John Swinburn

The threats posed by the coronavirus have changed my life, thus far, in only limited ways. The seismic shifts taking place throughout the rest of the world have begun here, but I spend most of my time at home, anyway, so I haven’t been terribly inconvenienced yet. Barren grocery shelves, closed retail establishments and restaurants, and social distancing while “out and about” have been noticeable, but not pestilential in scope. Yet. Life goes on, almost as normal but with a few tectonic upheavals. But I feel the ominous breath of change against the back of my neck. What was, heretofore, normal is fading into the background, leaving an empty space where contentment once lived. I already feel a sense of loss of normalcy; like heartbreak.

“Normal.” The dictionary definition is changing with every breath and each new death caused by the coronavirus. No deaths yet in Arkansas, but it’s just a matter of time. And as those traumas and tragedies mount, and as routines are more deeply interrupted and upended, normal will take on a new, increasingly sinister meaning. Normal will become synonymous with toxicity. Reality will crush the temporary idea of “the new normal” under the heels of a savage enemy. “The new normal” will disappear into the mist and emerge simply as “normal,” the caustic reality that requires us to constrict our movements and limit human contact.

I remember how I felt, as a young man, enthusiastic but inexperienced, when I was spurned by girls I thought would be my “one and only.” Like that heartbreak, this pain will morph into anger and, then, bitterness. But, instead of the flames of anger dying into embers and then cooling into ashes, the anger that accompanies this normalcy could erupt into volcanic rage. But against who? Against what? The only logical place for it is to turn it inward; I hope that will not happen often, but I’m afraid it will. The longer we experience social isolation and the deeper the financial upheavals dig into people’s lives, the more likely we will see explosive rage in public places and the more likely we will see dramatic spikes in suicide rates.

I do hope my dystopian vision is utterly wrong. I hope our society, instead, comes together (albeit at a safe distance) to willingly suffer sacrifice and engage in supportive, helpful, constructive behaviors.  It’s really far too early to tell what will happen. It’s probably too early even to predict possibilities. But my underlying pessimism seems to be bubbling to the surface. I would so much rather be hopeful and optimistic. I could really use a hug right now, but that would be dangerous and reckless. So goes reality in mid-March, 2020.

***

I spent a significant portion of the day yesterday creating an inventory of our pantry. Actually, pantries. We have one small pantry in the house and an enclosed plastic shelving unit, meant for tools but which we use as a pantry, in the garage. I created a list, shelf by shelf, of everything. I segmented each item according to a system I devised but probably will change (e.g., beans, condiments, fish, flavorings, etc.). Then, I further categorized the items (e.g., black beans, canned; olives; kipper snacks, canned; liquid smoke; etc.). I recorded how many of each are on each shelf and which shelves they are on. In preparing the inventory, I discovered that we have multiples of some items stored in different places; we don’t have a particularly voluminous pantry, but we have so many individual items of “stuff” that makes it difficult to keep track of what we have. Consequently, we sometimes buy more of an item we already have. If we can keep up with this inventory, we can avoid such wasteful behaviors.

Don’t think you’re the only one who thinks yesterday’s endeavor was indicative of some aberrant psychological patterns. It’s odd that I can focus on such a menial, repetitive, mind-numbing task for a while, yet usually I can’t keep focused on anything for more than a short while. Like ADHD with anal retentive tendencies. Hmm?

Now, will I maintain and update the inventory religiously? I seriously doubt it. Yet when I discover that it has not been updated and is no longer reliable, I will become agitated and angry at myself for my lack of reliability and dependability. Ah, well. It will give me an innocuous mental flaw about which to occupy my mind.

***

In just a while, I will attempt to conduct an online audio and video committee meeting with four or five members of my church. The intent of the meeting is to get some feedbak on a section of the church website dedicated to our efforts to collectively treat the planet with greater respect. In addition, I’m going to try to get the other members of the group to commit to write a blog post for the Green Team (that’s us) blog I created. Maybe these activities can take our minds off the impending end of civilization as we know it.  If the video and audio segments of the meeting go well, I might try to set up video chats with friends in the near future. I’m looking at you, you know!

I sometimes reflect on my life thus far as if it were a single event playing out across a spectrum of time. That viewpoint allows me to contemplate the experience from an unusual perspective; as if I were watching it take place on a graph, with the X axis showing time and the Y axis emotion. If I were better-equipped to present the examination in the form of a graph, I would draw it; a graph might better illustrate my thoughts than my words will do.

When I view the graph in my head, close-up, I see a  line marked by a series of sharp, jagged upward bursts followed by precipitous declines into deeply negative territory. Seen in expanded form, as if viewed from a distance, the line is relatively smooth; a gently rolling pattern on an oscilloscope. Close up, though, the line is more like the EKG of a patient suffering from an extreme incidence of left ventricular hypertrophy. These views are similes of me. More serene, calmer, and more pleasing to the eye from a distance; frantic, frenetic, and unsettling in close proximity.

We cause our own loneliness, sometimes. Loneliness is symptomatic of a lack of emotional and perhaps even physical intimacy. And a lack of intimacy is symptomatic of a lack of…something. I don’t quite know. But I can see when I look at the X and Y axes of that chart that something periodically goes missing. I think that missing element may be a willingness to reveal both weaknesses and needs or desires; that unwillingness to open up is a response to a fear of unfavorable evaluation or mockery or some other form of judgmental assessment. Fear. That’s the root of loneliness, isn’t it? Fear of outright rejection or, from another angle, fear of being dismissed or rebuffed.

The raw ingredients of fear are worry, anticipation, and lack of control. So where does that leave us in the Times of Pestilence? I can almost laugh at the thought process that led to the creation of this post. But not quite. We are expected to voluntarily create empty spaces around us, spaces that discourage intimacy and encourage lone experiences. Lone. Solitary. Sole. Alone. Deserted. Secluded. Isolated. All those sharp, downward spikes on the Y axis. From the distance created by time, they may be just rolling patterns of the oscilloscope. Close-up, though, they suggest severe myocardial infarction.

Is that my life I’m looking at? Or is that the collective lives of all of humanity? They’re one in the same, aren’t they? They are, indeed, for all of us. We’re all lonely creatures, practicing loneliness in different ways.

Media bias is real. Yes, there are fake news sites. But the “main stream media,” a term right-wing near-nazis (note I did not call them neo-nazis) does not, by and large, conform to my definition of the propagators of fake news. Those low-life scum are not simply biased; they are biased and they manufacture stories they present as factual. They lie. They cannot be trusted. Their operators belong in prison cells, where they would eat only if their friends or family brought them food; just my opinion, of course.

Fortunately, there are sources of information about media that reveal the degree to which an outlet is biased. My favorite is Media Bias/Fact Check whose website is, surprise, https://mediabiasfactcheck.com/.

The reason this topic is on my mind this afternoon is that a person associated with a program operated by my church (though she is not a member of the church) offered a link to a website to support an opinion she had earlier given (in an email). I found her opinion to be stupid, short-sighted, and tied inextricably to an ill-informed conservative mindset. A website she cited was one I whose quality and reliability I judge to be only moderately better than The National Inquirer. The paper to which she linked is The Sun; the U.K. version of TNI (well, not quite that bad).

At any rate, after reading her comments, I decided to check the bias-rating of her source. It is rated as being “MIXED” in terms of factual reporting. It is rated with a right bias (which I knew, but wanted to verify). In describing rags of rating, Media Bias/Fact Check says:

These media sources are moderately to strongly biased toward conservative causes through story selection and/or political affiliation. They may utilize strong loaded words (wording that attempts to influence an audience by using appeal to emotion or stereotypes), publish misleading reports and omit reporting of information that may damage conservative causes. Some sources in this category may be untrustworthy.

That having verified my opinion, I decided to check out some other media outlets. One to which I pay quite a lot of attention, but which I have lately thought is not entirely unbiased, is National Public Radio. Just as I assessed, NPR is said to have a left-center bias, though Media Bias/Fact Check rates it VERY HIGH on factual reporting. Its description of media outlets that fall in the same rating category as NPR:

These media sources have a slight to moderate liberal bias. They often publish factual information that utilizes loaded words (wording that attempts to influence an audience by using appeal to emotion or stereotypes) to favor liberal causes. These sources are generally trustworthy for information, but may require further investigation.

What about CNN? I suspect it would not surprise anyone to learn that CNN is MIXED with respect to factual reporting. And it is judged to have a left bias. I used to believe what I saw/read on CNN television and its website. I’m not longer ready to accept it without question. The description of media assessed in this way by Media Bias/Fact Check:

These media sources are moderately to strongly biased toward liberal causes through story selection and/or political affiliation. They may utilize strong loaded words (wording that attempts to influence an audience by using appeal to emotion or stereotypes), publish misleading reports and omit reporting of information that may damage liberal causes. Some sources in this category may be untrustworthy.

FOX News is CNN’s fraternal twin, on the other half of the spectrum, with MIXED factual reporting and a right bias, described as:

These media sources are moderately to strongly biased toward conservative causes through story selection and/or political affiliation. They may utilize strong loaded words (wording that attempts to influence an audience by using appeal to emotion or stereotypes), publish misleading reports and omit reporting of information that may damage conservative causes. Some sources in this category may be untrustworthy.

All right. Who is both reliable from the perspective of giving us facts and relatively unbiased? Not surprising, the Associated Press is among the highest rated media resources, judged VERY HIGH on factual reporting, though “borderline Left-Center Biased due to left leaning editorializing, but Least Biased on a whole due to balanced story selection.” The description of such high-rated organizations:

These sources have minimal bias and use very few loaded words (wording that attempts to influence an audience by using appeal to emotion or stereotypes). The reporting is factual and usually sourced. These are the most credible media sources.

Interestingly, though Public Broadcasting (PBS) is judged by Media Bias/Fact Check as left-leaning, NextAvenue, a digital platform created by PBS, is considered by the site as least biased and HIGH on factual reporting. NextAvenue, though, is not strictly a pure news site, so it’s not necessarily a place to rely on for news of the day.

So, where do I go when I want unbiased news? I have a link to the Associated Press news website on my desktop. I will have a link to NextAvenue, before long. I’ll keep my links to NPR, PBS, etc., etc. (and FOX) just to keep abreast of who’s saying what, but when I want facts, I really want facts. Not spin. Facts. So AP is the place to go for the highest degree of confidence that what I’m reading is factual and reliably free of bias.

Some days, though, I want to see and hear and read something that makes me feel good; something that suggests I’m right in my thinking. That’s when I go to CNN or MSNBC or Slate or Salon or the Atlantic or…many others…to get both information and the right, affirming slant.

Routines that, until recently, guided me through the predawn hours have dissolved into misty memories over the course of the last few months.  I could point to a single change, over which I had no control, that caused the disruption—but such an observation might be misinterpreted to be an accusation. It is not. There is no assignment of blame in my observation, only recognition of causation. But, because of the potential for unintended misconception, I will refrain even from mentioning the single change that disturbed my long-settled routines. I will, instead, focus on its consequences.

No longer do I have the luxury of writing in absolute isolation, as darkness fades into diffuse light. My attention, easily distracted even in utter solitude, ricochets like a bullet fired at an angle toward the floor of an all-metal room. The soft sounds of gentle footsteps become thunderous, echoing like a swarm of staccato bass drums pounding through a deep canyon.  My train of thought jumps its tracks with every click of a light switch. Every time I hear a faucet open or close, my brain floods with unrelated thoughts that wash fresh ideas out of my head, leaving only pools of stagnant notions.

I cannot finish thoughts because. Any semblance of creativity drowns in dark, attention-eating waves of  misplaced or misdirected focus. The freedom to daydream or fantasize or hallucinate is shackled to a cage I share with reality, where fiction is treated as a canard, a crime punishable by psychic lobotomy. Even when words flow like a mountain stream following an epic rainstorm, the alphabet turns to vapor and the words disappear. What’s left is an empty screen strewn haphazardly with just a few letters and evidence of erasure.

Muck. Much. Mach. Mace. Male. Sale. Salt. Halt. Hall. Call. Cell. Bell. Belt. Bolt. Boot. Root. Riot.

This morning, I read an article that claimed our choice of fashion can have a significant  impact on the environment. Some jeans, for example, contribute substantial amounts of greenhouse gases to the atmosphere, thanks to the fabrics from which they are made, the detergents used to wash them throughout their lives, and various other issues. The simple solution, in my opinion, is universal nudity. Of course, the number of people who would become destitute due to the disappearance of their jobs would be astronomical. Partial nudity may be the answer, instead. Whether that means everyone going without shirts or certain regions of the world going naked while others wear thongs and sports coats, I do not know. What is the difference, I wonder, between partial nudity and semi-nude? And why do we so rarely read or hear those terms these days?

It’s time for me to shower and shave, brush my teeth, and get either partially or fully dressed. I have meetings to attend today; one at church this morning and another at church later this afternoon. Church. I still do not like that word applied to a building in which I often find myself. I’d rather it be designated a Gathering Place or an Intellectual Healing Compound or something else that does not carry the stigma of “church.” I may be in the minority when I say the word “church” carries a stigma. I’ll ask if that’s true during one or both of my meetings there today.

I’m writing this on Sunday night as the clock tells me it’s close to 11:00 p.m. I have a good reason for writing it Sunday, instead of early Monday. I will be up early again on Monday; there’s no question. But I won’t necessarily be in the mood to write. I’ll be in the mood for something else, but again I will be constrained by a thousand harnesses from hitting the road and finding what’s “out there” for me to explore. What might I miss by not hitting the road? A desolate desert landscape, miles from nowhere; row upon row upon row of fertile farmland, waiting for Spring; a thousand miles of barren highway, devoid of cars and cares; an empty night sky, so full of stars my eyes would be unable to see them all; a pathway to the past or the future, complete with signs only I can see; a million options, all calling to me to explore them. Who knows? I don’t. My mood will be different from the one I’m in tonight, no doubt. It always is.

Good night. To the more curious among you (whoever you might be); buy me a beer and I might explain. Or I might not. At the very least, you can share a beer with me. And I will appreciate that for the rest of time.

Perhaps this, the third item I’ve written since I got up around 5 this morning, will satisfy my desire to create something I am willing to share. The first two provided me with outlets for thoughts about intellectual and emotional searches but were not suitable for the public realm.

How is it, I wonder, that we decide what is suitable for sharing? Or, on the other hand, how do we determine what we do not want to share? The answer might initially seem straightforward, but when I focus my attention on the question, the answer begins to cloud until, finally, it becomes nearly opaque. As I unleashed my thoughts earlier, I found myself documenting a state of mind that might be subject to misinterpretation. A simple bit of minor melancholy could be mistaken for overwhelming sadness. A shred of humor could be misread as evidence of delirious happiness. An expression of a desire for isolation might be interpreted as a wish to abandon everything heretofore dear to me. And qualifying words, meant to convince the reader that all really is well, could be viewed as artificial reassurance.

Because certain subjects tend to raise red flags, we tend to avoid them, even when dialogue about those subjects might be healing and healthy or, instead, simply chit-chat. On the other hand, raising some subjects, including those that might be considered innocuous, can indeed be evidence of cause for alarm. So, if the topics or subjects on one’s mind have the potential of triggering false alarms, we avoid those red flags.

I saw a Facebook post the other day, posted by the daughter of a friend, that turned the “undue alarm” idea on its ear. The post said, essentially, “If you need to talk about something, just talk about it. Don’t hint around about it on Facebook to try to generate concern. Either spit it out or shut up.” That sort of insensitive attitude is also a reason one might avoid tentatively raising sensitive subjects. In my opinion, many people feel the way my friend’s daughter does but have the decency to hide it rather than share it with the world. But, then, perhaps honesty is the best policy?  No, I think most people would rather not say out loud, “Honestly, I am an insensitive prick.” They prefer to feign compassion.

This bit of writing is not accomplishing what I’d hoped, either. Today must not be my day for shareable thoughts. But I’ll share it anyway. And I might one day return to the other two pieces I wrote this morning and I might share them, too. I have 343 other unshared pieces (also called drafts), waiting in line. They are not secrets. They are protected pockets of mistaken ideas. They are not the self-limiting thoughts that make their way to this site. At least not yet.

It’s 7:00 a.m. and I’ve only been up for about fifteen minutes. I’ve wasted a significant portion of the day, sleeping in! Around 5:00 a.m., I awoke and decided to get up “in a minute,” but that didn’t happen. Nor, did I jump up when I looked at the clock and realized I’d slept another hour and five minutes. Ach! It’s a rarity that I sleep so late. I do not like it. I could have accomplished so much between 5:00 and 7:00 this morning; instead, I lay in bed, unproductive in both thought and action. What a waste!

And here I am, continuing that wasteful unproductive behavior by simply exercising my fingers, not my mind. The coffee hasn’t kicked in yet. That’s it.

My computer claims the outside temperature this morning is 46 degrees. My eyesight informs my brain, as I gaze out the window, that the sky is absolutely, brilliantly, spectacularly blue! This day holds enormous, productive promise! But I suspect that promise will be redirected toward leisurely enjoyment. My wife, if she feels up to it, will want to drive into Little Rock for lunch; at least that’s what she suggested yesterday. We’ll see, we will.

All the creativity that resided in my brain until 7:00 a.m. this morning has escaped into the atmosphere. I am mentally lethargic, lacking even a shred of creativity. For that reason, among thousands of others, I shall stop writing for now.

It occurred to me that I posted something a couple of days ago that suggested I voted for Biden. I didn’t. I voted for Warren. But I had concluded by the time I wrote the post that a centrist like Biden was the most likely candidate to beat Trump. And, earlier, I had decided to vote for Biden, though I kept changing my mind: Biden, Warren, Buttigieg, Sanders, Warren, Biden, Buttigieg, Warren…it was almost schizophrenic. But on the way to cast our ballots, my wife and I discussed who we were voting for. Neither of us were certain, even then, as we drove to vote. That was the first time I have ever been unsure of who would receive my vote by the time I headed to the polls. I supported Hillary Clinton in 2008 until Obama got the nod, but I didn’t decide on her until relatively close to decision time. But I knew she would get my support by the time I had to declare. This time, though, I was all over the map.

Initially, I was strongly supportive of Bernie Sanders. That support eroded as I considered how certain he seemed that he would implement plans that were absolutely pie-in-the-sky impossibilities in today’s political climate. But I liked Elizabeth Warren; her philosophies are close to Sanders’ but her plans seem more achievable. And I think we need a woman in the White House. I still think she would be the best candidate, though I am not sure whether she would fare well against Trump, considering how many “Bernie or bust” people might sit out the election. Ultimately, in the Arkansas primaries, I felt certain my vote would not count. I could have voted for Pete or Gabbard or Bloomberg or a cocker spaniel; it would not have mattered.

So I voted for Warren. But Biden won the Arkansas primary, as I felt sure he would. Now that he’s favored to get the nomination, I will support him. And I do think he might be the only one with a good chance to beat Trump, though the Bernie or bust people may abandon him, too. I don’t know. Ach!

Yesterday morning, before we left for Little Rock for my wife’s blood draw, frustration was afoot because the medical folks had not confirmed that she had an appointment at 11:15. Because we did not want to miss that appointment, assuming it had been made, we left in time to make it.  During the drive, my wife received a call from the nurse who had arranged the appointment; “I faxed the order over and I got a confirmation that the fax was received.” So on we drove. My wife called the scheduler for the blood draw lab, but could not reach her; she left a message. And on we drove.  When we got there, the blood draw scheduler said no fax had been received. We could go to the nurse who had sent the fax, pick up a hard copy of the order, and return…but there was no guarantee my wife could be fit in. We drove over, picked up the order (and the fax confirmation sheet), and returned. Fortunately, the blood draw lab fit my wife in pretty quickly. But, really? If the issue had been a medical emergency, would these nitwits have been equally as inept? It’s fortunate that I did not intercede with my comments; I would have been ejected from the building by security and, quite possibly, arrested for disorderly conduct.

***

Despite the medical madness, we went on to have a nice day. Next stop was Ali Baba Mediterranean Restaurant and Market, where we had wonderful falafel sandwiches (I have to try something else from the menu one day, but I like the falafel so much I can’t force myself to change; maybe if I had lunch there five days in a row…). My wife bought a bottle of pomegranate molasses (I think to replenish the used-up supply at home), then we headed out.

Next stop was Sam’s Oriental Store, just up the street from Ali Baba. There, I bought a small container of Ajinomoto Soup Stock Hondashi granules to use in my miso soup, among other things. I also got a tube of harissa paste. I could not read most of the text on the box that contained the tube (it was written in Arabic), but the sticker attached to the box said the little tube contains 84 servings; must be very pungent stuff!  My wife picked up several envelopes of various pre-packaged Asian flavorings, each dedicated to a particular dish. I could have bought much, much more, but did not.

My wife found a recipe for kimchi-stuff meat balls; because I had already gone through some of the kimchi we bought during our last trip to Little Rock, she wanted more. She decided the containers at Sam’s were too big, though, so she suggested we drive the few block’s to Mr. Chen’s, which we did, where we bought another container for her recipe. From there, we headed to Whole Foods Market.

Fortunately, we packed our cold-food bag (into which we had placed our large blocks of blue ice, fresh out of the freezer) so we could buy foods that required refrigeration. We left the store with salmon patties, tequila-marinated salmon chunks, live (i.e., root still attached) cilantro, and who knows what else; several items for the cold bag.

We drove the few blocks to Colonial Liquors, where we picked up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire East gin. We had decided during the last trip not to buy the larger bottle, even though it was on sale; we had wanted the smaller bottle, also on sale, but it was out. We changed our minds and bought the larger (but not really large) bottle. We now have a collection suitable for the intended use: a gin-tasting that we’ll offer at auction for our church’s auction in April.

On the way home, but before we left Little Rock proper, we stopped at Kroger.  Greek yoghurt and bottled water completed the shopping spree. Thence, homeward bound.

During the drive home, we decided to have dinner at the Home Plate Cafe, which promoted via email to me their Southern Comfort menu, including options such as fried chicken livers, fried catfish, pot roast, and chicken & dumplings. They also offered my favorite, fried green tomatoes, but the price was out of my comfort zone. My wife loves fried chicken livers, so that was her choice. I opted to have half livers and half catfish; I am not as much of a fan of chicken livers as is my wife, I’ve decided. All in all, though, it was a good meal.

And, then, home. I spent the evening watching election returns and my wife went off to play cards with neighborhood women. And then, to bed.

***

I have more ideas for my story set in the fictional town of Struggles, Arkansas. Perhaps I will revise what I’ve written and expand it into a much longer short story or, perhaps, something even longer. My main character (Calypso Kneeblood) owns the Fourth Estate Tavern. In the story I’ve written thus far, we know nothing of his past. I decided yesterday he once owned and was the editor and publisher of the town’s only newspaper, which collapsed after the town’s major employer (possibly a huge lumber mill) abruptly closed, putting several hundred townspeople out of work. He may or may not have also owned the Fourth Estate Tavern at the same time. At any rate, the tavern is the go-to place for the town’s eccentrics and intelligencia. (Struggles, Arkansas is not the stereotypical hillbilly, backwoods town; it is a pocket of intellectual depth and progressive thought in an otherwise ultra-conservative landscape.) At any rate, my mind is percolating about Struggles again. I’m anxious to get my other obligations out of the way so I can devote uninterrrupted time to writing.

Here I am on the edge of a dull, dreary, overcast day, readying myself for yet another trip to Little Rock. This trip’s sole purpose is to visit a lab for a blood draw, ordered by my wife’s primary care doctor. Our visit on Friday yielded results that convinced  the doctor that the draws a day or two earlier, taken by a much more convenient lab, were not reliable. So, she wants a more reliable lab to do the draw. And, because that message did not reach us until late Friday afternoon and she wants the draw this morning, we had no time to explore other options. So, off to Little Rock we go.

We will use the occasion to do other things while we’re in the big city, though. We’ll go to Sam’s and Ali Baba, and, maybe, Trader Joe’s. Perhaps we’ll stop by Colonial Liquor to buy an on-sale bottle of Bombay Sapphire East gin. We’ll have lunch somewhere along the line and will, no doubt, do some other errands. It will be a productive day, albeit one whose character was not planned to play out this way until late last Friday. You go with the flow or roll with the punches or ride with the stride or glide with the ride or whatever.

I suggested we stop on the way back at one of the fitness/therapy centers nearby to inquire about engaging a therapist to help my wife improve her strength. She agreed, somewhat to my surprise.

***

I learned last night that my sister-in-law’s brother died last Friday, after a years-long bedridden nightmare. Though it was not unexpected, his death was a painful shock to her. Aging brings on changes and adjustments and pain that all the wisdom and experience in the world does not prepare us to handle.

***

I return to the dreary day outside my window and I think Mother Nature is in a melancholy mood. There’s not a breath of a breeze in the air. The remaining dead leaves on the trees hang motionless, as if paralyzed and comatose. The view outside my window seems two-dimensional, as if I were looking at a painting on a flat piece of polished wood. It’s a good thing I filled up the car with gas yesterday (or the day before?); our trip through the emptiness requires it.