Exploring an Empty Barrel

Posted on September 28, 2019 by John Swinburn

I spent part of the last hour of this morning reading bits and pieces of about six months’ worth of newsletters from the Lake Chapala Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. I’m not sure just why I found my way there. I started my related web travels by exploring car rental agencies in Ajijic but somehow crept across the street and down the road to the LCUUF , located in the same building as the Naked Stage, a readers’ theatre that is, as far as I can tell, like readers’ theaters everywhere. LCUUF, from what I gather from its website, is like other Unitarian Univeralist congregations, as one would expect. The difference, of course, is that it is located in an extremely “multicultural” community. I was interested to learn that the October 20 service, entitled “Crossing Cultures,” described as follows:

Most of us are migrants, people who’ve chosen to live in a culture different than our birth culture. How we do our living in a different land varies: some of us attempt to recreate ‘old home’ behind walls and gates, others ‘go native’, others somewhere in between. What does our approach to multiculturalism say about our worldview, our relationship with other people? How do we deepen our awareness and engagement with people of other cultures? How do we learn to live in ease in a multicultural world.

I wish I had known about the service before I bought our tickets; I might have stayed a few days longer just so I could have attended. Surprisingly, it has never occurred to me that ex-pats from the U.S. (and elsewhere) experience many of the same challenges and opportunities and fears and joys that immigrants to the States experience. Fortunately, ex-pats in Mexico don’t experience the level of rage and hatred and contempt (at least not yet) that so many immigrants in the U.S. experience. My interest in the service is based, I suppose, on learning what migrants say about their experience. And my interest in the LCUUF website, I suppose, is based on understanding the extent to which UUs in Mexico are (or are not) living within their own, non-multicultural world. That is, do they isolate themselves (at least socially) from the culture of which they are now a part? Or do they embrace the role of “minority” participant in a society that is truly foreign to them? Based on the service description, I suspect there’s a range of levels of integration and/or isolation; I’d like to hear the issue of integration discussed by people who live it; or don’t.

As long as my wife is not enthusiastic about exploring life in Mexico, I will not make any plans to do it. Which means, I expect, I will not do it; not now, not in the future. We bought our home here with the expectation and agreement, I think, that this would be “it.” Our final home. That sounds, to me, a little restrictive; a bit like deciding to live in a cage with no escape. Oh, I know, I’m being overly dramatic. I do that sometimes.

I wonder, though, if some day she might be amenable to living in or near Ajijic (or somewhere else, for that matter) for at least a few months at a time? I doubt I’ll ask her any time soon. We both have our own medical issues with which to wrestle, which makes the idea of embarking on a foreign adventure of any significant duration a bit more than ill-advised. But I can dream, can’t I? Yet I don’t even seem to have sufficient discipline to learn Spanish; whenever I begin, I encounter the idea, a few days in, of “why the hell bother…I’ll never really use it enough to go the trouble, will I?” For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been able to call up some legitimate reason to back away from significant commitments like moving to Mexico or living life on the road or what have you. I don’t know whether I’m afraid of the decision or the way it might wreck my stable, if somewhat boring, life. Stability. It has its benefits; it has its prices, too. The bottom line is that I’ll never sacrifice my wife’s happiness and comfort to enable me to pursue a wild hair that might well turn to a steel piano wire with which to strangle myself.

Back to LCUUF. I think I visited the website for the same reason I’ve visited several other UU websites in months and years past: to find something that will convince me the people are, or are not, “my people.” I’m still not sure. The simple fact that they do not buy into religious dogma does not make them intelligent, nor does it make them progressive or possessed of common sense or other traits I find appealing. So I suppose it’s safe to assume involvement in UU is not a sufficient measure that a person meets my measure of someone who could be “my people.” And, frankly, I’m not sure there are such measures. I mean, I know people who are conservative, very religious, and seemingly void of common sense that I find appealing (though they are not “my people,” by the way). So what is it that I’ve been after for these past 66 (almost) years? I’ve found a few of them. But even a two or three hour drive seems like a long drive when there are so many meaningless, mundane, utterly annoying errands and obligations to fulfill. Achhh!

I envision a small group of people who are fun to be around (and who find us fun, too) who meet regularly for drinks or dinner or both, who enjoy similar activities, who are willing to explore one anothers’ interests even when they don’t mirror others’, and who otherwise are appealing. And intelligent. And nonjudgmental. And progressive. And who can laugh…but who are fiercely opinionated and who, therefore, can snarl appropriately with the best of them. I’m wandering around my own mind as if it were an empty barrel and my ideas were bouncing off the sides in ricochet fashion. And that’s precisely what’s happening, I guess. Empty. That word always triggers the memory of a line from a Paul Simon song: “Kathy, I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping. I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.” Let me begin to close this with a flippant comment; “I don’t know who the hell this Kathy is.” Seriously, though, the sense of emptiness always accompanies tentative explorations of things beyond my reach. Which may explain why emptiness is such a common companion; there are so many things beyond my reach. But, then, there are a million things beyond the reach of billions of us. Does that mean that we’re all awash in emptiness? I suspect not, but there’s no way to determine whether that’s true or not.

It’s past 1:00 p.m. I haven’t yet showered or shaved. What a sloth I am. Time to get tidied up for an early dinner out; only four hours away (our neighbors eat early; they agreed to an hour delay as a compromise, I think). That parenthetical comment is not entirely true. But they do prefer to eat early. Which is fine. To each his own. Or her own. I’m trying to teach myself not to be tolerant but, instead, accepting. I think I could use a tutor.

 

mood

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Confessions and Confetti

Posted on September 28, 2019 by John Swinburn

During the haze of sickness these last few days, I have taken to diversions that might distract me from the sensations one feels when one isn’t “well.” I find it impossible to adequately describe those sensations. I don’t feel pain, exactly; it’s more like a generally unpleasant sense that one’s body is not happy with the way it interacts with the world around it. A physical malaise of sorts; discomfort that’s instantly recognizable to me as I experience it, but impossible to describe in any way that accurately paints a picture of how I feel.  At any rate, while I’ve experienced this general physical disquiet, I’ve distracted myself with television and literature; the latter is a download I selected when I discovered the book I wanted was not available in physical form.

The television distraction is taking the form of a new made-for-Netflix series entitled “Unbelieveable.” The series is described as a “limited series,” which suggests to me I may not be given the satisfaction of knowing how the series ends; it may simply stop after the first eight episodes. I hope that’s not the case because I’ve become addicted. The series begins when a young woman reports being raped but later recants her statement, due in no small part to her inability to cope with suggestions from police and others that she might have manufactured the story. Two detectives, from different departments, follow similar rapes that seem extremely close in MO to the young girl’s case. The detectives, both women, team up to pursue what they believe is a serial rapist.  I’m only six episodes in, but feeling a sense of loss in the knowledge that only two episodes remain.

The literary distraction is a book on tape. The Cellist of Sarajevo, written by Steven Galloway and read by Gareth Armstrong. I’ve only listened to a fraction of the full recording, but already I’m hooked on the book. It is an extremely well-written novel (based in part on true stories and people) that grabbed me within the first few pages. The book tells the stories of four characters whose lives are threaded together for a time during the assault on Sarajevo by Serbian forces in the war of the nineties. I can tell already that it will become one of my favorite books. Listening to it being read is not only fascinating but educational; I am picking up ideas that I will use in my own writing. I recommend the book. I wish I could find a hard copy in the library, but I’m satisfied with hearing it read; actually, I might get addicted to having someone read so I can rest my eyes.

It’s interesting to me that I probably would not have had much interest in reading The Cellist of Sarajevo before visiting Bosnia and Herzegovina and walking the streets of Sarajevo. Seeing the city first-hand and learning about the siege from people who survived it changed my attitude about reading a book that describes wartime experiences. Even though much of the city has been rebuilt, Sarajevo still has many, many scars from the war. Some buildings destroyed by mortar rounds remain, crumbling and unusable. Bullet holes and damage done by shrapnel are everywhere. On the one hand, the city today seems vibrant and alive and truly delightful; on the other, everywhere you look you see evidence of the monstrosity of war and the atrocities committed in the name of fanatical nationalism and religious chauvinism. I think I would have taken many photographs of the city, had I gone there with the idea of documenting the remaining evidence of war; I would have looked at the city through different eyes had I thought about, before going there, the experiences its residents had gone through. I wish, now, I had delved into the fresh history of the city before I went. Though I knew something of the war before our visit, I know much more now. My new knowledge changed the way I see what I saw; if I had known then what I know now, I might have viewed it all differently.

I went to bed last night very early, before eight. I was up and down (only briefly each time) many times during the night. I finally got up and made coffee around 5:30; spending so much time in bed may have helped my malady but it has left my muscles and bones achy and unhappy that they have not been exercised more often. I hope the aches dissipate with a little time and another cup or two of coffee.

Yesterday, when I got up just before 1:00 p.m. (after arising, then going back to bed for several hours), we went to the bank to have our ATM cards reactivated. It seems my wife’s card had been inactivated; we assumed it had to do with her attempted use of the card in Croatia. We assumed mine, too, had been inactivated, inasmuch as I tried to use it in Croatia to get money and had been rejected. As it turns out, my wife’s card had been inactivated because it had not been used for twelve consecutive months. Mine, we learned, was still active. But we also learned that our cards cannot be used outside the U.S. without specific instructions being given to the bank as to countries we visit and the dates. We thought we’d informed the bank about our trip to Croatia; apparently, we informed our credit card companies, but not our bank. So, our ATM card would not work. Fortunately for us, though, we had another bank’s ATM card with us during our travels; it worked just fine. Different banks have different policies, it seems. Best to check on all of them before embarking on such journeys as ours.

Tonight, our neighbors (with whom we traveled to the Balkans) will treat us to dinner at a very nice local restaurant, the Blue Springs Grill. We haven’t seen them since we got home almost a week ago, but my wife has spoken to the female component of the pair and I have exchanged a few emails. They seem to think they “owe” us because we had agreed that we would pay for the limo to the airport and they would pay for the return trip; because of the airline screw-ups, they got home a day before we did, so we had to pay for our trip back home. While I appreciate their generosity, I wish they would not feel compelled to “pay us back” for our expenses for something they had no part in causing. Anyway, tonight we’ll go to dinner with them. Assuming, of course, I feel at least as well as I do now. I hope whatever it is that ails me is on its downhill slide; this business of being achy, feverish, and deeply tired is of no value to me and I want it gone.

The few regular readers of this blog might note I’ve said nothing about the latest Trump scandal. Okay, I’ll say it now: though I want him gone, I think the impeachment efforts will not result in the desired outcome. In fact, I think they will strengthen his position with his deeply stupid and self-absorbed base. I read a message yesterday, on a community-based online service, that suggested a group of rabid Republican-types have baseball caps made that have “Make HSV Great Again” imprinted on them. These people walk the streets. They drive cars. They own guns. They are a danger to society and to themselves. Let’s just hope their actions place “themselves” in danger before they destroy the society in which they wallow.

Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, all mixed-breed dogs pose an existential threat to humanity. Let’s say they carry a virus, readily transmittable to humans, that humans cannot survive. The fastest way to address the problem is to kill all the dogs. So, the president orders all cities and towns in which mixed-breed dogs live to be carpet-bombed. The people who wear MAGA caps would support the president’s actions; they would label anyone who objects, anyone who argues for a more targeted approach, un-American. And therewith I end my current stream-of-consciousness exercise; my fingers are now much stronger and more flexible.

I need to create a title for this post. I think I’ll call it Confessions and Confetti. No particular reason; just want a label with which to identify this latest discharge of my mental messages.

 

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The Sickness

Posted on September 27, 2019 by John Swinburn

I’ve felt a little weak and feverish and achy for several days, as if I were trying to catch a cold or the flu. This morning, after I returned from having a blood draw in connection with my annual physical scheduled for Monday, the sensations intensified. I asked my wife to feel my forehead to gauge where I might have a fever; she said I was a only a little warm. She asked whether I wanted her to get a thermometer to measure my temperature more precisely; no, I responded, that seemed like too much effort. And so I sat in my recliner, vegetating. Finally, fifteen minutes ago, I forced myself out of the chair. I suspect my next step, after finishing this brief post, will be to undress and get back in bed. But I am not sure whether that will help the way I feel; I’ve spend too much time in bed lately, causing my achy body to react negatively to being bed-ridden.

Crap! I’ve forgotten what one is supposed to do to treat a cold. My cough doesn’t seem to have gotten any worse (how could it?), but my body is rebelling against something and I want to quash the rebellion. Okay, I’ve typed as much as I can for the moment. I’ll try bed for awhile to see how that works.

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Maladjustments

Posted on September 26, 2019 by John Swinburn

I’m experiencing a struggle with the adjustment from travel to daily routine. We’ve been home since Sunday afternoon—approaching four days—and I still feel lethargic and distracted. I haven’t been able to focus on much of anything since returning home. Instead of scrutinizing what needs to be done, I’ve allowed myself to remain mostly befuddled and sluggish. It’s not that I’ve done nothing. I’ve done a lot, actually:

  • scheduled the 60K maintenance for the Subaru;
  • took Janine to Little Rock for a cardiologist visit;
  • wrote scathing email to the Slovenian airline that screwed up our return flights and mislaid our luggage;
  • switched a dental appointment from next week to this morning;
  • picked up our held mail and restarted delivery;
  • miscellaneous other things of equal disinterest.

But, really, my productivity slithers along the floor, barely overtopping bits of dust in its way. And I’ve been extremely tired since getting home, though my wife says I seemed extremely tired during most of our trip to the Balkans. And she’s probably right. I wonder what’s causing that? Maybe my persistent cough and my breathing issues contribute to my lack of energy. Well, I go in for my annual physical next Monday (with blood-work tomorrow), so perhaps I’ll find out that I need to eat more iron or steel or, perhaps, bronze. Yes, that’s it. I need to eat more bronze or brass. I’ll sneak out of the house at night in search of large brass or bronze statues and will consume them, leaving communities stunned to awaken the following day to find just remnants—with teeth marks. That’s not realistic, is it? Of course not. Why do I venture down such strange alleys? I don’t know. It’s just a psychosis, I guess.

It won’t be long before I write a long travelogue about our trip through the Balkans. Until then, I’ll attempt to overcome my lethargy. Good coffee might help. I had some coffee at a hotel in Dubrovnik that I thought was excellent—strong, full-bodied, flavorful—that a woman in our group found inadequate. She had moved to Maryland from Seattle and felt especially competent to judge coffee; the Croatian coffee was not “good” coffee, she said. I thought otherwise. Our difference of opinion was insufficient to start a global conflict, so we left it to fade away like most conflicts should.  But, wait, I’ve already started writing about my travel. I must stop. It’s not yet time. I must allow my experiences to deepen in my mind; but I mustn’t let them disappear into the fog of misty memories.

Somewhere, sometime, during the last few weeks, I decided I don’t really want a dog after all. I want a close neighbor who has a very nice dog, a dog that likes me and visits me often. Since I’m indulging my fantasy, I’d like the dog to be named Lorcan. Lorcan is a small but powerful dog with a growl that breeds fear and shivers. But he’s a sweet little guy around me. Lorcan’s sister, Sinead, spends time around me, too, but she is more reserved than Lorcan; I suppose I’d classify her as an introvert. Why the dogs were given Irish names I do not know. Though they’re both mutts, I doubt they have any Irish canine ancestry. I suppose my neighbor, Séamus O’Sullivan had his reasons for naming the beasts. Actually, I do not have a neighbor by the name of Séamus O’Sullivan but if I did I feel certain he would have two dogs as I’ve described. It’s just a sense, you know.

 

 

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On Wisdom and Travel and Self-Reflection

Posted on September 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

I do not know the originator of the following concept, but I applaud his or her wisdom in expressing it:

If you can’t intelligently argue for both sides of an issue, you don’t understand the issue well enough to argue for either.

All of us would be far better informed if we lived in accordance with that precept. Without fully understanding both sides (or, for that matter, all sides) of an issue, we cannot fully understand our own “side.” That is, absent knowledge of the foundations upon which an opinion is constructed, we cannot hold well-grounded, defensible positions. Instead, we are limited to uninformed beliefs—beliefs, by the way, that illustrate the shallowness of our thinking and the breadth of our ignorance. All right, that’s out of the way. Now I’ll move on.

I got word this morning, via email, that our bags should be delivered to our door before 2:30 p.m. today. Assuming that assertion comes to pass, my complaints that suggested our luggage was lost forever will be proven to be based on unfounded beliefs. I don’t always follow my own advice; in fact, as good as my advice can be, I sometimes cavalierly disregard it as if it were guidance from a madman. Which it is, of course, but profundity can emerge from the mouth of madmen from time to time.

I’m still processing, mentally, the adventures of our European vacation. The experiences mixed joy and darkness in almost equal measure. We bore joyous witness to beautiful landscapes and participated in festivities of societies flooded with light and life. On the other hand, we learned about and heard first-hand experiences of people who lived through the hellish war of 1992-1995. Though the war is over, the enforced peace is in many respects a dictatorship of diplomacy that robs people of the right to decide how to rule themselves. I learned, by talking to people who live in Sarajevo, that the Dayton Accord imposes upon them diplomatic solutions that prevent them from making changes in the way they are governed. The war is over, but the wounds are fresh; I suspect they will open again one day.

Listening to people who live in Bosnia and Herzegovina, as well as Croatia and Montenegro, I heard the voices of people who view history from a very different perspective than the one I was taught. For example, the common view in the U.S. of  Josip Broz Tito is that he was an authoritarian dictator.  In the former Yugoslavia, virtually everyone with whom I spoke saw him as a benevolent leader who was largely responsible for building a strong, resilient society that looked after its citizens. Though he was a communist, he broke from Stalin in the late 1940s and led an economy based in market socialism. Evidence exists throughout the region of the reverence in which he was held by the population he served.

As I said, our experiences comprised mixtures of joy and darkness. The joys included experiencing lively cities like Sarajevo, Dubrovnik, Zagreb, and Ljubljana. Public squares, pedestrian malls, and lively street life differ radically from the automobile-owned streets of American cities. We saw and, in some cases, participated in large public festivals: for example, the hamburger festival. Literally dozens and dozens of hamburger “joints” offered their special versions of hamburgers to adoring crowds. Though the burgers we bought were utterly unimpressive, I’m confident we would have found some to our liking had we been able to spend more time at the festival.

The views of old-town Dubrovnik from the peak of Srd, a low mountain just behind the old city, were spectacular. We rode a funicular to the peak (and I did the same in Sarajevo and Ljubljana) to get us to the best viewing sites around. From high above the cities, we saw the majesty of their expansive territories.  And we walked around large, crystal-clear lakes in national parks. We rode train cars into caves where we viewed enormous stalactites and stalagmites. We had home-hosted dinners with families in Sarajevo and in the Croatian village of Karanac, where we visited with “locals” who shared with us what their day-by-day lives were like.  We drank local wine and brandy and ate food raised and prepared by the cooks. I learned that the very best extra-virgin olive oil is strong and flavorful and should never be used in cooking.

Except for the language barrier, which for me would be impossible to overcome at this stage in my life, I think I could live happily in any of the places we visited. Ultimately, the lessons of our travels around the Balkans was this: places can be beautiful, but it’s the people that make them livable. I couldn’t tolerate all the public smoking for very long, I think, but I did well enough on this trip. Only once did I ask to be moved to a different restaurant table to be away from a smoker.  I’m adaptable.

Some day, perhaps soon, I’ll write about the people we met along the way and people with whom we traveled. And I’ll continue to process my experiences during our 17-day trip through the Balkans.

I got an email this morning, suggesting that our lost luggage has been found and will be delivered to our house by 2:30 p.m. today. I hope that comes to pass. We could use some underwear; washing the same pair day after day already has become tiresome after only a few days.

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Home Again

Posted on September 23, 2019 by John Swinburn

We finally got home from our European vacation late yesterday afternoon, a day later than originally planned and absent our luggage. We hope our luggage eventually finds its way home from Slovenia, by way of Amsterdam and either Atlanta or Houston (or some other detour). I’m not counting my chickens.

No thanks to the incompetence of Adria Airways, we were able to get flights home from Amsterdam and Atlanta, after Adria’s very late departure from Ljubljana made us miss our flight in Amsterdam. Upon arrival in Amsterdam, we discovered we had been mislead (a more appropriate term might be “lied to”) by Adria staff in Ljubljana; despite assurances, we had not been booked on KLM flights to Atlanta and Little Rock. Thanks in part (perhaps) to my explosive temper and definitely thanks to a very nice young woman from Swissport, we were booked home the following day and were given a voucher for a meal and a hotel room that night.

I have plenty of things to write about our travel; some positive, some not so glowing. All of those other comments will wait. For now, we have to get back into our routine which, today, involves driving to Little Rock for a doctor’s appointment for my wife; she has several more trips to the big city this week…aarrgghh.

 

 

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Incomprehensible Adriatic Notes

Posted on September 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Finally, a post, but it will make sense only to me. On one of the last days of our trip to the Adriatic region, I am taking a few minutes to jot some notes. One day, I will explain them.

Somun

Cevapi

kajmak. Ajar. Codymcclainbrown.com

trivrste. Hmelja. Buregdzinca

the cellist of Sarajevo

the beginner’s Sarajevo

hot hand trembles on her shoulder as he whispers, “It will all be all right.” He never saw her again.

“I didn’t cry for them to leave here. I will regret for the rest of my life not saying anything.”

bourek

No Man’s Land (film)

the bridge over river drina

mesa selimovich

“I didn’t give them my smile.”

vegeta spice

auntun Augustinetich

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Ready for a Respite

Posted on September 4, 2019 by John Swinburn

Last night, an unhinged neighbor wrote an irrational rant on the Nextdoor.com community site, complaining bitterly about Walmart’s decision to stop selling ammunition and claiming the move would cause her to never again shop in Waliberal (to use her term). She went on a long, irrational tirade that literally made no sense. I suspect she might have been drinking heavily when she wrote it, as it was, indeed, an illiterate screed.

I don’t know just what the company decided to stop selling; if I heard about it on the news, I listened only with half an ear and let it slip out the other half. But the rant sparked a response from me. I expressed my appreciation that a company is doing SOMETHING about gun violence while politicians are doing NOTHING, thanks to their servitude to the NRA.

This morning, I read more comments. Almost all of them were rants in support of my unhinged neighbor. Most of them expressed reverential support for the Second Amendment; their interpretation of the Second Amendment. And, it appears, most of them are extremely paranoid of the government’s intent to take their guns and turn citizens into slaves. Come to think of it, they may be right. With regard to the current government. But I digress.

Those comments prompt thoughts of moving away from this insane country. Of course, I may change my mind when traveling in the coming weeks. I may not. But I hope, during my absence, there are no more mass killings. I hope guns don’t capture the headlines while I’m away on vacation. And I hope to be able to have a respite from the news, from the madman in the White House, and from the bitter divide that is shaping my home country.

Wouldn’t it be glorious if the energy devoted to arguments about guns were directed, instead, toward solving the problems of low wages and poverty, health care, and war? Ach, but that would remove the irrational joy from the argument, wouldn’t it? I’m just tired of all the BS. I want to direct my attention to beauty and ingenuity and gratitude and things that improve the lot of humanity, in general. And so I shall. Off we go, on an adventure!

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Engaging with the Sun

Posted on September 3, 2019 by John Swinburn

Imagine my surprise this morning when, at 6:45 a.m., I awoke from a sound sleep. The sun had long since risen. The room was awash in light. I had been in bed for roughly eight and a quarter hours! That’s stunning. I’m never in bed that long. My smart phone, which has a close relationship with my Sleep Number bed, tells me I had six hours, forty-one minutes of restful sleep, one hour-four minutes of restless sleep, and was out of bed for twenty minutes during the night. That’s a very strange night for me. I guess it was the twenty minutes of stark wakefulness that messed with my mind and let me stay in bed for such an incredible amount of time.

What I found strange when I awoke was that I engaged with the sun. That is, I found it rather nice to open my eyes and actually see the things around me. I didn’t have to feel my way around the bed when I got up; I could actually see the dresser and the door knob. I could see my flip-flops next to the bed when I swung my legs over the side when I got up. Don’t get me wrong; this cannot be a regular thing. It was an unusual experience, but not one I’d want to have on a regular basis. I like my darkness. I like knowing I will have ample solitary time to contemplate the world and to record my thoughts about it. This morning, instead, I feel rushed to document this aberration in my sleep pattern. And I feel rushed to begin the long, arduous process of packing for our trip. But I won’t rush. Not just yet. Instead, I’ll stare at the sunlight and marvel at its ability to give me sight.

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Labor Day

Posted on September 2, 2019 by John Swinburn

Today is Labor Day, a day of tribute to workers that owes its creation to labor unions. I wonder whether the people who oppose labor unions and consider them anathema to the American spirit of bootstrap independence insist on working today? I wonder whether those same people find weekends off work, an eight-hour workday, paid vacations, and Social Security equally as offensive?

I doubt many of us spend much time contemplating the value of workers’ collectivism in years past. Workers rebelled against inhumane conditions and otherwise asserted their rights to decent treatment. We owe many of our workplace standards to labor unions. Labor unions changed over time and, in my opinion, they overstepped the bounds of reason from time to time. Those mistakes led to public reactions against them and, taking advantage of those public responses, employers taking advantage. It’s a cycle, I hope, that will eventually smooth into a straight line of respect and honor. In the meantime, I think it’s best to remember why Labor Day exists. Enough of that maudlin stuff; I have preparations to make for our adventure.

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Implied Promise

Posted on September 1, 2019 by John Swinburn

What is an implied promise? Is a strong suggestion an implied promise? (You’ll have to assume an implicit action is associated with the strong suggestion.) Is a statement of future fact an implied promise? And what, by the way, is a “statement of future fact?”

Okay, I’ll try to be more clear. A promise is not a promise unless it is a declaration of certainty or assurance on which expectation is to be based. Clear as mud.

I suspect I’ll have few, if any, opportunities to write and post for awhile, beginning with our departure for our big adventure. Our travels will make internet access a bit of a problem, for one thing; for another, my computer has again developed a tendency to cut off in mid keystroke. The same computer that did it before but that, I had hoped, the new hard drive had corrected. Not so, apparently. I don’t have time to get it repaired or replaced before our travel, so the computer is not going with me. At the moment, I am using my cheap Chromebook, attached to my big honking keyboard (because the spacebar on my Chromebook requires a hammer blow to advance the cursor by one character’s distance). I may take my iPad on our trip (or maybe not). But I doubt I’ll be able to use it much to post here. So, for anyone who reads this with any regularity, you’re due a much-deserved rest.  Whether I live up to my implied promise remains to be seen, though.

After our trip, I will write about it. During our trip, I will take copious, but illegible, notes. Upon our return, I will attempt to read said illegible notes. I will have some success. Some of the notes, though, will be thrown away because their lack of value will argue for their disposal. Yet my memory will step in and take the place of notes. And, perhaps, a few photos will jog my memory even more, allowing me to express myself in ways I could not have done without photographic evidence of my experience. Words without value, amen.

My wife and I are taking “goodies” to church today; sweets (she) and savories (me). After the pre-service feeding, we will march into the sanctuary for the “water ceremony.”  It’s a somewhat strange pagan ritual that, surprisingly, has some real-world meaning. We, though, won’t be taking water to mix with the rest; we collected no water during our travels this summer, because we did not do any traveling. That’s coming up. Two nice trips. But I doubt we’ll collect water during our journeys, either. It might spoil before the next water ceremony. 😉

Obviously, I had nothing of substance to say this morning, so I droned on as I am wont to do when I am empty-headed and wishing for meaning. I might write again tomorrow. I might.

 

 

Posted in Language, Travel | Leave a comment

Learning Something Every Day

Posted on August 31, 2019 by John Swinburn

I spent much of the day yesterday in tourist-host mode, first accompanying a visiting friend to bathhouse row in Hot Springs, followed by a short stroll along Central Avenue, popping into a few shops and otherwise behaving as a tourist in a tourist town.  I realized I don’t do that enough; I couldn’t answer several predictable tourist questions, nor could I suggest “things to see and do” that would be second nature to any self-respecting Hot Springs tourist guide.

When my friend first arrived late in the afternoon two days ago, we drove into town for dinner at SQZBX, a pizza joint and craft brewery we’ve grown to enjoy. Though we normally would have ordered the Greek pizza, my friend wanted the Wide Load, a meaty beast with the full array one would expect of a supreme meat pizza, so we went that route. Then, we stopped at Kollective Coffee, where Wednesday Night Poetry was in full swing. Kai, the emcee, greeted us with warm hugs; she was happy to see me finally show up after being absent so long. She is an extraordinary poet, a gracious host, and a political activist whose energy is, I think, boundless. I promised I would make myself visible more frequently, but not until after my upcoming travels.

We enjoyed the poetry, especially the feature poet. She read several powerful poems born of her own painful experiences; many of her pieces were gut-punches, but a few were reminders that, even in adversity, we have the ability to grown and enjoy our own power.

Just a few days earlier, Kai asked whether she could count on me being the feature poet on the last Wednesday of October. I made that commitment, so I shall be there to read my more recent poetry. I look forward to that. Just a few years ago, I would have said I had absolutely no interest in reading my writing to an audience; now, I thrive on it.

Yesterday’s visit to “Historic Downtown Hot Springs” was enjoyable. It reminded me that we ought to take time on occasion to pretend to be tourists and guides in our own environment, exploring our home turf as if we were encountering it for the first time or explaining it to other newly arrived visitors. Not only would that force me to learn (or recall) more about the place I currently call home, it would require me to consider all the disparate things in which others might have an interest.

In Hot Springs, such an endeavor would require me to learn more about the town’s “mobster” past, as well as the era during which it was an enormous draw to people who believed its hot spring waters were healing of all manner of maladies. And I would have to learn more about its time as a baseball spring camp and I would need to know the full story of its days as a gambling mecca and the growth of horse-racing as an economic engine that continues to drive it today. The architecture of the town, too, would need my attention so I could explain how the buildings that are just now being restored (or are in the final stages of neglect and disrepair) came to be.

The real history of a place, whether a town or a state of a nation, has so many stories to tell. Getting to know the real story behind a place forces a person to confront its ugliness as well as its beauty; its shame as well as its pride. I read a story this morning (utterly unrelated to anything I’ve written thus far this morning) that reminded me of the importance of broadening one’s horizons. The story was about the assignment of students to roommates in college dormitories. I think it was the University of Wisconsin that, many years ago, used roommate assignments to expand the perspectives of its students. For example, students from poor families were paired with students from well-off families; students who grew up on farms were paired with city-dwellers, etc. The idea was to expose students to a world-view that differed from their own. The university viewed the process of pairing as part of the educational process of expanding the minds of its students. I like the idea. I wish the private dorms surrounding the University of Texas had done such things when I was a student. I lived in a dorm for my first Fall and Spring semester. I lived in a single room, though, because I had learned the previous summer that my friend, with whom I had already agreed to share a room, was intolerable; a selfish, emotionally and intellectually stunted pig. Had the dorm assigned me a roommate, I might have shared a room with a rich kid from New York or a doctor’s child from Beijing or a poor farmer’s son from the poorest part of Columbia. In any case, it would have been forced exposure to a world-widening perspective. Instead, I roomed alone. My social skills at developing friends were not exercised and improved. But that’s a story for another time.

Though my attention yesterday was directed, primarily, at my friend, I overheard bits and pieces of conversations from other tourists. Some seemed intelligent and interested in history. Others seemed dull and interested in entertainment. Others combined the two sets of characteristics into a slurry of “average Jane and Joe” reality. I wondered whether anyone we encountered in passing might have been an architect or a nuclear scientist or a soybean farmer or a plumber’s apprentice. What stories might they have had to tell? I suspect that, whatever they might have had to say, I would have been exposed to something new, something about which I’d never given a moment’s thought.

All people should be required to spend two years of their lives in service to other people. Part of that service should involve listening to the stories of the people they serve. Not just hearing the stories, but internalizing and understanding them. And it would be appropriate to pair people the way the University of Wisconsin once did (and may, again; I only skimmed the story). Republican with Democrat. Militant atheist with evangelical Southern Baptist. Skinhead with a “foreigner with dreadlocks.” Smart-ass kid with elderly retired diplomat. Man with woman. Homophobic white power fanatic with transgender lesbian Black Panther.

After the wounds had healed and the blood had been mopped from the floors, after the assault and battery sentences had been served, I think the people who participated in the endeavor would be more compassionate, more understanding, and more willing to not only tolerate but to accept and embrace people who differ from them in appearance and belief.

Another friend, who visited the Village primarily because of our guest’s presence (and also to see us and other friends), came over for dinner the second night of the visit. I mentioned to her that one important thing missing from the Village is diversity, both in ethnic makeup and in political perspectives. The number of Black, Hispanic, and Asian residents is tiny. Step out of the Village and the numbers rise, but not to the point they should. Yesterday I looked up the demographic composition of Hot Springs; it’s 73 percent, more or less, white. It would be a more intriguing place, I think, if that number were smaller. Diversity is a strength in every community, I think. And its lack is a weakness. And ignorance of the history of the community in which one lives is a weakness. And knowledge of that history is a strength.

Enough babbling. Our guest just awoke from her night of sleep, so I better get ready to spend time with her and welcome the day.

Posted in Friendship, History, Philosophy | Leave a comment

Compensatory Existence

Posted on August 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

I compensate for my shortcomings. If I can. And it’s not always possible. Sometimes, my shortcomings are so extensive, so overwhelming, that it’s simply impossible to overcome them. It feels like I’m trying to perform an appendectomy on an uncooperative boxer who has not been anesthetized; my arms are tied behind my back, I am blindfolded, the only surgical tools available to me are a cross-cut carpenter’s saw and a rubber mallet, and I have no knowledge of anatomy. No matter how much I try to compensate for my shortcomings, I am attempting the impossible.

Sometimes, I feel my only visible attributes are my shortcomings. I could unroll a ten-thousand-foot-long scroll, listing my shortcomings single-spaced in ten-point type and I would need another two scrolls to finish the list. Just compiling the list seems an insurmountable task.

I realize, of course, it’s unhealthy to focus one’s attention on the negative aspects of one’s personality—one’s presence on the planet. Attempting to catalog one’s failings is akin to counting the number of buds that never completed their journey to becoming flowers. There’s no good purpose for the undertaking and it can only lead to a depressing conclusion. Yet there it is. The wheels of the cart get stuck in a deep, petrified rut and stay there until someone comes along with a horse or a tractor and physically drags the cart out of the track. Or shows up with a crosscut saw and a mallet, ignoring the wheels of the cart and eyeing my leg.

Ideally, one identifies one’s shortcomings, develops a plan to overcome them, and sets about the task of becoming a better person. But at what point do we begin from an ideal perspective? Virtually never, I would suggest. Yet, still, we must use the tools available to us and strike out on the journey toward self-improvement. I envision a future me whose failings are visible only in a retrospective autobiography; a book written by a man molded by the sheer force of will and hard work into an admirable human being. The book begins years ago, before his intentional rebirth, in the thousands of pages of self-exploration and stream-of-consciousness expressions that reveal the scope of the required rehabilitation. It continues through a period I’ll call now, through an era of a thousand better tomorrows. All condensed, of course, into a succinct, gripping tale of restoration and renewal.

Books are metaphors for life and all the struggles life entails. They are messy entanglements that, in spite of their chaotic bursts of pain and ecstasy and and sadness and joy, represent the arithmetic mean of our existence. But not always, of course.

Consider the guy who can’t hammer a nail, no matter how much he tries to master the task. He might compensates by perfecting his ability to smoke the near-perfect brisket. Or the woman who can’t carry a note. Her compensatory expression might be creation of sculpture of unparalleled beauty. Or the man who can’t hard-boil an egg; his ability to make children laugh and forget their disappointments compensates for his culinary failures.

Do we consciously compensate, or do we simply stumble into correcting natural failures with natural successes? Sometimes, I know, we compensate for our shortcomings by investing time and energy and discipline in turning them into strengths. The bumbling handyman may, over time, become a finish carpenter—an artist in wood. The howling songstress might evolve into a sensational soprano. It’s all possible. None of it is predetermined. We are who we wish to be, within the context of our desire and the available trappings of change we choose to use.

In a nutshell, we adjust and adapt. We compensate for our shortcomings to the extent that we engage our desire, marry it to our environment, and fashion change from scraps of possibility. My book is only partly written. I will finish it during the course of the months and years to come. I’ll complete it before I complete my life. And that’s the way it should be. I’ll compensate, and that’s enough to make for a happy ending. Many years hence, I hope.

Posted in Philosophy | Leave a comment

Silence

Posted on August 29, 2019 by John Swinburn

Silence can be the savior we did not know we were seeking.
Silence can soften the blows we did not realize we were feeling.
Silence can serve as a weapon, as lethal as a knife and as soft as a pillow.

Silence is the opposite of noise, but far more powerful and more mysterious.
Silence is a faded memory dressed in new clothes, shown only to intimate friends.
Silence is a sharp rebuke and a heartfelt expression of unconditional love.

Silence breaks hearts and heals wounds.
Silence buries enemies and hatchets.
Silence struggles to quell fears and launch joy.

Everywhere you turn your ears, you listen for silence, but it’s somewhere else.

Posted in Poetry, Writing | Leave a comment

Anchor

Posted on August 28, 2019 by John Swinburn

In Macbeth, Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth is ambitious and heartless. She believes her husband is too full of kindness and compassion (the milk of human kindness) to take the most expedient path (the nearest way) toward the Scottish crown. That is, killing the king. Given Macbeth’s character, the suggestion that he is too compassionate paints Lady Macbeth as an especially vile person.

I haven’t read Macbeth, or any of Shakespeare’s plays, in years (which reminds me that I should; I remember very little of the plots of the plays I read long ago). But I’m reminded  regularly in phrases our present-day language borrowed from Shakespeare’s writing. The source of the “milk of human kindness” phrase we use today is this:

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be
What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature,
It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness
To catch the nearest way.

Macbeth Act 1, scene 5

Lady Macbeth considered the “milk of human kindness” a weakness; compassion is the capital of fools, in her jaundiced view of the world.

No, I did not reproduce the quote above from memory; I had to look it up. The same is true of many other phrases we use that can be traced back to Shakespeare’s writing:

  • All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players…
  • If music be the food of love, play on…
  • To be or not to be…
  • A rose by any other name would smell as sweet…

The Unitarian Universalist minister who officiated at my wedding read, at my behest, my favorite Shakespeare sonnet, which appears in my blog and my other writing with some regularity and appears here again:

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Some words and ideas last for eternity, it seems, while some fade away like rose petals growing old and brittle, losing their vitality and flexibility and intrinsic beauty to time and struggle. The words, though, don’t decay; rather, the ideas and images they convey succumb to changing human conditions. The difference between great writing and superfluous drivel is not found in the words themselves but, rather, in the stories they tell and their ability to outlast evolution, at least in the short-term. Here, short-term is relative to the age of the planet.

Emotions and definitions change, as evidenced by “the milk of human kindness.” Compassion was, to Lady Macbeth, a flaw; an unpleasant and dangerous weakness. Today, we ostensibly believe compassion is a virtue. Ostensibly, because I question our collective claim that we believe compassion is virtuous. We need to look no more distant than rallies of Trump supporters. I need not go down that dark, ugly, diseased alley.

People change. The change in language offers evidence of the change in people. Pejoratives become compliments. Compliments become censures. Love becomes hate; or, perhaps, resentful tolerance. But that can’t be, can it? Shakespeare said “Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.” What are we to believe? Shakespeare or our own eyes? Our eyes can deceive us, but so can the meaning of Shakespeare’s words change over time. What once was good becomes bad. What was bad becomes good. Some of Shakespeare’s most famous phrases show up on t-shirts, presented in ways that mock his ideas, suggesting he was dangerously naive. In today’s world, perhaps. But not in his world. Shakespeare hasn’t changed, but the world in which he lived has undergone a radical transformation. Certain aspects of the world of humanity have improved immeasurably. But the transformation’s evil twin shadows change, carrying a torch and an accelerant.

What in the hell am I going on about? Maybe I should clarify. Language and people and society change. In the midst of change, confusion reigns. I’m in the midst of a sea of change, as are we all, thanks to a society in turmoil. Therefore, I’m swimming, trying to keep my head above waves of confusion. I see a life preserver coming my way. No. My God, they’ve thrown me an anchor!

Posted in Emotion, Wisdom, Writing | 1 Comment

Beyond 3000: The Good Fight and Restoring a Lost Culture

Posted on August 26, 2019 by John Swinburn

Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed that my post two days ago, the one entitled My Children, was post number three thousand on this blog. Big whoop-de-doo. So, now, I’ll have to wait until I’ve published 998 more posts, after the one I’m writing at the moment, before I reach another big-deal milestone. That may take awhile. In the meantime, I suspect I’ll dig up plenty of things to write about.

The Good Fight

For example, my infatuation with The Good Fight. It’s a television show that recently captured my attention. More than that. It has absorbed me. I’ve been watching hour-long episodes in binge-mode, ripping through the first season in short order. The show is a spin-off of The Good Wife, a delightfully engaging series starring Julianna Margulies. The stars of The Good Fight include Christine Baranski, who was a star in The Good Wife, as well.

Anyway, about The Good Fight. I recommend it (with an implicit caveat; keep reading). I’ve only watched the first season, but that’s enough for me to endorse the program. But I’m worried that I might not be able to watch all episodes. Powerful media moguls may decide to restrict future seasons’ episodes from the air. There ought to be a law. Word on the street (and in the papers and online) is that CBS plans to restrict future episodes to its paid channel, CBS All Access.

The first episode, in early 2017, was shown on CBS. Subsequent episodes were shown only on CBS All Access, until June of this year, when all ten of the first season’s episodes were shown on CBS. My wife recorded all of them. And, as I said, I’ve watched all of them. But I hunger to watch seasons two and three. And I’ve learned a fourth season has been scheduled. I could wait for years until CBS might release subsequent seasons or I could pay for CBS All Access. CBS made a smart near-term move by releasing the entire first season on over-the-air television; it got people like me hooked on the series, possibly sufficiently addicted to part with money to see the next seasons. While that’s good business for CBS in the short term, I suspect that move may come back to bite them. In future, I will be unlikely to begin watching series that have the potential of hooking me, only to require me to pay to address my addiction. I say that now; we’ll see what the future holds.

Restoring a Lost Culture

Our culture is broken. Mass shootings and gun violence and a host of other chaotic, monstrous acts clearly show that our culture is in free-fall. Civility is under siege. Human decency too often is viewed as weakness. We’re taught by our institutions and even by parents that “I’ am more important that “we.” The social fabric is in tatters; its threads are thin and broken. We’re on the cusp of absolute collapse. Where and how do we start to recover?

I think semi-automatic weapons should be banned. Mandatory background checks should be conducted on every gun sale; even private party sales. The cost of the background checks should be borne by the seller in the case of commercial sales (which, ultimately, will be paid by the buyer in the form of higher prices) and by the buyer in the case of individual sales. Red-flag laws should be enacted to enable the courts to remove access to guns from people deemed by the courts to be a danger to others or themselves. I’m also in favor of confiscating semi-automatic weapons already in the hands of the public; I have no objection to paying the owners of those weapons with public funds. With all of these steps, though, I don’t think the problem of mass shootings will be solved. Nor will mental health interventions identify and prevent potential mass shooters from engaging in their monstrous acts.

Ultimately, I think, a radical change in our culture is needed if we have any hope of successfully addressing the problem of gun violence, including mass shootings. But it’s not just the gun violence that needs to be addressed. It’s the tenor of our interactions in every arena, both public and private.

Changing the culture probably will require electing a different breed of politician at every level of government. A different breed of politician means this: people who speak and act as if our collective values actually matter. The people in office today should be asked to resign, en mass; absent their willingness to do that, they should be forcibly removed by the voters (of which there should be many, many more).

The replacement politicians should recognize that values matter even more than the legal vessels in which they are housed. Laws on the books are so complex that they do not resemble the values they are supposed to uphold and protect; they are just vessels that house those values and, in many cases, hide those values from view.

Schools should focus on those values, as well. Churches should do the same; rather than absorbing the distorted values of today’s politicians, they should focus on the humanitarian values that underlie their religious teaching.

And here’s where the biggest challenge will be: parents. Parenthood should require licensure. Individuals (both male and female) should be licensed to reproduce only after they successfully complete coursework on: 1) agreed societal values and 2) expected parental behaviors. Then, to maintain their licensure and to be authorized to have additional children, third-party evaluation of their children must demonstrate that the children understand and behave in ways that support our values. Wait, who will determine “our values?” I’m perfectly comfortable with relying on an amalgamation of religious texts (with any suggestion of a deity removed) forming the foundation of value definition, provided that atheists and agnostics (as well as representatives of all the major religions) are represented in the groups that propose them.

This may be too restrictive for some, who might claim the concept is a violation of  individual rights. I believe community rights ultimately supersede individual rights. That is something new for me. As much as I value my rights, if by exercising them I infringe on the rights of the community as a whole (or on the rights of other individuals), my rights should be restricted in favor of the greater good.

Parental licensure is sure to be a hot potato; maybe the hottest. So be it. It’s also the most likely to have the greatest impact. Key in the education of children is teaching the importance of community.

There’s so much more. But those, in my opinion, are the most important. At least that’s what I think early this late August morning.

Posted in Complacency, Democracy, Government, Politics, Secular morality | Leave a comment

Harsh Language and Mockery

Posted on August 25, 2019 by John Swinburn

English is a crude, harsh, insensitive language. We ask ,”How old are you?” How crass is that? Let’s put some emphasis on certain words to show just how crude it is. “How old ARE you?” As in, “Are you older than dirt?” Or, “How old are YOU?” That suggests a challenge to the target’s legitimacy or competence.

The language would be gentler and more compassionate if our question were presented from a different perspective: “How young are you?” But that way of putting the question is biased in the other direction. It might be interpreted to mean, “How inexperienced are you?” So, is there no way of inquiring about a person’s age without seeming judgmental and cruel? Of course there is. We could ask, simply, “What is your age?”

In Spanish, though, the question is this: “Cuantos años tienes?” Translated into English, it asks, “How many years do you have?” But German has the same crassness that sullies the English language. Google translates the English “How old are you into the German “Wie alt bist?” But remove the “wie” from the sentence and the translation becomes, “Are you old?” The core question seems geared toward that judgmental query. “Are you old?” That’s the question underlying the curiosity, isn’t it? Yet, when we make an age-related inquiry of a person who obviously has collected considerable experience living, the question can be interpreted to mean, “How long until you die?”

Italian, like Spanish, is a gentler inquiry: “Quanti anni hai?” Again, the literal translation is “How many years do you have?” Bosnian presented the question as follows: “Koliko imaš godina?” The literal translation: “How many years do you have?” Some languages are more polite and less intrusive, even though they are getting at the same thing: “Are you old?”

What if we shift gears and ask “What is your IQ?” Implicit in the question is the underlying curiosity about the target person’s degree of simple-mindedness, isn’t it? We may attempt to imply admiration for the person’s intellect, but the question is really attempting to discern the extent to which we are correct in our estimation that her IQ hovers somewhere around the mid sixties.  Why does IQ matter, by the way? Well, it depends. IQ (AKA intelligence quotient) is said to measure the extent to which a person can acquire and apply knowledge. IQ doesn’t measure a person’s general knowledge of facts; instead, it measures intelligence functions like problem-solving skills, pattern recognition, mathematical logic, and identifying relationships between verbal concepts. IQ matters only to the extent that we need to be able to accurately estimate whether a person can acquire and apply knowledge in those areas. But we tend to treat it like it measures a person’s intrinsic worth. Sort of like we treat age. Young is good if we need strength and agility, whereas old is bad if those are our needs. Young is a bad predictor of capability if we need experience with cunning and treachery, whereas old is a good predictor of those capabilities. [I am smiling as I write this, so please do not have me arrested for age-related libel.]

People with high IQs can join an organization like American Mensa, Mensa International, and (for EXTREMELY intelligent people) the Prometheus Society. Membership labels their members as having above-average intelligence (far above average for the Prometheus Society). The organizations’ members are assumed to be extremely curious. Is there a like organization for those whose IQs are below-average? A fictional organization called Densa, intended to parody Mensa, was dreamed up sometime before the early 1980s. Reliable information about Densa is hard to find. I suspect membership in Densa would be based on achieving extremely low scores on a test that measures general knowledge. A sample question might be, “What is the opposite of up?” The multiple choice options for the answer to the question could be: a) pretty; b) seven; c) elastic; and d) down.

The humor in labeling people “dumb,” whether using a fictitious test or a comparison with people of superior intelligence, equates to the harshness of language. We might as well join the concepts of age and intellect together and ask, “Are you old and stupid?”

I have better ways of asking a person’s age. “How many times have you experienced New Year’s Day?” Or, “How many years ago did your mother give birth to you?” You might be able to get away with, “How old was your mother when you were born?” followed by “How old is she/would she be now?” Those will work only if the person to whom you are talking is not the sharpest knife in life’s drawer. I once asked a woman how old she was when her son was born, after hearing her say her son was eight years old. She caught on right away and embarrassed me by calling me on it.

It’s later than I thought it was. I got up after six, so I’m out of sync with the day. I have to stop attempting to write and be satisfied in the knowledge that I tried and failed.

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My Children

Posted on August 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

Until last night, I’d never thought of what my child might have been like, had I fathered children. I’d never even thought about the “what if” before. Whether a daughter or a son, I’d never considered another human being carrying my DNA and the attendant physical and psychological characteristics. The thought stunned me. It didn’t cause me to wish I’d had children; it only struck me as a possibility I’d never before considered.

What would my son have looked like? What would my daughter’s personality have been like? What would I have looked like; as a father instead of a man without parental obligations? I’m surprised those thoughts had not heretofore entered my mind. At least I don’t think they had.

I don’t know what triggered those thoughts. They arose out of curiosity, not wistfulness. Whatever prompted me to think those thoughts also prompted me to imagine myself as father to an adult son. Would I be proud of him or would I be terribly disappointed that he became a misogynist who joined Proud Boys? If my son were a member, would I be as critical of that far-right neo-fascist organization that promotes political violence as I am now?

A few days ago, I watched a video that showed the mother of a young teenage boy arguing with police officers who had come to arrest him for threatening to shoot up a school. The mother insisted that her son was only playing; he was simply making outrageous statements the way boys sometimes do, she claimed. She could not understand why the police would arrest her perfect little boy. Would I believe my child could do no wrong? Would I defend his threats as simply a matter of “boys will be boys?” I’ll never know, of course. I suspect, though, that I would be fiercely angry with the boy while simultaneously frightened for him and his future.

I said I’d never thought what my children would have been like; and that’s true. But I have said that I think I would have been a bad father. I would have had no patience with a child being a child. That would have shaped my children in damaging ways. They would always be afraid they would not measure up to my standards. And that would crush their psyches in ways I can only imagine.  It’s probable that I would not have been willing to invest as much time with my children as they would have needed. I would have demanded solitude when they most needed a protective parental presence. I would have resented the children for snatching freedom away from me.

And what about my wife as a mother? I suspect she would have been a good one, though it’s possible she would have resented losing the freedom that childlessness affords. People like us should not have children. There’s nothing wrong with choosing to leave child-bearing and child-rearing to people who are better suited to the challenges and who want to have babies. In fact, that choice results in fewer children who suffer from parental neglect or, worse, parental abuse.

Still, it’s interesting to imagine my 35-year-old daughter, Maya, deciding to emigrate from the USA to New Zealand, where she plans to establish a sheep farm and, later, a textile mill that will produce custom wool fabrics for export. I’m proud of her! She has always been a bit of a rebel. And I’m watching Carson, my 33-year-old son who after attending college for two years opted to abandon the drudgery of a higher education in favor of learning a skilled trade. He learned welding and became extremely good at it. After a few years of working as a welder in high-rise building construction, he switched gears and turned his talents to art. Today, he creates elaborate metal sculpture and signage; all of his work is commissioned and he has a three-year wait list of clients who clamor for him.

In addition to Maya and Carson, there’s David, who just turned thirty. David went to college and, finally, finished with a degree in business. After amassing almost $80,000 in student loan debt, he discovered his bachelor’s degree in business was not much in demand. So, after two years of looking for a “suitable” job and one year in jail for stealing copper tubing from building sites, he finally went to work as an assistant manager of a rural RadioShack store in Missouri. When the company declared bankruptcy for the second time in 2017, his store was closed. He then went to work for Dunkers Radio and TV in Atwood, Kansas. He got the job because the store is an authorized RadioShack dealer. He’s not happy there, though. All he does, he says, is stock the shelves and deal with cranky, abusive customers. Despite his unhappiness, he isn’t willing to invest the time or energy necessary to find another job. When he’s not working, he sits in his apartment, drinking cheap vodka and playing video games. His apartment, in McCook, Nebraska, is an hour away from his job. It’s the closest he could find that he could afford. I’ve suggested he look for work in Denver. But he won’t listen to me. Ever since I called the police on his now former wife, a meth addict, he has given me the cold shoulder. He still has some growing up to do.

It’s a surprise that the children turned out as well as they did. We left the three of them at a gas station in Pie Town, New Mexico during a long, aimless road-trip vacation when they were youngsters, before Maya turned ten years old. It wasn’t intentional. We had stopped to get gas and some snacks. The kids got out of the car and ran around the way kids do, burning off energy that drives parents crazy during road-trips. When it came time to leave, we just got in the car and drove off, completely forgetting that the kids were with us. We didn’t realize what we’d done until three hours later, when we got to Winslow, Arizona.  When we realized that we’d left the kids at a gas station, we panicked. We hadn’t paid attention to the name of the town we had stopped in, much less the name of the gas station. Fortunately, it occurred to me that I had the receipt for the gas and the snacks in my wallet. We called the station and they told us the kids were in the custody of the Catron County Sheriff’s Department. Well, the Catron County Sheriff’s Department is not located in Pie Town. It’s in Reserve, New Mexico, a good hour and a half southwest of Pie Town. We called the Sheriff and explained what had happened and that we were on our way back to get the kids. It wasn’t as easy as just stopping and picking them up and leaving.

I tried to make light of the situation by saying to the Sheriff, “Silly us, we forgot we had children.”

The Sheriff was not amused and read us the riot act. Then we were reamed out by a woman from the Grant/South Catron County Children, Youth and Families Department. Two hours after we got to the Sheriff’s office, we left with the kids. They didn’t talk to us for two days after that.

And there you have it. What started as a real-world reflection on what might life might have been like had I fathered children turned into an absurd fantasy. Just like my life. It started out just fine but evolved into an absurd fantasy. I wonder whether I’m just a figment of someone else’s imagination, behaving as a puppet on a string and guided by my owner’s imagination. That’s an ugly thought; “my owner” sounds like a brutal and final pronouncement of a sentence. I’ll change my thought patterns. There, that’s better. I’m a little hungry now, so I’ll make some breakfast and reheat my cold cup of coffee.

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Meticulous Chaos

Posted on August 23, 2019 by John Swinburn

Brighton Davis joined the crowd of women surrounding the car. “What’s going on?”

A distraught woman replied, “There’s a baby in that car! We can’t get the doors or windows open. I’m afraid it might die in this awful heat!”

Brighton sprinted to his car, parked one row over, and opened the trunk. He drew out a hammer and sprinted back to the baby’s car.

“Stand back! I’m going to break the window.” With that, he smashed the front window on the passenger side and reached back through the broken window to unlock the rear door.

The baby’s eyes were closed and beads of sweat covered its forehead and cheeks. Brighton unbuckled the belt holding the child in the car seat and pulled the baby out of of the car.

Brighton, holding the baby tight against his chest, turned and ran toward his car.

A chorus of voices followed him. “What are you doing?”

“Where are you going?”

“Sir.  Sir!”

“I’m taking him to the hospital. There’s no time to waste. The child needs medical care.” With that explanation, Brighton jumped in the car, still holding the baby close to him, started the engine, and sped away.

Three of the women had the presence of mind to try to take photos of the car’s license plate. Two of them also got photos of Brighton’s back as he rushed toward the car. The plate numbers did no good, though. They belonged to a blue 2017 Kia Soul, registered to a woman in hospice care in Charlotte, North Carolina; not to the orange 2019 Ford Mustang that left with the child.

The crowd of irate women who had been ready to bludgeon the child’s mother when they saw the baby in the hot car softened as the reality of the baby’s abduction sank in.

Police checked every hospital in the area. None of them had treated a baby for heat-related illness that day. The child’s mother, a recent widow who had left the baby in the car, told the police nothing of consequence in locating the child.

“I am driving to visit my parents in Atlanta,” she sobbed as she explained to the police what she had been doing at the mall. “I stopped to use the bathroom. I was gone for no more than fifteen minutes.”

Her story checked out. She left her home in Portland, Maine the day before and spent the previous night in a motel in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The only thing about her story that seemed slightly odd was her decision to get off I-81 and drive down I-581 to Valley View Mall. But her explanation was believable: “I knew how to get there because I’ve been to this mall before when I visited friends who used to live in Roanoke. I knew this place has good bathrooms.”

Brighton Davis seemed an unlikely opportunistic kidnapper. He was unmarried, forty-three years old, and traveled extensively for his job as an airport architect, sometimes spending months at a time in places like Hong Kong and London and Zagreb. He had no time for a baby. But, then, he apparently had time to steal an orange 2019 Ford Mustang; it was reported stolen from a dealership in Lynchburg, Virginia only two days earlier. And apparently he had time to steal the plates off a blue 2017 Kia Soul located three hours away.

Newspaper accounts of the abduction said the mother was suffering through a second trauma with the child’s kidnapping. Her husband had been killed just three months earlier in a random drive-by shooting in Washington, DC, where he had been visiting with Congressional representatives on behalf of his employer, the Portland International Jetport.

There’s something fishy about this story. Something’s just not quite right. Where is the baby? 

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Inner Peace

Posted on August 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

Inner peace.

Where does one go to find it? I’m not someone with experience in the elusive object of our aspiration, but I’ve read quite a lot about it. After reading and thinking about how people embrace tranquility so fully it becomes part of them, I have some ideas.

First, a person must be open to serenity. Not necessarily engaged in an active search for it, mind you, but willing to allow it to slip into one’s consciousness. I suspect the energy spent in an active search for inner peace would generate so much mental “heat” that tranquility would burn to ashes during the hunt. So, one must be willing to gently embrace a state of mental calm if and when it comes.

Next, one must be willing to abandon thoughts and activities that intrude on quietude. I do not know what thoughts and activities interfere with calmness; perhaps all thoughts have the capacity to derail our efforts to achieve inner peace. Maybe that’s why meditation seems to be an almost requisite endeavor for people seeking serenity. Meditation can, I am told, empty one’s mind of thoughts, replacing them with images or sounds that act almost like anesthetics; but they don’t dull the senses.

Another aspect of finding serenity, I’ve read, is accepting oneself without judgement. The idea is that we are not who we were, but who we are at this moment, having shed all the blemishes of history. Depending on who is writing about this element of finding inner peace, it requires either forgiveness of oneself or abandonment of the person we once were in favor of the person we wish to be. For me, that seems to be the most overwhelming stumbling block. I find it virtually impossible to forgive who I was and who I am. I would have to abandon my old self; that would require amnesia, because otherwise the memories would haunt me. I remember, when I was in junior high school, bullying a younger kid. I don’t even recall his name; that failure of memory means I can’t even find him to apologize. That flaw is by no means my only one and not my worst one. But, collectively, they paint a picture of someone I’d rather not be. But, still, maybe abandonment really is an option. Maybe.

Finally (maybe), finding inner peace necessarily involves engaging with others in ways that don’t interfere with their path in the march toward finding it. I think that must require active efforts to avoid reacting to one’s environment and, instead, responding to it. The difference between reacting and responding is a bit hard to explain, but I think it’s essential. Reacting is automatic and unthinking; it allows one’s reptilian brain to control our actions. Responding is analytical and measured; it requires us to process inputs and allows us to behave in ways that enhance communication. This non-intrusive engagement requires both empathy and compassion, two internal traits that I think most (but not all) people have but that can be trained (or beat) out of them.

So, where does one go to find inner peace? It’s in one’s head. It’s there, but it must be taken out of it cage, groomed, fed appropriately, and allowed to grow. I make it sound easy; it’s not. The cage is surrounded by by a thick webs of steel chains padlocked to one another and to the cage. Depending on how much rust must be removed from the locks, they may be very difficult to unlock. The chains are heavy and cumbersome. The hinges of the door to the cage are old and corroded; the door must be forced. But, wait, didn’t I say “I suspect the energy spent in an active search for inner peace would generate so much mental “heat” that tranquility would burn to ashes during the hunt.”? Yes, indeed. I said that. And that means one must first attempt to unlock the cage, doing everything in one’s power to remove the chains and the locks. Only then, when the one’s energy is spent and the cage is open, can one be open to allowing serenity to slip in.

I am like the consultant who offers expert advice on matters with which he has no experience. The advice may be good, but the consultant cannot point to examples in his own experience to prove it. And so it is with me and inner peace. I wish us all luck in finding it.

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Hunger and Everything Else

Posted on August 21, 2019 by John Swinburn

Those of us who have the luxury of savoring our food, instead of scraping just to get enough to survive, are extremely fortunate, indeed. Sometimes, when I’m in the midst of looking at recipes and thinking how delicious they might taste, I’m suddenly struck with an overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt. Here I am, over-fed and moderately happy, musing over how a spice might add a certain flavor to a protein, while somewhere nearby a person, maybe a child, is struggling to find barely enough food to stay alive. I don’t know if guilt is the right word. It’s shame, too; shame that I know hunger is a very real problem but that I’m doing very little to help solve it.

It’s not just about providing food to the hungry. It’s about teaching the unemployable the right skills so they can get a job and buy their own food. it’s about giving kids an education so they can escape the cycle of poverty into which they were born. It’s about convincing corporate overlords that a slight increase in shareholder profits is not a sufficient reason to shutter a factory and move somewhere else, leaving hundreds of people without work. It’s about persuading a grocery store chain to place a store in a “food desert.” There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of other actions that can be taken to alleviate the problem of hunger.

Hunger is just one of the maladies shaping our world. Pollution, climate change, violence, political instability, natural disasters. The list could go on for pages and pages. Thinking about all the problems that affect humanity and planet Earth can paralyze a person into absolute inaction; there are too many problems and not enough solutions…I’m just one person and I can’t have an impact on problems that are so much bigger than me.

Yes, but as I’ve been hearing on a regular basis on Sundays of late, “you can’t do everything, but you can do something.” I often encounter this quote, attributed to Paul Spear (an English comedian and actor), “As one person I cannot change the world, but I can change the world of one person.” I’m trying this morning, but I still feel the shame of how little I’m doing in light of how much I know needs to be done.  I like the attitude the quote represents. I’ll try to adopt it if I can.

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The Dangers of Dissection

Posted on August 20, 2019 by John Swinburn

At 5:33 a.m. this morning, I learned about a company called Mopec, an organization founded in 1922. The firm sells all manner of American-made medical equipment and laboratory products to the pathology, histology, necropsy, autopsy, and mortuary industries. Among those products are several dissection tables, including a two-body rotating table; the two-body model calls for the two cadavers to weigh within twenty pounds of one another to ensure good table balance. Another product is a dissecting table with a dip tank (with a capacity of just under 120 gallons), advertised as “ideal for anatomy classes at teaching hospitals and universities.”

I came across the Mopec website while searching for something that, quite probably, does not exist: a psychic dissection table. But I looked for it anyway, just to be sure. The concept of a psychic dissection came to me as I considered what we might find if, instead of examining the physical aspects of a cadaver, we had the capacity to examine how experience and thought had shaped its life. What would we find if we were able to conduct an experiential, psychological, emotional autopsy? I suspect we’d find the sort of stuff that breaks hearts and triggers emotional meltdowns.

After coming up empty-handed in my search for psychic dissection tables, I switched gears, figuring I might inform my imagination by adapting my fanciful dissection in a  real-world setting. So, I looked for plain old dissection tables. That’s when I came across Mopec. During the course of skimming its website, along with a few others, my interest in psychic dissection waned; my curiosity about the equipment used in the “pathology, histology, necropsy, autopsy, and mortuary industries” waxed.

A fascinating discovery was the existence of several different autopsy saws, each with a different intended use. For example, there’s the Model 810 Stryker Autopsy Saw, “used for removing the cranial cap, making linear cuts or sectioning small bone specimens.” At $2419, it is not something one is apt to purchase on a whim; you have to be serious about autopsies to part with that kind of money. And where you have autopsy saws, you’re apt to have embalming sinks and cadaver storage racks. Of course, if you’re in the autopsy business, you’ll need scissors, forceps, knives, probes, and scalpels, as well as body bags. The variety of available body bags is truly stunning, as is their price range; from $14.68 to $249. The chalk calvaria elevator, 4-prong blunt flesh retractor, and double-ended section lifter are among a phalanx of other specialty tools created specifically for conducting autopsies (though, I suspect, some of the tools may be used in surgery, etc.). Fascinating!

I came across a dissecting kit for small animals at only $138.52 and a dissecting kit, student at only $103.96 (I assume the kit is not for dissecting students).

Specialty products come with premium prices. That’s true in virtually every industry and profession. Mass-market products can be mass-produced and, therefore, can be priced accordingly. But products that have limited markets, even if those markets are significant, just cost more. Mind you, most of the products sold by Mopec (not the supplies, but the equipment) are made from high-end stainless steel; that, in itself, means the prices will be high.

During my excursion into the world of cutting up dead bodies, it occurred to me that the terms autopsy and necropsy seem to be used interchangeably. In fact, a quick run to the dictionary suggests that is, in fact, the case. Why, then, I wonder are the two terms used in the same website to describe uses for different products?  I suppose I would have to contact Mopec to get an answer to that question. It’s not sufficiently important to me to make the inquiry, but I am curious about it.

While scurrying about, looking for answers about dissection equipment, it occurred to me that the fluids collected during the process of autopsies and such must be disposed of properly. I haven’t reached the point of learning just how that is done, but thinking of it caused me to jump to give thought to another specialty industry: wastewater/waste treatment. Naturally, I started exploring the equipment required to treat wastewater so as to make it at least safe, if not drinkable. And that little diversion led me to the realization that different types of wastewater/waste have different requirements for treatment. The specialization gets more and more complex.

To think, this wasted time that will never lead me to any answers of real consequence evolved from an imaginary exploration of psychic dissection. It’s a sure sign of madness, I tell you. This little brain of mine sometimes seems like it’s on high-dose uppers, even when it’s just French roast coffee doing its job.

 

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Bless Your Soul

Posted on August 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

The price the fellow offered to pay was more than Sleet McMaster could pass up. So, after an obligatory period of haggling, Sleet agreed to the terms: McMaster’s soul in return for thirty years of exorbitant wealth.

“Just to clarify,” McMaster said after their requisite handshake, “I relinquish my soul at the end of thirty years…after I’ve collected full payment from you.”

“I don’t do business that way,” the man replied. “I’ll pay you over a thirty year period for your soul, which I want right now.”

“What the hell? You didn’t take out a mortgage on my soul; I said I’d sell it. How am I supposed to live for thirty years without a soul?”

“Not my problem, Sport. You should have thought of the practicalities before you jumped on the deal. Greed will kick you in the nuts every time!”

“Look, I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. You can have my soul, but I want you to live up to your end, too. What’s to keep you from taking my soul and then reneging on the thirty year payment?”

“Nothing, actually. But I’ve never reneged on a deal yet and I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years.”

“Thirty-five years? I thought you’d been doing this since Adam and Eve.”

“Who are Adam and Eve?”

“What do you mean, ‘Who are Adam and Eve?’ They’re the source of original sin. I mean, you’re Satan. You should know that!”

“I beg your pardon? I’m not Satan. I can understand from the context of our transaction why you might think it, but, no, I’m Tim Ledbetter. Just a soul trader. Well, not just a soul trader. I’m the best there is. Like I said, I’ve been doing this for thirty-five years.”

“Listen, you misrepresented yourself, so the contract is null and void…”

“…the hell it is! And I did not misrepresent myself. In your hurry for a quick buck, you just failed to do your due diligence.” Ledbetter’s beet red face and clenched fists highlighted the intensity of his anger.

“Okay, okay, don’t get crazy on me. How ’bout we work a compromise, okay? You can have my soul, but you wait ten years to collect. That way, I have ten years with my soul intact and you still get my soul.  I get my payment. Everybody’s happy. Listen, the deal is still on, we just fiddle with the terms.”

“You want to renegotiate the terms after the deal’s done? Okay, I’m flexible. I’ll meet you half way. I’ll wait ten years to collect, but you only get fifteen years of wealth. Take it or leave it. If you leave it, I’m taking your soul right here, right now.”

The stoop of McMaster’s shoulders and the look in his eyes expressed his defeat. Ledbetter probably had seen those signs of resigned failure in hundreds of people during his thirty-five year career. But that’s only supposition because, as you know, we’re not privy to his thoughts.

“Wait,” you’re saying about now, “who are you talking to? This is a little confusing.”

I’m not “talking” to anyone, dear reader, but I’m writing to you. That’s right, I’m interrupting my story to engage you in conversation. Let’s just drop the quotation marks, okay? They seem a bit pretentious, inasmuch as this is a one-on-one conversation between you and me. Let me fill you in, ex parte, on some details about Ledbetter and McMaster.

First, McMaster. He is the personification of greed and sloth. The man is lazy on steroids, but he’ll clean up his act for a moment if he smells an opportunity to make a buck. He’s an advertising copywriter by profession, if you call such a noxious endeavor a profession. He doesn’t do much writing, though. Instead, he skims magazines, looking for catchy phrases. He marks them with a yellow highlighter and, later, has his secretary create lists of phrases from the words he marks and then uses them to craft ad campaigns. In other words, he’s a word recycler who’ll sell those words to the highest bidder.

Now, about Ledbetter. The one word that best describes him is this: delusional. He can no more trade souls than a Siamese cat can speak Portuguese through a drinking straw. But he talks a big game. Scares the hell out of people. Makes them think he’s Satan or Satan’s diabolical twin. But, like I said a moment ago, I don’t know what’s in his head, not really. What would cause a man to lure people into bogus contracts to sell their souls? I haven’t the foggiest idea. But it’s interesting to watch.

Back to the situation at hand. I’ve seen this scene with McMaster and Ledbetter play out hundreds of times. Not with McMaster…he’s a new mark…but with Ledbetter. He attracts offbeat targets with the scent of money, then springs the trap with a cockamamie story about buying their souls for preposterous sums of money. “Money for nothing,” as the song lyrics say.

Well, McMaster was especially easy prey, it seems. He had just invested the last bit of money to his name in a business that was doomed to failure from the start. He’d had the absurd notion that he could sell his recipe for spicy chicken and papaya corn dumplings. He paid five thousand dollars for a web site and hired a competing ad agency to create an ad campaign. (If that doesn’t tell you how much confidence he had in his marketing capabilities, I don’t know whether you’re going to be able to cross the street by yourself.) When the agency finished creating the campaign (and, in the process, emptied another $80,000 from his 401K accounts),  McMaster paid a food marketing guru a flat $14,750 fee to get Costco to let him offer free samples of his dumplings. It seems his expectation was that, once people tasted them, they would happily pay $39.95 to buy the recipe. Not only did people not want to buy his recipe, most of them who tasted his samples took one bite and spit it into the trash bins next to the demo stand, where they also discarded the uneaten remains of the dumpling they had just tasted. The web site did no better. At the end of 90 days, it had received a total of only 71 hits.

That little fiasco is what made McMaster such an easy mark for Ledbetter’s pitch. McMaster was flat broke and the riches beyond his wildest dreams that Ledbetter offered spoke to him in a language he could understand. Plus, McMaster probably never really believed in souls. Souls were the brain-children of people who couldn’t face the fact that humans are just animals that die and decompose, an ignominious end to an artificially fanciful existence.

To bring this little tale to a rapid conclusion, McMaster and Ledbetter came to a mutually agreeable compromise. McMaster expected unlimited wealth and Ledbetter expected another soul to add to his collection. What neither expected was an out-of-control van careening around the corner as they stepped out of the alley at the corner of First Street and Avenue M. The van, its side painted with the words “First Baptist Church of Trinity Acres,” was full of  youthful zealots on their first indoctrination field trip to the seedier side of town. The van’s driver, Pastor Bob Jeffress, if he saw McMaster and Ledbetter at all, saw them through bloodshot eyes. Pastor Jeffress’ blood alcohol level, at 0.242, was three times the legal limit. Neither McMaster nor Ledbetter had a chance of survival; the van’s speed on impact was estimated to be 55 miles per hour.

As you might imagine, the incident caused quite a stir in church circles. Pastor Jefress spent several months in jail before being tried and convicted of vehicular manslaughter, which was followed by a sentence of five to fifteen years in prison. Fortunately for him, Governor Sarah Sanders, a long-time member of the First Baptist Church of Trinity Acres, immediately commuted his sentence.

The uproar following the commutation led to an investigation of the relationship between Jeffress and Sanders, which revealed their years-long extramarital affairs, both with each other and with several others unnamed in this story. Given the endemic hypocrisy one finds in both government and organized religion, the affairs were readily forgiven by the parties’ supporters. But, after their marriage to one another, both were arrested for bigamy, inasmuch as they did not bother to divorce their respective spouses before getting married. That infraction, we learned, was unforgivable. And, we also learned, the punishment was equally harsh. They both were sentenced to death by hanging and firing squad, the sentences to be carried out simultaneously. Public executions, which had been brought back during Sanders’ first term in office, attracted crowds in excess of eighty-thousand. Food trucks park on the streets around the execution site, offering execution-viewers a number of options for lunch: Indian, Chinese, soul food (hmmm), Panamanian, hamburgers, hot dogs, Peruvian (check out the roasted guinea pigs, they’re delicious!), and several Uzbek and Mongolian choices.

On the day of the executions…wait, you’re wondering how I’m bringing this tale to a “rapid conclusion,” aren’t you? Well, I understand. So I’ll just stop here. But, really, try the Peruvian food truck if you get a chance.

 

 

 

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Kisses and Stings

Posted on August 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

Hypnic Jerks

I experience, with some regularity, something I have come to be believe (as of yesterday afternoon) are hypnic jerks, involuntary muscle contractions that some people experience as they are falling asleep. These involuntary spasms also are known as hypnagogic jerks, sleep starts, sleep myoclonus, and excessive fragmentary myoclonus. Hiccups, by the way, are a form of myoclonus, not that it’s related to this discussion. Never had I heard most of the terms until yesterday afternoon, when I stumbled across them from an online link.

Mine (the sleep-related hypnic jerks, not the myoclonus hiccups) tend to take place while I’m sitting in front of my computer, rather than in bed. Especially late in the afternoon, I can be mindlessly reading something online when I am startled to feel like I’m about to fall off a cliff at the precise instant my body jerks. I guess I’m about to drift off to sleep, but my body warns me against it for some reason. From what I’ve read thus far, they’re more frequently experienced by people who are in bed, about to fall asleep. I want to know more about hypnic jerks. Someday I will, but I doubt today is the day.

Men Want to be Heroes

I heard the tail end of a story on NPR yesterday afternoon that, I gather, dealt with a group of people who individually and in small non-governmental groups go to war-torn areas to offer help in any way they can. A man who once was a special operations operative (with the Army, I suppose) spoke about his reasons for putting himself in danger. “All men want to be heroes,” he said. “We all want to save someone’s life.” As embarrassed as I am to acknowledge it, I think he’s right. My childhood hero fantasies never disappeared. Of course I’ve never done anything heroic, but I’ve daydreamed about it. I wonder why that is? Would being a “hero” somehow add worth and value to one’s life?  Or is that fantasy a subliminal psychological acknowledgement that one’s life is missing value? I wonder how many men feel that desire to be heroes? I wonder how many would be willing to admit it? Men in general, I think, are incredibly fragile in some ways. The really strong ones admit their fragility, while the others (the vast majority) hide it behind masks of bravado and stoicism. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m like most men, nor am I one of the strong ones.

Bacon-Wrapped Scallops

I took responsibility for last night’s dinner, which consisted of bacon-wrapped scallops, roasted in the oven at 425 for about 13 minutes. In addition, we had steamed asparagus, and sliced tomatoes and onions. I liked the scallops, but my wife was not particularly impressed. She said she prefers my usual way of cooking scallops: seared in butter on a skillet. I actually prefer that, too, but I really liked the pairing of bacon and scallop flavors. Maybe I’ll figure out a way to combine seared scallops with bacon next time around. And the stalks of asparagus, though nice and thin, were rather woody.

 

The Wisdom of Benjamin Franklin

Though I’m not a believer, I do believe in a quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin, but probably not uttered by him: “Beer is proof God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Where that came from, I do not know, but I like it.

According to something else I read online, the reality is this. He wrote in a letter to Abbé Morellet: “Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards; there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine; a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.” As I see it, he was communicating to a French man, so wine was the appropriate vessel for the message; it could have just as easily have been beer.

Margie Reckard and Antonio Basco

Margie Reckard was one of twenty-two people killed in El Paso during the mass shooting a few weeks ago. Her husband of 22 years, Antonio Basco, survives. He was concerned that, because they had moved to El Paso only a few years ago, her funeral service would be sparsely attended. Thanks to traditional and social media, the story of his concern got out. People from around the country attended her memorial. Flowers and well-wishes were sent from around the world. The overwhelming outpouring of support for Basco in one of his darkest hours moved me to tears. An image of one of Reckard’s sons from a previous marriage, crying, was incredibly moving. I sometimes wonder how the horrors visited upon this world can occur in the presence of such overwhelming concern and love. But the horrors continue, unabated. And we do nothing to stem the flow. Are we all cowards, or is it just our elected representatives?

Nudity

I know, I know. I mentioned nudity in a post just a few days ago. But bear with me for a moment while I expound again on the potential value of “going nekkid.” Aside from the obvious freedom nudity affords to the nude, it has the potential of getting children (and adults) out of sweatshops. I’m sure you’ve read about the horrendous conditions under which workers toils in clothing manufacturing facilities, especial in Asia countries. Those of us in the west, with an insatiable appetite for inexpensive clothes, that follow corporate fashion trends contribute to those conditions. Our materialism and lust for the latest and greatest clothing design feeds that ugliness. Nudity would shut that bastard down!  Let’s either get over our titillation over the human body or let’s accept the human body as the inescapably alluring sex machine it is! If the latter, let’s just cast off our modesty about casual sex in public places and accept lust and carnal desire as natural and nothing to be upset about. I’m not asking that this be done tomorrow; let’s give it a generation before we legislate and mandate nudity (except for sunscreen and to reduce the discomfort of winter chills). You might think I’m not serious. I’m deadly serious. I’d just like someone else to take the lead on this.

Ghosting

I learned, by reading an article on the BBC website, that there’s a term for the practice of leaving a job without notice and without explanation: ghosting. Though I’ve never done it, it has been done to me. More than once. People who seemed perfectly decent employees just left and didn’t return after a few days on the job. In a couple of cases, they were offered other jobs for which they interviewed before accepting my offer. In another case (or two?), I think they probably felt they were in over their head. So, instead of admitting the reason they were leaving (and giving adequate notice), they just left.

A company in Japan has a quitting service, called Exit, that will resign on behalf of employees. For a fee equivalent to roughly $457, the service will provide an employee’s resignation in absentia. That seems a bit different from simply not showing up without notice or explanation, but it accomplishes the same thing, more or less. The article also relates the story of a contractor who simply disappears without explanation and, later, someone contacts the company on behalf of his family, requesting tax information. The family claims the contractor died in an auto accident. But the company searches social media and finds a photo of the contractor that disproves that claim. Interesting. Faking one’s death to get out of an unwanted job.

The term, ghosting, apparently evolved out of a similar practice in dating. One party to the relationship simply ceases all contact with no explanation. That sounds pretty cowardly and crass to me. But, then, I’ve been out of the dating scene for roughly 43 years, maybe longer. And, truth be told, I was never really in the dating scene to start with.

Belts

I need a new belt. But it’s hard to find a belt of the correct length. I don’t buy belts on the basis of waist size. I buy them on the basis of belt length. But belt sellers sell them on the basis of waist size; like other items of clothing, waist size varies wildly, depending on who’s selling the product. So, when I buy a belt, I have to have a tape measure with me. I know exactly how long I want the belt to be. If, like yesterday, I forget to take a tape measure with me, I can’t buy a belt. You might ask why I don’t just try it on? If I take off the belt that’s holding up my pants, my pants will plummet to the floor, that’s why.

Kisses and Stings

I had to come up with a name for this post, so I decided I’ll call it kisses and stings. No particular reason; it’s just what popped into my mind.

 

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Old Canadian Misfits

Posted on August 17, 2019 by John Swinburn

There are so many possibilities for this little vignette. But I’m getting tired of writing it and I don’t have the mental stamina even to go back and tighten up what I’ve written. Instead, I’ll leave it as a foundation for a future stab at writing a full-fledged story. This is what happens when one encounters insomnia, again, in the wee hours of the morning.

Once upon a time an old man by the name of Codger McDougal lived in a cabin in the backwoods of the Canadian north country. Codger built that cabin when he was a young man with a different identity and a promising future. Back then, when he was just thirty years old, he went by the name of Jeremy Chag. He had been an apprentice metal fabricator or fitter, well on his way to becoming a journeyman, when his life appeared to have come apart at the seams.

Jeremy’s cabin, which was to be a hunting and fishing retreat, was almost finished when things started to go haywire. One Sunday afternoon, upon returning to his home in the town of Orilla on Lake Simcoe, he was met at his front door by officers of the Ontario Provincial Police.

The stone faces of Sergeant Major Conner Stipple and Detective Sergeant Leona Bywaters suggested the purpose of their visit was grave. And indeed it was.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about your relationship with Mary Margaret Embra,” Stipple said.

“Yes, what of it?” Chag responded.

“When did you see her last? And where?”

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe last Wednesday or Thursday. What’s this about?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Bywaters piped in, “and then we’ll fill you in on what you need to know.”

Stipple continued. “Where did you last see her?”

“At work. I checked in at the head office to get my assignment and she was there. She gave me my assignment and I left.”

“And that was last Wednesday or Thursday? Try to be more specific. Was that the last time you checked in to get an assignment?”

“Yeah. I took some time off in lieu. I have quite a few banked hours, so I took some. I went to spend some time in the woods.”

“You didn’t answer my questions. What day did you go spend time in the woods? And what do you do when you ‘spend time in the woods’? Are you a hunter?”

“I guess it was Thursday. So I must have been to head office on Wednesday. That would have been the last time I saw her.”

Bywaters chimed in again. “But you first said it was Wednesday or Thursday. How could you have thought you might have seen her Thursday if that was the day you took off for the woods?”

“I don’t pay much attention to the calendar. I just work when I have to and go out in woods when I can. Would you tell me what this is all about?” Chag’s voice was louder than before and his cheeks had begun to flush with pink.

“Well,” Stipple said, “Ms. Embra has disappeared. And we’ve been told you were in a relationship with her. Is that true?”

Chag’s eyebrows snapped at Stipple’s words. “No…well, I wouldn’t call it a relationship. We spent a little time together is all. And that’s been a while back. Wait, you say she disappeared? Like vanished?”

“Let’s just say no one has come forward to tell us where we might find her. We were hoping you might be able to help.” The edge had gone from Bywaters’ voice.

“When did she disappear?”

“She hasn’t been seen since last Wednesday morning, about the time you say you checked in for assignments.” Bywaters’ hesitated for a moment, then continued, ” That’s not to say you had anything to do with her disappearance.”

Stipple shot a sideways glare at Bywaters.

Thanks to a sloppy investigation and inept investigators, the OPP developed no evidence that a crime had been committed, but the rumors and innuendo surrounding Jeremy Chag did not need evidence. Even though the investigation was eventually abandoned, the stories about Chag’s relationship with the woman did not die. And those rumors made it impossible for Chag to stay on the job. Even after he left his employer, the rumors followed him. He couldn’t get work. Less than a year after the visit by the OPP, Jeremy Chag changed his name legally to Codger McDougal.

Even though the former Jeremy Chag had considerable experience as a metal fabricator, he opted to return to the Ontario College of Trades as Codger McDougal and become an entry-level apprentice. But that did not work out. Codger began drinking heavily. First on weekends, then weeknights, and finally whenever he thought he could swallow a swig without being seen. But, of course, he was seen. And, after wasting too many opportunities to turn his life around, losing job after job after job, he was out of choices.

Codger McDougal never told anyone he was building a cabin. When he said anything about his treks into the north country, he said he was going camping. “Spending some time in the woods,” was his refrain. He finished his cabin six months before he lost his last job, during one of his rare sober periods. During the course of construction, before the meltdown, he had dug a well, installed solar panels, and built a septic system, making his little cabin in the woods a fully functioning, self-reliant home. Once the last bit of trim was installed, he returned to his house in Orilla, loaded his belongings into a borrowed panel truck, and moved lock, stock, and barrel to his hermit’s getaway. By that time, he was four months in arrears on his mortgage (still in the name of Jeremy Chag) and six months behind on the payments on his very expensive Ford F-150 pickup. He couldn’t take his house with him, but the following day he drove his pickup to his cabin and disappeared into the woods outside Sahanatien, Ontario.

About the same time Codger McDougal skipped out on his financial obligations, Detective Sergeant Leona Bywaters was placed on administrative leave for an infraction the OPP kept confidential. Whatever it was, the offense was sufficiently serious that her employment with the OPP was terminated without fanfare three months later.

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