John Swinburn

Yesterday afternoon, I was standing on the back deck, taking in the spectacular sky, the glorious sounds of song birds, and the sheer magnificence of the afternoon, when I heard a rustling in the leaves behind the house. I walked to the deck railing and looked down; a large white-tailed deer plodded slowly through the leaves, her neck stretched up so she could reach the low-hanging leaves of the trees at the edge of the clearing. Suddenly, she became conscious of my presence, turning her head and locking me in a frozen gaze. We looked at one another for a full minute, at least, before her statue-like stance changed just slightly. She looked away from me, then back toward me. Finally, she lifted her left front leg and held it up for a good ten seconds. Then, she stamped it, forcefully, onto the ground. This stamping continued, every few seconds, for a minute or two. She turned away from me and reached up for more leaves, but the stamping continued. And, then, she snorted or, as I’ve learned through Google, “blew.” The sound from her mouth was surprisingly loud. Accompanied by the forceful stamping of her hoof into the ground, the noise suggested to me she was fiercely angry, ready to charge (she would have been unsuccessful in reaching me, of course, as I was a good seventeen feet above ground and she was at least forty feet away from the deck). Ultimately, with no warning, she turned and raced off through the woods. I think our encounter must have lasted at least three or four minutes, perhaps longer.

During my “interaction” with the deer, I could hear the new neighbors, two doors down, engaging in a rather loud conversation among themselves and with their dog. “C’mon, now, little girl, come over here. C’mon! C’mon!” The deer seemed to pay them no heed; I was the one upon whom her attention was focused. The sound of neighbors was underway before she saw me; she must have been aware they were distant. I, on the other hand, was a visible “threat.”

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Earlier in the day, I had been out with my electric blower, ridding the deck of leaves and twigs and other residue of a couple of days of occasionally high winds. Pollen continues to coat all exposed surfaces with its dirty yellow dust, making any thoughts of attempting to deep-clean, and then paint, the deck exercises in futility. The endeavor will just have to wait. In the meantime, the heavy wrought-iron furniture clogging the enclosed porch will remain in the way and it, too, will remain coated with pollen. And the porch screen will remain hideously clotted with gritty yellow and black evidence that we live in the forest.

Too much maintenance work is required on our house for me to do it all (or much of it, for that matter) myself. I would begrudgingly pay to have it done, to a point, if I could find a reliable, dependable team of maintenance people whose work I find acceptable. But such people are rare and in high demand. Even the ones recommended as “excellent,” I often have found, do work I consider inadequate and completely unacceptable. I need a place that requires less maintenance. I won’t be getting such a place soon, I’m afraid. I’ll have to deal with what I have. I cannot seem to marshal the stamina, or the discipline, of late to do even the simple stuff. Months ago, I bought two new switches to control ceiling fans in a couple of rooms; I cannot seem to get myself sufficiently motivated even to install them. Sometimes, I’m completely and utterly useless; even when I know how to do something and am completely capable of doing it, I just let it slide. I bitch and moan about not doing the work, yet I stay on course, not doing the work. If I were that deer behind the house, I would starve or be slain. I would not have sufficient motivation to reach for food in the trees nor to flee in the presence of danger (like hunters carrying crossbows).

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Arkansas restaurants are permitted to re-open today for dine-in service, albeit with restrictions such as distance between tables, requirements for masks of restaurant staff, requirements for masks for guests until their food and beverage is served, etc. I think it’s a mistake to open early. I expect we will see a significant spike in reported cases of COVID-19 within two or three weeks, thanks to the loosening of restrictions. I plan on maintaining our isolation to the extent possible until I have very good reasons (and healthcare professionals’ advice) to do otherwise.

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Isolation in the absence of Facebook and Nextdoor takes on an entirely new dimension. Until I deactivated the former and cancelled the latter accounts a couple of days ago, I must have been engaged in commenting or reacting to comments and photos and the like with incredible frequency. Since I cut off those channels, my interactions with the outside world have radically diminished. For some reason, even my email in-box, normally the recipient of a constant flood of messages (mostly marketing, I acknowledge), has all but dried up. It’s almost as if most of the rest of the world assumes I died and, therefore, am no longer capable of receiving communication.

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Speaking of dying, I think most of us assume our deaths, when they come, will cause massive ripples in the fabric of life on Earth. We know, of course, those ripples will be limited to a relatively small sphere of people, but we assume the results of our demise will be traumatic, cataclysmic, earth-shattering, upending, etc. In reality, most of that little sphere will quickly return to a slightly different but perfectly comfortable routine. Perhaps a few people will feel the impact with greater consequence, but the likelihood is high that they, too, will adjust, given a little time. The death of people who have a large circle of close friends and family, or who have a significant impact on the larger world of business or art (for example) may be felt more widely. But the departure of those of us who have very small circles of influence or consequence will have brief, insignificant effects. None of this is new; none of this is news; all of it, though, is emotionally challenging. It acknowledges that we are far more important in our own heads than we are in the heads of those around us. Just something on my mind this morning. This mourning. Mourning Becomes Electra. What an awfully depressing play. Lavinia becomes Electra. Mourning Becomes her. A modern Greek tragedy. Really. Oresteia. I would have to read some Greek tragedies before attempting to write a modern-day version. I vaguely remember Agamemnon from high school. I forget which O’Neill character was Agamemnon; Ezra? I’ll have to read it again, but I remember thinking at the time it was terribly long and boring, although intriguing once I got through it. There it is again. Wandering through a rabbit warren, but somehow ending up collecting seashells along the banks of a drying riverbed in Nebraska.

I heard this and read the words this morning. It is incredibly moving. The words were written by Herman Hesse. They are read here by Natascha McElhone.

I encountered this when reading a recent post from Brainpickings and I owe Maria Popova, its creator, a debt of gratitude for it.

Twice before 4:30 a.m., screaming alerts from the NOAA weather radio jolted me awake. Though the warnings did not apply specifically to Hot Springs Village, they applied to sections of Garland County. The radio’s settings, I gather, call for the device to emit piercing shrieks when weather warnings involve even an acre in Garland County.

Though the alerts did not say the “areas impacted” included Hot Springs Village, the bright lightning, growls of storms in the distance, and occasional much louder cracks of thunder close by worked together to convince me I should get up. And so I did. The first cup of coffee sits beside my computer and I sit staring at the screen.

The sound of rain hitting the roof and the deck is constant. This is no light mist; it is pounding rain, occasionally accompanied by wind gusts that cause waves of water to slam into the glass door leading to the deck. I love listening to and watching Nature’s fierce capabilities, despite having first-hand experience of what it can do. When the wind and rain and thunder and lightning express themselves as unbridled fury, I recoil in fear at the same time I am attracted to them, as if they were strong magnets and I a flimsy piece of iron. That same repulsion-attraction drew me to the front door of my parents’ house in Corpus Christi at the moment Hurricane Celia began tearing off the roof. When that storm had subsided enough for us to venture outside of what remained of the house, my family’s brief experience with homelessness began. After a sleepless night on wet church pews, we all found places to stay until my parents were able to rent a house, but I remember the sensation of being adrift for a little while. Crud! I can’t even finish a paragraph without wandering down a path leading to nowhere.

Among the many career paths I considered when I was young was that of meteorologist. A friend of friend, a few years my senior, was a meteorologist. Conversations with him about weather, especially about how storms develop and how (at the time) weather forecasts were made fascinated me. I think one aspect of the discipline that convinced me to look elsewhere for a career was its heavy reliance on mathematics, especially calculus, and physics. Those subjects frightened me because, unlike every other subject I had tackled in school, I did not easily comprehend them. I wish I had been fortunate enough to have had a good math teacher who could not only show me how the logic of math works but also could have generated in me an enthusiasm for the subject. Had I learned to love math, early on, I suspect my life would have taken me in an entirely different direction than it has. Another paragraph, another dead-end path.

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I finally got tired of waiting for a phone call to schedule my PET scan, so I called my oncologist’s office. I was referred to the scheduler in another office, the same scheduler who screwed up the scheduling of my lung-mass biopsy in November 2018. She behaved as if she was simply waiting for me to call her. I am on the schedule for mid-day on Tuesday. Nothing by mouth after 7:00 a.m. The day before, I am to be on a high-protein, extremely low-carbohydrate diet. No sugar, no alcohol, no bread, no fruit, no pasta, etc., etc., etc. I should be on that diet every day. My weight would be lower, my face would be thinner, my stomach would be smaller, and my skin might even be healthier. So why am I not on that diet already? Good question. The answer is complex, though, and not without a fair amount of interpersonal difficulty thrown in.  Ah, well.

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I just realized my appointment with the pulmonologist next week conflicts with my wife’s appointment with her physical therapist. One of us will have to change our appointments because I do not want my wife to try to drive; her leg strength is not adequate to the task. I doubt the pulmonologist will have anything of any real value to say to me, so I should be the one to cancel, I think. Although, I think I might have a harder time getting another time slot. Little things can wreck one’s schedule and cause heartburn and stress.

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Thursday, I’ll go back to the oncologist, who will tell me the results of the PET scan. With luck, they will not show any “bright spots” that warrant biopsy. If there are reasons for a biopsy, my schedule will be further wrecked and the problem of transportation will become more acute because I will be sedated and not permitted to drive. I guess it’s pointless to worry until I know more. On the other hand, it’s better to have a plan than to scurry around at the last minute, causing even more stress.

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Monday afternoon, we will have a Zoom video-conference with old friends from Chicago, Don and Val, a couple who I’m afraid we have not kept up with much since we moved away thirty years ago. We have been in touch on rare occasion, but I don’t remember the last time we spoke. Both of them are still working, despite being at least a year or two older than I am. I am so glad I retired early. Well, I’m glad I got out of association management when I did. I really wanted to start something else, but just haven’t gotten around to it. At 66, I doubt I will. But I still have that entrepreneurial ember burning in me. Or it might just be heartburn.

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On a whim, I looked at my May 8, 2019 post just now. In it, I mentioned a “soon-to-be-available” documentary film entitled “Recorder: The Marion Stokes Story.” It will be shown on Independent Lens locally on PBS on June 17!

A few nights ago, I poured myself an ounce or two of Wild Turkey 101 Kentucky Bourbon, over ice, which might represent an appalling affront to the arrogancenti who claim to be bourbon purists. Screw them. They stumble over simple instructions fit for idiots; their pretenses only highlight their intellectual limitations. (Here is where I admit to being judgmental, opinionated, and occasionally hard to be around.)

I like my bourbon cold, as if touched by an icy blade of a knife keen to do irreparable harm to someone deserving of vivisection. My mood that night, and possibly this afternoon, as one might guess, was dangerous and unforgiving. The reasons for my acrimonious frame of mind were unimportant; it would have been wise, though, to just be aware of them and steer clear of any scythe I might have had in my possession. My thoughts toyed with the idea of learning to sharpen the implement so that it would easily cut a hair in half, lengthwise. I wanted to be able to swing my scythe with such precision that I could split molecules of air into fragments of equal size. Imagine how deadly such a sweep of that scythe might be to an unfortunate dimwit who stumbles into its path.

But I was talking about bourbon, wasn’t I? Indeed I was. The amber drink in my glass hid behind ice cubes, teasing me and taunting me to take just a sip, a little taste, an arousing touch of the elixir that will turn me into a growling beast, ready to engage the universe in a fierce battle for superiority and dominance over time and space and a thirst for blood. There it is! I’ve revealed the secret power of bourbon! It has the capacity for turning modest desire into a libidinous hunger unmatched in modern times. Only the thirst of Eros, who ‘loosens the limbs and weakens the mind,’ can compare to the power of bourbon when mixed with the right time, attitude, and longing.

Those emotions, though, are pretenses. They are scraps of camouflage that hide the stark, empty, hollow sensations that validate the inadequacy of the man who was holding the glass. They belong to the makeup artist who transforms pasty-faced actors into heroic figures, artificial characters who leap tall buildings and solve unsolvable problems. Emotions are powerful, but they are vaporous. When confronted with facts, emotions dissipate into scurilous mists that leave only wet traces on lips and faces.

Who are we, these men with bottled emotions, who own land and ride horses on the outskirts of well-do-to-cities? We? I am not among the horse-owning class. Nor am I a significant land owner. No, I am a wannabe, a character in a third-rate novel; a detective whose trousers are stained with olive oil and whose aftershave reeks of garlic and fresh fish.

I did not achieve my goals today. I could not keep myself away from the local social media. And I wished a friend’s husband happy birthday. Wait. I think he is my friend, too? Why do I consider his wife more of a friend than he? Ah, it’s only because she and I know one another a little better. Nothing more. I spent more time on Facebook than I said I would. Miserable bastard! You can’t even keep a promise to yourself!

I re-potted several tomato plants today, plants I grew from seeds of tomatoes I consumed for sustenance and pleasure. I hope the transplanted plants survive and give me enormous volumes of tomatoes. I adore tomatoes. I could survive on tomatoes and tomatoes alone. I’d be willing to try, anyway. For awhile.

Dinner tonight will involve the flesh of a dead pig, AKA pork tenderloin treated to spices that will be reminiscent of time I wished I’d spent in the Middle East or Northern Africa. I could have been Moroccan, had I been born in another place and another time. I just wanted you to know.

I’ve not yet started drinking, though my writing suggests otherwise. I promise. I am just in the mood for liquor and libidinous interactions. Hah! I’m too damn old and ugly for that. But I’m not too old for a gin and tonic, forged from cheap gin and cheaper tonic. But it requires the juice of a fresh lime; that is what transports me to a time and place where I can forget the past and strive to conquer the future.

It is possible to recover from job loss. It is not possible to recover from death. Chaotic economic calamities can be overcome; not so, death. Hundreds of thousands of people out of work and in dire financial straits is a scenario from which those hundreds of thousand of people can emerge. There is no emergence from death.

Apparently, though, the prospect of shuttered hair salons, pizza parlors, and shopping malls is far more dismal and depressing to some than is the idea of morgues stacked to the rafters with full coffins or mass graves dug, in an attempt to cope with volume, in lieu of individual burials. Weighing the options, though, might simply be a matter of playing the odds and taking measured risks. “I’m willing to risk the relatively unlikely possibility of dying against the likely possibility of being unable to buy food.” Put another way, “I’m willing to put the lives of people I love at risk in order to take home a paycheck.” Yet another symptom of testosterone poisoning, I think.

Maybe, though, it all boils down to brainwashing and distrust. In spite of 70,000 deaths and 32,000 new cases per day, some still believe COVID-19 is a “hoax.” Governmental actions taken to reduce the number of infections and deaths are not steps to protect the people but, instead, dangerous overreach by a “deep state” dedicated to perpetrating a “scam” on the populace. Paranoia and conspiracy theories grow like bacteria in a petri dish awash in nutritional agar.

I sometimes—often—think it is impossible to repair minds so badly wrecked and fractured that they are receptive to wildly absurd ideas and theories. Allowing these damaged beings to roam free in society is dangerous and potentially deadly, but making it illegal to entertain certain thoughts and ideas is anathema to freedom. So what is the solution? I wish I knew.

Perhaps the best solution for me is to avoid social media, news, and thinking about COVID-19. I sense myself growing angry and feeling hopeless, an ugly combination that can lead to nothing good. It’s not the virus that makes me feel this way; it’s the way I see people reacting to it. Blaming medical professionals and healthcare workers and grocery store clerks. Strutting into state capitols carrying guns and congregating on beaches and deliberately spitting on people whose opinions differ from their own. I am near the boiling point and I dare not allow the red hot anger to turn to steaming rage.  So I will steer clear of triggers. I will avoid reading or listening to (and engaging in) irrational rants.

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If I lived alone, I would have a pet. A dog. He or she, in silent adoration, would be a soothing influence on me.

Absent having a real pet, I will create an imaginary dog. Her name is Luna. She is relatively small, but too big to carry around with me, though she fits nicely in my lap. She daydreams while I watch mindless television shows designed to make me laugh and forget the world around me. She follows me out onto the deck and sits near me and watches me as I sip my coffee in the morning or my drink in the evening. When I go into the garage, she spins in excited circles, hoping she can ride with me in the car. When I drive, she places her paws at the base of the window on the passenger side door and puts her head out the window, taking in the wind and all the delightful odors it carries to her nose. I wish I could understand what she is thinking. And I wonder if she can sense my thoughts. She seems to know when to nuzzle my neck and when to give me a wide berth. She reads me like a canine novel.

Luna understands, or seems to, that I am more comfortable talking to her than to humans. She listens to me as if she understands me. When I blather on about bacon or cauliflower, her eyes sparkle and she drools. Yes, Luna is in love with cauliflower. It’s the crunch, I think, and the fact that the florets spray like bursts from an exploding bubble when she bites into them. Bacon, though, is her favorite. She wolfs it down as if it were trying to escape; she must consume it quickly in order to prevent it from getting away.

People tell me pets restrict one’s freedom. They say you can’t go out of town on a whim because you have to make arrangements for the pets. Not so with Luna. I simply give her a set of keys, and leave instructions for her:

1. When you go out in the yard, take a poop bag with you and, when you’ve done your business, tie the bag closed and put it in the poop bag bin; make sure to close the lid tightly.
2. Eat no more than one can of Hill’s Science Diet every day. There’s Purina Pro-Plan dry in the pantry; use your judgement.
3. When you give yourself water, be sure to turn off the tap; no drip, drip, drip like last time.
4. If you take the car out, be sure to wear a fedora so you look more like a human. Be careful and don’t speed!
5. You can binge-watch House of Cards if you like; just be sure not to erase any episodes because I haven’t seen them all.
6. No guests while I’m gone, please.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t want to leave without Luna! She would go with me. We would stay only in dog-friendly motels and eat in dog-friendly restaurants. Luna told me about a website that caters to dogs and their people, bringfido.com.

I didn’t mention yet (on this post, anyway) that I attempted to start a city-specific pet products and services guide when I lived in Chicago. Well, I did. I tried. I had visions of a paperback directory that would have, at the time, been the only thing of its kind. I had neither the marketing wherewithal nor the necessary financial backing to make a go of it. I solicited help, through a want-ad in the Chicago Tribune, with the upfront aspects of the guide. A woman, her first name was Sarah but I do not recall her last name, responded. She was a fierce dog-lover and a seriously neurotic creature who had made a practice of suing past employers for perceived discrimination. She had never won a suit. At any rate, Sarah helped me create a business plan of sorts and worked on building a database of prospective advertisers and content-suppliers for the guide. Eventually, after having no success whatsoever in getting either advertising or content support, I dropped it. Sarah was, by the time, gone. I suspect she was busy seeking employment that might one day turn into a money spigot. My company name (the company that never really developed much) was Anthem Group. The only product I ever produced was the Green Book Directory of Industrial Medicine. I produced two or three annual editions before deciding it was not sufficiently profitable to warrant continuing. At least I learned a lot while I was doing it.

Years and years ago, sometime between 1985 and 1990, high in the skies over Wisconsin, I climbed out on the wing of a twin-engine airplane and, when the skydiver to whom I was tightly strapped gave the command, pushed myself away from the wing. The two of us dropped in free-fall for what seemed like a full minute, though I suspect it was far less than that. The air rushing past my ears made hearing him difficult, but I managed to hear him warn me that he was going to pull the rip cord. Suddenly, I felt like we had stopped and changed direction, as if we were catapulting upward at the same speed we had reached while falling. But the sound of the rushing air was missing. The sensation was just a reaction to our sudden deceleration, I think.

The experience of free-fall was exhilarating. I remember thinking, without any fear whatsoever, that the tandem parachute might not open.  I remember thinking, if it didn’t, I would feel no pain when I smashed into the ground. I would be dead, instantly. Why that did not frighten me I do not know. But within the next several days, more than one news report told of parachutists who died when their chutes did not open. Those reports changed my thinking. I decided not to jump out of airplanes anymore. Despite that decision, I felt like the $100 I paid to do that one jump was money well spent.

I wonder whether the free-fall the world economy is experiencing will be anything like the tandem parachute jump. Will the incredible speed of descent slow with such ferocity that we will feel like it is going in the other direction, even though it will still be dropping? Or will its plunge continue without slowing until, suddenly, the economy as we know it will die in an instant? I rather doubt the economy will actually reverse direction, at least any time soon. For that to happen in the USA, intelligent leadership and guidance would be necessary. That is lacking. Neither major political party seems capable of focusing on the issues at hand. And the fervent supporters of both parties seem intent on murder, followed by self-destruction. Demanding freedom from face masks and insisting on re-opening all businesses, including restaurants and malls, offers evidence of both homicidal and suicidal tendencies. And suggestions that votes will be withheld from one man accused of sexual assault, thereby tacitly supporting another man accused of multiple sexual assaults (and publicly guilty of bald-faced lies of unprecedented scope) offer evidence of stupidity and arrogance unmatched in the modern era.

Free-fall. It’s not just the economy. It’s the fabric of American society, being shredded by the rush of hot air emanating from the mouths of politicians and their acolytes during their rapid descent toward our collective oblivion.

It doesn’t need to happen. The free-fall could be stopped if the public at large would simply accept that everyone…EVERYONE…will be required to make significant, long-term, and painful sacrifices so that everyone…EVERYONE…can weather the pain of pandemic and financial meltdown. But, again, leadership would be required. I do not see anyone on the national stage with sufficient charisma, intellectual wherewithal, an unshakable moral compass, and political power to lead us toward a unified effort to confront the problems facing us.

The public at large could do it, even without leadership, if we would just unify behind the concept that WE have to do the heavy lifting. But I doubt that will happen. It would take a spark from a charismatic public figure to light the flame. And who can command the attention and the affection and the respect of people across the political spectrum? Who could turn public attention toward solutions, political affiliation be damned? I don’t know.

I hope my sense of hopelessness this morning is just an after-effect of eating too much scallops provençal last night. Maybe more coffee and a piece of toast will recover my bright, cheerful, hopeful mood.

I’ve been up for more than an  hour. I spent much of that hour writing something I will never post. In fact, I suspect I will delete the file. It will do no one any good to read what I wrote. My words were selfish expressions; they did not even serve me. They represent an outpouring of self-pity; a revelation that need not be revealed. I’ve written quite a lot of such stuff over the years. Most of it either deleted or saved in password-protected files that will never be opened because I did not save the passwords, for fear they could be found and the files opened. I thought I would remember the passwords. But I don’t. I suppose I should delete those files, too. But I might one day, in a flash of new-found memory, recall the keys to unlock those files; I might be able to open them and see whether I wrote anything worth reading. Anything worth saving. Almost certainly not; when I am in moods that prompt me to write such stuff, I am unlikely to write anything of any value to anyone, least of all myself.

My fiction seems to have left me. I no longer have much interest in writing fiction. I’m more interested in writing what I think and how I feel, stuff that is of interest only to me. I return, on occasion, to read my expressions of what’s on my mind. And, on occasion, I like what I’ve written. But I see no value in it. It’s just ruminations, recorded in written words, that will eventually be discarded, along with the computer on which they are stored. I used to think I would organize my writing into some sort of coherent collection and publish the pieces I judged worthy of publication. Oh, I still think about it sometimes but the more I read what I’ve written, the less likely I think I will try. I would be the only one apt to read it. Maybe some members of my family. But no one outside a small and shrinking circle would waste their time on it.

Moods. I certainly have them, don’t I? Moods direct my behavior in predictable ways. Last night, I wanted to do nothing more than sit on the deck and drink wine. I wanted company. But it occurred to me that I did not want to talk to anyone; I just wanted someone there with me. Someone to suffer in silence with me. What a selfish bastard! I’m like that a lot. I want to be left alone, but I want to be left alone with someone else. I want someone else there with me, listening to the whipporwills and the crickets and wind chimes aroused by the breeze and watching as the night sky begins to darken and show stars. I think I want someone else to experience what I experience so that, later, when I emerge from that solitary mood, we can compare notes on our experience. Maybe that’s it. Maybe not. Maybe I just want to feel like I am more interesting, even in silence, than a television reality show.

I’ve had it with writing this morning. Nothing of any consequence has slipped from my fingers. It’s a waste of phalangeal joint energy. Enough.

This morning began with a few sips of coffee and a quick view of online news before I jumped in the car and headed to the grocery store for the “senior hour.” But I got my wires crossed. I thought the “senior hour” began at 7. Nope. It began at 6. By the time I got there, the place was flooded with geezers—my brothers and sisters in arms—filling their baskets with indulgencies and necessities. The store’s aisles are now marked for one-way traffic. I did not notice the signs on the floor, but was grateful to a little old lady for pointing them out to me. People riding in carts (and there were several of them) did not seem to see the floor markings, either. Nor did it make a difference to them when the markings were called to their attention. Oh, well.

Still no yeast; all the stores seem to be out. I was able to score tonic water, which has been in short supply. But there was no ground pork. One or two other items on my list were nowhere to be found, but I feel confident we will not starve in the near-term.

Most of the people in the store, employees and customers alike, wore masks this morning. There were a few notable exceptions. One guy was clearly suffering from testosterone poisoning as he defiantly thrust his lower jaw forward while examining the soft drink options (or do they call them “pop” here?). I suspect the guy already had bleach and an ultraviolet light in his cart.  Another guy—a tall, ball-headed brute wearing a t-shirt that exposed his six-pack abs and who had a large metal cross dangling from a leather band around his neck—seemed to think God would protect him. I assume the cross was the instrument of the Lord, smiting the virus with its unseen holy disinfectants and other-worldly UV glow.

If stores want customers to flow smoothly through the store without getting closer than six feet to one another, some things need to change.  For one, the stores should insist that shoppers create their shopping lists online. When the list is complete, the shopper should be able to hit “print” and the list would print in exactly the order the shopper should move through the store. A map with items on the list should also print. The map would show the starting point and the direction of flow through the store. Brilliant idea! I should copyright it or trademark it or otherwise protect it as intellectual property worth literally millions of dollars. I’ll let it go at a discounted price, though. The first $900,000 gets it.

My mask is courtesy of a woman at our church, who is making and giving away masks. Another woman is picking them up from her and taking them to other members of the congregation who request them. People helping people; it’s nice. I have seen others selling masks for $5 and up apiece. Those sellers may well be out of work and trying to stay solvent. I’m tempted to buy some of them. Masks will, I think, become fashion statements. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Wearing my mask emphasizes for me my need to get a cloak or a cape. I have a top-hat I could wear with either one; in fact, I’m wearing the top-hat in one of the photos above. I wonder what sort of reaction I might get if I wore my mask, my top-hat, and a cape or cloak into the grocery store? Probably no more than an occasional sideways glance.

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Not to change the subject, but yesterday when I went in for a dual CT scans, the technician who did the scans first took blood. A lot of blood. Not all of it went into the vial, either. A significant amount spilled all over my arm and dripped onto my pants leg. He apologized profusely and soaked up most of the blood from my pants leg, using a saline-soaked bandage. He claimed salt water is the best thing to use to get blood out of fabrics. “An old sailor told me that trick. He said when they got blood on their clothes on the ship, they just dragged the piece of clothing in the salt water and it took out the blood.” An old sailor, huh? The majority of the blood came out, but there’s still a blood stain on the clothes. Fortunately, I was wearing a pair of long-legged gym pants (they said to wear something loose, comfortable, and with no metal buttons, rivets, etc.). I can live with a blood stain.

But I wonder when I’ll get the results of both CT scans? I see the oncologist on Thursday. She should have the results of the chest CT scan. But I have no appointment with the nurse who ordered the abdomen/pelvis scan. No worries. I’ll get the results when I get them.

***

I had an odd, very sensual dream last night. A woman friend was sitting very close to me, breathing in my ear. She said to me, over and over again, “Just listen to the sound of my breath. It will sooth your anxiety so, so completely.” She repeated those sentences several times. My ear was hot from her breath. I suddenly realized, with surprise, that my hand was clutching the front of her thigh, right above her knee. I was alarmed that she might think I was being overly familiar, but then she said, “There you go.” That’s it. That’s all I remember. I haven’t had such a vivid dream in months. For a while, I was dreaming every night; extremely long, complex, bizarre dreams. But then they seemed to stop. Then, last night’s dream; oddly disturbing and exciting at once.

***

I’m back on track to write an article for the church. I’ve got to get it done and have it behind me. I put it on hold for too long. I’m starting over, with a new approach. Let it be the right one, the one that will enable me to zip through it.

I failed to finish my last post. That oversight was caused by a combination of memory lapse and the fact that I had to drive to Little Rock to return a courtesy car and pick up the Outback. Nine-hundred-forty-two dollars later, I am home, a poorer man with safer tires and delightful four-wheel alignment (plus new oil and filter and a replaced catalytic converter, thanks to a recall).

In my incomplete post, I mentioned risky behavior after college. The incident on my mind (there have been many, many, many) was this: I had flown to Washington, DC to attend a meeting of some sort for business. My flight arrived rather late and I was anxious to get a cab to my hotel. After I collected my luggage and was headed toward the ground transportation area, a young woman with whom I had spoken briefly while on my flight approached me and asked where I was going. I told her I was on my way to the hotel where I had reservations.  The conversation that followed went something like this:

“I can give you a ride, it’s on my way.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Thanks, anyway.”

“No, I insist. It will be nice having someone to talk to on the way.”

I was not at all comfortable accepting a ride with this woman, but I was at the time unwilling to be firm in my “no” answer. The bottom line is that I followed her to her car.

As she drove, she explained that she was home on leave from the military. I am sure she told me more, but I don’t recall much else. She seemed to be a few years older than me, but then I’m not good at guessing ages; we were relatively close in age, I’m sure.

She asked me again the name of my hotel and the address. I pulled out my travel information and gave her the hotel address. She wasn’t quite sure where that was. She would have to consult a map.  That worried me; she had said my hotel was “on the way.”

She pulled over, consulted a map, and decided she knew precisely where it was, after all. And it was, indeed, on her way. So she said. And off we went. After a short while, she asked if I was in a hurry to get to my hotel. “I feel like a cup of coffee. Do you mind if I stop at XYZ Coffee Shop?” I don’t recall the name of the place; it may have been IHOP or Waffle House. I rather reluctantly agreed. We stopped. We had coffee. I learned more about her military career. If memory serves, she was a military police officer. For some reason, I remember thinking, “she looks like a cop.”

After sitting and chatting for a while, we got back in her car and she drove me to my hotel. I got out, thanked her for the ride, and went inside. I remember being nervous that I might find her waiting for me the next morning as I got ready to go to my meeting. She wasn’t.

Did I trust her? Not really. Why did I agree, then, to go with her? I don’t know. I think maybe it was because I did not want to seem rude by refusing her generosity. But she must have known I would have been nervous. Who wouldn’t be? What was I worried about? I don’t know that, either. I just didn’t feel like it was a good idea. But I did it anyway. And my worries were for naught.

Today, I probably would not accept the ride. I might try to refuse with humor or blatant lies. “I really shouldn’t; I’m afraid my psychosis could flare up on the way and that could be lethal for both of us.” Trust. That’s what has seeped out of my life. But there wasn’t so much back when, either, was there? I was afraid of the young woman who offered me a ride. Today I would be leery of another good Samaritan. Trust. It’s a crap-shoot.

Hitchhiking had developed an ugly reputation by the time I was in college. Both drivers and prospective hitchhikers were warned, by that time, of the dangers of allowing strangers into one’s car or entering the cars of strangers. Bad things—robbery, kidnapping, murder, assault, and various other unsavory stuff—were not only possible but likely, according to the rumor mills of the day. I accepted the warnings; they were legitimate, verified by the very occasional report of actual ugliness occurring. Television dramas and big screen films reinforced the dangers of hitchhiking. Still, I did a little hitchhiking and I picked up more hitchhikers than a person with good sense should have done. My risky behavior extended even beyond my college years, as I will relate in a moment. But first, I’ll document my recollections as a hitchhiker and as a giver of rides.

The longest trip I made by hitchhiking was from Austin, Texas to Corpus Christi, Texas while I was attending the University of Texas at Austin. I don’t recall why I decided to hitchhike; I owned a Blue 1971 stick-shift Ford Pinto at the time and could have driven myself (I made the trip many times in that car). For whatever reason, though, I decided to hitchhike. I made a cardboard sign that read “Corpus Christi,” slung my backpack over my shoulder, and carried my sign as I walked to Interstate 35 that runs through Austin. When I reached the Interstate, I walked along the side of the road, toward San Antonio, and held the sign out so drivers coming my way could read it. Soon after I started walking, a young guy stopped and told me he was going to Corpus. I got in the car and we headed south. During the course of our initial conversation, I told him I frequently made the trip and he asked which route I preferred. I remember saying I usually went through Kennedy and Karnes City, but sometimes I would take a route through Lockhart and Luling, but only if the drive would get me to the barbeque spots in those town in time for lunch. He opted to take the road through Kennedy and Karnes City, Highway 181, I think. I don’t recall much more about the drive. I suspect I drifted off, at least part of the way, while he drove. I remember giving him some money for gas when he dropped me off in Corpus after we went over the Harbor Bridge into the downtown area. I think I walked the seven or eight miles to my parents’ home, but I’m not sure. I don’t know whether I told my folks I had hitchhiked; I probably lied and said a friend gave me a ride. They would have been upset with me had I told them I hitchhiked. And I don’t recall how I got back to Austin. I don’t remember hitchhiking; I may have taken the bus. Memories fade over the years. But I do recall getting the ride all the way to Corpus.

While attending school in Austin, I lived near campus most of the time. But I lived several miles away for a few semesters (I moved almost every semester, for one reason or another). During one of the periods when I lived far from campus, I hitchhiked, or tried to, quite a bit.  I remember one time, after I finished my classes for the day, I was walking toward home, on West 24th Street, when I neared Lamar Boulevard. I decided I did not want to walk the four or five miles to the house I lived in at the time, so I turned around, facing traffic coming my way, and stuck out my thumb. I walked backward, very slowly, as I watched the cars go by. Finally, a car slowed down and came to a stop just past me. I turned and ran to the car and tried to open the passenger side door. The guy inside shook his head, “no,” and pointed in front of his car. I turned and realized he had stopped because he was nearing the intersection with Lamar; his car was two or three cars back from the intersection. I remember feeling incredibly embarrassed and saying “I’m sorry” several times. I don’t recall the rest of the trip home, but I suspect I decided to just walk, despite being tired. Embarrassment can be a motivator, I suppose. Or a demotivator.

I picked up hitchhikers fairly regularly during that period of my life. I gave people rides to or toward Corpus when I drove home. I gave people rides in and around Austin. One summer, when I had a summer job in San Antonio, I gave people rides even when I didn’t know much about the layout of the city. I have a vague recollection of stopping at a gas station for directions so I could get a hitchhiker where he wanted to go.

Our society, at least in this country, has allowed the disintegration of trust in our fellow citizens. We are afraid of other people (often, rightfully so), so we avoid allowing them into our space. Our comfort zones have shrunk to the size of our own skulls; sometimes even smaller. That shrinkage was happening when I was in college. It continued and has accelerated since then. Helping strangers is dangerous business. Genuine hospitality is limited to people we have extensively vetted or who have been vetted for us. I think it’s a shame that we feel threatened by people for no overt reason; our fears are manifestations of the fact that we do not know them or their motives, so we assume their motives are ugly, dangerous, dark. I wish I could simply shed that fear and behave the way I think we all should behave. But I cannot. So it would be hypocritical of me to judge others who behave the way I behave. Except I do. And I judge myself for the same reason. We all should be ashamed of our mostly illogical fear. We should be more willing to take risks, knowing that risks are very small. But we’ve been taught that the risks are bigger than they are. Media attention is partly responsible. Our willingness to extrapolate from single instances, in which the worst side of humanity is exhibited by strangers, to the rest of the population, bears most of the responsibility, though.

I doubt there ever was a time when we were a gentler, more loving, more giving society. But there was a time when we did not let the deviance of the few guide our responses to the rest, who are decent people. Or maybe not. I know not whereof I write. I write wistfully of a time that, for me, never was.

I drove our Subaru Outback to Little Rock yesterday. I drove a Subaru Ascent home. The service department told me the work on my car (65K maintenance, exhaust system recall notice work, and four new tires) would take all day, so they gave me a loaner. I told them I could not return it until Thursday. No problem, they said. They called yesterday afternoon around 3 to say my car was ready. I was tempted to return and trade the loaner for my car. But I pressure-washed the deck, instead.

The Ascent has a much smoother ride than the Outback. But, with new tires designed for both longer tread life and smoother ride than the tire being replaced, the Outback may have a smoother ride, as well. We shall see.

I have received my “stimulus” money. I could have done what Pastor Tony Spell asked and given it to the church. But I didn’t. I spent it on new tires and an oil change. Spell’s greed is stunning in its depth and hubris. I was pleased to learn he subsequently was arrested, though not in connection with his incredible request. May he rot in a cell for several weeks before being released to his “flock” for restorative justice.

Pressure-washing the deck yesterday was a pointless exercise. By the time I had cleaned a portion of one section, scouring yellow pollen to reveal the grey paint below, nearby trees had shed more of the same. I discovered, during my work, that the paint around areas of black mold was coming up. When the pollen season is over, I’ll have to power-wash again (after spraying the entire deck with cleanser), then will have to brush bleach on the molded areas. Then, after another quick rinse with the pressure-washer and a few days of dry weather, I will put another coat of paint on the entire deck, painting between boards, this time, as the final steps to a finished job. In hindsight, I should have invested the money in having the deck’s superstructure reinforced so I could re-deck the entire area with composite decking. I’m paying the price for being a frugal (make that absurdly stingy) bastard.

It would be nice to be able to go online and order all the materials and equipment I will need to do maintenance work and rehabbing around the house. I suppose I could, but not as conveniently as ordering groceries. Part of the difficulty of ordering building materials online is that I don’t know exactly what I need without looking, close-up, and asking a lot of questions. That’s one of the hardest parts; asking questions that reveal the depth of my ignorance. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does; I think it’s symptomatic of the remnants of that damn testosterone poisoning.

While I’m ordering online, I should go ahead and order a treadmill. I’ve decided on which one I want, I think: the ProForm SMART Pro 2000. If not that one, then the Sole F80. Or the ProForm 965 CT. The problem with all of them, though, is that they are sold out where I’ve looked.  I think I’ll wait until I learn what the results of my lab work from yesterday and the CT scan I should have done next week. The APRN yesterday ordered the CT scan to determine the cause of blood in my urine. Ordering a treadmill can wait.

It occurs to me that I might be utterly confused re-reading this post (and several others) many years from now (assuming I am present and capable of reading at that point). This post and many others assume the reader has knowledge of matters no contained in what I am writing here. In the context of several other posts, this one might make sense. Absent that context, though, it might seem to be the ramblings of an incoherent fool. And maybe it is. Time will tell, won’t it?

I will stop, for the moment, trying to make sense. Another cup of coffee is required. I arose late this morning, after spending too much awake-time in bed. My body is stiff and out of sorts. I need to flex and bend and repair the damage done by physical inactivity, gluttony, and bodily mistreatment that has lasted, at last count, 66 years. Repair the damage. Fat chance.