Does everyone fantasize? I have asked that question for a very long time; simply because the topic interests me. The question is not limited to sexual fantasies, either. I wonder whether people fantasize about houses they might like to build or trips they might want to take or professions they might wish to have chosen. All sorts of things like that. And things not like that.

A fantasy I’ve had involves the ability to cause others to reveal their fantasies to me. Imagine, for example,  you get on a bus (either pre-COVID-19 or post-COVID-19) and sit near the driver. You strike up a conversation with the driver, eventually leading you to say, “Tell me about your fantasies. What do you fantasize about?” Now, sit back and listen to the driver’s detailed explanation of her daydreams or wishes or desires or…whatever you call them.

The fantasy does not have to involve a complete stranger, either. Consider the same scenario, but this time the target of your supernatural ability to draw out secrets is someone in your church or a clerk you see regularly at the grocery store or even your own spouse. Oh, that may be getting a little too close. Would you really want to know about fantasies that could, conceivably, be quite upsetting? How would you react to learning from a work colleague that his fantasy involves shoving you out the thirty-seventh floor window of a high rise building?

One of my many fantasies involves living in an architecturally modern house on a huge tract of land, far away from cities and towns and people in general. The place would be littered with barns, workshops, gardens, tractors, chicken coops, and vast pastures where horses and cows would wander freely. I envision this isolated place might be in New Zealand or Scotland or…I don’t know, somewhere different but where, when I must interact with people, I could speak the language.

Yet another fantasy is at odds with that one. This other fantasy has me living in an apartment in a crowded neighborhood in a big city. At the street level, merchants who sell vegetables and fresh meats and flowers and sandwiches and all manner of other stuff would set up shop very early every morning. When I go down to take my dog for a walk, I would encounter dozens of people I see regularly, including some who I would call friends. The neighborhood is a close-knit enclave in a big, impersonal city that offers everything I might want. Except vast open spaces and utter solitude.

There are more. Many more. You who are reading these words might discover, if you could draw from me a complete revelation of my fantasies, that you play a part in some of them. Perhaps just a bit part. Perhaps a major role. Perhaps not. In some of these fantasies of mine, I discover that I do not play a role; it’s as if I am looking at another person’s life, but experiencing it through my emotional filters. It’s hard to explain. Imagine looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection of whatever is behind you, but not seeing your image. That’s it. Now you’ve got it.

Sometimes, fantasy is the only safe place you can go to escape the crushing reality of life closing in around you. Even though it is a temporary respite, it acts like a safety net, preventing the fall all the way to the ground from the thirty-seventh floor; the net catches you after you’ve fallen only one or two stories.

Very early this morning, I skimmed a few articles that described dissociative identity disorder (DID), a psychological affliction that used to be described as multiple personality disorder. Maybe that’s what triggered my thought about fantasies; perhaps DID is a greatly amplified version of multiple fantasies that consume one’s mental life? Probably not. DID sounds like the outgrowth of some horrendous experiences during the early years of one’s life. Parenthetically, I was reading about DID as background to a story I’m contemplating, not because I think I suffer from it. I also read about hypochondriasis and thought how much more difficult it might be for health care professionals to treat hypochondriasis that involves a mental affliction, as opposed to a physical affliction. Maybe that will find its way into my story.

I wonder whether my writing is simply an expression of some of my fantasies, a way to express them without revealing that they are mine? How silly to wonder about that! Of course! But only sometime. The trick is to differentiate between fiction, fact, and fantasy. I cannot always make the distinction.

This blog is littered with the retelling of a thousand of my fantasies. Most involve desolation, isolation, solitude. I wonder whether I belong on a planet I have to share with other people? I wrote, once, that in my daydreams of solitude I find solace; solace is comfort in sorrow or misfortune, or the alleviation of distress or discomfort. Where the hell is all this sorrow, discomfort, distress, etc. coming from? I think its source must be the same as my fantasies.

Our paths follow an elliptical orbit around secrets we simply cannot unlock, secrets hidden not through willful disguise but by natural obscurity, the same way some sounds are withheld from our ears but given freely to the ears of dogs, who become our masters when we let our guards down. The complexity that bedevils our waking hours and sets us afire with passion for answers always leads us to the…certainty that life is what it is, nothing more.

I extracted those words from something I wrote more than four years ago. That span of time seems like a thousand lifetimes, now.

A few months later, I wrote from a different perspective, one in which I was more certain than was reasonable or legitimate. My words revealed an emotion intertwined with optimism and fear, an emotion impossible to name, but harder still to escape.

Even on this day, this day beginning with such sparkling promise, I can’t help but allow my thoughts to be swarmed by the ripples, when I should permit my mind to marvel at the still waters. I am a man awash in abundance, yet I worry that the bounty is, perhaps, undeserved. No, that is a lie. I am certain my largess was an inadvertent mistake of the universe, given to me by accident. My worry is that the universe will discover its blunder and will come calling to correct the snafu.

A swirl of events I could scarcely have imagined then have since consumed the planet and the people on it in a firestorm of chaos and uncertainty. Perhaps the universe followed me on that elliptical orbit and unlocked the secret for me; maybe the blunder has been discovered and is being corrected.

There are no predetermined courses of action; only random intersections between time and circumstances over which we might have exercised control had we had known the likely outcome of our actions or inaction. But life is what it is. “What if” begins announces a nonsensical question that can never lead to a realistic answer. The junction between what is and what might have been is riddled with billions of events, each one independent on every other one, except when randomness says otherwise.

That randomness can throw a steel wrench into the precision workings of a finely-tuned engine that is as powerful as the sun and as delicate as blown glass. A tiny, insignificant event can trigger cataclysmic results; imagine a broken axle on a vehicle crossing a railroad track in front of a passenger train, just as the train reaches a bridge over a deep canyon. The derailment could kill hundreds; all because a tiny stress crack in the axle finally gave way.

Yet the same randomness can deliver world leaders and great composers and vaccines that save millions from the scourge of polio or measles. “The right place at the right time,” coupled with the right upbringing and the right nourishment and the right education and the right resources. Snatch away any of those elements and our reality might be utterly different; no Gandhi, no Bach, swarms of crippling diseases, and horrible health challenges and death accelerated by the unholy spread of natural decay.

It would be so easy to just give up, telling ourselves we are impotent in the face of the randomness of the universe. But we are not impotent. We do not always win in our efforts to outwit the forces of randomness, but our efforts are more likely to have positive results than to fall short. Too often, we confuse randomness with intent; the universe is not engaged in an intentional struggle against us. If there’s any intent in the mixture, it’s our intent to overcome the randomness of the universe. Yet, when we act as if we are at war with the universe, randomness quickly puts us in our place.

The universe has not discovered its blunder with me; randomness might address the blunder, but I can and should attempt to put randomness to good use to my benefit and to the benefit of everyone in my sphere…my sphere being the planet on which I live. I struggle with more than enough weight to squash me if I let it, but I won’t let it. I’ll ponder over how it might be easier to just give in and let Sisyphus’ boulder roll down the hill and crush me, but I disregard that possibility and will choose to keep rolling that boulder up the incline, all the while keeping an eye out for random rocks I might wedge beneath the weighty stone.

My mood this morning is an odd mix of optimism and realistic defeatism. In my mind’s eye, I see a mural of inspirational posters on one wall and hundreds of hand-printed flyers lamenting every conceivable failure on another. Were I a painter, I could paint the image far better than I can describe it in words. But I’m not a painter. And my words seems to have abandoned me at just he moment I need them most. That’s randomness. Optimism with smudges and a misdirected finger. That is, I’ve gone slightly off course and I need to get away from the track before the train comes or accept responsibility for its derailment.

Whatever it was—stomach bug, psychosomatic illness, food poisoning, malaria—seems to have largely disappeared. I would give my sensation of health a solid 80 on a scale of zero to one hundred. Yesterday, it was closer to 50. Thirty points makes a huge difference.

I felt well enough last night to pan-sear a small hunk of skin-on salmon, the one and only food I consumed yesterday. I should have steamed some veggies, perhaps, and cooked a bit of rice to go with it, but I wasn’t feeling sufficiently good to go that far. So salmon was it. I marinated the fish for a good ten minutes in a mixture of lime juice, minced ginger root, and honey, then seared it. I reserved some of the marinade before I poured it over the fish. After I cooked the salmon, I added a touch of soy sauce to the reserved marinade and drizzled it over the fish. It was quite tasty. But even that minor amount of cookery drained me of energy; I was wise to skip the side dishes.

The chunk of salmon was too big for one serving, so before I marinated it, I carved off a sizable piece; I’ll have that for breakfast this morning. I think. I have in mind making a nice little Japanese-inspired breakfast of salmon, rice, miso soup, and sliced cucumber. But that’s beginning to sound like a lot of work and too time-consuming; we’ll see. I may not have adequate time to shower, shave, get dressed, make breakfast, AND get to the grocery store by 9:00 a.m. to pick up the order I placed online yesterday. I assumed I’d be awake and alert far earlier than I was this morning; again, it was well after 6:00 that I got out of bed—two consecutive days of sleeping in much later than I like. I guess I’m in the throes of recovery from whatever it was.

After picking up my groceries and putting them away, I will take some magazines and a book to the rehabilitation facility where my wife is in quarantine for another week or so. I’ll leave the materials with staff, who will then take them to my wife’s room. Afterward, I’ll stop by the post office to pick up a few items placed in my P.O. box yesterday, then return home. I’ll spend the rest of the day occupying my time with boring but useful tasks like sorting paperwork and organizing various other aspects of domestic disorder. If it weren’t so bloody hot and I weren’t so damn inadequately up to the task, I’d power wash mold-blackened sections of the deck, douse the cleaned spots with bleach, and—once dry—sand the spots and do some touch-up painting. I’ve said before I need to leave that to others. But who?

I’ve let this post sit for too long. Time to let it fly where it will.

Fragments of complex, semi-conscious dreams populate my memory of last night in bed, suggesting I did get some sleep. In spite of those muddy, incomplete recollections, I do not feel like I slept at all. I was conscious when sunlight began creeping into the room this morning, robbing me of darkness. Normally, I would have been up and awake long before then, but I was not. Instead, I spent what seemed like hours tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position that would allow me to sleep. Instead, my movements simply reminded me of my distress. Still, though I’ve been up for more than half an hour, I don’t know the source of my physical disquiet. It’s a bit like a mild headache accompanied by a slight ache in the rest of my body, paired with a more-than-slightly upset stomach. Though rare, this sensation of unpleasant illness is not new; I’ve felt it before, though I’d say it has been years. I do not recall how long it lasted; I hope it does not last long, because I will be good for nothing until it passes. And until it passes, I won’t be able to sleep, which I very much want to do. I suspect this unpleasant condition will last a day or so; it just feels like more than a brief annoyance. Whenever I have not even the slightest interest in breakfast, I know something is amiss.

I tried to discover just how much (or little) I slept by performing a query of my SleepNumber app on my phone. Impossible, as the blue tooth connection was broken with the installation of a new modem; and I haven’t been able to establish a new connection for some reason. Damn gadgetry! When connectivity becomes invisible and seamless, technology will have become a truly helpful technology; until then, it will be an aggravating intruder into livest that do not really need it and never did. At that moment of invisible seamlessness, though, it will have embedded itself in our lives as if it were a vital  organ, required for survival.

Today might have been ideal for me to look for a place to dispose of a now-useless 55-inch television, a cooked DVD player, and seven fried telephones. But not unless I start to feel dramatically better. And it would have been a good day to take a book and a magazine to the care facility where my wife is convalescing; maybe I will force myself to do that sometime later. She should not have to suffer my illness…or whatever it is.

Bright blue skies out the window usually boost my spirits and infuse me with energy; not this morning. The invitation to get outdoors and enjoy the day seems more like a taunt, a derisive jab meant to call attention to my physical and mental condition.

Perhaps I will try to sleep in my recliner, listening to the Spa station through Alexa’s speaker. Try. Try.

The explosive crash of thunder this morning—the one that felt like a huge light bulb exploded inches from my face—struck someplace close enough to fry my 55-inch Samsung TV. And all the land-line phones, both corded base and cordless sets, in the house. And the power cables for the modem and two TiVO devices.  Fortunately for me, I had scheduled a visit from Suddenlink to install a new modem. The installer was able to get the TiVo power cables replaced, install a new modem, and get phone service restored to the phone modem.

It appears, though, that all the phone wires in the house and the devices to which they were  attached were fried. And the TV, still attractive, is a worthless mass of plastic and computerized goo. I went out and bought a new phone, so at least we have one “landline” working now, though it is in what I call the skyroom off the master bedroom; impossible to hear the ring unless present in the room. I guess I’ll have to buy a new cordless set and put the base in that room; it’s no longer possible to put the base somewhere else, thanks to the destruction of the wiring. At some point, I’ll buy another TV, as well. But that can wait. The phone is more important.

I had plans for today. They have been pushed aside so I can adjust. And look for a phone set.

Weeks and weeks ago (maybe months ago) I bought a large bag of new potatoes. The bag was marketed as “crawfish boil potatoes” or something like that.  With the exception of one or two potatoes snatched out of the bag for a quick mini-meal, the bag remained largely unused until last night. Last night, I boiled every last potato from that bag, intending to make Jalapeño Potato Salad this morning, one of my favorite zippy, cold comfort foods. Unfortunately, I failed to double check that I had all the ingredients; this morning, I discovered that I was missing two key components: John’s Jalapeño Paste and cilantro. I can leave out the cilantro, although grudgingly. But John’s Jalapeño Paste is the foundation upon which the dish is built. Oh, I had John’s Jalapeño Paste, but the container in which it was stored had sprouted mold while sitting, weeks on end, in the refrigerator. I made too much and used it too sparingly. Plus, I did not sterilize the plastic squeeze bottle in which I had stored it. Little mistakes had blossomed into the makings of a tragedy.

Fortunately, I was able to recover. In place of two tablespoons of my homemade John’s Jalapeño Paste, I opted to use a single tablespoon of El Yucateco Habanero Salsa, the wicked red version. And I opted to forego the cilantro, though I may make a trip to the grocery store to buy a bunch or two (my recipe calls for half a bunch, but more can’t hurt). It’s a very good thing I decided to use only a single tablespoon of the habanero salsa; had I used two, the dish might have been too hot for my taste buds. As it is, though, I like it. I still prefer the flavor with jalapeños, but it is quite tasty and will serve me well. I’m considering the possibility of having potato salad for breakfast. I probably won’t, but the idea holds more than a little appeal.

+++

Claps of thunder, which began two or three hours ago, have grown much louder and more sinister in the last forty-five minutes. Heavy rain, brilliant flashes of lightning, and monstrous concussions of the clashing swords of atmospheric gods hold my attention. Incessant guttural growls, remnants of the thunderous blows landed moments earlier by one god or another, remind me that the sky above me is angry. From the vault of heaven I hear the shrieks and bellows of enraged players launching merciless attacks on the clouds that would dare confront them. The sky is alive and dangerous, seeking revenge for any number of wrongs the Earth and its inhabitants have inflicted on it. This, my friends, is the end-times for the night that tortured me with horrible cramps in my lower calves; the night deserves the butchery that is carving out a grey day from the ink-black sky. Honestly, if the nighttime is responsible for my leg cramps, night should be forever banished from the reality of this and every day. The pain in my legs remains very real, as if my muscle memory is etched into my psyche with acid.

+++

Christ! Lightning just struck someplace so close to me the crack was like an enormous light bulb exploded an inch from my face. I will turn off my computer now and hide.

The weather prognosticators say the high temperature today will reach ninety degrees. That means the air will warm twenty-two fahrenheits beyond its current level, a cool sixty-eight (which does not feel awfully cool, thanks to the beastly humidity). An acquaintance, a woman I’ve never met, writes of temperature in that way; she describes the measurement of heat and cold not in degrees, but in fahrenheits. I like that. Perhaps it’s because that quirky linguistic style is similar in some ways to my own. For example, I expand the query “how long?” into “how many more long-times?” There’s no reason for it, other than silliness; that’s reason enough, though. Silliness helps protect us from the full force of the body blows the Universe throws at us. Silliness is among the reasons children are so resilient; if children experienced the world through the jaded lens of an adult, they would become brittle and breakable far sooner than they do.

Last evening, before she cut my hair, a friend said I (indeed, all adults) have a child inside. She suggested, in a manner of speaking, we should allow that child outside to play. Adulthood is stressful enough without binding and gagging that child, forcibly chaining him in a soundproof room. To emphasize her point, my friend shared with me a book to share with my wife. My friend thinks, rightfully so, my wife will enjoy the book; after reading only the title, I knew I would, as well. The book:  You’re Only Old Once: A Book for Obsolete Children, by Dr. Seuss.

The difference between juvenile silliness and adult silliness is simply a matter of soph—istication. Adult silliness carries with it a message that may or may not be nuanced, while juvenile silliness often is just raw, unfettered nonsensical absurdity. I prefer adult silliness, perhaps because I am an adult. Or, maybe, I have a secret affinity for puzzles; I search for the hidden message in adult silliness. It could be, too, that silliness plays an alternative role; maybe it staves off fear and the tears that often accompany fear.

As I reflect on my own history of silliness, I discern a pattern. While silliness accompanies me everywhere I go, it ramps up when I encounter difficult circumstances. Oddly, silliness is magnified at the same time that anger reveals itself; they do not often show themselves at the same time, but in close temporal proximity. Were I a competent psychologist, I might better understand whether that’s simply coincidental or not. I wonder whether there’s a causal relationship between them or, if not causal, at least correlated. I remember a phrase from my college days, “correlation does not necessarily suggest causation,” or something like that. Why that popped into my head just now defies explanation. Or maybe it doesn’t.

+++

Fish. Specifically, salmon. That’s what I would like to have for breakfast today—a little piece of salmon, flash-cooked on a hot skillet so that it has an extremely thin crust of seared meat and barely-cooked, rare meat underneath. To accompany the salmon, I’d like a small bowl of miso soup, a spoonful of white rice, a radish, and a couple of slices of cucumber. I’d like a little low-sodium soy sauce to go with that, please, and some hot tea. But I won’t have that for breakfast, mostly because I have no salmon, at least none that’s thawed. And I’m out of radishes. I have all the ingredients for miso soup, but without the salmon and the rest of the ingredients, it just would not be the same. Plus, to be completely open about this situation, I’m feeling especially lazy; I haven’t the discipline to make such a breakfast. Not for just me. I think I should plan these things, rather than wake up and decide, “I want salmon and miso soup and…” I’m not even sure I want to go to the trouble of having a bowl of cereal. Coffee will do for now. I did make enough green salad yesterday to serve as today’s lunch, as well, so I do not need to worry about that. It’s a good thing.

+++

This afternoon, finally, I will have a telephone consultation with my wife’s cardiologist (who also is my cardiologist). I’ve wanted to talk to him for a very long time about my wife’s symptoms; it took her two trips to the hospital and two referrals to rehabilitation facilities to make me take the bull by the horns and insist on it. I should have acted months ago.

+++

I have neglected our “yard” for months. Weeds are growing along the street and in the gravel-filled beds by the house and along both sides of the driveway. The 2x4s between sections of the driveway have sprouted the equivalent of a weed “lawn” that needs to be pulled up.  Volunteer plants (also read as “weed”) have sprouted throughout the large fields of pine-bark mulch in front of the house. Dead leaves clog the run-off channel on the side of the garage on the front side of the house.  I have neither the energy nor the necessary equipment to handle the necessary clean-up. The guy I last paid to do clean-up was supposed to follow up with me once a month to see if I wanted more work done; he never followed up and I never called him, so we’re both at fault for my house’s appearance of neglect. Regardless, I simply MUST find someone to come do some yard clean-up. That’s going to be my main objective tomorrow. At the moment, I have nothing else on my agenda for tomorrow. If not for my damn arthritis and my damn knees and my damn shortness of breath and my damn general state of neglected physical conditioning and my damn lack of appropriate yard-work equipment, I’d do the work myself. If I weren’t so damn lazy. Tomorrow. That’s the goal: find someone to pay to do a bang-up job of tidying up the “yard.” What other word should I use here? It’s not really a yard, is it? It’s more a “plot” or a “lot” or a “piece of forest land bordering the street.” We really need a more descriptive term; something simple and succinct. I may suggest we all use the term “flottage” to describe the land surrounding our forest-area homes. I may.

+++

There’s a spot on top of my right hand that itches like crazy and occasionally burns. It’s dry and slightly red (reddish, I suppose). I’ve put hydrocortisone ointment on it for two or three days to no avail. I suppose I could try to make an appointment with a dermatologist, but I suspect the “first available appointment” will be sometime in the Spring of 2022, so what’s the point? I could go to my primary care doctor, except he resigned from CHI last February and hasn’t been replaced. I could attempt to get an appointment with his nurse; if I can see her, I suspect she would refer me to the dermatologist, which would accelerate the scheduling of my appointment; maybe December this year. That’s probably my best option. I wonder whether I could just excise a three-quarter inch by one-and-a-half-inch piece of flesh say a quarter of an inch deep below the surface of the skin; would that eliminate the itching and burning? It would for the excised piece of flesh, but I fear it might cause more problems than it solves. The nurse is a better option.

+++

One’s emotions are not as easy to control as one’s intellect. Intellect can be sculpted and shaped with a fair degree of precision. Emotions, on the other hand, seem to sprout in haphazard fashion from the tiniest cracks in the surface of one’s composure. I feel a thousand hairline cracks in my composure. I visualize them as being similar to an ancient oil painting. Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is well-known for its craquelure. Time inflicts all manner of damage to oil paintings, from the surface all the way down to the substrate. Exposure to air, which dries the paints liquid solvents, begins the process. I envision the human mind (a combination of the brain and the way we use it) being exposed to similar forces that cause cracks in the emotional armor. This probably does not describe my sensation of emotional fragility the way I intended. But it will have to do for now, because I’m not going to write any more for the moment.

I want to withdraw completely into myself, to retreat into an impenetrable shell that blocks sounds and sights and sensations and emotions. A protective cocoon, a place in another dimension far removed from the one in which we live, might serve to deaden the sense of being bathed in acidic emotion. I’m not the only one seeking that shelter. I suspect everyone facing the frightening unknown longs for serenity. I suspect people in my small sphere ache for peace and comfort and positive certainty.

Powerlessness is among the most frightening circumstances. Being unable to control even a fraction of the world around you must be terrifying. It is terrifying. I suspect that situation contributes to drug addiction; the pain and fear become too great to bear without some magical potion to lessen the agony; deaden the pain. It’s supposition, of course, but thinking about it gives me reason to think compassionately about people whose lives have been wrecked by meth or cocaine or any number of other problems disguised as solutions.

I imagine I might be susceptible to the allure of some of those cleverly-camouflaged “solutions.” Maybe it’s that understanding that contributes to my empathy, even while judging those who have weakly succumbed to the enticement of false promises.

Anxiety. One of the definitions is “a state of apprehension and psychic tension occurring in some forms of mental disorder.”  Another definition is “distress or uneasiness of mind caused by fear of danger or misfortune.” Which one fits me? Which one fits my wife? There’s no doubt we’re both extremely anxious. But I don’t want that anxiety to grow to the level of requiring “treatment.” I especially don’t want that to happen with my wife, who is essentially at the mercy of healthcare workers; I do not want someone else deciding for her that some form of medication might be necessary. All of this is supposition on my part; maybe I am the only one whose level of anxiety borders on a disorder. It’s impossible to discuss it, though.

On my end, thrashing through another day seems almost insurmountably hard. But it must be done and done again and done again and again until all’s well. And it will be well. It must be well.

When I awoke this morning, around ten after four, somber nonsense lyrics and a simple, repetitive tune spun through my head. I sang these words out loud:

Garfunkel Smithers was a very bad man,
ice water flowed through his veins.

I sang a fairly lengthy string of lyrics, but many of the rest of them escape me now, less than an hour later. It’s odd; if I don’t write them down the moment I sing them, they fade quickly, disappearing almost entirely within a few minutes. In that sense, they behave like most of my dreams; I remember snippets, but rarely the whole thing. Yet I sometimes remember the lyrics and the tunes accompanying them for days, weeks, even months. The same is true of my dreams, from time to time.

The rest of this morning’s lyrics were equally dark as the ones above and similarly nonsensical. And they were, truly, voluminous. For the most part, the lyrics rhymed. Something about eating salad for breakfast and growing gaunt and thin, I think. Redundancy is a hallmark of my early morning lyricism. It’s as if I’m singing from a hymnal crafted from a thesaurus. But there is no hymnal; just my brain sorting a massive list of unnecessary syllables, discarding them in sing-song manner through musical lyrics. The tunes, though, always seem to be familiar (though different from day to day, for the most part).

I wonder, am I alone in this behavior that suggests—rather assertively—madness? Or is breaking into unwritten song against a backdrop of unpolished musical notes meaningless? I do not know. And I do not know who to ask. I’ve tried asking Mother Google; she refuses to give me a definitive answer. As I was searching, I came across this from the British Journal of General Practice:

Recurring tunes that involuntarily pop up and stick in your mind are common: up to 98% of the Western population has experienced these earworms. Usually, stuck songs are catchy tunes, popping up spontaneously or triggered by emotions, associations, or by hearing the melody. Aetiologically, earworms are related to memory: auditory information functions as a strong mnemonic. Psychologically, earworms are a ‘cognitive itch’: the brain automatically itches back, resulting in a vicious loop. The more one tries to suppress the songs, the more their impetus increases, a mental process known as ironic process theory. Those most at risk for SSS are: females, youth, and patients with OCD.

Okay. So the tunes might arise as described (though they seem new and unfamiliar to me as I hear myself sing), but what about the lyrics? [Oh, and I realize I am neither female nor young, so OCD may be involved in some fashion. Right.] The tunes are not my chief concern, anyway; it’s the lyrics that emerge, fully-formed as if written before I thought them, from my mouth. Mother Google sometimes fails me. Or, perhaps, I’m asking her the wrong questions.

+++

Last night, I spent an hour on a Zoom call with two good friends, a couple I’ve known for longer than I’ve been married. I’m afraid I was not particularly good company but they lifted my spirits by expressing interest in my life, my experiences, my thought processes. I indulged myself by talking about myself. Our conversation only rarely involved their lives, their experiences, their thought processes. It’s embarrassing to realize, after the fact, how self-absorbed I must appear; and, I suppose, I must be. Yet they patiently let me be self-absorbed. Those are the kinds of friends we all need; people who, by their very presence, bring comfort. I hope I am that kind of person when that’s the kind of person people need me to be.

+++

For reasons that remain unknown to me, I find certain words incredibly attractive. They appeal to me so much that I seek out opportunities to use them in my writing. One of these days, I may copy all of my writing from a period of time (say, six months) and place it in a Word document. Then, I can run a macro (that I would have to find) to determine the frequency with which I have used every word in the document. I have not done this yet, but based on memory of words I have found irresistible, I think I would find these words (among many others) used with greater-than-average frequency:

• gossamer
• wisdom
• diaphanous
• detritus
• prism
• translucent
• haze

While there’s nothing wrong with having a love affair with specific words, overuse can make one’s writing seem labored. It can appear limited in breadth and suffocating, crying out for oxygen to keep it from withering. Perhaps, instead of using some of my favorite words in writing, I should have those words carved into chunks of mesquite wood that I can hang on my walls. Or maybe impress the words in wet clay and then, when the clay hardens, fire it in a potter’s kiln, glaze it, and glaze-fire it to make a finished piece.

I wrote a poem a couple of years ago, using one of my favorite words: wisdom. At the time, or maybe it was sometime later when I reflected on the poem, I commented about the number of times I use the word in my writing. One might think, by the frequency of its use, I think of myself as having some special connection with it. That’s not it, though. Instead, I think the frequency with which I use is is evidence of longing for something I cannot achieve. Just for the hell of it, I’m going to post (for the third time, I think), that poem again:

Wisdom

Wisdom grows not from the tender love of nurturing care,
but from abject neglect and brutal abandonment spun
on life’s loom from frayed spiritual kudzu that tries to
choke and strangle resolve.

Wisdom struggles upward from the darkest depths of the soul,
breaking through impenetrable layers of heartache and failure
toward the open skies of an open mind ready to accept answers
in the absence of questions.

Wisdom sheds arrogance and conceit during its journey from
certainty, through hesitation and ambiguity, toward doubt and
the knowledge that enlightenment is temporary and all answers
are clothed in fallacies.

Wisdom understands enough to comprehend that we know nothing,
even as we build temples to celebrate the knowledge we one day will
cast aside when we find what we will believe are truths hidden
beneath layers of dogma.

Wisdom is vapor—an imaginary mist arising from tears falling on
white-hot convictions that decay into doubts when confronted
with arguments and evidence, both credible and absurd—gossamer
smoke in a hazy sky.

Wisdom is experience adjusted for failure and tempered by success,
an age-worn garment woven from the tattered remains of youth and
the anticipatory shrouds of that inescapable conclusion to
which all of us come.

This post seems to me a little like I’ve gone wandering from room to room in a big vacant mansion in my head. I’m looking for familiar furniture, hoping to find evidence that I belong here. Instead, I conclude that this place was not meant for me. I belong in a one-room cabin on a homestead carved into the remote wilderness of northern Alberta, north of Wood Buffalo National Park,a good thirty miles outside Fort Resolution and one thousand miles north of Calgary. That’s where I should be. Secluded. Deluded. Looking for the warmth of southern answers in a frigid, wind-swept, secret northern place. Wisdom. That’s where it will be waiting for me to find it.

I did not announce the end of my sabbatical. It simply disappeared into a harsh, acidic vapor. Sabbaticals should bring rest and relaxation; my short attempt at escape morphed into a gritty recess on a dirty, dangerous playground. So I returned to a routine—altered though it has been by circumstances and a state of mind constantly on edge. Let me rephrase that; I haven’t returned to a routine as much as I have forced myself into a pattern that, heretofore, has been comfortable. Without a stencil to shape my days, I found myself floundering about. The brief periods in the morning when I write seem to bring at least a semblance of order to my thinking; if nothing more, they help me face unfamiliar days.

+++

After I wrote yesterday’s lament, I spoke to my wife during the  course of the day and exchanged some text messages. She said her situation improved considerably after the interactions I had with staff. The under-staffing issues seemed to have been rectified and she reported that she was receiving the level and kind of attention she thought appropriate. I hope that continues. We will talk today about questions I will ask of the administration when I connect with them (assuming that actually takes place) on Monday. In the fray, I seem to have overlooked that I have a CT scan scheduled for Monday morning, followed by a visit with my oncologist. I again hope the CT scan reveals nothing but good news.

+++

Last night brought a brief respite from what has seemed a long chaotic swirl. Neighbors invited me over to enjoy a drink and hors d’oeuvres on their deck; all properly masked and distanced. With a glass of 2018 Cuvée A Amrita (a sparkling white wine from Anne Amie Vineyards, located in the Willamette Valley, Oregon) we toasted my wife, wishing her good health. We enjoyed quite the spread: shrimp with cocktail sauce; grilled, cheese-stuffed peppers; spanokopita; and mixed nuts. And we talked politics (they share mine) and hummingbirds (they have at least six feeders hung around the perimeter of the covered deck) and various other subjects. Though it was only a short visit (under two hours), it gave me an opportunity to put a little distance between reality and my recent life experiences. But I wished, the entire time, that my wife could also have enjoyed the respite. She told me by text message, before I went next door, that she planned to watch a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie last night, so I should plan not to disturb her. 

+++

Today’s weather forecast reminds me that summer in central Arkansas behaves a little like a convection oven; wind circulates around a heat source, amplifying the effects of temperature. I had planned (hoped is a better term) to power wash the deck in another futile attempt to prepare to lay down another coat of paint. It’s time I give up on that fantasy and direct my attention toward finding a reliable contractor to finish the job. The energy I once had for that project has long since been spent. And I find myself worrying, whenever I am in a position that might make it difficult to hear my phone ring, that I might be missing an important call from my wife. Of course, I still haven’t trained myself adequately to always carry my cell phone with me, which exacerbates the worry. And she frequently calls on the land line, so I hate to leave the house lest I miss a call. All of this argues that I should find a contractor. Getting the deck finished, including getting new railing and replacing the screen in the screened-in porch, will take a load off my mind. I’ve been battling that project since the summer before my lung cancer diagnosis; it’s time to stop pretending I can do it myself and hire professionals.

+++

I came across a quote, attributed to Buddha, about which I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, it seems wise and logical, but on the other I can interpret it as arrogant and egotistical. Like so many things in my mind, it occupies two competing dimensions:

Do not look for a sanctuary in anyone except your self.

+++

With that, I will end this later-than-usual morning meditation.

Everything exists along a spectrum. Light. Knowledge. Truth. Fear. Love. Right. Wrong. Hate. Extroversion. Introversion. Everything, even Certainty, is as flexible as a rubber band. And, like a rubber band, certainty can become brittle over time; it can snap when stretched toward what once was its zone of ease and comfort.

Like certainty, absolutes—if they exist—exist along a spectrum. That is to say reality is flexible. Reality is contextual. Reality is, in other words, an illusion defined by reflections in mirrors stationed to reveal different perspectives from different angles.

I write all of this as a preface to my epiphany: introspection, too, can be as shallow as a puddle after a passing rain shower or as deep as the deepest part of the Pacific Ocean. Though that incredibly broad spectrum of introspection might suggest self-knowledge runs from cursory to excruciatingly detailed, I suggest otherwise: introspection, regardless of depth, reveals deep truths. Those truths, though, are flexible and they bend like light. They are viewed—no matter how shallow or deep—through a contextual prism.

Circumstances—also known as context—often dictate the degree to which any given motivator in one’s life takes control. Now, imagine that the spectra of all the influences on one’s life imitate the spectrum of light; all the colors from white to black. If one pauses long enough to carefully examine the spectra involved in that motivator (e.g., knowledge, truth, fear, love, etc.), the imagined colors constitute a constantly changing kaleidoscope twirling at high speed. Every influence contributes to that psychedelic rainbow. Certain colors, though, assume supremacy; purples or yellows or reds or greens assert themselves. Their context, the circumstances surrounding them, gives them greater influence than the other colors. But only within the context of all the other colors bouncing off the prism’s faces. So, too, is it with introspection.

Willful introspection sometimes fails to reflect reality; it hits the surface of a prism covered with an opaque layer. So, reality gives way to an illusion that may or may not have any bearing on reality. But that illusion may influence one’s perceptions of other aspects of reality. And so begins an utterly artificial examination that reveals only distortions. Valid introspection takes place only through unplanned response to one’s reactions to circumstance. It is that unrehearsed, unplanned, unintentional response that carries one along the full spectrum of introspection. All the way from the shallow puddle to the Challenger Deep. Every point along that spectrum holds a mirror that reflects reality at that instant, from the surface to the most deeply hidden core. Some of the images in those mirrors are innocuous. Some are flattering. Some are disturbing. And some are so terrifying the mind collapses, replacing images with darkness.

Every other influence—Knowledge. Truth. Fear. Love. Right. Wrong. Hate. Extroversion. Certainty, etc.—functions in the same way. And every one of them is influenced in some way by the rest of them. The complexity of the environment in which introversion attempts to conduct its task of self-knowledge is daunting. Our minds are too elaborately convoluted for us to ever know ourselves. Introversion sometimes seems a useless tool that solves nothing, yet reveals more questions and greater uncertainty.

All of this convoluted stream of consciousness drivel about introspection is ego-driven and oriented to self. The impossibility of understanding one’s self should be enough to short-circuit the mind, causing synapses to spark and sizzle as the current exceeds their capacity to carry it. And it is enough. But we add to the confused mental meltdown our attempts to understand others’ similarly complex and convoluted minds. Our efforts to understand other people are colored by our assumptions about them and about ourselves. Our conclusions about others’ motives, reasons, or intentions rely on interpretations of reality through clouded prisms.

None of this leads me to any insights. Only to confusion and a sense that it’s just as pointless to try to understand myself as to understand others. The only unbending reality is that my attempts at both will always fail. My efforts will yield unreliable results. Therefore, any actions I take based on the results of my attempts might as well be taken at random, without attempting to “know” anything. This is how prismatic introspective thinking ends up; a mass of words wadded into a ball and covered with glue and wax in a futile effort to make them stick together in some fashion.

Circumstances can kick a person in the gut incredibly hard. The thing is, it’s sometimes impossible to know whether circumstances are simply taunting you or, instead, are attempting to prepare you for a merciless beating that will leave you bruised, broken, bloodied, and screaming for the pain to cease. Either way, though, the gut punch takes one’s breath away and instantly re-frames the world as one knew it until that moment.

Those moments, those ferocious gut punches, reveal far more about one’s humanity than anything else could. And when those revelations expose flaws much, much deeper than surface blemishes, a person can’t help but question his value; his worth as a human being comes into question.

Nothing can quickly “fix” the images that fill one’s mind after a series of gut punches illustrate them in vivid color. Soul-searching is the only tool available to heal the wound, if indeed it can be repaired. And soul-searching takes a lot of time.

Yesterday would just as well have been left in the calendar to rot. It began early, as rotten days often do, but went south from there. At 10:45 a.m., as I was on the way home from grocery shopping, checking the mail, and buying discounted wine (Tuesday is the day for that), I was ticketed for driving 41 in a 25 MPH zone. I have no idea what that will cost me; it’s possible the penalty for 16 MPH over the limit is crucifixion or a date with the guillotine. The officer did not know. He also did not seem to know that he wrote me the ticket in the morning; the ticket notation said “10:45 p.m.” But the description of conditions at the time of the infraction said “clear” and “daylight.” It’s never daylight in Arkansas as 10:45 p.m. Frankly, I question what else he might have gotten wrong. I was speeding, there’s no doubt, but I sensed I was going 35 or so. I could have been going 41, but I rather doubt it. And the ticket, which has a spot to indicate how the officer determined the offending speed, was left blank where it could have indicated the measurement was by “radar” or “pacing.” Perhaps I should challenge the ticket. But if I did, I might be targeted by our local police; they might consider me a troublemaker. Yet I hate to think what this might do to my insurance. The fact that I haven’t been issued a traffic citation of any kind since I was much younger and taller should count in my favor. But it probably won’t.

+++

This morning (by noon, they say; I should be there waiting by 10 a.m.), my wife will be discharged from the rehabilitation hospital. I’m looking forward to it; having her home will be great. On the other, I don’t know how much support and physical assistance she will need and I am doubtful I have sufficient physical strength to provide physical assistance. Although she will have periodic home healthcare provided by nurse(s?), it will be infrequent and of limited duration. Time will tell, as I always say when I am perplexed and unsure of myself and the world around me.

+++

Speaking of rot. Today began, in earnest, when I awoke at 2:45 a.m. I remained awake for most of the ensuing three hours, though I did not get out of bed until three hours had passed. I know I slept at least a wink during that time, though, because I had an unfortunate dream involving a mystery shopping industry issue that occurred at the same time as a repair was being done to a house I apparently occupied. The repair was hideously ugly and unprofessional; I was hideously ugly and unprofessional in my interaction with the person who did the work, a person I know well. Dreams always intrigue me; I will forever wonder whether they carry messages to our conscious selves, messages I can never quite understand. And what does my lack of understanding convey about my personality and/or intellect?

+++

As I look out my window, I can see ample evidence that a creature (perhaps an armadillo? a skunk? a mole? a family of moles?) has been routing about in the thick layer of leaves on the forest floor. I wonder, what disturbs the leaves so thoroughly that they appear to have been roughed up by a forest fighter?  I may have a children’s story forming in my brain, a story that would explain what occurs each night to displace the smooth bed of leaves: the wooded areas hereabouts are home to forest mermaids. These mermaids do not swim in the ocean. They swim through the sea of leaves created when the leaves fall from the hardwood trees every Autumn. The swirls along the forest floor are created when they swish their tails to propel them along. This is just a budding idea; it is far from finished. I have to determine their motives for swishing through the forest. I must understand the conflict in their story, as well as how the conflict will be resolved. Nonsense! The “rules” of writing that require story arcs and the like were created by people who need structure to keep their thoughts within the bounds of sanity. I need no such rules; madness is a perfectly acceptable state of mind for me. At least that’s what I would like to believe.

+++

My coffee has cooled and so has my passion for finger exercise. I shall rest my phalanges now.

I’ve been awake since shortly after 2 a.m., courtesy (I assume) of food that did not agree with me. It’s nearing 3 a.m. now and I’m laying odds against the likelihood that I’ll be able to get back to sleep. Odds are pretty high I won’t be able to sleep if I keep typing. Maybe I won’t type long.

When I woke up, I could not breathe through my nose; not a bit. That has improved during the last 45 minutes or so, but I think I’d pass out from oxygen starvation if I were to depend entirely on breathing through my nose; my mouth serves another purpose besides food processing and speech. I don’t know why my body seems so intent on demonstrating that it controls my physical comfort; or, I should say, discomfort.

A few hours ago, I finished watching the third and final season of Wanted, an Australian television drama series. I won’t go into the plot, mostly because it is utterly improbable, but I will say it is action-packed, mindless entertainment. And I like one of the two main leads, Rebecca Gibney, a New Zealand native who, along with her husband, created the series. One of the aspects of the series I liked most was the fact that I was able to sit and watch it without thinking. It required no effort on my part. None whatsoever. In that sense, it was a little like settling in with a little whiskey or wine or a mind-numbing pill. Just sit and let someone else take control of your mind for a while; yeah, that’s it. But when the action became a little too absurdly improbable, I was able to take a break, stretch, and notice that every joint in my body aches from, presumably, arthritis.  Who knew mindless Australian television would accentuate evidence of one’s advanced age?

I took a break from writing. I listened to my church’s Insight service, in which a member of the church read Brother Eagle, Sister Sky, the story of Chief Seattle’s speech to the Commissioner of Indian Affairs in response to Washington’s desire to buy the land where Chief Seattle’s people lived. It’s a moving story, and it is a story about which all of us whose lives are based on imperialist expansion should be ashamed. We cannot change the past, but with sufficient will, we can change the future and make inroads toward redemption. But I doubt we will; this morning, I doubt we have the collective will to repair the damage our cultures have wrought over centuries.

Sleep often eludes me. That is punishment, I guess, for the thoughts that travel through my head during my waking hours. When I want to leave those thoughts and rest, the universe chastises me by forcing those very thoughts to sear into my brain like a hot branding iron. The elusion of sleep. Until arguing with WordPress that “elusion” is, indeed, a legitimate word, I did not realize it truly was. Elusion versus illusion. Their sounds are too close for comfort. Sleep is an illusion, too. It is a hologram of wakefulness.

Maybe I will try again to sleep. My stomach seems to have calmed a bit, so perhaps I can rest. I will try.

I forced myself to stay in bed for some time, hoping I would go back to sleep. Eventually, though, I gave up around 4:30.  The thing that kept me awake was the whistling noise with every inhalation and exhalation. That happens sometimes. No matter how much I clear my throat, no matter what I do, the whistling continues. It sounds loud to me, but I gather from past conversations with my wife that it’s essentially inaudible except to me. “It’s all in my head” is actually true in this case. Maybe in every case involving me.

I remember writing before about seeking quiet and being unable to find it. The buzz of light bulbs, the hum of the refrigerator, the whirring of the HVAC unit, the creaking of the floor under my feet, wind pressure causing windows to make barely audible sounds when they flex…and on and on. I find it impossible to experience silence. Even my heartbeat causes an audible “thump-THUMP” in my ears. But, as much as I desire silence, I think I would find deafness an awful experience. When I think of deafness, I see in my mind’s eye a video—without sound—of a building’s implosion; the experience is utterly incomplete without hearing the roar of the explosives and the rumble of the building’s demise.

+++

Today, after my early appointment to record the video introduction for next Sunday’s Insight program, I will return home to shed the uncomfortable jacket and slacks, etc. that I feel obligated to wear for the filming. Until yesterday afternoon, I was planning to go directly to the rehab hospital after filming to visit my wife. However, her therapy sessions are such that my visit would be interrupted shortly after I arrived. She is scheduled for an early session, before breakfast, then another one that would interrupt my visit, were I to go, then two more sessions after lunch. So, I will go visit around 3; that will give me just two hours with her before visiting hours end.  I’ll be interested to see what the schedule is for tomorrow and days following. Yesterday, we learned that the therapists are aiming to discharge her a week from today, if she progresses as expected. Thereafter, they will arrange for home health care for a period of 30 days; or maybe it’s 60. We shall see what actually transpires.

+++

The U.S. has ordered the closure of the Chinese embassy in Houston, ostensibly over hackers attempting to steal research about COVID-19 vaccines. China may, indeed, have engaged in such behavior. Unfortunately, I have come to distrust the U.S. government even more than I distrust the Chinese government. Beijing alleges the U.S. confiscated and opened Chinese diplomatic mail pouches during the past several months, which would be a violation of the Vienna Convention to which both countries are party. Two of the most powerful countries on Earth engaging in such high-stakes political squabbling makes me very angry; if I had absolute, magical power, I would bring every senior level representative of both governments to their knees; what I would do to them afterward is as yet unknown. It would not be pretty, though.

I wonder whether China’s state media is as obnoxious as the defacto state media in the U.S. (i.e., Fox News)? Does China’s state media encourage its citizens to distrust and to loathe U.S. citizens the way Fox News attempts to mold our response to Chinese? I used to think relations between nations would improve dramatically if relationships were managed not by the government but by average, everyday “folks.” No more. In the U.S., too damn many people are raving nationalists who claim patriotism but, in fact, have the blood of imperialist tyrants coursing through their veins. I suspect the same is true of many of the citizens of other countries. What have we humans become? We are capable of compassion and generosity and love beyond measure, yet we choose instead to mock, to value the accumulation of wealth over building relationships, and to hate others who do not share our culture, our heritage, or our skin color.

My mind is on a roller-coaster this morning. It’s enough to make me want to get off the damn thing and walk to the ends of the Earth, someplace I can find a society that hasn’t been infected with rampant capitalism and selfishness. I suppose that wish makes me selfish, though. Ach!

+++

The train of thought that led to the paragraphs above was interrupted by a brief phone call to my wife, followed by showering and shaving and getting dressed so I can look modestly presentable for the filming. Clearly, I have gained a lot of weight. My “presentable” trousers barely button. My coat is tight. I need, desperately, to change my eating habits and my sedentary lifestyle. The latter, especially, will be hard to do, considering how damn hard it is for me to walk up the slope of my driveway; I’m out of breath by the time I get back to the front door. I have let this happen. I let the removal of the right lower lobe of my lung give me an excuse for becoming far too sedentary. Now, I’m afraid, I may not be able to regain my stamina. I could kick myself, repeatedly, for my lethargic lifestyle.

+++

“Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” Those lyrics from The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, by Gordon Lightfoot, are on my mind this morning. Every time I hear or think about those lyrics, sadness wells up in me; it’s as if Pavlov trained my eyes to tear up and glisten each time he played the music or made me remember the song. There are other pieces of music whose lyrics do that to me: Dimming of the Day does that, but only when I hear it performed; the words on a page or screen don’t have the same power as when I hear the words to the tune sung by Djanko, Fjeld, and Anderson or Bonnie Rait or Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. Oh, there are more, but my fingers need a break and I need to head to church soon. My fingers will exercise again, sometime, later.