Transformative Places

Posted on December 8, 2019 by John Swinburn

Wherever we go, when we settle in we take on attributes caused by the place. We change, at least a little, to reflect the way a place we live changes us. And often, maybe usually, we don’t recognize the change in us until later, perhaps years later.

As I reflect on the statements above, I wonder whether they are true. Do the places we live really change who we are? I think they do. Maybe we don’t change at our core, but we adapt to our new environment by changing enough to better fit in or to more clearly differentiate us from the people around us. It may be our vocabulary or the way we pronounce words. It might be the way we acknowledge people we encounter (or, conversely, stop those acknowledgements). But the changes may be more fundamental. We may become more conservative in our thinking; or more progressive.

Moving from the hustle-bustle of a high-energy city to a more relaxed rural environment can have the effect of smoothing our engagements with other people. We might become more accustomed to light traffic; return trips to freeway traffic might become more stressful to the changed person we have become.

At the same time these changes take place in us, similar changes take place in people we leave behind in other places that have changed us. And changes take place in people in our spheres, people who settle in other places. The places change them in big and little ways. Even modest changes in them and in us can create gulfs between us. We don’t grow apart; we morph apart. We become different people. Different from one another, yes, but different from our former selves, as well.

What about the ways in which places change those around us? We don’t all respond to new places in the same way, so I may change in ways very different from the ways the same place changes someone else in my life.

Graphs and charts and instructive images would be far better at articulating what I’ve been trying to say than what I’ve said. Unfortunately, I do not possess the wherewithal to express myself graphically; well, I do, but not in ways that would be informative in this discussion. When I get uncomfortable with where I am, physically or emotionally, I attempt to lighten the environment with humor; it rarely works.

Perhaps I would have been more successful at expressing my thoughts if I had stuck to specifics about me. Instead, I’ve attempted to describe in the abstract a set of concepts that I’m not quite sure I understand sufficiently to explain.

I should return to writing fiction. I know more about the world inside my head than I do about the physical world, the world in which I dabble in reality. Fiction is easier on the brain and the heart. It’s easier to control than reality; reality seems to have its own agenda, quite apart from anything over which I might have control.

I could live quite comfortably in an imaginary world, a place in which I can transform challenges into solutions. Problems into opportunities. Fear into anticipation.

The imaginary world is a place, too. It can have the same transformative effects that the real world can have; I suppose one simply has to believe.

Posted in Change, Essay, Philosophy | Leave a comment

What Once was Vibrant

Posted on December 7, 2019 by John Swinburn

For the only time I can remember, this morning I pondered about how my emotions may have changed during the course of my sixty-six years. A piece of semi-autobiographical fiction (is that even a realistic category?) I began writing last night triggered this contemplation, I think, but it could have been something else or a combination of other thoughts. Not that it matters.

What matters is that, this morning, I consciously considered the possibility that my emotions today differ significantly from my emotions as a teenager or a young man in my twenties and thirties or, for that matter, as an adult well into his fifties and early sixties. My emotions today feel different. They feel like they belong to someone else, someone more resilient and stronger in some ways, but more fragile and more easily broken in others. I think the type of emotions to which I refer will be obvious from my words so far but, in case there’s any question, I refer to negative emotions; fear, anger, anguish, grief, heartache, sadness, and so on.

Having experienced grief on several occasions, both as a child and as an adult, I think the emotion has been distinctively different at various points in my life. Unfortunately, I am not quite sure my words can adequately describe the differences, but I’ll try. In my early youth, grief at the death of a pet dog or cat was intense but relatively short-lived. I think the loss of pets caused as much a selfish sense of  loss as real grief. Perhaps it wasn’t true grief; perhaps it was just intense melancholy.

Later, the death of relatives to whom I was not close caused feelings that may not have been grief at the loss for myself, but sorrow at the loss for family members who were far closer than I to the deceased. Later, my grief at the death of my parents about a year apart, when I was in my early thirties, was intense and raw and long-lasting. Their deaths, especially my mother’s death, left me feeling that a piece of myself was gone and I would never be able to retrieve it; it was as if that piece of me existed only in the the relationship we had. The emotions that spilled from me during those times seemed to question whether what I was experiencing was real, too.

My sister’s death several years ago caused pain and grief and a sense of acute loss. And I felt the same vague disbelief that she was really gone. But I remember finally feeling the reality that death was a natural part of one’s life; that loss and the pain that goes with it were inevitable. Yet I remember, too, thinking that nothing can prepare one for the death of a loved one. I remember thinking the unthinkable; how, if my wife were to die, I would simply be unable to go on.

More recently, friends and acquaintances have died. Their deaths hurt, but the understanding of death’s inevitability seems to have grown in me. Deaths seem more shocks to the system than emotional cataclysms. But that may be because more recent deaths have not been close family members.

I’ve written so far only about grief. The same kinds of transitions that have taken place in my experience of grief have occurred in my experience of other emotions. It’s not that my emotions have dulled. It’s more that they have adapted to the reality that I have no other option than to experience them; like death and the grief that accompanies it, they are inevitable. But that inevitability seems to have built a shell around me in a way, protecting me from the devastation that some emotions can leave behind. In that sense, I think I am more resilient, more able to deal with negative experiences. Yet I feel strongly, if that shell were to crack, the protection it provides will vaporize in an instant. That’s where my sense of greater fragility comes in. It’s as if I know I can take just so much but, if the shell breaks, as it were, I might not be able to survive the anguish it unleashes.

So far, most of my thoughts have surrounded negative experiences and the traumatic emotions that accompany them. But I think the same maturation (if that’s what it is) has taken place with more positive experiences. Joy, once a sense of unbridled elation, seems to have been tempered by the years. And gratitude, awe, happiness, optimism, hope—virtually all positive emotions—seem to be less intense, less overpowering, less exciting. I guess that’s true for the same reasons that the negative emotions have changed; my experience has taught me they don’t last, they aren’t necessarily the life-changing experiences they may have felt like in times gone by.

As I contemplate these observations about my emotions, I feel more than a little regret that, from the vantage point of this bright morning, they all seem to have dulled. Their sharp-edges no longer hurt as much nor feel as good as they once did. The vibrancy of youth seems to have drained from them, leaving emotions whose vitality is restricted by the wisdom of experience. I wish my observations were temporary and wrong. I miss feeling the energy of powerful emotions (though I know I still experience powerful emotions, just not in the way I once did). Perhaps this woeful treatise on the maturation of emotions is simply the product of an unusual mood. I hope so.

Posted in Emotion | Leave a comment

The New Realm

Posted on December 6, 2019 by John Swinburn

“Lance, would you please get the ax for me? It’s getting close to dinnertime and I need to get Little Johnny ready for the roaster.”

Lance looked up from his crossword. “All right, Suzanne, just let me finish this last little section.”

Suzanne scowled. “Okay, but hurry it up. He’s gonna take a good hour to cook and I still have to get him ready to go in the oven. We won’t be eating until after 7:30 at this rate.”

“Okay, dammit! Just a minute.” Lance stood abruptly and stormed out the back door, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

Almost as quickly as he left, he was back in the kitchen. “Here,” he said, thrusting the ax in Suzanne’s direction. “Anything else before I get back to my crossword?”

“Well, yes. You could go find Little Johnny for me. He’s probably on the swings.”

Lance sighed a long, woe-is-me sigh. “Sometimes, I wish we’d just buy our meat at the store. Some folks do, you know.”

Suzanne’s face flushed and the volume of her voice increased two-fold. “Yeah, and we do, too! Most of the time. But you know as well as I do that we don’t always have a choice!”

Suzanne drew a file along the blade of the ax, putting as sharp an edge on the tool as she could. As she tested the edge to ensure it was razor-sharp, she watched her husband go back out the door in search of her youngest son.

Familial cannibalism had been one of the hardest things Suzanne had to get used to when she entered the New Realm. Where she had come from, the only cannibalism was in stories or textbooks about a time long since passed. In her old environment, no one ate human flesh any more, especially one’s own progeny. But things were different in the New Realm. In the New Realm, cannibalism was as common as ice cream on a slice of pie. In fact, in the New Realm, people who refused to practice cannibalism were treated like pariahs. They could be imprisoned if their failure to conform put the social order at risk.

The New Realm arose, in a convoluted, roundabout way, from New Malthusian Theory. New Malthusian Theory espoused the position that human population must be self-limiting. That translated into a limit of two children per heterosexual couple reaching puberty. There were plenty of exceptions, with prior approval, but most people just got used to the idea that, if they had more than two children, those beyond two would become nutritional supplements before their thirteenth birthdays.

Suzanne, unlike the vast majority of other New Realm denizens, did not grow up in the New Realm. She was born and reared an Originalist, a child of the Old Realm. Her entry into the New Realm was the result of an accident in which the two parallel dimensions of the Milky Way galaxy collided for a split second. The chances of such a collision, in which the dimensions could take place at just the right time and location to result in dimensional travel, were about one hundred trillion to one. But, like the lottery, somebody has to win that experience. So it was with Suzanne.

“Johnny, get out of those clothes and come get in the sink. I’ve got to wash you up.” Suzanne eyed her youngest son, ready to repeat herself as she so often had to do to get him to do as he was told. But Johnny immediately began to disrobe, dropping his clothes on the kitchen floor.

“Johnny, what have I told you about putting your clothes away?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy replied, stooping to pick up his shirt off the floor. “Can I just hang them off the back of the chair?”

“Yes, that will be fine. Just hurry up, son.”

Johnny dutifully took off all his clothes and hung them on the back of a kitchen chair. He put his shoes on the chair seat and stuffed his socks in them.

Suzanne picked up the nude six-year-old and sat him in the warm water in the big farmhouse sink. The boy giggled and said, “It’s warm!”

“Yes, it is. That’s to wash off all that little-boy dirt from your little-boy body!” Suzanne laughed as she scrubbed the boy with a sponge.

When she was satisfied he was sufficiently clean, she rinsed him off with the sprayer head, picked him up, and set him down in a plastic clothes basket, filled with towels, on the floor. “Dry yourself off real good!”

When the boy was dry, she picked him up again and took him to the preparation sink on the other side of the kitchen. On the counter, next to the sink, sat a contraption that looked a little like a combination of a guillotine without a blade and a set of stocks. She placed Johnny face down, his neck in what would have been the guillotine’s neck hole and his arms in the stocks. “Okay, Johnny, get comfortable.”

Though her face didn’t betray it, Suzanne’s guts were in knots. She hated beheading her children. It didn’t matter how many she had done before, it was always hard to do it to another one. But that was just part of living in the New Realm.

***

At 7:30, Suzanne pulled the roasting pans out of the oven. [All right. This will have to wait. I’m not quite yet able to write about carving the meat for dinner. Maybe this doesn’t have to be quite so graphic.]

 

Posted in Fiction, Writing | Leave a comment

A Nonfictional Account of a Wednesday

Posted on December 5, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday’s productivity exceeded most days’ output, but only because we forced ourselves to visit Lowe’s with the aim of buying a replacement stovetop-oven combo. We managed to select one to put on order, but first we will have an installer come out to determine whether it will “work” in our space. Assuming it does, we will complete the order at the advertised sales price (said sale ends today). And Lowe’s will order the stove for delivery and installation. Would that the process remains so simple and straightforward. Having dealt with Lowe’s before, I don’t dare hope for it. I’ll just wait to see what happens.

Because we were in Hot Springs yesterday around lunchtime, we decided to dine at Taco Mama’s, where we can get one of our favorite dishes: a “taco salad” that includes shredded lettuce, chopped tomatoes, black beans, grilled chunks of lengua (tongue), and a scoop of guacamole, all drenched in a jalapeño ranch dressing.

Upon returning home to the Village, we prepared ourselves to drive over to pick up friends and take them into Hot Springs for Wednesday Night Poetry at Kollective Coffee. The female of the pair, Brenda, had written a poem that I had encouraged her to read at last night’s event. And she did. And it was a hit. There was more. Another writer friend I did not expect to see was already there when we arrived; she read a story that also was a hit.  I opted to sit in the background and watch; though I had a poem I could read in a pinch, I didn’t want to. I wasn’t pressured to (thanks to an unusually large number of readers), so life was good.

This post will be one of two (I hope) today. In the second one, I will force myself to write fiction. Perhaps.

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Mental Health and Healing

Posted on December 4, 2019 by John Swinburn

When my creativity wanes, as it has of late, I notice gaping holes in my imagination. I suppose those are synonymous. What I notice more acutely is that there’s a very strong correlation between my creativity and my sense of emotional well-being. When I feel creative, I feel something akin to giddiness. Even when that creativity expresses itself in writing about subjects that most people would consider dark, if the writing is good and creative, I feel good. When I feel unimaginative and incapable of creativity, I feel bad. Not physically bad; emotionally bad, as in sad or depressed or despondent.

I don’t know whether to ascribe causation to the correlation; does creativity cause giddiness or does giddiness trigger creativity? Does sadness muffle creativity or does a lack of creativity spark depression? I know this: when I’m feeling down, for whatever reason, my writing suffers. It’s not only dull and unimaginative, it’s wooden and shallow, as if it were written by a robot. If I were smart, I’d simply not write when my mood doesn’t correspond with being creative. But I’m not smart; I write anyway, despite being dissatisfied with my output. And that dissatisfaction probably prolongs my sadness or depression or whatever this drab mood might be called.

Fortunately, in real life. I can fake it with considerable success. Usually, I can mask my feelings pretty well, presenting myself as reasonably upbeat and happy. Not so much in my writing, though. My writing divulges my attitude, though not necessarily directly. When it is dull and lifeless and seems uninspired, it was written during a period of depression (that’s probably not the right term, but neither is sadness; dull disinterest may be more like it). Because I am obviously so close to it, both the mood and the writing associated with it, I may be able to read it better than others. Other people may not find the correlation so obvious; they may not see it at all. But I can’t imagine they wouldn’t; when they read dull, limp, tedious, sluggish, uninteresting words that morph into min-numbing paragraphs, I think they must see something is amiss with my normally effervescent personality. I can still joke around, even in the midst of darkness.

One day, I may randomly select samples of my writing, separated into two collections. One will be the “up” writing and the other will be the “down” writing. I would take those collections to a competent psychologist or psychotherapist and ask that an assessment be undertaken, based on the writing. I wouldn’t be surprised to be told the writing suggests a person suffering from a mild case of depression; nothing to be worried about, but an affliction for which treatment might be warranted.  Of course, I might find that the mental health professional’s qualifications don’t qualify him or her to judge whether one’s writing is creative or unimaginative, in which case everyone’s time will have been wasted.

If I were ever to sit on the proverbial psychiatrist’s couch, I’m afraid the slightest encouragement to “let it out” might unleash a torrent of tears so intense and voluminous that we’d both drown. But maybe not. I don’t want to find out.

***

My tendency to respond in the affirmative to a request to undertake a project has once again put me in a position of  having a great deal of my time absorbed in pursuit of objectives in which I have only passing interest. That propensity can result in a person feeling overwhelmed and unable to plan his own life to the extent he’d like. My desire to be able to decide, on the spur of the moment, to take a road trip has again been squelched, thanks to my failure to say “no.” I could kick myself in the groin for being such a “yes” man. Maybe relinquishing that freedom, though, will be good for my mental health. Maybe it will force me to build creativity even in places where creativity doesn’t normally flourish.

Posted in Depression, Emotion | Leave a comment

Listen

Posted on December 3, 2019 by John Swinburn

Listen to the sky.
That’s not the sky, it’s an echo of your emptiness.

Listen to the horizon.
That’s not the horizon, it’s a sigh of hope.

Listen to the river.
That’s not the river, its a murmur of possibility.

Listen to the soil beneath  your feet.
That’s not the soil upon which you walk, it’s the whisper of love.

Listen to the crashing of waves in the sea.
That’s not the crashing of waves, it’s water’s musical embrace
of grains of sand.

Listen to the lyrics of wishes, set to music.
Listen to the hum of potential.
Listen to the melody of kindness, washing
like an acoustic tide over humanity.

Before you speak, before you howl, before you scream at
the hopelessness swirling all around you, listen.

Listen.

Listen.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

The Core Within and Other Matters

Posted on December 2, 2019 by John Swinburn

I wish more people would read and listen to poetry. I wish they wouldn’t dismiss it as linguistic egotism. I wish they would try to listen to it without judgement and disdain. Instead, I wish they would try to hear and feel the emotions carried in the words. Poetry conveys emotion better than prose, I think. I say that even though I prefer to write prose (perhaps because I’m far better at prose than poetry). But poetry is more powerful, more magical, and it plumbs more thoroughly the deepest recesses of the soul—if there is such a thing as a soul. If it’s not the soul, then it’s the core of humanity; that source of decency and goodness and unadulterated morality I believe resides in all of us, if only for a time.

Depending on the poet, of course, poetry has the capacity to feed a longing for connection with humanity that once was, I think, as common as the air we breathe. But over time we have become hardened and skeptical of anything that has the potential of revealing emotional soft spots. We have allowed ourselves to fill those tender spaces with scar tissue made from pain and broken promises. The desire for connections to humanity has withered, transforming into a thirst for control and a need to avoid emotional engagement.

People tend to be afraid of poetry, fearful they will not understand or appreciate it. And they won’t if they don’t allow themselves to be transported by words. The unfortunate fact about poetry, like all literature and all attempts at communication, is that much of it is garbage. But like its literary brethren, bad poetry can—like spoiled food—quickly be recognized and discarded. Too many of us seem to think we have to taste it and ingest it and pretend to enjoy it, even though we sense it is not good.  Once we get over that false obligation to enjoy even poetry we find off-putting or offensive or utterly self-absorbed, we can enjoy the good stuff; the stuff that fills us with joy or tears or understanding.

Perhaps there’s a better way to judge poetry than “I don’t know poetry, but I know what I like,” but I don’t know what that might be. I do not believe poetry is meant to be dissected, its dismembered corpse explained in cold, clinical terms. Poetry is meant to be felt, like a lover’s caress or a blade ripping into one’s midsection.

***

Today, I am presenting a workshop on Point of View (POV) for writers. I cannot for the life of me understand why I thought I would enjoy doing that. First person. Second person. Third person. Limited. Omniscient. Objective. Subjective. Unreliable narrator. How to avoid “head-hopping.” In some ways, the topic bores me to tears. In others, I know I need periodic refreshers just to make sure I don’t make mistakes…unwittingly. But I rather enjoy breaking the “rules” of writing, though. Like interspersing second person with third person limited. I do not like third person omniscient, though some great literature has been written from the third person omniscient POV; e.g., 1984 (Orwell) and The Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne).

***

I’ve written several more vignettes that might, someday, merit more work. They might even warrant efforts to turn them into short stories. Or, they could find themselves comfortably ensconced in one of my several dozen novels yet to be written. Who knows? I don’t. I don’t pretend to. I’ll just keep writing.

One of my vignettes could find a place in a “bodice-ripper” in a decidedly modern setting. Illicit love affairs seem to be the “go-to” topics to grab readers’ attention. Though, admittedly, I’m not particularly interested in readers’ attention. The real world is what captures my imagination. But it’s not capturing it particularly well this very moment, so I’ll stop writing and, instead, go manufacture breakfast.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

Recalling Darkness

Posted on December 1, 2019 by John Swinburn

Two years ago today, I wrote a post on Facebook that, in both immediate and distant hindsight, I realize did not belong on Facebook. But at least Facebook reminded me it is still there. It may not have belonged anywhere. But I want to make a permanent record of that post, and a few of the responses it generated, as a reminder that I’m not alone in my occasional/frequent periods of darkness. There are people I don’t even know personally who care and who matter.

The Post:
December 1, 2017: It’s rare that people use Facebook to convey serious thoughts, thoughts that once might have found their way to the “masses” via blogs or newspaper editorials or mailers distributed by the thousands through the mails. And that’s a shame. Here we have one of the most remarkable opportunities available to humankind, and we use it to post pictures of food. God knows, I’m guilty. But do we not consider the amazing power of social media? Really? When was the last time you read a post from someone who was contemplating suicide? A post from someone who has made up his mind, but desperately wants to be persuaded to change it? When did you last see the final post from a woman who simply found and was abandoned by the wrong man, over and over and over again. Facebook can handle those experiences, but it’s so damn full of innocuous photos of dogs that the ugliness doesn’t get through. It’s not reported. It’s ignored. Tonight, broken dreams and ugly wishes and stale ideas are on my mind. I’m not writing from my own mind’s eye, but from the perspective of people who might feel forgotten in the hustle-bustle of the world in which we live. People who need someone to say “no, you DO matter and you must come have Christmas dinner with us,” or “let’s go out and break tradition into a thousand pieces and find a Pakistani restaurant for lunch on Christmas!” Despite what I’ve written, I’m not hopeful. I’m depressed and withering at the thought that we’re living not in difficult, but demented, times. But God could I use a laugh! A heartfelt, throaty laugh! Maybe it requires practice. I don’t know. I’m living tonight in a mixture of gratitude and despair. I could use a hug or a kiss or two tickets out of the United States of America. But where to go? Seriously, where to go? Everyplace has its ugly challenges. Even this little piece of real estate in my brain. Maybe its issues are the ones that will cause the mighty statue to fall.

Some Responses:
Elle wrote: Many of my FB friends write deep, serious posts- from the horrendous state of politics to suicide attempt/depression and mourning/loss. I (and many of my friends) comment every time, thanking them for their courage to share their difficult experiences as we hope to provide some uplift , or simply to tell them we are here to listen. The human experience is so complex with a spectrum going from pain to delight- so I am acknowledging their struggles even though I may not relate. Many people read posts without commenting because they do not know what to say/write/reply but I can assure you that your posts are important. I read them (at least most of them– FB is a dangerous time-stealing vortex that I tend to avoid when I have tight deadlines). I can see that the future may look grim at this time, especially in this ugly political climate, but hope needs supporters. Have you ever thought about volunteering with children? Knowing there’s a generation behind often make us want to fight harder or just live to hand down decency and a kindness-oriented value system that seem to be on the decline. Also, youth/innocence is a powerful trigger that force us to rethink and reshape who we are. If you could find a job in a library or a school (as story reader, crossing guard, or maybe as short story teacher/workshop), you will discover a different world that will give you a new take on life. And if you are ever in California (the San Diego area), I would love to have you over often to cry and laugh about the craziness of life.

And I replied: Elle, I’ve often thought you are among the select group of people with whom I’ve connected on Facebook that I’d really like to meet. Your sensibilities are so closely aligned with mine that I consider you my “water sister,” as it were. I thank you so much for your words of encouragement and the incredible generosity with which you share ideas and offer consolation….I love you without ever having know you face to face! Yes, I’d love to come laugh and cry and share ideas with you. And, of course, please know you have an open invitation (including your entire family) to visit us in Arkansas! We have suite awaiting you and I look forward to meeting my “soul sister” in person.

Bev wrote: I don’t know, John. You write some pretty serious stuff here. 🙂 Actually, I think I may be guilty of writing quite a bit of serious stuff — enough so that a few times I’ve actually had someone tell me “you’re better than this — you shouldn’t be talking in such a negative way about your life!” I don’t think I hold back too much — well, perhaps just a little. I do have some pretty dark thoughts that I don’t share because I feel people don’t really want to go there — or it feels too painful to know that I’m thinking such things. So I am protecting you from my darkness. How do you like that? 🙂

Janis wrote: John, I feel you. My thought is, even though we don’t always write about it, I’m guessing many of us feel the pains of loss, fear, anger, sense of abandonment, etc. Most of us, however, aren’t courageous enough to share those personal experiences or ask for that virtual hug. I love that you care.

Phil wrote: I’ve always thought of fb as a cocktail party rather than a salon. I just don’t think it rewards gravitas, it’s not the right forum, stuff just vaporizes too quickly. I think this kind of reflective effort is better suited to blogs.

Two years before those exchanges, I wrote another, shorter, piece that I call my “cry from the darkness.” Here it is:

December 1, 2015: I remember, when I was in college, I’d sit up all night with friends, arguing and debating issues that had no answers. We would do our best to solve the troubles of mankind and, occasionally, we’d find the solutions. They were drowned in beer by the next day, though, so we couldn’t recall our magical solutions. In hindsight, the solutions were so damn simple: sit up with friends, talking about the problems facing the world. Have a little beer and think on the problems of humanity. Eventually, the problems disappeared. That’s the way it ought to be now. Goddamn it, let’s all just sit and talk and drink our way to loving one another.

Posted in Compassion, Depression | Leave a comment

Entanglements

Posted on November 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

My thoughts this morning comprise a jumble of unrelated and incomplete ideas that careen through my mind as if they were running from something dangerous. They stumble and fall and bounce off the inside of my head as they flee whatever it is that’s trying to capture them. I think the caffeine in my coffee may have been concentrated. The hyper-juice may have  bypassed my digestive system and sped directly into my brain, causing thought-mistakes to spread like wildfire on a gasoline farm at the peak of harvest season.

There’s no point in trying to write a coherent essay or, for that matter, a piece of incoherent fiction. My fingers refuse to strike the keyboard in an orderly way; they follow my brain’s instructions, which demand a chaotic drumming of the keys. But even my fingers worry that my brain may have been hacked by a virus for which there is no known remedy. I can tell that my fingers are concerned by the way they repeatedly mis-key letters; they may be sending me a message, in code, that something is amiss.

The snarl of entangled ideas that spilled through my fingers this morning touch on subjects from spiritual deficits to the unintended consequences of urban re-zoning. I tried and failed to write about starting new holiday traditions in the absence of progeny to carry them on. And I attempted to document the loneliness of holidays spent in the absence of friends and extended family. My derailed efforts also included a dark fiction story about a prisoner who escaped after being treated like a fierce animal and tortured. None of those endeavors yielded tolerable results, so my angry fingers began stabbing at the keyboard; the results, such as they are, stand on the screen in front of you.

I’ll restrain my fingers now. There’s nothing to be gained in giving them free rein to express themselves as they see fit. They might divulge thoughts I must keep to myself, lest I reveal patterns of lethal intent or libidinous desire or savage behavior of one form or another. I’ve spent two and a half hours in wasted efforts to produce something worth reading and, instead, I produced this. Ach.

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Be Kind

Posted on November 29, 2019 by John Swinburn

I posted a good bit of this yesterday on Facebook. I’m posting it here because I want to be able to find it again; to use it as a reminder to try to be better. 

Yesterday, I expressed anger at a woman who nearly slammed into my car in Hot Springs while moving from the left to the right lane. She was paying insufficient attention to traffic, especially the cars around her. I swerved sharply and accelerated; fortunately, I got out of her way before she hit me; but I wasn’t sure whether I was successful. The sound of curbs, engine revs, and possible scrapes filled my ears. So, after we’d moved on a block or so, safely away from stoplight traffic, I stopped the car and put on my emergency flashers. The offending driver stopped behind me, a good five or six car lengths. I got out of my car and surveyed the rear left side; no damage. I then strode, at high speed, toward the offending car. As I neared it, the woman said, “I didn’t hit your car, sir.” I replied to her, “It’s a good thing!” I turned and stormed back to my car. That was that. But that wasn’t that, really. After cooling off, it occurred to me she was probably scared of my obvious anger. And it occurred to me that she probably had been distracted. I didn’t need to get so irritated. I am sure I came across as a jerk, which fit my behavior. I hope I didn’t ruin her Thanksgiving. I hate losing my temper.

After I posted on Facebook about the experience, some people commented, suggesting I was okay for being angry; at least I didn’t explode into road rage. But that’s not the point. I didn’t explode, but I did behave in a way that very probably frightened a woman who might have been going through problems I know nothing about. She might be in the midst of dealing with cancer treatments for herself or her father. Her distraction might have resulted from issues over which she has no control. But that didn’t matter to me; I was angry. And I let her know it.  That’s the problem with us. At least that’s the problem with me. I let my anger override my compassion. I value compassion far more than I value anger, but you wouldn’t know it from the way I behave.

I’ve quoted these words before, but it’s time I quote them again, and try harder to live up to them: “Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

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I Wish I Knew

Posted on November 29, 2019 by John Swinburn

If the world were meant to be comprehensible, we would be able to climb inside others’ heads to determine what they really think. We would be able to discover, for example, whether people who seem serene and unflappable and genuinely gentle are, in fact, angelic. The skeptic in me (which, admittedly, sometimes take over my entire body) says many (and possibly) most of those people are as artificial as chartreuse lipstick.

But, of course, I cannot climb inside others’ heads. Even people with whom we’re close, like siblings or spouses or life-long friends, hide themselves from the world. At least that’s what I believe. Perhaps I believe that because it’s true of me. I don’t dare reveal all aspects of the self that’s me; I might be arrested or murdered or shunned.

While maybe it’s just me, I strongly suspect I’m not alone. I think most of us hold inside of us emotions or thoughts that we simply do not want to share with the world at large. We might want to share tiny fragments with a very few people, but we don’t want to risk their reactions; we don’t know what’s inside their heads. It’s a Catch-22 situation. I don’t want to be judged, but I have no problem judging others. But the reverse is unacceptable. Uh-huh. I wish I knew the answer. But I don’t even know the question, so this investigation may take longer than anticipated.

 

 

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Seriously. No, Seriously.

Posted on November 28, 2019 by John Swinburn

A blank white computer screen often summons me to fill it with what’s on my mind. That is, essentially, it beckons me to transfer what I’m thinking to the screen. That allows my thoughts to be read by others who come across what once was a blank screen. Have you ever considered that, by writing what you’re thinking about, you are giving other people the wherewithal to read your mind? We’re all mind readers, then, aren’t we? And we’re all distributors of unsolicited ideas by virtue of the fact that we’re writing about ideas that readers may not have asked us to share.

We think we’re so damn smart, what with our ability to transform our thoughts into symbols that at least some others of our species can interpret. We think we’re so damn advanced, with our enormous brains that process information in admittedly stunning ways at speeds faster than lightning strikes. But our sense of superiority is misplaced. I suspect we do not compare favorably with ants, for example, when it comes to the ratio of the volume of information we transfer to body weight. Think about it. Ants are tiny creatures who weight is almost negligible. How much do they weigh? According to Father Google, ants weigh on average between 1 and 5 milligrams. The Father goes on to say that a 175-pound person’s weight translates into 7.938e+7 milligrams. I don’t even know how to conceive of that number, but I would be willing to place money on the fact that ants transfer more information to one another, by weight, that we humans do. Seriously. And we claim superiority?

If you’ve ever watched a parade of ants stream back and forth between a source of food and a hole in the ground or in a wall that leads to a colony (I assume), you will have noticed that many of them stop briefly (like a fraction of a millisecond) when they encounter other ants. I believe that, in that tiny window of time, they are transferring vast amounts of information about the food source:

“It’s processed cane sugar; not particularly high quality, but it will do as a reserve food supply during Spring floods. To reach it, head east-northeast for approximately 2,100 ant-steps, veer slightly north at the rotting blade of St. Augustine grass, and go another 1,400 ant-steps. You’ll reach a piece of leather, probably from a discarded dog toy, where you’ll take a sharp left. The sugar is approximately 300 ant-steps ahead. Be careful when you get there; the sugar is leaking, usually a few grains at a time, from an overhead sack sitting on the edge of a chair. If you don’t watch out, though, you can be inundated when the occasional flood of sugar spills from the sack.”

I have to assume, too, that the millions of ants that we see stream back and forth know which of the other ants they’ve already communicated with. They must have an ability to identify one another, in spite of their incredible similarities. We humans might think they know one another by name, but the sheer number of ants would make it impossible, it seems to me, for them to have enough unique names to label one another, much less remember one another. So, it’s my guess that they have a far advanced means of individual identification. Perhaps each encounter with another ant triggers a mechanism that says, in effect, “we’ve met, we exchanged information on food source number 4344433234989976, and you can reach me in-colony at ant-location g45a#74Y.” This information exchange, while automatic, would have derived from purposive, thought-based, communication.

The suggestion that these obvious communications between individual members of ant colonies is purely a matter of “instinct” or some other such “act of nature” process is utter nonsense. Ants obviously have incredibly advanced communication skills. In fact, it would not surprise me in the least to learn that some of the ants we never see are incredibly talented writers who turn out the ant-equivalent of Tolstoy’s War and Peace with some regularity. And mathematicians. They must use extremely advanced math to orchestrate the movements of so many ants; their frenzied dances simply cannot be random motions.

In describing the communication and movements of ants I have used terms applicable to humans; it’s the only way I can communicate my thoughts. In other words, I have assigned anthropomorphic attributes to non-human creatures. That’s so damn primitive! We tend to do that because we are incapable of truly understanding what goes on with ants and birds and even dogs. We understand them only to the extent that our big, flummox brains allow it. It’s embarrassing being human in a world flush with highly advanced creatures whose understanding of the world is so much more advanced than our own.

While I’ve written this mostly as an exercise in humor, I believe we underestimate the level of sophistication of almost all other creatures on the planet. I think we put too much emphasis on “brain power” and not enough on processes of life we simply do not understand. I think ants can “think,” though my idea of thought may not be sufficiently advanced to allow me to truly know how ants (and other creatures) engage with the world around them.

It’s now 5:40 on Thanksgiving Day. Once again, I arose around 3:00 and have been piddling around since then (and writing, obviously). I was going to post a Thanksgiving Day screed, the majority of which I wrote last night, but I decided against it; it was not particularly uplifting. But I may post it another time, anyway. I’ll have to edit it, though, because it is written in the present tense.

Happy Thanksgiving to anyone and everyone who reads these words. I’m grateful to be alive for the moment. And I have more for which to be grateful. And I’m grateful for that.

 

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Vulnerability

Posted on November 27, 2019 by John Swinburn

I am accused, from time to time, of being afraid of being vulnerable. I’m told that I fear exposing my vulnerability would challenge my maleness or my “manhood” or my sense of personal man-centered strength. And I’ve bought into the suggestion, wishing I weren’t so reticent to expose my weaknesses. But I’ve also considered that being vulnerable is not considered a positive attribute by a huge swath of the population. Consider two primary definitions:

Vulnerable (adjective):

  1. capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt, as by a weapon: a vulnerable part of the body.
  2. open to moral attack, criticism, temptation, etc.: an argument vulnerable to refutation; He is vulnerable to bribery.

Admittedly, “capable of or susceptible to being wounded or hurt” is not as damning when one considers the “weapon” might be psychological. But, still, it’s an acknowledgement of weakness. Weakness is not an attribute most people, men or women, strive to achieve. So what is it with the encouragement to allow oneself to be vulnerable?

The question is rhetorical. Authenticity brings with it vulnerability; when we are real and true to ourselves, we expose parts of ourselves that are, by nature, vulnerable. We open ourselves up to be wounded. And while that opens us up to pain, it also opens us up to intimacy that’s impossible to achieve while holding a shield in front of us. I know this to be true. Yet, still I (and most men, I think) cling to that shield and hold it firmly in place for protection.

I hear and read about men today making comments, in response to any revelation of vulnerability, like “you’re a snowflake,” or “buck up, buttercup” or other such derogatory comment meant to embarrass or demean expressions of emotional vulnerability. Those comments come from people who, in my view, hide their own vulnerability both from the world and from themselves. I suspect their hard outer shells protect equally hard inner shells. And, in my biased way of judging, I think that hard inner shell takes the place of intelligence and intellect, leaving an empty hulk incapable of empathy, compassion, or caring. Yeah, I’m pretty judgmental.

But, back to vulnerability. What would it take for men to be willing to open up about their fears and concerns; what would it take to acknowledge fragility where it exists? And what would it take for us to accept vulnerability and fragility as normal, natural, but temporary, states? I think we need more women in positions of power and authority. And those women should not model themselves after hard-nosed men but, instead, after soft-hearted women. And they should express disdain for the practice of concealing emotions or holding them out, away from view. Eventually, men would get the message. Maybe.

When I’m told I need to open up more, to expose my vulnerabilities, I think how easy it is to give that advice but how hard it is to take. Our society has long devalued vulnerability, in men especially. Breaking through to change that valuation is incredibly hard. And who are the people who tell me to expose my vulnerabilities? Women, generally, who see cracks in an otherwise solid shield surrounding me. They seem to think it would be easy to just pick at the crack in the shield and peel it back like removing the shell from a hard-boiled egg. In fact, that “egg” was cooked too long, so much of the shell is permanently attached to the tissue beneath. Ripping off that shell will entail tearing away big pieces of the egg inside. But the shell must eventually come off. The right women in power might accelerate the process.

 

 

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Scale

Posted on November 26, 2019 by John Swinburn

A July 23, 2003 article in The Telegraph touches on the scope of what we see through telescopes in a clear, dark night sky:

There are 10 times more stars in the night sky than grains of sand in the world’s deserts and beaches, scientists say. Astronomers have worked out that there are 70 thousand million million million – or seven followed by 22 zeros – stars visible from the Earth through telescopes. The total is said to be the most accurate estimate yet of the number of stars.

The scale of our own Milky Way galaxy is incomprehensible to me. And consider that all the stars we can see with our naked eyes are in our own galaxy. The only other galaxy we can see from the northern hemisphere is the Andromeda galaxy. We don’t see the individual stars in Andromeda, just its faint light, a tiny glow in the darkest night sky. The Milky Way is home to around 400 billion stars and is 120,000 light years across. I can relay those numbers but I cannot truly understand them; they are too enormous for my tiny little brain to comprehend.

The scale of the known universe is beyond me. There’s a reason we bandy about the term “astronomical.” For me, the term means vastness with no limits; an exponent of “huge” so large it cannot be expressed with even the most advanced mathematics and physics and metaphysics.

Scale. How can we possibly believe, in a universe so incomprehensibly large, that the tiny speck upon which we live matters beyond the immediate? Our time and our impact on the physical universe is so small it is impossible to understate. Hell, we could somehow figure out how to blow up our own Moon and the universe wouldn’t even shudder.

Carl Sagan and many of his contemporaries, as well as those who have followed in his footsteps, grasped the magnitude our humankind’s stupidity, I think. They realize that, in all the vastness of space and time, the tiny dot we call Earth is the only home we have ever known and the only one we will ever know. An acknowledgement of that simple understanding should become the mantra that begins our day every day. If we were to start every day with an acknowledgement of just how unimportant we are, we might not make so many blunders under the mistaken impression that what we do ultimately matters. We would, instead, begin each day expressing wonder at this enormous universe which we cannot begin to understand.

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Processing Ideas

Posted on November 25, 2019 by John Swinburn

I wrote a rather long post this morning about distance and intimacy between people and what it might mean and how it might be expressed. Even though the topic is emotional, the post seemed clinical and emotionless, so I’ll let it sit for awhile and decide whether to post it as-is or edit it to be less an academic treatise and more an honest emotional exploration of intimacy and distance. I’m not sure why I’m introducing this post with reference to another I’ve not decided to publish; perhaps it’s just to remind myself that I’ve created yet another draft that one day will need attention.

The idea of publishing a collection of some of my writing has been on my mind again lately. I say “some” because it would be virtually impossible to publish all of it. I have written 3,078 posts that have appeared here and I have another 285 drafts sitting in the wings, awaiting my decision to revised them or eliminate them. That’s too much volume for a collection. For one thing, the book would be far too long and heavy. For another, I couldn’t afford the out-of-pocket costs to get the thing in print.  So a collection of carefully screened and tended pieces would be a better option.

Still, though, I can’t seem to decide between fiction and nonfiction/essay. Mixing the two in a single book might make the entire thing seem confusing and disjointed. Yet I write in such a different style in the two genres that selecting only one would reveal only a piece of who I am and what I am like. Though, to be honest, that’s probably not the primary purpose of a book; to reveal the author’s personality. How egotistical it is to even have such a thought! But I do have it. And perhaps if that’s important to me I should focus on the nonfiction; that is more likely to illustrate the way I think and feel. Yet fiction is the genre that is most likely to keep a reader’s attention, I think. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t even know if it would matter if I published a book or not. Probably not.

I think I’d call my fiction book, if I were to produce it, a collection of micro-fiction. Much of my writing consists of very short vignettes that end abruptly, as if the author were shot in the chest at close range the instant he typed the period at the end of what would be his final sentence. The reason for my admittedly odd style is this: I tend to think in unrelated snapshots. Those snapshots then lead to a thousand different outcomes, far too many for me to simply pick one and continue writing toward that objective. Instead, I go on to another vignette and do the same thing again. In a single day, I might write two old women having a conversation about their marital infidelities, a retired stagecoach driver reminiscing about his days taking people from San Antonio to Corpus Christi, and a cataclysmic storm that threatens life on earth. All in a day. But none sufficiently tantalizing for me to write the vignette and turn it into a full-fledged story.

I’ve written enough for now. Today, we’ll go to North Little Rock to look at stoves (we planned to go Saturday but opted not to go because of the rain). Then, we’ll stop at Home Depot on the way home to pick up a mini food processor Janine ordered to replace the one we have; its plastic blade housing is cracked and we fear it is dangerous. A new blade would cost almost as much as a new machine, so we ordered the machine.

Off we go. After breakfast. After my wife awakens. After a while.

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Another Try: Wisdom

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

Wisdom involves knowledge, but knowledge alone does not constitute wisdom. Wisdom is the abstract application of knowledge with discernment. That is, wisdom is not just knowledge, it’s knowing what to do with knowledge.

As I am wont to do when I wonder how important a concept has been to me, this morning I began counting the number of posts on this blog which include the word “wisdom;” I stopped counting at fifty. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a number that large when checking on the frequency of word usage on my blog.

Apparently, wisdom matters to me. But the impressively large number of posts in which I’ve used the word suggests that I’m still trying to determine why the concept is so meaningful to me. I keep turning it over in my mind, trying to uncover what the concept of wisdom really means; and whether I possess it in any substantive way.

I think I’ve written before that I believe wisdom arises from knowledge and experience. Experience is key, I think, in the formation of wisdom. The application of the lessons of experience to experiences not yet faced exemplifies wisdom. An understanding of cause and effect requires wisdom.

The first paragraph above refers to the abstract application of knowledge. By that, I mean understanding the probable impact of a concept before it has been applied.

In reading what I’ve written so far, I realize how esoteric my selection of explanatory words appear. But the concepts are not abstruse ideas. It’s simple, really, yet I continue to attempt to struggle with how to express it in simpler terms. And it’s not just how to express it that is such a challenge to me; it’s how to really understand and internalize and apply the simple concept to myself. It is one thing to know how to behave; it is another to behave in that way. It is one thing to know how to think; it is another to let that knowledge guide how and what one thinks.

Perhaps the reason I’ve having such a difficult time with “wisdom” is that I’ve been trying to express the concept in abstract terms, rather than in practical terms. No, that may play a part, but it’s more than that. I suppose part of the problem is that I am by no means the poster boy for wisdom. Quite the contrary, I may provide the example of what happens when knowledge takes a wrong turn and ends up in an impoverished village in Ecuador instead of Tokyo, Japan, the intended destination. There, that’s practical, although somewhat irrelevant to the discussion, I suppose.

I wrote a poem in August last year (2018). I entitled it “Wisdom.” I think it is the closest I’ve come to an adequate explanation of wisdom. Perhaps I should just stop seeking more definition of an idea already fully explained.

Wisdom

August 8, 2018, by John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Converting Mental Energy to Breakfast Mass

Posted on November 23, 2019 by John Swinburn

This morning, ever since I got up around 5, I have attempted to write posts for my blog. I’ve started at least five but, a few paragraph in, abandoned them; I lost interest in expressing myself before I could even make a good, solid point.

The posts ranged from what I intended to be short fiction to philosophical screeds about wealth and poverty and corruption to essays about failed efforts to overhaul zoning in Austin, Texas. All of the topics interest me, but not enough to convert mental energy into mass. So I gave up. Instead, I’m writing about the fact that I can’t seem to write. What an odd way to spend, some would say waste, my time.

After I finish whatever it is I am writing here, I will go reheat my cold coffee and begin making breakfast. Fortunately, I went out to the grocery store yesterday and bought a tube of hot breakfast sausage; that’s exactly what I want for breakfast this morning. That and, perhaps, a pretend-poached egg and a glass of tomato juice. My wife just stuck her head in the door and offered that she wants to saute some mushrooms; that will go well with the rest of my morning food-plan.

Given that my wife is already heading into the kitchen, I suppose I better go, too. In a surprise development, she has been up for almost two hours, so there is some urgency to make breakfast. I could have eaten two hours ago; she is not one to wake and immediately eat, though.

Off to breakfast.

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Living in a Dead Man’s Journal

Posted on November 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

He wrote the following in his journal on November 14, 2009:

I wish I could bring myself to reveal all the secrets I’ve kept locked away for so very long. One day, perhaps, I’ll write a memoir, though I suspect the revelation of all those secrets would require an autobiography—a lifelong accounting of mistakes and undisciplined decisions that, taken as a whole, would describe unforgivable flaws in the hope they would be forgiven. Anger with no source. Lust with no limits. Rage born of low self-esteem and fear. So very, very many faults and weaknesses and such a paucity of strengths.

He left the journal open and on top of his desk, no doubt intending to continue writing in it the following day. But he did not return the next day, nor any day, because he was killed that evening when he stumbled onto the subway tracks, just as an express train sped through Clearwater Station.

Some might call the man’s death tragic, but I doubt he would have considered it so. In fact, I question whether he stumbled and fell onto the tracks or, instead, deliberately jumped in front of the train, knowing he would never have the strength to reveal all of those secrets. We’ll never know, of course, but reading his chaotic entries that describe an almost manic-depressive pattern of thinking, the evidence suggests his death might have been intentional.

He kept more than one journal. The one on his desk was the one in which he hinted at his secrets, but never fully revealed them. Another one, whose entries imply yet a third and fourth journal that I’ve not yet found, exposes them. His expressions, hidden from the world in that journal stored in a safe, assert he did not want to hurt anyone by revealing his secrets. He had been unfaithful to his wife on multiple occasions; as far as he knew, she was unaware of his infidelity. He was an alcoholic, though he was able to hide his disease from almost everyone but his wife, who finally seemed to turn a blind eye to his heavy drinking. He believed he suffered from depression, but thought his was a mild case of the illness in comparison to other, more desperate souls and, so, he never sought treatment.

***

Kilmer Transom was complex. His journals divulge an inquisitive man, but one who skipped from topic to topic with such frequency that he never seemed to fully engage in what one might call “deep thinking.” He skirted the edges of profundity, but never took the plunge into the depths of the pool. He said of his own interests, “they are quite broad but remarkably shallow,” acknowledging his inability to conjure sufficient mental energy or mental capacity to delve deeply into anything.

After spending six months reading Transom’s journals and interviewing his wife and his daughter, I came to believe I knew Kilmer Transom better than anyone else ever did. As odd as it may sound, I came to consider him one of my closest friends, though we never met.

[So, perhaps this will serve as the foundation for something I will finish writing one day. If nothing else, it gives me enough of a skeleton to allow me to start packing some meat on the bones. The narrator, who will at some point be revealed to be a newspaper investigative reporter, will be a “stand-in” for the protagonist, Kilmer Transom. The POV will switch between the narrator and Transom, with Transom’s POV presented through both his writing and the narrator’s interpretation of Transom’s writing. More to follow, perhaps, one day.]

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Lock and Key

Posted on November 21, 2019 by John Swinburn

On occasion, my appetite for interaction with other people shifts quickly and dramatically toward being a recluse. It happens so fast that I do not recognize it is happening until after the fact. Suddenly, I want nothing to do with anyone else. In fact, if I could shut myself out of the equation, I happily would do that. I want no part of human involvement; I’d rather be a rock or a piece of driftwood or an abandoned abalone shell than a person. It’s odd, I suppose, to feel such strong distaste for anything human. I’ve never heard anyone else suggest they have had the same sensation. But, then, I don’t think I’ve ever shared it with anyone else, either. Part of my hesitance to share this desire for intellectual and emotional detachment has to do with the difficulty of explaining it; how does one articulate  one’s wish to be an inanimate seashell on a deserted island on the edge of a forgotten sea?

I assume the source of my desire for disengagement is a feeling of contempt for people. It gets to the point that I expect to be disappointed even in the people I treasure, simply because they, too, belong to the human race. And, of course, that disappointment applies to me, too. Because no matter how much I might want to be a model of decency and humanity and tolerance and generosity, I discover simply by living my life that I am not that model, nor will I ever be. “We’re all just human.” That excuse for our failings is too facile and too forgiving to be acceptable. It’s meant to reassure ourselves, and others, that we’re okay, even though we’re flush with faults. “We’re all just human,” as if that justifies the flaws we could erase, if only we dedicated ourselves to the task. I’m not asking to be perfect, just not so deeply infected with imperfections that their removal would leave nothing, not even a shell.

This mood, if that’s what it is, will recede over time. In the interim, I would best serve myself and everyone with whom I interact if I would just get in the car and drive west, stopping only when I get to the desert of west Texas or New Mexico. There, I could stop and get a room in some little nondescript motel and use it as a base from which I could ponder what purpose there might be for humans and scorpions and snakes and other creatures that, when threatened, can be dangerous.

I began writing a short story a few years ago in which the protagonist was in the midst of deciding whether to take a treatment for an otherwise terminal illness that would guarantee him another healthy thirty years. By taking the treatment, though, everyone who had ever known him would lose every speck of memory about him, thanks to technology that could erase a memory chip that every human had inserted into the brain. I never finished the story. I don’t know whether he decided to let the disease take its course or whether he chose to allow him memory to disappear from the lives of everyone who had ever encountered him. If I had that choice today, I think I’d choose to be erased from the memories of everyone who had ever known me. It would then be easier to be done with it. But that’s not an option. My story was science fiction. Perhaps twenty years hence, we will have the ability to erase memories in ourselves in the same fashion we erase memories in computers. Until then, though, we’re stuck with persistent memories and the pain that accompanies them. So my absence during my trip to the desert would be noticed. And that would ruin the trip and the opportunity to ruminate about “why?”

As far as I can tell, nothing in particular provokes these radical misanthropic moods. They just happen. They are accompanied by a surliness that deserves to be kept under lock and key. I’m not the one who should be trusted with the key.

 

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The Effects of Fire on Fuel

Posted on November 20, 2019 by John Swinburn

A screed. A diatribe. A rant. An inflammatory evangelical oratory capable of inciting fury.
An opportunity to express the ferocity of my feelings without having to defend them.

That’s what I’m looking for. An occasion to bitterly complain without offering rational or
realistic solutions to the complaint; I want to bitch, loudly, to anyone in earshot and
to anyone who can read my words on a page or screen.

I need to assign blame to someone or something outside myself.

I attack perpetrators, not problems. Miscreants receive my wrath, but problems are
set aside, wrapped in a protective, noncombustible blanket–left for another day of rage.

I feel pressure squeezing me like I am inside a canvas balloon, as if my problems are
external and I am an innocent witness.

I react with words that set off, in my head, emotional explosions to release the pressure.

Those explosions don’t release pressure. They release kerosene and matches, sparks
and nitroglycerin, hydrogen and flames.

And so I dance in a pool of gasoline, slinging fireballs into the liquid at my feet,
consumed by flames I light with my own explosive words.

One day, only ashes will remain, evidence of the effects of fire on fuel.

I wrote this specifically to read at tonight’s Wednesday Night Poetry at Kollective Coffee. I hope I have the opportunity.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

People Who Need Help and People Who Give It

Posted on November 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

We fed 167 people lunch today. Not really; we just loaded the donated food onto plates and into bags and distributed it to 167 people who came to the window of Jackson House. It’s hard for me to believe it; in a town of only 35,000 or so, 167 people needed to get donated food in order to eat lunch. And there are probably many more who didn’t make it to the window to sign in and pick up a plate of brisket and green beans and macaroni and cheese and a little dessert bag filled with a muffin or two. I wasn’t at the window, distributing the food. But I watched. And I kept it together most of the time, wondering what those folks’ lives must be like, having to come to a food distribution center just to be assured of getting a lunch. Twice, though, I had a hell of a time keeping it together. Once, a guy who is obviously beset by mental problems came to get his food; I just felt so bad for him. He must be on his own, but he lacks the skills and the resources to live on his own. So he scrapes by, living on the street, relying on the goodness of people like the folks who donated today’s meals. Another time, a young mother came to the window with her small child. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that the kid was in the midst of a cycle of poverty from which he may never escape. Yet the mother and the kid were both smiling and happy and genuinely cheery. How can that be?

I have never heard of Turf Catering until today. The company is the one that donated enormous volumes of barbecued brisket, green bean casserole, macaroni and cheese, and who knows what else. The only reason I know the name of the company is that I asked John, who’s in charge of the Jackson House kitchen. He had picked up the food from Turf Catering. There was enough food for today and another day or two to come. I was stunned and impressed and deeply appreciative of a company that would donate so generously. Turf Catering is a long-time Hot Springs business. It is a family-owned (Wolken family) business that has been in operation since 1929. And I’d never heard of the company or the family. Obviously, though, the people in the company contribute to this community.

I don’t know that I’ll volunteer every time the church needs volunteers to staff the Jackson House kitchen, but I suspect I’ll make it a habit. And I suspect Janine will, as well. She signed up to volunteer first; I simply tagged on to her volunteerism.

Here’s the thing, though. Jackson House prepares and distributes lunches five days a week. And the numbers of recipients of the food, though not consistent, are large. Donors like Turf Catering are desperately needed to ensure that Jackson House can feed people who desperately need help. The homeless. The mentally handicapped. The unfortunate poor. People who just caught a bad break and didn’t have a safety net of family or friends to fall back on.

Were there some lazy bastards among the recipients; people who simply don’t want to work? Maybe. But I don’t care. I believe the vast majority were people who just need a hand up and for whom an expression of support and compassion is enough to keep them going for another day. I’d much rather feed someone who doesn’t really need it than to refuse someone who really does.

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Under-the-Knife Anniversary

Posted on November 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Today marks the one-year anniversary of the surgery I underwent to remove a cancerous tumor from my lung and, with it, the lower lobe of my right lung. All indications are that the cancer succumbed to the surgery and its follow-up treatments: six weeks of radiation treatment and four courses of chemotherapy. The aftermath of the surgery and the subsequent treatments remain with me in the form of periodic pain (absolutely tolerable), shortness of breath, and a chronic cough. I can’t be sure the chronic cough is related to the treatments, but I’ll be willing to bet it is. Maybe one day the doctors will figure out the cause and, better still, a treatment that will eliminate the cough without sacrificing my quality of life in the process. Even though it has been a year now, I still find it hard to believe I had lung cancer. It just won’t completely register in my brain. But I know it’s real. I know I experienced it. Yet it’s still surreal in some respects. Odd, that.

I have a follow-up appointment in three weeks with the surgeon who performed the surgery. Unless he has surprises me, I assume this will be my final visit with him. I vaguely recall that he said something to the effect during one of my other two follow-up visits with him.

I wrote last month about the approximate anniversary of my diagnosis of lung cancer. I guess I’m writing again so soon about another anniversary because cancer is still very much on my mind. I’d rather forget it, but that’s not likely to happen. Fortunately, being “on my mind” does not translate to being “psychologically or emotionally burdensome.” It’s just an ongoing acknowledgement of my illness and its treatment. Nothing terribly grim and depressing.

While I’m acknowledging the anniversary, I’m not celebrating it. Not yet. Not for quite a while yet.

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Last Night and Today

Posted on November 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Last night’s Village Writers’ Club read-around and social gathering was, I think, a success. Everyone seemed to enjoy hearing the readings and, judging from the status of left-over food at the end of the evening, they liked the hors d’ouevres everyone contributed. All in all, it was a fun night.

Despite the fact that some readers utterly ignored the five-minute time limit I had asked them to follow, most of the readings were well-received. One reader contacted me in advance to request a slight increase in her time and I readily agreed to it; hers was among the shortest readings and the most engaging. Another read a poem she had written specifically for last night’s event; it was an excellent piece. A third read a moving account of her visit to Sarajevo and what learning its history has meant to her. And another read from her second book. There were others, too, of course.

Five minutes may be too little time to allow for each reader in a read-around. But given that we had eight readers, it would have worked fine in a two-hour time-frame that included not only reading but socializing. Forty minutes of reading (plus a couple of minutes per person to “set up” the piece the were preparing to read, or fifty-six minutes total) should have been good. One reader, in particular, was so blatant in ignoring the time limit (easily taking more than twice [and closer to three times] the time slotted for his reading) that I decided he will not be invited to, nor permitted to attend, any future read-arounds in my house.

Okay. I’ll try to chill. I’m not going to allow a selfish writer to spoil my day.

***

This morning, my wife and I are driving in to Hot Springs to volunteer at Jackson House, where we will help make lunches for people in crisis. They may be homeless, unemployed and impoverished, or otherwise in need of a helping hand. Jackson House provides volunteer community support to their ‘clients’ (I guess that’s what they are called); as far as I can tell, the vast majority of services provided through Jackson House are provided through volunteers. Our church has been encouraging people to volunteer at Jackson House for as long as we’ve been going to the church; finally, we’ve decided to engage.

After we make lunch for the clients of Jackson House, we may go have lunch with some other volunteers from our church. This might be a fun and rewarding day.

***

The other day, in my post entitled “Being Better or Dying Trying,” I wrestled with what I was trying to do with the resurrection of my “doing without” project. I still don’t know. But I haven’t forgotten or dismissed what I wrote. It’s very much on my mind. This morning, after scanning the headlines about topics including US/South Korea relationships, the thinness of sea ice in the Bering Sea, and Israel policy shifts, I decided I need to add “watch or read news” to the possible “doing without” list. I think that could have an enormously positive effect on my mood and my mental health.

***

Okay. Enough of this mindless typing. Time to do something that has a modicum of value.

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Honesty

Posted on November 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Honesty is dangerous, especially when it reveals flaws once hidden.
Honesty is ruinous when it shatters trust and breaks the bonds of love.
Honesty is a toxin we best not ingest if we hope to stay alive in a world
in which poisons murder the authentic and cripple the sincere.

We live in a fantasy world, one in which fidelity and honesty and
virtue flow through our veins in place of treachery and deceit and vice.
We live in a kingdom governed by fools who believe in fairy tales,
who seek peace and justice in a world blighted by war and corruption.

In this sad fantasy kingdom, civility clashes with coarseness.
Propriety battles with discord and misbehavior so crude that streets of
gold blushed and turned grey and ragged like weathered lead.
When rain washes those streets, our wells fill with poison.

Where are we and how did we find our way to this sovereign domain?
We are the rulers here in this dominion of our own making.
We fought and won the right to govern a place rich with surrenders,
a place where victories are spent on building monuments to deception.

 

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Roller-Coaster

Posted on November 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

A group of people from the Writers’ Club and a few spouses will come to the house this afternoon for wine and hors d’oeuvres and a read-around. We’re expecting to have around thirteen people, all-inclusive. Early this morning (up again at 4), I started looking through what I’ve written recently to select something to read. I’ve written very little fiction of late and what I’ve written would probably take much less time to read than the agreed five minute limit; I want to fill the time available to me. So I scrolled through recent blog posts and selected a few to consider.

I was surprised, as I read the one of them aloud, I could not keep my composure. Something about it unleashed an emotional torrent I did not expect. I tried two more times with the same results. Obviously, I’ll not read that one; I would appear a blubbering fool. Usually, when I write something that kindles a strong emotional response, I know it as I write it. While I knew when writing that post that it was an emotional topic, I did not know just how much emotion it would provoke when I read it aloud. Odd, that. At any rate, I opted to keep that one silent. No matter how much I tell myself it’s okay to be emotional, I can’t convince myself that other people feel the same way. I’ve watched men express such emotion and I’ve seen the people around them fidget in excruciating emotional discomfort and embarrassment.

The one I chose is a tad longer, but still falls within the five minute limit. I wanted to read a different one, but a quick review revealed it would take considerably longer than five minutes to get through it.

The larger-than-normal-for-our-house group size requires me to do a bit of rearranging of furniture before people arrive late this afternoon. In order to have adequate seating, we’ll have to drag dining chairs into the living area and will have to pull a few chairs out of the master bedroom. And I’ll have to wrestle the monster recliner, the one we bought for my comfort as I recovered from chemo and radiation treatments, out of the way. While I like the recliner, it’s time to get it out of the way; it’s huge and heavy and utterly intrusive. But I do not want to get rid of it, because I like sitting in it and relaxing. I’m getting old and lazy.

Speaking of moving heavy recliners, my lower back is giving me fits this morning. I must have bent down wrong or otherwise wrenched the muscles intended to express anger and dismay at negligent bodily abuse. The pain and my weakness my present a problem in getting that monster chair out of the way. I will overcome it, though, one way or another.

Before our guests arrive this afternoon, both my wife and I will make some hors d’ouevres to share with the group. She plans to make a dip that goes with sliced apples. I intend to make small spicy cheese balls that are made to look like lollipops by stabbing them with straight pretzel sticks. I’ll also make some deviled eggs. I might do a veggie tray, as well. I know one of our guests is bringing shrimp; I suspect another will do the same. I explained that I would provide light hors d’ouevres and a bit of wine, but offered that guests could bring their own to share, if they wished, for more substantial nourishment. I probably should have suggested pot-luck hors d’ouevres so I would not feel compelled to make more than we might need. Maybe next time.

This morning’s sunrise was nothing short of spectacular. Brilliant streaks of bright orange, pink, red, and grey filled the southeastern sky a couple of  hours after I got up. The streaks were punctuated by enormous plumes of distant cumulus clouds whose colors were like those of the streaked sky. It was breathtaking. I’m glad my wife got up early to call my attention to the sky; I wrapped up in this blog post, oblivious to the world outside my window.

I’d better get busy preparing for the day.

 

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