A thousand thoughts flood my head. They have no theme; they compete with one another, a chaotic tangle of unrelated ideas, memories, dreams, and desires. Many of them…or is it most of them?…are unsuitable for sharing here. Or anywhere. They reveal irrational fears and grandiose wishes and an assortment of thoughts that might label me a danger to myself or others if I were to expose them to the harsh light of public view. Not dangerous to myself as if I were contemplating doing myself harm. More like the dangers inherent in crossing a busy interstate highway—blindfolded and on foot. Risk is as close as I can come to expressing those unsuitable thoughts. Why would I be in the mood to take risks? The simplest explanation might be because plunging into the unknown is the surest way to broaden one’s knowledge of matters about which one knows little or nothing.


Sometimes, I enjoy time behind the wheel of my car, alone. Solitude gives me time to process my thoughts without the distraction of interacting with others. But I do not relish the lonely drive to Little Rock this morning—not because I am in the mood for conversation, but because sometimes…like today…I desire the quiet presence of another person. Mi novia has other plans today, so she will not accompany me on my trip to buy new tires and deal with other automobile-related matters. Circumstances like these remind me that I am, by nature, something of a loner, but one who does not always appreciate being alone. Driving alone to Little Rock this morning is not particularly consequential. I’ve done it dozens of times, many of them while in the same state of mind in which I find myself now. Today is just another day like so many others. Music and musing will be my traveling companions.


Though I make coffee every morning, I do not drink much. Often, I replace half a cup of cold coffee with a new cup, of which I also drink only part. Writing tends to divert my attention away, leaving an abandoned hot drink to cool to the point that it holds no interest to me. But even though I normally consume only a cup or so, that cup has long been an important part of the start to my day. This morning, thanks to yesterday’s death of my coffee maker, I do not have a cup of coffee on the desk. The infusion of caffeine on which I apparently depend—at least to some extent—is unavailable. I can either delay my consumption of coffee this morning until the nearest coffee shop opens or I can forego coffee. Which choice I make depends in large part on mi novia‘s interest in going out for coffee. I look forward to receiving the coffee-producing device we bought yesterday. It should arrive within just a few days. I count the hours.


The Lørenskog Disappearance, which Netflix labels a “limited series,” is a Norwegian crime drama based on real events. Having watched four of five episodes of what IMBd calls “season one,” I look forward to learning whatever episode five reveals. But I do not know with certainty whether season one constitutes the entire story. I suppose time will tell, as is usually the case.


Writing does not suit me this morning. When I look out the window and see leaves littering the driveway and the street and the forest, the idea of writing anything seems preposterous. If I compare the value of my writing to the value of a thousand trees losing their leaves, my writing withers in importance. So I will stop trying, for now. Instead, I will attempt to understand the energy that flows from roots to leaves to soil and back into  roots; a perpetual cycle of decay and renewal .

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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