recall any incidents that would trigger my thinking, but maybe I’ve blocked it out of my mind. It’s sometimes frightening to attempt to understand oneself without success.

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How the hell would I categorize this post? I’d have to assign a dozen categories to even begin to cover it. It’s just after 6 and my stolen cup remains empty. That is a sin against Man and Nature; I shall repent.

It’s just after 4:20, twenty minutes after I finally surrendered to the forces of insomnia. I have been awake, more or less, for hours. Thrashing about in bed, I would first throw off the blanket because I was too hot, then draw it back around me when I felt too cold. This went on for three hours before I finally gave up. During that stretch, I either fell asleep long enough to have either an odd dream or I had a bizarre hallucination.

I found myself in a large hotel suite, unpacking my suitcase, when my assigned roommate arrived. Marcie, an association executive I have known ever since I moved to the Dallas area around 1990 (but who I have not seen or even thought about since before I moved to Arkansas), said she wanted to take a quick shower before the two of us were to drive someplace two hours west of Fort Worth for a conference. The next thing I knew, Marcie was sitting in a monstrous tub—more like a pool—with two other people I did not know. And, then, I was in the tub with the three of them (by this time, the “tub” was the size of a backyard pool), feeling incredibly awkward. Needless to say, I have never seen Marcie nude, but she was nude in the pool in my “dream.” She was very tan and taut.  As were the other two people. I was nude, but not tan and taut. And then I was either too  hot or too cold. My thrashing about with the covers interrupted the experience.

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The coffee maker is programmed to turn on at 5:00. This morning, and on several other recent mornings, I had to start the thing manually because I was up early. While I waited for it to be ready to start my morning ritual, I glanced around the kitchen. The dishes in the sink reminded me that I had run the dishwasher before dinner yesterday. I was too lazy to put them away last night. So, this morning, I need to put the clean dishes away and begin refilling the dishwasher with last night’s dinner dishes. And today’s breakfast dishes, if I choose to have a breakfast involving dishes. I might, instead, just peel a mandarin and call it breakfast. Or have piece of Jewish rye toast, using a paper towel as my plate. I have to shower this morning, though after my time in the tub/pool with Marcie, I should be clean.

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Sometimes, when I have even a single obligation on my calendar, I allow that one intrusion to derail my day. I need several obligation-free days to permit me to slog through matters that, for some reason, get side-tracked by the calendar. An obvious solution is to create to-do lists instead of calendar my to-do items; it’s obvious, but also unfathomable that I have to resort to such psychological tricks to overcome mental roadblocks of my own construction. I sometimes need a keeper. My wife so seldom asked me to do things for her that I jumped at the chance when she did. That was her way of exercising control over my activities. I sorely miss being lovingly managed in that way.

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I tried to buy a treadmill, online, yesterday (or was it the day before?). Too late. They already were sold out. I am convinced I would use one, if it were conveniently located right  here in my house. After recovering some of my long-lost stamina, I probably would begin venturing out to tackle hills again. I used to walk a lot and I loved it. After walking at a rapid clip for a mile, the adrenalin rush was so strong that I felt compelled to keep going. I had to overcome lethargy for that first mile, but after that I felt like I could walk forever. But I’m older now. I’m always older now than I was then, no matter when now and then were.

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Thrasher. That’s the name of one of the small-batch seasonal beers a friend gave me. It’s a black lager, a German style Schwarzbier. I’m a fan of seasonal and small-batch craft brews. I tend consume them in “one and done” mode, which is far better for a person than drinking flavored water style beers that are better at quenching thirst (in quantity) than satisfying cravings for flavor. A friend of mine is well on his way to becoming a Cicerone, though I suspect he already possesses the requisite knowledge and discerning taste to achieve the title. As much as I appreciate beer, I will never have sufficient qualities and capabilities for that designation. Much like the difference between gourmet and gourmand, my appreciation for beer is more like the fan than the performer.

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The world would be a better place, I think, if every culture would willingly embrace the concept of mid-career or mid-life “mandatory volunteerism.” In my view, the oxymoronic term should not be limited to the conservative suggestion that recipients of public assistance should be required to “volunteer” their time to qualify for benefits. Instead, it should apply to everyone.  At a certain middle age or stage in one’s career or profession or point in life, everyone would be expected to devote a year or two (or more) to some form of public service. So, for example, a 43-year-old architect reaching the pinnacle of her career would be expected to take a specified period of time off from the profession to do public service. It could be like the Peace Corps or AmeriCorps; something like that. Service in another country or in our own. A mandatory break in the madness of getting ahead could do individuals and communities enormous good. Regardless of whether a person is a physician or a bartender, a corporate executive or an auto mechanic, a required break involving doing volunteer work unrelated to one’s job would both expand horizons and benefit the world at large. I wonder whether anyone besides me would get behind the idea?

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I need more coffee and the soothing aroma of patchouli incense; except I have run out of patchouli, so I’ll go for copal.

Yesterday’s inauguration of President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris was a watershed moment. I think. I hope. It is well beyond time we had a woman in a senior executive position in our government. Many, many other countries have long since gone beyond debunked notions that women are not suited for executive power; it’s time. And Biden’s call for unity, as difficult as it might be to achieve, is critical to the future of the nation and the world. I am hopeful. But I remain a realist. I am crossing my fingers and wishing for the best.

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The notions of forgiveness and absolution are noble concepts embraced by people for whom peace, serenity, and compassion embody far greater value than do power and control. Yet in the act of forgiving, an individual exercises authority that can be bestowed by no one else.

“Forgive and forget.” Those admonitions are easy to make, but hard to take. Once taken, though, and adopted with enthusiasm, tranquility is achievable. Blame and its companion, disparagement, agitate and brew turbulence that clouds any effort to create an atmosphere of peace.

The hardest forgiveness to achieve is forgiveness of oneself, but it is perhaps the most necessary if an atmosphere of calm ever is to be achieved. It is easy to forgive someone else for even the most egregious transgression, but forgiving oneself requires compassion and acceptance that seem undeserved. And forgiving oneself requires acknowledgement that one’s flaws are forgivable. Even when they are not. Even when one is irretrievably broken and flawed beyond redemption.

I suspect one of the reasons religion has a ready foothold in the human psyche has to do with the concept of forgiveness and redemption. Even when one is unable to forgive oneself, another person—who embodies the strength of the church and who has its authority to forgive—can remove an obstacle to self-acceptance. “I am redeemable” becomes a path to internal peace.

But those who do not accept that such power rests in the hands of others, or in the hands of a divine being, have a harder time of it. It is easy for us to believe others are forgivable; but we cannot forgive ourselves because we know ourselves too well.

All of this may be just so much nonsense; philosophy fed by an inability to stay asleep after four in the morning. But it is what’s on my mind and why I sincerely wish this morning I had access to powerful sleeping pills, something that would erase my thoughts and leave me completely empty. Wish in one hand, spit in the other…

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Television characters often have exceedingly bad luck. Their lives are laced with unfortunate experiences so numerous that viewers weep for them and wonder what they did to deserve such misfortune.

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Finally, an hour and twenty minutes into my day, I am having a cup of coffee. I did not feel well enough to start the morning with coffee when I first got up, thanks to overeating last night. My midnight snack, consisting of the remainder (from dinner) of a large piece of extremely rare beef, apparently did not set well with me. I think I have sufficiently recovered now, though, to allow coffee to safely enter my system.

If I were smart, I would embark on a month-long fast, drinking only water and eating only radishes. At the end of the month, I would comfortably fit into my jeans (and possibly my genes) and be well on my way to a more reasonable weight for someone of my limited height. After a month of it, I might even see and feel evidence of muscles that have long since been disguised by the results of too much food and drink. I am eating far too much and far too often, as if that’s the only thing I can do to occupy my time. That’s not true, of course, but I seem to have allowed my body to reach that conclusion. There was a time, not long ago, that my usual breakfast (when I wasn’t experimenting with international breakfasts) consisted of a poached egg, a piece of Canadian bacon, a small tomato, and a few radishes. That’s a good, healthy breakfast (more or less). Cinnamon rolls and mandarins and bananas and leftover pasta and such, not so much.

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Companion: a person employed to accompany, assist, or live with another in the capacity of a helpful friend. That definition seems so sad; “…in the capacity of a helpful friend.” Yeah, “employed” because, otherwise, it would be impossible to have access to that “helpful friend.” The reason I looked up the definition of companion is that, last night, I had a conversation about co-housing and how the concept has always appealed to me. The idea of being alone is both appealing and depressing; but co-housing offers the possibility of the best of both worlds. Both access to and service as a companion, while simultaneously offering solitude and privacy. But does the idea of companionship by way of co-housing seem a little like one essentially is “employing” companions, rather than developing them through natural evolution? I don’t know. I still have a great deal of interest in co-housing. I’ve explored the idea for years. My wife was not a particularly big fan of the concept, but then she was an even more dedicated introvert than I. But I find it appealing. Although it does sound, this morning, a little like “friends with benefits.” But who’s to say that is all bad? We are judgmental beasts, aren’t we? Our ideas of morality are shaped by our experiences; we probably would have completely different ideas if our experiences were different. If we lived in a different culture, behaviors we find shocking today might be absolutely normal. Sociology has always been appealing to me.

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My wife was attracted to dragonflies. She bought artwork that depicts dragonflies. She had shirts with images of dragonflies printed or sewn onto them. We had garden art with dragonfly motifs. If I were to get a tattoo, I think I might get one of a delicate dragonfly. I just do not know where I would have it placed on my body. Maybe I would have it on my left wrist, in place of a watch. If I ever get a tattoo, though, it will be a while yet. I’m not ready for a tattoo; then again, maybe I am.

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It’s just after six. After weaving this little tapestry of unrelated ideas, I may try for twenty minutes of sleep now. Or I may not.

Last night, I joined three friends for an evening reminiscent of “the way things used to be.” We sat in a pub, eating tacos, drinking margaritas (one drank a beer, as she has a dangerous allergy to agave), telling and listening to stories, and laughing. Only after I got home did grief and guilt begin to infringe on my mood.  I overcame it for awhile by watching another episode of Bosch and opening a bottle of sauvignon blanc. Alcohol offers an easy, but temporary and potentially dangerous, solution to sadness; it can wash away pain, yet it can magnify it, too. In small doses, though, it can dull sharpness.

I returned home last night with a nice sampling of small-batch beers, products of the brewery owned by the son of one of my dinner partners; she brought them to me, knowing I would appreciate them. I wish my good friends and beer aficionados, Jim and Jim, lived nearby so I could share the beer with them. Alas, they live in Virginia and New Hampshire, respectively, and these beers probably would not survive the trip.

The chief problem with going out for an evening is the return to an empty house. After spending a couple of hours with three engaging women last night, I came home to quiet. After five months at home by myself while my wife was in the hospital and rehab facilities, I had adapted reasonably well to being alone. But it’s different now. I no longer can look forward to the day she returns. Enjoying an evening without her seems wrong. I know that is absurd. It doesn’t matter, though. It is what it is.

I suspect my posts are becoming repetitive, as if all I can write about is grief and sadness and guilt and feeling empty and lost and alone. I look forward to the time when those things comprise only a tiny fraction of what occupies my mind. Listening to the other participants in yesterday’s grief group, some of whom had lost loves ones many months ago, reinforced for me the fact that that lessening of grief is a long, long process.

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I spent about twenty minutes this morning watching a fascinating YouTube video about primitive glass-making. The videographer and his associate collected all the materials, created clay kilns, and (after multiple tries) made just a few shards of glass. I think I’ll try to find the follow-up videos (the guy’s series is called How to Make Everything)  to see how (and whether) he progresses.

I’ve often wondered how modern glass, both sheet glass and bottle glass, is made. This morning’s video did not answer my curiosity about that, but it took me back to the earliest processes of attempted glass-making. I imagine I’ll find another video or two to see how it’s done in today’s modern glass factories, as well.

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Today, a new President and Vice President of the United States take office. The demeanor of the people in those positions will be radically different from what we have become used to during the past four years. Only time will tell whether the results of their leadership will be radically different; I suspect the results will be different, provided Congress does not obstruct them.  I have hope, but I am something of a realist, too. The level of my excitement today is considerably lower than it was when Bill Clinton took office and when Barack Obama took office; wild-eyed enthusiasm is better suited to people with fewer years and disappointments behind them.

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A few years ago, I dreamed up a series of make-believe how-to magazines geared toward various segments of the criminal population. I think I called them Home Invasion Today and Auto Theft Today; I may have had another one or two.  I designed covers for them, using Photoshop and a page layout program. It might be fun to resurrect those covers and create bogus content for the magazines, place them on shelves in the magazine section of a bookstore, and secretly film the reactions of people who come across them. Perhaps I’m too easily amused.

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Death is mysterious because life is all we know. Everything we have ever learned, every emotion we have ever felt, every sensation we have ever experienced has required life. No matter how hard we try, we cannot imagine the experience of death. That is either because there is no experience to be had or because we cannot fathom experience without an association with life. I find it hard to put into words a concept I do not fully understand. But I feel the concept inside me, trying to break through the dullness and confusion.

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I cannot keep my eyes open. I must get up, out of this chair, and make another cup of coffee. Otherwise, I will go to sleep where I sit and will awaken with a terrible crick in my neck.

How does a divided nation attempt to heal? How can a torn social fabric be stitched together again in a way that might ensure the cloth survives intact for at least a while longer? Purging Trump and his narcissism from the political landscape will not do it.

The fibers of national cohesion began to fray long before Trump’s deadly arrival on the political scene. In my opinion, the metastasis of healthy patriotism into deadly and divisive nationalism can be traced back to Joseph McCarthy, maybe even earlier. The definition of patriotism began to change with McCarthy’s madness; with that change in definition came a subtle change in attitudes that, over the years, has ebbed and flowed with events and policies associated with successive U.S. administrations. I think the assassination of John F. Kennedy fueled the growth in nationalism, especially in light of the conspiracy theories surrounding Lee Harvey Oswald’s role in a plot involving both international and national players. Then, the Vietnam war’s growing unpopularity, coupled with the social upheavals of the sixties, stretched the fabric that had once unified the country. The reaction to the Nixon years led to Jimmy Carter’s one-term presidency; in spite of Carter’s inherent decency, the Iran hostage crisis and Carter’s inability to end it stoked the fires of nationalism and led to Ronald Reagan’s presidency. From that point on, the divisions within the populace grew with each succeeding election. The fires were self-fueled from that point forward. Divisions, themselves, stoked the flames. Newt Gingrich’s brand of political hatred while he was Speaker of the House in the last half of the nineties should have sent signals of the coming explosions. Since then, an ugly blend of nationalism and patriotism has metastasized into a conservative/progressive divide that pits one half of the population against the other. Trump simply took advantage of the divide to feed his own ego and thirst for recognition and power. His disregard for civility and human decency is serving as a model that has very nearly torn the country apart; it may yet have that effect.

So, how do we heal? Time (if enough of it remains before the pressure cooker explodes), education, and charismatic leadership. Education will be harder now than ever before because so much of it has morphed into miseducation and propaganda. Separating fact from fiction and truth from stubbornly lodged belief will take enormous effort. And charismatic leadership might be the toughest of all. I thought Barack Obama had the charisma necessary to bring us together; instead, the fact that he was both liberal and Black seemed to have had the opposite effect. Joe Biden remains a wild card, as is Kamala Harris; we’ll just have to wait and see how they lead and whether their leadership can overcome bigotry, prejudice, and stubborn insistence at both ends of the political spectrum.

Maybe the toughest of all the elements of healing will be our collective willingness to forgive one another and our willingness to stop assigning blame. As hard as it may be for me to withhold judgement of Trump, I have to try; at least I have to try to be silent about it. And the same is true for people who loathed Barack Obama and blamed him for everything from World War II to the attacks on the World Trade Center.  See? It’s hard not to be cynical.

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So, social and political unrest has been occupying my mind thus far this morning, as I worry about the future of our country. I like to say it’s pointless to worry about things over which I have no control. But I do have just a tiny bit of control in this case. Each of us does. Just like our votes matter, so do our attitudes and our behaviors.

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This morning, I am sitting in a sacred space. I am sitting at my wife’s desk, the place where she spent so much time overseeing and managing our lives. Handling finances. Preparing grocery lists. Searching for recipes. Reading. This room was her study, the place to which she retreated for solitude and quiet. And this room is where she watched television.

While she was in the hospital, I bought her a new television. The old one was not bad, but the picture wasn’t as sharp as I thought she should have and the sound quality wasn’t what I thought it should be. I bought a sound bar to go with the television. Between hospital and rehab center stays, she only spent about a week a home, so she got the benefit of the new technologies only briefly.

I now use this desk to do what she used to do. And I watch the television here instead of in the family room where I used to watch. And this morning I think I might find it impossible to ever leave this place. This place was her “nest,” the place where she worked and relaxed and enjoyed herself. I don’t know whether I should forever treasure this space or whether I should try to avoid it and the memories that spring from it. I suppose I’ll discover the answer to that myself, over time.

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Later this morning, I will participate in an Arkansas Hospice grief group, via Zoom. I got a call a week or so ago, inviting me to join in the conversation, which takes place two or three times a month. I do not know quite what to expect. But if my behavior during the past month is any indication of how I will react to conversations about my wife, I will have a hard time maintaining my composure. I’ve been told by a number of people that I should not worry about maintaining my composure. I know that. But, still. At any rate, I’ll see what comes of it.

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I ordered dishwashing tablets and a few other items online on Saturday. When I went to pick them up at Sam’s Club, I was asked to show my ID. I wonder whether that is a preventative measure or whether someone has ordered groceries online using a stolen credit card? If the latter, I find it sad that someone would find it necessary to steal someone else’s credit card in order to buy groceries. So many people, though, are just days away from being unable to pay rent or buy groceries or pay their utility bills. I imagine the organizations and agencies that serve people in need are stretched beyond their limits nowadays. When I think about such matters, the idea of anonymously paying for a stranger’s lunch is no longer so appealing; I’d rather pay for someone’s lunch if I know they really need it. “Paying it forward” by buying someone’s lunch does more for the purchaser than for the recipient. I guess I’ve made a 180 degree turn on that matter.

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It’s nearing 7:00, time for a little breakfast. One of my favorite blog followers told me I need not worry about showering every day. That’s good to know. But I think I’ll shower today, anyway.

Yesterday, I left so much unwritten. I had so much more to say. But today I struggle to write anything. It’s not that I have writer’s block, it’s simply that I cannot summon the intellectual energy to search my mind for anything worth recording.

One month ago, my wife died. The time has simultaneously dragged by at the speed of ice-cold syrup flowing on a flat surface and flown past at twice the speed of light.  Perhaps that’s it. An artificial milepost I see in the rearview mirror, just as I slam into it in front of me.

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During my most recent CT scan, last month, the radiologic technician gave up after two tries. Blood vessels on the inside of my elbow were uncooperative. My reaction to each jab—an overt expression of discomfort bordering on outright pain—convinced him that the normally more painful route, a needle jabbed into a vein on the top of my right hand, was the better option. It turned out to be the least painful one, as well.

Every time a get a CT scan, I feel the odd warmth caused by injected fluid coursing through my body. Each time, before they inject the fluid, I’m warned I may feel warmth in my throat and I may also feel like I am peeing. And I do. I sense warm urine spreading throughout my nether regions. Fortunately, it’s only an artificial sensation; not the real thing.

I never worry that the results of the CT scan of my chest will reveal lung cancer has returned. Until I hear otherwise, I will assume cancer has been permanently eradicated from my body. There’s no sense in worrying about something over which I have no control. I wish I could transfer that very healthy attitude about worry for my health to every other aspect of my life. Far less consequential things torment me. It’s just the cancer that I’ve learned to ignore.

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“I have a book in me.” I hear or read those words occasionally from people who want to write a book. I do not often speak those words, though, because I think my book has been written. It just hasn’t been organized, edited, and published. Within the nearly 3500 posts I’ve written for this blog—coupled with the hundreds or thousands I’ve written on blogs I’ve abandoned and the other material I have written but kept to myself—there’s enough to cobble together a book. These thoughts are not new. I’ve probably written them down for this blog more than once before. What’s missing is not the material, it’s the discipline to go through everything and to discard the vast amount of irrelevant drivel in favor of a few gems. There may be one or two hundred pages worth weaving together into something of emotional or intellectual value. “Value.” That’s the key issue. Would enough value remain after all the effort to warrant going to all the work? There’s only one way to find out. Thus far, I’ve been unwilling to expend the energy to risk learning it wasn’t worth my time. Still, maybe one day.

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Yesterday, I put on sweats and flip-flops when I got up. I did not shower, shave, or otherwise prepare for a “normal” day all day long. I never changed clothes. So far today, I am following the same pattern. Same sweats, same flip-flops. The idea of showering and shaving does not appeal to me in the least again today; there’s too much effort involved. But I must drag myself out of the doldrums. I need to get things done. While I do not necessarily have to get out of the house, I might feel better if I do. And I always feel better after showering and shaving, even though it involves “work.” After I shower and before I dry myself off, I use a squeegee to wipe the shower walls and the glass wall and door “dry.” And I use a soft cloth to wipe the remaining droplets of water off the glass and the chrome fixtures to avoid the formation of water spots

I sometimes ponder what a typical day was like for people in the mid-1800s. How did it begin? How often did people bathe back then? What were their morning routines? What time did the “average” person get up and how often did they bathe? I suspect my routine is quite different. I wash my hair every time I shower; how often did my great grandparents shower/bathe and did they wash their hair every time? I do not remember ever reading a book that took me through a day in the life of someone in enough detail so that I could truly envision how their lives unfolded, day by day. I remain curious about that, even now in geezerhood. I wonder whether other people have similar curiosity? It would be interesting (to me), to listen to ten people each describe their typical early mornings in great detail. Would there be a discernible pattern, or are we radically different creatures?

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I’ve already had coffee this morning. I think I’ll start tomorrow with tea, instead. It will make me feel a little closer to my wife. She was not a coffee drinker. She enjoyed her hot tea in the morning. As a rule, neither of us added anything to our morning beverages, though on extremely rare occasion when she opted to brew a special tea she used a bit of cream or milk. My wife bought tea in quantity. She bought tea bags, usually decaf tea from Kroger. She liked it as much as she liked any other tea. She rarely used loose tea and an infuser; the bagged teas were quicker, simpler, and just as satisfying to her. The little things like morning routines can be excruciatingly painful to think about sometimes.

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I do need to shower today. And so I will. And wash my hair and shave and take my regular medications and, probably, have something for breakfast.

God, what an emotional morning. An emotional morning that followed an emotional night.

Last night, I invited my former sculpture and pottery instructor to come to my house for a visit. She and her partner accepted my invitation, arriving at my house around eight. They brought wine and compassion and ears willing to listen to me mourn. I issued my invitation after I already had more wine than I should have had. But without the wine, I would not have been so brash; I would have spent the evening alone, aching for company. So, I am glad I indulged myself in a wine solo. My friend and her partner (I consider her my friend, too) were willing listeners and partners in my grief, lubricated with pinot noir. They drove more than half an hour, each way, to give me solace. I suspect they had better things to do on a Saturday night than to visit with a teary geezer; I so appreciate their kindness in giving their time to me, instead. I must send them words of appreciation; they undoubtedly do not read this blog, so this off-the-cuff paragraph won’t do.

This morning’s emotion arose from watching and listening to the church service recorded yesterday and days before, stitched together by a dedicated team of volunteers. I started watching and listening to today’s service a little before six this morning. Usually, I consume the recorded services in bits and pieces, but this morning I watched it from start to finish without a pause. The presentation by the woman who introduced the service was especially moving. Not only were the words she spoke quite powerful, the way she delivered them seemed directed entirely at me, as if we were alone in a room and she was offering her comfort and compassion specifically to me. When she finished, I felt like I wanted to reach into the screen and  hug her.

After the introduction and the music and so forth, an excellent video remembrance—with photographs of people the church has lost over the years—was shown. It was moving, too. I was touched by the images of friends who are no longer here. And the photographs of my wife brought me to tears. I am so grateful to the people who put in so much effort to produce the remembrance. The minister’s words, too, were powerful and helped deepen the meaning of the recollection.

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It’s now just after seven, two hours since I fought my way from under the covers. When I woke up, I felt like I was bound to the bed; the top sheet had somehow wrapped around my legs, lashing me to the bed as if I had been tied down.

The sky has shed darkness in favor of light. I did not notice it happening, in that the video sermon/presentation commanded my full attention. I didn’t notice the light even when I went into the kitchen, where I made my second cup of coffee and peeled a clementine for phase one of breakfast. My mind was too focused on recalling the video to pay attention to the sky’s metamorphosis.

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There’s so much more I want to write, but I think I need to give myself some time to simply experience coffee and silence, instead. Maybe I’ll play Words with Friends if anyone has played with me since last night. And maybe I’ll invite my sister-in-law to come over for our more or less routine morning chat. And maybe I’ll write thank-you notes to people who have been, and continue to be, so kind to me. Emotions do not necessarily evoke tears. Sometimes, emotions paint smiles.

My thoughts this morning seem to be lighter than usual, as if they were painted in pastels.

No surprise. Awake at three again. Thrashing around in bed, trying to empty the tangled fishing line, treble hooks, plastic bags, soda cans, and soggy empty cigarette packs from my brain. I just wanted to get comfortable so I could sleep. After giving it all the time I was willing to give, I gave up. I played a few games of Words with Friends, tried to find some unusual and appealing recipes for sardines and grits, and contemplated making an early breakfast. That still has not happened, but I may go the sardines and grits route a little later.

I don’t think I’ve made sardines and grits since we moved to Hot Springs Village. It’s an easy dish to make and I like it quite a lot, at least my version of the dish. I just cook some grits on the stovetop, put them in a bowl with hot sauce, ground black pepper, and smashed canned sardines, mix it all up, and heat the concoction just enough to warm the mixture nicely. I was hoping to find something simple with a little more pop to it, perhaps with habanero peppers for heat and some vinegar and sugar for some surprising zip. I didn’t look hard enough or long enough.

Though my wife liked sardicado sandwiches (consisting of a paste of sardines, avocados, ground black pepper, and lemon juice spread between two pieces of toasted black bread), she was not terribly fond, otherwise, of sardines. I convinced her to try smoked herring and before long she liked it as much as I do, but sardines were another story. When I first tried to get her to take a bite of a sardicado sandwich, she thought I was attempting to either play a trick or poison her. But she rapidly came around. She anxiously awaited the availability of inexpensive avocadoes every year so we could have sardicado sandwiches for lunch. Thinking about that this morning is simultaneously painful and comforting.

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I still have done nothing about selling the Camry. All I need to do is to get it as clean as a whistle and talk to McCann’s (thanks for the tip, Colleen) about selling it on consignment. But even that little task is easy for me to put off and, so, I have. But it’s on my agenda for the upcoming week, along with a bunch of other odds and ends. The weather forecast, at this point, calls for rain and showers toward the end of the week, so I am apt to do my “outdoor” errands early in the week. Inside the house, I plan to move the borrowed twin bed to the side and try to get the massive, heavy, overwhelming beast of a queen-sized bed frame back up so I can attempt to put the Sleep-Number box springs and mattress on it. Then, I’ll be able to give the guest room bed, where I’ve been sleeping, a rest. Pun intended. My next-door neighbors have offered to help with the bed. It’s easily a four-person job, so when I’m ready to give the task a try, I may seek at least one additional set of strong arms and shoulders.

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Men—and of course I include myself—can be vain, stupid, undisciplined, and lazy. My wife tried for years to get me to regularly use lotion on my skin. I would acquiesce for a while, but I always slipped back into my habit of letting my skin do without lotion. I now understand her point. My skin dries out incredibly fast now. It gets chalky and scaly and otherwise unpleasantly brittle and inflexible. A little like leather left out in the sun; maybe not quite that bad, but it’s heading in that direction. Aside from my sloth and other indefensible reasons for not using skin cream or lotion, I was always in too much of a hurry. “If I don’t let it sit there on my skin for a long time, it makes it hard to pull on a t-shirt because it ‘catches’ on the moist skin.” My excuse was that it takes too much time. What an idiot.  Now, every time I wash my face or shower, the skin on my face and neck dry into skin deserts almost immediately. If I don’t use something to moisten the skin, which too often I still do not, my skin looks and feels like dry paper that’s been sanded just enough to raise the fibers. Let my wisdom-gained-too-late be a lesson.

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I am only just beginning to read a book entitled It’s OK that You’re Not Okay: Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture that Doesn’t Understand, by Megan Devine. My long-time Facebook friend and blogger, Bev, recommended it to me. I’m finding it both illuminating and comforting, with a little hopefulness and hopelessness on my part thrown in. So far, I especially appreciate the author’s concise statements and her insistence that grief is different for every person. Thanks to my sister-in-law thumbing through the book and calling my attention to something near the back, I read the Appendix entitled “How to Help a Grieving Friend. ” I found it especially especially insightful. A printable version of the appendix can be found at this URL: https://www.refugeingrief.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/grieving-friend-essay-PDF.pdf, in case anyone is interested.

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Yesterday afternoon, I glanced at a photo hanging in front of my computer screen. It is of several members of my family. My wife is in the photo. I almost called out to her to come look at it. I’ve spoken to her many times, half expecting an answer. I’ve apologized for things I’ve said or ways I’ve behaved, hoping to hear her respond, saying it was okay, don’t worry about it, it was nothing. But it must have been something, because it weighs heavily on my mind. Whatever it was, it was thoughtless, inconsiderate, and on the cusp of cruelty, if not well beyond it. I think all these thoughts are telling me one thing: I want to make sure she knew before she died that I loved her beyond measure. But I can never be sure of that. Never. It always will be an unanswered question. Of course I hope and believe she knew, but I can never be one hundred percent certain. And that pain is impossible to erase or excise or scrape away. That aspect of grief is almost intolerable.

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The story is too long for my fingers to tell, so I’ll get to the point: a couple in the market to buy a mountain view home came to take a look at my house yesterday. They loved it. They know I am not prepared to sell right away, but they want me to keep in touch with them and, especially, to let them know when I’m ready to sell. Nothing may come of it, whenever the time comes, but it was good to hear how interested they were.

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One year ago I wrote something of which I am proud, though I’m not quite sure why:

What is fiction? It is truth clothed in costumes. It is the view from the other side of the mirror. It is the tragic/comic outcome of unrestrained authenticity. It is reality disguised to protect the writer from judgment or institutionalization or both.

I believe I wrote truth when I wrote those words. And now, I will leave these words to go engage with the requirements of January 16, 2021. Never forget, whether you read this or not, I love you.

Synchronicity. I encountered an example of synchronicity yesterday. I spent some time with a financial advisor, asking questions about steps I should take to simplify my rather complex, but not particularly large, investment portfolio. Of course, the primary question for me was how to first take care of transferring joint ownership to sole ownership and some related matters. During the course of our conversation, I mentioned that I might want to sell my too-large house at some point, but probably not right away.

A few hours later, as I was playing Words with Friends with my sister-in-law, I got a call from the financial advisor. Another new client—a couple who just moved to the Village from the Pacific Northwest—visited her after I did yesterday afternoon. They mentioned that they were looking for a house with a mountain view. She told them about me and suggested, though it might be a bit early, they might want to talk to me.  Apparently, they wanted to; they asked her to contact me to ask me to call them. I tried to reach them by phone, but voice mail had not been set up on the number I was given. And it probably is too early. But…synchronicity.

Some people would say “everything happens for a reason.” Though I cannot accept that within the framework it is usually presented, I can acknowledge that there’s a “reason,” but not necessarily a reason orchestrated in accord with a grand plan. Yet, such coincidences sometimes seem to happen with a frequency that cannot be easily explained by statistical probability.

I would have a hard time explaining away the coincidence if the financial advisor suggested her new client allow her to reach out to me had I not mentioned to her my possible interest in selling my house. That would have been beyond coincidental; it would have been paranormal. Or something like that.

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Early wine can lead to unintended sleep and disorientation. I woke up last night just before nine, unsure of whether I had slept all night in front of the television. The closing moments of Law & Order: SVU were on the TV when I opened my eyes. By the time I had recovered enough mental presence to understand my surroundings, Dateline had begun. I had started watching television at 5:30, when I decided to watch the Nightly News with Lester Holt. I used to watch that news program with regularity, switching at six to the PBS Newshour. But not last night. Somewhere between Lester Holt and Judy Woodruff, I fell asleep, catching roughly three hours of unintended sleep without changing the channel. That’s what can happen when one starts drinking wine at three in the afternoon, pacing oneself to correspond to games of Words with Friends.  It’s exceedingly rare for me to have anything alcoholic quite that early, but it just seemed like the thing to do yesterday.

Between the time I had my first glass of wine and the time I fell asleep, I made an early dinner. My neighbors had gone to Little Rock yesterday and generously dropped off a few bags of frozen dinners just before three. Perfect timing. I made an early dinner of Trader Joe‘s chicken & fried rice before I sat down to watch Lester Holt. Sometime between three and 5:30, I consumed enough wine to anesthetize me. My empty bowl of chicken and fried rice, which I had flavored with sambal oleek and soy sauce, was next to me on the love seat when I awoke just before nine.

It is pointless to try to go to bed immediately after arising from a lengthy alcohol-induced nap. But one’s disorientation and general displeasure with oneself at having over-indulged is not suited for much else. I turned off the television upon waking and had no interest in turning it back on, nor was I interested in surfing news sites on the internet or doing anything else, for that matter. So I sat and stewed for a while. I considered emptying the dishwasher of clean dishes, but opted to delay that until the morning. And I considered calling a friend in Fort Smith, but I generally avoid calling anyone after eight so I opted not to do that. Instead, made a gin & tonic. I should have known that was a waste of decent gin and tolerable tonic. I drank a few sips of it before realizing a gin & tonic after a three hour wine-induced nap tastes awful. I hated disposing of a perfectly good drink down the drain, but gin & tonic over ice does not keep well so I discarded the newly-made drink. And I switched to Diet Coke, once a favorite of mine but something I rarely buy these days. It was good. Very good. Much better than wine or gin & tonic, at least at that hour.

I had a thousand things on my mind yesterday afternoon and last night, but I was able to hide them from myself for long enough to go to sleep after my non-alcoholic refreshment. I was not able to keep them hidden all night, though. I awoke at three to pee. Getting back to sleep took a very long time. In fact, I was almost sure there was no point in staying in bed but, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, the clock suddenly displayed 5:00. Somewhere between three and five, I must have gone to sleep. A few minutes after five, I got up for the day.

As I type this, the dishwasher remains full and the chicken & fried rice dinner dishes remain in the sink. Unless my discipline fails me, both of those situations will be handled forthwith. But not until after I’ve finished exercising my fingers and finished at least my first cup of coffee.

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Cinnamon incense has a pleasant aroma. So does opium incense. As do several other uniquely odoriferous incense choices. But I find that I prefer patchouli and sandalwood, the more traditional scents I once associated with head shops (but, to be clear, I never frequented head shops).  Before I buy more of the traditional stuff, though, I have a rather enormous number of cones of other scents to go through. Twelve scents, I think, each of which has six or twelve cones. My house will smell a little like an Indian grocery store for a while.

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A friend came by for a while yesterday morning, bearing a plate of keto-friendly foods; stuffed jalapeños, cheese crisps, thick bacon, and more. Though I had eaten breakfast earlier, I was more than ready for the late-morning infusion of energy. It constituted my lunch. The foods were the sorts of things I would happily eat every day, but the amount of time required to make them would strain my patience and put my limited discipline to a revealing test. While we ate, we touched on memories of reading Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein. The title of the book is from Exodus 2:22 of the King James Version of the Bible: “And she bare him a son, and he called his name Gershom: for he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land.” It has been almost fifty years since I read that book; my friend and I will read it again and compare notes. I think I may try to find the original unedited version, which his widow arranged to have published in 1991. Heinlein is said to have preferred his original to the heavily edited version we read.  The book came up during a conversation about friends, friendship, and my recollection of the deep friendships described by the term water brothers in Heinlein’s book.

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This blog has evolved over time. Originally, I think it was more of a place for me to store short stories and snippets of fiction I thought I might use in longer pieces. Lately, especially, it has become more of a journal than anything else. In the intervening years, it was a combination of fiction, philosophy, journal, and platform. I suppose it remains a hybrid of sorts; not enough of any one thing to hold anyone’s interest for long. I sometimes think it represents a raw display of a jumbled, jangled, mind released from its skull cage; spilled onto the screens of a dozen unfortunate readers. But, then, as I go back and read what was on my mind five years ago or three months ago or day before yesterday, it seems to me to be my personal treasure of memories. It reminds me that I can think deeply about things and that I can question my own thoughts and beliefs and motives. It is, in some respects, my lifeline to the world. It sometimes is my only connection to the universe outside my windows. Why would I write this paragraph? Simply to record a thought. To give myself a chance, later in life, to remember what I was thinking. There’s no guarantee that there will be a time “later in life,” of course, but if there is, I want to have something to remind me how life was “back then.”

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If I could get an injection that would fill me with all the knowledge of humankind …physics, philosophies, science, carpentry, medicine, forestry, road-building, printing, everything…but getting that knowledge would be paid for by limiting my life to one more year from today, would I take the injection? That would have been a reluctant “no” a few months ago, but today I would lean heavily toward “yes.”  Emotional ties can be far stronger than a desire for knowledge. Knowledge is like attractive thin rope, while emotional bonds are more like tempered steel chains. But that attractive thin rope can be braided into something stronger. So maybe I would not just lean toward “yes” but be lashed to “yes” like a captain to a ship’s mast in the aftermath of a mutiny.

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I’ll probably write this post in two pieces: one, Wednesday night before bed, when I am contemplating sleep but knowing it will require effort to achieve; and, two, Thursday morning after I awake, either early or late but not likely somewhere in the middle.

Time slipped by quickly this evening. After an excellent early dinner with neighbors, I came home and changed into comfortable lounging gear, then watched another couple of episodes of Bosch, before turning to “live” television for the tail end of the PBS Newshour. In the remaining minutes of the program, I listened and watched Judy Woodruff engage Yamiche Alcindor, Lisa Desjardins, and Amna Nawaz in conversation about their experiences during the insurrection of the Capitol. I found their personal perspectives just as intriguing as the news they usually report.

While I was watching the news, I exchanged a series of texts with a couple of (physically) distant friends, ultimately almost confirming a telephone and/or video chat for next week. We had a workable date until I realized I had double-booked; I’ve done that on multiple occasions in the recent past. My memory seems shot, though I’ve received assurances that the aftermath of grief (or the effects of ongoing grief) can play havoc with short term memory. I hope it’s a short term problem. I really hate forgetting whether I’ve had lunch or dinner just hours after finishing meals. So far, the memories have returned, but only after intense coaxing. Somewhere along the spectrum of television-watching, I heard statements that made me question whether I remain relevant. Relevance, like so many other matters, is contextual. Am I relevant in the context of my maleness, my whiteness, or my European ancestry? Am I relevant in the context of the extent to which I am very different from the demographics of people who are becoming a diverse majority? Am I relevant in the context of how divergent I am from the stereotypical standard of American males? So many contextual comparisons, so many opportunities to fall short.

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As expected, I could not sustain my writing for long. Just after midnight, I called it a day. But to the best of my knowledge, my concerns that I would have a hard time getting to sleep and/or staying asleep were unfounded. I fell asleep quickly. I awoke at 6:00, somewhere between early and late; “somewhere in the middle,” after all.

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Once again, I have scheduled too many obligations and too little time to “chill” between them. So, I will miss the men’s parking lot gathering at church this morning. As much as I enjoy being outdoors and listening to the conversation (and contributing to it just enough to feel like I am not simply an eavesdropper), the gathering is something I can safely remove from my schedule, giving myself a little breathing room between self-imposed obligations.

Today’s obligations include one that, I hope, will kickstart my efforts to take care of the unpleasantness involved in removing my late wife’s name from accounts, credit cards, and title to the house. Today I will meet with an advisor. Afterward, I expect to prepare letters to send to account custodians, giving them instructions. I just want those things to be behind me, so I will be free to get away for a while. A road trip, whether short or long, might do wonders to clear my head and restore some semblance of normalcy to my thinking.

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I took a short break from the computer screen a bit ago. As I walked back to the study, the view out the southeast-facing windows was stunning. A bright orange and coral band stretched across a purple, almost black, horizon. Above that band of distant sunlit clouds, the sky softened into muted salmon and tan and, finally, a pastel mix of pale blue and white and grey. Wisps of violet clouds, brighter above than below, stuttered across the sky. Only a painter or expert photographer could do justice to the scene; even a highly skilled novelist with a penchant for describing landscapes could not possibly capture the glory of that vision.

+++

“All politics is local.” The late Tip O’Neil, former Speaker of the House, is said to have uttered that phrase and inserted it into popular culture. While I do not necessarily agree with the idea completely, I think it is generally correct.  So, too, are all insurrections local. But “local” has taken on a new meaning with the advent of instant global communication. “Local” means intellectually nearby, not just in close physical proximity. Local ideas about insurrections merge into regional and national and even global miasmas. Facebook and Twitter and their tribe of similarly capable distributors of both rational and irrational thought put dangerous tools in the hands of both twisted monsters and thoughtful protesters. They do it without regard to merit and without any realistic constraints on dangerous, twisted lies. Local lies become widespread “facts.” Perceived injustice becomes irrefutable evidence of the trampling of rights.

Many, and perhaps most, people would argue that tools of mass instantaneous communications cannot legitimately be withheld from the masses. The same people argue that free speech cannot and should not be subject to interference for political gains. And I cannot argue with them. Except that I can. And I do. Collectively, we seem incapable of determining that point on the spectrum of “free speech” at which speech becomes incitement. We seem incapable of reaching even tentative agreement that code-speak can be just as dangerous as outright instruction. And so we simplify our dilemma by saying all speech should be free. Except yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. But screaming “stop the steal” to an agitated crowd, many members of which are carrying weapons, is okay. Somewhere along the line, we need to come to agreement on the points at which “speech” transforms into “incitement.”

We haven’t been able to reach agreement on the point at which “the right to bear arms” is beyond the pale, yet there seems to be almost universal acceptance, if not outright agreement, that the right to bear arms does not include the right to a nuclear arsenal or a collection of pipe bombs in the basement. But it’s okay to have caches of semi-automatic weapons for use in “target practice” or “deer hunting” or “home defense.” And it’s okay in many places to have “silencers” or “suppressors” to minimize the sound of the discharge of rifles and pistols. The better to keep neighbors unaware of the massacre taking place in the house next door.

All politics is local. The sale of liquor is prohibited, except in bars, in Arkansas on Sundays. Because “Jesus,” I suppose. But Jesus carried an AR-15, so no such prohibition exists for weapons. Just as regulation of silencers is stripped away by local politics, regulations can mushroom by the same mechanism. When will the sale of liquor be prohibited on Monday? Because, “barbers,” perhaps.

+++

My mood this morning is not reliable. I can be “up” one minute and “down” the next. If I had sweet rolls, I could be reliably cheerful. But I forgot to buy a tube of cinnamon rolls yesterday; and I think I promised myself I would transform my lifestyle into a healthy, Mediterranean-based mode of living. Perhaps I lied, but it was an accidental lie. I did not mean to do it. After I have a sweet roll, I will rethink my position on Earth in the hope that I will become the paragon of virtue I’ve sometimes wished I were. Sometimes is the operative word. Periodically deviant and sometimes a model of decency.

+++

It is too close to 8:00 for me to be blogging. Time for more coffee and to find my phone.

The clock has not yet reached 5:50 a.m., yet I am clean-shaven and freshly showered. I went to bed last night just after eleven, having watched an episode or two of Bosch, a detective story I know little about but that, so far, seems interesting. It is available on Amazon Prime, a channel I rarely bother to explore. Desiring a break from Hinterland and Queen’s Gambit and a few others, I decided to venture back into Americana television, which is how I began watching Bosch. It is somewhat interesting and it is entertainment and it gave me a respite from genres whose attractions for me are beginning to fray.

I think the wear and tear is not so much on the genre but on the medium. Television, in all its iterations, has become boring, at least for now. I think a vacation from spoon-fed news and entertainment may be in order. If my eyesight was more consistent and my eyes less likely to tire from reading, I might immerse myself in books again; but I’m not quite ready for that. Music and thought are the two remaining forms of immersive diversion readily available to me. Music takes only one form for me: listening. Thought takes two: analysis and fantasy. But I detest the word “fantasy” because for me it conjures up images of Alice in Wonderland or Behind the Green Door. I am not quite sure what word better describes flights of the imagination that allow one to escape into an inner dimension free of restraints and constraints and obstacles. I shouldn’t say I detest the word; that’s ludicrous. I detest my knee-jerk reaction to the images the word extracts from deep in my brain.

Even music I love can become tiresome at times. I enjoy every kind of music I have ever heard, though admittedly it has taken time to get used to some of it. Yet even my hundreds of favorites tend to wear thin. I suppose my moods and most recent experiences dictate my response to music. One minute, I can thoroughly enjoy The Who or Gordon Lightfoot or Pachelbel and the next desire the music of Simon & Garfunkel or Ween or Doc Watson. And the next moment, all I want is silence. Absolute silence. But silence is never available to me. I told my sister-in-law over coffee the other day that I constantly hear a background noise of “crickets” or the sound of my heartbeat as it pumps blood through the vessels and veins in proximity to my ears.

Imagination or fantasy or make-believe or whatever you might choose to call it never gets old, though. At least I think not. Perhaps I just don’t realize it, though. Maybe when I switch to music or reading or consuming spoon-fed entertainment, the trigger is boredom with my own fantasies. Occasionally, I try to put myself inside the head of people about whom I know almost nothing. For example, a young boy, a kid who at ten years old already is becoming a bully, thanks to poor self-esteem and classmates who have no compassion for him—the child who later will be targeted for elimination by a smarter and more lethal deeply-introverted classmate. Or a fifty-something woman who seeks companionship and adventure and affection outside of her marriage because she feels an aching emptiness in her life, an emptiness based on a need for her life to have meaning; to matter. But “fantasies,” too, can become tired and repetitive. When music and reading and television and flights of fancy lose their appeal, what’s left to fill the void? Companionship and conversation and social exposure can replace it all, but COVID-19  has wrecked much of that. Isolation, as attractive as it can be, can rob a person of feeling that she matters or is loved.

Love, that’s another emotion that—like friendship—calls for descriptive terms that make sense across a long spectrum. Either that, or my perspectives on friendship and love are subject to unnecessary self-imposed restrictions. Maybe both. “I love you.” Those words rely heavily on context to supply their meaning. “I love you as a friend;” those words are loaded with meaning supplied not so much by what they say, but by words that are missing from the sentence. “But.” When combining “friend” with “love,” the complexities become labyrinthine.

When I left the academic environment so many years ago (when I left graduate school in pursuit of truth and beauty in the real world), I did not immediately lose access to attractive and fulfilling conversations like those readily available in academia. I had a friend, a professor at a junior college, who enjoyed engaging in probing conversations and friendly debate as much as I did. But over time I lost touch with him, as I moved from city to city and state to state. I learned several years ago that he died suddenly of a heart condition. Over time, those conversations faded into memory.

Our conversations were not really “academic” in nature; they were simply interesting. They gave both of us opportunities to explore ideas and to get reactions to concepts that might have seemed foreign and even off-putting to many people. I miss those conversations. The only other person with whom I’ve been able to have those conversation has been my wife. While she was not as engaged in many of them as my old friend had been, she understood my thoughts and she gave me the opportunity to express them. Some mornings, when memories of some of the conversations my wife and I had surface, I have a hard time keeping my composure.

I’ve wandered in and out of this post, giving myself a chance to have more coffee and to see that the sun has risen while I was distracted by the screen. It is nearing 7:20 and I have a day to confront, so I will gently end this thought-dump and go about my life.

Everything is broken now.

Thus begin the lyrics to a song, Or the thoughts within a poem. The words spilled from my lips in a panicked sprint, as if attempting to avoid pain or danger or an enraged predator, angry that its first attempt at a kill had failed. More words followed, some rhyming and some avoiding the repetitive sing-song pattern that incensed the hunter. The song—if that’s what it was—escaped my mouth in a rush of words, its redundant chorus emphasizing the theme. Everything is broken now.

More than a day has passed since then. I did not post here yesterday.

Once the verses stumbled toward their awkward conclusions, I woke up. That is, if I really had been sleeping. I doubt the trance was actually slumber. More likely, it was an emotional coma, brought on by the late hour and the disturbing television programs of the night before. Augmented, without doubt, by gin & tonic and its earlier companion, red wine. Mixing the stuff is troublesome, and I know it, but it’s not deadly in small doses. I drank the liquid anesthesia sometime before 10:00. And I watched the television screen, fully awake, until 1:45. I consciously decided, just before 2:00, to try to sleep. And I did. But I woke yesterday at 4:00 and got out of bed for all of forty-five seconds, returning with a promise I would get up by 4:45. My promise was worth nothing. I woke up just after 7:00.  After showering and shaving, I dressed in jeans that no longer fit and decided to abandon my usual routine of writing—I had “written” enough during the brief period of sleep. I spent most of the remainder of the morning retrieving medications from the pharmacy and picking up old mail from the post office. And, of course, I tried to document the lyrics to the extent my memory allowed.

A friend brought me two bottles of his hand-crafted wine yesterday afternoon. We drank from a bottle of white Bahama Mama while discussing the species of wood he might use to craft an urn for my wife’s ashes. Another of his wine creations, a chocolate and orange hybrid he says people either love or hate, awaits tasting. While we chatted and sipped the wine, I volunteered I was pondering what I might want to do with what’s left of my life. I suggested to him I could become a geezer gigolo, given the number of single and widowed and otherwise lonely women in the Village; I think I must have been slightly drunk at the time of my suggestion. More realistically, I told him, the idea of a year of travel appeals to me, but COVID-19 and anarchy could effectively eliminate the option.  The few opportunities I have been able to take to meet virtual friends—bloggers and Facebook connections and a few followers of my blog—have confirmed for me that I want more. In some cases, I know what those people look like; I have seen their photographs. But in others the only concepts I have of their appearances are in my imagination. It’s interesting to me that, without even the slightest hints, I envision hair style and eye color, body shape, skin tones, and the shapes of their mouths when they smile. Experience tells me my visions usually are far from reality. Surprises keep me on my toes. Like this one; I have drifted far afield of where I was going when I started this paragraph.

+++

I continued drinking other wine after my friend left. And I burned incense, despite my earlier misgivings; another friend suggested my reticence about doing that was misplaced; she observed that my wife would rather I burn incense to find comfort than to see me sad and broken. I use the term “friend” even when the word may not be completely appropriate. Calling someone—with whom one has an amiable and casual but not truly deep relationship—an “acquaintance” seems almost derogatory. But calling that person “friend” seems too familiar and a bit disingenuous. I lack the vocabulary I believe is necessary to describe degrees of relationship between close friend and utter stranger. Acquaintance seems to fall much closer to utter stranger than to friend, but what other words are there? The English language should have a spectrum of terms to describe relationships.  Consider the range of terms to describe romantic or sexual relationships: lover, paramour, sweetheart, beau, girlfriend, boyfriend…and on and on and on. But more casual or platonic relationships? Acquaintance, pal, chum, associate…the pickings are slim and awkward.

As I gaze at the lists above, I notice my use of girlfriend and boyfriend. Those terms convey different meanings, depending on the sexual orientation and the sex of the players. Women often use the term girlfriends to describe both friends and acquaintances of the same sex; the term boyfriend seems to suggest a closer, nonplatonic engagement. Many, if not most, men would be hesitant to call a male friend or acquaintance boyfriend. They would be equally hesitant to call a woman girlfriend unless the relationship clearly was romantic and/or sexual in nature. These observations or, more correctly, assumptions rely on my heterosexual identity; I might see things differently if I were gay or bisexual. Who knows? I don’t.

+++

Sunday, my regular “yard-guy” came by with his colleague to blow leaves and otherwise tend to making my lots look reasonably well-maintained. The cost of the service, while probably reasonable, is considerable. I have, for years, toyed with the idea of buying a gas-powered backpack blower; spending $300-$400 now could save me literally thousands over the course of a few years. Or, the expense might encourage me to attempt to scale steep slopes and walk on unstable ground when I should not. I could die by smashing my head against sharp rocks because of losing my balance and falling. Or, I could move to a place with safer surface area. Or, I could devote time and effort to improving my strength, endurance, and balance, minimizing the likelihood of yard-work-related death or disability. Such seemingly minor matters grow more pressing as years go by. I write this paragraph as if I really am a geezer. I’m not. Yet. My father climbed up on the roof and otherwise took unwise risks well into his late seventies. I’m just past my mid-sixties, yet I seem to think I am more fragile than I am. I’m not fragile. At least not physically. Physically, I am just a tad out of shape; nothing that a bit of discipline and exercise can’t fix. “A tad” may be an understatement. Still, I’m repairable. My legs, especially, are strong and as stable as mesquite. Hmm. Something to not only think about, but do something about.

+++

I will pick up a grocery order this morning. If I had been thinking clearly when I put in my order, I would have ordered some breakfast sweets. For reasons unknown to me, I lately have an appetite for cinnamon roles or apple crisps or something equally as unhealthy but just as satisfying. But, no. Instead, I ordered radishes and a cucumber and bananas and apples and tomatoes and broccoli and cheese and several inedibles like deodorant and paper towels and Dove bath soap. I tried to order dishwashing tablets, but the store does not have the ones I want in stock. So, Amazon probably will come to the rescue. As it did yesterday, when I ordered a used paperback book and an assortment of incense. My life is too easy; I can order what I want online, while many millions the world over do not have access to adequate clean water and sufficient food to keep them alive. Or maybe my life is not too easy; maybe theirs is just too hard. Or, maybe, we exist at two ends of a spectrum, when a point somewhere in the middle is where all of us should be.

+++

I finished Bad Blood. I continue watching Hinterland. and Queen’s Gambit and various other things that keep me occupied and fill my mind with unnecessary but deeply appreciated diversions. I want a massage, given by someone who views the process not as a financial transaction, but as a healing gift. Even after acknowledging my life of unnecessary luxury, I still “want” as oppose to “need.” The very idea that I would rather appreciate what I have as opposed to what I desire is yet another “want.” I want to be a different, decent, better person. I want that. But do I need that? Maybe I don’t, but others do. The reward of giving. Reward. We seek rewards, even in altruism. I want a hug. I want an embrace. I need to give an embrace to someone who needs it more than I. This paragraph, like so many before, is attempting to slip into a worm-hole.

And I still need to see my doctor to have him remove skin defects, whether with scalpel or with a red-hot iron or with a sharpened axe and a pocket knife. Maybe later. You’d be surprised there’s so much to be done. Count all the bees in the hive. Chase all the clouds from the sky.

The sun will not rise for almost two and one-half hours. Peering into the darkness, I cannot forecast what the day will look like. I could look into the weather forecast, but that would take the mystery out of what awaits me. So, I am satisfied to know only that the temperature outside is uncomfortably cold: 22 degrees, according to the indoor-outdoor thermometer. It’s almost fifty degrees warmer inside. If I were more adventurous, I might take my computer outside on the deck to experience what 22 degrees feels like. Or, perhaps, if fear did not hold such sway over me, I would throw water on the deck boards and attempt to skate as the water froze; but I am afraid I might slip and fall. I might slide off the deck and plummet to the rocky slope twenty feet below. If the fall did not kill me, the elements probably would. It’s not death I fear; it’s the potential agony on the way there.

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The prospect of pain has too much control over us; over me, anyway. It can dissuade me from doing what I should do and it can protect me from doing what I shouldn’t. Both popular and professional literature about pain differentiates physical pain from emotional pain. Memories do not trigger earlier physical pain but memories can evoke emotional pain; remembering emotional pain can cause that pain to be replicated. I read an article in Psychology Today that claimed people use physical pain as a distraction from emotional pain, but not vice versa. As an example, the article mentioned the unhealthy practice of slicing one’s skin, replacing emotional pain with its physical counterpart.

Physical pain, even excruciating physical pain, does not reverberate the way emotional pain does. Emotional pain returns over and over and over again; memories of emotional pain can do lasting damage, whereas physical pain rarely has the capacity to do the same. Yet the two types of pain can intersect and can feed off one another; I’ve not read anything that supports that, but I am confident the statement is true. However, I am not sure whether the strength and direction of the correlation between them is always clear. And I am not sure I want to know.

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Guilt is a form of emotional pain. And like so many other kinds of emotional pain, it is not anesthetized by admonitions to “stop feeling it.” Logic, whether valid or not, has as little bearing on reducing emotional pain as it does on physical pain. Telling a person “you did all you could to try to save the drowning child” is just as useless as telling someone “you’re not at fault for slicing your finger while chopping onions.” The motives behind both statements might be pure and full of good intentions, but both are equally ineffective.

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I wonder whether “analgesic” applies to the relief of both physical and emotional pain? Google would tell me, if I asked, but I’m not interested at the moment in what Google has to say about the matter. I’m more interested in what actual humans think. “Actual humans.” What other kinds of humans are there? Artificial? We seem to be moving closer and closer to artificial humans with artificial intelligence. Is artificial intelligence any better or worse than actual intelligence? And what about emotional intelligence; what is its counterpart in the real (actual) world? I do not like the term “emotional intelligence.” Something about it seems artificial; intentionally deceptive, as if it attempts to hide something beneath its irrationality. Emotional intelligence seems a little like slip-on seat covers for car seats, hiding cracked leather beneath a cheap weave.

+++

The idea that I will never be with my wife again is impossibly hard. She was the reason I woke up every day; she was the person who was there for me, even when she was ill and locked away in hospitals and rehab centers. Most days, I wade through and think I will get beyond the dark sense that there is no longer a reason to wake up. But then I realize I am deceiving myself. For more than forty years, she inflated me, as if I were a balloon, and gave me purpose. I lie to myself and tell myself I will recover that sense of purpose. But no matter how hard I try and no matter how much other people try to help me get through it, I doubt I’ll ever feel that again. Without purpose, there’s just emptiness. And guilt that I did not do what I should have done; I should have brought her home, not shuttled her off to Good Sam, where she became horribly depressed. When I saw her depression, I should have brought her home, but I did not. If had done that, I think she might have recovered. Maybe not her physical strength, but her will to live. Maybe I deserve the emotional pain. Maybe the idea of wanting it to end is just more selfishness. Perhaps the pain of eternal guilt is an appropriate sentence.

+++

Sunrise is still an hour away. Darkness surrounds my house, but inside is a cozy pocket of light. I am too comfortable here in this protective nest. My ready access to coffee is too easy. It is too easy for me to wallow in pity. Is my sadness based on wishing for my wife a longer, more fulfilling life? Or does it rest on my own desire to have her back? Who am I sad for? Is it pure selfishness? I cannot stop thinking that my tears may be for me, not for her. That is unbearable.

+++

I spent most of the day yesterday preparing materials to review with a financial advisor. It seems I should do that, but I don’t know why. And I thought, during the day, I should begin the process of giving my wife’s clothes away. But then I thought I should not do that; her closets are still her closets. Her clothes belong there. Her desk was her province; I should leave it the way she left it. I had already put some of her things, on the bathroom vanity, away; I should put them back. I feel like I’m going crazy; these thoughts are insane.

+++

The fact that I’ve been burning incense in the house now seems so wrong. What the hell was I thinking? Why would I do something that I know she would have hated? It is utterly absurd. I wonder who I have become. Whoever he is, I loathe him.

I assume my moods this morning are just part of the grieving process. But it could be that my shell is cracking. My protective armor could be rupturing, exposing me to the carrion-eaters and opening me up to the elements. If that’s it, so be it; the sooner, the better.

My wife was not a fan of the aroma of incense. I am and have been for years. I used to sit outdoors, alone, on the little patio of our house in Dallas, enjoying the scent of burning cones of incense. The flavor of bourbon or wine went well with the scent of incense; I sat for hours, listening to the sounds of crickets and birds, drinking in my celebration of the senses. I imagined my wife sitting with me, but she did not appreciate the outdoors the way I did. Later, or the next morning, I tried to entice her with descriptions of how my experience with the sounds and the smells and the tastes enriched me. But she rarely took the bait. On those rare occasions she did, I think she was disappointed that she did not find the experience as delightful as did I. She wanted to, but it just wasn’t as appealing to her as it was to me. Of course, she had other experiences that enriched her life that I did not find as appealing. Despite our differences, we meshed well, as if each of us represented a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that fit with the other to complete a finished form. She tolerated my many flaws, more so than she should have had to live with. I doubt anyone else on Earth would be willing to accept me the way she did. She deserved far better, but she was satisfied with the assortment of my broken pieces.

Because the smell of incense bothered my wife, I burned it outdoors or, since we moved to Arkansas, in the shop area behind the garage. Since her death, though, I have burned cones of incense in the house a few times. I have mixed feelings about that. I feel guilty for doing it, knowing my wife would find the odor offensive. But, since she is no longer here, I know it no longer has the capacity to bother her and the scent helps me relax. For some reason it helps me feel her presences, as if she finally has developed an appreciation for the odor of patchouli incense. I think her objection may not have been to the smell but that the odors might have clung to her clothes. But I do not know. I cannot ask her.

+++

Last night, I continued my pattern of watching Bad Blood. But I paused it several times so I could sit and think about things that popped into my mind. That way, I ensured that I would not lose the plot while I ignored it in favor of a mental detour.

I wondered whether I might one day decide I simply cannot continue fighting to overcome or to tolerate the emotional pain I feel on a regular basis. How could I quietly slip away from it, never to feel it again? After I had my lung cancer surgery, I was given a significant number of oxycodone pills that I rarely used for pain. I kept them, thinking one day I might need them to erase pain of one kind or another. But I do not think they are particularly potent. I told a friend some time ago I was collecting such stuff to ensure that, if confronted with a prognosis of a painful death, I could end my life on my own terms.  I am a firm believer in giving individuals the options of making the decision to end their lives on their own terms. As much as I hate learning of suicides brought about by emotional states that could have been corrected, I think the choice of euthanasia should be entirely personal.

This section has gone completely haywire and badly awry. I intended to explore the oddities that emerge from watching emotions play out on television dramas. The control I have over my own emotions is sometimes taken over, replaced by emotions written into screenplays by talented screenwriters. And sometimes it’s just the opposite.

Last night, I made the mistake of pouring, and consuming, two whiskeys and then, later, switching to wine. I made it half way through the glass of wine before deciding that had been a bad decision. Half a glass of red wine awaits me in the refrigerator; it will wait at least until the end of the day, maybe longer. I don’t know whether it was the combination or the size of my two whiskey pours—or maybe something else—that caused my fierce headache this morning. Here’s hoping the coffee will tame the beast.

+++

I did not begin 2021 with resolutions. But I may may some commitments to myself within the next few days. Among them could be assurances that I will try to eliminate some of the excess weight I accumulated over the past several months—years. I spent some time yesterday looking at a ledger of meals I ate during the first three-plus months of 2017. I keep returning to that list because the meals I prepared were low calorie and completely satisfying. But sticking to the types of meals I ate for long enough that the routine would become a lifestyle would have taken longer than three and a half months; my discipline apparently failed before my lifestyle changed completely. I seem to have gone badly off-course; rather than simply reeling myself in and correcting my deviance, I adopted gustatory deviance as my mantra. My problem, I think, is that I ran out of radishes. Radishes tend to keep me in line. Radishes and tomatoes. Let that be a lesson to me.

+++

A church friend mentioned to me last week (was it last week?) that her financial advisor has been very helpful to her. Given that my wife was my financial advisor, I decided to call my friend’s advisor to get some help with my transition to financial widowhood. I have an appointment with her late next week. Between now and then, I will assemble financial records and compile a list of questions to ask; assuming she knows about Social Security matters and tax treatment of retirement accounts, I expect I will have plenty of questions to ask. Fortunately, my wife kept meticulous records. And, during the last six months, I kept records just as meticulously. My wife taught me so much about so many things.

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On this date last year, I wrote about poverty, particularly food poverty, in Mexico and other impoverished countries. And I compared U.S. income levels with income levels in Mexico. My diatribe effectively constituted a condemnation of the immorality of our individual and collective failures to do something about the problems; I argued that we have within our power the ability to address these matters. Here, a year later, what have I done? Precious little. I complain about hypocrisy, yet I am a practicing hypocrite. Throwing a few dollars a month, through my church, at domestic issues just does not seem adequate to assuage my guilt. On the other hand, should I ask my financial advisor to help me redirect forty percent of my wealth toward the elimination of poverty and hunger? Would I do that if I would be the odd man out by not doing it? As I mull this over, I also consider whether we are leaders of ourselves or followers of others. Ach! I will continue to turn things over in my head until I grind them into soft mush. Perhaps incense will help clarify my thoughts.

My primary care doctor gave me a prescription for medications to help with depression/anxiety a couple of months ago. I was not sure I needed it, but I had been feeling anxious and a little depressed, so I had the prescription filled and have been taking it once a day since. I took the last pill a few days ago and there are no more refills remaining. It occurred to me I might want to ask the doctor to renew the prescription, but I decided against it. I never sensed the medication had any effect on me and I am growing increasingly skeptical about the necessity for several other prescriptions.

In addition to skepticism, I have been debating with myself whether “treating” naturally-occurring phenomena is always the right thing to do. Doesn’t everyone feel anxious and/or moderately depressed from time to time? How appropriate is it, then, to try to erase those emotional rough spots with drugs? What about hypertension? Should medications be the first line of defense? Instead, should doctors urge patients to change their behaviors/ lifestyles before prescribing chemicals?

I’m still mulling over these matters. I know I should change my sedentary lifestyle and my diet. Whether I do remains to be seen. If I opt not to, though, should I expect my insurance to cover the cost of medications that intervene on my behalf, doing the work I should be doing myself?  I have no quarrel with medications that address all manner of maladies, but I question the point at which those medications should be used in lieu of alternative treatments. I should know more about these matters. However, I think the massive amounts of “information” available to me is laced with misinformation driven by marketing decisions. Yet it’s my health, so should I not invest the time to wade through it all and reach decisions based on my assessments of the best information? Only if I value my health and my life enough. And I wonder whether any of us pay adequate attention, until it’s too late. Just thinking about these matters has an odd impact on me; rather than making me more anxious, thinking about them softens my anxiety.

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Speaking of anxiety: A day or two after my wife’s death, I started the slow, unhappy process of dealing with its administrative aftermath. I notified Social Security. I contacted some of her lifelong friends. I cancelled some accounts. I made adjustments to automatic payments linked to credit cards in her name. I cancelled credit cards. I looked for our wills. And I continued looking. Day after day, I searched for the wills. I thought I would find them where our other important papers were located. When they were not where I expected them to be, I looked in our safe deposit box. And when they were not there, I called the attorney who handled our new wills when we moved to Arkansas. She assured me the original must be at home or in a safe deposit box. And she said she could supply me with copies, but the originals might be necessary for some legal matters. I kept looking. I decided I would go room by room, looking in every box, every bookshelf, every possible “hiding” place. My wife was incredibly well-organized when it came to such matters; I had no doubt the documents were in the house, but I had to put myself inside her well-organized brain to find what she had done with them.

Yesterday, I found them. I stumbled upon them, literally a few feet from her desk; I was stunned I had overlooked them so many times during my search. My level of anxiety diminished and softened immediately. The administrative matters I delayed during my search can now be addressed without the anxiety associated with being unable to find the documents. The long, unhappy process of addressing the aftermath of the death of the love of my life can now resume. My disquiet has eased; the matters I must handle will be a bit easier. Now, it’s a matter of setting priorities. Do I sell the car first, or should I have the title to the house changed, naming me sole owner? Is now the time to talk to a financial advisor, or should I wait until my wife’s IRAs and 401Ks are put in my name? There are plenty of resources to help me make those choices; I just have to give myself time, which I will.

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Yesterday afternoon, I sat and chatted with some neighbors, a couple I rarely see or talk with. The man almost never leaves the house and the woman ventures out on very rare occasion, going grocery shopping when crowds are sparse. They are exceptionally nice people and very interesting. We raised a champagne toast to the memory of my wife and discussed topics ranging from Netflix movies to the cost of housing in southern California to their intentions to keep their very attractive Christmas decorations up inside their house until mid-March or beyond. After the champagne bottle was empty, we moved on to chardonnay. By the time I returned to my house next door, we had agreed to get together every so often. I’m quite conscious of COVID-19, so we’ll be sure to take proper precautions.

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Lunch yesterday was potato soup, left for me a few days earlier by a neighbor down the street. Dinner last night, leftover lamb vindaloo, called for something cold to temper the heat, so I finished a bottle of sauvignon blanc. After champagne, chardonnay, and the remnants of a bottle of SB, I had no anxiety whatsoever. And I was in just the mood to watch another episode of Bad Blood. I have decided that Kim Coates, the actor who plays a main character (Declan Gardiner) is an extraordinarily accomplished actor. Until I looked up information about the series, I was unaware it was a Canadian program. Live and learn. The head of the crime family, now out of the picture (in Season 2), was played by Anthony LaPaglia; he is an Australian actor, though I could not have known that except for what I read. LaPaglia’s accent, in character, does not betray his birthplace.

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Today, a woman I knew from my work life plans to come by to leave me a dinner. She and her husband have stopped in once or twice already since my wife’s death. They are very nice people. Although their political perspectives run counter to mine, and their religious views clash with mine, I find them gracious and caring, evidence that political perspectives do not necessarily define the person. But that is a hard position for me to accept and internalize; yet it’s true. I don’t know how to discard the conflict.

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This morning, I am sitting at my wife’s desk. I look around the room and see reminders of her everywhere. Almost every time I think of her, my eyes brim with tears. I miss her terribly. It’s nearing six months since her first hospital admission, making it almost six months since she spent more than a few nights at home. I missed her all that time, but the intensity now feels so much stronger and so much more painful. Even though I think I am doing pretty well with my grief, there are times when I feel like collapsing into a heap and sobbing. I wish, right now, I could just go back to bed and stay there all day. But I can’t. I have obligations and commitments and work to do this morning and throughout the day. I just have to buck up and wade through it. I’ll wipe away the tears and get with it. My wife was so much stronger, emotionally, than me. I could use some of her superior strength right now.

Yesterday’s assault on the Capitol will long be remembered as the primary lasting legacy of Trump. The rest of his nightmarish presidency can be undone over time. But his invitation to QAnon, Confederacy-loving anarchists, and other delusional groups to “protest” the simple act of certifying the count of Electoral College ballots with the objective of overturning the results of the election is now permanently sewn into the fabric of American history. Even in the face of raw and rabid nihilism, he refused to concede that he lost the election. And he opted to foment a coup as a last-ditch effort to stay in power. Finally, some of his staunchest supporters still inside the White House and his administration have begun to resign, joining the ranks of the dozens of former officials who long since have abandoned him in favor of democracy and decency and sanity. Trump’s golden years, beginning January 21, 2021, should be spent in solitary confinement in a maximum security prison.

I feel just as much rancor for his powerful supporters, people who have attempted (and continue to attempt) to make a name for themselves by supporting him to the detriment of American democracy. A few names: Ted Cruz, Lindsey Graham, Josh Hawley, Cindy Hyde-Smith, Roger Marshall, John Kennedy, Tommy Tuberville…and there are so many more.

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Once again, I awoke very early this morning—before four. I stayed in bed, awake, until I finally got up sometime after six. During those two-plus hours, my mind raced. I tried everything I could think of to empty my head, but nothing worked. As the minutes dragged on, my body and my mind grew more and more tense, until I felt like I might be a stone statue, but with a brain. And in my mind’s eye, a high-speed video displayed thousands of images that reminded me of obligations and commitments. Utter confusion, but with a directional pattern that I could not quite discern. When I got up, I discovered that I had not planned well; I should have laundered my underwear and socks yesterday. I still haven’t. I’ll put them in the washer while I shower in a bit; and when I get out of the shower, I will find some old stuff. Backups I keep around for precisely these situations. I did plan well; but only for long-term contingencies.

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Yesterday afternoon, my sister-in-law and I made lamb vindaloo, using the leftover leg of lamb from New Year’s Day. It was a good thing she was involved in the process. I had about decided to leave out the “Base Curry Sauce” from the ingredients, because it seemed like too much of a hassle to make and it seemed to me that it would not have added much to the dish. She thought otherwise, so she cut up the five onions the sauce recipe called for and I measured out the spices. When the sauce was finished, it had a nice flavor and was thick and creamy. I discovered that, without the sauce, the meat would have been quite dry and inedibly spicy hot. As the dish turned out, with the sauce, it was quite spicy (but not too painfully spicy) and wonderfully flavorful. After we ate, she took some home and I put the remainder in the fridge. I may have some for breakfast this morning. And dinner. Who knows? It’s very tasty; it would be good for any meal. Before she left yesterday afternoon, my sister-in-law suggested vindaloos tacos might be good. That reminded me that I had planned on using lamb vindaloo as tamale filling. Either vindaloo tacos or vindaloo tamales would be good. Maybe I’ll give them a try. or maybe I’ll wait until I make the next batch.

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Yesterday, I re-read some messages from someone with whom I’ve been communicating via email off and on for a few months. One of the comments I read triggered a resurgence of thoughts I had the first time I read the message. The comment said we literally create our own reality. I responded that I thought that was true, but we rarely acknowledge it because we are busy responding to the world around us, as if the world around us imposes realities on us. I went on to suggest the world does impose realities on us, but we impose realities on the world, too. During my sleepless time this morning, one of the thoughts that sprinted across my mind was that I was creating my own reality simply by thinking, yet my thoughts also were changing the world because the world responds to me based on how I perceive it. If I spent more time on the concept I probably could explain it better than I have, but I think what I’ve written thus far will be sufficient to trigger my recollections when I read this later. If not, all I need do is to think about synchronicities. That will do it! At least I hope so. So, I know how to set my mind to reproduce some memories. But how do I turn others off, just to give myself at least a brief period of tranquility? I suppose I’ll just keep trying.

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It’s already after 8:30. I must get to work on washing clothes and myself. But, first, breakfast. Vindaloo? Pizza? Cereal? Time will tell.

My drive to Little Rock to retrieve my wife’s ashes and a stack of death certificates from the crematorium yesterday was uneventful. The interaction I had with the crematorium’s representative was all business; she was polite, but I experienced no genuine warmth nor any indication that our interaction was anything other than business. Condolences and consolation were not part of the interchange. Like the text message several days earlier, our conversation yesterday was strictly transactional; sign here, sign there, now here is your package and have a good day. I am not sure I should have expected anything more than I got, but I left with a sense that matters of death and cremation are, for her, simply business transactions. And I am not sure that isn’t as it should be, though it felt cold and empty to me. But I got over it or, at least, I will.

From the crematorium, I went to Colonial Liquor, where I bought Flyway Honeybird blonde ale to satisfy the thirst of last night’s guests. Because it was still early when I stopped by Colonial, I called the Subaru dealer to inquire whether I could have the 72K maintenance service for the car done in a timely manner. I was assured it was doable. And so I took the car in. In less time than the service advisor estimated, they had replaced the engine oil and filter, cabin air filter, rotated the tires, and conducted a survey of other systems that revealed nothing of consequence. So I headed home. The trip to Little Rock and back was not nearly as difficult, emotionally, as I had expected. My anticipation of spending time with friends from church last night probably had a great deal to do with that; that coincidence may well have kept a fragile vessel from shattering. That may seem overly dramatic; I know myself, though.

Last night, my guests brought two pizzas and a tasty dessert pie and a complementary dessert beer, as well as a bottle of wine that remains unopened. I did not even realize the wine was here until they left. And it did not occur to me until they were gone that I contributed no money to the purchase of the pizza. I feel a need to reimburse for a significant share of the pizzas, especially because one, untouched, remains in my refrigerator; I’ll figure that out.

I think the evening with my guests was largely responsible for my ability to withstand what could otherwise have been a very trying day. We laughed at one another’s stories and I truly enjoyed the company of people with whom I am finally beginning to allow myself to open up. And I’m not referring to opening up my grief; I mean opening up my self.  I enjoyed a few hours of genuine relaxation, a casual atmosphere in which laughter filled the air.

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I awoke to the news that Raphael Warnock won in Georgia yesterday, defeating his obnoxious opponent, Kelly Loeffler. The other Georgia race, between Jon Ossoff and David Perdue is still too tight to declare a winner; I am so very hopeful that Ossoff will win it. But, still, there is the perfunctory Congressional “sign-off” on Biden’s victory that, thanks to partisan lies and Republicans’ abandonment of decency, honor, and integrity, that has become yet another Republican attempt to overturn the will of the people. I am attempting to control my rage this morning; I am sure I will, but it will take more effort than usual. There was a time, not too many years ago, when I disagreed with Republican philosophies but I respected our differences. Not today. Today, I hold the majority of Republican supporters of Trump and his legion of liars in utter contempt. Their philosophies do not drive them; their motives are based entirely on an unhealthy lust for power and control.

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I watched an intriguing BBC video this morning about the widespread and very strong support in Sweden of the country’s welfare state tax system. What I find especially illuminating about Swedish attitudes about high taxes is that Swedes view their taxes not as paying for welfare for the least productive members of the society but, instead, for public sector services for all members of the society. They look at the taxes they pay for schools, public transit, social safety nets for everyone, etc. as valuable benefits and good justification for high tax rates. I would be interested in getting the perspective of one of my online friends and bloggers, an American who is married to a Swede and lives permanently in Sweden. If she happens to read this little snippet, I would love to read her take on the pros and cons of Sweden’s tax structure and the benefits that accrue thereto.

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Distasteful tasks and chores tend to make me lethargic. That’s how I justify my slothfulness, anyway. In fact, though, work I do not want to do amplifies my lack of discipline. It’s not lethargy; it’s capitulation to undisciplined weaknesses and shortcomings. I wonder whether I should explore taking drugs to rectify my failings? Speed, for example. Probably not. I’m scared even of the idea.

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I must take out the trash today, unlike last Wednesday. Last week, I got the bag as far as the garage, but never got it to the curb. Since then, I’ve added three or four more bags (justifiable, I say, that I’ve added so much; it’s not that I have generated so much more trash, but the explanation is longer than my fingers wish to explain). I have until about 11 to take the bags to curbside; if I do not do that, I will punish myself in some way. Perhaps it’s better if I reward myself if I do it, yes? That’s the perpetual question: is punishment or reward the best teacher? We all know reward tends to work better, yet we keep falling back on punishment when we do a poor job with reward.

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I’m leaning toward melancholy as the morning matures. I do not want to give in to that mood. I will move on to something else, something other than writing, to improve my disposition. But what? Time will tell. It always does.