John Swinburn

Look up, there, at the highest branch of the nearest, tallest pine tree. See the needles at the end of that branch? Those needles are composed of a collection of molecules that, if traced back in time tens of thousands of years, might have flowed through the cardiac system of an ancient ancestor of a deer who lives, today, in those woods. Or they might have struggled, as components of a sapling, to rise above the forest floor. Some of those molecules could have been nestled comfortably inside a pebble submerged in a seasonal creek that no longer exists…but every element of those pebbles…and the water in that creek…and all the leaves and needles in the forest…and everything else, seen and unseen…still exists today. Even the pine borer beetles and the bright red plumage on the pileated woodpeckers and the fresh urine of the coyote cubs wandering the landscape today carry elements of those long-gone expressions of the natural world of a time long gone. Imagine tracing every moment of the existence of a single atom, back to its origin. It boggles the mind.

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Do sound waves disappear? If so, where do they go? What transformations take place, between the moment a bell rings and the instant the sound waves no longer register in the ears and brains of a person five hundred feet away from the bell? Light travels billions of miles between its source and its detection in galaxies at the edge of the universe. Do light waves eventually stop moving across space and emptiness? What happens to light when the energy propelling it fades? We may have logical answers to those questions, but are the answers based in reality, or only in the complex minds of people who claim comprehensive knowledge of the laws of physics? Everything we know and all our experiences may be the products of a single mind’s imagination. Trees and pebbles and woodpeckers and people and pine borer beetles do not exist in reality; they are just ideas spawned by one individual…who could be a person or a saguaro cactus or a drop of ocean water…all of which also are just concepts, not physical objects. Imagine that; an imaginary being imagining a limitless number of other imaginary beings that also imagine an endless supply of additional imaginary beings. Rational thought, conjured by irrational minds created by artificial ideas. We trick ourselves into believing we are real, when in fact we have no substance outside our own vaporous existence—which lacks substance because it is not there, except in theories hatched by ideas that pretend to exist.

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None of this represents my actual thinking, of course. Because thinking is an idea that some would say lacks physical substance. These are the sorts of mental intrusions that make it impossible to achieve a state of relaxation. At least for me. We cannot get a grip on reality if reality does not exist, right? If logic and knowledge are no more than temporary diversions from a tangled form of chaos that is growing exponentially, then logic and knowledge could be pointless respites from something we cannot define, cannot measure, and cannot explain.

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I need rest. I want sleep. I would value six consecutive weeks of restorative unconsciousness; give or take a month or two.

“I saw it with my own eyes!” That proclamation used to serve as reliable confirmation that something a person had seen was real. But that was before the eyes were so easily deceived. That was before anyone with a computer had easy access to a tool that enabled users to dramatically manipulate photographs and videos. And voices. And…who knows what else? Artificial intelligence (AI) will—if it hasn’t already—turn us into doubters. Skeptics who do not believe their own eyes. Cynics whose uncertainty turns confidence into disbelief and trust into an obsolete idea accepted only by the deeply naive. I no longer believe the Facebook “reels” that show live-action videos of car crashes or bears saving children by snatching them out of the way of speeding 18-wheelers. AI tricks our senses into seeing or hearing imaginary sights and sounds. We may be just moments away from thinking only what AI directs us to think and experiencing only those emotions AI instructs us to feel. Embrace reality while you still have the capacity to differentiate it from fantasy…while you still can.

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After reading it, an article in the New York Times Magazine from a few days ago, When Grief Came for the Gravedigger, left me feeling unsettled. I wonder whether anyone else reading it would find it as emotionally troubling as I? I still am not quite sure why it impacted me in such an odd way.

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Blue skies, tarnished by high white clouds, may be up to no good. Gusty winds force the swaying trees outside my windows to sneer at me, as if they know something I do not. Yesterday’s rain and last night’s intermittent drizzle left the driveway and the street wet; do the trees find that amusing? Sometimes, the forest makes me feel out of place; as if miles and miles of isolation in a desolate desert landscape might be more to my liking. But that, too, might quickly seem foreign and unfriendly to me. So would a mountainous vista or a place where the sea intersects with cliffs. Something is missing, no matter where I go and regardless of where I imagine I could be. Is it the environment, or is it me? If I could visit places without taking the baggage of myself with me, I might find the answer. Or I might find that answers do not emerge in response to questions; they struggle to find a suitably empty place that’s aching to be filled with a companion to emptiness, whatever that is.

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A grey film has silently hidden the blue skies, changing the fundamental character 0f the day. If noise could be muffled the way sunlight can be dimmed, I would be sitting here at my desk, enjoying the peace and tranquility of silence. The sky is reading those words…it is responding with flashes of grey and blue changing places; simultaneously, I watch and listen as the wind howls in brief fits of angst and anger and bitterness.

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If I could erase the past and the present for just a while…a week or a month, perhaps…and then return to move gradually into the future, I would know more than I know today. Erasing experiences might have the effect of deconstructing everything; allowing the construction of a different present, built on an entirely new foundation.

The “top photos of the week by AP photojournalists” give rise to emotions ranging from sorrow to compassion to rage to appreciation to awe. When I right-click to open an image in a new tab, then enlarge the resulting photo, I can see much more than I would if I had simply glanced at the picture as originally produced on the screen. For example, yesterday morning I opened and enlarged this image, which was captioned as follows: “Smoke and flames rise from an Israeli military strike on a building in the Zeitoun neighborhood of Gaza City, Feb. 6, 2026.” The original image offered an overview of a scene from war. The much larger one allows me to see more clearly what the original almost hid in the overview: airborne shrapnel caused by the attack; a collection of what looked like headstones in a cemetery; men reacting, the moment it happened, to the explosive bombardment; and posters with photos of men who, I presume, were buried beneath the headstones. Other photos included in the AP collection were emotionally moving, as well: a woman evacuating a wounded dog after a Russian aerial strike hit a stray dog shelter in Zaporizhzhia, Ukraine; a striking image from the Bad Bunny performance during the Super Bowl halftime show; and Turkana women getting water from a Kenyan well; among others. Photos, when studied carefully, have the capacity to open one’s mind to the experiences they capture—they are more than mere pictures, they engage viewers, thrusting them into the experience. The work of skilled and insightful photographers impresses me; both their technical skills and their ability to understand and capture the emotions of the experience astonish me.

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I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations – one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it – you will regret both.

Soren Kierkegaard

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Speaking of photographs…I think we should consider them visual aids, like binoculars or eyeglasses, because they help us see more clearly. Photos eliminate the distractions of movement—the sometimes chaotic fog of images-in-motion that effectively hide or disguise much of what is in front of our eyes. Visual debris diverts our attention and effectively hides clarity behind a cluttered haze of kinetic distortion. Photographs, mimicking microscopes, allow us to peer intently at extreme close-ups of images that would be lost in a passing glance—or even a focused stare.

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During an interview by David Marchese, summarized in a recent edition of the New York Times,  Michael Pollan said, “Consciousness has become our secular substitute for the soul…” That comment, in the context of a discussion involving awareness, artificial intelligence (AI), and what David Chalmers has called the “hard problem” of “how you get from matter to mind, how you cross that huge gulf from neurons to subjective experience,” intrigues me.  The idea that consciousness or awareness might be available to AI is fascinating and frightening. Marchese introduced the article about the interview with the following: “For as long as I can remember, I’ve wrestled with my own thoughts and feelings about identity. Why am I, David, the person I am?”  Except for the fact that I have never referred to myself as David, I could have spoken those sentences—asked that question. These matters bounce around in my head, attempting without success to understand what, exactly, constitutes a person’s identity. Thought-provoking questions— like why some of our human functions (e.g., moving my arms) require conscious awareness and why some (e.g., digestion and heart rate) don’t—could occupy my mind around the clock, if I let them. Such questions lead me to others…whether, for instance, there exists a clearly identifiable point at which consciousness and its absence intersect. The intensity of my fierce curiosity about such issues slams against an immovable wall after a while. The complexity of all the supportive and conflicting ideas that surround these questions suddenly becomes so tangled and convoluted that my energy is no longer sufficient to keep pursuing answers; I abandon the questions—exhausted and angry and convinced that my interest is pointless and the answers to the questions are either wrong or non-existent.

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My one regret in life is that I am not someone else.

Woody Allen

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Yesterday afternoon, my anger and its expression in my behavior left me feeling drained and regretful and ashamed for the first time in quite a while. A few simple and, in hindsight, understandable mistakes on an invoice given to me spurred an angry reaction from me. And that anger spurred the revival and intensification of unrelated anger that, in turn, led me to direct a loud, unpleasant outburst to a man who did not deserve such wrathful fury. The crowning “offense” was the man’s umpteenth time mispronouncing my name, even after he was corrected several times. Annoying to me, yes; but deserving of such public vilification, no. My reactions to those triggers were like those I used to have regularly. As I think about these things, it occurs to me that the sharp reduction in such outbursts may have paralleled the start of a prescription for anti-anxiety/anti-depression pharmaceuticals. I have not stopped, nor even paused, that prescription; there may be no connection at all. But, still, I wonder why the old reactive personality experienced such a volcanic eruption. It bears watching, which I shall. I owe the guy an apology.

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The tragedy of the mass shooting in Tumbler Ridge, B.C. has already been adopted by some right-wing fanatics as evidence that “transgender people commit a disproportionate share of crimes.” The shooter has been reported to be transgender. Rather than acknowledging the heartbreaking depth of the tragedy, some right-wingers are using the event as an opportunity to promote their intolerant view of the world. The Toronto Star reports that U.S. right-wing media already have begun that propaganda campaign. Some Canadian government officials echo the prejudice. The focus of the  Globe and Mail‘s coverage of the devastating event focuses more on the community’s reaction and response to the horror. Reading some comments online from readers of articles about the violence led me to move on. Rather than treating the mass shooting as the horrific tragedy it is, many commenters choose to use it as a launch pad to spread their politics of unsympathetic callousness. The U.S. export of ill-will, cruelty, and hatred is in full production; I find it incredibly sad that some Canadians celebrate the opportunity to import those inhumane characteristics.

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I did not sleep well last night, courtesy of aches and pains and disturbing dreams that, fortunately, have not followed my mind into this morning. I remember only that I was awakened several times by some unknown, unpleasant, and unconscious experience. When, finally, I got up around 4, I felt tired and worn and still aching from muscles and joints that punished me during the night. Although the renovation is complete, for now, there’s still clean-up to be done and dishes removed from cabinets must be returned to their rightful places. Those tasks and the residual anxiety and disorder of having construction “visitors” for several weeks probably shoulder some of the blame for nervous semi-insomnia and intrusive discomfort. Soon, though, life will be back to normal…at least as close to that state of being as possible under the circumstances. I should have had a gin & tonic or a gummy last night, but I satisfied myself with just a hydrocodone chaser. Apparently, that did not have the effect I had hoped it would. Maybe a return to bed for an hour or two of dedicated sleep will correct all that’s wrong with the world.

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An online article in Wikipedia says the population of Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia peaked at approximately 4,800 in 1991, ten years after the planned community’s housing and infrastructure were built. Thirty years later, in 2021, its population had recovered to roughly 2,400, after dropping to just under 2000 in 2016, thanks to convulsive gyrations of an economy based heavily on mining. Despite efforts to diversify the local economy, the municipality is struggling to overcome its history of dependence on coal mining.

If not for a mass shooting yesterday that left at least nine dead and twenty-five wounded—according to this morning’s news reports—I would not know even of the existence of Tumbler Ridge. I would not know of its history of economic woes. I would not know anything about the coat of arms of the District of Tumbler Ridge, nor would I know that the municipality’s motto is Invitatio Prosperitati, which is a Latin phrase meaning “Invitation to prosperity.” And I would not have reason to think, in light of the town’s economic history, of the irony of its motto. A small Canadian town has given the world another reason to mourn; the cause for its grief grabbing the headlines away, at least briefly, from the mystery of the reported kidnapping of an 84-year-old mother of a media celebrity.

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I ask myself: “What prompted you to seek information about the British Columbian town where a murderous tragedy took place yesterday?” So far, no satisfactory answer has bubbled to the surface of my brain. Perhaps my motive is related to a question that I doubt has a satisfactory response: “Why?” Maybe I was looking for something about the town that could explain what drove the shooter to do something so unspeakable. I hope, I really hope, my reason did not arise from morbid curiosity.

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We had lunch at Taco Mama…excellent, as usual. A perfect follow-on to an hour-plus dedicated to another of my regular infusions at the oncologist’s office.

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I just spent just over an hours on a deeply frustrating Zoom gathering with my siblings…just a few minutes in, the service stopped the other participants from hearing me. No matter what I tried, I was muted…out of the blue. This marked yet ANOTHER of many instances when Zoom’s promised “ease” of use turned my normally cool, calm, utterly Zen nature into something akin to a seething blind rage. And this was after I just “upgraded” from the free service to a paid “professional” subscription. Oh well, time to chill. Maybe I’ll have a gin & tonic…or a gummy…or both…perhaps with a hydrocodone chaser.

Enough of this for now.

Comments—pro or con—about my posts are rarely left on my blog. Yesterday, a blog visitor left one of those rare comments; one decidedly non-complimentary, reacting to my my perspective on Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime performance:

Omg did you even bother to find out what the “facts” were regarding the words in his songs? That children and toddlers, some of whom did understand the language, were listening to?? I very, very much doubt it. Because that would burst your clueless, virtue signaling bubble. If that’s the diversity you wish for my children, you can shove it. Smh.

My Spanish is limited, at best, but I did not hear anything offensive when I watched and listened to Bad Bunny’s performance. Subsequent to reading the comment that suggested my vantage point emerged from my “clueless, virtue signaling bubble,” I did some research. The only assertions I found that claimed his performance was laden with vulgarities or other such offensive language were made by people I believe are far-right-wingers; gullible MAGA cultists whose ethics seem completely at odds with mine. Nowhere could I find any such claims from credible media sources. While some of Bad Bunny’s Spanish song lyrics are flush with what some might call vulgarities, the songs he performed during the show were not, as far as I can tell. I posted a reply to the commenter from yesterday, asking for details supporting the commenter’s complaint; no response, as I write this.

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The renovation is in the home stretch. An electrician installed the new cooktop yesterday. Today, painters are applying their finishing touches and plumbers are installing faucets and drains and a new disposal for the big, shiny new kitchen sink. Newly-painted cabinet doors are being re-hung. It’s all coming together. The project, which commenced on January 16 and paused for about a week a short time later, thanks to the weather, should be completed today or tomorrow. Except we miscommunicated with the contractor about the guest bathroom…we contracted for a new sink and countertop, but failed to contract for repainting the vanity. Such is life. We’ll deal with that soon. In the interim, having two fully operational bathrooms and a kitchen equipped with a sink, a stovetop, and new light fixtures will feel like we have moved from a dark cave into a modern home.

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The merger between “news” and “entertainment” is not a recent development, but their joint packaging continues to undergo change at the hands of skilled and sophisticated marketers.  The maxim, “If it bleeds, it leads,” has driven the news for what seems like eons. The level to which the axion has taken hold of entertainment positioning has grown alongside it, contributing to the content of books, television, film, internet content, and more. Today, I would argue the concept influences both news and entertainment to such an extent that consumers sometimes have difficulties differentiating between the two. A current example: the mysterious disappearance of Nancy Guthrie, mother of Today Show co-host Savannah Guthrie. Reading and watching updates about the disappearance was like following both news and entertainment at once, from the moment the story broke. The coverage of the developing situation was treated in the same way by broadcasters and publishers. This “news” is dressed in intrigue and in the attire of show business. It is supported by dramatic audio and video and sensational delivery. Would news without colorful graphics and riveting “updates” be as compelling? Is entertainment given more weight by consumers if it is presented as developing news? Which is which? Are they different? Do either of them maintain links to their origins?  The same concepts apply to the Super Bowl; this year, it is an enormously successful entertainment event, augmented and supported by news about the conflicts surrounding its political overtones. News and entertainment: synergistic and symbiotic…and, perhaps, unhealthily interdependent if they become too closely aligned.

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Unacknowledged endemic hypocrisy. A human trait found in almost everyone; but not all the time. A rare universality. Conflicting beliefs emerge from the same brain. Superstitions and scientifically-based logic frequently reside in the same mind…on occasion. I make it a habit to rarely remember to take do as I say, not as I do. I sing about language and read about illiteracy from the same audio book. Mental hygienists scrape deposits from the memories of manic-depressive bank tellers. Psychiatrists are mindlessly persistent in prescribing mouthwash for toothless dentists. Cows are simply deconstructed leather shoes and grass-fed steaks. Light shines in through black obsidian windows. Gibberish and its kin simply do not understand relationships. This is the sort of stuff I extract when cleaning the cobwebs from the places cobwebs grow…but they don’t grow, do they? They are spun, like a top or a story…

I read an item on Facebook this morning, reposted by an acquaintance, that presented an interesting snapshot summary about one of the recipients (Esther Duflo) of the 2019 Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences (Nobel Prize in Economics). The article was interesting, informative, and inspirational. A statement included in the summary of Duflo’s accomplishments, “ideology is a poor substitute for evidence,” struck me as particularly meaningful. It mirrors the concept embraced by another phrase I have used in time past: “beliefs cannot compete, legitimately, with facts.” Those statements can be useful tools in arguing against claims based entirely on opinions…but only when opposing viewpoints are held by rational people who value honesty.  There have been times when I would like to have used one or both of them as cudgels to beat some sense into intolerant dogmatists. But intolerant dogmatists do not respond well to ideas that conflict with their stubbornly unsupported partisan positions. Key to the effectiveness of such powerful cudgels are recipients’ acceptance of being proven wrong. I know how difficult it is for me—proudly tolerant and open-minded—to accept such challenges to my firmly-held perspectives. The problem is rooted, I think, in judging the legitimacy of evidence. In politics, both left and right tend to refuse to even consider the validity of evidence, insisting that evidence is simply propaganda disguised as fact.

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The few snippets I watched of last night’s Super Bowl halftime show impressed me. I had never before heard nor seen any of Bad Bunny‘s performances and did not know quite what to expect. I will admit that I was primed to be receptive to it, though, because of the outrage expressed by racists and their ilk. Even without that sympathetic preparatory base, though, I think I would have been just as appreciative of the musicians’ and dancers’ performance. Their energy and their embrace of the value and beauty of diversity was inspiring. The attitudes symbolized by the performances reflect the core values upon which we claim the USA was originally founded; whether those values will ever truly infiltrate the culture of this country remains to be seen. Given the developments, degradations, and deconstructions of the last few years, I am doubtful. As usual, I did not watch the Super Bowl game. I may have heard which team won, but it didn’t register, if I did.

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Winter has had its fling. Time to give Spring a lengthy opportunity to prove itself. The only times my hands and feet are comfortably warm are the times they spend in bed, under a heavy bedspread. I realize there will be moments in the not-too-distant future when I will curse the heat and threaten to quench the humidity with machinery that can suck the moisture out of the air. But, for now, I just complain about the icy brittleness of my fingers and toes and look forward to a time when comfort will prevail.

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The bright blue sky and quite cool temperatures ought to infuse me with enough energy to move around, if for no other reason than to generate a bit of warmth. But physically and mentally, I feel at a low ebb—which, too frequently, seems to have become “normal.” I suspect the extended period of construction-related disorder and the extended weather-related imprisonment may have something to do with it. Having several strangers, no matter how friendly and pleasant, in the house during the kitchen and bath remodels is a little stressful. As is to be expected, the sounds of their work and their voices fill the usually-quiet house with nerve-wracking noise. Expectations notwithstanding, I long for silence and privacy. The outcome of the work will be worth the discomfort. Already, the changes in the space are making a positive difference in the way I see this house. Change is appealing and appalling. Beckoning and bothersome. Seductive and spine-chilling.  I miss Soubhiyé…“the whisper of dawn, when the house is still in slumber, allowing one to savor the stillness before the day begins.”

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When suspicion approaches certainty, context matters more than confidence. Concerns transform into worries, fear becomes terror. Desire leads to disappointment. The key to survival is adaptation;  adjusting to conform to what the circumstances require. But an overabundance of available approaches to a situation can lead to paralysis. Endless possibilities tend to convert choice into confusion. Calm becomes chaos. With too many options, tranquility morphs into trouble. Clarity turns cloudy. Fewer options simplify complexities.

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He had heard the story a thousand times before. It was so deeply etched into his brain that he could repeat it, word for word. And he could replay each and every emphatic expression paired with those words. It was not just the one story, though. He told dozens of them; maybe hundreds. He knew them all by heart. How could he not? Only by closing his eyes and plugging his ears could he have prevented those tales from taking up permanent residence in his head. Now that they’re there, they inhabit his dreams and his memories. They claw their way to the top of his consciousness, the same as a drowning man claws his way to the surface of the water, in search of air to breathe.

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Calls are not returned and messages go unanswered. With no fanfare nor explanation, a half-century friendship quietly fades and disappears, exposing the fragility of permanence. The disintegration reveals reality: shallow spring-fed pools, pretending unlimited depth, drain quickly when their sources run dry. Unbreakable bonds wither, then snap like thin, dry twigs. When such tight connections dissolve, hidden decay may have been the culprit. More likely, though, the issue was one of semantics—a casual companion mislabeled as fast friend; an acquaintanceship masquerading as something more.

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My hair is getting sparce and my skin is getting thin.
My time is running slower than it ever will again.
And as my body ages, minutes fly like days.
And weeks go by so quickly, months slide by in a haze.

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Work continues today on the remodeling project. Grout applied to tile for the backsplash. Still no faucets to supply water to the kitchen and bathroom sinks. Still no operational sink drains, so even if the water was available, the sinks would be unusable. And still no cooktop. And no doors on cabinets and fronts on drawers. There’s more to be done. We are told it will be finished before Wednesday. I feel like a celebration is in order; something to inaugurate the new kitchen. But I am not sure I am yet in the mood to cook. It’s more that I don’t have the stamina, actually. Or the strength. Kitchen remodels should come with a chef.

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Creativity has drained from me for the time being. So be it.

Several years ago, after learning just enough HyperText Markup Language (HTML) to write a bit of basic HTML code, I created what I call my internet “Resource Center” page, which was (and remains) my desktop starting point for opening a number of websites I tend to visit with some regularity. The page essentially comprises a bunch of links that simplify and accelerate my access to websites I find useful. For example, it includes links to domestic and foreign newspapers and other news media, radio and television stations, commercial/retail sites, social media sites, financial resources, patient medical portals, etc., etc. One of the links I used frequently led me to the CIA World Factbook, an interesting and useful source that included extensive details about virtually every country on the planet. This morning, during my routine scan of a few online news sources, I read on the NPR website that the CIA World Factbook is no more. Immediately, I returned to my “Resource Page” and clicked the link to what I had labeled CIA Country Factbook. Instead of the usual entryway to a fascinating source of encyclopedic information about the world in which we live, I found an unsatisfyingly dull and apologetic “farewell” to the publication. Neither the CIA apology nor the NPR story reporting on it explained the reason for the sudden cessation of publication three days ago, on February 4. NPR asked the CIA for a reason, but the CIA declined to comment for the record. I can think of a number of legitimate reasons the U.S. government could offer to explain the decision to suddenly and without warning eliminate such a resource; but my trust and confidence in the U.S. government has fallen to an all-time low. So, my assumptions about what actually prompted termination immediately give rise to all manner of dangerous, immoral, illegitimate, treasonous, and otherwise unacceptable excuses the agency might have been directed by a fascist administration to cease publication. My unhappiness with the decision is irrelevant, of course. I am confident my displeasure means less than nothing to a government whose competence and effectiveness has been hollowed out through the removal and replacement of so many intelligent and patriotic civil servants—who have been replaced by accomplices to the dismantling of all evidence of democracy.

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Contradictions make specious arguments against themselves. Some are half-right, others are half-wrong, and still others embody truth beneath a shroud of lies…and vice versa. But we mustn’t forget the millions of outliers, represented by mutant song lyrics that hide fragments of reality behind crusty, dusty veils of fantasy. Consider this line from Kris Kistofferson’s “The Pilgrim:” He’s a walkin’ contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction, which reveals different shreds of reality in its mutant twin: He’s a walkin’ contraceptive, partly true and part deceptive…Anyone can be someone, but anybody cannot be everybody. Except when the context is right and the perspective isn’t wrong. And the tune continues to play… Screamin’ every strong invective on his lonely way back home.

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Meditation. A placid focus on the present. A peaceful mindset, augmented by relaxation and cannabis. The comforting, soothing aroma of calming incense. All of that tranquility…SHATTERED by a sudden unprovoked attack by someone carrying an axe and a grudge meant for someone else. Rage quickly replaces composure. Lethal anger, supplemented by bullets and a knife as sharp as a scalpel, supplants contentment. How quickly a good day turns sour in the face of belligerence. Compassion loses its ability to repair cracks when fissures become fractures. Heat and hate respond, merging into a swirling inferno hot enough to melt stainless steel and turn cold hearts into ash. Misconceptions breed mistakes and mistakes beget misinterpretation and misinterpretation brings about mayhem. Love and hate, in a dangerous reciprocal relationship.

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Shelter from the storm is almost unreachable when the maelstrom is in the mind, hidden by a web of sizzling tangled nerves; jagged blue, like lightning. From behind that electrified veil come loud calls for surrender, accompanied by both impossible promises and terrifying threats. “Your choice,” the voices call, “electrocution or coma; drowning or guillotine; sleep or cremation.” The options are conditional, based on meeting incoherently vague demands spoken in dead languages.

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Seeking an anesthetic experience is a foolish endeavor, but finding one be can heart-stopping in its impact. Better to deaden the pain with sleep, alcohol, fantasy, or time.

Thinking deeply about divisive issues—matters that tend to split groups of people into camps with conflicting philosophies—often is a multi-step process for me. The first step generally leads me to a firm conclusion, placing me in accord with one of those camps. A second step retracts that conclusion and puts me in opposition to it. Further steps reveal cracks in my fealty to one idea or the other, shifting my endorsement back and forth between conflicting positions. Eventually, I may determine that neither position reflects reality. Or that both may be embedded with grains of “truth.” Confidence in my own strongly held opinions vacillates, to the point that I lose my loyalty to any of them. Or that I am committed to elements of both.

That same ambiguous certainty plagues my thoughts about myself. That is why, I think, I seem unable to ever state clearly and unequivocally who I am, at my core. I have long questioned whether I am “my own” person or whether, instead, I simply reflect a conglomeration of influences—experiences, knowledge, others’ insights and opinions, biases, ignorance, and a hodgepodge of other conditions. Perhaps I could unearth dependable, reliable answers to that question by following in the “conceptual” footsteps of Leonard Cohen, who spent five years as a monk in the Mount Baldy Zen Center, beginning when he was in his late fifties. My very modest interest in Buddhism is insufficiently deep to warrant such a bold move.  And the time available to me to “retreat” myself into a more comprehensive understanding of who I am is unknown. But an “extended” period of intensive self-reflection might bring about an epiphany. How long is that, though? And wagering one’s own time on the basis of “might” or “maybe” is risky. One danger, of course, is the irretrievable loss of opportunities to experience time in other pursuits. Another danger is the possibility that an epiphany could make the first seven decades of my life seem like time wasted. But that could happen with or without any sudden insights.

This periodic visit to the question of “who am I?” can be a frustrating, tiresome exercise, especially when it repetitively leads to another aborted attempt to dig deeply into a psyche that has hidden itself for so long. Cohen spent five years exploring his understanding of himself and the world around him. I am not as complex as he; I might need only a year. Or a month. Or just a few days of focused contemplation. And, of course, the time could be wasted; no answers, no epiphany, no insights. But in the absence of taking command of that time for a specific purpose, it could simply wither…wasted, either way.

Just as important—and probably more important than pursuing an understanding of myself—is an outcome that would shift the focus from myself to the wider world. Perhaps knowing more about where we are is more vital than knowing who…because knowing more about our environment of people and places could help us understand how we might best “fit in” to improve the life experience of…life. Not just for ourselves, but for those we touch.

I’m just rambling now. Again. It’s the same subject I’ve touched on a hundred times before. And, again, the outcome is still the same—reaching a beginning with no end…a complex labyrinth with no entry and no exit.  And, again, the same suspicion that accompanies the curiosity: does any of this matter, even in the slightest? In the context of the wider world, the infinitely wider universe, this entire exploration is only as wide as a minute fraction of a trillionth of the distance between two sides of a nanoparticle less than one hundred trillionth the width of a human hair that has been split into one million strands.

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My brain is in a fog and my stomach is rumbling. With every breath I take in, my chest feels like it might explode like a balloon under immense internal pressure. A slight headache (sinus-based, I suspect), elevates all the little complaints, turning a little discomfort into an enhanced torture chamber outfitted with all the tools necessary to convert the nuisance of a hangnail into an excruciatingly painful experience, like attempting to escape the butcher’s knives while crawling naked over burning razor-sharp shards of white-hot glass. Simply an opportunity to complain about a single mosquito bite to a thousand strangers whose entrails spill from wounds cause by rusted sabers coated in mud from a pool of stagnant water. An exaggeration, of course. I am just a little more fatigued than usual.

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Rage and compassion cycle through me so fast that I am not sure which is which. But I could forgive everyone for everything if we all would simply stop behaving and thinking like demonic beasts. I might even forgive myself for whoever I was and who I have become. Forgive the carnage; we thought the detonator had been deactivated.

Yesterday, I interrupted the mundane existence of simple survival. In its place, I briefly explored the journey of life through thought. I left my survival to carry on for awhile without me. My travels, as I walked away from my usual unremarkable path, left no physical expression. My absence went unnoticed; no one else would have realized I had deviated from relentless routine. I left no footprints to follow. The unexpected departure from my usual confrontation with another repetitive day was prompted by the delivery to my email inbox of shreds of Leonard Cohen’s wisdom shared by Maria Popova, the source of The Marginalian. She shared a passage from Cohen’s Book of Longing, which inspired me to think and wonder how paralysis differs from death; not in the physical sense, but in the way we react—or fail to respond—to chains and shackles.

We are moving into a period of bewilderment, a curious moment in which people find light in the midst of despair, and vertigo at the summit of their hopes. It is a religious moment also, and here is the danger. People will want to obey the voice of Authority, and many strange constructs of just what Authority is will arise in every mind… The public yearning for Order will invite many stubborn uncompromising persons to impose it. The sadness of the zoo will fall upon society.

As I examined more of Popova’s offerings, I became enamored with another passage from Cohen’s writings she shared:

Take the word butterfly. To use this word it is not necessary to make the voice weigh less than an ounce or equip it with small dusty wings. It is not necessary to invent a sunny day or a field of daffodils. It is not necessary to be in love, or to be in love with butterflies. The word butterfly is not a real butterfly. There is the word and there is the butterfly. If you confuse these two items people have the right to laugh at you. Do not make so much of the word. Are you trying to suggest that you love butterflies more perfectly than anyone else, or really understand their nature? The word butterfly is merely data. It is not an opportunity for you to hover, soar, befriend flowers, symbolize beauty and frailty, or in any way impersonate a butterfly. Do not act out words. Never act out words.

I have to admit to acting out words far too often. Then, again, when I fail to act out words, I leave vast stores of knowledge unexplored. I talk about and write about Cohen’s creativity and insights, but I have not read all his works. I’ve only imagined I have allowed his thoughts and mine to intermingle. Yet I discovered I have acted out his words by letting them guide my thoughts—not to blend with mine. But when I consider his advice and admonitions about antidotes to anger, I curse my failure to act out. I want to be the embodiment of both serenity and rage…with words that justify my hypocrisy.

My thoughts yesterday were too wide-ranging and too much in conflict with one another to explain in one post…even in one language. I would need several encyclopedic volumes, each translated into at least a dozen languages and hundreds of dialects, to fully express what went through my mind. Although I might suggest yesterday represented a unique experience, it was just shy of commonplace.

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Mi novia twisted my arm recently, without needing to exercise must pressure, resulting in my purchase of a pair of eyeglasses frames that give me a “professorial” look.  A very nice woman from church told me, when I bought a similar pair of frames a few years ago, that I looked “professorial” when I wore them. But this latest pair amplifies that image, so I decided I should select the subject of my professorial expertise. Thus, I will introduce myself hereafter as a tenured professor of anamorphic physiognomy at the prestigious University of Transglobal Indispensable Phrenology. The main campus, comprising well over ten million acres of pristine Amazonian desert, features a reindeer research facility and the Babylonian Institute for the Advanced Study of Dead and Dying Languages.

“The time will come…” “Time stands still…” No, the time will not come, nor does time stand still. Time is neither mobile nor stationary. Yet the language we use in discussing time suggests we consider time an entity, rather than a measure of…what? Is time a measure, or is time a way to describe “the continuous, irreversible progression of existence and events from the past, through the present, and into the future?” What is it with my fixation with time? Why am I fascinated with the concept that time and space have no beginning and no end? If time has no beginning and space has no end, the concepts of “where” and “when” must be imaginary boundaries; artificial descriptions used in futile efforts to describe the indescribable. “Before” and “after” represent two perspective of the same moment. Intellectually, time and space are readily subject to explanation. Emotionally, though, I am far too infinitely small and the limitless universe is too big to permit me to truly grasp the scope of either.

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Speaking of time, I spent an inordinate amount of it yesterday afternoon in an eye examination. Nothing unusual, just a far-too-infrequent assessment of my declining visual acuity, about which I have complained for quite a while. The doctor assured me that a new prescription for my eyeglass lenses will dramatically improve my vision…but if not, he suggested I should return for a referral to another doctor for a procedure to scrape the crusty coating from my cornea. The same procedure I had scheduled to have quite some time ago, but cancelled because…well, it’s hard to explain. I was not sure the benefits would outweigh the procedure’s theft of the time left to me…an emotional reaction to a situation in which emotion probably should not play a role. Emotions would be much easier to handle if they could be controlled with an on-off switch.

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Bullying is in our cultural DNA. Our national identity relies heavily on making and carrying out threats. The hypocrisy between the lessons we teach and the behaviors we model is stunning in its clarity. The USA is viewed, by much of the world, as a belligerent aggressor. But we have a history of listening to, believing, and promoting propaganda fed to us by our own government. We bought into the perspective that aggression is an expression of strength and that power is more attractive than influence. Not only did we buy into those intentional lies, we willingly participated in spreading those interpretations by waving flags and treating the blood-drenched occupation of other countries as heroic rescues. Large segments of our population continue to announce their “patriotism” by celebrating minimally-disguised racism, misogyny, rape, and murder. Governments at all levels, from local to national, are infested with willfully dangerous and stupid people who decry education and promote religious nationalism. This seething cesspool of corruption and callous disregard for human decency represents the bricks of this place we call home. Until we arise in determination and unstoppable fury, we will continue to contribute to the mortar that keeps those hideous brick walls from crumbling into dust. By the time we collectively equip ourselves with weapons to repel this scourge, the opportunity for redemption will have passed. We will have decayed beyond the point of resurrection. Restoration is reserved for those who were once whole, not for those whose disdain for civility and compassion and adoration of cruelty helped bring about utter destruction.  I vacillate between hope and despair. Perhaps a carefully planned selective extinction could reclaim whatever hope might remain. But that would be leaping from the rim of the volcano into the crater’s abyss. If murder is unforgiveable, genocide is exponentially worse.

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Finally, three prescription medications that suddenly became unavailable through the mail order pharmacy are available for pickup from a local outlet. I have not noticed any appreciably troublesome worsening of symptoms the meds are intended to treat. It is hard, sometimes, to know what “normal” feels like, though. And “normal” today may be very different from the experience three weeks ago or two weeks hence. I do not fear I will become like the frog willingly dying in boiling water. That, I am led to believe, is a myth. So says Victor H. Hutchison, a retired zoologist at the University of Oklahoma with a research interest in thermal relations of amphibians. According to a reference which mentions the good doctor, “frogs try to escape as temperatures rise toward their critical thermal maximum.” I am unwilling to compare myself to a frog, whether or not it readily accepts death by thermal overload.

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More painting today, along with the second phase of countertop measurements in advance of delivery and installation. For reasons unknown, I started wondering a few minutes ago whether it would possible to have countertop material installed in place of flooring. If so, it would be an expensive proposition. And it would require extreme care in traversing the floor wearing only socks on the feet.

I read a snippet this morning about smaller (e.g., 350 pound) North Slope Arctic grizzly bears and larger salmon-eating grizzlies that can reach up to 1000 pounds. A few short video clips of the North Slope bears captured my imagination. I would be interested in experiencing life as an Arctic grizzly for a short period; I doubt I have the wherewithal to spend much time in that part of the world without running into serious difficulties with the weather. The idea of being viewed as food is a concern, as well.

Strength. Light. Power. Distance. Time. Pain. Temperature. Intelligence. Depth. Illumination. Area. Circumference. Likelihood. Poverty. Wealth. We have measures for almost everything. Some of those measures collide with one another or compete for dominance…like distance and circumference…and power and strength. Their precision—or lack thereof—coincides with degrees of certainty and doubt. Our efforts to define the extent of our understanding of the world around us sometimes leads to confusion. For example, is light synonymous with illumination? And what about conditions, such as morality or anger or thought or bravery, that do not lend themselves to reliable measurement? Consider how one can measure a response to the admonition, “don’t overthink it.”  Some conditions, like bravery, do not readily correspond to malleable measurements. The measure of bravery, from one perspective, is “brave” or “not brave.” The problem then becomes one of definition, not measurement. But there is a spectrum of such conditions; “very brave” or “somewhat brave” or “exceptionally brave.”

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“Tomorrow” is not an antonym for “yesterday,” any more than “milk” is an antonym for “water.” Yet “after” is an antonym for “before.” And “Sunday” is not an antonym for “Saturday.” “Pregnancy” is not an synonym for “life,” just like “abortion” is not an antonym for “birth.” “Appendicitis” is synonymous with “pain” in the same way that “starvation” is an antonym for “greed.” In that way, “blindness” is a malady unrelated to “taste.” We look at the world through different lenses, especially when wearing business suits versus diapers. When wearing both, one can claim to be the leader of the free world. If all cars were white, the very idea of a red vehicle would be sacrilegious. Modesty is the defining attribute of people who live in glass caves. Gibberish is more appealing than a murderer’s manifesto. So they say.

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I’ve been sitting in front of this computer monitor for hours, unable to think rational thoughts and incapable of revising what my brittle fingers have typed. I believe I need something nutritious and able to restore or remanufacture my imagination. The corrosive obstacles are more annoying than I expected. Healthcare obligations interfere with my enjoyment of almost everything, from time to time.

Volcanic eruptions—spewing super-heated smoke and viscous molten rock from the bowels of Earth—may illustrate  our planet’s unchecked rage. Cold water springs from which potable water bubbles from below might offer a more serene, forgiving attitude, as if to counter the heat and anger represented by white-hot lava emerging from the core of the Earth. Are humans’ emotional paradoxes modeled after the behaviors of the planet; or do we consider planetary “emotional” expressions to be reactions to us? Or, perhaps, have we gone beyond ascribing human attributes to non-humans, and vice versa? The possibility exists, of course, that we know better than to anthropomorphize non-human aspects of our environment, but we do it anyway…simply because it is simpler than relying on complex reality to explain the inexplicable. I do not know, but sometimes my words suggest otherwise. Knowledge and belief have been known to trade places in my mind; an embarrassment to my intellect and an awkward challenge to my emotions.

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Slippery ice remains on the driveway outside the front door. Based on reports from people who have commented on their experiences on the roadways within the past several hours, icy patches—some very big patches—continue to make driving hazardous. That notwithstanding, we understand the painters will return today. And, that being the case, we will take Phaedra to stay at her cat motel again; she would be in the way if she remained here, in her cat house. I have grown increasingly cautious when I have to contend with black ice, whether in the car or on foot. I am not worried about my driving, but others who drive irresponsibly are a concern, so I drive defensively and do not let concerns about time govern my behavior. As for walking…I should have a pair of boots with spiked soles I do not.  Ach!

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Tomorrow, I will see an optometrist. He will, I suspect, refer me to an ophthalmologist. But I hope he will at least give me an interim eyeglasses prescription that will dramatically improve my vision between now and then. I should have gone ahead with a procedure on my eyes, more than a year ago, to address the “roughness” of the surface of my eyes. But I was hesitant to do it, thinking I might not live long enough to make the process worthwhile. I can be an idiot. Whatever my expiration date turns out to be, I have unnecessarily spent a year (thus far) with increasingly bad vision. The following day, I will spend a good part of the first half of the day at the oncology clinic. I am tired of having poor vision. I am tired of having lung cancer. I am tired of being tired. Such is life, though. It is what it is, as “they” say. Whoever they are.

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It’s not quite 6:00 a.m. Still dark. The temperature is five degrees (F) below freezing. After the painters arrive, and after we escort Phaedra to the cat care service, I hope the streets are conducive to driving in search of pancakes for breakfast. If not pancakes, then hotcakes. If neither, then something equally as sweet and appealing. I remember reading about differences between hotcakes and pancakes. To my way of thinking, they are one and the same. But some people apparently consider them as different as dogs and cats. Or as different as mung beans and marijuana. Or as similar as corned beef and pastrami…or butterflies and butternut squash. Speaking of food and cold weather, we have spent roughly a week and a bit more confined to our quarters, where we’ve eaten canned chili (with beans), ice cream, pizza, and a few other things that refuse to be remembered so early on this cold excuse for a warm day.

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Last night, we watched two or three episodes of an old(ish) television police action/drama series entitled “Southland.” It aired between 2009 and 2013. I remember liking the show, but last night’s viewing did not seem quite as appealing as was the show the first time around. Still, it was moderately interesting. Except for one thing: the theme music. I absolutely LOVE the the theme music,

“Canção do Mar” (Song of the Sea), a Portuguese fado song composed by Frederico de Brito and Ferrer Trindade and originally performed by Dulce Pontes. Here you go…if I can embed it…or part of it…here.

In this AP Photo by Manu Fernandez, a man rides a horse through a bonfire as part of a ritual in honor of Saint Anthony the Abbot, the patron saint of domestic animals, in San Bartolome de Pinares, Spain, Friday, January 16, 2026. The image draws me in. I felt a need to capture it, in tribute to the man, the horse, and the reverence it illustrates for a concept that’s entirely foreign to me. The photographer’s comments, at this link, give some insight into what the image, from the “Las Luminarias” festival, captures. No doubt anticipating viewer reactions to the photograph, AP accompanies the image with these words: “Horses are protected before passing through the fire with precautions such as wrapping their tails and braiding their manes, applying protective substances and dampening their hair to reduce heat and the risk of burns.” My curiosity about this photo led me to explore and appreciate other AP photos on the AP website

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Once again, the morning temperature outside my windows is inappropriately low. Not as low as yesterday morning, but low enough  (at 16°F) to warrant the loathing I feel at this moment for ice, snow, frostbite, inadequate insulation, fireplaces struggling to add just a tiny thread of heat to their host domiciles, and all manner of discomfort that can be traced back to temperatures unsuitable for human beings and other life forms. My fingers, hair, and teeth feel brittle. Even my eyes seem covered in a thin, fragile, frozen film. Times like these cause me to wonder: which would be more painful, two minutes in a slushy, frigid pool of ice water or two minutes in an oven set at 500°F? My curiosity does not even begin to approach the point at which I would consider seeking the answer through experience.

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I think it was between 4 and 5 yesterday afternoon that I decided to recline and relax for a while. Between that time period and the point at which I got up this morning, my sleep was interrupted only a few times, off and on. Even after that extensive period of rest, the idea of falling gently to sleep in a warm bed is appealing. The allure of comfort beckons. The possibility that my coiled tangle of jagged, tight, compressed thoughts might loosen and unwind is seductive. Sleep can be addictive, but it does not always deliver on its promise of serenity. That being the case, maybe what I am after is not simple sleep. Maybe, instead, a controlled coma is what I seek—programmable unconsciousness, without the subconscious thoughts. Time during which the brain’s only obligations are to keep me alive and unaware, so I can rest and be prepared for consciousness.

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Kleenex® is a federally registered trademark owned by owned by Kimberly-Clark Worldwide, Inc. On occasion, I try to avoid using the trademarked name, but “facial tissue” does not spill effortlessly from my lips the way Kleenex® does. So, those occasions are few and far between. My frequent use of them to cope with a runny nose is the reason “facial tissues” are on my mind this morning. Actually, it’s not just that I use them so frequently, it’s that I notice that the box they come in claims the tissues are 3 layers thick. And I notice, when I pull a tissue from the box, that it is folded very precisely; not in half, but close to it. Why, I wonder, is it folded in that way, each tissue so deliberately creased? I think the fold must have something to do with its placement in its cardboard container…and/or that the fold was determined to contribute to the ease of pulling the tissue from the box. Yes, the fold must have some connection to ease of access. Someone, sometime, somewhere—perhaps as part of a team—has given deliberate, focused consideration to ways in which the product is stored and delivered to users. Similarly, somebody or somebodies decided on the content of multi-ply facial tissues and how the ingredients should be mixed or treated or placed in cardboard boxes or…much, much more. when I look at items on my desk, questions and curiosity sprout like kudzu vines in a fertilizer factory. The container for pills, for example, and the way the top was designed to make opening the bottle difficult for children and arthritis sufferers. Staplers, too, are objects that must have an interesting history, along with their “fuel,” the staples we load into them in order to enable us to attach multiple pieces of paper together. As I think about staplers and staples, it seems obvious that they were created at the same time…because, if not, what value does either of them have? Can the same thought process be applied to nails and hammers? Bullets and firearms? Marinara sauce and pasta? Liver and onions? Of course, at some point along the spectrum of “paired items,” the “pairings” must be completely unrelated, at least with respect to their genesis. Thinking of these relationship couplings visually, one might imagine large number of thin copper filaments twisted tightly together to form wire for a lamp. Now, as the filaments begin to unwind, those tight embraces relax; the wires loosen their grips on one another, transforming thick twisted strips into tangled threads. The relaxed spectra become suspect…can a loosely-knitted rope be as productive as a tightly woven cable? Do these concepts bear any relationship to one another? Or have we constructed a motorboat out of orange peels?

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On one end of my spectrum of thoughts, I seek shelter from the chaos. On the other, I feel cabin fever, urging me to leap from the window. From there, the universe invites me to carjack an armored vehicle loaded with whiskey, money, guns, and loud music. At that point, the sky’s the limit.

Ten degrees Fahrenheit. That’s where it started. But after having glanced in another direction, I looked again. The temperature had risen, during that fleeting moment, by ten percent. Without knowing exactly how long a fleeting moment lasts, I cannot determine how many more fleeting moments I would have to experience in order for ice to begin to thaw. Does ice thaw? Or is “thaw” reserved for other materials, like ice cream or meat? Ice melts, of course, but it does not necessarily thaw. And meat, if frozen, can thaw; but my imagination delivers a revolting image when I envision melted meat. Ice cream undergoes a change when temperatures rise beyond a certain point. I would say the sweet, cold delight melts. However, I could tolerate calling the transition a thaw; no, I take that back. I could tolerate hearing someone else describing the transformation as a thaw, but I could not tolerate using that description, myself, in connection to the response of ice cream to higher temperatures. Ice reacts to increasing temperatures by changing from solid to liquid. I would not describe warmed ice cream as liquid, though. I might call it viscous fluid. Ice changes into water when temperature and atmospheric pressure reach specific levels; when conditions are right. And water morphs into something like a gaseous vapor as the cycle continues. But ice cream? To my knowledge, I have never before contemplated vanilla fog or butterscotch mist. That is not to say those two imaginary conditions cannot exist. Yet I am confident in my doubts. The temperature has lost the single degree it earlier gained. Where, I wonder, did it go? I sometimes wonder the same thing about music; when its sounds are no longer heard, did they become trapped in ice? And, if they were frozen in silence, will they melt…or thaw…when conditions allow? Similar questions surround clear glass windows. If clear glass is invisible, it cannot be seen; but we know it’s there. With the application of the right amount of heat, clear glass shatters into clearly visible shards. But truth, when exposed to sufficient levels of heat, can melt—revealing harsh lies previously hidden beneath layer upon layer of innuendo, implication, insinuation, suggestion, and subterfuge. All of it…every shred, every piece, each particle…contributes as much to confusion as fuel feeds fire and flames.

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Strip off the irrelevance; the only thing left is meaning that matters.

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The final day of January—of this year, at least—arrived earlier than expected, just as I imagined it would. Halloween came early last year, just days after the Grinch stole Christmas the year before. St. Patrick’s Day this year will coincide with the Fall Harvest, when elderly children will leave pocket knives under their pillows as incentives for the Tooth Fairy. Cambodian grandparents will celebrate Bastille Day by stuffing pillows in chimneys to prevent Cinderella and the Seventy Dwarfs from entering the kingdom of Hansel and Gretel. Calendars are no longer of any use, now that Sinbad has slain Santa Claus and his wife, the Hunchbaby of Notre Dame. Desperate times call for desperate measurements, which explains why speed limit signs now read “Yards per Year,” instead of “Killings per Kilometer.”

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Absurdity is a weapon. A tool to murder angst, anxiety, and apprehension. It leaves no fingerprints, no blood splatter, no gunfire residue. Unlike knives and popular poisons, it cannot be purchased in grocery stores or illicit tattoo parlors. Absurdity cannot be used effectively to bludgeon small children or retired police officers, which makes it the ideal instrument to do precisely that. Anger is to absurdity is like a pistol is to a holster. Or a sword to a sheath. Or a corpse to a casket.

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Random Thoughts on Rage: Rage is the successor to unsuccessful anger. Rage steps in when simple anger fails to accomplish its aims. Rage is concealed by a microscopically thin layer of tolerance or acceptance. Blind rage emerges when simple anger cannot light the pathway to revenge. Rage is a symptom of unconquerable exasperation. Properly channeled, age can accomplish so much; too bad its successes are so often disguised as murder.

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I have allowed myself to sit at my desk, writing useless drivel and documenting my own insignificance, for quite a long time. The fluctuations have widened; my computer widget now claims the outdoor temperature is 14″F. It’s 9:00 a.m. now; hours pass while an empty mind has become a vacuum.  I wear my patience like a tattered white flag, announcing my surrender while I survey the universe for hidden nests for snipers; places to hunt for them or places to embrace their passions. Ah, but one’s effectiveness as a sniper is likely to be extremely poor if one lacks access to a rifle…and a motive. So, instead, a more appealing option may involve pursuing a late-life-career as a peacemaker, a pacifist who has abandoned rage in favor of universal compassion. But a career as a pizza-delivery-driver in a temperate climate might have lower barriers to entry.

January 30 is a storied date; a date marked, marred, and memorialized by fame and infamy. The Associated Press website home page regularly features Today in History, a reminder of important events that took place on this day in years past. This morning, the page lists a world-changing historical quartet of errors that ushered in the end of January in years gone by.

• 1933: Hitler named chancellor of Germany
• 1948: Gandhi assassinated in New Delhi
• 1968: Tet Offensive begins in Vietnam War
• 1972: Northern Ireland’s ‘Bloody Sunday

There is no doubt in my mind that many, many, many more infamous historical events have taken place on January 30. These four, though, offer just a glimpse at a few that took place on just one day out of 365 (or so) in each of four years. We mark the passage of time with a sampling of evidence that humans, as a species, engaged in noteworthy bad behavior in the past…and an implicit suggestion that earth-shattering calamities can occur at any moment. No day in history is immune to scourges brought about by humankind. But every day also may be viewed through rose-colored glasses. For example, Gene Hackman would have turned 96 years old today, had he not died just 19 days after his 95th birthday last year. Yes, just shy of a year after his death, his birthday made the news.  There’s more, of course. But finding a list of “good news” on a specific date is not quite as easy to find as is chaos and consternation. Still, the mere fact that an online search for good news on a given date can, indeed, yield  results. ABC News posted a video piece about a woman who lost $300 in cash at a New York City bagel shop on January 7. In reply to her posts asking if anyone had seen her lost money, one man’s offer of $10 to the woman sparked a flurry of similar reactions. The woman’s lost money was not found, but contributions from the community replaced it.

“Hard” news is readily accessible; it is, in fact, pumped into us from all directions. But news that can restore some shreds of confidence in torn and shattered humanity is less common. Finding that treasure can take work; it is worth the effort, though, if for no other reason than to reduce the weight of the world crushing one’s shoulders.

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Something is missing. Something important…crucial, I suspect…but I do not know what it is. I feel the emptiness, yet I can’t say where I feel it. Whatever it is, I sense it is not simply missing. It is gone. Irrevocably, irretrievably, utterly, completely…gone. It cannot be replaced, nor rebuilt, nor resurrected. It may have been snatched by a thief; stolen. I doubt it, though. More likely is that its disappearance took place slowly, the way days grow dim and dissolve into night. The way misty nights gradually absorb light, replacing sightlessness with blindness. But what is this absent “thing” or “idea?” How did it get this far—how is it that I am just now noticing it? Well, I’m not suddenly becoming aware of the vacant space—I’ve sensed its impending loss for much of my life. This missing… something…is accompanied by melancholy; an overwhelming sadness for which there is no cure and from which there is no recovery.

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If time had substance, I could warm it with flames or cool it with cubes of ice. If “this” were preferable to “that,” I could watch the two of them squabble before announcing, “This is mine! And that is a bald-faced lie!”

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Traditional policing is not working, suggesting low batteries or job elimination. We need non-traditional policing. Policing in which officers carry sabers and flamethrowers. Police officers should act only on the advice of counsel or in response to inflexible commands delivered by officers of the court. Judges must be deployed in the field, with officers, so they can hand down sentences with immediate effect. Electronic surveillance equipment, professionally installed by certified, trained, police intrusion specialists, should be required in every home, automobile, shed, shack, garage, banquet hall, arena, convention center, and operational tent.  Specialized police “intrusionists,” equipped with advanced mind-reading equipment, have long been authorized to conduct anticipatory policing operations, thereby preventing crimes that otherwise would have been bound to occur. Although some complaints about anticipatory policing have been received, the complainants were preemptively arrested, tried, and sentenced to lengthy prison terms. The greatest value associated with anticipatory policing is the fact that “intrusionists” often know of criminals’ plans even before the criminals know of them. Claims of impropriety against the police are routinely dismissed as nuisance allegations.

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A week has passed since work on our remodeling jobs (kitchen and baths) came to a screeching halt. Extremely hazardous road conditions made travel in vehicles and on foot an exercise in stupidity. The crew working on our remodel are not stupid. Some other people in our unincorporated little village, though, are. That’s the way the world works, I suppose.

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I do not wish to be whimsical or silly or otherwise unserious, but the alternative is to surrender to the dark grey clouds hidden just beyond the clear blue sky. The available options are hideous. Speed involves time and distance.

After experiencing several days of seasonal confinement, I lose track of which day is which…is today Saturday…or Tuesday…? Or, have we just come off the weekend? My online calendar would give me the correct answer, if I asked. But the fact that I have to question which days have passed and which have yet to take place worries me. It should not trouble me, yet my lack of confidence in my knowledge of when or who (but not where) I am gives rise to suspicion. Is this unpleasant uncertainty associated with senility? Simple mental decay? No, of course not. When evidence [suggesting which day of the week or month of the year is taking (or has taken) place] is lost or otherwise missing, the anchor to measures of time dissolves in a fog of confusion. Specific lengths of time like days or weeks or even months—representing the sequence of experiences—become irrelevant. In that scenario, seasonal confinement mimics solitary confinement. Snow and ice, for example, can seem like the bars of a prison cell. Monsoon rains and hurricane winds behave like brutal jailers, exhibiting the masochistic characteristics of prison guards revealed in documentary films like Cool Hand Luke 🙂. The demonic heat of summer ignites fury and fear and fire, leaving the ashen remains of watches and calendars and clocks strewn across the hellscape of eternal boredom. Idle hands, as the aphorism goes, are the devil’s workshop. But the biblical version (NKJV) of that assertion, from Proverbs 10:4 is: He who has a slack hand becomes poor, but the hand of the diligent makes rich. So THAT’s where Joel Osteen’s abundance theology comes from?! So, as suggested by the Bible, the rich get that way through “diligence,” and the poor must blame their poverty on their laziness. So, if you want to find a lazy person, just look for people who live in abject poverty? And if you want to see an industrious person, look for evidence of financial success?  Could there be an alternative connection between poverty and plain old misfortune, though, and a link between affluence and corruption or fraud? And vice versa?

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We have watched some of Line of Duty, a BBC police thriller, but we’re (at lease I am) not sure just which seasons and episodes we have watched. Last night, we watched an early (or late) episode of the most recent season (#6). This morning, I read that season 7 will begin filming in Belfast this Spring (2026). Unlike Netflix, BritBox (the service where we have watched the series thus far) does not give viewers the ability to review which seasons and episodes they have watched. If viewers do not keep track on their own, it can be easy to watch episodes out of sequence, which can be enormously confusing. Night before last, we watched Sinners, a film given many rave reviews, award nominations, and awards. Despite its commercial and critical success, I was not impressed. Horror flicks have never impressed me; after watching Sinners, that remains true.

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A few years ago, news reports from Florida painted an ugly picture of the future of that state. A state littered with dangerous sinkholes and prospective sinkholes that could (and did) swallow entire homes. I recall one such report that told about a sinkhole that opened beneath the bedroom of a house in 2013; a man in bed in that room fell into the newly-opened hole in the ground. The home was razed, the hole was filled, and the body  was never found. My late wife’s friend, Pat, and Pat’s husband lived in Spring Hill, Florida, about 20 miles north of Tampa. When we went to visit them…my memory of when is unreliable…they spoke of fear that their house would be swallowed by sinkholes. And they worried that, regardless of whether that happened, their house would soon be worthless. They had bought the house, new, only a year or two earlier (I think); just in time for it to be hit hard by Florida’s collapsing real estate market. I have a vague recollection that their very nice house was valued at around $50,000 when we visited them; down dramatically from what they paid. I have not been in touch with Pat for years; she may well have moved since then or…who knows? Why did this come to mind this morning? The mind sometimes seemed to reach back to replay catastrophes and near-catastrophes. If those recollections are anything but random, I do not know what they could be.

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When I lived in Dallas, during a visit to Costco, I stumbled upon Aidells Habanero & Green Chile Smoked Chicken Sausage. I fell in love with the stuff. We bought high-volume packages of the stuff and frozen it, taking a few links out of the freezer every so often to thaw and heat and eat. For some reason, I haven’t even looked at the Little Rock Costco to determine if it’s available here. It’s time I looked into that. If it is available, I want it. Even if it’s not available, I want it. And I want it now. Beans, too. Pinto beans, black beans, white beans, and more…mixed with canned tomatoes and green chiles and a magical mix of spices. Though I just ate a SECOND banana, I still feel hungry, as though I have not eaten in several months. Crackers may have to quell my hunger pangs.

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At the rate the snow is melting, the streets should be clear when Santa Claus and his reindeer can be dislodged from the chimney. They became wedged there long before this latest ice age began, but their predicament will not go on forever—I expect they will be freed on or about the 4th of July. As I peer out my study windows, the snow on the driveway, the street, and the garage roof has the look of a gleaming white porcelain toilet bowl just freshly installed for use. In view of the freeze/thaw cycle, I suppose that brilliant white blanket is just as hard as porcelain, as well. The white traces that clung to tree branches have disappeared, though, suggesting the “snow” is something else; perhaps white paint sprayed from a monstrous tanker truck and dried on horizontal non-arboreal surfaces. The thought of such a possibility disgusts me; that thought must have been planted in my brain by someone else—someone I find as repugnant as the paint and nearly as offensive as ground-cover disguised to look like toilet porcelain. Who could have done this? Ah, of course…the one whose presence at football games causes the events to be called Toilet Bowls.

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Today is Wednesday, five days into this period of seasonal incarceration. My prescription pain medication finally is available for pick-up, but I am unwilling to allow anyone I know to attempt to retrieve the narcotic analgesics. Slippery ice beneath porcelain’s glare makes travel dangerous and potentially deadly. Fortunately, my pain is not intolerable at the moment, so access to a fresh supply of drugs comprised of psychoactive compounds with pain-numbing properties is not critical.  Lacking a stove-top at the moment, heating a big pot of soup or something like it that warms the cockles is not an option. Fortunately, a working microwave oven makes it possible to heat small bowls of edible soups and stew-like concoctions. And frozen pot pies are suitable, too, inasmuch as they are microwave-friendly. Microwaves can be  used to heat pre-cooked sausages, too, as we did last night; wrapped in a flour tortilla, the meal did not require washing dishes…fortunately, in that the dishwasher will not be operable until the kitchen counters and sink are installed. In the absence of a kitchen sink, hand-washing dishes in the miniature laundry room sink is the only workable option to wash dishes. That works just fine for coffee cups and utensils; not so well for plates and larger bowls, etc. that don’t quite fit in a sink designed for elves and their ilk.

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Lunch time is approaching. In only half an hour or so, church bells may chime in some places, marking the noon hour and signaling for workers to come in from the fields for a meal and a respite from back-breaking labor. Where, I wonder, are those places? To my knowledge, there are no workers in nearby fields today; but if there are, I recommend they abandon their duties and seek warmth. Unless, of course, they are field-workers who are responsible for repair and maintenance of electric lines and other kinds of life-saving equipment and services. Those folks need to wear several layers of clothes to keep from freezing. They should be paid quite well, too, for the work they do. And their employers (and customers) should slather them with accolades and appreciation.

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Crispy fingers—nonfunctioning frozen phalanges turned into useless icy appendages—do not work well when tasked with typing.  My fingers and my mind become slow, sluggish, and almost stagnant when temperatures surrounding my body drop below 74°F. For that reason, and because discomfort does not satisfy me, I am hereby abandoning my attempts to make sense, create interest, and otherwise be even marginally useful. Until next time…

So many things on my mind this morning, but nothing suitable for bloggery. I’ve been awake for hours. I’ve written nothing of any consequence. I’ve had thoughts this morning that matter just as much as my writing. Perhaps I’m a bit out of sorts because I realize that I have been an orphan for about 40 years…longer than I had parents. The older I get, the greater the imbalance grows between childhood and adulthood. The natural order is undergoing serious disruption. But maybe what’s being disrupted is the unnatural order, instead. Perhaps my life, from birth to this very moment, has amounted to an unintentional detour from normalcy…and maybe the future and what it holds are the perfect representations of “normal.” We met a woman on a train in Canada, many years ago. She and her husband were vacationing, as were my late wife and I. I am sure I’ve mentioned before that we gave that woman a nickname…one she earned through her strange behavior…Abnorma. There must be some meaning to having that recollection at this moment. Or maybe not. “Meaning” is too often associated with woo-woo. Though I can accept a little woo-woo, a little goes a VERY long way.

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Everything around our house remains white. The snow does not seem to have melted at all…not in the least. Most of the main streets in the Village may be passable, but we shall stay in until the ice hidden beneath the snow is gone. I pity people who MUST go out onto the streets; those who go out…without any compelling reason…have my contempt.

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The sky is clear. Bright blue. Sunny. But, still, cold. 19°F. Inside, it’s much warmer. I would be even more comfortable, though, if we had a big wood-burning fireplace, an unlimited supply of firewood, and a volunteer to keep the hearth clean and safe and providing heat and ambiance.

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Detectives looking into my online search history might find plenty of evidence I have been planning an elaborate serial killing spree. The planning and execution (pun intended) of the string of murders would—I hope—impress the investigators. The manner in which targets are identified, selected, and dispatched would appear deliberately labyrinthine to criminal investigators, suggesting that the perpetrator’s purposes including extending and stymying the efforts of the police. But, until they figure out the complex logic behind the criminal’s processes, the killings would appear random; unrelated to one another. Except for just one commonality.  The process—from the birth of the idea to the death of each victim—is inherently time-intensive and expensive. It is so rambling and circuitous that finding connections between each murder would require an absolutely exhaustive exploration of the activities of each victim over a lengthy period of time. Even then, the perpetrator’s tactics may be so intricate that searchers might miss critical correlations. All the evidence, by the way, would be circumstantial…at best. And, thanks to the depth of planning involved in the scheme, a substantial amount of intentional circumstantial evidence would be readily available to send investigators off, chasing false leads. This lengthy paragraph could be condensed and summarized as follows: writers who search the internet to gather material leave a trail—every possible means of diverting investigators from that trail must be used to protect the writer from becoming a “person of interest” or worse.

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Most people, I suspect, think of the sun as a giant ball of fire; an inferno of condensed gas with flames burning hundreds of miles into space.  I imagine they think of stars in the same way; just more distant than the sun. Actually, reading and remembering tell me, the sun and stars are self-sustaining reactors. They are fueled by their own nuclear fusion plasma reactors, not combustion. When I look up and see the sun or stars in the sky, I fantasize that—if I focus my all attention on them—I can hear the roar of the fusion reactions that feeds them. Of course, I cannot really hear that sound, nor can I see the sun’s flames licking the sky. My imagination, though, is not deterred by reality; countering reality helps sustain my creativity. The width and breadth and depth of the sky is so incomprehensibly vast that my imagination often feels stunted and dull and microscopically irrelevant in comparison. Nonetheless, I give whatever ingenuity that might reside in my brain free reign to try to achieve a touch of relevance and excitement. When I look into a clear night sky, I might think of stars as tiny, freshly-created fragments of blindingly bright and hot embers that emerged from the Big Bang. But that does not fully (or adequately) explain the enormous age differences between stars. It’s Magic. 

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I woke ravenously hungry this today. I remain ravenously hungry, with a strong preference for Indian food. Soup is warming and healthy, so I might start with a bowl of sāmbār, along with masala dosa. Perhaps some palak paneer. And some piquant chutney alongside. Maybe some chana masala. SOOOO many other Indian dishes are appealing. I wonder how a vindaloo dish with tofu in lieu of a meat protein might be? I can think of all sorts of fusion cuisines that might be worth trying to create. For years, I’ve dreamt about trying to make Mexican/Indian fusion; like Lamb Vindaloo Tacos. And Chinese/Indian, like Gobi (cauliflower) Manchurian. And mash-ups with North African (e.g., Moroccan and Ethiopian). Thai and Japanese, maybe? This morning, though, I will try to be satisfied with a banana, an Ensure, and expresso, the current rut in which I’m stuck and for which I have only myself to blame.

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The outdoor temperature at 6:10 is 10°F. I am happy I do not live in a tent this morning.

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If I had grown up in a very different social/community environment, I might have created an alternative to religion; based in large part on philosophies including adherence to many of the same moral principles espoused by some religions. The behavioral standards that accompany those principles, too, would probably resemble behaviors endorsed by religions. Buddhism likely would be most similar to my alternative, but without the extraneous stuff…no elephants, no Brahma, no Chandra, no Ganesha, etc. I might have created an alternative authoritarian regime, too. Or, perhaps, instead.

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Civil unrest often starts small. Usually, it doesn’t last long. And usually it does not spread and become a powerful unifier of popular displeasure. But it happens. And it should. If I were younger and in better health—and much smarter than ever I have been—now would be the time to learn all I could from the successful resistance movements that developed before and during World War II. To the extent possible and most likely to work in the present day, processes and practices from those movements could be adopted and adapted and shared with reasonable, rational people throughout the land…and beyond. If only. Such an embarrassingly weak excuse for allowing civil society to be converted into a modern-day version of the Confederacy, in which the number of slave-holders has diminished and the number of cruel, stupid, and undeservedly proud warring serfs and slaves has exploded.

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We are doing our part to conserve energy during this current plague of winter weather. Overnight, we set the thermostat to an uncomfortably cool six degrees under our “normal” setting. I am wearing a pair of long-johns and multiple layers of uppers. Even so, I sit at my desk, feeling uncomfortably cold and cursing myself for my pivotal role in deciding to live in an unhospitable climate. At the same time, I offer sincere gratitude to blanket makers…to the creators of fabric that help retain body heat….to the inventors of heat pumps…to the distributors of insulating caulking…and to the manufacturers of thermally insulating windows. And my appreciation continues for all the others who have contributed by providing opportunities for a tolerable—if not comfortable—existence when Mother Nature is actively trying to kill us with brutally frigid temperatures temperatures. If, by suffering some discomfort, we can help minimize the likelihood of power-grid failure and the resulting discomfort and danger to thousands of others, we will have done the right thing. The moral thing. The selfless thing. The thing that elevates my loathing for selfish people—those miserable bastards—who refuse to sacrifice, just a little, to save the rest of us from freezing to death.

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When I was much younger, my body could better tolerate weather extremes than it can today. But I doubt my body was ever as weather-tolerant as were the people who braved weather extremes when pioneering westward expansion on this continent. Those people—the ones who survived—faced unimaginable challenges as they headed west. Weather was just one of many obstacles they encountered. The ones who died while trying to forge through to the west coast were more like me than the ones who made it. The successful pioneers must have been mutants or just extraordinarily lucky. I think the ones who stopped part way, settling in places with unimaginably horrid winters and/or summers, may have been too weak or too stupid to continue.

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Self-defensive rage, fed by the criminal behavior and lie-laden rhetoric of members and supporters of the current administration, consumes me. If I could, I would put an immediate and vengeful eternal end to the causes of that rage: irrevocable and irreversible. A decidedly chaotic reaction to indefensible words and deeds may be the only response capable of creating tranquility from its own shattered pieces.

When I was a child, if my vague memory is correct, my family had at least one and maybe two sets of encyclopedias. Encyclopediæ, if you prefer the Latin-influenced plural. I assumed, I think, the contents were factual; their legitimacy was not a matter for debate. Since that time of innocence and gullibility, though, I have developed a healthy skepticism of reference books that purport to deliver reality. I tend to question the reliability of history books, in particular; historians are just as subject to bias and problematic interpretation as anyone else. Lately, in particular, fanatical right-wingers have taken to rewriting history or, at least, selectively allowing questionable “history” to be taught in schools and, more recently, universities. The infusion of religious beliefs and revisionist interpretations of historical events into historical content is especially troubling. I cannot lay all the blame on real and artificial historians for my suspicions about what the world presents as factual. My understanding of the world has been influenced by stories told by friends, friends’ parents, my own parents, teachers, and many others. Sometimes, those stories were tales based on misunderstanding. Looking back, sometimes they were intentionally misleading. And, occasionally, they were bald-faced lies. When an  information resource thought to be reliable is exposed as incorrect and/or corrupt—for whatever reason—trust begins to dissolve. Eventually, trust is replaced by doubt. Or disbelief.

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Frigid temperatures and snow, sleet, and/or freezing rain. My computer weather widget claims the present outdoor conditions are as follows: temperature, 15°F; precipitation: heavy snow. I can verify neither because: 1) if there is snow, the pre-dawn darkness hides the flakes from me; and 2) I have no interest in replacing reasonable comfort with frostbite.  By the time I finish thinking about what I want to write—and then write it—sunlight may have begun illuminating the day. And, if the temperature follows its usual morning routine, it will have dropped a bit by the time daylight arrives. Repetition. Ritual. Routine. The world continues to spin out of control, while we observe and shrink back from interfering.

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I could live on the outskirts of an imaginary small town, a place flush with all the most attractive features a small liberal arts college brings. My house might sit on a large piece of acreage property, hidden from sight of roads and highways by a dense forest. A river running through the forest would empty into a large, warm, body of water on the other side of the property. The town’s business district—comprising mostly restaurants, bars, art supply stores—would be adjacent to the college; only a few blocks long and wide. Surrounding the business district, all residential housing would be within easy walking distance. There’s more to it, but the townspeople would want to leave it at what I have already said; they would value their privacy and their good fortune…living in a place that does not require constant growth to prosper, only resident commitments. It is possible to live in that imaginary town. I have lived there for years, but only sporadically; when I feel the world closing in on me, I close my eyes and can see and feel and smell that imaginary place. Some moments, I consider moving there permanently. It would be an extraordinarily exciting experience. But others would not see it that way; they would look at me, sitting slumped in a comfortable chair with a whisper of a smile on my face, and label me catatonic.

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Still no daylight. The temperature has dropped one degree, to 14°F. Reports from the surrounding area suggest the widget was correct; snow fell overnight and may be falling now. Roads are slick and treacherous, early-morning observers say. Mi novia picked up Phaedra from the cat-motel yesterday afternoon, so silence in the absence of the cat has been replaced by troubling noises, suggesting the cat is breaking things, clawing where she should not, and/or dispensing guttural howls as she prepares to attack and mutilate or kill a phantom adversary.

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In an unexpected move, I stayed up past 10 last night. So I got up a bit after 4. In the two-and-a-half-plus hours since, I have grown tired of sitting in an increasingly uncomfortable desk chair. I shall, therefore, return to bed for a pre-dawn nap.

Vagueness—or imprecision—inhabits a “nearly” incalculable number of words in the English language: Many. Some. Almost. Few. Probably. Thick. Short. Considerably. Close. Near. Far. More. Less. Hard. Likely. Occasionally. Quite. Extremely. Low. Rarely. Fast. Mostly. Often. Nearly. Soft. Frequently. Long. High. Possibly. Quickly. Thin. Unlikely. Slowly. Rapidly. Tall. These words and others like them—in various forms—litter conversations, speeches, news reports, gossip, and written communications with uncertainty. My point? Nothing in particular…just an unstructured and possibly misleading observation I noticed leaking from my mind after I awoke this morning. Distance and proximity, by the way, are related concepts. Pleasure and pain, too, belong to the same tribe. I believe joy and anguish have familial ties, too, but when checking my thesaurus, I found that so-called reference book refuses to acknowledge their relationship. That gives me reason to believe in the questionable malleability of referential truth.

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My lethargy/fatigue/weariness has curtailed our binge-watching behavior of late. Until recently, we habitually watched two, three, or more consecutive episodes of our favorite film/TV series most evenings. Shows like Mayor of Kingstown, Blue Lights, etc. But recently, I have run out of steam each night after only one or two episodes of the latest season of Shetland. The flurry of activity involved in remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms in the last week has made daytime napping more difficult, so I am trying to make making up for it by going to bed extremely early.

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Cancer or its treatment, I have discovered, can wreck one’s settled affinity for flavors and /or the body’s appreciation for and/or tolerance of piquancy. Yet another reason to loathe the impact the disease or its potential remedy has on one’s body. For most of my life, I have had a passion for hot and spicy foods…Indian, Thai, Mexican, Moroccan, etc., etc. Since commencing treatments for my second round of lung cancer, though, my tongue and digestive system tend to complain bitterly when I try to indulge in that passion. Though wine and alcoholic drinks do not cause such discomfort, they no longer have a taste that is as appealing to me. An occasional glass of wine or a “short” gin & tonic have a tolerable flavor, but not as delightful as once was the case. The relaxation and slight pleasure I used to feel after a drink or two, though, now accompanies my consumption of certain medicinal gummies. “Adapt or die” may be a relevant aphorism in such circumstances. In my case, though, “and” might be more realistic than “or,” at least beyond the short term. A slight adjustment to the words of Woody Allen ring true for me: “I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when conscious of pain before and while it it happens.”

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Rabbits. Wildly excited, goofy rabbits may invade at any moment. They bring nothing to fear, but fur itself.

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The sky remains dark, just a few minutes before 6:00 a.m. as I sit down at my desk to begin my pointless morning ritual: recording my thoughts before they disappear into the day. Ephemeral fragments of the dream from which I woke slip in and out of my consciousness, never settling long enough for me to remember them. Though I doubt dreams have any substantive meaning, I indulge my imagination by letting my mind wander through them—when I remember enough detail. Not today. I know only that I dreamed, not what the dream encompassed. Just like I know that, two weeks ago—and two months ago—I experienced an entire day, but I do not recall what, specifically, that experience involved. Some memories flow into a fixed mold, hardening like molten steel when it cools. Others spill out like water on a bitterly-cold glass table-top, freezing hard until the sun releases shapeless water from the sheet of ice. When conditions are right, memories transform, again. Like liquid water, memories disappear into—or take the shape of—vapor.

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According to news reports and word-of-mouth, store shelves have been emptied by shoppers preparing for the coming winter storm. Ice and hilly terrain combine to make travel hazardous, even deadly. Ice, electric lines, and weakened trees combine to create conditions favorable to power loss and roof storm damage. Refrigerated and frozen food can spoil and foods that require cooking can become useless when electric stove and ovens stop working. The cessation of electric heat increases, dramatically, the value of blankets and down jackets. Icy roadways challenge police and EMTs and their respective “customers,” putting all of them at risk. Danger confronts doctors and nurses and healthcare support personnel whose essential positions require them to place themselves in harm’s way in order to tend to patients. The families of all those essential workers, even when safe at home, are exposed to heightened levels of stress—at a minimum—while their loved ones confront weather-related difficulties. I can feel my own anxiety rising as I consider the potential impact of the coming winter weather. Again, I want to sleep; to extract myself from the unpleasant anticipation of Mother Nature joining forces with a dangerous psychopath to ruin lives and condemn the planet’s inhabitants to horrendous hardships.

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The immediate aftermath of yesterday’s chemotherapy was unpleasant. While I cannot be sure it was the chemo that did it, I suspect it was the chemicals that made me feel weak, cold, and unhappy. The pains in my bones, gut, chest, and back were not excruciating, but sufficiently uncomfortable to elicit moans and groans from me. This morning is better, but not back to “normal.” What, I keep wondering, is “normal” for me these days, after so damn many chemotherapy sessions, steroid injections, bone-protection injections, etc., etc.? I would have asked my oncologist some “come to Jesus” questions yesterday, except I did not see her. My treatments were handled by nurses, who followed the doctor’s instructions regarding what poisons to pump into my chest. Unexpectedly, I am not scheduled to return to the clinic for two weeks; usually, my visits take place at least once a week. To add to that stress, I have received multiple conflicting notices from my pharmaceutical insurance company, telling me my plan does not cover mail-order prescriptions (like those i have been getting for several years) and that my providers have not responded to the insurance company. I have verified, of course, that my providers have, indeed, responded to MULTIPLE inquiries from the insurance company. Apparently, I have reached the age at which the insurance company believes I will readily accept its confusing miscommunications. The company is wrong, of course. Though I do not condone, in the least, the murder of the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, I think I am beginning to understand the frustration that leads to the rage that triggers such irrational actions.

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Serenity is the cure. The cost to find it involves rage and chaos. Patience and placidity buys bitter agitation. Something is amiss in this inverse universe, methinks.