The recent spate of wildfires in southern California renewed my concerns about living in a densely wooded area. Though the climate here is wetter and lacks the predictably fierce Santa Ana winds, there is no guarantee that an errant spark during a dry, windy period would not ignite the forests surrounding us. Our experience last March, when a relatively weak tornado uprooted trees and left the only road out of our area blocked with fallen trees, offered evidence of our vulnerability. If trees hugging both sides of an exit route street were ablaze—or if burning trees fell onto the road—we could be trapped. The likelihood, of course, is low. But the mere potential is enough to generate worry and a heightened sense of awareness of conditions around us. Persistent anxiety of that kind cannot be good, mentally. Consequently, it might pay to engage in mental health exercises which could help allay such concerns—but how smart would it be to actively thwart an acute awareness of the possibility of fires at any moment? Another Catch-22, I guess.
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I have a vague recollection of being shown examples, as a child in Corpus Christi, of the results of lightning striking the sand on the beach on the bayfront and on Padre Island. I was shown pieces of “beach glass,” which captured the effects. I searched for information about “beach glass” this morning and found another name for it: fulgurite, also known as “petrified lightning.” Some of the photographs of the resulting sculptures formed by lightning striking sand are stunningly beautiful. I suspect sixty years have passed since I was introduced to petrified lightning; I wonder why it has taken so long for that memory to surface?
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Last night, while bending down to try to capture the cat (which had slipped into the master bedroom, off-limits to her), I twisted my right knee and lost my balance. I went crashing to the floor in what could have been an ugly accident. Fortunately, as far as I can tell this morning, no significant damage was done, either to me or to the floor. But the sensation of hitting the floor was unexpectedly powerful, as if I weighed much more than I do, and hit the floor at high speed. The force of my hip and butt smashing onto the hard floor startled and worried me; I immediately thought I could have broken a bone. But I was fortunate; no injury, except to my ego. I had to listen to a suggestion that it might be time to get a medical alert button, “just in case.” That sort of device—a means of calling for help—is for frail, delicate old folks, not for young, strong bulls like me. Give me twenty years—maybe then I’ll consider getting one.
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We watched a Netflix Swedish crime mini-series (just one season, four 40-minute episodes) last night. The series, entitled The Breakthrough, is based on Sweden’s second-largest criminal investigation. Two murders, which took place in 2004, were committed only a few feet apart in a public space. The crimes plagued the main character—a Swedish police detective—for what seemed (to him and to relatives of the victims) an eternity. The short series kept my interest and attention from the beginning until the credits rolled. It has been quite some time since I’ve been so absorbed by television entertainment.
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I concocted a tomato-based soup for yesterday’s lunch. Beginning with a cheap can of tomato bisque, the finished product was laden with canned corn, frozen peas, canned tomatoes, and a minor assortment of herbs and spices. It was surprisingly drab—almost flavorless. The days, the dividing line between overly-spicy and painfully dull is hard to find. Thanks to my cancer treatments (I assume), spicy foods that once excited my tastebuds now attack them with molten-hot pitchforks. And foods that had been bland seem to have taken that emptiness to new depths. Like chalky caves, miles below the surface of Earth, that have never been touched by light or delight. I no longer have as much of an emotional investment in foods and flavors, the way I once did. Sometimes, food is just a necessary nuisance. Lately, though, I have had much more of an appetite than I did only a week or two ago. That is not to say I really enjoy food (though I do find some foods very appealing); but at least I feel hunger and can tolerate food far more than I did a short while ago.
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It’s Saturday morning and I’m tired, again. Just past 7 and I could use a nap. I have things to do today; best to be rested and ready when I embark on the day’s adventures.
