John Swinburn

Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.

~ Miguel de Cervantes ~

Marfa, Texas has occupied my thoughts—off and on—for several days. I suspect a solicitation I received from Marfa Public Radio sparked memories of the place. I had responded to the station’s urgent call for support a few years ago; ever since, I have been on its list of past and prospective donors. Memories of the few days I spent in and around the town some years back trickled back into my brain. From there, I explored deeper by going online. That exploration prompted my interest in returning; not necessarily for a brief visit, but to settle there. The county in which Marfa is located (Presidio), comprises roughly 3900 square miles and is the fourth largest county in Texas. In recent decades, the town and ones surrounding it (including Alpine) have become havens for artists. Presidio County has quite a mix of wealthy liberal refugees from other places in Texas (and out-of-state) who contribute to the fact that the county is predominantly Democrat. Of course, a significant portion of the county’s area (including the town of Presidio) is populated by very poor people, too. The population of Marfa is less than 1,700 and the population of Alpine in adjoining Brewster County is about 6,000. One of the appeals of Marfa (and the surrounding county) is its population density. Another is my perception of its liberal, artistic environment. The fact that such an out-of-the-way place can have such a dynamic public radio station speaks volumes, too.

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Another deeply troubling dream, thrusting me back into a world of stressful work, invaded my serenity last night. Quite similar to several other dreams I have had lately, in this one I was hours away from departing for an out-of-town conference. I was worried because I had failed to begin work on several projects that should have been completed long before then. If only I could have delayed leaving for the conference for a week or more, I could have finished the projects; but that was not an option. My mind was occupied by thoughts of how embarrassed I would be when my failures were uncovered during working board meetings.

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The strength of two character traits, coupled with an appropriate skill or two, combine to help determine whether an individual is apt to be progressive/liberal or conservative in thinking and action. An advanced appreciation of the value of critical thinking is one of the traits. Compassion is the other. The level of a person’s ability to apply them in real-world settings is among the skills that shape that individual’s political and social perspectives. Absent possession of one or the other of those traits, a person is unlikely to be progressive/ liberal. Someone who is compassionate but whose critical thinking skills are lacking is unlikely able to rationally differentiate between criminals and victims. A competent critical thinker who lacks compassion tends to be judgmental and is apt to willingly misinterpret or misapply critical thinking processes so that they favor subjective prejudices over objective assessments.

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In an effort to contain and counter the very unpleasant, painful, and almost disabling consequences of constipation, for the past week I have foregone using prescribed painkilling hydrocodone/acetaminophen pills to supplement my fentanyl patch. Surprisingly, I have noticed little, if any, increase in the level of pain (unrelated to constipation) I had thought the pills were controlling. Opioid analgesics cause constipation, according to medical literature and medical practitioners. Oddly, though, those painkillers do not seem to manage pain caused by opioids…at least not for me. I have been routinely undergoing chemotherapy since I was diagnosed with recurrence of lung cancer in late 2023. Fortunately, the pain for which I began taking painkillers did not begin until at least a year or more had elapsed since the diagnosis. I wonder whether the battle to fight pain, fatigue, weakness, shortness of breath, etc. will ever come to an end? Or is my condition going to be permanent/perpetual? That possibility (likelihood?) sometimes triggers depression that seems insurmountable. Even though that mental state eventually passes, it seems to last a little longer each time it comes to visit.

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Those crows—such big, beautiful, black birds—are enjoying their breakfast of peanuts in the shell. I watch them and think of how dangerous their lives are. But how carefree!

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As much as I loathe authoritarians, dictators, totalitarians, and tyrants, I might make a good one. I would be benevolent. I would listen to opposing points of view, but I wouldn’t put up with arrogance, nor with willful stupidity.

A recent afternoon, spent listening to a variety of traditional and contemporary classical music, triggered in me a powerful longing for the impossible: a deep emotional and intellectual understanding of the core of the music, the kind of understanding that, I suspect, takes the better part of a lifetime to achieve. Most of the music was not new to me, nor was my appreciation for it. For some reason, though, listening to it when I did sparked a wistful yearning to know it far better than I do; and to have spent my life learning what might have been in the composers’ minds when they wrote the music. Mind you, I was not—and am not—thinking about suddenly “knowing” about these matters. I regretted I had not invested the time and dedication during my lifetime to interpret the music and the way it affects me. I wanted to have devoted time to learning about the composers’ lives and what influenced the direction their compositions took. Among the pieces I found so compelling: Gymnopédies, by Erik Satie; Piano Concerto No. 2, by Sergei Rachmaninoff; Canon in D and parts of Hexachordum Apollinis, by Johann Pachelbel; among others. Some of the music is incredibly complex, so much so that I doubt I could fully appreciate its complexity without extensive musical training and exposure to music theory over a period of many years. Other pieces are breathtakingly simple, yet as powerful as any music I have ever heard. My knowledge of music is essentially nil; “I know what I like” is about as far as my knowledge goes. My tastes, though, are wide-ranging and eclectic; I am partial to the music of John Prine and the Decemberists and Enya and Pink Martini and the Rolling Stones and Willie Nelson, too. Music and emotions are synonymous, I think, and music captures and preserves how we experience Time. That may be the most fascinating aspect of some music; it permits listeners to be transported to a time when the music was composed and to feel the emotions that prompted its composition—even when we do not know just what those emotions are.

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When art is treated as a feast for the senses, it can serve to create commonality among disparate groups of people. Art can bring people together in ways that override potentially troublesome differences. But when art is viewed merely as the subject of a transaction—when it is crudely acquisitional—it can emphasize differences, especially economic differences. There are plenty of people, though, who collect art only to ensure ongoing supplies of sensual pleasure or to support and express appreciation for artists. And, then, there are those of us who long to be talented artists but do not have the requisite abilities to create art that illustrates what we see in our mind’s eye.

A correlation exists between a person’s discomfort and his inability to harness coherent thought. The greater the degree of discomfort, the less lucid his thinking. Despite suggestions to the contrary [that irrational thought and ingenuity feed off one another], the confusion that accompanies a lack of lucidity does not necessarily pair well with creativity. Creativity suffers in the face of discomfort just as much, if not more, than does clear thinking. I know this from personal experience.

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The loud, gurgling noises emanating from my stomach provide evidence that my digestive system is in an uproar. The unpleasant sensations I feel in my mid-section—like an angry live snake is battling to burst through my abdominal wall—confirm that diagnosis. Understanding the diagnosis does not mean I understand its etiology. What, I wonder, is causing my gut to deliver such a combination of distress and pain? Did I consume something poisonous? More importantly, what is the best way to put an end to this unwelcome interruption to my satisfaction and serenity?

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My reputation as an apple pie afficionado has earned me some fabulous rewards. Just a few weeks ago, some wonderful friends delivered a spectacularly good apple pie, produced by a bakery renowned for its extraordinary pies and other such baked goods. Yesterday, another friend came by to give us an apple pie she had baked; it, too, was remarkably good, leading me to believe that the baker of said pie deserves a global following. The fact is, though, that it’s not my love of apple pie that so rewards me. It is the fact that I have such wonderful, loving friends. I am a fortunate man, indeed. By the way, the uproar in my digestive system preceded the pie—which bears no responsibility for my complaints.

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If repairing defective parts of one’s body were as easy as replacing computerized modules in today’s automobiles, I would willingly pay for both the parts and their installation. The number of body parts that require replacement is significant, though, so I might have to secure several loans in order to complete them. Just like cars, though, there’s no doubt a point at which the cost of repair compares unfavorably to the cost of replacement. That being the case, though, it might be worth dealing with the situation in a similar way one might deal with a car that’s in perfect condition, except for the engine…just replace the engine. In the case of humans, though, it would be the reverse; keep the engine (the brain) and replace the remainder of the defective parts. As I consider this, though, it occurs to me that I would want to make a number of upgrades to the mental and emotional components in my brain. Indeed, I might want to keep only a few legacy parts and replace the rest. Have I already written about this? I suspect so, because these are not new ideas for me. Hmm. What happens to cars that simply cannot be repaired? They are left to rust in the junkyard.

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Mid-October’s cooler temperatures, I hope, will help douse the fiery social and political rages of summer. But the weather, even if it has some impact, will not solve the problems arising from universal fury. If we have a any realistic hope of solving those problems, we have to stop fanning the flames. The option is to allow the fire to spread until our society burns, leaving the spoils to the “victors;” that is, the surviving bloodied and beaten combatants and the other survivors who did their best to avoid the fray.

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I have mixed feelings about protests. On the one hand, I think people need to strongly express opposing opinions and philosophies. On the other, protests can too easily turn into name-calling and accusatory rants that wound their targets so deeply the damage is almost impossible to heal. And protests can harden opinions that can be questioned into certainties that are not subject to argument. I am just as guilty as the next person, though. Calling entire segments of the population stupid, moronic, evil, ignorant, and a host of other offensive epithets does not make reconciliation easy.

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My improvement from my most recent bout of what I will call “sickness” is slower than I hoped it would be. All my life, I have been advised that, as people get older, injuries are slower to heal. The same is true, I think, about illness. I am unwillingly demonstrating the validity of the claim. Nonetheless, I believe I am making progress. Because I have been extremely weak lately, I cancelled a massage appointment I had scheduled for today. I doubt having a treatment today would have been relaxing and enjoyable, anyway.

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Once again, I’m burning a cone of incense while I sit in my study trying to write something someone might find worth reading. Today, though, I’ve switched to Dragon’s Blood scent; the scent of the last cone I burned was labeled Full Moon. My favored scent remains Patchouli, but I enjoy the variety of exploring others. Yesterday, we reclined on the loveseat in the entertainment room (originally a bedroom), listening to a selection of soft contemporary classical music. That experience might be enhanced, for me, by burning a cone of Patchouli incense, but the smoke might annoy the cat…and mi novia. If I cannot find it in me to write something of interest, I will be satisfied to have tried.

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I watched, live, some of the service at our UU church this morning. I watched only a little because the sound quality was poor…not because of what was broadcast, but because my computer monitor’s built-in speakers are about as cheap and inadequate as any on the market. I haven’t been to church in quite a long time; so long that I am sure I would not recognize many members and friends who have joined in the last year or more. I vacillate between wanting to go in person and wanting to spend my Sundays at home; my oncologist advises me to avoid crowds to the extent I can, so I use that as justification for my sloth.

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My enthusiasm is not at its nadir, but neither is it at its zenith. I may have some ice cream to improve things.

Sometimes, signs pointing to the road to recovery are subject to the mischievous cruelty of vandals. Two days ago, I thought I was on that road. In fact, I was trudging along a country lane that, as I traveled, morphed into an unpaved path that degraded to a trail filled with potholes and, finally, came to an abrupt end. So, I retraced my course and now am in the midst of taking a different route. I have been sleeping inordinately long hours (14 hours night before last, 11 hours last night, and many hours on top of that, in the daytime). I am trying to drink lots of fluids and trying to eat enough to refuel the strength I’ve lost. In my condition, those actions are much more difficult to accomplish than they might seem.

Yesterday, my chemo treatment was cancelled because my oncologist had an emergency. My appointment was rescheduled for a week hence. But, because I was feeling so weak and frail, mi novia arranged for the main office of the cancer center, in downtown Hot Springs, to accept me to get IV fluids and IV steroids. That helped, but I am feel like I am a long way from being back to “normal,” whatever that means in my present state of being. I did not get a chemo treatment, but I doubt my oncologist would have gone forward with it even if she had been available. I just hope I am in reasonable shape to have it administered next week. Ach!

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Between feeling miserable, sleeping, and trying to replenish my flagging energy, I’ve been scanning my phone for news (a pointless exercise that simply adds stress to an already stressful situation), playing word games, and scanning Facebook. The vast majority of my Facebook feed is unwanted advertising, bogus “news,” and other content I find more and more unappealing (to put it mildly). So, I think I’ll wean myself from giving that bit of social media so much of my attention. Speaking of social media, and its obvious contributions to today’s explosive political and social decay, I think a time will come—and I hope soon—that Facebook, Twitter/X, Instagram, TikTok, Threads, etc., etc. will either cease to exist or be restructured to the extent that they cannot be such negative forces in society. Other apps, like TruthSocial and its ilk, should be dissolved or burned. Something(s) must be created to replace the extraordinary good that social media are capable of providing (and have provided), but the bad is far exceeding the good, in my view. But great care must be taken to avoid allowing bad uses to overtake new processes to accomplish necessary good deeds. NextDoor, obviously created with good intent, is an example of an app created with good intent that has been invaded by bad users with bad intent. Instead of being used for neighbors to communicate with/help neighbors, many NextDoor sites are used to berate neighbors who hold different philosophies and opinions. Perhaps social media cannot successful be addressed, though, until society has been cleansed of its pandemic of political disease. There must be a tenable and gently enforceable political and social governance structure, somewhere between absolute freedom and absolute control, that provides ample personal freedoms and adequate public conformity to ensure a stable, reasonably tranquil, kind of society. Perhaps AI will provide an answer…and implement it, whether we like it or not.

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I have dozens of ideas for books and stories I would like to write, but I lack the energy and the discipline necessary to write them. So, I’d like others to write them. The work would then be recorded on audio so I can hear them read (my eyesight still sucks). In addition, I would like to see several of them make into films and television series I can watch at home. I’ll need my life extended to give me time to get through them all.

The day began uneventfully yesterday. By 10:00 a.m., though, it began to sour. It got progressively worse—first, mild discomfort, then significant discomfort, then pain, then intense pain. From there it went downhill. I won’t go into the unappetizing details. Suffice it to say I spent most of the day wide awake, but wishing I weren’t. I wanted to go back to bed and sleep, but that was not in the cards. Finally, late in the day, I was able to get back to bed. I slept late this morning. I think…hope…I’m on the road to recovery from a bad day, one that won’t repeat itself. Though I am not even close to 100% just yet, I believe I qualify as alive and fair. I am about 99% certain the flare-up is attributable to some of the medications I am taking as an adjunct to my chemotherapy. My next visit to the oncologist is Friday. I hope by then to look back on yesterday as a diminishing memory.

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This afternoon, during a period of being awake, I joined mi novia in watching a documentary (Famous Last Words), consisting of an interview with Jane Goodall. The interview was recorded in March of this year, using completely automated cameras and with only the interviewer in the room with her. Once the interview was complete, the interviewer left the room. Until the program aired earlier today, no one else had ever seen it. Though much of her spirituality, as articulated in her final words, is not mirrored mine, her comments and admonitions were extremely meaningful. I highly recommend this program…and I will go back to watch the program from the beginning, before I joined mi novia in the “TV” room. I think all of humanity needs to hear Jane Goodall’s “Famous Last Words.”

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I learned yesterday afternoon that an acquaintance and writing colleague of mine, Mary Lou Moran, died on September 19. When I moved to the Village in 2014, she was president of the writers’ club and was active with the group for years thereafter. She encouraged everyone she encountered to “share the story” of their lives, whether through fiction or memoir or some other genre that would enable to writer to express who was “in there.” I last saw her only a few months ago, when we agreed to get together “soon” to discuss writing and to offer one another encouragement. We did not follow up on that agreement. I offer my condolences to her family and friends.

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There’s not enough humor in this society in which we live, especially when humor is all we need to make it through the chaos. And there’s insufficient rage, when rage is what we require to achieve peace. Paradox may be unfortunate, but it sometimes is the only tenable option.

Pressure. Uninterrupted stress. Tension. Heaviness. Brittle. Fragile. Breakable. Friable. Weight. Even in an environment overburdened with linguistic opportunities, we’re often at a loss for words. So many utterances fail in their efforts to attain man’s search for meaning. Understanding is not just illusive; understanding is truth made invisible, hiding beneath innuendo and behind insinuation. Knowledge, itself, is a house of cards—a delicate shelter susceptible to the ravages of wind and rain and infestation by guilt masquerading as innocence.

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Sovereignty is another concept living in our imaginations, hanging on by a time-worn silk thread. It is the kind of thread we want desperately to weave but which we now know requires the integration of a spider’s magic and a dream weaver’s capacity to transform liquid into rigidly flexible steel. That full appreciation of the impossible blocks the path between our dreams and the only direct route of achieving them.  We scuttle all missions before they reach the point of no return. Consequently, of course, our understanding of sovereignty is entirely theoretical. If ever we were to pursue a mission to completion, it would involve declaring sovereignty over the Moon. That declaration, of course, would lead directly to full-scale interplanetary war. For that reason, alone, no such declaration will ever be made…unless an incredibly stupid person were to somehow take the reins of the Presidency of the USA or its successors and assigns.

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Much to the chagrin of Congress, a top-secret mission to establish a permanent “Military Superiority Moonbase” (MSM) was successfully undertaken by Elonia Trump (ET) in 2048. ET was the first product of intergenerational in vitro fertilization (IIVF) involving the Trump family dynasty. ET’s mother was the product of an unauthorized union between Melatonia Trump and Gargonzola Musk; ET’s father was of South African lineage. ET, itself, was both mother and father to the sweet child she renamed “CyberBaby^3.5” in honor of its checkered past. PLEASE STAND BY: THIS NEWS BULLETIN MAY BE CONTINUED AFTER THE GENOCIDAL CLEANSING OF BUENOS AIRES IS COMPLETE.

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I love the smell of shoe repair shops…or, at least, the smell of such places when they were still common. Every aspect of life changes during the course of one’s lifetime. I remember having shoes re-soled with thick pieces of leather. No longer. Today, celery is the material of choice when repairing running shoes. Artificial rubber and photographic memories are used to repair dress shoes today. And…do you remember how you used to have to swallow food to get its nutritional value? I do. But that’s not necessary anymore; not even permitted. Food is steamed in extremely high temperature dining halls, where we “eat” by inhaling nutritional steam while staring at photographic images of extremely rare ribeye steaks and sniffing glue from model airplane kits.

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It’s time you learned the truth. Thurgood Marshall is dead. Diseases of the skin do not exist; their “symptoms” are caused by the body’s absorption of epithelialesions that have been released into the atmosphere during visits to the International Space Station. Mondays, by the way, have never existed. Those so-called “days” consist of regular 24-hour periods during which humans are placed in comatose states for recharging and mental repair. The next time you come across anyone who claims his name is Ramekin, ask him to explain Mondays to you; you’ll be in for an eye-opening experience, after which you will be targeted for proscriptive euthanasia. The reason crows are intensely black and shiny is that their jobs require them to “open carry,” which can result in very unpleasant interactions with rabid gun-hating  mockingbirds. Guns, holsters, etc. are essentially invisible when strapped to crows’ wings, giving the black birds what amounts to a few seconds of “invisibility,” when the crows can eliminate the threats posed by mockingbirds…simply by “murdering” their offensive adversaries.

High-speed replays of educational programs created and delivered by the U.S. guv’mn’t enable anyone with a Groove-Tuber Connection to get free access to courses including such classics as Dictatorship is Good; Permanently Stupefying Your Stupid Constituents; Road to Ruin on the Empathy Highway; Taking Pride in Your Willful Ignorance; Secretly Putting Broken Glass in Your Opponent’s Eyes; God Forgives Everyone But You; and Dumber Than Dirt.

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Some days, the oncology treatment rooms I visit are packed; every chair taken. Other days, when I am one of the few (or only) patient getting an infusion or an injection, I wonder whether some ‘brilliant’ medical mind has advanced a theory that chemotherapy drugs are less effective on on certain days. For example, would Fridays be off-limit to administration of vaccines? And can vaccines be safely administered only on “special” Fridays, and then only by witches, knights wearing heavy armor, and….what?  The difficulty of giving one’s imagination free reign is that even the most practical people—floating aimlessly on a slow-moving stream—can suddenly find themselves microseconds away from reaching the end of a vicious set of rapids and then plunging over a 1,000-foot cliff to oblivion. Fantasizing about possible outcomes of treatment can be rewarding; I am suddenly and magically cured; my vision suddenly becomes perfect (without glasses); and so forth. It’s odd, though, to fantasize about gaining weight; I do not know what would be my “ideal” weight, but I’d wager it is considerably higher than the recent measurement of 147 pounds. I look in the mirror now and see an image that looks disturbingly like I am trying to mimic  photos I have seen of brutal Nazi concentration camps.

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I see the week slowly grinding its way forward, leaving ragged tracks in the pebbles and powder and dried blood earlier crushed beneath the wheels of time. The transformation between the “old ways” and the thunderously powerful “new ways” is taking place much faster than I thought…and much faster than most of us though possible. We have reached a point some among us would call the entry point to “the technological singularity:” a once-hypothetical future point where Artificial Intelligence (AI) surpasses human intelligence, leading to uncontrollable and unpredictable changes to civilization. The speed of the increase in knowledge, but especially the speed of its application, can no longer be measured. That milestone is visible from every point on our planet. Human professions we recently thought could not be “replaced” by AI—like surgeons and lawyers and oilfield  “roughnecks” and poets—are in existential danger. What functions might we humans want to fight tooth and nail to retain, exclusively? Here, arguably, are a few: police officer; corrections officer; criminal court judge; probation officer; decision-making regarding first-use of nuclear weapons; among many others.  But agreements among humans to withhold those functions from the realms of AE “performers” would be useless. A single instance of crossing the boundaries between acceptable AE and potentially dangerous AE would, almost instantly, implant the functional ability essentially “everywhere.” Simply sitting at my desk, mulling over the most obvious potential unintended consequences of AE is quite enjoyable. Tracking the less obvious possible effects is even more fulfilling; the free-range creativity involved in hidden possibilities is thrilling and frightening and has questionable influences on one’s mental health and stability.

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It wasn’t the allure of the highway itself that I found so magnetic. It was the charismatic distance that the road so readily offered—that was the hook. The separation between now and then gave me the temporal space I thought I needed for renewal. And the chasm between here and there—suddenly within easy reach—felt like a shelter from a devastating storm. But privacy and isolation fill different needs. I knew, when I looked back over my shoulder and saw smoke laying claim to every shred of history, smoldering embers would consume the future. Fear and anticipation and hopeless expectations filled me with unavoidable dread that armies of our protectors soon would stumble, embracing treason with every misstep. When our own armies began torturing children while the parents watched, I felt the muscles in my gut tighten. Though the time was too late, I snatched an ignition device from my pocket and pressed its button. The armies were gone. The children were gone. The parents had disappeared. Black smoke poured from the space on the ground where the highway had been. Hundreds of thousands of acres of huge evergreens lay smoldering in the valleys below and the mountains above. No one else saw the catastrophic damage…because there was no one left to see it but me. Yet I, too, was gone. There I was in the first stage of existential denial, unable to report this cataclysm to the appropriate authorities because there were no authorities. And I was just a remnant of someone’s or something’s random memory, disconnected from everything. It would be only a matter of minutes…maybe just seconds…before that vaporous version of myself slid through a jagged opening in what was left of the sky. I quickly glanced around me, waiting for confirmation that the worst event imaginable had just taken place. To my horror, neon signs would begin to be visible. In multiple hues of an impossibly large assortment of colors, the signs all convey the same message: It will only get progressively worse, beginning today and lasting one million millennia, each played back with declining speed. My memory will function only as far back as the moment I hit that button and only as far ahead as the moment the colorful neon signs began to appear. The short circuits that led to this unfathomable tragedy were designed and produced by a small team of Artificial Intelligence Entities (AIEs) that will replicate and distribute the circuits. The questions of the day—and from that day forward—would be these: Were humans the final objectives of evolution—or have AIEs taken on that mantle? Or, has there ever been a final objective of evolution?

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Too Many Years Ago

One by one, the twinkling stars stopped twinkling. Their lights dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again and, finally, died. Early that night, the sky was so full of stars there was no space between any two of them to place another. Before 4:00 a.m., though, only a dozen unfamiliar points of light remained in that massive eternity of blank space. Like the rest of the stars, our sun had disappeared and, with it, the comforting heat that had constantly radiated from it. The Fahrenheit-scale thermometers that day registered temperatures as high as -75°F and as low as -202°F at that predictable moment before gravity became so intense that spacetime itself shattered like. Many of our astronomer colleagues call that moment The Singularity. We who fully understand the way this entire situation unfolded are more apt to call it The Impropriety. Whatever the term, neither words nor the situation they describe could have existed until the discovery of Frangible Fluid, an exceedingly delicate liquid crystalline structure that can be bent, broken, stretched, compressed, and used as paint, among other applications. Absent the discovery of Frangible Fluid, human society would have been unable to successfully merge all religions into a single compelling belief system (incorporating…magically…evangelicalism, atheism, agnosticism, Christianity, Islam, voodoo, and others). Frangible Fluid, too, enabled us to combine all forms of government and governance into an innocuous mixture of accountability, empathy,  morality, selfishness, and social obligations. Watch for news media announcements and widespread promotions/propaganda about both The Impropriety and Frangible Fluid.

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I have written in months past about the fact that various files relating to my medical history describe me as a “pleasant 71-year-old  man.” I assume the “pleasant” is just a code word for “not overly obnoxious.” What would the doctor’s notes say about me if I filtered neither my language nor my behavior?  I assume the files will be updated after my birthday to indicate I am a “72-year-old man.” What kind of person might they call me if I behaved badly on a regular basis?

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I would be willing to sell my soul, except that I am afraid I would be disappointed and embarrassed to discover the demand for it could be astonishingly low. I wonder what an attorney who specializes in soul-based commercial exchange might include in a contract for sale? Perhaps I would be more successful if I were to offer a rental arrangement; the “buyer” probably would feel better about having some form of guarantee.

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I am considering the possibility of building nuclear weapons. Among the first purchases, I think, to enable me to begin production will be a centrifuge—I often read news articles about the importance of centrifuges in nuclear weapon proliferation. Where would I go for a construction permit? I could probably produce a counterfeit permit; after all, someone willing to buy centrifuges “under the table” probably is the kind of person who would engage in counterfeiting valuable papers. Next question, am I that kind of person? If something were to keep me from getting involved in counterfeiting, would that something be my own internal morality-based obstacles or my fear of the repercussions? I have to admit I have an apparently endless supply of fear of prosecution and imprisonment.  But my fear of others’ judgment of me might be even stronger. I’ve always been advised not to put any stock in what other people think about me…unless they are people who have the potential capacity to “make” or “break” me.  If others’ perceptions would play a big part in my thinking, I would be deeply embarrassed by who I am. But, then, if I didn’t value others’ opinions of me, what kind of person would I be? Once thing I would NOT be is a person I would want to spend time with.

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Biblical quotes sometimes consist of the most powerful set of words relevant to a particular topic. For example:

Matthew 7:1-6. Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?

American Gothic is the 1930 painting by Grant Wood, depicting a farm couple standing in front of their Carpenter Gothic style home. Wood’s sister was the model for the woman in the painting. The Wood family’s dentist was immortalized in painting, playing the role of the farmer. The farmer in the painting is grasping a pitchfork. Pitchforks have two to five slightly curved tines. Tools with fewer tines are used to turn bulky materials; those with more tines are best for looser materials. The three tines of the pitchfork held by the farmer in Wood’s painting suggests the tool was the type used to turn hay or straw. But a reference to a three-tined instrument elsewhere calls it a “weapon,” known by another name: trident. Three-tined pitchforks (AKA tridents) historically have been associated with religious symbolism and political rebellion. Tridents are found in connection with Greek (Poseidon) and Roman (Neptune) gods that protect the realm of the sea. Whether the etymology of the word “trident” had any bearing on Wood’s use of his family’s dentist as a model is open to discussion and debate—but the word is derived from the Latin word tridens or tridentis: tri meaning “three” and dentes meaning “teeth.” Implications like that, though, are woven through the fabric of conspiracy theories and the like. A few years ago, mi novia and I stumbled upon a sign that led us to a farmhouse in Eldon, Iowa. The place served as the setting for Wood’s painting. Such aimless road trips can yield unexpected experiences. And those adventures can serve as fodder for future fascination.

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Another impossible dream. A luxury cruise on a small (less than 300 passengers) ship around the Great Lakes. My preference, actually, leans toward a cruise on a luxury yacht; ideally, the very small list of passengers would be subject to pre-screening and my personal approval. Having never been on a cruise longer than a single night, I might discover that I loathe cruising, but I suspect I might enjoy it immensely, if I had sufficient control over the itinerary, the passengers, the qualifications of the crew, and the luxuries and amenities available during the cruise. Unless and until I am offered a guaranteed “dream” excursion, though, I have no immediate plans to begin making arrangements for the experience. Except in my over-active imagination.

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My white blood cell count (WBC) continues to be low (at 1.7) and dropping, though before the recent downward trend it jumped into the normal range briefly. The lowest point of 0.5 was labeled “critical low,” considerably lower than the bottom end of the “normal” range of 4.2 to 10.0. The oncologist prescribed an injection yesterday to address the low white blood count. I think her decision was based in part on the advisability of getting various vaccinations, including COVID, flu, etc., etc. I’ll see about getting the vaccinations next Monday. A low WBC is one of many reasons to avoid crowds and cruises. Perhaps I could actually entertain the possibility of a sub-ideal version of a Great Lakes cruise if I could get my WBC back in “healthy” territory. Hope (AKA fantasy) springs eternal. My ongoing weight issues (latest figure: 147 pounds) continue to be worrisome. No matter how obvious it is that I need to eat more, I rarely can force myself to consume more than a little bit at a time. The reality of malnutrition shows up from time to time in the form of increasingly obvious weakness. The WBC and weight issues probably would be addressed completely if I were to stop chemo, but that might bring on an entirely new set of concerns, such as triggering a rapidly accelerating rate of cancer cell growth. Virtually everything in my life seems to remain on “pause.”  An argument could be made that “pause” is more appealing than “stop” or “fast forward to the end of the file.”

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The feathers of those big, raucous birds are as black as carbon. The sheen of their plumage reflects light like mirrors. The creatures’ morning routines consist of boisterous interchanges—perhaps conversations or arguments or mocking laughter. The trees surrounding the driveway in front of the house are laden with all sorts of birds, but the most visible and most audible are those huge black ones that look too large, too heavy, and too cumbersome to fly. Watching them fly, though, erases judgment about their clumsiness; their stunning twists and sharp turns and death-defying dives in flight are the province of expert high-wire acrobats. Mi novia just bought a little black display dish, modeled after those intriguing critters, in which she keeps an assortment of decorative quartz crystals. Crows—real and abstract, straightforward and abstract—are everywhere I turn lately. Crows; they did not choose that name for themselves. Humans, English-speakers with scant knowledge of how the birds live their lives, selected that word. I prefer the word used by Spanish-speakers: cuervo. Perhaps if I had experience listening to French conversations about them I would have developed an affinity for corbeau. What do the caws of crows symbolize? Are they mocking humans for our bureaucratic minds? Or do those vehement shouts say something unflattering about our lack of feathers? Perhaps they will warm up to me if I deliver daily treats to them—mi novia bought a big bag of unshelled peanuts that I suspect are intended for los cuervos. As for the image above: I do not know the source, I did not create it, but I admire the artist who did.

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Tomorrow marks a week since my most recent chemotherapy session. My patient portal shows that tomorrow’s scheduled visit includes two hours for treatment and two hours for labs, injection(s), and a visit with the oncologist.  I cannot rely on the appointment times to reflect the actual visit, due to the impossibility of predicting how much time each patient’s condition will require of the oncology team. Last week’s treatment went by incredibly fast; faster, I think, than any I have experienced before. Regardless of how much time my appointment requires, though, days involving more than collecting blood for labs seem to require me to spend a full day, including going to and from the cancer center and the time I spend there. Tomorrow, I will ask my oncologist whether I can get all the vaccines I need at any time or, if not, when I can get the injects. COVID, flu, pneumonia, etc., etc. I’m tempted to request vaccines for measles, tetanus, diphtheria, pertussis, rubella, and any others that may be available…if for no other reason that to express my utter disdain for the “other Kennedy” who is trying to convince us that vaccines are poisons. Asshole! I have developed a moderately productive (and mildly irritating) cough. If I had a legitimate means of laying blame on him for whatever ails me, I would do it. And I would call his actions deliberate attempts to kill me. Unfortunately, felony convictions have been proven NOT to disqualify people for Federal “service” to the public.

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Preemptive euthanasia (PE). I first used that phrase a number of years ago. At the time, I was unable to find any reference to it on Google or other search engines like Dogpile and Bing. Today, though, a search yields quite a few hits; all of them, though, are post-2017. My use, though, refers to the termination of a person’s life to eliminate the high risk that the subject person will make others’ lives miserable. I do not recall ever finding that definition applied to the phrase. I also used the phrase “euthanasia once-removed” to describe the same thing. Unlike the first term, though, the latter one does not yield results in a Google search. I am confident many people would find both terms repugnant, despite the purity of the underlying motive; that is, to eliminate or prevent suffering to others by terminating the cause of suffering. I am not in favor of the death penalty, though, nor do I think the “state” should take individuals’ lives for any other reason. “The State” has been shown to be utterly untrustworthy in the death penalty’s application. So, to overcome my objections to a concept I find both appealing and appalling, I propose the death penalty be eliminated and that “preemptive euthanasia/euthanasia once-removed” be overseen by a Citizens’ Council on Death at a Distance. The Council would have several representatives from every country who would be charged with making a determination (Yes or No) to invoke PE involving candidates from other countries to which the representatives have no connections. For example, a panel of PE representatives from Sudan might be enlisted to determine whether an insufferable individual from Japan should be administered PE.  A panel from Guatemala could be chosen to provide the same service for Iceland. If I ever had to make a decision about whether to move forward with implementation of PE, I think I would have to withdraw from the process. It’s easier to adopt hard and fast rules for hypothetical situations than for the real world.

While most of us were busy with our cluttered, frantic, and questionably purposive lives, a few among us spent time and intellectual energies on more esoteric matters. Twenty years into the twenty-first century, a group of astronomers devoted their days and nights to revising the ways in which the boundaries of galaxies were determined. Traditionally, galaxies’ boundaries were defined by using fixed levels of brightness (surface brightness isophotes) as a means of determining galaxies’ sizes. A team of astronomers, led by Nushkia Chamba of the NASA Ames Research Center, developed a physically motivated criteria for the boundary of a galaxy based on the required gas density for star formation.  A better understanding of astrophysics and related matters might enable me to more fully explain Chamba’s criteria. In the absence of that understanding, though, I willingly accept the results of her explorations. My acceptance of her work, though, did not answer the question that led me to answers to other questions. The question for which I was seeking an answer was this: Are all stars a part of a galaxy, or do some stars exist beyond the limits of galaxies? Further research led me to the answer: Most, but not all, stars belong to galaxies…as far as we know, based on our present understanding of the universe.  My  original question, though, was even less pragmatic. Rather than call it a question, though, I probably should call it a matter of general curiosity concerning subjects about which knowledge is pointless. If there were a corner of the universe, where would it be? In an attempt to recover from the boundless irrelevance of my general curiosity, I kept looking. That’s when I came across Nushkia Chamba and her work.

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We’ve begun watching Lynley, a murder mystery series involving two mismatched detectives on BritBox. The series is only four episodes long (about 1 hour each), but based on what we’ve seen so far, I hope it is renewed for another season.  I started watching Los Gringo Hunters on Netflix. It’s an action series in which a specialized Mexican police team is tasked with catching and deporting U.S. citizens who have fled to Mexico to escape imprisonment in the U.S.  I find it entertaining. And I am a little embarrassed that I find such a show appealing.

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The veins on the back of my hand and wrist are clearly visible. I would think I should be able to see those veins move, if only very slightly, with each beat of my heart. But they do not move. When I stare at my hands, they remain absolutely still, as if they had been carved in marble. I can hear my heart beat, though. And I can hear my stomach growl. Those noises are the reasons I want to experience total silence; just to understand what the experience is like. One’s body is a mysterious amalgamation of baffling pieces, sewn together with tissues so thin they are almost invisible. The thought of being able to see inside the body reminds me of something I had as a kid: a clear plastic figure shaped like a human body. Inside, colorful models of all the organs and muscles and tendons and tissues and the like were clearly visible. By removing the top half of the clear figure, I could remove all of the individual pieces. I should have kept that figure. I wonder where it is now?

Some days, virtually everything within my line of sight appears dull, as if bleached by the sun or treated with whitewash. Like an old, weather-beaten wooden fence painted with a thin mixture of lime and water, every image on those days seems dimmed by an invisible haze.  Or viewed through an ancient metal window screen that’s worn and dusty…a light breeze away from total collapse. I have, for years, blamed my eyes for the decay in my vision. But my eyes are not entirely responsible. Pollen and heat and the dust and smoke rising from rice fields set ablaze after harvest contribute. A few years ago, while driving through acres and acres of corn fields in the mid-west, i watched the pollen and harvest dust tint the sky beige. I recall thinking that, if I could scratch my fingernails across the sky, I could have left marks…like a blackboard overburdened with chalk.

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Once again yesterday, I had a multitude of things on my mind, but my brain refused to cooperate in documenting any of them. So, after I had been up for quite a long time, went back to bed, where I spent most of the day. Consequently, I missed  visits by two friends. Later, between brief periods of consciousness, I tried repeatedly to focus my attention on something that might trigger thoughts of a subject to write about.  Finally, sometime between daybreak and its subsequent midnight, a few topics of interest crossed my mind. If I had been sufficiently energetic, I might have recorded some thoughts on my smart-phone or jotted a note to myself to serve as a reminder for later. I was not energetic. I did not  have a pen and notepad nearby (nor did I have enough drive to go find them). So, I gave up. And I do not recall yesterday’s ideas. Such is life.

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I had another massage Saturday afternoon, my third since being introduced to the massage therapist not long ago. When the session concluded, I set another appointment for two weeks hence. Between massage and sleep and movies/streaming series, I think I could occupy all of my time and then some. But I’d still have to fit in time for my oncologist and people like her… people who rely on my Medicare and supplemental insurance to fund their current lifestyle, their retirement, and so forth. In fact, I do not begrudge members of the several medical teams that serve me. They chose careers that would flood their bank accounts with money; I settled for an employment trajectory suitable for sustained mediocrity.

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I would like to find something worthy of celebration…an event or an idea or an attitude that merits festive observance. This worthy “something” need not be especially noteworthy—just deserving of appreciative acknowledgement. Additional caveats: it must be something positive (not involving the cessation of something negative) and it must be unusual. Oh, it also does not need to be relevant to a majority of the world’s population, but it must have an impact on large percentages of at least half the countries of the world, as presently configured. Why, though? Why the desire for something to celebrate? Why the limitations on it? Why must it be relevant to so many people in so many places…but not necessarily to everyone? Those questions have answers that matter only to skeptics and cynics…and, of course, to people like them in meaningful ways.

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Mass casualty events—especially those that are planned and executed with the express purpose of generating fear, terror, and hopelessness—can almost immediately wreck a society’s frame of mind and keep its spirits low for a very long time. Multiple invasions of a society’s psychological condition have the potential of radically altering nations’ collective perception of one another. Distrust can morph into malignant invasive kudzu, spreading so fast within even healthy communities that, once detected, its spread is nearly impossible to contain. In my opinion, deep research into the after-effects of a few of the mass-casualty events since the 1960s illustrates how such events can remain in a nation’s/society’s collective consciousness for years, shaping long-term reactions and responses to them. For example: the Vietnam War; the 9/11/2001 Al Qaeda attacks; the 1995 Oklahoma City federal building bombing; 2016 Pulse Nightclub attack; 2017 Las Vegas mass shooting; 2022 Uvalde, Texas school shooting; the 1994 Rawanda genocide; the July 1995 Srebrenica, Bosnia and Herzegovina massacre; etc., etc. A quick search of Google returns a very long list of such catastrophes. In each case, I believe thorough research would yield information about deviant psychological and sociological  reactions directly attributable to the triggering events. What can our descendants expect in response, over time, to the January 6, 2021 attack on the U.S. Capitol? Ongoing school shootings? Murder and arson perpetrated in religious venues? The “disappearance” (at the hands of a Federal government laden with disdain for morality, legality, and human decency) of hundreds or thousands of potentially-undocumented immigrant children? The lists of such events are beyond comprehension…mine, at least.

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An apple turnover is visible in a cool display case, nestled among all sorts of other pastries. They, along with apple fritters, donuts, cinnamon roles, kolaches, klobásníky, and cake donuts plead with me: “Please take me! I need to be eaten joyously, and I know you’re the man to do it!” This little display case is directly in front of the door to the pastry shop. Almost everyone in this sleepy East Texas town visits Patricia’s Pleasing Pastries at least once every month; either right before or right after church. Most of the working-age population of Palestine, Texas is employed by Patricia’s Proton Plant, a facility that manufactures original-equipment-quality products for use in restoring atoms whose neutrons are fully operable but whose protons were damaged beyond repair during various stages of the atomic restoration process. Patricia’s Proton Plant is the largest employer in Palestine, with a workforce of roughly 28,000. Patricia’s Pleasing Pastries employs the remaining 200 workers. Some people in and around Palestine call the town’s employment situation a “closed-loop semi-serfdom system,” but most of them still call it “Bruce.” Before Patricia bought the proton plant, Bruce had been the owner; old habits die hard. I hear the turnover’s plaintive cries again; “I am the last one. The one with the most flavor. Don’t forget, too, I was baked in a nuclear oven! ” The apple turnover tried to retract that last sentence, but it was too late. Before the exclamation point could leave its lips, the  turnover burst into flames, blackened layers of its crust spraying into the air. My eyes barely had time to scan the room, before I could see and feel and smell the fear in the air for just a fraction of a second. I was the only one left alive after the terrifying, apocalyptical explosion…but the blast made me invisible to the first responders, who flew in from Percilla, Texas on the papal helicopter. You might recall the year before, the global religious community was shocked when the merger was announced between Christianity (formerly the Catholic Church and  the Southern Baptist Convention), Islam, and Hinduism. The Pope was named church leader and the headquarters of the combined church units was moved to Percilla. I was delighted to be, essentially, a fly on the wall, to watch and hear the religious and political ramifications of the merger. Thanks to my surprising invisibility, I was able to manipulate conversations and agreements so that, ultimately, the “Unaffiliated” faction, comprising only 24% of the total membership of the combined religions, was given irrevocable religious powers, thereby taking absolute control of religions, worldwide. Petitions from the “unaffiliated” faction to ban the Bible  notwithstanding, the book was retained as an historical resource for religious fables.

The forest-green, long-sleeved, t-shirt I am wearing is covered with strands of white cat fur, thanks to my decision to hold Phaedra (the cat) in my arms  for an incredibly brief moment a short while ago. Judging from the amount of fur Phaedra left on my clothes during that fleeting embrace, the gravitational pull of my body must be enormously powerful. So powerful, I think, the fur from cats locked in solid steel vaults can be extracted from the animals by gravity, pulled through thick steel walls, and permanently affixed to cotton fabric. And not just sufficiently adhesive to cling to cotton, but strong enough to behave like welded stainless steel nuts and bolts encased in material a thousand times harder than Time and Distance, multiplied by the largest prime number, commonly known as M136279841.

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I heard footsteps. Or I felt them. They belonged to someone else; not to me, nor to anyone I knew. Who is so careless that they scatter loud footsteps in their wake? Who, especially, is so unafraid of the crushing sounds of boots on bone that fear, to them, has an aroma like smoked roses and the desolation of an ice storm? Is that a pathway to escape or, instead, a passage to purgatory?

The first leaf-drop of the season may have taken place just moments ago. Whether it was the first one or not, watching the leaf break away and float to the ground seemed symbolic to me; change is on the horizon. The air outside is absolutely still. Looking through the windows is akin to staring at a still-life painting. When gentle breezes or powerful gusts pry hundreds of leaves at once from branches and twigs, one can miss the transformative symbolism. But a single leaf falling in the absence of even a hint of air movement calls attention to the metamorphosis. If I allow myself to focus intently for just a few minutes on what that leaf’s surrender signals, I feel privileged to experience something readily available to millions—but ignored or dismissed by all but a few of us. Our good fortune is not evidence that we deserve something special; it is simply a piece of luck whose jagged edges have been polished to a luminous, smooth, high-polish luster.

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Years ago, when I lived in Chicago, a woman with whom I worked initiated a friendship with me. Her husband (who, if memory serves me correctly, was an immigrant from a Middle Eastern country) was an engineering professional, though I do not remember what kind of engineering he practiced. Whatever it was did not satisfy him. His wife said her administrative/managerial role in the company for which we both worked was just as unfulfilling to her. Both of them sought radical changes in their lives. She told me they wanted to move to Puerto Rico, where they hoped to buy and operate a venue they could transform into a bed-and-breakfast facility. Their visions for the venue were vastly different, though. The venue of her dreams was a stately old mansion. I think he, though, would have been thrilled to buy or build a place with a much more modern style…closer in concept to the Lakeshore Drive building which had been designed by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, in which they rented a condo in Chicago. My memories of her husband are hazy and rare. Because she and I worked together, I recall my relationship with her more clearly. But my memories of both of them end abruptly. I do not know what happened. She could have been fired and subsequently disappeared from my tiny social circle. They may have moved suddenly. There could be a thousand reasons my memories about both of them simply stopped being made. One of the last memories I have of visiting with her took place at El Rancho Mexican restaurant, a delicious dive of a place where I think she introduced me to tacos al pastor.  It’s odd that she is on my mind this morning. I believe we worked together and knew one another for no more than two or three months. Nonetheless, that brief budding friendship remains imprinted on my brain for no discernible reason. Perhaps an article about van der Rohe I skimmed recently was the trigger for my short detour down memory lane.

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I built a shrine to the sky, using stars to define the monument’s most distant edges. Within the shrine’s inner sanctum is an endless tribute to understanding and truth. Construction of the altar began long before I knew how the story would end. By then, though, too much time had passed to enable me to start over. I could only hammer at the weakest sections and, when they collapsed, replace them with improbably timeless alternatives to words that no longer have meaning: tomorrow, later, forever, always. Shrubs and trees are related in the same way as are crime and criminality. They erupt from a common bloodline that’s ripe with opportunities for deviance. Watch carefully as vines assert their dominance by smothering interlopers. Peer deep into the night sky to see the full shrine and its pieces fall into place.

I think it’s important for one to take a certain distance from oneself.

~ Václav Havel ~

Sixty-eight years ago, members of the U.S. Army’s 101st Airborne Division and the National Guard escorted nine Black students to class at the Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas. I was roughly four years old at the time. Until right-wing conservatives wrested control of powerful governmental, political, and social institutions in the past few years, I would have though the Central High School experience was history that could never be repeated again. But, now, history is rewriting itself with pens supplied by racists, bigots, misogynists, xenophobes, greed-mongers, and other people in common with such human scum.

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Friends came by yesterday afternoon to chat and to deliver a marvelous gift: a fabulous apple pie. We spent time talking about what all of us have been doing of late. The way to have a happy conversation is to engage in the discussion while consuming apple pie à la mode. not long afterward, another friend came by to visit briefly and to deliver a different gift: tasty treats designed to improve one’s state of mind.

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Sixteen hours…and then some. That’s how long I slept, beginning last night around 8 p.m. While watching television, I partook of a tranquility trigger (from a friend) that prompted me to have a desire for pretzels. While munching on pretzels, I partook of another—but different—treat; this one with the distinct aroma and taste of juniper berries. Before I went to bed, I wondered how well I would sleep. I slept like a log.

When I sleep as long as I did last night and this morning, days and day-parts combine. Early Thursday morning devolves into mid-day Wednesday. The moments following the sky’s darkening after sunset become the final few minutes preceding sunrise…with only a blink of an eye in between. I blame the confusion on sleep, but the truth could be this: confusion could be to blame for sleep.

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The safest countries in the world today, according to worldpopulationreview.com, “tend to display high levels of wealth, social welfare, and education” and they “typically have effective criminal justice systems and governments that maintain very healthy relationships with their citizens.” The five safest countries in the world, based on the 2024 Global Peace Index (GPI) score [lower is better] are ranked as follows:

1. Iceland
2. Austria
3. Ireland
4. New Zealand
5. Singapore

The remaining top ten safest countries are: Switzerland, Portugal, Denmark, Slovenia, and Malaysia. The United States ranks #131 out of the 163 countries ranked on the Global Peace Index.; a ranking that suggests the relative peril of living in the USA. Unfortunately, according to the 2025 GPI report, “global peace is at its lowest level since the inception of the Index, while the conditions that precede conflict are the worst since WWII.” Moreover, “global peacefulness has deteriorated every year since 2014, with 100 countries deteriorating over the last decade.”

While a lower GPI score is attractive, it is no guarantee of peace or safety. Essentially every country’s most heavily populated cities, for example, have at least some pockets in which crime, social tensions, political battles, etc. take place. But, over all, the most peaceful countries are the most serene places and their populations are happiest.  But if all of us who long for peace and tranquility were to rush to the safest, most peaceful countries, I am afraid the influx would reduce the safety and peacefulness of those places. A more effective, but much more time- and energy-consuming approach would be to change nations into environments in which conflicts would be fewer and less damaging. In other words, lifetimes of dedication would be required for such transformation. My optimism about the likelihood of improving safety and peacefulness for all humanity has all but disappeared over the years. Yet another argument for insulation, isolation, solitude, and withdrawal. I wish I could look forward to changing my mind, but I am too much of a realist for that to be likely. On the other hand, the possibility exists. With enough dedicated, charismatic leaders who possess sufficient collective will to radically change global society, my mind could be changed. If my mind can be changed, so can the minds of enough others.

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Last night’s thunderstorms were audibly violent and visually engrossing. Every clap of thunder and flash of lightning shook the house and illuminated the air with an eerie blue light. I have no idea whether the storms were all show…or whether they demonstrated their power by breaking limbs and causing terrified forest beasts to race through the woods in an effort to escape the chaos. I went to bed early, unmoved by Mother Nature’s tantrum. But when the NOAA weather radio shrieked its warnings, I believe the unbelievably loud, shrill noise caused skin to peel from my scalp and burst into flames. My pulse rate jumped to 1200 beats per minute, keeping pace with a hummingbird’s heart beat. When I woke this morning, shortly after 3, I discovered I had survived the night; at least it appears so.

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It was another one of those seemingly endless nights, blending the remnants of the fading day with encroaching darkness. The night again lasted far longer than did darkness, finally giving in halfway into another day. I find it hard to recall where Monday ended and Tuesday began; both were firmly rooted in sleep that lasted much longer than usual. Sleep seems to have replaced fantasies and dedicated saferooms and caves—the promise of serenity in the form of unconsciousness has become a shelter from the storm…in which the consciousness represents the storm. Psychoanalyzing one’s own sleep patterns is dangerous, in that a person might begin to actually believe the stories one tells oneself. The reality, I suspect, is simple: the facts of—and the treatments for—an affliction that feels mysterious, regardless of the vast amounts of information about it that are available.

During last night’s overload of sleep, I dreamed I hired a young man to provide management for an association client I wanted but did not have time to serve, personally. I did not train the kid, reasoning that he should be able to figure it out for himself, since the client was simple and unsophisticated. The guy’s performance was a train wreck; I fired him in the middle of the new client’s annual conference, with no one available to manage the event. And I had to catch a flight to meet with another client. So I resigned from the client, leaving its board to deal with the carnage. Halfway through the flight to the next meeting, I realized my decision to resign the client at such an awkward time would almost certainly wreck my company’s reputation, so I began thinking about planning the closure of my business. And that was that. My shelter from the storm, in the form of sleep, put me in the middle of a fierce typhoon that was sure to drown me. Maybe I should force myself to stay awake and confront the wind and waves.

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Yesterday, driving home from the appointment with my cardiologist, a pickup truck passed us on the right. Its rear window featured graphics of an AR-15 style rifle, along with some aggressive printed statements clearly meant to tell the world that the driver was a mean S.O.B. who would immediately use the gun to eliminate anyone who threatened him. I think the display of such stuff, which I find offensive, reveals some fundamental characteristics of the person(s) who owns the vehicle. First, they are constantly vigilant about the many potential threats they believe constantly face them. Second, that vigilance is a reaction to their own deep fear of the world around them. Third, they are likely to react any perceived threats as suggested by the graphic statements—they are like frightened dogs under attack that can choose either to flee or to fight in the face of danger; they would choose to fight because their fear of injury is not as great as their fear of humiliation.  The window sticker is intended as a proclamation of machismo; in reality, though, I think it is a revelation of either fear or cowardice or both. Regardless, they may likely be dangerous.

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I rarely stay up to watch any of the late night talk shows, nor do I watch reruns. While I think some of them are interesting and funny, they are not sufficiently interesting to me to merit making extra efforts to see them. That having been said, I think the shows’ broadcasts should not be subject to the political whims of government officials. Censorship is, in my view, a direct attack on democracy. People who do not voice opposition to governmental censorship (whether directly or by various forms of pressure) because they do not watch the shows are, I am afraid, aiding and abetting censorship and, therefore, attacks on democracy. Apathy and lethargy can be used (even unintentionally) as powerful weapons to undermine freedom of speech.

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In my opinion, artificial intelligence (AI) could determine the income (or other financial resources) necessary to give every human being on earth a safe, comfortable, and fulfilling lifestyle. My guess is that the figure(s) would be considerably lower than most people might think. And the collective amount of financial resources necessary to deliver that lifestyle would almost certainly leave a considerable amount “left over” to serve as an incentive to people who want “more.” With a strict limit on how much “more” would be achievable, long-term balance should be attainable for everyone. Only after those figures are calculated and verified, though, could we expect the population of the planet to collectively agree (in sufficient proportions) to accept reductions or limits. If I had the brainpower, the information resources, and the time to work on such a project, I think that could become my life’s work. But it’s a bit late for that, anyway.

The time is almost 7:00 p.m. I decided to write a short post, despite the late hour. I may write again tomorrow or I may decide I have nothing of interest to share. Time will tell.

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I thought I would drive myself to the appointment with my cardiologist this morning. Thankfully, mi novia thought otherwise. Before I could ask her to drive, she had made the decision. I am not sure I could have made it myself; I was more than a little tired—I felt a powerful need to close my eyes and rest. The cardiologist visit was uneventful. When it was finished, we went to breakfast at a diner near the race track; I was feeling much better by then. When we got home, though, I slept. For at least 3 or 4 hours. Ach!

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Unsullied by artificial light, the sky above the far northern Scottish coast was awash in starlight against a backdrop of the blackest black. Standing at the edge of a high cliff at St. John’s Head, Hoy Orkney, overlooking the Norwegian Sea, the scene mesmerized me. There’s no telling what possessed me to do it, but I did it nonetheless; I leapt off the cliff. I suppose I expected to plunge into the sea, ridding myself of years and years of unpleasant consciousness. What I got, though, was entirely different. Instead of dropping to the sea below, the sky drew me upward into the darkness and toward the stars. My experience from that point on was far too involved and complicated to explain. But I can relate something I learned. There are times when the gravity of the sun and the earth pale in comparison to the magnetism of the stars. And I learned that being swept into thousands of clusters of stars at the distant edges of the universe is an incomparable experience. The gravitational pull of elsewhere is beyond comprehension.

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There is a moment beyond which the propellants of rage cannot be restrained. More than “a  moment.” Many, many, many moments. So many that rage can erupt with virtually no warning. Regardless of the steps that might be taken to harness rage, the blades to cut through that harness are so sharp and so numerous that restrictive actions are fruitless. That pessimistic vantage point is brought to you—in the absence of meaning and purpose—by fragments of broken humanity and shards of shattered compassion.

Much of last night, spent on the fringes of sleep, felt like punishment for an unspecified crime or major infraction. Half-asleep and one-quarter awake, the rest of my hours of “sleep” churned in unpleasant semi-consciousness. Now, when I try to recall the disturbing dreams or fantasies or illusory tangles that comprised the environment in which I immersed myself, I see only translucent curtains, behind which are shadows of unrecognizable figures moving in urgent fits and starts. Though I have no idea of specifically what cluttered my mind last night, I know it was ugly and unsettling. Whatever it was, it sapped my energy, as if had I spent the night fighting to escape something troubling and frightening. By the time I woke, I had decided to surrender the fight—but, after I woke, I remembered nothing about what and to whom I was surrendering. I then got out of bed, went into the kitchen, and promptly decided to return to actually sleep. I left the Sunday morning visit I normally enjoy with my sister-in-law and mi novia to go on without me.  The time is now about 1:30, roughly an hour and a half after I woke to shower and shave and otherwise ready myself for the rest of the day. My memory of last night’s dreamworld experience remains only a tangled nest of dark grey wire, wrapped into a ball. I want to probe into it to explore what happened last night, but I do not want to find myself stuck in the middle of the sphere, unable to extricate myself from its center.

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Entertainment. Our television-viewing lately has including the following:

• Department Q, Episode 1
• Hostage (limited series, episodes 1 to 5)
• Untamed (limited series, 5 episodes, ending with Terces
• The Black Rabbit (limited series; 1 episode so far)

I am sure I have not documented everything we have watched recently. I become lazy, coupled with uncertain about the value of keeping a record. Netflix makes it easy to review past viewing habits; the network keeps a record. The others we watch, though, do not make it so simple…they require viewers to keep their own records. So, if I want to keep track of viewing on Prime, Acorn, BritBox, etc., etc., we have to take action to record each program on a spreadsheet (or whatever). I have discovered, over time, that I am perfectly happy to rely almost exclusively on streaming services for my entertainment. When I include music resources from those services, I am close to completely pleased to sit at home: watch streaming programs, listen to music, think, write, and sleep. Sleep has become a perfectly fine pastime, by the way. It is no longer just a way to replenish my energy; it is a way to relax and enjoy comfort and, at the same time, enjoy thinking without the effort that can accompany thinking.

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Yesterday afternoon, a good friend stopped by to visit with us. And, as is often the case, she brought some tasty goodies…these from a pastry shop. The fact that she takes the time out of her busy (should I say “frenetic”?) schedule to spend an hour or two with us is so very meaningful. Her actions are both compassionate and educational; compassionate in that she shows that she cares and educational in that I learn from her practice. If I recover enough from my experience with cancer/cancer treatment, I hope to follow her lead and visit more often people who matter to me.  Of course, she’s not the only one. I remain more than a little amazed by how many people have come into my life, in very positive ways, during the past decade.

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I’ve begun writing posts for this blog a number of times during the past few days, giving up each time after admitting failure. Today, regardless of my judgment of the quality (or lack thereof) of what I write, I will post something, if for no reason other than proof of life.

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In the thirteen years since I began writing in this blog, tentacles of my past life occasionally have reached through time to wrap around me for a while. Several months ago, a high-school acquaintance who had stumbled upon one of my posts left a comment for me. He and I chatted by way of email for a short while, but that connection did not catch on. A year or two earlier, a woman with whom I had worked in my first association job inquired through a comment  whether I was who she thought I was; I was. Our limited chat via email lasted only a short time, as well, disappearing into fading memories. For a few years, a woman with whom I had worked more recently started following my blog; until she died, we enjoyed conversations, both in the comment section and by email. The most recent connection began when a woman with whom I was close for several years came upon my blog. Though she does not follow my posts, we occasionally converse via email. As I think back on these interactions, I realize my characterization of them as “tentacles” that “wrap around me” is grossly misleading overstatement.  I can legitimately classify only one of them as a truly powerful connection to the past. I think I must have a tendency to sever weaker connections that are unlikely to survive distance and time intact.

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Until I was in the midst of a conversation with my oncologist yesterday morning, I had not given much attention to the agenda for the visit with her. I had assumed it would be a short follow-up of no consequence. She reviewed some of my most recent lab results, noting some of the numbers were, as usual, significantly out of the “normal” range. Though most “abnormal” numbers are not serious…just bear watching…some need to be watched more closely and addressed accordingly. The decline in my weight, always a concern, was more top-of-mind to her yesterday morning. Another issue:  the effects of chemotherapy on my bones, as indicated by lab tests, led her to prescribe an injection to deal with the effects. Finally (but not really…there was plenty more), hemoglobin levels were significantly lower than they should be, so she wanted me to get a blood transfusion as part of  plan to respond to the decline. As a consequence, I drove to Hot Springs, where I was given a blood transfusion—one-unit. My oncology clinic visit, which otherwise would have ended by around 10 a.m., dragged on until 2:15 p.m.; another day claimed in the war on cancer.

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Some people in my sphere have warned me that I am starving myself. Until recently, I dismissed the warnings as hyperbole; just exaggerated expressions of concern. I readily acknowledge that I am not eating as much as I should, but I’ve been of the opinion that my disinterest in food is simply a temporary side-effect of chemo that will disappear when I no longer need chemo.  That opinion, though, is flawed on two levels. First, the evidence suggests otherwise: I have noticed a direct and obvious correlation between my reduced intake of food and my energy levels. When I go for several days with little or no food, I become quite weak and lethargic. Second, the idea that there will come a time when I no longer need chemo seems to be closer to a fantasy than to reality, in which case the side-effect will not evaporate. During the visit with my oncologist, she expressed concern that I had lost more weight since my last appointment; I weighed just over 148 pounds, the least I’ve weighed since long before I first started seeing her. It is far easier to decide to overcome the bad habit of going without food than it is to convert that decision into action. Somehow, though, I need to do it. Otherwise, as mi novia often warns me, I may wind up in the hospital again to try to recover from the effects of unintentional starvation.

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The days and nights continue to demonstrate that they—not I—have the power. They shuffle me around as if I were one of an unmatched pair of socks…stuffed in an empty drawer, awaiting the other sock to be found. The problem, of course, is that the missing sock might have been left in a hotel room in Houston or taken by gypsies who rummaged through my luggage while my bags sat unguarded on the tarmac during a brief layover in Bucharest. Except I’ve never been to Bucharest. So I suppose I should offer my apologies for insulting gypsies.

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Nothing else worth recording remains in my fingers. Nothing worth recording was there from the start, but that never stops me. Except when it does.

The day began later than usual after nearly two more days of nearly non-stop sleep. Sometime during the last umpteen hours, a concept took root in my brain. I expected it to express itself in the form of a short story, but when I tried to set it in motion, neither my fingers nor my brain were cooperative. The resistance I encountered insisted the basis of the storyline was far too intricate to fit into a short story—even a long one. Nothing short of a full-length novel would accommodate the story I wanted to tell. Had I switched gears and started to write that novel, I am confident the first few pages or paragraphs would join the dozens of others hibernating on my hard disk or on thumb drives resting uncomfortably in a desk drawer. My perpetual problem: inadequate discipline made worse by waning interest and loss of belief in my ability to finish the project. The enthusiasm that fuels the first few pages or paragraphs is like compressed gas in a propane tank. The smallest pinhole allows it to escape into the atmosphere. Another problem is that my fingers cannot keep pace with my brain. The words on the screen lag far behind those in my head, the distance between them increasing with every beat of my heart. If I try to get an upper hand on the problem by initiating a competition with myself, I quickly realize I am not in the same league as my competitor. Even if he intentionally put the brakes on his productivity, I cannot keep up. Damn. If nothing else, I’ll keep in my WordPress file folder my very short draft of this morning’s abysmal failure. At least I’ll have something to trigger my memory if something sparks my creativity. I can always continue where I left off. Or I can simply resurrect the names of the characters I began creating: Perfidia Adebayo, Insidia Aaberg, and Ephemera Foreva. Perhaps using more traditional names would help? Names I might find easier to remember?

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My earliest recollections about the Sargasso Sea and Sargassum seaweed are from my early years in Corpus Christi. I do not recall with certainty whether I learned about them in school or during optional “classes” held at the Corpus Christi Museum; probably the latter. Memories of the free classes at the museum are dim and vague, but I think attendance was a reward of some sort. Sometimes, memory fragments—buried beneath layers of Time and the detritus of unexpected incidents and unfortunate accidents—are exhumed in response to inquiries made by simple circumstance or demands made by experience. The relevance of memories is never assured, but sometimes crucial to understanding.

The feeling of elation that accompanies an unexpected contact by someone who mattered and made an important positive difference in one’s past is impossible to difficult to describe. But those feelings include emotions touching on giddiness, gratitude, admiration, respect, and a dozen others. Those sensations also tend to replace some others that time has permitted to wither: self-respect, social value,  justifiable pride, among others. As the initiator of such contacts, though, others’ reactions can be disappointing—recollections may have faded, responses may be unenthusiastic, memories may not be as positive as anticipated, or a long-lost reason for a past rupture in the relationship may could suddenly erupt into flames. I think the potential for recovering the positive aspect of the relationship outweighs the dangers; but it’s best to be prepared.

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Dread feeds on powerlessness and the sense that your opponents desire nothing more than your utter defeat, up to and including your death. Your dread is based not only on fear, but on fact. Once dread takes up residence in your mind, you can never again be free. Even if your dreaded opponent is imprisoned or dies, his animosity lives on. It grows.

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I am staring at one third of a demi-tasse cup of espresso that has lost its warmth and could not capture my interest this morning. In its place, I would like a cold glass of sparkling water, kept cold with crushed ice and flavored with a generous squeeze of fresh lime juice. The ideal accompaniments would include chunks of cantaloupe, papayas, strawberries, mangos, grapes, and various citrus fruits. Considering where I live and local seasons, I am afraid I would have to import several of my preferred taste treats. Maybe a freshly-baked almond croissant would go well with the rest. Of course, the moment these delectable things appeared on my table, my taste for them probably would transform into an interest in beers, chips, pretzels, and beef jerky. Or nothing at all.

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If Christians and Muslims and Jews and Atheists and all the other people who identify with descriptive terms used to categorize religious beliefs (or the lack thereof) were serious about peace on earth, that seemingly impossible dream would be easy to achieve. Religious texts have long since outlined behaviors that would accomplish that aim; plenty of secular writings have done the same.  The keys, of course, are tolerance and flexibility. The countervailing obstacles, hidden in full view, assert themselves through intolerance and inflexibility: two vital components of control and power. Darkness conceals illuminated pathways. Light struggles to escape into brilliantly-lit caverns. These are not places; they are fierce ideas that thrive in the right circumstances or starve when kept in cages.

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My interest in television programs, films, documentaries, etc. has declined lately. The good stuff requires me to think in order to fully grasp the messages triggered by the content. Much of the rest is either dull and empty or unnecessarily violent, raw, and predictable. My tendency to want to sleep around the clock interferes with the entertainment value of everything I watch. Or try to watch. My poor vision makes watching television a demanding effort. I’ve essentially given up on reading for that reason, as well. Though I somehow manage to wade through some of what claims to be news. I am not quite sure why I spend my time writing about such stuff as this. I might be far happier if I would just copy and paste one of dozens—or hundreds—of updates I’ve already posted here. Less work, and it would require less time and energy wasted on replicating experiences on which I’ve already wasted plenty of time and energy.

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I tolerate the side-effects of chemotherapy, but I would prefer my unpleasant reactions to be more appealing or, at least, less disagreeable. Actually, I’ve grown rather fond of my tendency to sleep so easily and for such long periods. Sleeping lessens the time available to me to experience the discomfort of constipation, the pain of…whatever causes the pain…the annoying dry-heave expressions of nausea, and the various other physical and emotional attacks on my sense of well-being.  I think I would enjoy the ability to sleep, uninterrupted, for months on end, provided my lengthy naps would not end in fits of ravenous hunger. That’s not been a problem so far, though, as food remains unappealing, in general. I had  a chemo session last Friday, with Navelbine and Gemzar. The two together, I think, pack quite a punch, making me sleep all day and all night and otherwise reminding me of their potential side-effects; none of them serious so far, but enough to make me distinctively conscious that the medications play havoc with my ability to live a “normal” life, whatever that may be. I go back in today for my routine post-chemo injection and, possibly, to learn when my next visit with the oncologist is scheduled.