Both the “cost of living” and “the cost of staying alive” tend to increase over time. While the rising “cost of living” initially places negative pressure on meeting “needs” (which often are used interchangeably by people who are financially secure with “desires” or “luxuries”), growth in the “cost of staying alive” is far more consequential from the outset. Too often, though, policy-makers, economists, and the beneficiaries of simple good fortune dismiss such matters as either overblown abstractions or the deserved results of indolence. Some of the same people who judge recipients of public assistance as unworthy of support try to hide that callous insensitivity by, begrudgingly, engaging in philanthropy. Because they know their attitudes toward the poor would paint them as uncaring, unkind, and unable to feel compassion, they hide behind artificial evidence that portrays them as benevolent and empathetic. Other people who share such hard-hearted coldness seem to revel in publicly refusing to engage or support charity—as if they relish their reputations as aloof, self-centered, and judgmental. The number of people who believe poverty, or even temporary financial hardship, is well-deserved punishment for inadequate drive or innate laziness sometimes appears overwhelming; so large that overcoming their influence on society at large may be closer to a fantasy than a hope.
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Saturday disappeared in a day-long and night-long fog of sleep and near-sleep. The one-two punch of gemcitabine (Gemzar) and navelbine (Vinorelvine) apparently lived up to its reputation for side effects like weakness, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, chills, etc. This morning, though, I feel moderately alive; sleep, though, may be offering an appealing invitation. Yesterday’s food intake was quite modest: an Ensure and espresso and water. Today, so far, I have replicated yesterday’s meal, with the addition of a banana. My SIL arrived a short while ago, bearing what she called a spicy dish (a soup?) of pumpkin and sweet potato; I will give that a shot in a while. If Friday’s chemo side-effects are like the other ones, I should be approximately human by tomorrow or Tuesday or Wednesday. Already, I am better than yesterday; considerably better.
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Humans define intelligence in other creatures in ways that compare and/or contrast with human intelligence. I understand why, I think, but I continue to believe we may be utterly off-base. I have said it many times before and I will, no doubt, say it again. We cannot process the concept of a kind of intelligence that differs radically from our own. We cannot successfully interpret the communications that take place between a lion and an antelope during the fury of a battle between a predator and prey. The remarkable ability to translate between French and Japanese speech does not carry over to enable us to understand the communications between an octopus and its hatchlings. We can hazard guesses as to the “meaning” of a cat’s meows in the presence of humans, but those guesses are based on our human interpretations of the animal’s sounds, not on the basis of actually understanding the noises or physical movements the cat makes. Birds communicate, we think, but the substance of their communications is unknown. For all we know, a crow’s caws might signal the bird’s desire for a bacon and tomato sandwich—the fact that the crow seems satisfied with a peanut we offer, instead, does not necessarily prove that we “understand” that the crow is hungry…it may signify only that the bird thinks we will realize that its acceptance of the nut is an expression of politeness in the context of human-crow interactions. Ants communicate (we think) with pheromones. It’s entirely possible, though, that pheromones comprise only a small portion of communication; tiny, very low decibel voices might combine with the odor of ant juices to convey completely different meanings, depending on the context. “Sting that bastard!” That could be what the ant is saying (expressed in human English), versus what we think it is saying: “Turn left to reach the sugar, Honey.” Or, possibly, “Turn left to reach the honey, Sugar.”
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Today is my late sister’s birthday. Time robbed us of conversations that could have taken place. But time no longer exists for her. Is she the one who was robbed of those conversations, or am I the one? Or, in the absence of time, is the idea that either (or both) of us were robbed of conversation utterly absurd?
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When I was a teenager, I went fishing with friends in Corpus Christi Bay, where our primary intent was to catch speckled trout. Looking back, I wonder whether I ever counted the number of “speckles” on a speckled trout? Do they all have the same number of speckles? Whether they do or not, is there some significance in the number? I have had similar questions about other, unrelated, things. Like, what is the range of the number of leaves on a twig from a red oak tree? If so, why? If not, why? Why do we say a bark is one of the sounds a dog makes AND bark is found on the exterior surface of tree trunks? Are the two barks related in some way? And why do we call the exterior protective layers on humans and animals “skin,” but we call that protective layer on trees and shrubs “bark?”
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Some questions belong in nurseries…some are better-suited to asylums. Answers float like helium-filled balloons until goose quill feather pens with sharp brass nibs pierce them, causing infants and the insane to erupt into high-pitched laughter that lasts for days. But the questions remains: who smuggled helium into the psych ward and who took feathers into the natal intensive care unit?
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My hands and feet are almost frozen, a sure sign they belong under the covers, where the rest of my body will feel more comfortable, as well.
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He felt very young and very old, as if he had been born yesterday to the originator of the English language as it was spoken in the 16th century. His birth was pre-Guillotine, but post-Halifax Gibbet. His death occurred the moment his airplane crashed, head-first, into the Salar de Uyuni, in Bolivia, the largest salt flat on Earth. It was impossible to accurately estimate his age, due to the fact that the date of his birth had been cleverly scraped off his femur, probably with a gas-powered chainsaw, by Hercules Fernandez, who died more than a century before the crash. Clever, yes, but eerie in its own way.
