John Swinburn

This morning, mild curiosity prompted me to read the New York Times (NYT)’ obituary for Éliane Radigue, who died on Monday in Paris. That mild curiosity grew from a casual scan of online introductory headline “briefs” about news the NYT editors must have determined to be of general interest. The summary snapshot introducing the article stated that “Her Tibetan Buddhist spiritual practice and her experiments with synthesizers came together in vast, slow-moving works that drew wide acclaim.” Buddhist spirituality and music synthesizers apparently are topics that spark my interest; they enticed me to read the obituary; I do not recall ever having seen or heard her name before. Among her works, she composed Time, Silence and Space, which I began listening to after reading about Radigue’s career. The piece is more than 52 minutes long and my attention span is considerably shorter, so I listened for only a few minutes. Despite that brief introduction, though, I could “feel” what she meant when she said, during an interview, “Time, silence and space are the main factors constituting my music. Shivering space, like a soft breath, induces the vibrations of the silence slightly, becoming sound.”  Sound versus music.

Though the sounds tended to grate on me, at first, the more I listened, the more I could hear the layering and the sonic palettes mentioned in the obituarist’s writing. Listening as intently as I could, I heard clues that explained to me, emotionally, why the sounds gripped me—while at the same time, pushed me to seek the solitude of silence. I cannot imagine listening to Radigue’s compositions for an extended period. On the other hand, I cannot fathom leaving her work forgotten, unheard, unfinished. I think it is the sort of music that is so intense that it must be experienced in short bursts; with an open mind.

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Blurry shapes and indistinct shadows are veils behind which clarity hides—unless clarity is a misrepresentation of realism. Perhaps clarity is just as vague without the veil, though, like knowledge and facts and truth hidden beneath opaque or translucent misunderstandings and intentional lies. We do not see with perfect acuity, nor do we perceive with precise comprehension. Knowledge is perception covered in barnacles and sight is blindness, with just enough film wiped away to allow penetration by the light. Experience is rarely pure; it is simply a gradation of ignorance…or wisdom blurred by fog.

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Words are inadequate to describe or characterize emotions. For that reason, we rely on similes and metaphors. Admittedly, similes and metaphors are composed of words, but they comprise words that cannot accomplish on their own the aim of expressing emotions. There is a caveat: I know this is true of English, but words in other languages may be more capable. Yet another reason to learn multiple languages or to adapt foreign phrases into our own English vocabulary.

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There’s more to be said, but I do not know just what it is.

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There are two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is…

~ Albert Einstein ~

The lyrics in a song by Peter Mayer, Holy Now, seem to echo Einstein’s perspective, though Mayer’s interpretation is more “religious” in tone. Einstein is said to have claimed to be agnostic. He denied being atheist, and his views of the universe differed from the views held by traditional Christians and Jews as well as other “religious nonbelievers,” which he also called himself. Mayer’s “everything is holy now” is Einstein’s “everything is a miracle,” just phrased differently. Miracles are not magic. They simply are events or ideas that cannot be explained in ways that deliver true understanding. The stunning beauty of a brilliant, awe-inspiring sunset is a miracle. As is the air we breathe. And as are clear crystals of quartz, raindrops, and the automatic reactions we have to smiling puppies, bursting with energy. Mayer’s “embrace” of a mystical world beyond understanding appeals to me. But what he might call “God” I might describe as “everything.” Here is a compelling verse from Holy Now, a string of words that evoke emotions in me that are not religious in the least, but that suggest something undefinably sacred; and following that, a video of Mayer singing the song:

When holy water was rare at best
It barely wet my fingertips
But now I have to hold my breath
Like I’m swimming in a sea of it
It used to be a world half there
Heaven’s second rate hand-me-down
But I walk it with a reverent air
Cause everything is holy now
Everything, everything,
Everything is holy now.

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Sleep has taken on a power that, for me, is far more muscular than its simple five letters would suggest. It is not just more alluring now than it used to be. It is more demanding; more insistent; more emphatic in urging me to treat sleep as curative. It beckons me to reject wasted wakeful hours in favor of unconsciousness. I am becoming inclined to more readily accept its offers of serenity.  Lately, though, when I wake up I feel like I’m abandoning a period of incomparable relaxation…even when my sleep has been restless and infected with disturbing dreams and troubling thoughts.

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Until mi novia asked, a few minutes ago, whether I am scheduled for a chemo treatment tomorrow, I thought tomorrow would be a “free day,” followed by a PET-scan the day after. Now I know; tomorrow WILL BE a chemo day. The day after will, indeed, subject me to a PET-scan. And a week from tomorrow, I will visit my oncologist again to listen to her explain the meaning of the PET-scan’s results. Too much cancer-related thinking and acting. I’d rather sleep.

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Despite getting updates from my brother and his wife that they are safe and “hunkered down” in Mexico…and despite news reports implying the burst of narco-terrorism on Sunday has subsided quite a bit, I worry that they are in closer proximity now to narco-violence than has been the case in the past. I see images of fire-gutted buses, burning storefronts, people being dragged out of cars, and other scenes that cause the hair on the back of my neck to bristle. Getting to and from the airport has been difficult to impossible, according to Facebook posts from local groups in the area. Villages and towns both east and west of theirs have experienced arson and gunfire. That’s not the Mexico I know, but it’s the Mexico of the last few days. Ach!

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Attempts to call my new doctor (who replaced my now-retired general practitioner doctor) have failed.  Her phone returns a fast-busy sound, indicating trouble with the lines. I need something to correct the maddening sounds in my right…and now more recently left…ear. When the deterioration of one’s body becomes so obvious and so annoying and so upsetting, the idea of a medically-induced coma or cryogenic therapy no longer seems quite as dramatic and absurd. Every day brings on recognition of my need for another medical intervention: knee replacement; new hips; shoulder surgery; hair transplant; new eyes with advanced visual acuity; sinus rehabilitation; inner-ear refurbishment; lung transplantation; gastrointestinal tract renovation; transplantation of a new scalp; muscle and bone renewal; epithelial regeneration; and whatever else that might show signs of decay or degradation. While they’re at it, they might as well do a series of transfusions to refresh or replace all bodily fluids. Oh, and a little bit of corrective work on and around my feet.

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Done!

Yesterday, while Watching videos recorded earlier in the day of Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) arsonists setting fire to vehicles and gas stations, my loathing of the crimes committed by narco-terrorists spiked. In one video, armed men first dragged people from their cars, emptied containers of gasoline and then set fire to into the vehicles. Another video showed men attacking a gas station at a Costco by dousing the station and then setting the it ablaze; gasoline erupted in uncontrollable flames when ignited by the attackers. Several videos and still images of buses on fire caused my stomach to churn and the muscles in my neck to tighten. I cannot erase from my mind the images of black smoke billowing from burning buses and cars and businesses. The incident that sparked the widespread arson was the killing of the head of the CJNG at the hands of Mexican police and military. Residents and visitors in twenty Mexican states were subjected to the terrors wrought by monsters whose “jobs” are to profit from the distribution of dangerous and deadly narcotics. Many of the comments left online by viewers of the disturbing videos were thoughtless and indescribably cruel. My loathing for those commenters mirrors my contempt for and revulsion toward the arsonists. The depth of the barbarism of the participants in such hideous behavior is almost impossible to comprehend. Violence of this type and magnitude is extremely rare in places like Guadalajara and Chapala and Puerto Vallarta. “Was” rare… Can anywhere on Earth be a refuge from such indefensible monstrosities? I have a growing sense that hope is the emotional expression of naiveté—a “safe place” built of toothpicks, paper, and glass.

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With every breath I take, I “hear” or “feel” something like the crinkle of aluminum foil in my right ear. It’s as if fluid in my inner ear is responding to pressure, like each inhalation causes a thin film in my head to move just a little. Only I can hear it or feel it. It is driving me up the walls. I have tried several recommended remedies, to no avail. I have yet to try antibiotics, nor do I want to attempt to resolve the problem with irreversible extremes, like a bullet to the temple. Pressure equalization, gravity, and ear drops (intended to relieve wax build-up), etc. have not had any appreciable effect. It’s a bit early to try ingesting vodka & tonic, but I may give distraction…like a gummy…a go. The intrusive annoyance does not bother me if I do not breathe, but that solution lasts either too short a time or forever, neither of which is satisfactory.

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Sunlight and sound, I imagine, are rarely encountered in the deepest parts of the ocean. Except from the crushing effects of water pressure—and the lack of oxygen—that might be the ideal refuge from the world’s disturbances. The perfect place for a retreat from chaos. The location best suited to blocking intrusions that could risk the erasure of peace and serenity. The next time I wish to attain a state of absolute peace and serenity (which, realistically, is “always,” I will attempt to envision myself at the bottom of the deepest abyss in the deepest ocean. If it works, I will try to describe the process, step-by-step.

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Perpetually tired…an eternal state of  low-level fatigue. My interest in almost everything is at a low ebb. Tired of being tired. Weary of weariness. Exhausted by exhaustion. Blah.

Wind, as defined by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), a component of the U.S. Department of Commerce, “is simply air in motion.” That definition is presented in an online  article entitled ‘Origin of Wind.’ Other ‘official’ declarations regarding wind assert that it is “caused by uneven heating of the earth’s surface by the sun.” So says the U.S. Energy Information Administration. An article posted on the Royal Meteorological Society’s website concurs with the definition. A cursory review of several sources of the scientific explanations of wind suggests there is essentially universal agreement among anemologists (people who study wind) about the physics of wind.

But for people who prefer explanations steeped in mystery and magic, other resources might be more appealing. As a start, a look at Greek mythology reveals that Aeolus was/ is the ‘King of the Winds.’ A group of related Greek wind gods, the Anemoi (Boreas, Notas, Eurus, and Zephyrus) with specific wind-related responsibilities were subject to the direction of Aeolus.  Hindu mythology gives us Vayu—known as Fengtian in Chinese Buddhism—the primary deity of wind and air. In Egyptian mythology, Shu is the God of air, wind, and light. The Norse god, Njörðr, rules over the sea, wind, fishing, and wealth.  The Aztec god of wind, is Ehecatl and Stribog is the Slavic god of winds, sky, and air. There are more, of course, but my time is limited, so I will move on. But before I do, I have to acknowledge how surprised I am to have learned that NOAA is an appendage of the U.S. Department of Commerce (???).

Before I go, though, I have to acknowledge that the awe and wonder embedded in mythology can be far more enchanting (in my way of viewing the world) than the sometimes sterile reality of science. But, then again, physics (and science in general) offers compelling evidence that magic is mind-bending in its complex simplicity and its hideous beauty.

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You are only afraid if you are not in harmony with yourself. People are afraid because they have never owned up to themselves.

~ Hermann Hesse ~

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Now that I am deep into the last half of my life, I wish I had learned more about mythology when I was much younger. I know very little about mythology. Most of what I write this morning comes not from memory, but from review. Some of what I wrote was based on what I learned long ago, but more of it emerged only after I spent time online, learning what I should have learned when my mind was fresh and my interests were stronger. My urge to stand at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the sea, is no longer as powerful as it once was. There was a time I wanted to spend time up on that cliff, feeling the wind and having conversations with a coterie of like-minded people who were willing to talk about impossible ideas without laughter and judgment. I would have asked questions of the wind, and of the people there with me, in an effort to understand the incomprehensible. No more. I know, now, that understanding hides behind a veil of curiosity; when the veil is moved aside—like a curtain—I see is a smudged image of my reflection.

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I am unaccustomed to…a lengthy list of emotions and experiences; at least those I have never had.

I woke to the sound a cat makes when it is about to sink its teeth and its claws into flesh. My reaction to that noise was a growl or a scream or some other audible expression of fear. That was hours ago. The sound could have been real. More likely, though, it was artificial; an imitation designed and built in insulated acoustic laboratories. Those same laboratories extracted the volume from those sounds, leaving nothing but empty echoes in its place. You may be, like so many others, allergic to absolute silence. Absolute silence feels like sandpaper made from tiny misshapen clumps of razor-sharp steel embedded in soft, white, alcohol-laden linen.  You’ve seen it; surgeons use the stuff to scrub their scalpels after long drunken nights of amateur surgery.

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Peace exists only in places that lack the ingredients of pain; that is to say, somewhere else. Somewhere that has no skin, no icicles, no knives so sharp they can carve a molecule like a potato. And no evidence; peace cannot exist in the presence of evidence. Evidence spoils peace the way mold spoils bread.

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The purple-red mark on the “top of my left hand” (the dorsum, in case you’re interested) appeared after I inadvertently slammed my hand against a doorknob for the umpteenth time. Always the same hand, the same spot, the same injury. I noticed the mark for the first time when I was literally months younger than I am today. Even before the injury  healed, I added an insult to the mix.

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Memories, buried beneath years of vindictive inattention, sometimes surface unexpectedly—like coffins in a flooded graveyard. That surprise came at me suddenly this morning, when I glanced at an online map that showed Stockholm, Sweden in relation to Helsinki, Finland and Tallinn, Estonia. I spent a full day in Helsinki several years ago, after spending a few days in and around Stockholm. But I have never been to Tallinn; nor anyplace else in Estonia. But seeing their locations on a map triggered a tumble of vague memories. And those memories sparked even more, finally coaxing diaphanous recollections of a guy with whom I occasionally worked during time I spent orchestrating the production of technical papers concerning corrosion. The guy’s name was (and may be still) Jüri Kolts. He was an Estonian engineer who specialized in corrosion control. As far as i know, Jüri is/was the only Estonian I have ever met. I doubt I have thought of him even once since I left that job in 1979, until I looked at that map this morning. As I recall, Jüri was a fairly young guy—closer in age to me at the time than to most of the other people with whom he worked. His hair was cropped fairly short…maybe he wore it in a flat-top? Seeing the map this morning caused memories of the days I spent in Stockholm and Helsinki to surface, along with memories of Jüri. I have never associated Jüri with Stockholm or Helsinki; only with Estonia, where I have never been, and with Houston, Texas, where I was working at the time I knew Jüri. Only after remembering “that guy from Estonia” did I finally recall his name. Once that happened, I started recalling other names from that period of my early work-life. Don Burns was a metallurgist, an expert on matters concerning hydrogen sulfide corrosion of oilfield equipment. Bill Neil was an arrogant, self-important jerk, an unfriendly, socially-inept pariah from…New Jersey, I think. A few other names came to mind, but now I can remember only some faces; not who they are or were. Neither their names nor their faces matter now, of course.  And they did not matter at the time I knew them, either. Why, I wonder, do irrelevant memories intrude on otherwise pointless treks down memory lane? And why, once they encroach on one’s thoughts, do they refuse to leave for hours…or, sometimes, days? Maybe I have mentioned Jüri Kolts before; but why would I have done that? He may have been a reasonably nice guy (but my memories are not sufficiently clear to say whether he was or not), but simply because he “may have been a reasonably nice guy” does not qualify as reason enough for him and his pals to pop up in my memory. When one’s memories are fuzzy or incomplete, we may fill in their blanks with imaginary experiences and burnish their dull surfaces to a mirror-like smoothness. As a whole, I do not trust my memories to feed me facts. Instead, they fill me with delusions and abstractions. And they retell stories told, originally, by imposters.

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There’s a photo, somewhere, that is so appealing I would risk prison or everlasting torture for an opportunity to glance at it for a moment, just once. Photographs of that photo are inadequate. The original print is the only image that will satisfy my desire; copies—no matter their form nor how precisely they adhere to every pixel of the original—will never do. If I could replicate the photo, though, by enlarging the image and painting it on the side of a barn in the far reaches of somewhere utterly inaccessible, I would do it. Satisfaction seldom has a place in the quest for perfection. But I would take a sabbatical from sanity, in the right circumstances.

I picked up a new pair of eyeglasses yesterday. The frames and lenses are new; the age of the face and its accompanying tired eyes contrast sharply with  the spectacles. The look on my face is…what? Is it one of surprise? Surrender? Or does my face suggest resigned acceptance? The grey down vest reveals my sensitivity to an indoor temperature of 71°F—which feels, to me, brutally cold. Yet I know I would be far more uncomfortable if I were to wander outside, where the air is twenty-five degrees cooler than the frigid climate in my study. Perhaps that’s the message contained in my frozen face—stunned disbelief that a temperature which would feel warm and appealing, were I sitting on a Hawaiian beach, seems so monstrously unpleasant.  Mi novia…she picked the frames…tells me I appear “professorial” or “scholarly” with my new look. I may need time to get used to the disguise. And I am sure I will need more time to adapt to the new lenses—better eyesight, I think, but vision that will require my brain to adjust to views that have not yet become familiar.

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Clocks tell me I must go! Just 12 minutes until my next appointment with my oncologist. Time looks different through these new lenses; as if I inhabit a place to which I am unaccustomed. I may write more before this day disappears into a jagged memory. Or I may not. I may simply withdraw from this little piece of the world for a while.

The beige interior walls of the house my late wife and I bought about twelve years ago, when we moved to Hot Springs Village, were not offensive. But they were not especially appealing, either. So, a few years after we moved in, I painted the walls in the main living areas. We chose a light grey color—maintaining the neutrality of the environment but dramatically improving the “feel” of the place. The soft grey walls enhanced the the already open, airy feel of the rooms. Something about those dull tan walls had made the rooms seem smaller and less attractive. Applying grey paint seemed to allow more energy to fill the space—lightening the beige walls enlivened the environment; even though neither grey nor beige are considered especially bright and energetic colors. The driveway of that house, though, remained tired and drab. Its dull tan base was embedded with a pebbled mix; at least its small beige and light brown and dirty light grey stones lent texture to its broad expanse. But the texture did not save it from being fundamentally dull and decidedly unattractive. If I had known of a reasonably affordable way to hide its unpleasant appearance, I would have changed it. The same is true of the driveway of our current house. Though the embedded pebbles differ from those in the old driveway, they do no more to improve the appearance of what seems like acres and acres of intentionally discouraging scenery. A series of one-word descriptions come to mind when I wish to describe the driveway in front of this house, as well as the other one: brutal; depressing; glum; oppressive; uninviting; uncomely; unsightly; drab; disagreeable; homely; unalluring; and the list could go on and on and on.

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The opening pages of the websites of major national newspapers in various parts of the world offer glimpses of what is deemed important to different nationalities around the world. Not only what is important, but how perspectives differ about the same issues. How many of us care about what is important to other people in other places? What proportion of us care whether our viewpoints differ—and why should we care, especially in light of the fact we insist our vantage point is the only one that matters? Wait! Do we really believe that? I am afraid many of us really do. Propaganda is part of our curricula. Revisionist history “proves” inherent superiority; just take a look at the regularly-revised syllabus.

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Which comes first, behavior or belief? Or do they occur at the same time, but in different dimensions? Do ideas spur us to action, or do actions give birth to ideas?  The answers follow the same bread crumbs as those timeless questions: Which came first, the chicken or the octave? Is quinine a better analgesic than distance, or is illumination heavier than Wednesday?

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Low blood pressure and consequent weakness caused me to be a tad off-balance as I stumbled around the doctor’s office yesterday, leading my oncologist to cancel the chemotherapy session before it started.  Instead, she prescribed infusion of a big bag of fluids and advised me to return for more of the same tomorrow—Friday. Apparently, my insufficient water consumption of late had left me dehydrated. And I thought I had been a water-consuming over-achiever.

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Clouds passing quickly overhead darken the bark on tall pine trees. Or perhaps it’s that clouds’ shadows cast on trees are erased when the wind unblocks the sun’s illumination. Perspective. Again. It’s always perspective that takes the blame or shares the responsibility. Those are dangerous thoughts; but, then, all thoughts can be dangerous.

My agenda for a week from tomorrow includes a PET-scan. A follow-up visit with my oncologist, six days later, will clarify the implications of the PET-scan results. Worrying about the possible results has no value, of course, so I will attempt as always to keep my concerns in check. Easier said than done, but worth the effort. Later this morning, I have a chemotherapy session scheduled. I am a living, breathing experiment; a participant in a process to determine the long-term effects of ongoing chemotherapy and the extent to which my mind and body will continue to welcome the infusion of carefully-measured poisons. Last night, mi novia and I discussed my experiences, so far, with chemo. We agreed that my responses have been far less onerous and unpleasant than vast numbers of others, whose bodies respond to chemo with excruciating pain and/or deeply unpleasant emotional roller-coasters. I have been, and continue to be, a lucky man.

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All it takes is a glance. Just a quick peek through the window pane. Even before the image of the world on the other side of the glass registers on my retinae, I can tell. The day is sullen. Surly. Unfriendly. Cold. Unkind. Not overtly hostile, but lacking any sense of kinship or caring. It is the kind of day that amplifies my desire for solitude and makes the protection that accompanies loneliness appealing. This sort of day shapes my mood—muffles my interest in interacting with all but a few people. And makes me wish I could communicate telepathically with those few others. The day and I withdraw from one another; not out of animosity, but simply because seclusion increasingly is comfortable and restorative. On the other hand, spending time alone—with myself as my only companion—elevates my curiosity about how my experience would be different if I could be someone more interesting than I am.

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People familiar with the English language often have ready access to a number of idioms that say essentially the same thing. Those alternative phrases tend to rely on a literary foundation or poetic bent for emphasis. For example, with reference to past thoughts or actions that are no longer important or cannot be changed, the following phrases—among others—can be used or adapted to convey the message:

• • What’s done is done.
  • That ship has sailed.
  • Let bygones be bygones.
  • It’s too late.
  • That’s water over the dam.
  • It’s all in the past.
  • That’s water under the bridge.

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Pressure, both external and internal, may be real or imaginary. Rage and fear are woven into either a biological or psychosomatic fabric (or both) that attempt to keep pressurized contents from bursting their respective containers. Blankets that constrain explosive power.

On February 14, Valentine’s Day, my post here mentioned a shameful eruption of my once-common volcanic anger. My animosity was directed toward someone who did not deserve such fury. Yesterday, I attempted to right the wrong. I drove to his place of business and apologized to him and to his co-worker who was present during my outburst. Both of them graciously accepted my apology, suggesting my behavior was an understandable reaction to circumstances and stress. I did not deserve their compassion, though I appreciated it deeply…or maybe I did, in fact, deserve it, inasmuch as it left me feeling even more embarrassed and ashamed of my earlier inexcusable behavior. Though the incident is behind me, it will stay with me as a reminder that self-loathing is sometimes entirely appropriate.

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As I sit here, working on my second shot of espresso and downing a five and a half ounce can of tomato juice, I glance at the clock. It’s already 10:30 a.m., yet my day is only a touch more than two hours old. Every time I sleep so late, I feel like I’ve discarded an irretrievable stretch of time that could have been put to productive use. Instead of getting the value embedded in that time this morning, I slept. Or I woke and opted to forego motivation and productivity in favor of mindless lethargy. I shift my attention away from my computer monitor for just a moment, only to look again and discover that fifteen minutes have passed. That time, too, is lost to an unknown distraction that lasted only as long as the blink of an eye. A Facebook friend often points out that “you think you have time.” But thinking that is a mistake that, once made, cannot be corrected. Time that was… is no more.

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I wonder, does sentimental value factor into economic theory? How can I measure the worth of a memory; and is it possible—and logical—to compare emotional value to monetary value? Are painful memories more valuable—or less valuable—than positive, happy, restorative memories? Either way, memory borrows from the past. Context determines whether memories are loving embraces or cudgels. Both have value; both have costs.

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Another hour has drifted by. Meanwhile, my mind has wandered in and out of dark, humid caves and bright, dry pastures. And, of course, over bridges and through tunnels. None of those places are real, but they feel real to me. Our perceptions, whether of actual or imagined experiences, define us and our environments. The world around us is what we think it is—an opportunity for enjoyment and adventure or a reason to hide from misery and hardship. We scramble back and forth between places and ideas, each competing with the other and with themselves. That constant competition wears us out, making surrender and stagnation seem to have an appealing glow.

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When I say “pillow,” “sleep” immediately comes to mind. “Suffocation” then follows on its heels.

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A blend of Greek yoghurt, lemon juice, a touch of cumin, a bit of chile powder, and piquant salsa make a satisfying, flavorful dip for corn chips. I believe that to be true. I will test my belief soon, provided the yoghurt has not succumbed to its long, refrigerated imprisonment. I make no predictions; all I can do is hope.

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.