John Swinburn

David Copperfield and Great Expectations both were written in the first person. Neither novel, nor their plot lines, have anything to do with what’s on my mind this morning. But, like most of what I write, relevance often is out of place in my thought processes.

No, what’s on my mind this morning is how unusually well-kept the guest room is this morning. That’s the room that also serves as my little-bitty study, since the air in the room that was to be my study when we first moved to this house is impossible to condition, thanks to poor HVAC planning and enormous windows that magnify heat gain or heat loss, depending on the position of the sun and the northern hemisphere’s seasons. The reason the little-bitty study/guest room is so remarkably tidy this morning is that we expected a guest to occupy it overnight last night. A woman with whom I used to work contacted me to say she would be in Hot Springs for a “celebration of life” for a deceased friend; she suggested we get together and I agreed. Because of the timing of her visit, my wife and I expected she would stay overnight and would return to Dallas this morning. My friend suggested she would stay over, too, because she does not like to drive in the dark. And, because yesterday was the only scheduled screening at my church of a documentary I hoped to see, I invited her to join us in watching American Heretics: The Politics of the Gospel. She said it sounded interesting.

When she arrived yesterday afternoon, around 1 pm, she said she might not stay the night, after all. She might drive back to Dallas after the screening, which would be over by 5. And she did. She left around 5:30. I assume she got home before 11 last night. Based on our earlier communication (before she arrived), I expected she would stay with us. But the expectation was not met. It was, fortunately, an insignificant expectation. My world was not upended. But the expectation led me to tidy up the guest room…fresh sheets, clearing away computer and paper clutter and the like. The room could use periodic tidying, so all was not lost with her decision to drive back. Were I the driver, I wouldn’t have done it. Driving several hours in the dark on a crowded four-lane highway is not my idea of fun. But that’s just me.

My wife opted not to go to the film, even though she was looking forward to it. She’s wrestling with a trio of health issues that makes going out a little unpleasant and challenging, so she decided to stay home. Ach. If it ever comes out on Netflix, I’ll be sure to let her know so she can view it.

What about the film? My friend said she enjoyed it. I did, as well. Last night, though, I read some reviews of the film, one of which caused me to consider matters I hadn’t considered during the “heat of the emotional validation” provided by the film. Regardless, I found the film both informative and, to a degree, inspirational.

My jocular language this morning notwithstanding, I’m feeling a little down for no specific reason. It’s the sort of down that’s cured by time; nothing else seems to work, though I haven’t tried everything (like little blue pills, syringes full of narcotics…that sort of everything). But it’s also the kind of down that seems it will never end, even though I know it will, eventually. It’s a low-grade hopelessness made modestly worse by a light grey, yet bright, sky. I can imagine how easy it would be to get addicted to drugs that would erase this dull despondency.

The grey clouds are thinning, allowing spots of blue to appear, so the sky is attempting to improve my attitude. I hope it succeeds. I’d like to feel more enthusiastic about facing the day.

It’s strange, isn’t it, that I’ve been glued to coverage of the New Hampshire primary this evening? Perhaps not. The battle between Democratic candidates for President offers some hope that we may see the demise of the demon in the White House before many more months pass. But I remain afraid. I remain concerned that democracy may be in the grips of a maniac who is doing his damnedest to hold it under water for an extended period, hoping to drown it in preparation for seizing power on a permanent basis.

At some point, we may reach the point that all of us may understand the crucial need for revolution. But, by then, it may be too late. Is it beyond the realm of possibility that Americans might be unable to come to grips with our own battle with dictatorship?

Democrats and, I hope, independents are likely to realize the seriousness of the situation early on. But Republicans don’t seem to understand that they are supporting the dismantling of democracy by supporting the orange idiot. At some point will they, too, come to understand that our only hope might well be open rebellion? Will they, too, realize that insurrection could be our only hope?

I would hate for Lincoln’s words to have to be relived again: “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.” But I’m afraid that may well be how this plays out.

Let’s hope I’m simply being overly dramatic. I do hope that’s the case. If not, I fear we’re doomed.

Facebook gave me an opportunity to change the “old look” to the new. I took them up on it. I loathed the new look. I wasn’t crazy about the old one, either, but the new look reminded me of the great, great grandchildren of self-absorbed millenials. So I went back to the original look. Uninspired, fundamentally ugly. But I was used to it. Ach! I hate the idea that I might be devolving into a problematic geezer whose primary measures of quality depend on “the way it used to be.” I’d rather slash my wrists. (Though, in all honesty, I’ve never done that; I can’t actually say I’d rather do that. I don’t even want to try. So let’s leave it at that.)

Yet I brand myself an adventurer. Or something like it. I am willing to thrust myself into new experiences. And, I usually enjoy them. But the idea of some new experiences does not appeal to me. Until I actually experience them. So maybe I’d like the sensation of a knife slicing into my jugular vein; but I doubt it. Seriously. I’m almost certain that would not appeal to me in the least.

It’s only 6:02 and I’m drinking a gin & tonic. That’s a sign, I think, of deviance. But I am, deep in my heart, a deviant. I enjoy fantasies in which…wait, I better not go there, for fear of being disallowed entry into the home of good friends and others. But, in spite of my geezerhood, I have a rather active imagination. Some of the people who occupy real estate in there might be appalled. Or they might be enthralled. Who knows? One day, I may reveal the vivid, active, exceptionally expressive fantasy life that goes on inside my head. I should probably wait until I’m on my death bed, though, lest things get a little awkward. I love making people a little uncomfortable; have you noticed? I have no idea, actually, whether my dream-world would make others uncomfortable; others may well have the same dreams! Who knows? I don’t.

A nice neck massage would be perfect about now. Something to wrest the anxieties and the worries from my aching muscles. I doubt I can arrange for that, though, at this hour. So I won’t even try. But I can say with certainty that I want a massage. Actually, I may not just want one, I may knead a massage. Am I cute, or what? Of course I am, in spite of my belly fat and a face that seems bent always into a  perpetual snarl. I’m actually happier than I look. But cute? Yeah, probably not.

Enough of this. It’s time to go finish cooking the pasta and making the sauce. I’m sure the meal will be delightful. It always is.

A blogger friend’s post this morning, about her back yard in Sweden, got me thinking about Spring and flowers and plants and such. She wrote about feeding the birds and putting in plants that feed birds and butterflies and the like. And she mentioned reading a book about a family in the U.K. that let their farm revert to a natural state. Her post served to jog my memory of a garden I planted many years ago. It was in the back yard of our first house, a white brick ranch in western suburban Houston, Texas. At the time, my brother worked for the railroad and had access to old used railroad ties. He arranged for me to get some of those ties, which I used as the perimeter of the garden. I then bought a truckload or two (or more?) of topsoil and filled in the railroad tie outline, creating a slightly raised garden. I grew tomatoes and corn and squash and beans and radishes and who knows what else. But I didn’t keep it up for long. I didn’t have the patience for gardening. Eventually, I let it revert to an almost natural state. The flowering weeds did, indeed, attract butterflies and birds.

Without a great deal of expense and backbreaking labor, a garden of the kind I made would be impossible here. Living in a house on the side of a mountain, with an extremely steep and dangerously rocky back yard, is not conducive to vegetable gardening. But I suspect I could get enough flowering plants to grow in the little available soil to make for a feast for butterflies. Some of the weedy vines that take over parts of the land behind the house flower in the Spring. I suspect I could add to the color of Spring by planting butterfly bushes and paintbrushes and evening primrose. The latter two are weeds that grew…like weeds…in Texas. They were all over the roadsides in Springtime.

Even though February is not even half over, I’m feeling a longing for Spring this morning. I blame Liz and her blog for it, but that’s not fair. I felt that longing even before I read her post. Of course, my lack of patience, coupled with my uncooperative lungs and declining strength in my arms and legs, could impact any plans I might have to garden. Even to garden with flowering shrubs that take care of themselves.

But I should be able to muster the energy to feed birds. And, really, I just need to get back in shape. Go to the gym. Get back in the habit of walking, even if it’s in small bits. It’s the bloody hills that get to me; I can walk on a flat surface, but the damn inclines leave me breathless.  It’s a problem that cries out for a solution. And I should just solve it. And so I will make it my mission to do so. And I’ll plant a few flowers and such to make sure Spring is as renewing and refreshing as it is meant to be.

When I find myself looking down through water flowing over a bed of smooth rock, my mind wanders back in time. Not months or years, but ages. Eons. More years than I can imagine. And when I see a large, smooth boulder in the water, resting on top of the smooth stone bed, I wonder how much force the water must have exerted on the stone to move it to its current location. And I wonder how much the force of the water must have diminished to have deposited it there. Finally, I wonder how much time must have passed to have ground smooth that stone and the bed upon which it rests.

I try to imagine how the image I am looking at would have appeared to my father when he was my age. And to his father at the same age. And to his father at the same age. And on and on and on. How many years ago would that smooth river bed comprise rough, ragged, sharp rock? Of course the surrounding vegetation might have looked radically different years ago. And the banks of the river or stream would have been more abrupt. Time and water must have smoothed them over the ages. Maybe the water would have flowed over a different course a millennium ago. I suppose it doesn’t matter. My father did not see the water flowing over the smooth rock, nor did his ancestors. It’s all just me, playing a game with time. But it does matter, in a way. It matters that I understand that the so-called ravages of time are not necessarily devastating. The ravages of time can transform one form of beauty into another, sculpting monuments to wind and water out of shrines to the rawness of the Earth.

I’m fascinated by fast-motion animations that show the transformation of deserts into oceans into mountains; and back into oceans and deserts and so on. I watched an animation that showed how present-day Colorado was, 300 million years ago, quite a distance below the equator. The animation showed the tectonic plates drift northward; it then showed Colorado under the sea, as a desert, and it showed several iterations of mountains rise and disintegrate into sand. Truly fascinating stuff, though admittedly only an animator’s approximation of reality.

Time as we know it and experience it is compressed. When I attempt to understand it in its full scope, I have to remind myself to breathe; breathtaking is not just a expression of amazement, though I suppose it’s that, too.  In trying to comprehend time, I try to equate it to the thread on spools. If I extend a role of 200-yard-long thread to its full length and cut 1/16 of an inch from it and say that little piece is equal to one century (100 years), I would need more than 25 additional spools of thread tied end to end just to get the length of thread to equal 300 million years. It’s mind-boggling.

Watching fast-motion animation videos, I realize that the smooth bed of the river I see is probably just the latest of dozens, maybe hundreds, of expressions of land mass that existed in that spot over the course of many millennia. There’s not enough thread in a sewing hobbyist’s house to stretch that far.

Here I am contemplating time. I’ve written before that I believe time has completely different meanings, depending on context. A hour on planet Jupiter is vastly different from an hour on planet Earth. But we’re stuck here on planet Earth, so in practical terms, time is what we experience. Yet we cannot possibly experience its full scope, simply because time is longer than our minds can comprehend. Enough of this. On to personal drivel.

And here’s today’s journal…

This business of getting up well before four o’clock in the morning seems to have become habitual. Today, the clock claimed the time was only a little after two o’clock when I awoke, but I forced myself to stay in bed for almost two hours until I could no longer tolerate the Groundhog Day-style daydream any longer. It’s odd, knowing one is fully awake yet being unable to turn off the repeating scenes from an unsatisfying daydream playing in one’s head. Getting out of bed after such an experience is a little something like salvation; I have to admit, though, I know little about the experience of salvation aside from what I’ve read. Perhaps relief is a better word to describe the experience.

Relief is one of “those words.” Those words whose multiple meanings seem to have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with one another. The most common definition involves the alleviation or removal of pain or anxiety or stress. But the word also can refer to “the differences in elevation and slope between the higher and lower parts of the land surface of a given area.” Another definition, also relating to differences in elevation, concerns printing (relief printing). Though I do not understand the derivation of the definitions in different contexts (and I’m not sufficiently motivated to go looking), I find the different definitions quite interesting.

I should not complain about my habit of much-earlier-than-normal rising of late. My wife has been having a very difficult time getting any sleep at all. If she slept at all last night, it was just a little, sometime after midnight, in her recliner. She came to bed just after I woke up after two o’clock, but stayed there for only a short while before returning to the recliner. When I got up before four, she was in her recliner, but not asleep. She had gotten up, she said, because she was afraid her persistent cough would disturb my sleep. I sent her back to the comfort of our bed; I hope she is sleeping now. I suspect she will sleep in this morning; I hope so.

Yesterday, we finally went to the Coronado Fitness Center to sign up for membership, using a new benefit supplied by our individual supplemental Medicare insurance. Many others have told us about the wonders of Silver Sneakers. Until January 1 this year, we had no such benefit; we now have one (not called Silver Sneakers) that costs $25 per month, versus the unacceptably expensive “regular” cost of membership in the fitness center. The next trick is to use it. I am sufficiently out of shape to need coaching on how to recover from indolence lasting for a year and then some. Exercise. That’s what I need. Lots of exercise. And a diet geared toward health. I could use a magic pill that would give me the body of a forty-year-old athlete and the intellect of a forty-year-old renaissance man who possesses doctorates in physics, literature, mathematics, sociology, and pharmacology; I’d be willing to pay full fitness center prices for such a pill. Absent that little pill, I’ll just have to enthusiastically live the life available to me.

Part of my day today will be devoted to creating a list of repairs and renovations (and the like) we need to have done to and around the house. After I compile the list, my wife and I will attempt to put it in priority order. Some things, like finishing the painting of the deck, will have to wait until we can rely on several days running of clear, warm weather. Others, like trimming a tree near the “sky room” off the master bedroom should be done soon, before the tree begins to leaf. Others will depend on our willingness to spend money; for example, both the master bath and the guest bath need updating (in my opinion). And I’d like to change out the lighting in the kitchen. Dozens upon dozens of little things need to be done, too. Things like changing out fan-speed rheostat switches, which I can do, but for which would I like a helper (who can take charge of flipping breaker switches on and off). I’d rather do all the little things I can do than spend my time fulfilling commitments I’ve foolishly made to organizations in which I am involved. Oh, I’ve mentioned that repeatedly on this blog? Yes, yes, of course I have.

The temperature outside at 4:00 a.m., a short while after I awoke, registered 25 degrees, just half the number of Fahrenheits the weather witches are forecasting for today. If, indeed, the temperature reaches 50 degrees, today will eclipse yesterday by about 15 degrees. Unlike yesterday, today will not offer a demonstration of what a “dusting of snow” looks like. Actually, yesterday’s snow was more than a dusting, but less than enough to cause any problems on the road. Yesterday offered incontrovertible evidence of Winter, but without teeth. Not a bad day at all, weather-wise. I suspect today will suggest that Spring is at least in the back of Mother Nature’s mind; but it’s only in her subconscious thus far.

Aside from the occasional celebratory moment (like today, which is a friend’s birthday), February can be a dank and bothersome month. Its wild swings between frigid cold and teasing warmth suggest either that Mother Nature experiences psychotic episodes or that she is capable of bullying. Maybe both. I’ve never been particularly fond of February, but I’m certainly glad I’ve not missed any of them since birth. That’s a paradox, isn’t it? I suspect it is akin to the feelings of the parent of a child who has criminal tendencies; I don’t think I need to explain further.

Yesterday, I went to the hospital to undergo a pulmonary function test. The woman who conducted the assessment was very pleasant and seemed very capable, but she was careful not to tell me much about the results. She did say, though, that the bronchial inhaler she administered as part of the process measurably improved my lung function. That means, I guess, that the inhaler my oncologist prescribed (thinking it might improve my cough, which it hasn’t) is apt to be a permanent fixture. And, I might add, an ungodly expensive fixture. My insurance company won’t pay a dime of the cost; I finally got my doctor to prescribe one that cost only $76 for 200 sprays. The good part, though, is that I am to use it only when I need it. Thus far, I haven’t been able to determine whether I need it; I can’t tell any difference between using it and not using it. That’s February for you.

After three days in bed and virtually no intake of food, my wife was up and about for much of the day yesterday. And she ate lunch and dinner. But her cough remains. She asked me to buy more cough/decongestant medicine, which I dutifully did. I may have to physically drag her to see the doctor if her cough persists for much longer. I find it ironic that she has resisted going to the doctor; she berates me for my resistance to the same thing. This is the second episode of cold-like illness she’s experienced in as many weeks.

Today, we’ll have a visit from the occasional housekeeper, who brings with her some floor care machinery (vacuum/wet-vac/??) that is louder than a badly-tuned 747. I flee the scene when she arrives, leaving my wife to give her whatever direction she needs. I wish I had someplace to go, rather than just wandering around in my car, using up gas. Ideally, I would be able to go to the “club,” where I could sit and read the newspaper, have a snifter of brandy, and then play a game of pool. But when she arrives it’s a bit early for brandy; and there is no “club,” so it’s out of the question. I haven’t played pool in years; I bet the last time I played was when we lived in Houston. That would have been almost 40 years ago. I suspect I might drop the pool cue if I picked it up today. Perhaps I could visit my friend whose birthday is today. But that would involve a 5-hour round trip, plus time for the visit; my wife would be annoyed that I left her here for the duration. And my friend my be unpleasantly surprised if I were to show up, unannounced, on her doorstep.

If I were in the mood, I could work on an article I promised to write. But I’m not in the mood. Nor am I in the mood to do much more, for the moment, with the database I will manage for our church auction. It’s not that I’m slothful today; it’s just that I’m in a February mood.

The remaining quarter of a cup of coffee in my mug has long since grown cold. I am not a fan of reheated coffee; it must be fresh and hot to satisfy me. So, I will finish the cold cup, sneering in disgust as I drink it, and will then make another fresh, hot cup. And then, I may write some more. Not that this post can claim to be writing.  But it’s the sort of thing I write in February.

Six-plus hours of fitful sleep is better than none. A dull, throbbing headache is better than intense, almost excruciating pain. So, my life experience has improved since I went to bed early, around 9:15 p.m. But it’s not up to my usual standards. It’s not the experience I hope for every day. Given the improvement, though, I should not complain. And I’ll try not to. But it would be nice for the headache to completely disappear. And it would be nice to be able to fall into a peaceful, restful, restorative sleep. Yeah. That may take some time.

First, I have to unwind. I don’t know how I got so wound up at this ungodly hour. I assume the dream I was having when I awoke to intense leg cramps may have had something to do with it. I was following someone who was supposed to be showing me the ropes in a new job when I got separated from him. We were in a dirty, greasy, crowded train station. Finally, a guy who we were supposed to meet found me; I don’t know how he recognized me, but he did. I don’t remember many other details, but I do remember that he called the corporate overlords of the railway system by an odd moniker: “The Dictatorship of the Prairies.” And I remember thinking his words suggested the railroad brass was a mafia-like cabal that controlled the Midwest with an iron fist, thanks to their control of the transportation system.

Seriously, this headache is maddening. I’m thankful it has dulled considerably, but it is sufficiently intrusive that I doubt I’ll be able to go back to sleep, whether I try to sleep in the recliner or go back to bed. Going back to bed probably wouldn’t be a wise choice, inasmuch as snoring would be apt to keep me awake. Not my snoring. And the chair, well, it’s not really suited to the kind of full-on sleep I want and need. But it may be better than a sharp stick in the eye. Provided, of course, the leg cramps don’t return with a vengeance. Ach. I am not especially appreciative of my body’s obvious decay.

***

Yesterday’s visit with the oncologist was mostly routine. But she prescribed an inhaler that she thought might help with my more-than-occasional wheezing. My insurance company denied coverage and my cost without insurance would have been just over $90. So I asked my doctor to try something else. She prescribed a different inhaler. My insurance company approved it; my part of the cost would be $458. Yet another reason for nationalizing pharmaceutical companies and replacing insurance companies with single-payer coverage for everyone. I may go buy the $90 inhaler. Or I may just say “screw it” and wait until my next appointment with the pulmonology nurse and/or the outcome of the pulmonary function test.

***

My “plate party” in Dallas/Addison has shifted to a later weekend in April, assuming the Flying Saucer approves. When I first commenced the silliness that funds a lifestyle of wealth and glamour for the bar’s owner, I expected to have my plate in a matter of months. It has been, I think, about eight years, instead. I’m a slow drinker, I guess. So far, I’ve only invited six people; five have accepted, including my drinking mentor who has since moved far, far away from Dallas. He’s planning to return to celebrate and take responsibility for my slow-motion rise to fame. It’s strange that I have so few friends in and around Dallas to invite to my little party.  I lived in the DFW area from 1989 to 2014; one would have thought I would have made more connections in that time. But I’m truly grateful my friend is flying back in for the occasion. Maybe I should invite other out-of-towners to go to to Dallas for the party? Ah, but I’m afraid I might be disappointed when I find others don’t find my celebration of drinking two hundred different beers a sufficient reason to make the trip. Who knew I would find getting a plate on the ceiling of The Flying Saucer an appealing objective in my post-middle-age years?

***

This evening, we’re having a pizza-fest. My wife conceived of the idea during a recent World of Wines dinner. She was speaking with the people who share our table at each of those events when someone mentioned pizza. The conversation then turned to which pizza places locally have the best pizza. That conversation morphed into tentative ideas for a pizza taste-test. And those ideas solidified into plans for this evening. My wife and I will go out this afternoon and pick up pizzas, one each from SQZBX, Grateful Head, and Deluca’s Pizzeria (generally agreed to be among the best pizzas in our area, though several participants have not had pizza from these places). As we near our house after getting the pizzas, she will send text messages to the others to meet us at our house. There will be seven of us present; an eighth, the ill house-bound brother of one participant, will receive his share when his sister takes it to him later. We’ll all have our own drinks; I’m confident wine will be included in the mix. It should be fun. Provided my headache has abated by then. If not, I may slink away from the crowd and demur. I’m not beyond eating alone.

***

It’s already past 4:30. I should have been trying to sleep instead of trying to write. It’s too late to start now, I guess. Time to make a cup of coffee and face the day.