John Swinburn

The chief problem in using gasoline to douse a fire is obvious. Equally apparent is the fact that employing rage to quell anger will lead to similarly unsatisfactory results.

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My computer clock gently reminds me of the time: 4:57 AM. By the time I surrender in my effort to write something that carries even a touch of value, the sun probably will have risen. I wonder how it is that the temperature outside the windows of my tolerably cozy study can be only 14°F, while the surface of the sun is roughly 10,000°F, a difference of 9,986°F.  The sun is about 91,472,000 miles from my house (depending on the route taken). Assuming the ambient temperature declines at a constant rate over that distance, the rate of decline would be about 0.000109 degrees per mile. Among the reasons I believe that is not true is that space exploration vehicles would fracture into billions of icy pieces before entering the atmosphere. Speaking of space exploration, I have mixed feelings about it. On one hand, I am fascinated by the scientific advances uncovered during the course of pursuing space exploration. On the other, I am woefully disappointed that the human and financial resources invested in space exploration have not, instead, been devoted to addressing famine, war, poverty, inadequate availability of potable water, climate change, and dozens of other existential problems facing the inhabitants of this planet. Human beings have been too stupid for too many millennia to cling to any realistic hope that the species will long survive the damage we have inflicted on ourselves—this is in spite of the incredible advances we have made in gene splicing, metallurgy, heating and air conditioning, and several other stunning achievements. If only we had directed our attention to the core problems facing us…

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One of the myriad drugs injected or dripped into my body as part of my cancer treatment is a brand-name drug called Aranesp (generic name: Darbepoetin alfa), which is labeled an “erythropoiesis-stimulating agent,” or ESA. While the drug is meant to be beneficial in addressing anemia by reducing the need for red-blood cell transfusion, it comes with some rather significant risks. Among the many, many warnings associated with the drug:

• ESAs shortened overall survival and/or increased the risk of tumor progression or recurrence in clinical studies of patients with breast, non-small cell lung, head and neck, lymphoid, and cervical cancers.
• ESAs increase the risk of death, myocardial infarction, stroke, venous thromboembolism, thrombosis of vascular access and tumor progression or recurrence.
• In controlled clinical trials of patients with cancer, Aranesp® and other ESAs increased the risks for death and serious adverse cardiovascular reactions. These adverse reactions included myocardial infarction and stroke.

If I were afraid of dying, such warnings would be terrifying. But I’m not. Nor am I looking forward to it, though. I would much prefer a complete remission. But a recurrence of the kind of lung cancer I have comes with the unhappy understanding that its treatment does not seek a cure but, instead, is meant to extend life (and, presumably, enhance the quality of that extended life). I’m all for that…but only with the provision that quality of life is improved.

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My attempts to keep my mind off the side effects of my cancer treatments are largely unsuccessful, thanks to constant reminders of those effects: fatigue, nausea, upset (should I say fiercely angry, instead?) stomach, weakness, runny nose, bloody nose, moodiness, etc., etc. I think my complaints about sleeping so much may be misplaced; sleeping through the side effects is far more tolerable than confronting them while awake. Again, though, I have it relatively easy, compared to some people whose lung cancer experiences are truly monstrous. I am grateful mine are just irritants and not full-blown hardships. I keep promising myself I will get serious about meditation as a means to minimize the impact of the side effects, but thus far have broken most of those promises. Perhaps I break the promises as a means of punishment for whatever infractions justify them.  I hope note.

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I’ve taken a break or two since beginning this descent into the bowels of the Earth, where I hunted for rabbits and conversed with gnomes. Among the semi-conscious dreams that interrupted my serenity was one in which I finally returned to a car dealership several weeks after purchasing a car, only to find it had been sold to someone else. Probably part of the same dream, when driving a luxury car at night I realized the car’s headlights were not on and I could not get them to work. And I left work for several days, telling my long-dead, real-world boss that I had to pick up a rental car at a massive, cheesy resort hotel in Florida. There was more, but the confusion involved in the dream-like experience was beyond my comprehension.

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Time to plunge ahead into Monday…after exploring the possibility of an early-morning nap and some easy-on-the-gut apple sauce.

I feel as useful as a bag of wet rocks in a dust storm. I need to sleep again. No matter how much I sleep, it’s never enough. No matter how little I write, it’s always too much.

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Big, challenging, and probably cumbersome ideas may be the only hope for the survival of humankind and, indeed, all life on planet Earth. If those visionary ideas form in time, where will they originate? In a world of skeptics and pessimists, who will embrace them?  Who will cultivate and nurture them? Who will provide the global leadership necessary to implement them? The ideas, probably, are the easy part of the process. Achieving sufficient consensus around them will be considerably more difficult. Assigning priorities among hundreds or thousands of crucial ideas will be vital and—if human history is a reliable indicator—close to impossible. The overwhelming task of identifying priorities is already on clear display with regard to climate change; the current status of the Paris Agreement illustrates that reality. Subsidiary self-interests tend to usurp the importance of what should be universal interests. Perhaps the “big and bold” ideas are too big and bold…or not big and bold and audacious enough. Maybe a collection of ideas, with intersecting areas of importance, would be viewed as more achievable.

A globally-supported Manhattan Project, for want of a better metaphor, dedicated to ensuring adequate supplies of drinking water for every human being on the planet might be a good start. Though the global supply of clean, potable water already is widely recognized as critical, an infusion of fresh, collective energy worldwide might actually enable us to achieve permanent or long-lasting solutions. Food security, worldwide, might be another Manhattan-style endeavor enlisting the direct, committed engagement of governments and people around the globe. Collective solutions to food and water insecurity would offer evidence that human needs are overwhelmingly more important than conflict and imperialism and protectionism. Remaining challenges might then more readily fall in response to our collective efforts.

Finding charismatic leaders willing to take the risk of promoting the critical global cooperation necessary might be the most significant stumbling block to progress. Leaders of nations tend to want to present images of strength, independence, and power. The characteristics we might need, instead, probably include a willingness to embrace collaboration, cooperation, and shared responsibility. Charisma, again, is a necessary quality of leaders—not ferocity, not dominance, not imperialism—charisma. And intelligence. And a willingness to give careful consideration to a broad array of perspectives about relevant issues.

It’s easy to think about these matters. Putting them in motion is akin to lifting the weight of the world with one hand.

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Perhaps the first and most important task among us is to change mind-sets. Private property is a fantasy. The air we breathe and water we drink have no owners, only caretakers. Borders are synthetic boundaries established to create artificial perimeters of power. Allegiance to one’s various sub-communities is always secondary to allegiance to humanity. Changing minds is like chewing granite.

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My desk is littered with facial tissues bloodied by an annoying nose, a banana peel, an empty demi tasse, and reminders of tasks I have not yet completed.

Maybe there’s something to be said for the argument that undocumented aliens should be deported. After all, look what happened to the indigenous people on the land that became the United States. The original inhabitants of this territory were rounded up, slaughtered, or forced to live in what amounted/amounts to concentration camps. Perhaps the only fair and reasonable response is to eject the progeny of the original invaders, returning the land to the collective indigenous people. But that’s not quite what the incoming oligarchs are after, is it? Why, I wonder, are the oligarchs and their cult followers so hell-bent on “sending them all back?” I truly do not understand. I understand their announced reasons—to stop the interlopers from taking “American” jobs—but inasmuch as we all should know, that is pure, unmitigated bullshit. What’s the real reason?

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Hypocrisy seems to be my stock and trade. On one hand, I have long been a rabid proponent of private land ownership (as long as it’s mine). On the other, though, I cannot agree with the logic for private real property ownership. Arguments between economic liberals and socialist economists identify land as a commodity, subject to individual ownership. Indigenous peoples, though, tend to see the use of land as something that can be traded or bartered, but that trade involves only the right to use the land, not the underlying land itself. I read somewhere that indigenous peoples consider land as something to be shared, like air or flowing water, not something to be owned and controlled. Except for my hypocritically fierce insistence that I personally can own a piece of land, my philosophies are in much closer alignment with indigenous peoples than with the capitalistic views. And I would gladly relinquish my claims to land—if everyone else would do the same. Still, that’s a deeply hypocritical attitude that merits deep embarrassment and unvarnished shame.

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I have argued for months that I am perfectly capable of driving myself to medical appointments. Yesterday, I drove myself to get an injection of a synthetic protein intended to treat anemia. Later, I drove myself to a meeting that was to have been held online but could not because of a Zoom failure. Later, still, I took a late afternoon nap. And that nap lasted until around 4 this morning. Apparently, driving myself can wear me out. Or, I have just gotten used to very long periods of sleep. Or, perhaps, my need to get an anemia treatment might have been a clue that I easily can get tired, weak, or light-headed.

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Tonight’s overnight low temperature is expected to drop to 23°F. Tomorrow night’s low should hit 16F. Nighttime lows are forecast to be well below freezing until at least the end of the month. I have grown partial to daytime highs of 77°F to 81°F and nighttime lows of 72°F to 74°F. Where, I wonder, can I find such a place that meets those criteria and a number of others in areas involving social and political climate, economic stability, financial affordability, low crime rate, natural beauty, limitless supply of fresh and clean water, etc.? I’d gladly trade my soul for a large, airy, quiet, full-service apartment in such a place.

A text yesterday afternoon from the oncology nurse asked me to return for a “red blood cell shot” this morning. I subsequently checked the results of the lab draws two days ago: quite low red blood cell count and the lowest platelet count in my records. Not entirely clear on how important this might be, I readily agreed; despite the fact that it conflicted with an online meeting I had confirmed only a short time earlier. Calling these frequent interruptions to my “schedule”—such as it is—annoying would be an understatement. I’ve gotten used to them, though, more or less. Fortunately, my meeting partners are flexible, so I was able to change the meeting time. And I have become more malleable, thanks to the realities of dealing with cancer treatment. But yesterday’s last-minute change to my schedule tested my tolerance. I felt tension increase in my neck and back. My jaws tightened. I reacted with anger to something that was not especially important. That kind of reaction seems to be more common in me of late. Metaphorically speaking, the peaks are higher, the valleys are lower, and the vast stretches of flat, endless desert extend farther in every direction. I suppose it’s a matter of being tense and tired of an mental state of mind that feels heavier and more burdensome by the day. The fact that I know the “burden” is not really heavy at all makes it all the more irritating.

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When NASA was the focus of this country’s space-flight program, I remember feeling intensely proud of the team that regularly accomplished remarkable feats. Even though I had no connection to the space program, I felt it was something “we” could embrace as our own. NASA was “ours.” “We” could take pride in the fact that “we” achieved the almost unimaginable. Today, though, space exploration is by and large a commercial venture. NASA subcontracts to for-profit companies whose executives and investors are in it for the money and the fame. When joint space exploration ventures between nations made international cooperation seem increasingly achievable, peace between nations was a realistic goal. For me, space exploration has lost its luster as a symbol of international collaboration in pursuit of exciting objectives. It has become competitively capitalistic. Farming out various aspects of what once was the singular province of NASA has cheapened the concept of looking star-ward. I doubt the pride I once felt will ever return. Space exploration has become a commercial competition like Ford versus GM. It’s depressing. It really is.

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I’m thinking of Duck-Duck and clan this morning, wondering how they and their beasts are doing. I saw a photo of their lonely mailbox, poking forlornly out of the snow, on Facebook and, then, in the local rag. One day soon, when my energy is reliably higher than it is, I will visit. You read that, Duck-Duck?

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I started yesterday with a boost of energy that lasted into the afternoon. But that peaked long before sunset. By 6 PM, I plunged into a valley that allowed me to sleep for the remainder of the day and through the night. At this moment, I feel moderately “strong,” but already I feel drained again, as if I could sleep through the end of the world. I am so damn tired of being tired.

Even the simple luxuries we take for granted can turn against us. When that happens, they remind us that luxuries can transform into burdens. And they inform of us the emotional (and financial) costs they can bring to our lives. For example, the electric garage door opener is a simple luxury that has become almost a necessity. And the moment that near-necessity breaks or malfunctions to the point of inoperability, chaos takes the opportunity to wrap its wicked claws around our psyches. Coinciding with the recent snowstorm and cold weather, our 24-year-old garage door opener (designed to last 20 years) gave up the ghost—the door would go up and down, but would not stay down. A garage door mechanic discovered a broken gear and metal shavings. It could be “fixed” temporarily but other parts showed signs of impending despair, so we chose to spend a substantial part of our retirement savings on a new opener. The new opener is to be installed this morning. The degree to which something so simple as a broken garage door opener can disrupt one’s life is incredible. There was a time I would raise and lower my garage door by hand. That was a time when I was young and strong and energetic and had a bright future—long ago and far away.

There’s more. Last night, I discovered that a spot-style light bulb in a hallway has burned out. I may have to enter into a contract with the Light Bulb Replacement Company to remove the old bulb and replace it with a new one. There goes the remainder of our retirement savings.

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Mi novia is frustrated with the accompaniments to her advancing age. A recent visit to a cardiologist, for a routine check-up in response to the fact that she is—like the rest of us—aging, resulted in the doctor’s advice to have a cardiac stress test. Nothing obvious arose from the routine check-up, but it’s just time to have a look under the hood…an evaluation to catch anything that might not be apparent in a cursory exam. The very idea of a cardiac stress test disturbs her. I understand, of course. But it’s just a fact of the aging process; our bodies need more detailed and focused medical attention with each passing year.

As if the prospects of a cardiac stress test were not enough, she experienced significant pains she believed were related to kidney stones (she has experienced that in the past). A CT scan performed during her visit to the urologist revealed the presence of a very small—but potentially very painful—kidney stone. Presented with the option of taking a drug that “might” cause the stone to pass or undergoing a procedure that would laser-blast the rock into dust, she chose the latter (at my suggestion). Better to just get it out of the way than hope it will resolve itself with a little nudge.

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Next week—a week from today—I return to Little Rock to undergo a procedure to correct the epithelial basement membrane dystrophy (also known as map-dot-fingerprint-dystrophy) in my left eye. I will return sometime in the not-too-distant future to have the same procedure performed in my right eye.  I’ve already cleared the procedures with my oncologist; as long as the timing does not conflict with my chemo-treatments (and a few days before and after), there should be no problem.

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There’s a pattern here, isn’t there? Our luxuries are wearing out, along with our bodies. Unlike our luxuries, though, our bodies cannot be easily repaired (or replaced) with new parts. Our bodies’ warranties can be extended just a touch by patching or filling in cracks and crevices in the worn out parts at just the right times. Like everything else around us though, there’s a limit.

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I don’t know if this New York Times opinion piece by David Brooks is accessible without a subscription…I hope so. If a subscription is necessary, I recommend spending the money. You don’t have to agree with all of Brooks’ political philosophies (I don’t) to appreciate his even-handed assessment of the world around us. At any rate, read the above-linked article, We Deserve Pete Hegseth, to understand that no one is asking the right questions…and to see clearly that Hegseth would be unable to answer them, even if they were presented to him. Doom is not too strong a word to use in considering the world with Trump in a position of power.

Strength takes many forms, some appearing vicious and some benign; some soft and malleable, some hard and inflexible. The only way to know whether an attribute is a strength or a weakness is to examine its context. Even then, appearances can be deceptive. Tears at a funeral may suggest weakness, but mean something entirely different. A frail man attempting to protect an abused child from undeserved blows may be strong in intent, but weak in execution.  Which is he, then? Like so many other people in so many diverse situations, he is neither weak nor strong; but he may be both. And that begs the question: does strength or weakness define us? Should it?

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Lung cancer, according to Livescience.com, has a five-year survival rate of 26.7%, but  when detected early, the five-year survival rate for non-small cell lung cancer (which is the kind I have) can be as high as 65%. I beat both measures—at least for the first diagnosis. It has been more than six years since my first diagnosis. It’s been just over a year since the recurrence was detected. The median survival time after a recurrence of lung cancer, according to data published by the National Library of Medicine, is roughly 21 months. Assuming my situation follows the median, I have about 8 months left. It’s a morbid calculation, I realize, but I imagine “how much time do I have left” is a fairly typical question for people to ponder. The problem with asking the question, though, is that the answer might tend to lead the patient to “give up” on efforts to go into remission because, “it’s just a matter of time.” Ach! I do not intend to give up, but the extent to which I might be willing to suffer through the stages of deterioration probably has limits.

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Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see a dark grey background upon which literally billions of nearly microscopic images are briefly displayed. Yesterday, it occurred to me that those tiny images, collectively, are like individual pages of a book that, if sufficiently enlarged, contain all the information I have ever absorbed. We may think we have forgotten things, never to recover them, but our brains hold them in deeply hidden memory! Every page of every book we’ve ever read. Every conversation in which we have ever been involved. Every film we have ever seen. Every email we’ve ever sent or received. Every image our eyes have every beheld. It’s a fascinating thought, I think; to imagine that every experience we’ve ever had remains stored inside our bodies. If that is, indeed, the case, there must be a way to retrieve it. Sadly, we have had thousands and thousands of years, as a species, to find the key…to no avail. It may take thousands and thousands of more years to begin the search, in earnest.

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Time to get ready for my visit to the oncology crowd…a blood draw to measure exactly where my magnesium levels are this morning. Oh, boy!

I feel somewhat better today but not sufficiently so—thus far—to want to go for a drive. That’s fine, because I do not plan to go for a drive. I’ve been sleeping for the better part of the last almost six days and am happy to continue that pattern—at least the part that does not involve extreme forms of discomfort. And it shall continue, at least for today.

I opted to call my oncologist’s office yesterday, in the hope that they would agree that a blood test scheduled for yesterday could be delayed. They agreed. I will go in tomorrow. Mi novia also arranged to see a urologist on Wednesday. Today, she is scheduled to see her cardiologist for a long-scheduled visit; whether she decides to go is still to be determined. I feel somewhat better than I did yesterday, thanks to finally being able to eat a little and keep it down. Mi novia had enough energy to make an online “rush” order of grocery items that I might find palatable and tolerable among which are: bananas, canned soup, potatoes, and zucchini. Boiled new potatoes and chopped zucchini in chicken soup, I hope, will make a meal I can tolerate. Even though the “rush,” 3-hour delivery cost an extra $5, I am grateful it was possible and available. Neither of us felt well enough to try to maneuver through the remaining snow and ice to go shopping. I appreciate the delivery people who were willing and able to cope with whatever conditions faced them. Their willingness, I suspect, was fueled both by altruism and economic necessity. Capitalism enables people like me to pay for help; and it forces people like those delivery drivers to work to cover the cost of basic needs—even when that work exposes them to potentially dangerous circumstances. These are untested assumptions, of course, but I would be willing to place a bet that they are sound.

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An article that addressed issues related to capitalism, carried by NPR online, caught my attention this morning. The piece discussed, among other things, an article by a University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire economist (Thomas Kemp), entitled “Shred Central: Estimating the user benefits associated with large public skateparks.” It also addressed a presentation he made, entitled, “The Skateboarding Ethic and the Spirit of Anti-Capitalism.” I am not, nor have I ever been, a skateboarder, but the article grabbed my attention with its economic twist. Another of those things that, too late in life, piqued my interest: economics. But I’m too tired, now, to continue and let that interest run free. Now, I need to make something I might be able to eat.

I am scheduled to have a blood test—to check my magnesium level—in one hour. The results are intended to determine whether I need to return tomorrow to have an IV infusion of magnesium. Snow still covers most of my driveway. My gut continues to punish me for my arrogance of being alive. My street has not been plowed. Road conditions on the route to the lab may be just fine. Or they may be icy. I am trying to decide whether to go or not. Confounding these matters is the fact that mi novia has been suffering for two days from what she believes is a very painful kidney stone. Hers is, by far, the most urgent of the issues. Why must they all arise in conjunction with the recent snowfall of 12 to 16 inches and the resulting warnings to “stay off the roads?”

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The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain.

~ Karl Marx ~

Perhaps Marx was right. But how would he have known?

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Writing does not cure all the ails the world throws at us. Nor does reading. Writing and reading simply wrap newspapers around sharp-edged stones, making easier the distribution of deadly projectiles to intended targets. Writers and readers are equally to blame for broken arms and damaged feathers.

Slightly better this morning than yesterday. But, still, sufficient pain in the gut and chest to make me angry at my body and the universe. I slept nearly around the clock yesterday; the latest period began around 6 PM and lasted all night, until just before 6 AM this morning. I want to go to sleep again—this time a deep, deep sleep.

An unexpected crash overwhelms me this morning. At least I have no immediate obligations. Except for the notice I received on Thursday, advising me to go in for a blood draw early Monday to check my magnesium, I have no confirmed appointments during the upcoming week. But the blood draw will determine whether I need to go in to receive more magnesium the following day. I do not feel good enough to do anything but stay in bed and sleep. Not even good enough to sleep. My stomach throbs. My head aches. I feel something like sharp rods pressing against my internal organs. When I try to rest, with my head on the pillow, I hear something pounding on my eardrums…hard enough and loud enough to splinter the membranes inside my ears and cause a perpetual echo. If I had sufficient energy, I would scream, in an attempt to block out sounds that try to compel me to slit my throat. More hydrocodone, if only I can find any more. Or sleeping pills. Or something that could snuff out the noises and the constant jabs of minor—but irritating—pain or frustration or whatever it is that makes me want to be in a deep, utterly unconscious state. My fingernails seem to be decaying. Halfway down the quick, they look dull. They are fading; becoming chalky. And my runny nose is bleeding again. Am I imagining this wholesale degradation of my body? Or have the chemicals and repeated doses of radiation finally reduced my immunity so much that my body has surpassed simple deterioration, sliding directly into rot? I was prepared for four sessions of chemo and two years of Keytruda follow-up. But I’m somewhere numbering fifteen to seventeen sessions of chemo, only a few sessions of Keytruda, and 25 sessions of radiation treatment. I said, recently, I could not complain. I’m proving myself wrong. I can complain, I can bitch, I can gripe, I can whine and whimper and object strenuously. It does no good. No more of this. I am done.

Snow started falling fast around 1:00 PM yesterday in big, wet clumps. Three hours later, after the ground was buried under roughly three inches of pure white, the snowfall diminished considerably. Occasionally, it stopped, then started again—but the new snow was much lighter and the flakes much smaller. I got distracted from the winter entertainment, so did not notice how much snow came down until darkness fell; after that point, I have no idea whether more snow covered the already thick blanket and, if so, how much. I’ll have to wait until the sun rises to know more. I know this, though: after a period of heavy snow, silence envelopes the landscape.

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Snippet
Gregory Boxer felt a heavy emptiness where his legs should have been. No pain, just an oppressive absence. The debris of the car in which he had been an unwilling passenger lay in the ravine below him; a bloody, mangled mass of broken glass, bent steel, and shattered plastic. As Boxer’s eyes drifted toward his captor, Dolin Clark, emerging from the wreckage below, he heard a loud male voice shout, “Freeze! Don’t move!”

At almost the same instant, Boxer heard the deafening report of a gunshot.

“Okay! Okay! I’m not moving! Don’t shoot!”

As Boxer watched the highway patrol officer slowly approach Clark, an officer kneeling behind Boxer spoke. “Hold on, man. I’m gonna get tourniquets around your legs. The medics will be here soon.”

Boxer opened his eyes three days later, in the intensive care unit of a large urban hospital, far away from the site of the crash. But he had no memory of the chase, the car crash, the gunfire, or any of the other circumstances that brought him to the ICU.

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If I had recorded the amount of time I have spent inside my house during the last year, I think I would be stunned. Except for medical appointments, hospitalizations, occasional restaurant lunches, and a very few other “outings,” I have spent the majority of all my waking (and sleeping) moments within the confines of this house. I am not complaining; this is a pretty nice place to spend my time. And I am becoming more and more comfortable as a hermit or recluse or whatever you might prefer to call it. Having visitors, I suppose, negates the validity of calling my present lifestyle one of a hermit or a recluse, which is fine with me. I like having contact with pleasant people who enter my sphere. But solitude, increasingly, agrees with me. I can be myself with myself, though I sometimes find myself more than a little annoying. In the presence of people outside myself, I have to try to be more civil, kinder, and gentler.

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I am thawing a wad of frozen cooked rice, which may take quite some time. Once thawed, I will heat it in the microwave, douse it with soy sauce, and dribble a bit of Sriracha on it. Some people might consider that an odd breakfast, but I do not. I’ve already had a banana, half a carton of Ensure, two shots of espresso, and several slugs of water. I cannot imagine anything more appropriate to follow that preprandial munch-fest. Unless, of course, it would be pancakes. I have had a hankering for pancakes for a while now. With maple syrup. But I have to be careful of what I eat, because lately even the most innocuous stuff seems to create quite a rebellion in my gut and elsewhere.

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The time is 6:30 AM. I am writing drivel. Must stop. Now.

Neither the undeservedly rich nor the undeservedly impoverished nor anyone in the vast middle deserves the traumatic horrors engulfing them in Southern California. Money—no matter how much—cannot be a salve for the pain of watching one’s own home and neighbors’ homes and the entire communities they formed go up in flames. The images I have seen on television and online from Pacific Palisades and the Hollywood Hills and surrounding areas are too hard to see, but impossible to forget. They linger like photographs of Nazi concentration camps—unfathomable horrors that will not release the viewer from the terror of their origins. The photographs and videos make one wonder how—or whether—physical and emotional recovery ever may be possible.

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Here I sit, in my warm and comfortable house, awaiting the expected 4 to 8 inches of snow that’s anticipated to start falling by noon today. That threat, even if realized and accompanied by power outages, does not begin to compare to the ordeal facing the people of Southern California. Oprah Winfrey, of all people, is quoted as saying, “Be thankful for what you have and you’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough.” The first six of those words are the only ones that matter: be thankful for what you have. The philosophy underlying those words have been drilled into me my entire life. Too often, I allow myself to ignore the concept,  permitting myself instead to want more. Or different. Or something other than what should be more than enough.

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Yesterday, unless something dramatic changes, I had the last radiation session to treat the resurgence of my cancer. A tad less than three weeks hence, I will get another chemotherapy treatment. Then, either a PET-scan or another chemo treatment, followed by a PET-scan. I am grateful I did not reject treatment six years ago, which I considered doing. I would have been long dead by now, had I made that foolish decision.

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Credit: Joshua Coogler

A pink glow above the horizon watches over me. Or maybe it’s just my eyes, looking up at the vastness of an endless sky. Last night, I thought about how incredibly tiny our planet is against the backdrop of the limitlessly vast universe. And I thought about some macro photos of ants, taken by photographers who shared their techniques with fellow aficionados. This morning, thoughts of how tiny we are against the universe, and tiny ants are against our miniscule size swirled in my head. It’s just too incredible to explain! And it’s even more amazing that, for example, each tiny hair or sections of the ants’ eyes are enormously large in comparison to individual atoms. Sometimes, the complexity and beauty of the world around me brings me to euphoric delight. These photographs (credit to Joshua Coogler) add to my amazement…actually seeing what is often right before me, but which I rarely actually see. Click on the image; be amazed!

Reading the news is akin to stumbling into an extremely hot sauna—the vapors for which are supplied by filthy water, acetone, and gasoline—and hearing the door lock behind you.

Greenland. Panama. The Gulf of America. Zero percent containment of hurricane-force wind-driven wildfires. The very existence of Elon Musk and his symbiotic, psychotic, power-driven, narcissist puppet. How many times must I admonish myself to avoid intentional exposure to such damaging “understanding of world news?” Revolution may well have been the only answer, but the time for effective resistance, I fear, has passed.

There was a time when I fancied a beautiful, modern house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Not just a fanciful house; a real house—available for sale—I encountered online. As I recall, the price was exceptionally low for such a magnificent place…$260,000 sticks in my mind. I should have bought it. It had a beautiful pool, a whirlpool, and the entire ocean-facing side consisted of enormous windows. I could have resurrected, and then vastly improved, my Spanish and lived peacefully, without television, internet, and newspapers. I could have forgotten the world outside my immediate surroundings. And I would have been too far removed from excellent medical care to have discovered my cancer (first round) early enough to staunch its spread. And I would, in all likelihood, be dead by now. There’s something to be said about missing the decay of modern civilization.

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Very little sleep last night. I went to bed early, as usual, but by 11:00 PM I had not had even a hint of sleep. Sometime during the night I drifted in and out of consciousness, but I doubt I ever reached a true state of slumber. I got up a couple of times to eliminate some of the massive volumes of water I consumed during the day, but did not feel sufficiently rested to rise for the morning. At 5:00 PM, I rose for a third bladder call, only to return to bed until 7:00, when I got up. That is when I realized the store of bananas had been depleted, so my usual (of late) breakfast was not an option. I am hungry, though. If life were fair, I would be able to call for delivery of a quart of miso soup…made the way I like it. Lots of dashi, lots of tiny pieces of nori, miso paste, firm cubes of tofu, and water. I like mine livened up a bit with sambal oleek and a spritz or six of low sodium soy sauce. I haven’t had miso soup in far too long. Ditto a version of a Chinese dish I love, congee: rice cooked until it’s mushy, with rice, chicken stock, fresh ginger, fried shallots, minced pork, green onions, and white pepper. And sambal oleek, because I have an inexplicable passion for sambal oleek.  The problem, of course, is that I have neither the ingredients to make these dishes, the energy to do the work even if the ingredients were readily and hand, and no sources that would deliver them to me. Damnitall!

+++

You do not want to read any more of this rubbish. I do not want to write any more of it for now. So, I shall stop. I will be back. Some day.

Writing occasional notes to people who would be quite surprised to receive them from me has long been among my intentions…my failed intentions. But I plan to give it an honest try. Some mornings, instead of writing my blog, I may start writing notes to a long list of people who I hope will be not only surprised to get them, but will appreciate receiving an unexpected message from someone from whom they would least expect to hear. I mentioned, in my December 24 blog, a lovely note I received from a friend at church. That note boosted my spirits and inspired me to think about writing such notes. It’s a little late to do a Christmas card this year, but not too late to start regularly writing “just because” notes. Now, I just need follow through on my intentions.

+++

Now, here’s something a little at odds with my good intentions to write “just because” notes to people. When I chastise myself for thoughts and actions that run contrary to the old Unitarian Universalist principle, “To affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person,” I have to remind myself that it is an aspirational principle. So, yesterday, when I implied to my favorite nurse at the cancer center that one of the center’s receptionists was intensely stupid and slower than black-strap molasses on ice, I told myself I shouldn’t have uttered (nor should I share) such thoughts, but I should continue to try to adhere to that principle in the future. But, really. This receptionist has been on the job for months, yet she had not improved her speed or accuracy (or level of friendliness) one iota since she started work. Granted, she may have some inherent limitation about which I am unaware. But… No buts! She merits my appreciation of her worth and dignity. I just have to continue to try to train myself to think positive thoughts about all people. There are some, though, about who that is simply impossible…I’ve started to consider those creatures may not actually be people. That’s just an excuse. And not a good one, at that.

+++

Half a banana. 5 walnut cookies. 2 demi tasse cups of espresso. Not enough water, but working on it. After I finish breakfast, which may consist only of what I’ve eaten thus far, I will drink a carton of artificial sustenance juice. Then, shortly thereafter, another radiation session. Later still, an injection meant to stem infections that could emerge after chemo has weakened my immunity. The chemo and the post-chemo injection is not a daily aspect of my weekdays, but the rest is. BUT, if my latest calculations are correct (confirmed by the radiation technicians), my final radiation session will take place tomorrow. I’ll have to figure out what to do on weekday mornings after that. Perhaps I’ll write some more. Or sleep. Or try a new recipe for a Bloody Mary every day; mi novia probably won’t permit that. Except I could start early, while she’s still sleeping. I haven’t had a Bloody Mary in years. It’s about bloody time! When my sister comes to visit (soon, I hope), I will make her a Bloody Mary, as I promised her I would. And I will, by God, drink one (or more) as well!

+++

Here we are, Tuesday morning, January 7, 2025. I had hoped Kamala Harris would have said, during yesterday’s certification ceremonies, “Wait, I cannot certify this election. I was a candidate, so this would be a conflict of interest! You’ll have to find another way.” After a series of explosive pulmonary embolisms had erupted in the House chambers, she could have repaired ruptured Republican vein and lung tissue by adding, “Just kidding!”

+++

An unfinished fictional scene outside a Baptist church, where a funeral service had just concluded.

Ellen watched as the Baptist minister shook Tim’s hand and squeezed his shoulder. The minister nodded solemnly to Ellen as he walked past her.

As Tim approached her, a barely visible smirk crossed Ellen’s lips, as she spoke to him.

“I think I could smell the bromide on his breath,” Ellen whispered.

Tim, sneering, responded. “Yeah, ‘It’s all part of God’s plan.’ Funerals bring out the most irritating platitudes from the most annoying preachers. Especially this one. Hackneyed preachers and trite words of comfort, when properly mixed, can ruin even tolerable funerals.”

“If Charlene could have heard him, she would have leapt out of the coffin and choked the man,” Ellen laughed. “I can just hear her say ‘What the hell?! Whose God planned for me to drive off a freeway overpass? And what am I doing in a coffin? I expressly asked to be burned!'”

Tim, Ellen, and Charlene had been close since their common birth; triplets whose social, political, religious, and economic philosophies aligned with one another, but were opposite of their parents’ attitudes. Tim and Ellen had not objected, though, when their parents insisted on a church funeral for their atheist sister. The fight would not have justified the ashes. Or, as Charlene would have said, ‘The game would not be worth the candle.’ Charlene had been opinionated but practical.

+++

Still tired. Too tired. I got up before 4 this morning. It’s almost 7 now. I’ll drink my artificial sustenance, then take a nap and awake by 8.

For some reason, beef and pork lately have almost no appeal to me. Chicken is okay, but not something I crave. The only thing that sounds particularly appealing to me is ceviche. Halibut ceviche, in particular. Any firm, mild-flavored white fish would satisfy my desire for ceviche, I think, provided it was prepared properly. That is, cut into small bite-sized pieces and soaked for a few hours in a marinade of lime juice, diced tomatoes, diced jalapeños, and diced cucumbers. What sounds good, though, might not actually be good for me. In fact, nothing that settles in my brain after a few minutes of mulling over it actually sounds especially good. Food, in general, does not really interest me. That notwithstanding, I have been eating more than I’d like. The result has been that I’ve gained a few pounds and have had several instances during the past several days in which my stomach has rebelled against forced consumption. Watermelon sounds quite appealing, but we are literally MONTHS away from watermelon season. I’ve tried watermelon-flavored electrolyte water; I believe people should be paid to drink the stuff and not required to pay to drink it. Cookies sound good, but recent experiences with cookies have proven that sounds can be deceiving.

+++

(has been continued, though should be forgotten)

The terrorism and drug-trafficking charges against Skazer Tartman were said to have been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt during the trial, which was conducted entirely in secret, out of the public eye. The judge’s identity was not divulged, nor were the identities of the witnesses who testified against Tartman. But it was common knowledge that the only persons seen going into and out of the courtroom during testimony were Ginger Pinkwell, Hope Chusovitina, and Kimmy Ri. In a highly unusual turn of events, the trial judge—whose identity was concealed by a black hood and whose voice was altered electronically—announced the verdict and sentence during a news conference.  The sentence imposed on Tartman: death by starvation. Inasmuch as the Federal statutes did not provide that a sentence by starvation could be imposed, appeals were filed immediately by both the prisoner’s attorneys and by the Federal prosecutor who brought the charges against Tartman. Due to “death threats against the condemned man,” the unnamed judge ordered that Tartman be transferred to an unknown, high-security Federal holding facility. Freedom of Information requests filed by numerous media outlets about the trial, the jury (if there was one), the judge, and Tartman’s location and condition were denied. It was as if he had simply disappeared…an perhaps had never existed.

Ginger Pinkwell’s home was burglarized and vandalized shortly after Tartman’s trial. Nothing of significant value was destroyed, but several life-size nude photographs of the mayor were removed from her bedroom closet. She did not disclose that the photos were stolen, but one particularly revealing and shocking photo was copied and distributed to both local and national news media. Though Pinkwell claimed the photo was fake, several experts said otherwise. It was, they said, an authentic, un-doctored photo of Pinkwell and Tartman engaged in activities not suitable for viewing by young children.

(to be continued or forgotten)

+++

According to The Weather Network, the temperature outside when I woke was 20°F but, thanks to the wind and humidity and other factors, the wind chill made it feel like it was 10°F. The actual temperature has risen to 23°F, but the wind chill remains stubbornly stuck at 10°F. The idea of traipsing out into the frigid morning has no appeal to me, whatsoever. But appealing or not, I must go to the cancer center to get irradiation and have chemicals dripped, therapeutically, into my body. Oh, joy! At least I get to leave the house. It’s odd; I do not find “going out” the least bit appealing anymore. I prefer to crawl under the covers, where my mind tells me I am sitting on a stone wall, gazing at the ocean and sipping on an espresso. The espresso seems to go with me everywhere I imagine going. I may have developed an addiction to the stuff. I am fortunate in that my addiction is to drinking a foamy, deep brown liquid and not to consuming a powdery white substance through my nose. Which I have never done, by the way. That must make me pure, like the driven snow…an unusual simile in the context of a not-so-oblique reference to cocaine.

+++

The introductory piece to an opinion series on “How to Live with Regret,” published August 8, 2004 in the New York Times, includes  reference to Daniel Pink’s book, The Power of Regret. Cornelia Channing, the writer of that 2004 opinion piece,  says this about Pink’s book:

…Pink argues that regret is an unavoidable fact of life and that it should be embraced as a useful and instructive emotion. What we regret, he says, can teach us about who we are. It helps to reveal what we want, what we fear, what truly matters to us and what doesn’t.

Perhaps the reason I find Pink’s assertion appealing is that I seek absolution from who I was—who I am. Maybe, as Pink’s argument suggests, the fact that I feel such regrets reveals who I am, at my core…that I am not such a worthless bastard, after all. But that would be too convenient; too easy to be pardoned for behaviors that cannot be washed away, leaving a clean slate. If regret were so easily discharged as evidence of “growth” or “improvement,” regrettable behaviors would not be so…regrettable. Ach. I should read Pink’s book. It is unwise to make assumptions about complex arguments and assertions on the basis of third-party analyses.

+++

Time for a shower. I must arrive at the cancer center in an advanced state of cleanliness. The only way to accomplish that, in my opinion, is by showering. So, off I go.

I made the mistake of skimming the news this morning. That is not a particularly happy way to start the day. I want to retreat to my isolated lighthouse—the retreat that will keep me safe from a world that is falling apart.

+++

The cold weather this week and the prospect of icy or snowy conditions are worrisome. Forecasts like I’ve seen online make me wish I could arrange to have my radiation treatments and my chemotherapy performed at my house, rather than making the trek to the cancer center. If the weather gets bad enough, the center might not open, thereby delaying my treatments that already have been delayed. Such is life, I suppose. I’ll just have to deal with what comes.

+++

Sometime after sunrise this morning, I will bundle up and go to each of the water faucets around the outside of the house. I will implore each one to prevent the water inside the pipes from freezing when frigid weather arrives. As an incentive to do as I ask, I will cover each of the faucets with a foam faucet cover…assuming, of course, I have enough covers to protect each of the faucets. Before the coldest weather is expected to arrive, I will open cabinet doors under the sinks inside the house and will turn the inside faucets on to let the water drip. The prospect of dealing with these chores is almost enough to make me want to sell the house, buy a condo, and rely on condominium staff or contractors to handle the unpleasant aspects of home ownership.

+++

Memories magnify past pleasures. They also recapture past mistakes, inserting them into the present as enduring regrets. No amount of contrition is enough to wash away the guilt left by the most severe regrets; nor should there be. The most appropriate, yet utterly inadequate, penalty for certain actions or omissions—especially willful, conscious wrongs—is searing, perpetual regret. Sorrow—even deeply intense, heartfelt sorrow—is not enough. Anguish can barely begin to serve as a reckoning for those wrongs. Magnified memories of past pleasures, when overwhelmed by immeasurably bitter remorse, become tools of asphyxiation. Even the most joyful memories drown in bottomless pools of regret.

+++

Once again, a generous and thoughtful friend called yesterday to ask if she could stop by to deliver some “goodies” to us. And, of course, we said “of course.” And, when she came by, we sat and chatted for a while. Though I was feeling pretty good during her visit, after she left I decided to take an early nap…at 6:00 PM. I had not been able to sleep, six hours later, but I had stayed in bed all that time. And I stayed in bed until about 4:30 AM, when I finally gave up. I am sure I slept a bit, off and on, but it was a thoroughly unsatisfying “nap” for me. Despite being unable to sleep, I felt more and more tired, fatigued, worn, and otherwise weak. At least I felt good while our friend was here for a visit. Now, I hope I can get at least a short nap…a real one…a little later this morning.

+++

Yesterday’s visit with a stand-in radiologist (mine has been away for several days) ended with me viewing images (from a CT scan, I presume) taken concurrently with my radiation treatment. The doctor showed me the area, in my mid- and upper-chest, targeted by the radiation treatments. And he explained the cluster of cancerous lymph nodes would shrink, over time, after the treatments end…assuming the radiation achieves its intended objective of killing cancer cells—the malignant bastards! If cancer cells were consciously motivated to do harm, they might be characterized as malicious, pernicious, malevolent, or spiteful…or all of those traits.  Without synonyms, wouldn’t the English language be dull? Those of us who have an intimate—almost erotic—relationship with words would be forced to be content with a more platonic involvement with vowels and consonants…and the words and syllables that emerge from our penetrating engagement with the sounds and thoughts that letters make. Do you see what I did there? I allowed myself to abandon thoughts of a venomous disease in favor of the amorous seduction of verbal communication. The real question, though, is this: was the transition intentional, or was it simply an example of attention-deficit at work?

+++

Dictionary.com chose the term, nolens volens, as its Word of the Day for January 4, 2025. The adverb means “whether willing or unwilling,” as in: “The prisoners were strapped to the gurneys, nolens volens, on the way to their appointments with a needle.”

+++

Weekends have become respites again. Respites in the way they once were from work. Today, though, they are respites from treatments. But, like those work pauses were interrupted by worries involving work, these treatment pauses are interrupted by musings about mortality. When comparing the two interruptions, work shrinks in importance. All the times that could have been spent in grateful appreciation of life outside of work become incorrigible regrets. Work was only a means to an end, but it was assumed to have importance far greater than it deserved. Treatment and mortality, though, are inseparably connected. Treatment is not really a pause, not a respite—it is inextricably linked to both survival and mortality. Like weekends away from work, which were far too rare, weekends away from treatment simply provide opportunities to dwell on matters that seem no longer within my control.

+++

I still haven’t sold or given away my treadmill. I spent a small fortune on it, but have since decided the expense was simply a lesson to me. If you or anyone you know would like to buy it or simply take it away, let me know. Moving it will require a truck and at least two very strong people. I was advised not to use it any longer, for fear I might lose my balance and hurt myself badly. Or die. Something untoward, anyway. It’s a highish-end Horizon. I prefer cash, but will accept sincere appreciation.

+++

You may have noticed I have nothing of consequence to say. I did, too.

Yesterday was the birthday of a woman I hired about forty years ago while I was employed at my first association job. As I have done for most, if not all. of those forty  years, I sent her a birthday message; yesterday’s by email. Occasionally, she writes back to thank me for remembering. I do not think I know anyone else whose birthday falls on January 2; so, it’s almost impossible NOT to remember. She has never sent a message to me on my birthday, at least not that I recall. And, except for my once-a-year messages to her and her very rare acknowledgements, we do not stay in touch. She and her husband, now a retired lawyer, live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. They have children and grandchildren. Except for their liberal political leanings (assuming that is still the case), I doubt we have anything at all in common. We were never particularly close; just co-workers and, very occasionally, she and I and our respective spouses would get together for a Sunday brunch. Since I moved away, those many years ago, we have not stayed in touch except for my annual birthday greetings to her. So, why am I in the habit of sending her an annual birthday message? Beats the hell out of me.

+++

If my calculations are correct, I have only six more radiology sessions…including today’s. That assumes, of course, the post-radiology PET-scans, etc. confirm that the 25 days of exposure to their magic rays have been effective. But I wonder how—or whether—the scans can differentiate between the effectiveness of chemotherapy and radiology? Wondering about such matters is a pointless exercise; regardless, though, I do it. Curiosity occupies otherwise meaningless moments—empty periods that in other circumstances might become immensely productive petri dishes for anxiety or depression. Absent something to occupy my mind, I hear and feel in my skull the throbbing “thump…thump…thump” of my heartbeat. That noise and the accompanying sensation of blood pounding as it courses through the vessels in my head often delays me from getting to sleep. As far as I know, nothing can be done to minimize or eliminate those sensations. I am relatively confident they are symptomatic of tinnitus; I should mention the matter to my primary care doctor, in the hope he can offer a magical cure. Everything revolves around health-related issues! I am, pardon the pun, sick to death of this crap.

+++

Jack Frost roasting over an open fire,
Chestnuts nipping at my nose…

+++

This morning’s sky is trying to be friendly. Its pink grin, peeking over the horizon, cannot hide the icy-cold teeth behind that smile, though. The sun’s diffuse rays occasionally are collected in a prismatic glance downward, revealing a glint of light—the brilliance of which is like the reflection of a spark bouncing off a polished steel sword. When the artificiality of its smile becomes obvious, it rosy cheeks lose their innocence—replaced by the pasty beige of a starving, omnivorous beast intent on devouring everything in its path. Welcome to the reality of greed, as expressed through hunger.

+++

Calendar year 2025 began yesterday with spectacular celebrations and unfathomable carnage—expressions of love and hope at one end of the spectrum, hatred and despair at the other. Around the globe, people observed a fresh beginning one moment and mourned the death of humanity an instant later. My response to yesterday’s horror was almost overwhelming; a feeling of utter hopelessness that would not recede—has not receded. Though terrors much larger in scale have taken place in the not-too-distant past, something about yesterday’s despicable attack in New Orleans triggered an emotional reaction like none other. Coupled with worldwide violence that coincided with the New Year, the New Orleans savagery revealed my sense that anguish and despondency are among the only reliable emotions. Virtually everything else is temporary; just waiting to be incinerated by the reality that there are no solutions. Only fuel for an inevitable brutal inferno that cannot be extinguished.

+++

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires.

~ Omar Khayyam ~

+++

I am giving up on fiction, at least for now. Fiction—even whimsical, joyful fiction—cannot hold a candle to the impact of reality. Fiction cannot douse the flames that seem to be consuming humankind. Perhaps the genre can temporarily hold true existence at bay, but it cannot prevent wave after wave after wave of withering hot sand from encasing us in searing, blistering reality. In years gone by, works of fiction could have enormous impacts on society. Fiction could alter the way people thought about the social order. It could change the way we considered our options with regard to restraining our own worst collective impulses. Today, though, fiction can offer only a brief reprieve from the unstoppable march toward the extermination of the species. Fiction has become a stand-in for hope, now that hope has faded into a transparent, vaporous veil.

+++

A well-insulated, thoroughly comfortable, and deeply-isolated lighthouse. Almost a mile from land, reachable only when the seas are calm—a rarity. The place has plenty of desirable provisions; enough to last for years. The bed is as comfortable as a bed can be. All the wooden furniture is solid wood; no veneers. Immeasurably comfortable chairs and recliners. All the modern conveniences one might need or want, nicely packaged inside its living quarters far, far above the highest tide. Even higher than the tallest and fiercest wave. This is not fiction, by the way. It is fantasy. Delusion. Dream. Hallucination, but with meat on its bones. This is my imaginary home from now on. This is my sanctuary; my mythological retreat. It is the place I go to escape the unpleasantness of the dissolution of civility and its accomplice, civilization. I am not alone here. My companion is here with me; she and I will adapt to this tower.

+++

The dark sky outside my window froze last night. I reached up to touch a star, only to smash my fist through a bubble of black ice. The light from the stars above had pooled at the base of the bubble, so when my hand broke through, the light poured down on me, drenching me in a luminous glow. Starlight, after travelling so far from distant galaxies, has cooled so completely that it has transformed into ice-rays. The sharpest ice-rays tend to move exponentially faster than the speed of light, but in reverse. Some people who saw me drenched in that luminous glow this morning might have mistaken me for an angel. Those people do not know me.

+++

I was up before 4 this morning, which was a perfectly reasonable time to be awake, in that I went to be early and slept reasonably well—though not necessarily soundly—last night. Now, two and one half hours after rising, I am cold. Not just cold; freezing cold. If I move my fingers too rapidly, they will snap off like icicles slammed against a fencepost on a Minnesota farm in mid-January. When I turn the hot water handle on any faucet in the house, I can be virtually assured of getting lukewarm to warmer water within twenty to twenty-five minutes. Showering in the wintertime can be an exercise in icy discomfort. But shower I will. I’ll just wait to get in the shower until the water has been running for half an hour.

+++

Despite my efforts to the contrary, I have not become awash in cheer this morning. Perhaps a little hydrocodone/tylenol combo will erase my headache and allow me to sleep for 45 minutes before my shower. I may try that.

For some, today is another moment in the eternal (r)evolution of time. For others, this is the first day of an unknowable future. And for others still, this day constitutes fermentation; an acidic brew from which history will at some point emerge, revealing secrets about who and, perhaps, why we were. This sometimes celebratory, sometimes sorrowful, instant in time differs from one person—one perspective—to the next. Our response to circumstances defines its value or its insignificance. Today may be a fresh beginning or the continuation of the final chapter of an aching end. In other words, New Year’s Day has no intrinsic substance; it is another day to which we may or may not attach meaning.

+++

I stayed awake yesterday from early in the morning until early in the evening. I had no particular interest in watching the ball drop in Times Square—but considerable interest in resting, so I got in bed at the ungodly early hour of 7:30 pm. I slept off and on for much of the night. This morning’s headlines confirm that the calendar changed from 2024 to 2025 while I slept. Good riddance to an ugly, “lost” year. However, of course, we could look back longingly on 2024 when we encounter what 2025 brings. I hope not; the new year would have to be quite horrid for that to happen. During 2024,  mi novia experienced the loss of her mother and her sister-in-law during the year. Two of my sisters-in-law learned they have breast cancer. The protective shell of democracy, worldwide, cracked. In the U.S., the yolk spilled out and broke, to the deafening cheers of domestic religio-fascists and other deeply stupid creatures. And my effing cancer returned, plunging me into a full year of unpleasant and uncertain treatments that have yet to show enough measurable success to give me reason for celebration. Others, too, outside my family but within my social sphere, have been gripped by cancer and other grim stuff. And large-scale disasters, both natural and triggered by human activities, continued throughout the year. It’s not unusual, really; but it’s harrowing, horrible, and hideous. Ach!

+++

One year ago today, I wrote that I had…a week earlier…considered buying a new car. By New Year’s Day, though, that desire had disappeared in a flash of good sense. Lately, I’ve been having the same pre-new-year thoughts, but I have (for now) come to realize that desire arose from stark-raving madness. I haven’t driven my car more than a few times in the past several months. The appeal of a new car is largely due to the promise of a smooth, quiet ride. After my treatments are complete…if, indeed, they ever are…I might start driving considerably more often. Until then, though, a smoother-riding car that’s rarely driven would be an obscenely overpriced deviation from my routine. My 9-¹⁄₂ year old car has only about 120,000 miles on it; replacing it now would be an utterly unjustifiable luxury. Tomorrow could be a different story, of course.

+++

I am living proof that one need not believe in religious dogma to find religious texts thought-provoking and insightful. A couple of weeks ago, I wrote that the Bible is a rich source of parables that have found their way into modern literature. Not only have those parables found a way into our culture, they have carried with them valuable lessons about humanity. I will always be disappointed in the fact that those lessons are so easily challenged, simply because they emerged from texts based on such bizarre supernatural concepts. But separating the lessons from the magic can be—and should be—done, in my opinion. Maybe the world would be a better place. Maybe not.

+++

My strength seems a touch better than yesterday; but the day has a long way to go. My mood has an even longer trek to make. Herewith, I begin the journey.

Jimmy Carter made it to 100. I wonder how the world would be different today if he had been elected to a second term as President, instead of losing to a Hollywood actor? We’ll never know. But a superb creative author might one day write a book, set in 2025, that proposes fictional answers to the question. I wish I had the creativity, skill, stamina, editorial support, and sufficient inclination to write that book. I don’t. I’d read it, though. Or listen to it being read. But the story might not be the one I’d like to permit to settle in my head. Right-wing fanatics might have begun their furious efforts to control the world years earlier. We might have had a President by now whose slogan was “Peace Requires a Pause in Democracy” or “Kill Soon or Die Sooner” or “Absolute Power is Absolutely Necessary.” Hmm. We’ll see whether one of those slogans is adopted in the year ahead.

+++

Plans for yesterday’s chemotherapy went awry, thanks to a 0.8 g/dL drop in my hemoglobin level. Any further drop (which chemo tends to cause) would necessitate another blood transfusion, which the oncology specialty nurse wanted to avoid; so did I. By the way, my oncologist was away on vacation; another oncologist from the practice was present in a supervisory capacity—it wasn’t like I was left with an trainee. So, instead, I was given more IV fluids (along with various other fluids to improve miscellaneous measures of my health) and told to return next week for chemo (assuming a hemoglobin improvement). No chemo yesterday means no post-chemo injection today; so, today, it’s just another radiation treatment. I had hoped the steroids (which I think were included in yesterday’s IV drip) would improve my energy. Alas, my early afternoon nap lasted from around 1 or 2 PM until about 4:30 this morning, with a couple of 2-minute breaks overnight.

+++

Ginger Pinkwell’s election as Guerneville’s mayor was a shock to Skazer Tartman, even more of a shock than Ginger’s recovery from her near-death experience five years earlier. The officer who shot her did not recover so well; he had been confined to a rehabilitation center, where doctors suggested he would remain until the rest of his organs failed. They said the taser had essentially fried the cop’s brain, cooked his heart to medium-rare, and seared holes in his stomach and intestines. The incident in front of King’s Sport & Tackle held the attention of the townspeople for more than a year. Initially, few people believed Ginger’s claim that she had absolutely no memory of the experience. But, when she finally testified in court, her testimony convinced the majority she was telling the truth. And the overwhelming majority of the people thought the cop had stopped Ginger Pinkwell at the unjustifiable direction of Skazer Tartman.

Pinkwell’s platform, while running for mayor, included the replacement of the Pinto Force, despite the fact that Tartman had kept them in perfect running condition during his term as chief of police. Pinkwell’s political manifesto not only called for retiring the Pintos from the police department, she wanted to replace them with brand-new Hondissan police cruisers. Tartman had publicly denounced the very idea.

“Hondissans are conservative-built trash! My Pintos were built to last—in union plants by union workers [no one ever bothered to check his claims, of course]. The only reason you see so few of them on the road is because of Ronald Reagan and his henchmen! These pieces of crap built by Hondissan are slow and unreliable. They were designed by Russian and North Korea motorcycle “experts” who were commanded to make them comfortable so cops would fall asleep driving them! My cars are rugged!”

Tartman’s scathing attack on Hondissans was modest, compared to his condemnation of Pinkwell. To him, Pinkwell was not only a danger to the fleet, but a serious menace to every single member of the police force…including Tartman.

“If that…woman…is elected, the citizens of Guerneville can kiss safety and security goodbye! She will purposefully dismantle the best fleet of police cars in the state—maybe the country—and replace it with foreign-built trash created to support criminal escape! And the real-world trained police officers you rely on now—and have relied on for years—will be replaced by wet-behind-the-ears college grads with bachelor’s degrees in sympathy and forgiveness! If she gets her way, Guernevillians had better be frightened of walking the streets, day or night! She doesn’t give a damn about you! She just wants power OVER you!”

Despite Tartman’s attacks on Pinkwell, she was elected. The moment the results were announced, Tartman began packing his office in preparation for his move to…somewhere else. He obviously would be ready to walk out the door the moment her inauguration was complete. But he was not quick enough. Before the ink was dry on the inaugural papers, the paperwork for hiring a new police chief and new officers was in place. And before Tartman could move on to…somewhere…he was escorted to the town jail by Oksana Esperanza Chusovitina, the new police chief and Ri Sol-ju, the new assistant police chief. Both the chief, whose friends called her Hope, and the assistant chief had been officers in Arcata, California. The assistant chief, known by her peers as Kimmy, was rumored to be Hope’s wife.

The local charges against Tartman were dropped within a matter of hours, replaced by Federal charges: sedition, terrorism, drug-trafficking, counterfeiting, and child pornography. Tartman immediately was transferred to the Sonoma County jail. Most of the charges were dropped within a day or two. Terrorism and drug-trafficking remained, though, for the duration of his fight against what he called “the most obscene case of injustice ever brought against an innocent man, goddamn it!”

(to be continued or forgotten)

+++

I see evidence, outside my window, that pink skies can morph into light blue. I have no proof, but I have belief.

My moral opposition to the death penalty may not necessarily apply to all people who are…or deserve to be…given the sentence. But the phrase “death penalty” probably should not apply in such circumstances, either. Perhaps “vengeful freshening” would be a more appropriate description, albeit one that might require some explanation. The term would describe the process of purifying—by way of unmitigated revenge—the social context which the condemned person has sullied through his or her actions. In reality, I doubt I could ever willingly condone carrying out actual “vengeful freshening,” but I might do all I could to make eligible criminals believe with all their hearts that a terrible, excruciating vengeance was about to be exacted. Make him or her experience horrible fear like no other. The problem, of course, is certainty—or the lack thereof. Subjecting someone, later exonerated of all charges, to such terror would be inexcusable. Unforgivable. Contemptible in the extreme. So, the question of exceptions to my moral opposition to the death penalty becomes truly problematic. Maybe I should stick to my original, steadfast opposition.

+++

The only complaint I have about my espresso machine is that it does not sufficiently heat the water. I have gotten used to—more or less—lukewarm espresso, but I’d prefer it to be several degrees warmer. As it is, though, even brewing it into an insulated glass espresso cup does not keep the espresso warm enough; it cools so rapidly that I often find myself drinking unpleasantly chilly liquid. At least it’s espresso, though. I shouldn’t complain too loudly. I could invest in a better machine. Or I could follow online advice, which includes warming my cup before making the espresso. Or I could revert to plain coffee.

+++

After my radiation treatment and my chemotherapy session today, I may learn the tentative schedule for my next PET-scan. I am anxious to get it scheduled…to get it behind me…to learn what it tells the doctors about the degree of success my treatments have had since the last scan. In the past, my expectations about the results were generally fairly positive and hopeful. Lately, though, I am not quite as optimistic…though I do not know why. I have no concrete reason to have anxiety about the results; but it’s there, regardless. I have been receiving chemotherapy treatments for a year now—or just a week or two shy of a year—about four times as long as I originally expected the treatments to last. The fact that the chemo drugs have been switched at least twice or three times may have something to do with my concerns. I keep telling myself, though, there’s no reason to worry, because I can’t change the progress (or slowing) of the disease.  A full year of “life on hold” is more than enough. Buck up, whiner!

+++

Stained glass. Ceramic sculpture. Painting. Wood carving. Hundreds…maybe thousands…more. Things I either have not done or have not done well. If I had dedicated my energy and time to honing my skills and sharpening my creativity, I might have developed enough ability to enjoy such pastimes. It’s always the same, though. I run out of interest long before I achieve even a shred of competence. The interest always returns. The competence always is at least an arm’s length away; the arm immobilized in a wire and plaster cast, surrounded by padlocks.

+++

The difference between fog and smoke is obvious, except when it’s not. I hope I see thick fog outside my windows, shielding the trees from view. But the density of the grey masses flowing past my house is more like smoke. Fog does not smell of burning wood, though, so I think we’re safe for the time being. Unless, of course, the fog gets much thicker. If that happens, we could drown. The drive to Hot Springs this morning will be like feeling our way through clouds, unless the air clears quite a lot. This dreary morning is doing its best to smother, or drown, good cheer. Some mornings, when the fog is like this, are appealing; not this one. The fog is an annoyance. But, already, it is thinning. All will be well.

The primary results of a Google search for “how to overcome regret and guilt” include questionable “answers” sponsored by religious-based entities, along with sales pitches by companies and organizations that profit from “treating” emotional pain.  Once those results have been rightfully dismissed, digging relentlessly through the remaining results could offer ideas that might provide possible, partial solutions. But it would be extremely risky to bet on it. At some point, though, I suppose the risks of making the bet are no more dangerous than living with the excruciating certainty that absolutely nothing can be done—even begin—to forgive the unforgiveable. Yet forgiveness may not necessarily be the objective. Instead, the aim may be to only temporarily alleviate the well-deserved pain of regret—an aim that, in itself, simply adds to an already-overwhelming sense of guilt. In other words, seeking to lessen the pain of regret and guilt only makes it worse. But permitting the pain to worsen, without doing anything to alleviate it, may be a hidden attempt at atonement that never works. The perfect examples of Catch-22. So, what do the true “experts” say?

They  recommend: Acceptance—taking responsibility for one’s own healing; Learn from past mistakes—apply lessons to one’s life, moving forward; Take risks—Explore ways to find oneself again; Visualize the future—picture your life free from the guilt that plagues you.

The “experts,” it seems, have never experienced personal regret and guilt so deep that simple “how-to” tactics can never hope to work. Their hearts may be in the right place, but reality cannot be placated with trite advice. Only by becoming a different person—one who would never behave in ways that trigger guilt or regret—can those emotions be overcome. But who, then, is left to blame for those behaviors? Someone must take the blame for causing harm. Perhaps regret and guilt should NOT be overcome, then, lest the actions that brought them about—and caused pain—be erased. This entire issue is far more complex than we might wish…hope…accept.

+++

Aside from the mental morass that is invading my head this morning, I remain physically fatigued. Too many—or too few—hours of sleep yesterday afternoon and last night have left me weak to the point of surrender. I want to be warm and comfortable; back in my bed or in a human cocoon. I want my brain to be at ease; too much neural activity is causing short-circuits. Two hours in the mourning darkness has left me depleted. Of course I started that way. It is hard to say, with a straight face, I need more rest; but that’s how I feel at the moment. Rest and a doughnut. I can live without the doughnut, I suppose, but rest is a necessity.

Guerneville, California had a population in 2040 of roughly 4,500; about the same as it was twenty years earlier. Its population peaked at 6,300 in 2032, but rapidly declined after Skazer Tartman became the community’s chief of police. Until that time, the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department provided law enforcement for the community. When Skazer, an avid collector of cars with a bad reputation, took over, he hired six officers and provided each of them with a meticulously refurbished 1971 Ford Pinto, outfitted as a police cruiser. He had the cars painted black and white. He equipped each one with an emergency siren and LED light bar. And he demanded his officers to be relentlessly tough on what he called “conservative crime;” any breach of the law—or attitude—by “gangsters who do not abide by the rules of our liberal lifestyle.”

During his first eight years as chief, Skazer made an indelible mark on Guerneville. Thanks to his inflexible treatment of “classless conservatives,” the community lost close to twenty percent of it population of “undesirables.”

Skazer declared in his annual report to the town council:

“Good effing riddance. When I came here, you asked me to clean up this town and that’s exactly what I’ve done! The bastards we’ve run out of town call my officers the Liberal Gestapo…let them laugh at the Pinto Force all they want, as long as they leave and don’t come back!”

Ginger Pinkwell was the only member of the town council who openly criticized Skazer’s tactics. She expressed her frustration with his approach on the Wednesday before the  explosive showdown:

“The people you’ve run out of town aren’t the only ones who call you the Liberal Gestapo. Many of our town’s most fervent supporters talk about the way your officers intimidate everyone they encounter. Cops in their little Pintos with big V-8 engines and growling mufflers run around scaring the hell out of people. I don’t call that liberal. I do call it Gestapo, though!”

Skazer seemed to take some delight in facing off with Ginger. The townspeople who attended council meetings were delighted with the rivalry, too. Nonpartisan observers claimed townspeople were evenly divided over which of the two they supported.

“Ginger, I apologize if my approach to law enforcement offends your MAGA sensibilities…”

Ginger’s face flushed red, her eyes widened, and her nostrils flared.

“Chief, don’t you dare call me MAGA! I’m as far from it as a person can get! You, on the other hand, seem to have inherited an ugly hybrid form of that hideous attitude from a time we’d all like to forget.”

A few days later, the piercing scream of a siren interrupted the serenity of the quiet sunrise. Blue and red flashing lights reflected in her car’s mirror as Ginger pulled to the curb, a black and white Ford Pinto behind her. Ginger gritted her teeth and muttered aloud, “That goddamned sonofabitch….,” as she reached for her purse. Instead of grabbing her driver’s license, though, Ginger pulled a taser, a gift from her friend, Megan, from her bag. One can only guess what was going through her mind at that moment. Whatever it was hurled her into an ugly confrontation that left the cop incapacitated, Ginger gravely wounded, and a herd of black and white Pintos blocking Main Street in front of King’s Sport & Tackle. Among the police officers on the street that morning was Skazer Tartman. The clerk from King’s, who witnessed the engagement while she was unlocking the front doors, said later she wondered whether Skazer’s pained expression was for the cop or for his nemesis.

(to be continued or forgotten)

+++

I will be irradiated again this morning…this SATURDAY morning. Two weekends in a row will have been ripped in two, thanks to holiday interference with normal weekday activities. I refuse to complain. Because my former sister-in-law, my niece, and her husband (and a dog named Lady) will visit for a while this afternoon. If I can convince my body to delay the desire/need for sleep, perhaps my sister-in-law (who is providing my transportation to the radiation appointment) we will go out to lunch with us (us, including mi novia). At the moment, I feel tired, but not utterly worn out. I should not feel tired; I slept from 6:30 (mas o menos) last night until 4:30 this morning, with a few short breaks during the night. Time will tell, again, how the day goes.

+++

For the umpteenth time in recent days, I had another disturbing dream which involved my first workplace in association management. I had been appointed executive director after the death of my boss (in reality, he died years after I left). I spent my first day on the job asking staff members to write their job descriptions (if they did not already have one) or give me the one they had. Later, after almost everyone had left for the day, I encountered a contractor who said another large piece of expensive equipment had been stolen and he had not yet received the insurance payment for the earlier theft. In a convoluted series of experiences, I received a telephone call from the hospital, telling me my mother had died. Then, I went looking for the missing insurance check. I wandered around outside the building (which I remember well), to find that the once attractive commercial area had deteriorated into a slum. And what had been a print shop for my employer had become a shabby resale shop. And, then, I was in my office, interviewing an applicant for a job. Ugly dream…irrational…disturbing…semi-repetitive…unwelcome.

+++

Now, for no apparent reason, I feel washed out. Perhaps it’s because I got word from an associate from church that she got some very bad news; a diagnosis of a rare cancer. My cancer, though unpleasant, is not nearly as frightening or as difficult to treat. Life is too challenging to have to face even more aggressive challenges. My challenges are minor in comparison to hers. Ach.

If memory serves me correctly—which often it fails to do—I have not read Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Before I get into more about that book, though, it occurs to me that a non-memory, such as I claim about Frankl’s book, is contrary to logic…or otherwise wrong-headed. With that detour out of the way, I’ll return to Frankl’s book. I want to read it…or listen to an audio-book version. References to the book and quotations extracted from it fascinate me. The search for purpose or meaning in which Frankl observed Nazi concentration camp prisoners were engaged is, I think, the same one that has controlled so much of my thinking for most of my life. Years ago, I wrote that the intensity of my own search has diminished over the years, but has never disappeared. I think I was wrong; it did not diminish, it simply changed. To this day, the search for purpose and meaning—something to make my life complete—continues. Perhaps reading Frankl’s book will help me uncover what has eluded me all these years. But thoughts I recorded the year before I left Dallas say otherwise, as indicated by these words I wrote, suggesting, hoping:

“…we can minimize the void.  But we can never completely erase it.  Yet we keep looking.  We keep hoping.  And maybe that’s what keeps us moving along, shuffling and clucking and struggling against knowing what we don’t wish to know.“

Maybe we really do not wish to find an answer to the question of meaning. Maybe meaning and purpose are just artificial ideas to which we cling in our efforts to stave off despair.

+++

Another grey mourning. Nearly-invisible oak and pine branches tinged with a sorrowful, dull silver—an attempt by Mother Nature to hide the bleak skies beyond the tree tops. Why would she hide what enshrouds us…? Ah, is she trying to protect us from knowing that which we do not wish to know?

+++

Most of my thoughts are re-treads.  Maybe all of them are over-used and worn slick to the point of being dangerous. Dredged up from massive piles of used ideas left long ago to decompose into useless chunks of incoherent understanding and abandoned theories. Only by looking back in time, when my creativity still had a breath left, can I find any originality. Even then, though, I have to question whether they were authentically mine. Too many lives have begun and ended in the millennia leading up to today for anyone to believe, earnestly, in innovation. I am not alone in plagiaristic thinking. That is my only defense; I belong to a species of unintentional plagiarists. If I were charged with homicide, absent intent, I might be convicted of negligent homicide. How would my conviction read if the charge had been unintentional plagiarist? Negligent plagiarism?

+++

I have been up since well before six. I would return to bed to sleep for a while, except I have to leave for another radiation treatment in about an hour. And another one tomorrow; that one’s a make-up Saturday. Ach. I feel like I’m living through Ground Hog Day every day.