Invisible walls behave like cages with no space between their invisible steel bars. Are people contained inside those walls eager to break out and punish people presumed to have built them? Or were the walls erected by apprehensive inmates to safeguard against outsiders who may wish residents harm? Once constructed, invisible walls take on an aura of permanence. The only way to eliminate the border between fear and freedom is to deconstruct the wall, brick by invisible brick. Bar by invisible bar. Threat by perceived threat. Building invisible walls may take just minutes. The complex process of removing them piece-by-piece can take the remainder of a lifetime.
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Contrary to the way it is often described, good espresso is not black. It is extremely dark brown; a nearly opaque liquid beneath a thin surface layer of creamy deep beige foam. Its appearance, though, is no guarantee of its flavor or its quality. Even its aroma can be deceiving; a strong, appealing odor can hide a sharp, metallic bitterness. Good espresso’s bitterness is both rich and subtle—it has a hint of sweetness underlying its pleasant, acrimonious bite. This is just my opinion, of course. I am no expert. I am no connoisseur. Nor do I try to be. I pay attention to the flavor and smell; the way it feels in my mouth. An espresso I find extremely pleasing could be deemed undrinkable swill by afficionados. Let the afficionado or expert judge me. Let them mock me, if they consider me to have an untrained, uneducated, hillbilly palette. One day I might look back at my judgments today of espresso and think unkindly of my taste buds; that’s okay. For at least 50 years—maybe closer to 60 years—I loathed the flavor of licorice. Suddenly, though, one day I tasted a salty Dutch licorice and was instantly transformed; I wanted to go back in time and taste licorice during all those years I detested it. Before I fell in love with the taste of what I consider good espresso, I did not enjoy espresso in the least—I found it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. In years past, I liked having an occasional Compari—no longer; I find it unacceptably bitter and thoroughly unpleasant. And that may change one day.
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My strength has diminished considerably during the last ten months. During the same period, I have lost quite a lot of weight (I am down an astonishing 75 pounds from my peak weight of a few years ago). The recent weight loss has come, in large part, from loss of muscle; not so much from the loss of fat. The reduction in muscle coincides with my declining strength. My oncologist referred me to a physical therapist. The purpose is to help me regain my strength and muscle. Today will be my first session with the therapist. Tomorrow will be my umpteenth chemotherapy session at the oncology clinic. I doubt I will feel inclined toward physical therapy next week, inasmuch as the chemo sessions tend to sap my energy. But time will tell, as it always does. I certainly would like to regain all the strength I have lost (and then some), but none of the weight. I’d like to lose the flab and fat. I’d like to have the toned and sculpted muscles of a 25-year-old Olympic swimmer/ sprinter/weightlifter. I’d settle for a less, if necessary.
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Today is my niece’s birthday. As long as I can remember my own birthday, I will remember hers; it’s two days and many, many years after mine.
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Thanks to being entertained by watching police procedurals and other films and videos involving murder, I am familiar with the linkage between murder by strangulation and the hyoid bone. Coroners on these shows often deduce that a person was murdered by strangulation if the hyoid bone is broken. For your information, the hyoid bone is (according to Wikipedia) a “horseshoe-shaped bone situated in the anterior midline of the neck between the chin and the thyroid cartilage.”
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Celebrate today; it is the only October 23, 2024 you will live to see.
