Mediterranean Course Correction

Posted on January 12, 2020 by John Swinburn

I inquired of Google this morning: “What is the Mediterranean lifestyle?” The first answer I found—and the one I intend on adapting as my own—was this, from a blog entitled, The Mediterranean Dish in a post labeled Live the Mediterranean lifestyle. That lifestyle comprises the following:

  • Follow the Mediterranean Diet (more on that in a moment)
  • Be with Family & Share with Loved Ones
  • Move Naturally
  • Laugh Often
  • Live (More) Simply

In my opinion, the components of the lifestyle most impactful on one’s health would be the diet and the admonition to “move naturally.” The diet is nothing new and, in fact, probably shouldn’t be labeled a diet in the sense of weight-loss. It suggests a simple dietary regimen that emphasizes fruits, vegetables, whole grains, olive oil, beans, nuts, legumes, seeds, and herbs and spices. That base is supplemented by occasionally enjoying fish and seafood, less frequent (daily to weekly) diversions into poultry, eggs, cheese, and yogurt. Much less frequently, meat (beef, pork, lamb, etc.)  and sweets are enjoyed; the “special occasion” foods. All of the dietary intake is washed down with plenty of water and moderate consumption of wine. Importantly, there are no food restrictions in the Mediterranean “diet.” It relies on common sense and moderation. The dietary regime, though, is not complete without the foundation involved in “moving naturally;” that is, being physically active.

I think the social aspects of the lifestyle, i.e., being with and sharing with loved ones and laughing often must contribute quite a lot to the lifestyle. And living simply, too. I am ready to adopt the Mediterranean lifestyle. One missing element, though, is this: the Mediterranean. More and more frequently, my mind wanders to the coastlines of Italy and Greece and Egypt and Turkey and Libya—all places I have never actually visited. But I imagine life in and around the Mediterranean. I dream of ready access to fresh seafood. I imagine myself strolling through olive orchards, filling woven baskets with fresh olives that I will deliver to olive processors in return for batches of processed olives. By the way, the olives we eat have undergone at least one of several rather time-consuming processes to leach away their bitterness; “natural” is not a term I would apply to table olives. And I wonder why olives are so expensive; well, there you go. But continuing on with my dreams, I conjure images of taking long, leisurely walks along the Mediterranean, watching and listening to the sea birds and “writing” poetry aloud, guided by the muses in the sand and warm salt water.

How long would it take, I wonder, to learn to speak Greek or Italian? I’m afraid I do not have time to live the Mediterranean lifestyle to its fullest. I am not interested in being a tourist. I’d rather be a resident, someone who adapts to intense summer heat without air conditioning and who relishes and takes great pride in a minimalist lifestyle. But that’s probably not who I am. I grew up in an intensely selfish culture, spending sixty-six years absorbing and perfecting an attitude of self-centeredness, greed, and gluttony. We, as a culture, take pride in accumulating things we don’t need in the light of global paucity and poverty, as a means of demonstrating to the world how utterly devoid of decency we can be. “We buy things we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like.” This is not the kind of mood with which I’d wanted to start the day. Perhaps I can change it?

How does the adage go? “I may not be able to change the world, but I can change myself.” Is that it? Not long ago, I read something about changing oneself for the better. It went something like this:

  • Stop comparing yourself to others.
  • Be as genuine and authentic to yourself as possible.
  • Adopt empathy as one of your most powerful traits.
  • Be generous whenever possible.
  • Improve or change the things closest to you that need to be changed and over which you have some control.

This post demonstrates the difficulty of getting out of the “I want” mindset. I’ve spent time and energy “wanting” what I don’t have, without shedding the things I have I don’t need or want. Ach! And, then, I turn on myself, whip and cudgel in hand, and beat myself mercilessly for being who I am instead of who I think I want to be. This is not a new scenario. It is an ongoing pattern that seems designed to illustrate and highlight failures. Is it possible I’m a very slow learner? The evidence suggests there’s something to that idea.

That last suggestion about changing oneself for the better keeps chirping at me: Improve or change the things closest to you that need to be changed and over which you have some control. Hello? What’s closer to me than my thoughts? Who controls them? I think I may be picking up on something here. This could be a “thing.” I might have something to work with. Rebuild John. From the ground up. Or from the mind down. Or just little pieces, one at a time, until the new model is like the old one, only dramatically better.

The idea has been planted. It needs nourishment. And action. And more than myself. So, I should share this seed with loved ones so they, too, can help it grow and can do the same. I do not think I am capable of writing a self-help book, but I may be able to write an autobiography one day.

Posted in Change, Compassion, Doing Without, Empathy, Essay, Generosity, Philosophy, Ruminations, Self-discipline, Selfishness | Leave a comment

Somber Sourness on a Saturday

Posted on January 11, 2020 by John Swinburn

Last night’s brilliant light shows and rolling thunderclaps seem to have disappeared into a silent, dreary, cold, wet morning. I can tell by the shuddering of the few remaining leaves on the trees outside my window that there’s a breeze, but it’s not strong enough to shake even the slightest limbs and twigs. The weather app on my computer screen claims the wind is blowing from the east at one mile per hour; not the fierce gales I heard howling much of the night.

After I have my coffee, I’ll shower and shave and get dressed so I can head out to a meeting at the church. I have begun loathing meetings again, the way I did virtually my entire career in association management. I do not want to grow to detest retirement the way I detested my professional life. That would be ruinous in many ways. So I shall avoid it like the plague. I want to continue to treasure retirement as I have done thus far.

Asserting one’s dedication to enjoying life does not necessarily make enjoyment appear out of thin air. It’s hard to say what constitutes joy when the act of opening one’s eyes seems sheer drudgery. I cannot force a smile this morning, at least not thus far. I haven’t looked in the mirror yet, but I suspect a chance visual encounter with myself would not go well. Even the thought of food does nothing to cheer me; in fact, the thought of food is an unpleasant one. That rarely happens. Coffee has, so far, been all right, but the very idea of food is enough to cause me to wince; I can feel the sneer on my face when food enters my thoughts.

Last night, I watched a documentary, American Factory. It presented the story of a shuttered factory in Dayton, Ohio that was reopened by a Chinese auto glass manufacturer. The promise of rebirth went awry when American and Chinese cultures clashed. The message I took from the film was that American workers compare unfavorably with Chinese workers in terms of steely commitment, willingness to work hard, and dedication to “perfection.” But I also so that Chinese workers compare unfavorably with American workers in terms of commitment to family over employer and commitment to enjoying life rather than simply wading through it. Americans in the film did seem somewhat lazy in comparison to their Chinese counterparts. But Chinese seemed timid and subservient compared to their American counterparts. Interesting cultural dichotomies. But greed on both sides of the world was apparent. When I finished watching the film, I was ready to try another culture on for size; neither Chinese nor American seemed particularly alluring.

This entire writing experience is not going well so far. I think it’s time to stop. Perhaps a shower and some time away from the house will rectify things. We shall see.

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As If I Were Weather

Posted on January 10, 2020 by John Swinburn

This morning is another of those days reminiscent of late nineteenth century London, as described in stories about serial killers going about their business under cover of pea-soup fog. When the air is this opaque, I do not know whether we’re surrounded by thick fog or, because of the altitude of this place, whether we’re the targets of clouds with drowning on their agendas. I suppose it doesn’t matter whether it’s fog or clouds. Thick, wet coatings wash every surface exposed to the hazy vapor. Tree limbs bend under the weight of humid air.

As I look out the window, the opacity of the air diminishes. I can see across the street now. A few minutes ago I could not be sure the trees that were standing there yesterday remained. I wonder if the fog or the cloud sensed that I was writing about it and decided to move along, lest a police officer come calling to investigate an attempted drowning. That could be it.

I came across a book (I’ve not read it; only read about it) entitled London Fog: The Biography, by Christine Corton. I think I want to at least skim the book. For some reason, the title reminds me of another book I skimmed long, long ago entitled (I think), The Autobiography of Jesus. With a title like that, you’d think I would remember it; but I remember only the title, and I’m not sure I got that right. It might be Christ instead of Jesus. Not that it matters. I like book titles that surprise me. A biography of fog surprises me. I can imagine appreciating a book entitled, How Tornadoes Choose Their Victims.  Yes, I think anything that anthropomorphizes natural phenomena has a certain odd appeal.

Lately, I find that nonfiction has more appeal to me than fiction; at least in reading. I’m still intrigued by writing fiction, though I enjoy writing nonfiction. And perhaps it’s obvious that I enjoy marrying the two genres into webs of deceitful entertainment, if indeed my writing is even a little entertaining. Deceit is too strong a word; fantasy fails to capture the threads of reality I weave into my stories; there may be no word for it because there is no call for it. Who knows?

I write about odd topics or off-kilter approaches to common topics because no one seems to want to engage in conversation with me about them. So, I write. I haven’t decided whether it’s the topics that people find off-putting or it’s me. I just sometimes enjoy blue-sky chatter about nonsensical stuff. My wife sometimes indulges me by conversing about nonsense; we’re both on the same page at the same time and we find it fun. I more than my wife. And I far more frequently than my wife.

My thought processes and my writing all drift in the same direction. They attempt to explore who’s thinking these thoughts and who’s writing these words.  The silliness I incorporate into a good bit of my writing is, I think, an effort to lighten up an otherwise deeply solemn search to determine whether there’s value buried beneath layer after layer after layer of veneer. A year or so ago I questioned whether “if I strip away the soft flesh of a life of ease, would there be a worthy skeleton beneath?” A question, I fear, that will remain forever unanswered.

Maybe my superficial explorations of a thousand topics is simply an effort to determine whether I have anything of value to add to the “body of knowledge” on any subject. Throw something at the wall and see if it sticks, is the idea. Maybe that’s it. Maybe fog is the right topic. Or maybe anthropomorphosis. Or dragons or philanthropy or imperialism or witchcraft or poetry or modesty or kindness or vulnerability or…  Almost five years ago, I wrote another post, entitled “Old Men Who Turn to Writing.” The concluding paragraph of that piece included this (edited for clarity):

Old men who turn to writing want to find a part of themselves that’s buried under the mulch of a lifetime of experience. They spend time routing around those parts of their minds unexposed to the elements, looking for something worthy for the world to see. They are looking for ways to know who they are so other (people) might understand (the writer) when (others) read what (the writer) leaves behind. And (the old men) are looking for ways to apologize for mistakes they’ve made, for the people they once were.

As for me, I wasn’t an old man when I “turned to writing.” It has been a life-long interest. It became a passion several years before I retired. I wonder whether passion is the right word. I don’t know that I have any passions. Superficiality is too much a part of me to allow any passions to slip in.

I’m a little like the fog this morning. A moment ago, I looked out the window and it had again become so thick I could not see the street or the trees on the other side. Along came a breeze and the fog lifted enough to allow me to see those trees clearly. And, just now, it descended again, blocking my view completely. That’s me. Thick then thin then thick then thin then thick again. Deep, shallow, deep, shallow. Here I sit in the comfort of my home, comparing myself to expressions of weather. Only moderately arrogant. Now I’m thinking of the fog/cloud as a cocoon, wrapping me in a shawl of anonymity and protection. It’s not trying to smother me. I know that much.

My fingers are tired of all this “me, me, me.” Time to explore the real world and leave my inner world to wither for a while.

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Dragons and Coffee and the Abstraction of Hope

Posted on January 9, 2020 by John Swinburn

I’m on the road route trail footpath to recovery. For some reason, getting over this cold is a much slower process than I expected. Perhaps it’s because my respiratory system was compromised when I had lung cancer and/or the surgery to address it. Or, maybe, it’s a function of age. Or, possibly, the strain of virus or whatever it is that “got me” is more aggressive than I’ve encountered in the past. Obviously, I don’t know why it’s taking more time than I thought it might; but I have ideas. Ideas: the building blocks of both bad fiction and literature for the ages. I think I’ll stop while I’m ahead. I’m improving, albeit slowly. I hope to remain on that footpath until I reach the pinnacle of health. Soon.

***

The sky this morning could have been snatched out of a cinematographer’s toolkit. Dark grey clouds, punctuated by darker celestial blots, form the backdrop for dark, almost black, outlines of barren hardwoods and huge evergreens. Those trees block the sky behind them. The forest floor is dark, barely visible. A cinematographer could use these images in scenes designed to instill fear in the audience and hopelessness in the characters in the woods. When coupled with the right music, the scene outside my window could fit right in to a Stephen King movie. But, even as I write this, the sky is brightening. It’s no longer the scary, dark emptiness; it’s just raw gloom. Ah, what a happy start to a Thursday in the Village!

***

For some reason, I think I’m tiring of my old standby San Francisco Bay French Roast Coffee. I don’t even know what kind of beans are used in the stuff. I used to be more particular about coffee, insisting on a specific type of bean. I wonder whether I ever really knew one bean from another or whether, more likely, I was an uninformed coffee snob.  I might still recognize Ethiopian yirgacheffe beans (both appearance and flavor), but maybe not. I remember thinking (or being led to believe) Mocha-Java was a “supreme” coffee blend. I also remember thinking (or being led to believe) Hawaiian Kona was among the world’s finest coffees. That’s just a tiny sample of the types of beans/blends I once revered, not to mention the variations in flavor arising from different roasts (light to dark).

I remember being surprised to learn that the darker the roast, the less caffeine. Apparently, the higher roast temperatures to get the dark roasts “burns off” or otherwise removes much of the caffeine. So, the espresso I enjoy so much (but so rarely of late) is brewed from very dark roast beans having the very least caffeine. Who knew? I did, once. I still do, I guess, though I don’t remember details.  I think it would be fun to return to my practices of exploring coffee beans, roasts, and methods of preparation. Well, it might be fun to actually acquire knowledge instead of pretending to possess knowledge I never had.  I’ve discovered as I’ve aged that I don’t really care whether my taste preferences correspond to generally-accepted measures of quality; if I like beans deemed inferior by the experts, so be it. If I enjoy drinking coffee the coffee professionals consider undrinkable, then I should be able to use that to negotiate lower prices for my favored beans. This line of thought reminds me that my wife and I, in blind taste tests of Argentinian Malbec wines, favored the cheaper ones, while others in our tasting groups gravitated toward the more expensive wines. Rather than feeling embarrassed at our uneducated palates, we rejoiced at our good fortune at being able to afford more of the wines we enjoyed. I prefer that sense of good fortune over a sense of superiority. Yes, I’ve again veered sharply away from my chief subject and, instead, have entered another conversation. It’s a little like, during a conversation about which cuts of beef one prefers, wandering into a dissertation on the best ways to avoid bones in a salmon fillet.

I have a secret. I believe, without evidence of any kind, that dragons once roamed the Earth. Not (necessarily) the fire-breathing kind. Just your average dragon; big, fleshy beasts with wings like those of a bat (but orders of magnitude larger), huge claws, prehensile tails, and scales like hard polished leather. I have as much reason to believe in dragons as I have to believe in Santa Claus. But my belief in Santa Claus evaporated before I reached double digits in age. My belief in dragons never completely disappeared. I don’t believe dragons continue to roam the Earth, but I think they once did. They were here during the time of dinosaurs, but they survived the cataclysmic events that eradicated those creatures. Dragons lived on for many, many, many years, succumbing only toward the end of the Middle Ages from diseases passed on to them from careless humans. It is a shame they are gone. I believe they would have made good pets, with proper care and training (on both sides of the relationship). There were a few dragons that survived the Middle Ages. Puff, for instance, may well have lived by the sea in a land called Hanalei, where he frolicked in the autumn mist. In actual fact, Puff was an agéd dragon by the time the Peter, Paul, and Mary song hit the charts in the early 1960s. Puff was the last of the dragons, I’m afraid. When he died, a school of killer whales dragged his enormous carcass to the North Pole by where they deposited it under a huge ice shelf. Puff’s preserved corpse has remained there all these years. One day, an enterprising biologist will secure a few cells from Puff’s body and will use them to clone the monstrous beast. Once again, dragons will roam the Earth. I only wish I could witness the return of the creatures.

***

Morality is a human construct. It is no more a “truth” than chocolate milk is a “truth.” It is a byproduct of human intervention. That having been said, and the way I said it, one might assume I find morality an offensive concept. I do not. I think morality is the glue that binds us all together. When that glue begins to degrade, so does humanity. The fact that morality takes many shapes and, in some cases, manifests in competing and conflicting ways between and among cultures and individuals within those cultures, is humanity’s greatest challenge. Solve that challenge and make the world better for humanity, the creatures with which we share the Earth, and the Earth itself.

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Doing Alone

Posted on January 8, 2020 by John Swinburn

When friends’ shoulders aren’t there for the crying,
when love is a wall made of stone,
when life seems a prelude to dying,
when you’re lonely and weeping alone.

That’s when you create your own salvation,
you craft it from sweat and from sand.
You burst out of the bitter stagnation
and build a new life, build it by hand.

The fire in the furnace inside you
is stoked with the pain of the past.
You stare into the face looking at you
from that mirror behind broken glass.

And you scream at the monsters and demons
calling them out for the fight.
You board the ships of the seamen
and sail from the harbor at night.

You chase them with hatred and laughter,
you seek them with snarls and love.
You call them before and then after
and watch them below and above.

[This unfinished poem will almost certainly be scrapped before it is either finished or replaced because, well, it is crap. But at least it challenges my rhythmic poemmaking equipment.]

 

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Through the Mist

Posted on January 7, 2020 by John Swinburn

I feel slightly more human this morning than I’ve felt the last few days. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, though. Feeling human means something different for me than it once did. No longer is it a matter of pride or gratitude or [I shudder to think] a sense of superiority. Today, it’s more a matter of simply acknowledging biology; and recognizing that biology delivers reality, not flaws.

It was not a flaw in human physiology that allowed me to catch a cold (or whatever has beleaguered me with discomfort these past few days). No flaws in the genetic patterns of viruses generated an attack on my immune system, causing respiratory distress and discomfort. Biology simply exists, in all its forms and all its responses to the environments through which it wades. Cancer, tuberculosis, the common cold, the flu—endless lists of diseases and maladies—are merely biological adjustments to circumstance. They are not flaws. They are manifestations of biology in all its wondrous and terrible forms. That is not to say we ought to simply accept them as they come. Of course not. But if we curse them as if they were scourges inflicted on us by some mysterious evil force, we waste energy better used to combat them. A long, convoluted explanation exists in my head to support my argument, but I’m not sufficiently clear-headed to express it at the moment, so I’ll leave it for now. But I’m sufficiently alert to shift gears to a different, yet related, topic.

Humans teach one another what to believe. Religion and science have, for the most part, either been complementary to one another or at least tolerant of one another for much of human history. But there have been periods during which they have been deeply at odds. And always (well, that’s a long time…) there have been fundamental disagreements on some core philosophies. Regardless of agreement or disagreement, religion and science have been perpetuated through teaching. The foundation of teaching is belief in the subjects being taught. The foundation of learning is confidence in the teacher and the degree to which his or her world view is believable. And that relies, in large part (though not entirely), on personality. A charismatic preacher might have more success in shaping a child’s world view than would a crotchety old physicist who is not particularly enamored with children. In my view, that’s a shame. Because I believe physics and the physicist are far more credible than the charismatic preacher. But someone else, someone who was shaped by an earlier version of the charismatic preacher, might assert the preacher is more credible. That maddens me. But I understand it. I just don’t like it. Because I believe in biology and in science and in the revelations of the scientific disciplines; disciplines that can quickly and radically change their world view based on evidence. Unlike religion, where change moves at the pace of thick, ice-cold molasses flowing down a hill during a frigid winter storm. Am I biased? Moderately. Well, perhaps somewhat more than that.

Why is this on my mind and what does it have to do with my cold? It’s because I imagine some people I know saying “I’ll pray for you to get over this cold” if they knew I felt ill. And others would say “Have you seen a doctor? Are you drinking plenty of fluids? Getting plenty of vitamin C?”  Religion versus science, the latest version.

If I had supernatural powers, one of the things I might do is remove from all human minds the belief in supernatural powers. They can keep other aspects of religion, but let’s eliminate the belief in all-powerful faeries and gods and such that control us and the world in which we live, okay? Let’s seek explanations in science and, especially, biology. Let’s explore the biological basis for our religious beliefs. Let’s rally around one another—all cultures the world over—and explore the world in which we live, all from the same perspective. We can keep or eliminate, at our individual discretion, spirituality and its brethren (personally, I think spirituality is another name for compassion or empathy, which argues for keeping it). But let’s rely exclusively on information we can test. And let’s be ready to turn on a dime if the data says we should.

I’m saying nothing new; I’ve said it all before and others have said it better. But I’ve never said it on a Tuesday in early January 2020, which makes this a first for me. I pray for a quick and complete recovery from this cold or bubonic plague or flu or tuberculosis or rabies or bipolar disorder or whatever it is that’s screwing with my sleep patterns and producing gallons and gallons of snot. I implore Zeus/Jupiter and Apollo and Aphrodite and Poseidon/Neptune and all the others to rid me of this horrid affliction so that I may go forth in the world and make my mark (much like a dog peeing on a tree).

Seriously, this illness is getting in the way of things that matter, so I’m ready to boot it out of my life. I need biology to be my friend in this. I need more daytime cold/flu syrup to muck with my biological response to this biological attack. I wish my wife would awaken and go to Walgreen’s on my behalf to buy more of the stuff; I’ve swallowed the last 15 mL and need more.  And orange juice. I need fresh orange juice. Perhaps I should go where I can pick fresh oranges. Or, perhaps, I should go back to bed and try to sleep a bit more. That might be a welcome biological response to the ongoing aches in my muscles.

Today is a little better than yesterday. At least my fingers are more willing to be manipulated to strike the keyboard with greater frequency. And my mind is spilling more stuff onto the screen in front of me. Progress. I think I feel progress, albeit not as much as I’d like. Onward, though, through the mist.

 

Posted in Health, Philosophy, Religion | 2 Comments

More of the Same

Posted on January 6, 2020 by John Swinburn

My cold is no better. It’s probably about the same. Could be worse, but it’s hard to tell. I went to bed early last night, hitting the pillow before 9, but it was hard to get to sleep. Eventually, I did, though I awoke several times between 9 and 1, coughing and sputtering and exhibiting symptoms of the plague or malaria or something equally unpleasant.

Finally, after my umpteenth pee break at 1, I went to sleep with only temporary interruptions until 2:15, when I got out of bed to avoid waking my wife with my loud, convulsive cough. Blowing my nose seemed to help briefly; each time I expelled a gallon or two of phlegm, I felt better for a short while. But that improvement was short-lived. After checking my email and responding to a couple of messages, I decided to try to rest in my recliner. I never went back to sleep, but the temporary lack of convulsive coughing was a welcome respite.

I was awake, listening to Alexa’s idea of “spa” music (barely audible, as I turned the volume way, way down), when my wife got up at 5. Her sleeping habits changed radically a couple of months ago. Whereas she used to get up around 7:30, she has started getting up much earlier, even though she goes to bed at her usual time. She has no idea why; nor do I. It worries me a bit, but she expresses a bit of annoyance when I suggest she ought to mention her change in sleeping habits to her doctor.

Five o’clock was the magic time for me; I could take another dose of liquid daytime cold and flu medicine (I could have done it earlier, but was relaxing in my recliner). So, I did. It seems to have triggered another set of coughing fits, complete with a throat full of phlegm. I am sure whoever is reading this is thrilled to learn of my phlegm production (maybe that’s why my readership is in the single digits).

I’m giving thought to trying to get some more sleep. Now that my wife is out of bed and my noisemaking won’t wake her or keep her awake, it may be worth a try.

It’s periods of illness and discomfort that emphasize how marvelous the periods of health actually are. We (I) should remember that. And act accordingly, trying to get in and stay in better physical condition.

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Illness. Painful Sickness.

Posted on January 5, 2020 by John Swinburn

I am sick this morning. It began a few days ago. Last night, my illness mushroomed into a full-blown cold (if that’s what it is). A flood of mucous filled my sinus cavities and has attempted to escape through my nose and throat. My throat hurts; it feels raw and angry, as if rough sandpaper had been rubbed against the inside of the back of my mouth overnight. My ears ache. My head throbs and aches. I have a hard time breathing. Last night and this morning, as I tried to sleep, I heard whistling in my nose and throat with every breath. When I try to speak, I make croaking sounds, as if my vocal chords have been paralyzed and rubbed raw with kerosene-soaked rags. I hate to feel the way I feel.

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Making Music

Posted on January 4, 2020 by John Swinburn

If I could start recording my voice at any given moment simply by pressing a single, easily accessible button, I might have recorded dozens, if not hundreds, of songs by now. Only the lyrics, of course, with no musical accompaniment and only sung to imperfect tunes in need of professional attention.

I tend to make up lyrics “on the fly” while I’m alone in the car, belting them out as if my voice were worthy of being heard. Unlike my poetry, which usually is free-form narrative paying no attention to rhyme, my songs have structure and rhyme. Some of them seem, to me, pretty good. Unfortunately, though, because the single, easily accessible button is not available, my music disappears into the vapor. Try as I might, neither the words nor the nascent tunes stick with me. By the time the opportunity arrives to write down the lyrics or record the song, the empty air of the universe has consumed them. They are gone, released into the atmosphere.

Sometimes, weeks or months later, I hear those same songs, upgraded professionally by musicians who hire sound engineers to mix lyrics with instrumentals and background vocals. My songs, the ones I created on the fly in my car, flew through the vapor and landed in someone else’s brain. I’m at once angry and proud. I should feel only gratitude, but my ego trips me up on occasion. There’s nothing I can do about it after the fact, so I just let it slide. What else could I do?

I’m actually a  much better lyricist than I am a spoken-word poet, I think. My spoken word poetry is sometimes too complex to be understood in one reading; those poems require intellectual effort, whereas my song lyrics require only ears and an interest in being entertained. Well, my lyrics more often than not do carry messages—sometimes powerful, emotion-laden messages capable of drawing tears out of dry eyes—but they are not hard to follow. Their stories are clear and unambiguous, though the language I use can be intentionally ambiguous; but in a humorous way, usually.

This post is my best effort at painting myself in a good mood today. The reality is different. But I won’t go into that for the moment. I’ll just stop writing for public consumption and, instead, turn to writing my private thoughts in my private journal.

Posted in Music, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

I Think I’m Losing the Battle for My Soul

Posted on January 3, 2020 by John Swinburn

I don’t pretend to be an expert in geopolitical intrigue. And I don’t want to be. But I wish the United States government had listened to me after 9/11 and had decided not to invade Iraq under false pretenses. And I wish the military had not listened to a draft-evading narcissist yesterday when ordered to assassinate the leader of Iran’s elite military special operations. I find it interesting (and deeply disturbing) that the cheetoh-in-chief dismissed virtually everything the intelligence community told him about Russia’s interference with the 2016 election, yet he was so sure of the intelligence he received about Qasem Soleimani’s involvement in previous killings of Americans and plans to kill more that the chief-electorally-installed-egotist ordered the Iranian’s assassination.

Does the morally bankrupt imbecile who inexplicably is the most powerful human being (using the term loosely) in the world not understand that state-sponsored assassination may tend to generate in-kind responses? Or does he truly believe he was installed by God to his undeservedly powerful position and, therefore, is not subject to retaliation by mere mortals?

I was not a fan of Qasem Soleimani. I could not even have told you who he was before the news media informed me of his assassination. His death diminishes me only to the extent that John Donne suggested in his famous poem, For Whom the Bell Tolls. That extent, though, is considerable.

Will humankind ever truly appreciate that murder, whether called assassination or the wages of war, is an affront to the concept of humanity? The current occupant of the White House surely will never understand a concept so abstract. I loathe the man with every fiber of my being. I wish I didn’t, but I do.

Posted in Anger | 2 Comments

Mind-Jaunts on the Second Day of the Two Thousand Twentieth Year

Posted on January 2, 2020 by John Swinburn

Every day is an anomaly. A mistake. An error awaiting correction. An aberration requiring repair and embarrassed explanation. A deviant eccentricity causing constant adjustments to the concept of normal.

There is no normal. Normal is a fantasy based in delusion. Normal is a reverie clothed in a fabric woven from rainbows, daydreams, clouds, and fine dust from a long-extinct volcano. Normal is a weird hallucination, a pretense toward typical, which exists only in minds twisted to believe in the ordinary. Ordinary is a state that cannot occur when life is so utterly unpredictable, as it always is.

At any moment, it is possible I may decide to radically change my life, and then act on that decision. I may become a vegetable farmer whose “farm” consists of a horse-drawn cart filled with soil in which I plant my crops. I might coax the horse that pulls my cart to take me to the Mississippi delta, where I could siphon water from the Gathering of Waters to quench the thirst of the cucumbers and squash and tomatoes and okra that reside in my cart. There, I could decide to make vegetarian tamales, hawking them as cures to the moral and intellectual maladies of the twenty-first century.

I could break into the homes of wealthy descendants of plantation owners, hoping to avoid armed guards whose only jobs are to keep wealth out of the hands of the undeserving poor. I might decide to become a modern-day Robin Hood, fashioning my persona after my own interpretations of Greek gods that never existed, but should have.  I might leave gifts of tamales for those pillars of wealth and enemies of charity, confusing them with concepts of philanthropy unfamiliar to them. But in return for those gifts, I would take food and clothing and deeds to properties they never intended to share with anyone but the progeny they considered the rightful heirs to their modern-day thrones.

Ah, it’s all magical thinking, I know, but that’s what makes daydreams and fantasies and wishful pondering so appealing. In our dreams, we can have absolute control over matters beyond even modest influence in the real world. Our fantasies can set us apart from the grinding realities of finding enough food and water to make it through another day. Fantasy. I wonder if the roots of fantasy are, indeed, hinged to a deep desire to exercise control over the uncontrollable? I believe they are. We dream because reality is too coarse and harsh and painful without something to ease the anguish.

I like the idea of slicing through the tether that binds me to a place. One one hand, there’s comfort in the familiar, the dependable, the reliably constant. But there’s stagnation attached to that invisible rope, too. Arms and legs and brain get stiff; they calcify and begin to look and feel like barnacles attached to ancient fishing piers. They ache to be free, almost an impossibility; the attachments are primitive and permanent, curable only through amputation or amnesia.

Decisions have consequences, many of them unintended, unanticipated, unpleasant, and unhappy. Yet they can have happy repercussions, as well. When we make decisions, we weigh the pros and cons of our options and select the one we think best. But it’s rarely the best decision; it’s only different from the others we might have made.

A decision to become an itinerant vegetable farmer is no better nor worse than a decision to procrastinate about making a life-altering decision. Yet procrastination can be life-altering, as well. Consequences, or the lack thereof, are stitched together in a quilt that looks and feels like it was woven from apologies and fear. That’s what drives us, sometimes. Fear. And regret. And attempts to repair the damage done by decisions; or the failure to make them.

If I had all the time in the world and no responsibilities to fulfill, I might make an avocation out of learning all there is to know about the ancient Greek and Roman gods. Apollo, Cronus, Zeus, Hades, Heracles, Morpheus, Eros, Glaucus, Triton, Pan, Uranus. Gad, there are so many! I admire the ancient minds that created those magical powers in magical forms. I could spend time creating my own stable of gods. I could conjure my own religion and seek followers who would buy into understand the concept. No, I really don’t want to delude even the extremely gullible. I find that offensive in the extreme. People should not manipulate others in such crass ways, the way modern-day evangelical preachers convince their adherents to believe utter nonsense (and to give them money in return for being duped).

Oh, hell, now I’ve gone and done it. I broke the magical spell that was propelling my early-morning fantasies. I’ve let anger with con-men interrupt my reverie.

Wow, I think this is one of the longer pieces of semi-incoherent stream-of-consciousness drivel I’ve written since starting my break from the blog. I could have just adapted one of the shorter pieces I wrote during my hiatus; but, no, I had to launch into a mind-bender. Maybe I needed that. Maybe I just wanted it.

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Beginning Anew

Posted on January 1, 2020 by John Swinburn

My temporary break from posting to my blog ends with this post. Between December 18, my last post, and this one, I’ve written twenty “drafts” that could have become posts had I chosen to make them public. And they might still see the light of day one of these day. Regardless, I’m glad I took a breather.

Today, as I considered posting again, I looked back to see what I posted last year on New Year’s Day. The two posts I published that day represented distinctly different positions on the spectrum between despair and confidence. In one of the posts I acknowledged that my diagnosis of lung cancer could, conceivably, have been a death sentence. When I wrote it, I felt alone and unable to identify anyone with whom I could talk about my prospects and my feelings without either encountering an artificial “you’ve got this” attitude or unending tears.

The other post on the same day was not a lot more hopeful to start, but it evolved into a hope that I, and the rest of the world, would change. “Be the change you want to see in the world,” I wrote, quoting an aphorism I believe represents the most hopeful attitude I could have at the time.

At this moment, I’m leaning more toward the hopeful than the desperate. That’s a good thing.  And as I begin this year, I contemplate being more active, more practically inquisitive (versus impractically inquisitive), and more engaged with the future than with the past. We’ll see how things work out as the year evolves.

To anyone who encounters this post, whether a regular visitor or here for the first time, I hope your 2020 exceeds your most joyous expectations.

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My Final Post for A While

Posted on December 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

This may be my last public post for a while. That doesn’t mean I won’t write, only that I won’t necessarily share what I’ve written. Considering the extremely low traffic to my blog and the almost non-existent feedback I receive (what I get I truly appreciate, but it’s really very, very slim), the effort I expend in making my posts more readable just isn’t worth the energy, to me. I’d rather devote what little stamina I have to more volume than to more “perfection.” Plus, of course, I might want to invest time and energy to making my posts more appealing to a broader audience, an audience that might give me more feedback. Chicken and egg stuff, you know.

Lest my few loyal readers think otherwise, I’m not complaining about your lack of feedback. I just think my time might be better spent creating new content than repairing what I write. And I’ll always have something to share, when the time is right.

That having been said, let me go on to the post that will stand alone for a while.

I miss pieces of my life that seem recent until I start to measure their distance from the present. Twenty-seven years. Eighteen years. Thirty years. Forty years. Twenty-one years. Those distant moments were close, once. Those fresh experiences aren’t fresh any more, though they feel fresh and new and invigorating. How is it that time can get away from us? How can we stumble across many years without realizing it? How can we waste time by failing to remember those moments? Time is in short supply; I can say that with absolute certainty. We don’t have much of it; we never realize how little is available for us to spend in matters of absolute frivolity and impossible meaninglessness.

One piece of my life I miss involves someone who once was my friend but who disappeared from my life. I won’t go into any more detail than that; it’s not necessary. But that vacancy remains open and empty, as if something had just been excised from a place in my heart. There are more than one, of course. People disappear from our lives all the time. But some of them leave traces, outlines, comfortable resting places that are no longer pleasant in their absence.

I wrote just the other day (was it yesterday or the day before?) about loneliness. It’s still with me. It occurs to me that pieces of me went with my friends, the ones who disappeared. I wonder whether they ever think of me? One of my favorite pieces of music is a song by the Moody Blues entitled “Your Wildest Dreams.” The verse that always grabs me is this one:

I wonder if you think about me
Once upon a time
In your wildest dreams

The important stuff of the day, like the impeachment of Donald Trump, doesn’t resonate with me at the moment. More important to me are the connections, both lost and current, that keep me grounded to a world that matters.

I hope I am thinner and in better physical condition by the next time I post here. That may be a while. I don’t plan on “easing up” on my food intake nor do I plan to focus on exercise until after the first of the year. And I won’t starve myself, nor will I push myself to the limits, when my regimen of better health begins. But I will engage, sometime before long. And maybe my more attractive physical appearance, when all that’s done, will generate more interest in what I write. I don’t plan to become famous, but I wish what I write mattered more than it does. Both fiction and rants like this one. And poetry. I’m really a bad poet, I fear. But I’ll keep writing. I will write until I can write no more. But I won’t necessarily share it as if what I write matters. I’d rather not delude myself in that way.

 

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Trampling Cultures in the Name of Temporary Pecuniary Joy

Posted on December 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

I read an article this morning about the impending demolition of the last remaining structures in what once was Dallas’ “Little Mexico” neighborhood, an area its residents called “La Colonia.” At its peak, 15,000 people lived in the area. The neighborhood was full of restaurants, grocery stores, bars, shoe repair shops, and myriad other businesses run by and that catered to the Mexican-American residents and the others who gravitated there. During the last several years, wealthy developers have snatched up houses and shops, usually demolishing them shortly thereafter, replacing them with glass and steel skyscrapers. The land beneath the old houses became extremely valuable as more and more expensive buildings were built. The character of most of the neighborhood changed quickly, though pockets of the old community remained. Those pockets struggled to retain the look and feel of the old neighborhood, but the efforts were destined to fail. Money swept the residents aside, forcing them to disperse into the wider community; the close-knit Mexican-American community spread into a gossamer-thin veil that has almost dissolved into…what? Memories and pride; things that cannot be buried under money and abject greed.

The glass and steel condominiums and parking garages for flashy cars and the ritzy shops that sell overpriced goods in homage to greed and gluttony have no entrenched identities. They are temporary compartments where misplaced pride and meaningless wealth are stored. They will disappear in time, too. But, unlike La Colonia, they will have no foundation upon which rich cultural memories can be built.

When cultural touchstones are ground into glass, it’s not just the abused culture that suffers. It’s all of us who can no longer see and feel and taste the deep connections members of that culture once had. We have our memories of such places, but they, too, will disappear in time. Our faded memories serve no useful purpose to those who follow us, for those memories will become vapor before they can inhabit the minds of the future.

Mexicans. Italians. Jews. Germans. Czechs. Indigenous peoples. Japanese. Chinese. We claim that we are a nation of immigrants. But only for a while. Only as long as it takes us to erase cultural identities and replace them with a homogeneous, spice-less, bland, superficial crust of doughy, wet flour.

How is it that the only satisfaction we seem to value is the pride built on variations on a theme of genocide? We all should have meaningful stories to tell about our heritage. We can’t, though, when the only heritage to which we cling is built on vanquishing those who might challenge our superiority.

Somehow, some way, I will turn this morose reflection on the shame of American civilization into something of value. That’s my job for today.

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Witchcraft

Posted on December 17, 2019 by John Swinburn

I awoke to witchcraft this morning.

I witnessed the effects of heat traveling through wires protruding from wounds in the wall. The heat caused water to boil and chickens’ eggs to congeal and harden in response. Heat from another source, a black box with glowing red eyes, attempted to melt a metal pan, instead searing its cargo—slabs carved from the carcass of a dead pig—and rendering the animal’s fat into frizzling pools of popping, sputtering liquid.

As I gazed out the back window, I saw strips of water, crystallized by cold air into shapes crafted by Frank Lloyd Wright, clinging to the surface of the wood deck as if the boards were ice’s saviors and patron saints. I envisioned the expanse of wooden strips as a massive shrine, a temple built in dedication to wiccan worship.

Warm air poured from slits in the floor, filling the house with comfort that’s out of place when the weather is as cold and brash as a murderer’s scowl. Roasted beans, ripped from bushes in South America, exuded an odor at once offensive and alluring, as if a high temperature had transformed the beans into pellets imbued with aromas of skunk spray and the sweet smell of Aphrodite in heat.

Magic swirled around me, a whirlwind of wizardry that permeated my soul and transported me to a time far, far in the future that never was and can never be. Light, spilling from glass orbs on posts and inverted teardrops, filled the room and washed away the invisibility adhering to my eyes.

Suddenly, the sun hissed and a blinding light pierced the veil of grey clouds that enshrouded the house witchcraft inhabited. Witchcraft fled, but it hides among the molecules of bright, fresh air; it will return, bringing with it wonders too impossible to accept, too fabulous to believe, too intense to ignore.

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Hush

Posted on December 17, 2019 by John Swinburn

I am a dormant volcano. A raging inferno
whose fuel, spent in spectacular displays
of fire and molten rock, has disappeared
into the center of the Earth.

I may be, in fact, an extinct volcano, one
with no recorded eruption in written history.
My source of magma may be gone, sealed
off from the power of heat and pressure
so that an eruption is no longer a possibility.

But I may not be a volcano at all. Just a pimple
on the surface of the Earth, a silent, harmless
replica that mimics a grim snarl asserting
power over the landscape.

No, occasional explosive outbursts, though
no longer as frequent as they once were,
offer evidence that the danger has not passed.

Those periodic eruptions suggest I still am
an active volcano, just not as fierce
and as fiery as I once was.

I would rather be dormant or extinct.
I would rather know the heat and pressure
have, finally, escaped into the atmosphere,
leaving me serene and harmless.

I would rather be the site where extreme
patience exists in harmony with dying
memories of detonations more
violent than the sun is bright.

Power sometimes is silent and still.
Explosive bursts of fury can pale in
comparison to the tranquilizing
intensity of absolute calm.

That’s what I’m after. I want to leave
the disruptive nature of fierce motion
to atrophy, replacing it with quiet calm;
a hush so powerful that
sound withers in its presence.

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Someone Else Thinks Inside My Head

Posted on December 16, 2019 by John Swinburn

Several of his friends regularly commented about Skyler’s writing, frequently expressing amazement at how vividly his words painted his characters’ thoughts and physical surroundings. “It’s as if you were there, behind his eyes, recording every detail,” Ophira O’Malley said to Skyler one bright January morning, as the two of them waited for their warm drinks and hot rolls.

The smell of coffee and cinnamon filled the tiny New York City neighborhood bakery where they sat, sunlight pouring in through the huge picture window and bathing their two-top table in welcome warmth. Outside, the crisp, almost cold, morning air urged pedestrians to hurry to their destinations.

“I am,” Skyler said.

“You are what?” Ophira’s blank face registered nothing.

But her gaze seemed to Skyler to reveal confusion.

“I am there, behind their eyes, recording every detail. I become the character in every sense. I mean, I remember things that never find their way into my stories, like what their mothers called them when they were babies. And I remember bat mitzvahs and the funerals of their great aunts and…sometimes I even remember what it was like having sex with a character’s wife earlier in the day.”

Skyler stopped talking, his bright blue eyes piercing Ophira’s dark brown windows, searching for signs that she either understood or thought he was out of his mind. He could not tell what she was thinking; the springy curls of her orange-red hair distracted him from her eyes. She was a beautiful enigma, he thought.

“Okay, I get that you get ‘in character’ when you’re writing. But, pullleeeaassse, remembering sex with his wife?” Ophira’s sneer and dismissive chuckle irritated him.

“Fine! Don’t believe me. I didn’t expect you to get it. I had just hoped…”

Ophira continued her assault on Skyler’s revelation. “Is that sex surprisingly similar to the sex you had with Darlene the night before we met?” Ophira’s accusatory smile and cocked head told Skyler he was right. She still did not understand.

“No, the sex is completely different. Seriously, Ophira, I don’t just get ‘in character.’ I become the character. Skyler is gone, replaced by the character.”

Ophira’s eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to process what he had just said. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Explain that. What do you mean ‘Skyler is gone’?”

“I mean, when I’m seeing the world through a character’s eyes, I am that character. Not that I think I am that character. I am that character. I don’t even realize Skyler is writing about him. I am that person, not a character in a story. I have a history that’s totally different from Skyler. I remember going to synagogue as a child. Me! An atheist! Going to synagogue! And, with one of my stories, I remember an event in my character’s childhood; he doused his little sister with alcohol and lit her on fire. She never told on him. She was blamed for her own injury.”

“Except for the look on your face, I’d say you’re screwing with me. I…I…I just don’t know how to respond.”

“I’m not looking for a response. I just want someone to listen. And to believe me. I think I actually become different people. Several at a time. Whoever is in my stories. I become them. But somehow I function as Skyler at the same time. I know this sounds crazy. Maybe I am crazy.”

Skyler thought he saw empathy and compassion replace skepticism on Ophira’s face. Finally, he thought, someone believes me; I can share this with someone else.

But Skyler had been wrong about people before. And, he recalled later, he had been wrong about Ophira.

***

Ophira O’Malley’s death was ruled accidental. She had slipped while standing on a subway platform, stumbling off the platform and down onto the tracks just seconds before the train roared into the station. The motorman told police he saw nobody with Ophira when she fell off the platform; it was just a horrible accident. Skyler Clark learned about the accident from Jerome Davis, the police officer leading the investigation and Skyler’s friend of fifteen years. Davis called Skyler, who was attending a writers’ workshop on the upper west side at the time, less than half an hour after Ophira’s death.

Two weeks after Ophira’s death, while Skyler was writing in the character of Guatemala Coombs, a wealthy New York City drug dealer, Skyler saw it. He saw a wire stretched across the platform, the far end tied to the middle of a piece of two-by-two lumber. Ophira stepped out of the stairwell and crossed to her usual place on the platform where she waited for the train. Just as the train approached the spot where she was standing, Guatemala jerked the wire. The piece of lumber caught on the tips of Ophira’s spiked heels. Guatemala pulled harder. Ophira lost her balance and plunged onto the tracks just before the train passed that point on the platform. Guatemala reeled in the wire and the little piece of lumber, wound the wire around the board, and walked away. No one by Guatemala saw what happened. Ah, but Skyler saw it; not as Skyler, though. For he had become Guatemala.

***

I could continue, but I won’t for now. This is post number 3001 on this blog. I should celebrate by having a sweet roll. Absent the availability of a sweet roll, I’ll have avocado on an English muffin.

 

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Modesty or Something Like It

Posted on December 15, 2019 by John Swinburn

Am I being modest when I insist on wearing a shirt to the door when I answer a knock? Or is the issue really embarrassment at my physical appearance? I suppose I could try to imagine that I inhabit a much more attractive body; how might I react to the knock at the door if I discovered, when looking in the mirror, a lean, muscled man displaying six-pack abs?

I might tend to grab the shirt, even in the case of that magical bodily transformation. If no shirt were readily available, though, I suspect I’d be willing to open the door anyway. But absent the bodily replacement, I would insist on grabbing a shirt from the laundry hamper; something to cover the embarrassing evidence of my undisciplined—make that nonexistent—exercise regimen and dietary restraint.

What, exactly, is modesty? Is it an expression of puritanical morality? Does it express sexual repression and a deep-seated fear that one’s body is a magnet for—or a breeding ground of—carnal appetites? I suspect there’s an unhealthy mixture of all the above in one’s sense of modesty. And I don’t like the concept of modesty in the least, though I have to admit modesty flows through me like a river. In my case, I suspect the majority of my modesty stems from embarrassment, with remnants of puritanism and carnality rounding out the mental malady.

A quick search for definitions and synonyms reveals what I feared: much of the meaning of modesty rests with that puritanical world view. Both Merriam-Webster’s dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus equate modesty with shame. Roget also suggests pudicity (a new word for me), which in turn associates with meanings for chastity and modesty. Shame. Chastity. I knew it!

The naked body, or even parts of one’s body, exposed to sensitive eyes is an affront to humanity, to Christianity, and to all of God’s creations. Horse pucky. As I’ve said many times before, the naked body, whatever its condition, is a lovely thing to behold. That having been said, mine would be dramatically more attractive with a visible six-pack, but that’s beside the point. The human body, like the bodies of animals whose beauty we admire (think horses, dogs, cats, whales, dolphins, ad infinitum), is a thing of natural beauty. Those other animals don’t seem to have to deal with modesty, do they? That’s because they have not been infected with irrational thought processes related to their physical appearance, sexuality, and such.

I know some people, perhaps many people, do not agree with my assessment of the human form. I’ve heard more times than I care to remember statements like “I don’t want to see the naked bodies of a bunch of overweight old men…” Typically, I’ve heard such statements in connection with individuals’ distaste for public swimming pools and spas and saunas. Frankly, that upsets me because the statement is wrapped in such unapologetic, thoughtless, non-compassionate, unfeeling judgement of people who may or may not have any control over their appearance. It irks me. And when someone makes such a statement, I think much less of them than I did before they uttered that stupid remark. Okay, enough of that trip down a side road that’s not part of this trip.

I admire, conceptually, nudists. I’d like the opportunity to sit and talk with nudists about their views on nudity and the human body to learn whether my admiration is well-placed. I don’t mean having the conversation in a nudist colony; I’m afraid I’m not sufficiently courageous to do that. I mean sitting, fully-clothed, in someone’s living room or at a table in a bar, with  a round of drinks in front of us; a comfortable, non-threatening environment. I’d like to understand whether they, like me, think fear of nudity is a remarkably silly human construct. And I’d like to know whether, to them, it’s the “freedom of movement” or some other physical attribute of nudity they find appealing. Just, in general, why they do what they do (which is, as I understand it, to disrobe in the presence of others who hold the same views). I probably shouldn’t express admiration of nudists until I understand them, right? So I’ll retract my statement of admiration until such time as I have the opportunity to confirm whether such admiration is justified.

Nudity and modesty are not synonymous, of course, but they are (or can be) related. Just as nudity and sex are not synonymous; but they, too, are related. Unless my logic is flawed, I think I can legitimately state that modesty and sex, then, are related, too. That may be the odd linkage in humans that drives modesty. “If I show too much of my body, or view too much of another person’s body, sex is sure to follow.” Right. The logic in that is convoluted and measurably wrong.

One of the first times I wrote about my thoughts on nudity, I said, “I’m not brave enough to assert my right to walk naked into the grocery store, but I am brave enough to call into question the legitimacy of the social fear of, and reaction to, nudity.” I’m still not brave enough to go into the grocery store without clothes. I’m not even brave enough to venture into a nudist colony to explore nudists’ thoughts on nudity; I want them to come to me, in the comfort of a living room or a bar. That’s a pretty lousy attitude; I don’t want to feel uncomfortable…I’d like you to feel uncomfortable for me. Well, if there’s any courage in the room at the moment, it’s in admitting one’s flaws. Yeah, searching for something to redeem myself; not finding it.

Is this post about modesty or it is about nudity? Or is it about something else? I can’t seem to figure it out. It began as a treatise on modesty. It is ending as a treatise on confusion and shame. Not exactly the most spectacular way to start the day, but it will have to do.

 

Posted in Essay, Nudity, Philosophy | Leave a comment

Memories of Physical and Emotional Pain

Posted on December 14, 2019 by John Swinburn

I once was referred to a neurological specialist who, the referring specialist doctor said, would attempt to “replicate the pain” I had earlier felt in my neck and shoulder. Instantly, I decided against accepting the referral because I did not want to feel that pain again. The intent, of course, was to determine the underlying cause of the pain. But I was satisfied that the pain that had caused me to see the referring specialist had dissipated. I had no interest in learning whether it could be resurrected. Frankly, I was afraid it could be brought to life again but could not be killed. So I opted to hope for the best. Fortunately, that decision worked for a good eight or ten years before a similar pain returned on its own, without being “replicated” by a specialist.

When a similar pain occurred again, only then did my recollection of the original agony begin to approximate my experience so many years before. No matter how much I might have wanted to remember with precision the way that first pain felt (though I think I’d rather forget), I could not do it. Physical memories are like low-resolution snapshots taken with old cameras, their lenses smeared with soot and dust. They don’t capture reality for later replay. They approximate an experience, but lack true clarity and precision. And they are sometimes augmented or diminished by wishes or biases. They are not real; they are the products of the imagination, trained to paint a new portrait of an old experience, without the benefit of sight or touch.

If a person has ever experienced excruciating pain, I would argue that he or she simply cannot replicate it through memory. The person can’t feel the same agony felt when the pain was real. That awful pain refuses to have its photograph taken for physical replay.

I think memories of mental anguish, on the other hand, can be recorded with absolute fidelity, the equivalent of the very best, most precise Hasselblad camera in the hands of a highly experienced photographer. Two experiences from my younger years convince me of this. When I was in college—the first full semester after I began early, in summer school—I felt more lonely than I had ever felt before. It was a profound, debilitating, loneliness. I lacked the social skills to meet people and develop friendships. The isolation I felt was almost too much for me to bear. I considered suicide, thinking the only way I could escape the pain of loneliness was to take my life. I remember that sense of profound loneliness today. When that memory finds its way to the surface of my consciousness, the pain is just as acute as it was then, though now it is thankfully a memory instead of an ongoing experience.

Another experience was my first “true love.” I thought I had found my soul mate for life. Our relationship lasted for quite some time, but the time came when she decided it was over. I fought the decision, as if fighting it could have changed it. The pain of that ending was almost as excruciating as the profound loneliness. I can feel the memory of it today, just as acutely; unexpected abandonment by someone least likely to intentionally walk away, knowing how devastatingly painful it would be. A punch in the emotional gut so hard it could forever change the way a person feels about relationships.

I’ve often wondered why painful emotional memories can surface with almost exactly the same degree of mental agony as the original, while physical memories of pain never replicate the original experience. The closest I can come to explaining it, without exploring what people with expertise in human memory and human experience of pain have to say about it, is that mental pain and physical pain are utterly different beasts. While they both may involve physical changes in the body’s chemistry or electrical impulses, they must be fundamentally different. And perhaps physical pain reflects the potential of mortal danger, while mental pain reflects only emotional distress.

One of these days, I’m going to do more than ruminate and craft unsupported theories; I’m going to actually read results of research into the differences between emotional and physical pain. I’m almost certain such research must have been conducted and reported. And it’s possibly quite easy to find. One need only look. Maybe.

 

Posted in Emotion, Memories, Pain | Leave a comment

The Attractive Discomfort of Gatherings

Posted on December 13, 2019 by John Swinburn

I can’t seem to get my mind off Thanksgiving. We had planned on inviting my sister-in-law over for a non-traditional meal of some sort or, maybe, a restaurant meal with a non-traditional menu. But that went south when we learned she had other plans involving cooking a Thanksgiving day meal for friends. When another friend learned we were looking for non-traditional restaurants open that day, she jumped in and invited us to join her group, including others we know, for a traditional Thanksgiving day meal. That was very nice of her, but we really wanted something unusual; plus we did not want to impose on a meal that already had been planned. So, we did our own thing. We went out for an Indian buffet. And it was good. We enjoyed it immensely.

Still, we were essentially alone. Just the two of us. Unlike most people in our sphere, we were not inundated with family and friends for what one website calls “arguably the most celebrated holiday in the US and it may be the most important dinner of the year.” We had one invitation to that most celebrated holiday, and that was almost after the fact. I shouldn’t complain, though. We didn’t issue any invitations, aside from the one to my sister-in-law, to have anyone join us. So what is it that makes our Thanksgiving celebration so different from the vast majority of others? I suppose it’s the same thing that makes our celebration of Christmas just as unusual. We are, by and large, not very social people. We don’t tend to attract people to us; people don’t automatically gravitate toward us. We’re not top-of-mind to other people when they plan celebrations. The only family that’s “close by” is my sister-in-law; she had her own thing. My blood relatives are far, far distant. And they either have their own families or they have friends who arguably are closer to them than family or, like us, they are not in the least social.

I wonder whether detachment or aloofness or whatever it is is a genetic trait or whether my upbringing contributed more than genes to my tendency toward isolation? I guess I won’t know the answer to that question; it’s one of those questions without a reliable and dependable answer. Any answer would be a guess, based on opinion and bias, not data and scientific analysis.

I miss family gatherings. The most recent one I attended, my brother’s eightieth birthday celebration, was enjoyable but it was not the visibly joyous occasion I associate with the concepts of family Thanksgivings and Christmases I see in other families. The more “traditional” families celebrate familial bonds in a way I equate almost with worship. In our family, we don’t seem to treat our bonds quite the same way. Our relationships are more subdued, less boisterous, and not so openly emotional. We don’t seem to be so visibly moved by family connections. I say that, even though I feel those strong emotional bonds; but I don’t openly show it because I’d likely be the only one and that conspicuous display would make me, and those around me, uncomfortable. Because we, as a family, tend to conceal our emotions to the extent we can. I’ve always felt I might be the only one among my siblings whose emotions are eggshell-fragile. That’s not true, though. I’ve seen evidence I am not completely alone in that regard. And I’ve seen evidence in others that emotional displays are just uncomfortable all the way around; so I try to keep mine in check.

This post began as a rumination about Thanksgiving and the fact that ours, the one my wife and I spent together, was a bit lonely. That loneliness and isolation translates into most other days of celebration. We might join with others in our church (a complete departure from our entire adult lives until now) for a ritual celebration, but it doesn’t go beyond that. We’re not really part of the “family,” so we aren’t invited to participate except in a superficial way. Until, of course, I slip up and mention our plans to be alone. I do not want to join a group as a means of assuaging anyone’s sense of guilt; they have no reason to feel guilty and I have no reason to be the solution to their undeserved sense of regret for having failed to think of me in the first place.

I would like to find others who share our situation and invite them to join us in a non-traditional celebration of sorts on these lonely holidays. But my wife is not particularly enamored of the idea; perhaps she is even more of an isolationist than I am. We’ll see. One day, I’ll insist. And then we’ll see if others are equally reticent to join a group for which they do not feel an especially strong connection, loathing the idea of being the recipients of pity-by-social-invitation.

 

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Transition to Acceptance

Posted on December 12, 2019 by John Swinburn

The sky is turning bright pink in the east. Earlier, it was orange and the trees against the horizon looked black, as if they were shadows.

The day broke in beautiful form. But then I made the mistake of opening a news website. I’m an idiot. A quick glance at the headlines distracted me from the orange horizon and the intermittent thin ribbons of dark grey clouds. Rage erupted in me like a geyser, or a volcano, prompting me to write a lengthy diatribe describing the people who are, at the moment, afflicting the aggrieved. We, the people are the aggrieved. I wrote a rather lengthy post in which I explained that I had modified an adjective into a noun and I called for some rather harsh treatments of the aggrievers.

But then I stopped. What good could it possibly do? So I returned to the sky. The now pink sky. The sky whose orange brilliance was visible, I’m sure, while I was writing about the ill-will I wished would befall certain people. Now, though, I am satisfied that a record of my thoughts exists. It’s not in a public place, but it’s in  a place readily available to me if ever I feel a need to ratchet up my blood pressure and cause every muscle in my body to get tense and ready for a fierce struggle. I would rather not feel that need.

Now I don’t need to ready myself for battle; neither verbal nor physical engagement. Now, I feel a desire (maybe a need, but I can’t differentiate between the two at this moment) to soften and to erase every hint of stress from my mind and my body. I want to be in love with the world again. I need to embrace and be embraced. I want to appreciate the horizon, morphing from pink to tan, fading into beige.

I want to erase “want” and replace it with “accept.” That’s it; I accept the beauty, even the hideous beauty, of the world around me. There is no ugliness; there is only another form of beauty, a natural mirror image of the perfection we see, tinted with imperfection and stunning brokenness. The Japanese aesthetic of wabi sabi is a world view in which imperfection and transience are valued and considered beautiful. That’s the world view I readily accept as a replacement for the one that once occupied my mind. Easier said than done, of course.

There’s an inexplicable beauty in accepting everything in our paths and in our lines of sight. Not only accepting, but embracing and appreciating even the broken pieces of life and humanity. If I could feel that sense of acceptance and appreciation all the time, I would be more content with who I am. I could accept even the unlovable pieces of myself while trying to replace them with aspects worthy of love. That is, perhaps, the hardest part of acceptance; giving up the war against aspects of oneself that are unlovable.

I find fault with too many things and too many circumstances. Rather than complain, the best response to displeasure is to seek the lessons from experience. What will it teach me, if only I am willing to listen and contemplate? I do contemplate well, I think, if I give myself a nudge in that direction. Sometimes, though, I react instead of allowing my contemplative self to emerge from the wreckage of an unpleasant experience.

Goddamn it! Almost imperceptibly, I slipped from acceptance to fault-finding. And then to anger about it. This transition will be harder than I thought; it has always been harder than I thought.

Posted in Acceptance, Anger, Self-discipline, Serenity, Wabi sabi | Leave a comment

Molly Ivins Documentary

Posted on December 11, 2019 by John Swinburn

Last night, we had dinner with a friend. She served us wonderful chili and treated us to a documentary about Molly Ivins entitled, Raise Hell: The Life And Times Of Molly Ivins.  I have been a Molly Ivins fan for years. I cried when she died; not because I was a fan, but because I felt like the world had lost one of the bravest and most articulate observers (and critics) of politics whose words I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

Several years ago, I received a solicitation, asking for donations to help fund the development and production of the documentary we watched last night. It was one of the only such solicitations I recall thinking was unquestionably worthwhile, so I donated. I don’t know how much; probably a very meager $10 or so. Regardless of how much I donated, though, I am glad I did. That having been said, on reflection after watching the documentary last night, I think the work could have been much better.

In reflecting on what we watched last night, I think too little attention was paid to the substance of Molly’s writing in favor of picking one-liners from her writing and videos featuring her. I understand the rationale behind using the one-liners; they are powerful and funny and memorable. But Molly was much more than a talented writer and deliverer of one-liners; she was a brilliant thinker and writer whose words should make us think about what we are doing to ourselves by electing the likes of Trump and Pence and the Congressional stooges who give the two men their undying loyalty, even after rightfully labeling Trump as utterly unfit for office. But that’s another story.

Despite my morning-after disappointment, I enjoyed the documentary and I think it’s worth watching. My point is that it could have been much better. But if I think it could have been much better, why didn’t I get involved in making it? Good point; I’m being a Wednesday morning quarterback, the sort of person who doesn’t have the wherewithal to do something myself, so criticizes someone who does. Yech!

As I consider who might be a current-day Molly Ivins, I can’t come up with anyone. The only one close, in my view, is Rachel Maddow. However, as much as I enjoy watching and listening to her, Rachel isn’t as “pure” as Molly in the sense that Molly focused on right and wrong, whereas I think Rachel focuses on right and left. Molly wasn’t afraid to be a heretical liberal, arguing against popularly-held liberal positions (through, for the life of me, at this moment I cannot think of a specific example). I lean far left, but I believe in discriminating between right and wrong. Just because something is embraced by the “left” does not mean it is “right.” That’s why, occasionally, I do not vote straight ticket; sometimes a Democrat is so utterly bad that a Republican is preferable, even though the Republican’s views might conflict with mine.

Back to the documentary: Something that occurred to me during the film, but was on my mind more afterward, was the fact that Molly adopted a strong Texas twang and behaved in stereotypical Texan style (she even mentioned her boots, pickup, beer-drinking, etc.). I think she had more of an impact on conservative Texans by behaving like them than she would have had had she behaved and dressed like the stereotypical Smith graduate (she was a Smith graduate, although certainly not the “stereotypical” one).  In that way, I think she connected with people who otherwise might have dismissed her entirely. She never presented herself as better than others; she never suggested her education and the family she was from made her a better person than “shit-kicker cowboys.” That lesson might be one today’s liberals could learn from. I tend to see or perceive an attitude (through dress and demeanor) that says “I’m smarter than you” when liberals engage with conservatives. And, to be honest, I often feel that way because I cannot for the life of me understand how a person who otherwise seems intelligent can possibly hold certain political views; I assume the “otherwise seems intelligent” is an erroneous perception on my part.  I have to try to do better.

***

I’ve been up since around 4:00 this morning and have written a poem I plan to read tonight at Wednesday Night Poetry. But after thinking about what I just wrote, I may revisit the poem; not because it relates in any way to Molly Ivins or politics, but because it may be too high-falutin’ to have any value.  Back to the drawing board and then, later, perhaps back to sleep.

 

Posted in Film, Politics | Leave a comment

Elbow

Posted on December 10, 2019 by John Swinburn

Elbow McMaster stood facing the front door, poised to spring upon the woman the moment she entered. His eyes, fixed on the peephole well above his eye level, noticed a momentary interruption in the light on the tiny circular glass view port. Elbow’s legs tensed and bent ever-so-slightly; he crouched in preparation for an attack. The sound of a key entering the lock was barely audible, but Elbow heard it and he leaped into action. As the door swung open, he lunged at the woman’s chest. The instant his taut body touched hers, the woman grasped him with both arms and pulled him to her. Obviously, he thought, she was expecting this.

Of course she was. This was a daily routine. Every day, at almost the exact same time, Elbow lunged at Caroline as she entered the house, home from work. Elbow’s tail, wagging furiously, swatted Caroline mercilessly and his tongue licked every bit of exposed skin from her face to the base of her neck.

But that was yesterday. Today, Elbow’s watch at the front door lasted much longer than usual. The sun’s light in the east windows of the house peaked, as usual, just about the time Caroline usually got home. And then, over the course of an hour or so, the light began to dim. As the minutes passed, Elbow nervously shifted his weight from one side to the other, keeping his legs in condition to spring the moment the door opened. But when darkness fell, Caroline still had not arrived home, so he knelt on the carpet in front of the door, resting his legs. Still, he kept watch, waiting for Caroline to arrive.

Around ten in the evening, Elbow heard a key entering the lock. He sprang into action, ready to cover her with dog kisses. But as he flew through the air at the figure entering the front door, he sensed something was different. This was not Caroline! This was Caroline’s friend, Mona! Elbow turned his head to the right and barked, just as his shoulder smashed into Mona’s chest.

“Oh, Elbow! Oh, boy, I’m sorry I’m not Caroline! I’m so sorry!” Mona kept her balance, even as Elbow ricocheted to the floor from her chest. Mona put her arms around Elbow and hugged him close to her. Tears flooded her cheeks and dripped onto Elbow’s furry back.

Elbow knew the meaning of tears. Caroline had shed tears when her friend, Skip, had left one morning and the police came that night to tell her he wouldn’t be coming home. Elbow knew Mona’s tears meant the same thing.

“Elbow, Caroline’s not coming home. Caroline was in an accident, Elbow. You’re going to come live with me now, boy.”

Elbow’s tears didn’t flow as easily as Mona’s, but they flowed, nonetheless. He hung his head, then raised his head high with his nose pointing to the sky and wept the way dogs do, with a low mournful howl.

Posted in Fiction, Writing | 4 Comments

Writing Like a Curative Drug

Posted on December 10, 2019 by John Swinburn

I once wrote, during a period of personal introspection and social observation,

Writing is like a drug; it can be a cure or an addiction.

A lot was missing in that simple statement. One missing piece concealed the danger of spare language.

As I reflect on that assertion several years later, I still believe what I wrote, but my attitude about writing has changed somewhat. I think it can be both a cure AND an addiction. It can be a treatment just short of a cure. And it can be an irresistible craving just short of an addiction. Would I have been more accurate to have written the following?

Writing is like a drug; it can be a cure or an addiction or it can be both. And, it can be simply a treatment just short of a cure or an irresistible craving just short of an addiction.

The simpler statement, “it can be a cure or an addiction,” presents a more powerful statement, but it conceals part of the truth. The statement was not meant to misrepresent reality, but unless one reads between the lines, it does. That is an attribute of a lot of writing, especially poetry.

Poetry, in its spareness and its economy with words, carves away explanation, leaving scraps of unsaid description behind, unable to disclose what was in the poet’s head during the writing of the poem.  On the one hand, that raw, skeletal, glimpse into meaning requires the reader or listener to think, filling in the unsaid words with her own. On the other, though, the remaining words can mislead the audience by omission (or, rather, the audience can allow itself to mislead itself).

In spite of my tendency to use thirty words when five will do, I believe economy with words is a more powerful way to communicate ideas. It is a more powerful way to engage emotionally with the reader or listener.

But, in the wrong hands, spare writing can be intentionally misleading and dangerous. Take, for example, the current administration. Quite aside from its raging current of blatant lies, the few trickles of truth tell only parts of stories we need to hear; parts that, without explanation, lead to erroneous conclusions and positions that have no basis in reality. Feeding empty heads with these lies and these trickles of truth, the administration molds unthinking people into weapons of evangelical disinformation. The “base” becomes a propaganda machine.

To  confront and overcome the disciples of evangelical disinformation, we need writing that looks and acts like a curative drug. Short, spare, simple, and catchy; attractive words that serve as bait, followed by short, explanatory words that overcome the lies with inescapable and irrefutable truth.

The explanation seems so simple. But it is almost impossibly hard. The power of words grows exponentially in parallel with the intellects of the people who read or hear them; their power is muted and smothered when confronted with stunted intellects. And that is the problem we face today. What curative drug can break through a shield formed by ignorance?

Posted in Lies/disinformation, Poetry, Politics, Writing | Leave a comment

Commitment

Posted on December 9, 2019 by John Swinburn

From time to time, I am surprised by the source of my own questions. This morning, for example, I asked (through Google) how Mexican per capita household annual income compares to that figure in the United States. I would not have had that question but for stumbling across something mostly unrelated; an article that asserted (or was it just suggested?) micro-businesses account for the primary source of income for large proportions of family incomes in impoverished countries. The article implied that “jobs” are few and far between in many countries and, therefore, people create or maintain their own tiny businesses to provide at least meager sources of income.

Before I go on, I wasn’t surprised by the facts and suggestions and assertions; I was surprised that they became sources for some questions I did not have when I awoke this morning.

At any rate, the article and my subsequent question led me to the website for an organization (a company, I assume) called CEIC. CEIC was founded in 1992 in Hong Kong by “a team of expert economists and analysts.” CEIC is a research organization that collects and analyzes macro-economic data from countries around the world. Some of those data and those analyses are available on the organization’s website; more data and more in-depth analyses, I suspect, are available for sale. But that’s an entirely different topic, so I’ll return to my area of interest.

According to data available on the CEIC website, the  per capital annual household income in the United States was $31,454 in 2018. In Mexico, the figure for the same year was $2,782.32. So, the per capita household annual income in the U.S. was more than eleven times greater than in Mexico last year. I knew the difference would be significant, but the size of the difference stunned me.

If my income were reduced to one-eleventh of what it is today, I would either starve or go on public assistance or both. “But the cost of living in Mexico is much less than it is in the U.S., so it wouldn’t be that bad,” some might say.

Sure. Housing in Mexico does not cost one-eleventh the price of housing in the U.S. Nor is the cost of transportation or food in Mexico equal to that fraction of the cost in the U.S. The bottom line is that the economic lives of the Mexican people at large are radically different from the economic lives of Americans. An article in Borgen Magazine discusses food poverty in Mexico, reporting: “In 2008, 18.2 percent of Mexican residents lived in food poverty. Food poverty is defined as not earning sufficient income to purchase nutritious food, even if the total income is used.” The U.S. Department of Agriculture Economic Research Service reports on its website that 11.1% of Americans lived in “food-insecure households” in 2018. Granted, the data are separated by ten years and by definitions that may not completely correspond to one another, but they offer some interesting (and painful) insights.

I was surprised that the percentage of people who live in “food-insecurity” (I’ll adopt the USDA term) in the U.S. is not even double the percentage in Mexico. Given the enormous income disparity, I would have thought Mexican food-insecurity would be many times greater that American food-insecurity.  I am sure there are reams of data that might help explain why my surprise is unfounded. I wish I knew where to get those data and how to interpret them so I might better understand what, to me, looks like an inexplicable discrepancy. In the absence of both access to the data and the knowledge to properly analyze them, here’s where my mind is going: the vast majority of what I’ll call “excess wealth” in the U.S. goes toward non-necessary expenditures. We know it doesn’t go toward savings; the last figure I saw said U.S. savings amounted to less than nine percent of income, on average. And if memory serves, the Mexican savings rate is actually far greater, somewhere around twenty percent.

So, without the benefit of information and analytical skills, my take is this: Americans engage in wasteful, frivolous spending at a far greater rate than do Mexicans. Back to the source of my original left turn into economic research: if Americans were to divert just a portion of their frivolous spending toward lending money to micro-businesses in Mexico (and many other countries), it might go a long way toward reducing those disparities. I’ve been doing just that for a few years by making loans through KIVA. But none of my loans have been made to micro-businesses in Mexico. I’ve made loans in Peru, Ecuador, El Salvador, Columbia, Solomon Islands, and the U.S. All of the non-US loans have either been repaid in full or are being repaid. The only one for which I’ve not yet seen any payments is one I made for an agricultural enterprise in the U.S. While I feel good about doing what I’ve done, the amount of money I’ve lent through KIVA is truly embarrassingly small.

After this morning’s excursion, wading through data I don’t entirely understand and making conclusions I can’t entirely defend, I feel compelled to do more than I have done. But will I do as much as I think all Americans should? No. I won’t. Because, like almost all Americans, my personal comfort and desire for personal and familial financial security is greater than my concern for those who are less fortunate. Some people might say, “You’re being too hard on yourself; you should be proud of yourself for doing more than many do.” I would respond by saying, “No, I’m not being hard enough on myself and on everyone else who has the financial wherewithal to help lift up others and who choose, instead, to “invest” their money in luxuries and other non-necessities. ”

But maybe I am asking all of us to be saints; and I don’t believe in saints. I just wish we all would do more than we have done. I know many of us donate food and clothing to help impoverished people and we may give money to organizations that help people find temporary shelter or even longer-term housing. While that’s admirable, I think longer-term solutions are better “investments” in humanity. Micro-loans can help people generate their own income, buy their own food and clothes, and secure their own housing.

So far this morning, I’ve spent my mental energy comparing the economic behaviors of the U.S. with its Mexican counterpart. The problems of poverty are global. They will require global intervention if they are ever to be solved. And this rambling rant won’t even begin to make one iota of difference; it doesn’t even make me feel good. It doesn’t even strip away some of the feelings of outrage and impotence and sadness that accompany the recognition that we live in a world that is so far from imperfect that it might be the model for inadequacy.

Ach. There’s no value in beating oneself up for one’s failings. The best way forward is, always, a commitment to do better and to do what one can. And so I close this unhappy diatribe with a promise to do what I would have others do.

Posted in Economics, Poverty, Rant | Leave a comment