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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off to breakfast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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