Life After Life, An Untold Story

Posted on April 29, 2020 by John Swinburn

An unfortunate fact about life is that it does not go on forever. Rather, life does not go on long enough for some of us to learn the ultimate outcome of intriguing circumstances swirling around us. Take the novel coronavirus, COVID-19, for example. I predict the global pandemic will have enormous, long-term, far-reaching consequences for:

  • the global and, especially, the U.S. economy;
  • the ways in which education is conducted;
  • traditional ways in which business is conducted;
  • the demand for commercial real estate;
  • trends toward (or away from) the geographic dispersal of the extended family;
  • the manner in which groceries and other household goods are purchased and delivered to the home;
  • medical care, especially for routine and non-urgent care;
  • commercial building design and construction;
  • restaurant design and layout;
  • mass transportation schedules and design;
  • the airline industry;
  • food prices;
  • reliance on animal products as part of the food supply;
  • immigration policies, especially visa requirements for “essential” workers;
  • practices relating to voter registration, absentee voting, and voting by mail or electronically;
  • the delivery of mail (and possibly the structure of, and continued existence of, the U.S. Postal Service;
  • the design of the urban core of cities (a very long-term consequence);
  • United States government budget priorities;
  • theories about how economies function and how they respond to stress, both internal and external;
  • considerations of governmental-guarantees of annual incomes;
  • laws and regulations relating to requirements for vaccinations;
  • the potential (frightening) merger of the missions of the U.S. Department of Defense and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services;
  • and on and on and on and on and on.

With only a few exceptions, most of these items focus primarily on the United States. The global consequences are apt to be even more far-reaching. Alas, I will not live long enough to see them all play out, even if I were to live another thirty years (which is highly unlikely). Many of the consequences of COVID-19 will not even be traced back to the pandemic, except by intrepid historians who will examine every factor that led to each change that, ultimately, brought about the societal shifts I list above. I would like to know which of my predictions come to pass. I suspect most of them will, but many will not be measurable, nor their outcomes assured, during my lifetime.  And it is worth noting that some of the “consequences” are not consequences at all but, rather, ominous predictions that major changes will befall an entire industry; the airline industry, for example. The specific changes that will take place are, in many categories, impossible to accurately predict. The practical results of chaos theory, which I mentioned in my post entitled “Attractive Definitions” a couple of days ago, will contribute to innumerable unintended consequences of actions that will be assumed, when taken, to be minor.

I have neither the time this morning nor the inclination to expound on the list of consequences I predict, but I may, over time, dedicate some space on this blog to many of them. For now, I’ll say a few words about “trends toward (or away from) the geographic dispersal of the extended family.” What possible consequence of COVID-19 could lead to changes in trends toward geographic dispersal of the extended family? My thinking is this: the pandemic’s imposition of social distancing kept many, many, many families apart during a time that has traditionally been “family time:” Easter. Couple that with the inadvisability of travel, especially by air, during that time and the dramatic decline in the availability of hotel and motel rooms (lots of vacancies, but many places were closed), and the ease of family visits across country or even across town declined precipitously. My contention is that many people will think seriously about this inability to spend time with family and will, over time, cause family members who might otherwise spread their wings and move away for adventure, jobs, etc. to rethink such decisions. The value of familial cohesion and its effect on one’s emotional well-being may, I think, cause our society to reverse course in an attempt to recover the comfort that extended families gave our parents, grandparents, and great grandparents. Okay, it’s pure conjecture, but I think it makes sense and has the potential to come about. I just wish I would like long enough to see whether my prediction is validated.

Thinking about such things always give rebirth to my intense interest in sociology. I could spend days and days and days thinking about each of these predictions, contemplating what sorts of triggers might cause them to commence and how other circumstances in society might derail them or change their course. It’s all such fascinating stuff. But I’m not an academician, so it’s really an avocational interest; I’ve never had enough discipline to make it my life’s work.

I suppose there are little pockets of desire inside my head that sometimes make me want to live forever just to see “how things turn out.” I know I won’t, I can’t, and I usually don’t want to. But if I could just view a quick playback of a tape of the future… Yeah, I can’t do that either. I just have to be satisfied to live as long as I do. The rest will be an untold story.

Posted in Covid-19, Demographics, Economics | Leave a comment

Masked Man at the Market and More

Posted on April 28, 2020 by John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

 

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Attractive Definitions

Posted on April 27, 2020 by John Swinburn

A dictionary’s second definition of metaphysics is the one that pleases me most:

Philosophy, especially in its more abstruse branches.

The corresponding definition of the primary adjectival form, metaphysical, pleases me just as much:

Concerned with abstract thought or subjects, as existence, causality, or truth.

Let me first say I do not like to associate metaphysics or metaphysical with woo-woo thinking. Metaphysics is rooted deeply in philosophical dimensions that can be explored through physics, mathematics, and concepts that exist in harmony with the “hard sciences.”

I like the word “abstruse” because it captures the complexity of the universe. It means hard to understand or recondite, which truly applies to every subject if one is willing to consider all things and all topics carefully. Nothing is as simple as we make it out to be. Simplicity is spectacularly and intricately orchestrated complexity that hides behind a façade of supreme clarity.

Periodically, my mind wanders into metaphysics as it explores concepts of time and chaos theory and the fascinating relationships between mathematics and matter. I do not pretend to understand any of these ideas; but I find them impossibly attractive. In chaos theory, “the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state.” In somewhat simpler terms, an article in American Scientist addresses the issue by explaining a question posed by Edward Lorenz: ““Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”

Popular misunderstandings of the term notwithstanding, Lorenz did not suggest the correct answer to the questions was “yes.” Instead, he argued (according to American Scientist) for “the idea that some complex dynamical systems exhibit unpredictable behaviors such that small variances in the initial conditions could have profound and widely divergent effects on the system’s outcomes. ” That is, the complexity of the physical world is so great that many of its aspects are unpredictable; that is, minute variations of “input” can result in massive fluctuations in “output.”

The term “initial condition” is used in the explanation of butterfly effect. If butterfly effect is not sufficiently esoteric, try this: “initial condition…is a value of an evolving variable at some point in time designated as the initial time.” The explanation gets increasingly sophisticated as it delves into discussions of variations in discrete time and continuous time, differential equations, closed form solutions, linear and nonlinear systems, etc., etc., etc.

Abstractions are based on understanding of facts or realities. Predictions or forecasts are abstractions.  Lorenz, a meteorologist, argued (I think) that unpredictable behaviors are unpredictable precisely because seemingly minor variations of ambient conditions in weather could have enormous consequences at a later time and place. Mathematics and physics intersect with philosophy and simplicity in ways that are simply stunning in their complexity. Oh, and time. I’ve mused about time many times before, arguing that time is context-dependent. At least time as we non-physicists usually consider it. An Earth-year is vastly different from a Saturn-year. And, therefore, all components of a year (months, days, hours, seconds, etc.) must also be different, yes? Maybe yes, maybe no.

Physicists argue (again, I think) that the speed of light is constant. But is it? How does one accurately measure speed, which is time-dependent, when the duration of time itself may not be consistent? I wonder, sometimes, whether the instruments we use to measure the physical world are adequate to measure the physical world outside our own galaxy.

I do not have sufficient stamina, willpower, intellectual capacity, nor time to learn and process all the information I want to absorb. No one does. In fact, some of the information I wish I knew has absolutely no practical value as far as I can tell. What possible use, for example, might there be for knowing precisely the number of leaves on all the trees on planet Earth? It would be nice to know, though, wouldn’t it? Or the precise number of atoms in the universe? Would it be possible to know the number of atoms, given that nuclear reactions take place with such frequency in stars that counting them would be an impossible task?

Thinking about such monstrously complex ideas, ideas that far surpass my brain’s capacity to understand, helps me leave the problems of this planet and this life far behind me. By examining ideas and asking questions that have no answers, I can lose myself and emerge from the quicksand of day-to-day living. But I always return to the muck, as I am about to do.

In roughly three hours and then some, I will drink mocha-flavored barium and will then drive to Hot Springs for a couple of CT scans. My mind will leave behind the incredibly attractive questions and contemplations about the nature of time and complexity and simplicity. In their place will be worries about what the CT scans might reveal; or answers the scans may not give. I’ll be conscious of people wearing masks and others too self-centered and arrogant to cover their faces. Sleep, sometimes, is the best medicine for malaise. Or exercise. Or something. Oh, well, this was a nice little journey into the metaphysical world. I’m back to the plain old physical world, watching birds flit by my window. That’s not half-bad, either.

Posted in Mathematics, Philosophy, Physics, Time | Leave a comment

Musical Provocation

Posted on April 26, 2020 by John Swinburn

I listened to a mariachi version of Laura’s Theme from Doctor Zhivago yesterday afternoon, thanks to an email message Gustavo Arellano sent to his followers. Arellano is best known for his “Ask a Mexican” syndicated column that originated with the Orange County, California weekly tabloid, OC Weekly. And he wrote a book entitled Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America.

At any rate, Arellano’s email, a semi-regular piece he writes weekly (more or less), reminisced about his mother’s death, about a year ago, and recalled one of her favorite tunes. Among the recollections in his message was a link to a piece of music on YouTube. The piece is entitled “Tema de Lara.” It was performed by Mariachi Los Camperos de Nati Cano. I am more familiar with the English language title: Laura’s Theme.

Arellano admitted to crying, unabashedly, at hearing the music as he thought of his mother. And, of course, as I listened to it, my eyes watered much more than they should have, especially since I do not know Arellano, nor did I know his mother. I’m just an incredibly weepy guy. That should not bother me, because I am not Mr. Macho, but it does. Damnit! You can listen to it here. Should I be embarrassed at my weeping? Yes, but no. But that’s beside the point.

As I sat listening to the music and thinking about Arellano’s sense of loss, I thought of my father and a recollection that my mother told me, shortly after his death, that he had a strong emotional attachment to the hymn, Amazing Grace. I don’t think I ever spoke to my father about religion or his religious beliefs. I do not know what he believed or did not believe. So to learn from my mother that he was especially fond of a piece of religious music surprised me. And I suppose that unexpected revelation had a long-lasting effect on me, a decidedly non-religious guy. Every time I hear Amazing Grace, I think of my father and his affinity for a piece of music that, until after he died, I did not know moved him. Even though I was not especially close to my father, his attachment to that piece of religious music has found its way into my DNA. I, too, am emotionally attached to that hymn. For me, an admitted atheist, to be moved to tears by a religious hymn is odd in the extreme. My emotional reaction to the music have nothing to do with religion, nor do they recall a strong bond with my father. I really do not know from whence they spring; but spring they do. I do not burst into tears when I hear the music, but my eyes tend to water, as if I had a minor allergy to pollen.

I have a similar reaction when listening to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. I was surprised this morning, while exploring the history of this particular piece of music, to learn that it was not published (and, therefore, rarely played or recorded) until the 20th century, despite having been composed around 1680-1690. It was written for three violins and continuo (which, as I understand it, means a keyboard instrument such as a harpsichord or organ); today, it has been adapted for and performed by full orchestras. Back to my emotional reaction to the music: in this case, I have absolutely no identifiable “trigger” to which I can attribute my response. Hmm.

As I think about music and my response to it, especially its capacity for causing my eyes to tear, I vaguely recall reading or hearing something about certain musical patterns (I think) that evoke melancholy emotional responses. The idea that sounds can spark emotions intrigues me. I should try to find the source of that information (which may be difficult, in that I am sure my experience in hearing or reading it was several…many, many…years ago). If not the original information, then something more recent. I readily can understand how music can be imprinted on a memory that, in turn, can trigger an emotional reaction; but how can music unattached to an experience do the same thing? I do not know, but I want to find out.

I’ve successfully pulled myself away from the somber, sorrowful path I was, thanks to Arellano’s writing, about to travel this morning. Instead, I seem to be aiming to engage in pointless research into something for which I have no use, other than to satisfy my curiosity. I have mixed feelings about productivity. On one hand, being productive gives me a sense of purpose and merit. On the other, productivity seems to me an artificial measure of one’s value. Value is both a nebulous concept and a quantifiable reality (value is equal to function divided by cost, according to value engineers). I prefer the amorphous definition.

The time is 6:03. I need to replenish my coffee. The cup and its contents have grown cold.

Posted in Emotion, Music | Leave a comment

Self-Care in Isolation

Posted on April 25, 2020 by John Swinburn

I had to search a while for the source of the list that prompted the modified version below.  A friend posted it on her Facebook feed; it took me some time even to find that post. Then, it was not so much of an effort to go to the originator. It was created by Linday Braman (https://lindsaybraman.com/). The original was entitled “Isolation Well-Being.” It was perfectly fine in its original form, but I wanted to tweak it just a tad so it would fit me just a little better; the new title fits my personality slightly better, too.

Self-Care in Isolation

    • Shower
    • Shave
    • Take necessary medication
    • Drink plenty of water
    • Clean one thing/space
    • Tend to something growing/living
    • Be mindfully present to…
      • A sound or song
      • A sensory feeling
      • Something you see
      • The appearance of the sky, whether cloudy or bright
      • Other person(s) who share your isolation
      • A spiritual or mental practice for your own serenity
    • Reach out to a person outside your home, whether by phone, text, email, or video
    • Spend a significant part of your day thinking about the well-being of others
    • Do one thing to get your heart rate up
    • Do one thing you’ll be glad you did later…write it down
    • Do one thing just because you want to
    • Get in at least one good laugh

Perhaps we should not need a reminder to take care of ourselves as we isolate from the world around us. Whether we should or not, we do. Whether it is a list on the bathroom mirror or a calendar reminder to spend three minutes paying attention to the “to-do” list, I think consciously thinking about taking care of one’s mental well-being is a wise investment of time. As dark as is the other post I just launched, we need to take care even in darkness.

 

Posted in Covid-19, Philosophy | Leave a comment

Hiding Behind Masks

Posted on April 25, 2020 by John Swinburn

Who are we, people who leave our homes with naked faces but who, before we interact with others, cover up with masks? Are we hiding our personalities behind those masks? Are we secretly glad to conceal our identities from strangers? From friends? Does the pandemic provide us with an opportunity to hide in public, an opportunity we’ve long wanted to take but never dared? Or are we hiding our infections from the world, hoping our contagions will not be revealed to the people around us who are similarly protecting themselves from recognition and judgment?

Will we wear masks long after the danger has passed? Will a new industry emerge from this period of fear, an industry dedicated to concealment and personal intrigue? So many questions bubble to the surface of our minds, yet no one has answers because no  one can foretell the future.

As I contemplate these questions, I wonder whether some similar calamity gave rise to the neck tie. Were men told, many years ago, that they needed to wrap their necks in fabric to avoid exposure to danger of some kind? But when the danger passed, the practice and custom remained, condemning men to the discomfort associated with nearly choking from dawn to dusk. I wonder whether masks will follow the same path, becoming a required piece of clothing that must be worn in public? I can imagine, centuries hence, anthropologists explaining that twenty-first century humans took up the custom of wearing masks as a symbol of concern for the health of their fellow citizens. People who refused to wear masks, the anthropologists will say, were judged unclean and unsafe and to be avoided at all costs. Naked faces, they will say, were the twenty-first century equivalent of lepers who were earlier confined in quarantine to leper colonies.

Quarantine. That word will forevermore be associated with masks. There will be artwork depicting people sitting outdoors in chairs spaced ten or more feet distant from other chairs. The people seated in the chairs will be sipping drinks, generically called “quarantinis,” as they raise, and then lower, their masks to give their mouths access to their drinks. I wish I were a talented artist; if I were, I could paint those scenes of pods of distant drinkers, shouting comments so they could be heard over the roar of the wind.

Masks hide more than our noses and mouths. They hide faces frozen in fear. They hide paralysis rendered by not knowing what to think, what to believe, what to do. If we could find masks that would hide our thoughts and fears from us, we would wear them. We would don helmets and breast plates if those medieval accouterments would silence the mental screams that keep us constantly on edge, worrying that we might somehow have failed to keep the virus out of our lives.

So many lives have been lost, as of April 24, 2020, to COVID-19. The number of deaths to date—52,400—is roughly equivalent to the population of any one of the following cities:

  • Normal, Illinois
  • Battle Creek, Michigan
  • Manhattan, Kansas
  • Pensacola, Florida
  • Hoffman Estates, Illinois
  • Novato, California
  • Revere, Massachusetts
  • Saginaw, Michigan
  • Euless, Texas

Imagine. If, instead of the novel coronavirus, a bomb vaporized the population of any one of those cities. That is what we’re trying to hide with our masks. And it won’t be long before the deaths will be equal to the population of White Plains, New York or Dubuque, Iowa or Reston, Virginia. And the numbers will keep climbing.

Masks are not funny, but we have to laugh or we’ll cry ourselves to sleep. We have to laugh at the absurdity of the President of the United States suggesting injections of disinfectants and light as a treatment for the coronavirus. We have to imagine him, a huge smile on his face, drinking from a plastic jug of Clorox bleach. Even dark humor is better than none at all. We cannot hide the darkness behind a mask.

People who have lost family and friends to the virus will not laugh. But the rest of us have to try, even as we console those who are grieving.

Posted in Covid-19 | Leave a comment

Elvin’s Exorcism

Posted on April 24, 2020 by John Swinburn

I’ll try something different today. Instead of attempting without success to craft a wannabe witty stream-of-consciousness screed, I’ll explain myself. My name is Elvin and I live inside a body that is not my own. I use it because it is not being used by its rightful owner and I do not have one of my own.

I am the outcome of an imperfect combination of mood and muscle, tempered with sufficient fat to hide the muscle and accentuate the mood. In my case, mood is a stand-in for personality. I learned early on that, in the absence of personality, one is essentially invisible. So I focused on mood, instead. Moods can be seen, felt, and—when either appropriate or fruitful—feared. Good moods almost make up for the lack of personality. Bad moods hide the absence of same. Together, they impersonate personality. But they’re not personality.

Moods are simply manifestations of temporary states of emotional flux. They arise from battles between competing neurons; they are simply mechanical responses to chemical reactions. Personality, on the other hand, is an elastic fabric woven from threads of emotion, intellect, and experience, with threads of experience constituting the bulk of the finished cloth. Extract from me my moods and you would be left with the equivalent of a permanently locked piece of heavy luggage without wheels. Take away someone else’s personality and you’d have a fresh, clean canvas ready to receive an artist’s brush.

I’m deviating from my explanation of myself. I do that sometimes for reasons that have to do with my fear of revealing who I am without my moods. If I were able to spend time with an exceptionally capable psychologist or psychiatrist or both, I could learn more about my fears and what caused them. And I could learn about the body I occupy, the body that belongs to someone else who is in the unfortunate position of having neither moods nor personality. He is, I am afraid, not a fresh canvas but, instead, a dry-erase board that has been so thoroughly stained by the use of permanent markers that it is impossible to know who he was or is or could have been. There I go again, drifting away from my intended train of thought. I do that sometimes; wander down tracks that lead away from facts that are too difficult to face in the light of day.

When you look in the mirror, you see a reverse image of your face. When I look in the mirror, I see an unfamiliar man whose physical image is radically different from the one I expect to see. He is not the man whose body I occupy but, instead, a pasty-faced stranger whose jowls reveal an obsession with food and an allergy to exercise. The man whose body I occupy should be lean and chiseled were that the one I were to see in the mirror. His face would be naturally tan, with laugh lines around his eyes and dimples in his cheeks caused by his perpetual smile. At least that’s what I think. I’ve never really seen him. I’m just guessing about his appearance. Hoping, maybe. Wishing. If I had a personality, I’d be able to sculpt that image myself, because personalities can consistently command daily routines that can mold a person’s appearance. Moods, on the other hand, simply ricochet off windows and walls, changing with the frequency of a second hand on a clock. That chaotic whirlwind from good to bad to good to bad and back again makes progress impossible.

It’s interesting that we call moods good and bad. In reality, all moods are bad. They distract from a person’s underlying personality (assuming he has one), creating surface stress that can crack the veneer most of us use as a hiding place. Moods reveal the churning lives behind our masks.

Well, my attempt to explain myself has gone completely haywire. Off the tracks. Derailed so completely that the cars cannot possibly reach their destination. The fabric of the tale has become ripped and frayed and tattered.

Elvin blew it. Mea culpa. It was an ignoble effort gone further afield, deeper into the bowels of Hell. My attempt to explain myself was a ruse, wasn’t it? It was simply a way to exercise (or is that exorcise?) my fingers. Arthritic fingers. A symptom of personality disappearance.

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Trusting Strangers II

Posted on April 23, 2020 by John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Trusting Strangers

Posted on April 23, 2020 by John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Fat Chance

Posted on April 22, 2020 by John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Testosterone Poisoning

Posted on April 21, 2020 by John Swinburn

A friend, when describing the affliction whose symptoms are characterized by machismo, also known as extreme masculine hyper-sensitivity, uses the sobriquet “testosterone poisoning.” I think the term describes the infirmity quite nicely. Until I heard the phrase, I did not fully comprehend what causes some men (primarily) to attempt to flaunt their masculinity in ways that make them appear stupid, narcissistic, ego-driven fools. Now I understand. They suffer from testosterone poisoning.

Several days ago, I went to the pharmacy and the grocery store early in the morning to pick up some things we could not get (or I forgot to buy) when making our most recent online order: paper towels, deeply-discounted lightly-salted peanuts (a staple), deodorant, shaving cream, blackberries (on sale), two kinds of potatoes, hummus, fresh thyme, and maybe another item or two. I noticed when entering both places that many people were not wearing face masks (as recommended by the Centers for Disease Control to help stem the spread of the deadly novel coronavirus, now pandemic). Most of the naked-faced creatures were male, though some females flashed toothy smiles or growls.

I am convinced those whose faces were exposed (and whose every breath might have distributed a light, virus-laden aerosol) probably were experiencing symptoms of testosterone poisoning. The men, who would feel embarrassed wearing a mask for fear of looking weak and unmanly, seemed to sport a facial expression reminiscent of the cowboy on old Marlboro commercial. That expression, translated into English, says:

“I am the strong, silent type, a man’s man, the kind of man who could wrestle a bear to the ground, hog-tie her, and snatch her cubs from the jaws of a ravenous wolf.”

Those were the guys in the stores. Deeply insecure, thanks to their innate inadequacies.

The women, on the other hand, never grew out of their tomboy phases. They, too, had a certain facial expression that said, it seemed to me:

“Hey, what are you looking at? You want a piece of me? You think just because I’m a girl I can’t kick your ass? C’mon, give it your best shot, snowflake!”

Needless to say, all of them would look perfectly comfortable in red MAGA caps. In a just world, their shirts would have been embroidered with text (which they, unfortunately, cannot read due to their illiteracy, which they view as a badge of honor) that says:

“I am stupid and proud of it!”

Yes, I’m suggesting testosterone poisoning either stunts intellectual growth or causes intellectual decline or both. Testosterone poisoning triggers dangerous behaviors that can lead to accidental self-inflicted gunshot wounds (also known as testosterone-induced lead poisoning), high-speed automobile accidents, falls from high places where no one should ever go, and a number of other engagements that can result in injury or death.

I’ve had a few brushes with testosterone poisoning myself and still suffer from an occasional flare-up. The best treatment for the malady is immersion in large-scale derision. Ridicule, which initially tends to exacerbate the symptoms, ultimate seems to cause genuine self-reflection. The treatment works, though, only on individuals whose measured or estimated IQ is greater than 70.

***

I can be nasty, scornful, and mocking. I shouldn’t be, but occasionally it’s great fun. Of course, I have to acknowledge that I can’t legitimately complain when I am the object of such derision. Turnabout is fair play, they say. Whoever “they” are.

***

Today, I have multiple appointments and obligations. First, I go to see a nurse about an unnerving symptom that developed yesterday: blood in my urine. Several times during the day, when I peed, the stream appeared to have emerged from a severed artery. As the day wore on, a pain developed in the lowest part of my lower gut. This concerned me, as one might imagine, so I called to see if I could get an appointment. I was able to get in this morning at 8:15. As circumstances would have it, the multiple occurrences of spurting blood stopped late in the afternoon and have not returned. I’m still going in, just in case. TMI, perhaps, but that’s just the way I roll.

Once I’m finished, I’m off to Little Rock, again (after medical visits there yesterday for my wife), this time for maintenance on the car. Depending on whether I need new tires (I think I do), I will get a loaner and will wander LR until the work is done. Perhaps I’ll stop by Colonial Liquors. Perhaps I’ll have lunch at the truck parked in the liquor store’s lot. Perhaps I’ll brave Trader Joe’s. Only time will tell.

Now, it’s off to shower, shave, get dressed, and face the day.

 

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Exhuming Memories

Posted on April 20, 2020 by John Swinburn

This morning, my creativity is at a low ebb. Instead of attempting to write something that would surely be hollow and dark, I’ll remember mornings when I felt more energy and more passion than I do at this moment by replaying snippets from past posts.

I have written so many posts that generated absolutely no response, mostly because they are rarely read. I wish some of them, though, would have triggered conversations about the thoughts that gave birth to them. I’m not in the mood to talk about them this morning, though. Reading the posts from which I extracted these snippets made me inexplicably sad, not necessarily because of their content, but because of what I was thinking when I wrote them.

  • Realistically, though, we effectively have only two parties, Democratic and Republican, neither of which is stocked with sufficient intellectual muscle to set aside its stupid partisan mantra for long enough to let reality seep into its world-view.
  • If the world’s population is allowed to grow unchecked, there will come a time when the planet cannot sustain those who inhabit it. Simple extrapolations of population growth, coupled with measured analyses of the rate of growth in food productivity, will show that there is a point at which productivity will fall below minimum demand. Famine and the attendant response to it are among the results one would expect.
  • Soon, my wife will wake up and will come into the kitchen, expecting me to hand her a glass of tomato juice and finish preparing our breakfast…I appreciate that expectation.  I relish it.  I enjoy meeting it. Life is good now.  Right at this moment, I do not need anything else.  Nothing else at all.
  • Inexplicable shadows mill about in the pre-dawn darkness, shadows that follow the early-morning walker, occasionally darting in front of him, then slipping quickly from view. Street lamps and the headlights of passing cars and the weak light of a waning moon and a still-distant sunrise give them sustenance.
  • Regret arises as readily from actions not taken as from mistakes made. The life unlived, due to efforts unmade, takes as much of a toll on one’s psyche as choosing the path of least resistance with a vengeance. Regret becomes a torment with no remedy if we permit ourselves to dwell on opportunities not taken, decisions not made, and risks avoided. The challenge is to forgive ourselves for being who we are. The absolution is more difficult than the punishment.
  • Let me suggest to you that, one day when no one else is around, you take the process of cooking in a slightly different direction. My suggestion is that you do this when you are preparing to make a shrimp dish, but you can do it with almost any ingredient that once moved of its own volition. I’ll assume you’re using shrimp.

    If the shrimp is frozen, thaw it. If it is headless, imagine it with a head. If it lacks a shell imagine it with its carapace intact. Try to put yourself in the shrimp’s place; not as it is now, but as it was before it was harvested as food. Consider the scope of the world in which that shrimp lived. Think of the salt water environment in which it lived. Understand that, very probably, the shrimp was not sentient in the same sense that you and I are, but that it was aware of its surroundings. Look around at the flora and fauna on and near the sea floor. Pay attention to the sea grasses dancing in the currents; follow their gyrations in response to moving water and to the turbulence caused by tails and fins as they drift by.

    Snap to the present. Look at the carcass before you. Consider that it once was a tiny, almost microscopic creature, then its mother gave birth to it, and then it matured in a protected environment until it was able to make its way in its watery world. That dead shrimp you are about to process into food spent its entire short life oblivious to your hunger. It was oblivious to your very existence. Suddenly, though, it was harvested. And here it is before you. It has no memories of sea grasses swishing in the undersea breezes. It has no recollection of its search for food. This corpse no longer feels pain nor hunger nor fear nor whatever else shrimp experience.

    You wonder why that brief life, lived in a place you cannot hope to understand, came to an abrupt end. You look down at that shrimp before you and you wish you could express in a way it could understand how much you appreciate and admire what it has done and will do for you. You cannot bring yourself to look in the mirror, for there will be eyes looking back at you, questioning what you are thinking. You dare not say.

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Big Dreams and Facing Facts

Posted on April 19, 2020 by John Swinburn

Facts often block the way for wishes, desires, and dreams. Facts dig wide trenches between here and there…between now and then…filling the channels with acid and alligators and creatures hungry to tear hopes into lifeless memories.

Those damn facts! Why won’t they conform to my view of the world? Why do I wake up each day to realize the nightmare was not a dream? Facts, with their razor-sharp teeth that shred aspirations into frayed ribbons, hamper our ability to live the fairy-tale existence we’ve come to expect. Facts interfere with the delusion that our privilege was earned and will last forever.

“Ah, buck up, Sport! That morose attitude has no place in an environment stoked with costume jewelry and assorted other shiny accoutrements of wishful thinking! Leave those negative thoughts behind you and enter our magical kingdom! Waltz in through the massive doors of our castle built of sand and enjoy a rich and rewarding fantasy life!”

Yes, that’s what we’ve heard most of our lives. Everything will be all right. Never fear, some sort of supreme, magical being will swoop down and protect us from reality. Then, later, we’ll get on a conveyor belt that will deliver us either to Heaven (if we’ve been blindly obedient to a rigid dogma designed in part to thwart curiosity) or Hell (if we’ve dared challenge that dogma). If the former, the remainder of eternity will be spent among billions and billions of dreamily happy ancestors who float along in bliss, as if they have been fed LSD. If the latter, we will burn in excruciating agony for the remainder of time and then some.

I’m drifting away from my original thoughts; I know that. Although my original thoughts may not have been what I believed them to be. I thought I was lamenting the intrusion of facts into my dream world. But, in fact, I was just introducing the idea that we must get over what we wish for and, instead, focus our attention on what we can realistically achieve, given the facts before us. Yes, we can bellyache about the injustices confronting us and everyone else but, unless we are satisfied with bitching and moaning without accomplishing a damn thing, we need to shake ourselves awake and do what is doable.

First and foremost, and this is hard (for me, anyway), obstacles should be viewed as opportunities for creativity. How can we get around, through, over, under the challenge? With respect to the current impediments to our happiness (i.e., the coronavirus pandemic) and its impact on our economy, the intelligent response is NOT to hurry up and go back to the way we were before. That will only result in thousands more people sick and dead and an already overstretched healthcare system finally collapsing under the stress. I think we need to focus on how we can radically alter the way we go about engaging in productive work, in social interactions, and in viewing the world in which we live.

I think a global effort, a thousand-fold bigger and more aggressive than the Manhattan Project of World War II, should be undertaken to remake human society. The participants in the effort should be the brightest, boldest, most audacious thinkers of our time. They should come from every field of human endeavor, from medicine to transportation to psychology to engineering to sanitation to…on and on and on. Their mission should be to transform planet Earth into a place in which every human being is adequately clothed, fed, housed, free to act in her own interests and in the interests of other people, and protected from disease to the extent humanly possible; and every stream and field and ocean is maintained in as near a natural state as possible. This elite group (which is the wrong term, really, in that its members will include slum dwellers with expertise in “making do”) would also be tasked with the objective of eliminating artificial borders. Pie in the sky? Of course! But with such grand and boundless objectives, even partial success would catapult humanity toward a more just and robust future.

The primary hindrance to beginning such a grand global effort is the lack of leadership. The only world political leaders who come to mind who might be capable of guiding such an enormous undertaking are Angela Merkel of Germany, Jacinda Ardern of New Zealand, Michelle Bachelet of Chile, Justin Trudeau of Canada,  Barack Obama of the United States, and Michel Suleiman of Lebanon. This list, obviously incomplete, is lacking representation from Asia and Africa. Inasmuch as one of the objectives should be the dissolution of artificial borders, that might be acceptable; but it’s not, in my view. And the leadership group needs to include representation of deeply oppressed people, such as impoverished Salvadorans and the Uyghurs of China. The group should be as diverse as the people of the planet.

Aside from a lack of leadership is the presence of a malignant leadership in the person of the president of the United States. No progress of any consequence can be made until he is removed from office and his voice silenced on the world stage. As far as I’m concerned, he could be allowed to bellow all he wants within the four walls of his tiny dark cell.

I cannot continue this diatribe at the moment, as much as I think its direction paints an increasingly important picture of where we (the people of Planet Earth) need to go. Maybe I’ll come back to it with a more coherent and specific “plan of action.”

***

Ach! It’s 6:20 and the temperature, according to my computer weather widget, is fifty degrees. Cloudy this morning, with rain developing this afternoon. I might try to power wash the deck this morning, though that might not be a good idea, given my breathing difficulties of late. I do need to take care of several other tasks around the house. So I shall.

***

We had a great Zoom chat yesterday afternoon with our good friends who live (in isolation) in Fort Smith. We all agreed to do it again in a week. Our mutual reciprocal visits have been put on indefinite hold until the world has righted itself. I hope we all live that long.

***

I hope my mood improves today. I’ve been trying to smile and be cheerful, but it’s increasingly difficult to fake it. But I shall work on that. Now, more coffee and, perhaps, an entirely new approach to breakfast.

***

I decided to come back to write a little more after I watched and listened to our virtual church service this morning. The minister gave the congregation a charge to do what we can, today from our homes, to make the world a more just and loving place. I realize the jeremiad I wrote earlier had the seeds of justice and love in it, but I sliced off the gentle twigs just after they sprouted. I will return, today, to the positive elements of my screed. And I will reach out to someone today to try to make their world a little better; more just and more loving.  Would that we all do that.

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December 29, 2019

Posted on April 18, 2020 by John Swinburn

I’ve decided to post some of my unposted items from months gone by. Sometimes, reading my words from times gone by helps me understand how I think; if that’s what it is. I will use my writing time today to explore how I would approach healing society as we attempt to recover from the novel coronavirus pandemic. We should not attempt to “return to normal.” We should construct a new, and better, civilization.

December 29, 2019

Ach, after listening to Story Corps, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Yesterday’s story included a conversation between Asma Jama, a native Swahili speaker born in Somalia but now a  U.S. citizen, and Dawn Sahr, the sister of Jodie Burchard-Risch. Burchard-Risch hit Jama in the face with a beer mug because Jama was speaking Swahili in an Applebee’s restaurant in Coon Rapids, Minnesota. Sahr befriended Jama, taking a stand against her sister and other members of her family. Jama, who spoke at Burchard-Rissch’s sentencing, said she forgave the woman who hit her. Forgiveness. It’s the only way one can achieve peace in the face of a real or perceived wrong. That sounds like religion speaking; it’s not religion, it’s humanity. It’s a matter of offering one’s own pain, caused by someone else, to the person who caused the pain; that person can then do with it what they will, but the pain will no longer control the victim. Ach, again.

***

I’ve missed closeness all my life. I still do. Emotional intimacy. It is the fuel for happiness. Absent that fuel, happiness dissipates in the wind, replaced by vacancy or anger or fear or some combination thereof.

***

The Universe spins time like an impeccable spider web. Time, blinding in its splendid and beautiful mathematical precision, cannot be improved nor can it be erased. Time is ever-present yet never contemporaneous. It is gone before it can be measured. Yet it remains, teasing us to try to capture it, if only for an instant.

It does one no good to realize that time sprints through the heavens at twice the speed of light, though; recognition does not correspond with control, which is what I’ve been after all along. Knowing time’s propensity for taking place even before it happens affords one no special capabilities. Time moves too fast to capture its leavings. And there are plenty of leavings. The residue of time is cast in alabaster statues, placed haphazardly in forgotten graveyards as monuments to unnecessary loss and irrevocable heartache.

The speed with which the year is spiraling toward its completion is stunning. Days go by between the heartbeats of a hummingbird. I hardly have an opportunity to acknowledge Sunday before Friday stands before me, edging toward Saturday and chiding me for being slow to recognize the obvious: Time has been mainlining methamphetamine cocktails while riding a bullet train through the fuselage of a supersonic jet.

I realize I am rambling. I realize my words only make sense if the reader (and the writer) accepts the impossibility of understanding the true nature of time. Even then, my words are woven into a fabric cobbled from strips of broken threads and a breath of futile hope.

***

Over lunch today, as I listened to others engage in conversation, I realized my wife and I were unnoticed observers. The people with whom we had lunch are nice enough, but they wouldn’t have noticed our absence if we had simply disappeared, just as they didn’t notice our presence. People (and I include myself in that classification) sometimes don’t take the time to embrace others outside their normal spheres. In the case of today’s neglect, I wonder whether it because we just are not interesting or that they just are not interested? I felt, today, like I should just slink off, away from these people who love their cliques, and explore another world. A world in which my wife and I matter.

***

 

 

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Acknowledgement

Posted on April 17, 2020 by John Swinburn

Our society should reproach ourselves for failing to acknowledge that some of the lowest paid, least appreciated people are among the most indispensable. Until the COVID-19 pandemic, a long list of jobs and the people who fill them were treated, essentially, as occasionally-reliable servants who deserved only the meager pay we were willing to give. Now, finally, we recognize how vital they are. And we seem to want to pat ourselves on the back for acknowledging their value. Whether we’re willing to accord to them compensation equal to the value they bring to us remains to be seen. Who are these people?

  • Farm laborers
  • Grocery store clerks
  • People who stock retail shelves (with products like toilet paper and dry beans)
  • Truck drivers
  • Restaurant workers, from chefs and cooks to waitstaff to delivery personnel
  • Gas station attendants
  • Bank tellers
  • A thousand others

But we ignore them in “normal times,” times in which their servitude is judged acceptable and adequate.

I wrote a piece, just more than two years ago, that touches on some of this. In my post entitled The People Who Feed Us, I expressed an interest in knowing more about farmers and ranchers and farm laborers and people who work in canning factories and restaurants,  people involved in transportation of foodstuff, etc. The post acknowledged how important those people are to our lives; how, without them, we might starve. But I haven’t done what I suggested I wanted to do: talk to some of those people and express my appreciation. All talk, no action.

I am upset with myself for failing to adequately express the value these people have to the rest of us. My acknowledgements of their contributions to society were safely tucked away on my blog, read by a dozen people, if that. I should have tried to publish my newfound recognition in a more visible place, seen by many, many, many more people.

Now that we are coming to realize how vital they are, we’re giving more lip service to how much these critical people mean to us.  Hedge fund managers and football players and actors and corporate CEOs earn astronomical sums of money. But in the real world, where food is absolutely vital to survival, why do we value those people more than we value farm laborers?

As I think about all the people all of us truly NEED, I have to acknowledge that many people with whom I agree on many progressive issues take a different position than I when it suits their agenda. For example, many people who (like me) clamor for alternative, earth-friendly, fuels seem to be contemptuous of the people responsible for extracting and refining and delivering petroleum products. As much as I want to stop polluting the earth with petroleum-based products, until there are sufficient alternatives, we need the products and the people who ensure our needs are met. And we need to do more than say “thank you and goodbye” to those workers when we find alternatives. We have to ensure that those people are prepared to do other jobs that pay as much as or more than they earned in the “dirty” jobs.

The complexity of the issues surrounding society’s needs is almost beyond comprehension. But when we’re confronted with issues that impact the supply chain and, therefore, our standard of living, we must understand this: humanity is a collective. People need other people. We all have, or should have, a role to play in feeding and clothing and giving shelter to everyone on the planet, as well as all the other living beings that share this place we occupy. Whether that role is planting and harvesting corn, driving truckloads of bushel baskets of the stuff to market, or writing about the process, everyone matters.

The issues I raise here are far too involved and intricate to be addressed in a single post. Or, for that matter, in a hefty book. They are sufficiently complex to require an encyclopedic treatise. Even that would not be adequate to truly acknowledge all of the interconnections between the billions of pieces of the puzzle. I will end this rambling diatribe by saying “Thank You!” to all the people on whose efforts we depend to keep us content and alive.

 

Posted in Economics, Employment, Food | Leave a comment

Lacking Credentials

Posted on April 16, 2020 by John Swinburn

Poetry fills an aching need within the poet to express emotions that cannot be expressed otherwise. And poetry enables poets and their audiences, whether readers or listeners, to establish intimate emotional bonds. Sometimes—more often than not, it seems—the words of a poem are less important than the beauty of the way they intertwine with one another. The images arising from a flood of words ordered just so jolt the senses and force a radical shift in perspective. Poetry does not necessarily lead to deeper understanding, but frequently it leads to unearthing the understanding buried beneath the scree of an avalanche of daily tasks and challenges. I sometimes get lost under piles of mindless routine. Poetry helps me find my way out.

Yet I know of people who view poetry with disdain, believing it to be the embodiment of arrogance and pretension. I think those people may also think poetry is evidence of the poet’s weakness or emotional fragility. By extension, they see people who read or listen to poetry as weak and emotionally fragile. That may be true of some poets and some aficionados of poetry. The same might be said for some producers of violent video games and their followers; that is, there is no causal or correlational connection, in my view. I think good poets are sensitive; that is, their perceptions of their surroundings is highly developed. But sensitivity and weakness are not synonymous. Not at all.

Prose sometimes does the thinking for the reader. Poetry usually requires to reader (or listener) to think for himself or, at least, fill in the gaps between images or ideas. It is poems’ incompleteness that makes them belong to both the poet and the consumer of poetry. What the poet intends in writing the poem may not be what the audience understands the poem to mean; that difference is part of the appeal of poetry.

I write about poetry as if I were a poet or a scholar of poetry. I am neither, though I do write poetry from time to time and I read poetry. When I read poetry, I do not read to understand the poet; I read it to understand myself. So, I am no scholar. But I am a cheerleader for poetry in general. Yet I am not an apologist for poetry that I think is either badly written or so cryptic or labyrinthine as to be incomprehensible. I may not know poetry, I know what I like. And I may appreciate poems I do not like.

Just like the population of prose writers has its share of bad writers who think they are beyond genius, there are among writers of poetry plenty of hacks with no talent. For some reason, I simply dismiss bad prose writers, but I find hack poets contemptible human beings that deserve ridicule, scorn, and banishment from the writerhood. I’m not quite sure why I feel that way. I may well be one of those writers of poetry who, were I reading as a disinterested outsider, I would classify as a hack poet. I’m glad I’m on the inside looking out, unable to distinguish my contemptible flaws.

I have no credentials that warrant my expression of opinions about poets and poetry or writing in general. I’m just opinionated. And my opinions can change, when I am exposed to illuminating information. That is, I am subject to waffling.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Ethereal Normal

Posted on April 15, 2020 by John Swinburn

The concept of “normal” is fiction. There is no steady state that conveys a sense of normalcy. Normalcy can be understood only in a context of unending change. Chaos, in other words. The moment we think we have entered a smooth state of normalcy, which we equate with routine, internal or external forces interrupt that state. The apple cart loses a wheel or  the cart’s driver gets annoyed or drunk or both. Crushed apples and disappointed teachers litter the landscape.

The “new normal,” another brand of chaos, is just as ethereal as the old normal, just dressed in gauze of a different color. It consists of a repaired apple cart, driven by a Buddhist teetotaler who, when things appear to have settled down to a reliable routine, will be charged with either murder or manufacture of methamphetamine in a middle school art studio.

I wrote not long ago that fiction is truth clothed in costumes. If I am right that normalcy is fiction, then normalcy is chaos dressed up to look like serenity. Another assertion I made when I wrote about truth in costumes seems to apply here: normalcy is the view of serenity from the other side of the mirror.

If I knew myself better, I could write myself into a story as protagonist. But without knowing a character’s motives and what drives his reactions to his version of normal, a story is saddled with a wooden, two-dimensional character. I know more about characters I’ve written than about me. Of course some of those characters may have arisen from seeds planted in my mind and nurtured with the same nutrients that sustain me.

 

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If Nothing Else (Say, Armed Insurrection), Buy Stamps

Posted on April 15, 2020 by John Swinburn

Until the psychopath in the White House has been removed, the chances of a recovery from the COVID-19 pandemic are slim. His vacillation between one set of false assertions and the next, his tendency toward chaotically churning lies, and his willingness to blatantly disregard everyone more competent than himself (i.e., every living human) all contribute to the likelihood of a dark future. Only if people with expertise in medicine and biology, healthcare policy, and economic policy are allowed to take control of the country’s response to the pandemic do we have a chance of recovery. Judging from his history of utter failure in every aspect of his presidency, he will not permit knowledgeable people to take charge. And his Republican enablers in Congress are just as much to blame as the man to whom they bow and scrape. Eventually, I think, the chief incompetent and his sniveling worshipers will be turned out by fed-up American voters, but that may be too late.

Democrats in Congress share the blame, as well. I would like to examine the voting records of every Representative and Senator, after first reading through the unnecessarily complex language of legislation (designed, in my opinion, to hide vast amounts of corrupt rewards for political favors). I suspect an overwhelming majority of members of Congress have engaged in deeply corrupt practices, even while promoting and supporting some legitimately beneficial legislation in the process.  But the argument that “I should not be punished for stealing your car because I used it once to take food to the needy” is not sufficient to avoid prosecution.

This morning, I feel very much the cynic. Not about all people, but about damn near all politicians. It is as if involvement in governance exposes participants to diseases that damage their moral core. They may enter the fray with good intent that, unfortunately, succumbs to enticements to the exercise of greed.  More often than not, though, I’m afraid people enter politics knowing full well it is a dirty, disgusting racket. The good politicians, the ones who truly want to serve the people and do good, have to fight tooth and nail to retain their dignity and decency in a cesspool of corruption; maintaining one’s honor while actually accomplishing positive actions for the people is an almost superhuman endeavor.

The pandemic and its ramifications have the potential of remaking our society into something of which we can be justly proud. I’d like to think that is exactly what will happen. But I’m afraid I’m not only a cynic this morning, I’m a pessimist, too. We have to keep trying, but I’m afraid the effort is akin to fighting to put out a thousand-acre ocean of burning gasoline with a wet napkin.

***

In spite of my very sour, somber mood this morning, I was moved by something I read on the NPR website. There’s a movement afoot to save the U.S. Postal Service by encouraging people to go online and buy stamps. The USPS is suffering enormous losses, thanks to mail volume drying up in the face of the coronavirus. The movement, encouraged through the hashtag #BUYSTAMPS, is attempting to save an institution we depend on for communication. Regardless of how much we have shifted to electronic communication, mail delivery remains absolutely vital. Our idiot-in-chief doesn’t give a damn, though. Yet another reason to support it with significant purchases. I plan to go to USPS.com today and buy some stamps.

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Talking to Myself

Posted on April 14, 2020 by John Swinburn

I have started, and in a few cases finished, several new posts over the last several days that have yet to be published. Even the “finished” posts, though, are incomplete. There is something about the words I have written or the messages I have tried to capture that is not quite right. Or not quite finished. Or not worthy of sharing. Or too revealing of my emotions. Or too raw. Or something. By writing this post, I’m attempting to force myself to figure out just what it is that is keeping me from posting those drafts. Unlike unfinished pieces of fiction, which I readily share because…why not…these drafts are too personal to share before I am absolutely certain they reflect what I am thinking or feeling. I do not want to say something, publicly, that I would later feel compelled to retract as an erroneous expression of an incomplete thought.

But are those reasons I’ve just given myself really true? Am I simply deluding myself? Or am I engaging in a flat-out lie? I need to explore the posts more thoroughly. And I need to examine my reasons for writing what I wrote.

To start, here are the titles of the posts in question:

  • Swinburn’s Law of Antagonistic Surrender
  • A Life in Disarray
  • In More Normal Times
  • Bodily Adherence to the Mind’s Commands

But as I examine all the drafts in my drafts folder (353 at the moment), I realize it’s not just the non-fiction that I’ve opted not to share or not to finish or both. There are plenty of pieces of fiction I have yet to post, including these recent ones:

  • Gerund the Fabulist
  • Liam’s Life
  • March on Mar-a-Lago
  • Sarah

Some of the language in the fiction could get me in trouble with the American Gestapo, so I think I know the reason I have chosen not to post those pieces. And one of the vignettes (Sarah) bothers me because it tries to be funny but fails (Sarah’s last name is Femm, which gives another character license to harass her mercilessly).  The other fiction is just not ready yet; even more unfinished than most of my unfinished fiction.

But back to the non-fiction. As I skimmed those pieces just now, every one of them is incomplete. Every one is missing crucial elements that would finish them. Yet I do not know if I will ever incorporate those elements because… I do not know. There are enormous hurdles standing in the way, between me and their completion, that I do not have the mental energy or the stamina to clear. It is not that I do not have the strength to do it; it’s just that I don’t have the drive, I guess.

The reality of writing—my writing, at least—is that some of it is so poor that an enormous amount of drive (mental energy, stamina, call it what you wish) would be required for it to achieve adequacy, much less superiority. But the ideas contained in even bad writing are sometimes so appealing that it is hard to let drafts die. An intelligent writer would simply extract those ideas and save them for another piece of work. But I let them linger in drafts until either I delete the drafts or stumble upon them, read them, and realize all I need to do is take the ideas and insert them into another story.

Laziness. That’s part of it, too. The work involved in finishing drafts or polishing finished pieces is sometimes too much; laziness prevents me from injecting the necessary amount of energy into the process.

This post is just another excuse. It’s okay to simply take a break from writing for as long as necessary to rekindle the fire. Just jot notes when ideas form to ensure they do not get lost. And, then, when the mood strikes, retrieve the notes; use the ones that remain of interest and write. Keep the other notes, too, in case they fit another mood or another story. Just don’t feel compelled to write or to finish. Relax. Take a breath. Take a walk. Retreat for a while. And then critically judge drafts or unpublished pieces. Do not feel compelled to post them. If they are not worth posting, delete them. And go through the posts already on the blog and delete the ones that should never have been posted. A leaner blog is probably better, anyway.

Now, have another cup of coffee and consider big questions.

Posted in Writing | 1 Comment

Forty Years On

Posted on April 13, 2020 by John Swinburn

Today, my wife and I celebrate our fortieth anniversary. Celebrate may be too strong of a word; a celebration suggests more than a nice dinner at home. Yet that’s the plan. Because of the pestilence. But a nice dinner at home will be a very special dinner at home; my wife’s homemade lasagna, the very best lasagna I’ve ever tasted. So, I suppose it is a celebration. Remembering forty years (and then some) of coping with adversity and celebrating spectacular good fortune. We’re both different people today than we were forty years ago. But we’re different people who have been changed, in large part, by the changes in one another. Forty years of sickness and health, time to love and to cherish, leading up to the beginning of the next forty years. Maybe not forty more, but many more, I hope.

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Mirror a Character

Posted on April 12, 2020 by John Swinburn

Ekstrom Noble. Lavender Bridge. Linoleum Price. Stricklin Barber. These people live beneath the dura mater, that outermost meningeal layer that that would protect my brain if my skull chose to abandon its role in that regard. Perhaps “live” is the wrong term. Perhaps “occupy” would more correctly describe their existence. And whether they reside just beneath the dura mater or deeper still, between the next two meningeal layers, or hide even deeper, I do not know. I suspect, though, they inhabit an imaginary space as yet undiscovered by neurologists and biochemists. They—meaning Ekstrom and Lavender and Linoleum and Strickland—are not alone there. An almost endless cast of characters join them there, wherever “there” is. Brighton Davis spends time there. So does Lina Lindström and Kolbjørn Landvik and Calypso Kneeblood and Fracas Edward Schlattery, Jr. and dozens more. And there was Garcia; just Garcia. He was gunned down in the first chapter of a book I never finished (one of many). But he was a central character in the book, all the way through to the end that was never written. He was the legend around whom the lives of the other main characters revolved.

The only discernible link between them are their unusual names. And, of course, the fact that they exist only in my mind and, occasionally, in my writing. I often wonder why I seem to be fascinated by characters with unique names. I suspect uncommon names lend an air of mystery to them, even before I flesh out their personalities. And I must want or need them to be unique, counteracting the drabness of their proletarian creator.

I could spend days and days and days creating the histories of these invisible people, beginning with their places of birth and their early lives. In fact, I have spent considerable time delving into the backgrounds and experiences of people whose minds work, in some ways, like mine. I know, for example, that a broken man whose last name is Truman but whose first names change depending on circumstance took his girlfriend, Cinnamon, to a hospital emergency room in Houston. The trip to the ER was immaterial to the story, if I recall it correctly, but I needed to know about it in order to know Truman well enough to show his descent into a turbulence of his own making.

Hmm. As I think about these characters, it occurs to me that their names are not the only links between them. Their troubled lives connect them. The circumstances in which they find themselves, though radically different from person to person, are difficult. In some cases, their circumstances are intolerable in the extreme. If I were to document their lives in sufficient detail so that they could fit into a story, the story would be very long indeed. Light-years long. And if their lives were intertwined, the story would form an epic soap opera, far more intense and improbable than Days of Our Lives or General Hospital or The Edge of Night. Odd that I recall the names  of those soap operas. I never watched them, but I knew of them.

I have better things to do today than reminisce about under-developed characters in unfinished stories. But the fiction inside my head sometimes is more appealing than the reality in my field of view and certainly more attractive than the character in the mirror. I can engage in conversation with the characters in my head and, if I’m careful, I can confront the more dangerous ones without being injured or killed.

Rod Serling was good at describing a world in which the impossible was commonplace. My mind is like that, but I lack either the patience or the skill to pull it off. In Serling’s world, a man could throw a stone at his own image in the mirror and the glass would shatter the man into a million shards. I do not own such a mirror.

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Insomnimania

Posted on April 11, 2020 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, I smoked a brisket, an eleven-plus pound beast that barely fit in the little electric smoker. In days gone by, I would have spent the entire day burning mesquite logs to heat the heavy steel firebox of an offset smoker. But yesterday, I entered an electronic temperature setting and loaded mesquite chips every few hours until a digital thermometer signaled me that the desired internal temperature of the meat had been reached. Though the old style was more difficult and time-consuming, it yielded better flavor and a greater sense of accomplishment. The flavor of yesterday’s endeavor was very good, just not as good as the meat that resulted from the more involved process. But that may not be true. Expending considerable effort sometimes enhances its own rewards; I can’t compare two briskets, prepared by different methods, side-by-side.

The effort involved in the “old style” of smoking a brisket would have engaged my mind in a way yesterday’s did not. That’s not true, either. My mind would not have been engaged. It would have been otherwise directed. Maybe sedated is the word. My thoughts would have been muffled beneath a layer of internal directions to perform repetitive mechanical tasks. Anesthesia by routine. Instead, the wonders of modern technology enabled me to smoke a brisket, cook a pot of beans, and pickle the beets to accompany the meal with little effort, leaving me plenty of time to dwell on economic turmoil, physical challenges, mental distress, and personal failings. Luddism has its benefits.

I’ve been up almost three-quarters of an  hour. I wish I could go back to sleep, but that’s not in the cards. It’s approaching 4:40. I am not in the mood to write, nor read, nor think. I would like to simply empty my mind and sleep, but I cannot shut off the switch that keeps thoughts racing through my brain. My mind is in mania mode. Now may be a good time to watch another episode of The Good Fight.

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A Stretch of Beach

Posted on April 9, 2020 by John Swinburn

A long stretch of desolate beach, barely visible in the budding sunrise. Miles of sand, unsullied by tire tracks or footprints. Early in the morning, before the heat of the day causes gusty winds, the stillness of the air is otherworldly. Pelicans glide near the surface of the water, almost touching the ripples of waves, searching for food.

I am utterly alone in this picture in my mind. I am on this beach, watching the day begin to unfold. The desolation and isolation and emptiness seems to me a gift. Here, there are no worries. There is only this beach and its natural inhabitants. I am at peace here, watching crabs scurry across the sand. They belong here and so do the clams burrowing into the sand. And then there is me, the only unnatural inhabitant.

The realization that this place pleases my senses and softens my mood and brings to me a sense of serenity bothers me because I do not belong here. I am an intruder, an interloper who in that realization rightfully feels ill at ease in the presence of creatures that do belong here. I am embarrassed at my comfort where I am out of place.

I do not belong anywhere. Two hundred thousand years ago, I would have belonged on this beach. I would have belonged anywhere I could roam. I would have been a natural inhabitant seeking food and shelter. Whether my emotions would have been the same as the ones I feel today I do not know. But I can imagine seeking solace in desolate places, looking for a small group of creatures like me whose wonder at the universe around me would mirror mine.

Solace. That’s an odd word to use in connection with early humans. I wonder whether early humans needed to be comforted in their pain? Are other animals really different from us? When whales or pelicans or foxes are injured, do they simply soldier on through the pain, or do they feel a need for others of their kind to comfort them? I tend to anthropomorphize animals. But I think the concept should be turned on its head. Perhaps humans’ need for solace arises from our origins deep in the animal kingdom. We simply honed a want into a necessity; craving became a condition for life, like breathing.

I am no longer particularly concerned about the pandemic. I am satisfied to stay at home and let the world spin as it will. While I’d rather not go out to pick up groceries or medicines or mail, I do. That, too, is a necessity. I would rather ride out the pandemic on on a secluded stretch of sand, though. But I would feel just as out of place there as I feel anywhere else.

Humans have outlived our utility. We have raided and pillaged the planet on which we and so many other species depend. It is an embarrassment to life that we have done such unspeakable damage to our only home. And the damage has invaded us, as well. We have damaged our minds and we are unable to repair them. We seem unable to return them to a natural state. We are beyond atonement for what we have done. Departure is the only redemption available to us. But we won’t go. Because we are self-centered and egotistical and convinced of our superiority over every other living thing. I thing we are Nature’s most visible mistake. We represent Nature’s extraordinary complexity gone horribly awry. We could have become gifts to life on Earth. Instead, we became deadly parasites.

Despite all this, I long for that desolate beach. The isolation and the glorious sunrise and the soft sounds of gentle waves lapping the shoreline at this early hour call out to me. In spite of my role as an intruder, if I have to be an intruder, that is where I want to do it. I suppose I’ll have to just let my fantasy play out in my head, because I cannot get to that beach. I don’t even know where to look. Humans have invaded beaches that once were pristine, empty places that welcomed us, as long as we promised to visit and leave. But when we decided to move in and take over the shoreline, those desolate, isolated, soul-nourishing beaches disappeared. In my mind, though, they still exist. I will go there.

Posted in Just Thinking | 4 Comments

Scraps of Compassion

Posted on April 8, 2020 by John Swinburn

Death steals from us, leaving only shadows and memories. Those fragments of the past are wholly inadequate to replace the vibrancy lost to the endlessness of forever.

John Prine died yesterday. I never saw John Prine in concert, but I listened to his music thousands of times. And on occasion I watched videos of his live shows. He and Leonard Cohen were polar opposites in many ways, but I consider both of them poets of unmatched depth. They plumbed my emotions so completely that I considered each of them my closest friends, even though we never met. Their minds went to the same places mine goes. We conversed without speaking to one another. I read their minds. Or they read mine. John Prine’s death diminishes me in a way I cannot put into words. John Donne understood, though his poem addressed the loss brought about by the death of each person:

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Gloom seems to be washing over us with each passing day. The planet was sullied with the presence and power of Trump. Then the coronavirus swept across the planet. What will be the third most recent unspeakable horror, the one that will finish us? Are these plagues messages sent by Nature, urging us to abandon the planet before the planet abandons us? On the one hand, I do not for even a moment believe Nature or any unseen, all powerful being is urging  us on toward universal genocide. But on the other, I wonder about the statistical probabilities of wave after wave after wave of natural phenomena that challenge humankind’s existence. These waves have washed over us for centuries; nevertheless, we persisted. Hah. A little word play on the pointlessness of our attempts at relevance. I have tried to put a positive spin on this most recent calamity; cleaner air, clearer water, less crime, etc., etc., etc. Yet my assessment always comes back to the conclusion that Earth would be a better place without humans. Some of us claim, with great fervor, that we need to take better care of Mother Earth. The best care would be to stop destroying it through our continued presence.

So, how is it that I mourn the passing of John Prine, yet I suggest the world would be a better place if we all followed him? (Well, we all will, but I’m talking about something sooner than “eventually” after another hundred thousand generations.) I don’t know; I do not claim to be overflowing with logic this morning. Logic is not what fills my head; pain and anger and something to which I cannot attach a name clog my brain this morning. As they have many mornings of late. Not just mornings, either. Ach.

Maybe I mourn John Prine because of his humanity. He wrote “Hello in There.” That song is an ode to compassion. But it recognizes the flip side of compassion; neglect.  The lyrics tell that story; for example:

Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello”

***

The air is mostly clear this morning. A few clouds. When will I look up,  wondering whether it’s a cloud blotting out the sun, only to see a sky filled with nuclear missiles?

***

Powerless. That’s how I might feel if I were to walk outside my house and see a crowd of people, each of them carrying assault rifles, chanting about the Second Amendment. But if I were to exercise my rights, under the same amendment, to brandish a nuclear weapon, I might not feel quite so impotent. What are “arms?” The right to bear arms. The etymologies of “arm” and “army” are quite similar; they are intertwined, in fact.  The Second Amendment was, from the beginning, an incomplete thought buried in a nonsensical sentence. It should be rewritten and replaced with a coherent message.

***

 

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The Breaking Point

Posted on April 7, 2020 by John Swinburn

Finally, months after the fact, we had Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, dressing, broccoli and rice casserole. But no cranberry sauce. No condiment tray. It was just the two of us, so pulling out all the stops would have been wasteful. The meat was just a fragment of the original bird; a frozen breast taken from the freezer and immediately placed in the oven. But the rest of the meal was prepared from scratch. Turkey remains, even after two full meals, but we finished the rest. Today, we’ll have turkey sandwiches for lunch. And that will be that. Thanksgiving 2019, late by four months and then some.

***

The weakness in my wife’s legs does not seem to be improving after a few sessions of physical therapy. She still cannot make it up or down even a single step without assistance. She tires after three minutes of walking. I worry that her condition may be permanent.  I hope I am wrong. I urge her to exercise to improve her strength and stamina, but she resists and get upset with me. Damn.

***

I have been saving some seeds lately. Tomatoes and jalapeños so far. I intend to save seeds from bell peppers and zucchini when next we have those vegetables. When I crack an egg, I wash the shell and keep it to use as a miniature seed starter. I fill it with potting mix, put a few seeds on top of the soil, cover the seeds with more soil, and spray water on the tiny planters. I won’t know for a week or more whether any of the seeds germinate. If they do, I will coddle them until they are of sufficient size and strength to put in larger containers. I may buy seeds from Burpee; my good friend suggested ordering online, since I am unable and/or unwilling to venture out during the plague to find seeds in stores crowded with virus-laden hillbillies.

***

I may change the settings on this blog to require a password to view the contents. Even the little traffic this blog gets seems to be coming from SEO factories that are trying to lure me back to them and their client websites. If the volume of the few regular visitors drops off because they do not want to be bothered with a password, so be it. I’m not in a compassionate mood at the moment.

***

It is too early to tell whether the massive disruptions to human life on earth visited upon us by COVID-19 will lead to a huge spike in suicides, but I believe the numbers will rise dramatically  in time. I’ve already forecast, on this blog, an increase. I thought I had, but I checked to see; it was in my March 20 post (and maybe others). When I searched for “suicide” in my blog posts, I was surprised to see the results: fifty posts contain the word. I am not fascinated by suicide, but I think I understand what drives people to decide it is their only option to relieve their pain.

***

I cannot say with certainty but I believe being “cooped up” is having an impact on my psychological well-being. I’m increasingly angry at nothing. I feel like screaming in rage at nothing in particular. I’m just mindlessly upset. I do not like being around myself when I’m in this odd, foul mood. If I could split myself into two people, one being calm and the other being a raving lunatic, I would do it. And then I’d drown the crazy or or throw him off the back deck. What the hell causes such obvious madness? Is it really just staying indoors? I could go out for a long walk, but leaving my wife home alone when she has such a hard time maneuvering steps is unacceptable. Ach! Meditation. Maybe that’s what I need. Meditation.  Or medication. A stiff drink before 6 a.m. I can’t even fathom a drink at this hour. But I can fathom a more relaxed me. This, too, shall pass. It always does. Well, it always has.

***

I shall stuff orange bell peppers with a heavily-spiced mixture of ground beef, rice, and canned tomatoes. I will roast said peppers and they will serve as dinner tonight. I am more in the mood for pasta, but that will wait until another time. Maybe I will be in the mood for stuffed bell peppers by dinner time. Maybe not. There’s no telling. Only time will tell. If anything does.

***

Coincidence can appear malicious. Accidents of time and inattention can seem deliberate. They may appear to be premeditated snubs meant to pick at wounds and rub salt in them. Assuming pernicious intent in its absence offers evidence of paranoia. Yet treating neglect as merely an unplanned oversight risks being blinded to reality. Sometimes, coincidence is not coincidental. Sometimes malice was, indeed, the point. The challenge is to determine whether a behavior, or its omission, sprang from a conscious decision or from oversight.

***

What does “at the breaking point” mean? Does it mean a person snaps, as in loses his mind? Goes stark-raving mad? Breaks plates and glasses? Or do those things happen only after a person PASSES the breaking point? How can one tell whether a person is AT the breaking point? These questions kept me awake for a while last night. But I slept until 4:00 this morning, after dozing off early and then, waking with those thoughts on my mind around 1:00. I was asleep again before 2:00, I think. But I have no way of knowing when I actually went to sleep again. Strange thoughts in my head at this hour. It’s closing in on 6:00 and I’m no more sane now than I was at 1:00. What the hell is “the breaking point?”

***

There is, within each of us, an aching need for an embrace. Not simply a hug, but a willing acceptance of all that we are; all the flaws, all the blemishes, all the tarnished achievements never made. We want, perhaps even need, hopeful signs that might dispel the notion that we are not good enough to be loved.

Posted in Stream of Consciousness | 1 Comment