John Swinburn

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

For some reason, humans seem to have a hard time accepting the fact that different cultures can have radically different world views. We tend to think the way we were taught to think and perceive the world is the only proper way. Other perspectives—those at odds with our own—are strange or wrong or evil or unusual or otherwise weird; only our way is natural and normal and reasonable.

An example of this clash of cultures can be seen in the reaction in our culture to the fact that a small percentage of Koreans eat dog meat. As far as I can tell, eating dog meat is not a common practice and it is in decline, but it is done. To be fair, the practice of eating dog is diminishing in part because of the reaction of people in the Korean culture to the concept. But it is done. And, in my view, it is not barbaric. But I do find it unappetizing and I loathe the idea of breeding dogs as sources of meat. The reason for that loathing is attributable in large part to my upbringing—my culture.

The same sort of cultural reactions can be observed when discussing different forms of society and government. Many in the Western world insist that democracy is the single best form of government (even though we do not live in a true democracy and probably do not understand what it is). The very idea of communism or socialism is abhorrent; we’ve been taught that communism and socialism are “evil” forms of social control (as if democracy as practiced in the U.S., along with its ally, capitalism, are pure and absolutely fair).

My point is that we are taught what to believe. Our values are etched in our minds from an early age, carved in the folds of our brains in ways that seem to prevent other values from being given even a consideration. While I understand and appreciate being taught a foundation of good values, locking the mental doors to conflicting values is an ugly mistake. By insisting our system of government and our social order are the best ones, we degrade others systems; either explicitly or implicitly, we label them inferior, something to avoid. Is it any wonder, then, that people readily react negatively to other cultures in general? Anything different is bad; anything that looks like us is good.

If I could change the world, I would. I most assuredly would.

***

My wife got out of bed around 4:00 a.m. I followed about half an hour later. We’ve both been awake since then; she with her tea and me with my coffee. She’s reading. I’m writing. We took a break for breakfast, though, which was a welcome respite from the keyboard.

She toasted two large pieces of black bread and spread goat cheese on them. While she was toasting the bread, I was peeling and smashing the meat of an avocado. She spread the avocado on top of the goat cheese. I put a pinch of Kosher salt on my piece of avocado and goat cheese toasted black bread. It was exceptional. If we had more avocados and more goat cheese, I would have more. But we don’t. So I won’t. Alas. I’ll say it again. Alas.

***

Leaf litter covers many of the roads and driveways around us. The recent record low temperatures can be blamed for the earlier-than-usual leaf drops, I suppose. If I can muster the energy later this morning, I will go outside an blow leaves off the driveway and the front porch. I need to tidy up just a bit in preparation for a gathering at our house on Monday afternoon. Several members of the writers’ club and a few spouses will come over for a read-around and a wine and hors d’ouvres reception. The numbers will be small. I expect only 10-12 people, including Janine and me. That’s about the maximum workable number for a read-around, in my opinion.

***

Yesterday afternoon, we went to XPlore Lakeside, the restaurant occupying the space once occupied by Last Chance (which is defunct). They had a special going between 3:00 p.m. and 4:30 p.m.; a hamburger, fries, and a draft beer for $10, at the bar. Janine and her sister and I decided to give it a try. It was well worth it. Good burger, good fries, and our choice of any of about six or eight draft beers. Most of the beers were from Arkansas breweries (only one tap had a big name beer; Michelob). Each of us chose a Skullcrusher IPA from Bubba’s Brews. I like the bar at Xplore. It’s the sort of place I think I could hang out every day. Drinking beer and eating hamburgers. And gaining weight. And listening to the sound of the arteries in my heart clog with clots of cholesterol. Maybe not every day.

***

I think I wrote a year or so ago about my months in years past of “doing without.” I’ve talked about a reprise of the project. I want to do more than talk about it. I want to do it again. When I tried to explain it to people, the feedback I got, for the most part, was “Why do it? Why put deny yourself anything? Why put yourself through it?” Though I tried to explain it was to test my willpower and discipline, with the objective of improving both, they thought the idea was silly and pointless. I disagreed. I disagree still. I believe it’s time again to test my willpower and discipline. I think it’s time to explore aspects of myself that haven’t been adequately explored lately. So I’ll begin planning my months of “doing without.” And I’ll write about them here, assuming I don’t drop the ball like I did a year or so ago when I said I was going to resurrect the project. Not this time, though. This time, I’ll follow through.

***

In what might be related in some form or fashion to “doing without,” I’d like to begin another practice/project in which I will, on a regular basis, do something unexpected for a stranger. Nothing big. Maybe offer to return a grocery cart for someone who’s putting their groceries in their car. Stop to help someone whose car is stalled or has a flat tire. Stop and clear debris from the roadway when I see something blocking a lane of traffic. Help someone struggling to carry a load of boxes into the post office. None of these sorts of things are out of character for me, but I’ve noticed in recent years that I haven’t done them as frequently as I once did. And I’ve noticed, too, that I’ve sometimes made deliberate choices not to do something to help even when I felt I should. When I’ve made those choices, I’ve felt guilt for giving my convenience a higher priority than someone else’s needs. Maybe I’ve just grown lazy. Whatever it is, I want to overcome it. That lazy bastard is not who I was and I don’t want him to become who I am.

***

Obviously, my mind has been switching gears at breakneck speed this morning. Maybe some meditation is in order. I can feel the muscles in my arms and shoulders; they are tight. I can feel tension in my neck. A massage right now would be just what the doctor ordered. But since there’s no masseuse handy, I’ll try something else. Meditation or tea. We’ll see.

A brief post I wrote this morning for our church blog sparked a realization that I consider myself too old to do some things I’ve always wanted to do.

The thing that triggered the awareness of how I see myself was my longtime interest in orchestrating a cohousing development. In the back of my mind, for years I’ve wanted to organize a group of like-minded people in creating a close-knit community that combines private and group ownership, privacy and community, and communal support. But, at sixty-six years of age, I think I’m too old to start something of that magnitude. My age, coupled with the fact that I’ve had cancer and am still dealing with the diminution of physical capabilities and stamina that resulted from it, tells me it’s too late to begin.

To be honest with myself, I’ve probably never had the ability to get people excited about the idea. On occasion, I talk about it with people only to find virtually no enthusiasm for the idea. I think a person either gravitates to the idea immediately upon hearing it or shuns it from the moment it comes up. I’m one of those who instantly loved the concept. But I’m not going to convince others that it’s an idea worth pursuing. And I’m too old to do it, anyway.

The same thing is true about another lifelong desire: getting a few acres in the country and working the land. A big garden, a barn, a tractor, a few animals. One of my brothers has a place in the country where I could do what I’ve wanted, but that wouldn’t do it. I am not interested in playing farmer during an occasional visit; I want to have the experience as part of my life. I could do that in the right cohousing environment. But I’m not going to do it. I’ve failed to generate excitement for the idea during all those years I’ve longed for it. And I’m too old to do it, anyway.

I realize, of course, that sixty-six years old is not really old. But you’re as old as you feel, they say. And this morning I feel much, much older. It’s not just this morning. It’s ever since I had my surgery almost a year ago; it’s as if part of my youth was removed with my lower right lobe.  That sense of loss is devastating in a sense. It’s like part of who I’ve always considered I was is no longer here.

All this damn emotion from a damn blog post for the church. I’ve got to stop writing the church blog.

It’s a couple of minutes after 1:00 a.m. and I think I’m going to try to go back to bed. After I made a cup of coffee, I glanced at the clock and realized it was only 12:30 a.m., not 5:30 a.m. as I thought when I got out of bed. Rather than waste a freshly brewed cup of coffee, I decided to drink it and take a look online. That was a poor decision; I should have known a scan of the news, etc. would boost my blood pressure and distort an otherwise decent mood, turning it into a surly expression of loathing for today’s so-called Republicans. I remember when Republicans were conservatives whose philosophies sometimes were simply at odds with mine (and frequently coincided with mine). No more. Today, they are right-wing fanatics whose only philosophy is “the opposite of Obama.”

Enough of this. I will try to climb back into bed and sleep. I wish me luck.

I do not know when season three of Broadchurch became available on Netflix; I know only that I stumbled upon it several days ago. The series is one of a few British television series I find absolutely riveting. When I learned season three was available, I started watching immediately. I tried to pace myself because I didn’t want to rush through it and be left bereft that it’s done. It was a valiant attempt, but it failed. I finished watching episode eight, the final one of the season, last night.

The degree of interest I have/had in the series is evident from my viewing habits. I’ve begun a habit of watching the program in the afternoons on occasion, a time span in which I’ve always avoided television.

Afternoon television brings back memories of my mother, after she retired; she watched soap operas and other such swill in the afternoons. Her unexpected habit of watching what I considered mindless crap bothered me. I had always thought she was an unusually bright person whose taste in literature was superb. But then she started watching Days of Our Lives or some other such miserable mindlessness and my assessment of her intellect changed. I hated that I was disappointed in her for doing that, but I couldn’t force myself to forgive her for it. I should have said “to each her own.” I tried. Yet I could not accept the legitimacy of her television preferences until years later. At any rate, afternoon television, to me, long equated to televised ignorance and willful stupidity. That unforgiving and uncharitable has since changed. I now realize television is simply an escape. Sometimes, an escape that requires absolutely no critical thought is just what we need. My wife now watches some television I consider utterly mindless. But, then, so do I. I no longer make the mistake of correlating intellect with television viewing habits. Well, I try to avoid making that mistake, though I sometimes fail.

If I look carefully and honestly at Broadchurch, I can see elements of ignorance and mind-numbing gullibility. But Broadchurch is most assuredly not Days of Our Lives. While I’m writing about non-US television series, I’ll touch on some of the series on my list of “must see television.” Based on what I’ve read and what I’ve been told by my wife, I need to include Dicte on the list. (I’ve already included it, but I’m including it here as a ready place to keep my “list.”) Dicte is a Danish story of a journalist who returns to her hometown from Copenhagen and investigates murders, alongside a local detective.  And I want to return to the Dutch Department Q series so I can refresh my enjoyment of that superb set of programs. Another series I have tried to find but haven’t yet is Borgen. She mentioned the program (though she couldn’t remember the name of the series) yesterday, imploring me to keep looking until I find it because, she knows, I will enjoy it.

One day, but today is not it, I will compile a complete list of “want to see” foreign television series, along with those I’ve seen and enjoyed but the titles of which I frequently forget. It seems to me I should have an easier access point to my memories than the results of a search of this blog using multiple search terms. I suppose that item on my wish list should fall someplace below “finish the deck” and “fix the leaking faucets in the bathrooms” and, perhaps, below the “buy replacement hose bibs before the very cold weather hits.”

My new angle of looking at Broadchurch is this: It’s just entertainment. It is not a mind-expanding experience. It is simply an enjoyable way to pass the time while allowing my simpleton’s brain to be massaged into semi-conscious appreciation of the world around me. It’s much like meditation in that sense, I guess. Or medication. Or alcohol.

***

Yesterday, we drove to Mena, Arkansas. Our objective, aside from simply getting out for a long drive, was to view fall foliage. We saw some beautiful foliage, but I suspect we went a bit early for some areas and a bit late for others. The leaves had turned brown and were falling in high volume in Queen Wilhemina State Park, near the lodge. And the lodge was absolutely swarming with people and cars; we couldn’t get away from there fast enough. But at lower elevations, some of the leaves were gorgeous. And the views of the surrounding Ouchita Mountains, covered with multi-hued trees, were spectacular.

We had lunch at a strange little place in Mena, Chiquita’s Tex-Mex restaurant. You order from a menu above the cash register; they take your name and a few minutes later they deliver your food to your table. The menu was a touch odd, but the food was tasty (if not necessarily “normal” Tex-Mex). My tacos were tasty, but the filling was not the usual picadillo I have come to expect in Tex-Mex places; it was not very spicy and had a “filler” of flour, I think. The beans were good, though, and the salsa delivered to the table with our meals was tasty. The taco shells and the chips were the thinnest I have ever seen; I don’t know how they are able to make chips and shells so thin! And my wife’s taco salad was laced with Fritos. Fritos! But she liked it.

Later, we stopped in at Myers Cruizzers Drive-In, which is an old-style drive-in diner. But it’s a one-of-a-kind place, not a chain. My wife wanted a pumpkin pie spice milk shake, which we saw advertised on their flashing sign as we drove past. I had a plain vanilla milk shake. Both were tasty. And as we scanned the food menu, we decided the place was unique, indeed, and worth a stop next time we’re in Mena.

Dinner last night was spectacular. My wife made a wonderfully spice Neopolitan sauce with Italian sausage which we ladled onto spaghetti. It was the perfect way to cap an enjoyable day.

And today we go to church. Hmm. Do I really want to go? No. Will I go anyway? Yes.

I had hoped that avoiding the topic of food in my blog posts would translate into weight loss. All right, I hadn’t actually thought about it quite that way. But in hindsight, it seems like there might have been a logical connection. Regardless, if there is a correlation, it is the opposite of what one might hope. The calories, directed away from the screen, have accumulated around my midsection.

The last time I wrote about food (at least the last time I labeled a post as belonging to the category of food) was in mid-July, when I mentioned Korean Breakfast Toast and deviled kidney, among other things. Shortly after writing that post, I tried Korean Breakfast Toast; I was rather disappointed that the dish wasn’t the joyous experience for which I had hoped. Not bad; just not especially good. I have yet to try deviled lamb (or any other) kidney.

This morning, I’m thinking about other foods that might merit time in the kitchen.  But, first, we must either repair or replace our oven/range. The damn thing will not reach the temperature we intend. We learned of this problem some time ago when we attempted to cook a frozen pizza. The oven claimed it had reached the desired 400-degree temperature, but when the pizza should have been ready twenty-two minutes later, it had thawed into an almost liquid mess, but had not cooked. Since then, we’ve tried to calibrate the oven temperature to no avail. Long before that experience, I managed to break a knob that controls one of the stovetop burners; the part, alone, is $140 or thereabouts. I almost ordered it, but I discovered I cannot remove the broken knob because I cannot get at the part without the risk of doing damage to the stove. So, we’ve let it sit. Now, with a bad oven and a bad burner knob, we’re thinking about ditching the stove; I’ve never liked it anyway. But I’ve diverged from my intended point: other foods.

If we had a working stove and oven, I might return to a dish I made only once, several years ago (at least six or eight years ago, when we were still in Dallas). The dish is tourtière du shack, an incredibly rich Quebecois meat pie. I recall that it was quite an undertaking, even though I did not include some of the more involved garnish ingredients like calf’s brains and sweetbreads and foie gras. It was delightful, though. I do remember that.

The tourtière du shack was one of about twenty regional main dishes I had planned to prepare during the course of a year. I researched regional foods of the U.S. and Canada, sought out recipes for them, and planned to explore much of the North American continent’s cuisine from the comfort of my kitchen. Spiedie sandwiches, Cornish pasties, oyster pie, Jiggs dinner, and several other regional specialties were to find their way from our kitchen to our plates. For some reason, though, I did not get through the list. I only made a half-dozen or so before giving up on the project. I don’t think I deliberately gave up; I simply stopped making the project a priority and it slipped from my memory out of neglect. Yet another example of my tendency to get side-tracked. I allow myself to veer sharply away from a clear focus and, instead, muddle around with something else that, until that point, was of only tangential interest.

I’ve lost my enthusiasm this morning, already, for writing about food. I’m not even feeling hungry. Bah. I should consider returning to bed. But I won’t. I rarely do. Instead, I’ll wander aimlessly through the house, looking for something that will catch my attention and inflame my interest. But, alas, that something is unlikely to be sufficiently motivating to get me moving. A dull, aching boredom seems to be spilling from my mind. Something will change that. It’s just a question of what and when.

Lightning is the visual expression of thunder.

Thunder is the sonic expression of lightning.

While those two statements may seem either absurd or obvious (or contradictory…or not), I think they merit contemplation. If nothing else, they force a shift in perspective. I suspect thousands of similar observations (or claims, depending on one’s frame of mind and generosity of spirit, or lack thereof) could be made.

Back to those two statements, though. The first one is incorrect. Both imply causation. Thunder does not cause lightning; lightning, the discharge of atmospheric electricity, results in (or can result in) thunder. Thunder cannot occur without the sudden expansion of air in the path of the electrical discharge which must, obviously, come first.

Damn! I’ve allowed pure facts to interfere with the point I was trying to make! Regardless of the physics involved, it’s realistic to gravitate, mentally, to one perspective or the other. I suppose people for whom the right side of the brain is dominant would allow physics to take a back seat, whereas left-brained people would seek out logic. But, wait! The long-held belief that the right side of the brain controls creativity and the left side controls logic is, apparently, a myth! The myth has quite a history of “scientific” evidence, the level of rigorousness of which has for the past few years been called into question. The widely-held perspective among scientists today is that, although different parts of the brain control different parts of the body (and the mind), the left-right logical-creative split is not true.

I vaguely remember writing a blog post a few years ago in which I suggested the twenty-six letters of he alphabet, even combined in every conceivable way, would eventually be insufficient to capture all the beauty of which the English language is capable. The suggestion was tongue-in-cheek, of course, but it held a kernel of real belief. I applied the idea to my own writing capabilities, thinking I would at some point literally run out of anything new to write. Mathematics, on the other hand, is infinite. Not only is there a limitless supply of numbers, they can be combined in an infinite number of ways. The relationships between numbers and the relationships between relationships are so incredibly numerous that even the hint that one might eventually use them all up is ludicrous.

Considering the two sentences with which I started this post, along with the paragraph I just completed, it seems obvious to me that an infinite number of combinations of words and numbers and ideas and relationships constitutes only a fraction of the possible pairings or groupings. So we can merge ideas with dreams and facts with imagination and numbers with fantasy and on and on and on, ad infinitum.

***

On a completely unrelated matter, a friend in the hinterlands of northern Arkansas had a pacemaker installed yesterday afternoon. It was done after a lengthy period of experiencing syncope, the cause of which, until just a few days ago was unknown. A heart monitor finally determined that a recent syncope episode corresponded with his heart stopping for several seconds. Finally, the doctors figured out the cause of the syncope. The obvious treatment was to install a pacemaker. Perhaps we’ll be able to visit them in the next month or two to celebrate a brand-new pacemaker!

When does empathy turn into a target, a bull’s-eye painted on one’s compassion that guides seekers of pity to unearned sources of tenderness and sympathy? It happens almost without the compassionate victim realizing the game is being played. By the time one’s empathy and compassion have been milked almost dry, it’s too late to call foul. By then, it’s impossible to extricate oneself from the claws that grip the soul, the impossibly strong grasp that cannot be broken without emotional bloodshed. The perpetrators of these vile acts seek undeserved mercies and undue condolences that, once given, cannot be readily retrieved lest the victim be perceived as a monster, unfeeling and willing to crush poor, weak, bereaved beasts (who, if truth be known, are the victimizers and the vanquishers).

I’m still processing an experience which will, I suspect, provide a limitless resource for inventing a fictional character whose actions reveal a swindler and a thief, a charlatan whose sympathetic countenance is counterfeit. This creature gets her sustenance from painting herself as a lifelong victim, drinking in unearned sympathy as if it were absinthe and she were addicted to the stuff.

She is a dangerous one, that woman. But she fits nicely into a story of psychosis and demonstrable dementia. I’m glad I never trusted her and, so, did not get pulled in by her stories of woe. Perhaps her life has been just as ugly and undeservedly harsh as she describes; but the description, repeated over and over and over, sounds highly scripted, as if perfecting it has been her life’s work. The story gets her the attention she craves. But my attention isn’t the kind she wants; she wasn’t seeking my contempt, I’m sure, but that’s the only attention I’m willing to give her.

I have nothing to say. Sure, if I were more intelligent and better looking, I might have thoughts to share.

But, absent even a hint of brilliance or a glancing blow of handsomeness, my words are valueless. They don’t even belong on the screen, much less on a page that might one day find its way into a book that almost certainly would be burned for its white-hot irrelevance. So I’ll slink away from the fringes of the far edges of the dimming limelight. And I’ll take my ideas and my assertions with me. I’ll crawl back under the covers that hide me from the glaring spotlight. That spotlight was not meant to inflict fame on me. It was intended only to bathe me in harsh heat that sucks the liquid from the milk of human kindness, leaving only a hard skin of rancid, sharp-edged protein, like burned egg white, cooked to the surface of a porous skillet.

“That’s what’s left of him. A crisp scrap of truculent stench so foul it is visible in even dim light and darkness.”

Some mornings, only the ugliest phrases fit the vagaries of my moods as they ricochet from gleeful to gloomy and back again, detouring to detachment and disgust along the way. I can’t place blame for this odd blend of undefinable auras surrounding me in caustic smoke and smooth vanilla. This sort of thing just happens. Eventually, I’ll find a way out. In the meantime, I’ll poke around in the immediate past and explore memories for clues.

Last night, I did as asked and went to Kollective Coffee+Tea, where I was to announce that I was there to read a poem by our dear departed friend of poetry, Bud, and then to do the deed. To my surprise, only four people (plus two staff) were in the business at the time. They seemed shocked and then amused by my outburst. After reading the poem, we (my wife accompanied me) walked to the appointed place where other readers who had been assigned to read in other galleries (along with many other people) gathered for a procession down the street to Superior Brewery, the location for a celebratory remembrance service. And we listened and enjoyed the experience. My wife and I left early, just after a slide show of Bud’s life was shown.

There’s nothing in that little slip of memory that would have created this morning’s odd assortment of moods.

Further back, but only by a few hours, I exchanged a couple of emails with a one-time acquaintance (I guess we remain acquaintances), wishing her a happy birthday. Nothing there.

Ach, it’s no use. There’s nothing causal in my readily accessible memory.

I think I need more coffee and, perhaps, a flour tortilla enlivened with a few drops of habanero salsa. And, then, a brain transplant, alongside an entirely new (and much younger) body in far better condition than the one I’m in.

Ah ha! I know what did it. I saw a headline when I glanced at the news on my computer this morning, claiming Moody’s is forecasting 45 will be re-elected in a landslide. WTF?! The end of civilization, already deeply in peril, is forecast? Well of course my mood will be strange and dangerous!

My wife made a very tasty chili yesterday, a conglomeration of hamburger meat and bacon, a spectrum of spices, pinto beans, and who know what else. We had it for dinner last night. While it wasn’t especially hot-spicy, it alerted me in the wee hours of the morning that it was spicy-spicy. I felt a slight case of heartburn during the night; it wasn’t sufficient to cause me to get up and take curative drugs, but it was enough to awaken me and express my body’s displeasure with my eating habits. I think it was about 2:30 that it awoke me (after a very, very early bedtime, thanks to I don’t know what). It kept me awake for most of the next three hours until, finally, I gave up and got up.

Coffee isn’t necessarily the most soothing liquid for heartburn, I’ve discovered. In fact, this morning it seems to be having the opposite effect, causing my stomach to growl, bark, and occasionally snap at me for my choice of beverage. I didn’t have many options, as it happens. It was bottled water or coffee made from bottled water; we’re still under a precautionary boil water order, thanks to yesterday’s nearby water main break. We have little else to drink in the house; neither bottled diet tonic nor wine make from a blend of cabernet sauvignon and syrah grapes seems especially well-suited for a breakfast drink.

I am not in the least hungry this morning. In fact, the thought of food is off-putting. But the idea of cool spring water flowing directly out of the ground is appealing. If I were closer to a reliable cool-water spring and could remain comfortably warm without getting dressed, I might go out for a sip or a swallow or a gulp. But the nearest cool-water springs, to my knowledge, are in Hot Springs; I would have to get dressed or risk freezing and/or being arrested were I to seek out the cooling  effects of spring-fed dioxygen monoxide. (Is that the correct chemical formula for water?)

My wife will drive my sister-in-law to Little Rock this morning for a medical test procedure and I will stay home to keep the house cleaner company and pay her for her efforts. Having a house cleaner help with maintaining this too-big house is a welcome but rather rare event and it’s even rarer still for me to be the one to stay home while the house is being cleaned. Usually, I skip out during the vacuuming and mopping and such; my wife doesn’t mind the horrendously loud vacuum noises and the intrusion by a stranger into our living space, but for some reason I do. But today, thanks to medical stuff, I will stay here and suffer through the decibels. It’s probably best that I’m staying home, too, because the heat in my belly seems still to be alive with embers. I have to admit the fire was arson and I am the arsonist. I must make the transition this morning into firefighter.

Obviously, I’m not much in the mood to write anything of consequence. So I will stop writing for a while in the hope my creative juices start flowing again. Or until I can write about something that will make me think and be a bit more satisfied with the state of the world.