John Swinburn

Nothing matters. Everything is important. Nothing is important. Everything matters. Between the those perspectives—seldom together in the same place at the same time—every question can be honestly answered. Because they are so rarely paired, with neither taking precedence over the other, the wisdom inherent in their simplicity often is hidden in darkness. One illuminates the other by casting a shadow. The other responds in kind, generating a dark swirling kaleidoscope of misunderstanding between two incomplete philosophical foundations. The consequences are ubiquitous; all resulting answers are incomplete. When questions posed are invalid, their answers become rusty saw-toothed scalpels capable of inflicting pain where pain was never meant to be. Pain is the consequence of wisdom dismissed or distorted or ignored. In the absence of wisdom, there is no pain. In the absence of pain, there is no wisdom. There is no absence, though; only pain and wisdom, fraternal twins competing each against their own duality.

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Phaedra woke me very early this morning, her loud meows interrupting a dream in which people and events of the past and present existed together.  She was not hungry; she simply wanted to play. I did not want to play. I fed her anyway. She stopped yowling for a while, but tried to engage with me. I rebuffed her efforts by going to my study and closing the door behind me. I ignored her subsequent pleas for more attention. I had complex, confusing, disturbing philosophical matters to which to attend. I could not attend to them while engaging with her. So, I attended to them. But the outcome of that attention is simply more confusion, more complexity, more disturbing philosophical matters on my mind. While none of my concerns really matter, they are equally unimportant. I am sitting alone in my study, pondering my self-imposed solitude; asking myself the point of this useless exercise in judgmental introspection.

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A brief article I skimmed on Facebook, ostensibly published by people with knowledge of or an interest in quantum theory, claims researchers have determined the universe is not a simulation created by a far-advanced civilization. Good to know, I suppose, but is there a reason I should care? What if all of us…all of THIS…were just ideas? Nothing physical, just concepts set in motion to allow advanced beings to observe the simulation? So, what? Well, I suppose it might be some comfort to know the horrors we witness and in which we participate are just imaginary conditions established for observation for…what purpose?For the purposes of education, entertainment, something else entirely? But if there is no simulation, the questions I have are beyond stupid, aren’t they? Yes, Virginia, there is a simulation, a simulation as real as Santa Claus and Mother Goose, an endeavor as true to reality as dinosaurs roaming planet Earth a mere one thousand years ago.

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Tomorrow afternoon; first radiotherapy appointment for the brain lesion (rescheduled from last week). Ten days of it. I was told the radiation will cause me to lose my hair. I’m contemplating whether to just shave it all off beforehand to avoid the hassle of hair-in-my-soup piece-meal baldness. I know. I’ve already written about the upcoming probable loss of my hair. Apparently, it’s still on my mind. Not a huge deal, really. I’m not crazy about the bald look on me, but it does not make me suicidal. Looking at pictures of me with no hair, though, makes me realize baldness does make me look older. Some people look younger with no hair. Not me. I look older and a bit dim-witted, I think. Like my intelligence was all in my follicles.

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One hard-boiled egg. One clementine (or whatever it is called today). One Ensure. Espresso. Water. Still voraciously hungry…or else I’ve simply whetted my appetite and need to chill for a while to let it settle.

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Thunder and silk seem, to me, the perfect pair. But just for a fraction of a snippet of a tiny piece of a miniscule moment. And, then, it’s all back to lightning and milk.

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Public transportation—whether through mass transit or with individual automobiles—requires support. Investments in infrastructure—like roads, bridges, traffic signals, parking areas, train tracks, commuter rail cars, and on and on—are necessary to develop, operate, and maintain transportation capabilities. Personally, I have always been more supportive of increasing investments in true “public” transportation than in subsidizing the use of private automobiles with new highways and the like. But investing in mass transit without considering (and reacting to) the consequences of both increases and decreases in demand has enormous risks. I doubt I would have said that a few years ago; I would have been adamant that society should invest very, very heavily in mass transit. The problems currently facing the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) system in the San Francisco Bay area have caused me to reconsider the intensity and singularity of my support. The same problems, to a much lesser extent, are plaguing the Dallas Area Rapid Transit (DART) system. Capacity has increased in both systems over the years, dramatically. In recent years, especially since the pandemic, ridership has declined considerably. The ridership revenue expected to pay for operations and maintenance apparently is insufficient; taxpayers (in addition to system users) may be unwilling to make up the shortfall. In that event, systems may be dramatically reduced or discarded. Investments may be lost. Transitions back to individual transportation, when it occurs, may increase pollution, carbon emissions, etc. I still believe strongly in public transportation, but like so many solutions, the shrapnel from silver bullets can be dangerous and deadly. Public transportation should be addressed with both enthusiastic support and with honest assessments of all the possibilities associated with it.

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It did not take long for me to become an appreciative subscriber to The New York Times, once I finally gave in. When I finally took out an online subscription at a deeply discounted rate (designed, I am sure, to lure me in to the habit), I intended only to try it for a few months—it would be too expensive to justify continuing when the regular rates kicked in. But I now pay $30 per month for my online subscription—$360 per year—and I consider it a more-than-reasonable expense for what I get in return. The “news” is important, but the depth of its resources is far greater than just “news.” It is a source for extremely interesting, entertaining, and thought-provoking content. I am not sure why I feel compelled to write a commercial for the NYT this morning. I guess I’m just extremely grateful I went beyond being an occasional consumer of its content to someone who relies on it daily to help keep me thinking, informed, and entertained.

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English is the most widespread spoken language, with roughly 1.5 billion speakers worldwide, including some 372 million native speakers, according to sources like Ethnologue and Babbel. But Mandarin Chinese, with its 1.2 billion speakers has the largest share of native speakers, at about 988 million native speakers. Languages reportedly rounding out the top five (total speakers) are Hindi, Spanish, and (nearly tied with Arabic) French). While English represents the largest number of speakers, a substantial portion of those speakers are non-native, i.e., English represents their second or subsequent language). Spanish is the second-most-common native language, just behind Mandarin Chinese and ahead of English. Whether humankind should expect social and cultural transformations powerful enough to radically change the existing landscape of language is anyone’s guess. Changes of that scope certainly are possible; the question is whether they will occur. Image a two-hundred year timeframe in which technology, commerce, political power, and an array of practical considerations propel linguistic changes toward a new structure of global language usage. Some languages might gather enormous strength and essentially universal use; others might die. Arabic could sprint forward in usage, or the “home” territories of Spanish could expand dramatically. Possibly more likely, though, Mandarin Chinese might see its huge advantage in numbers of native speakers expand to overtake English as the global lingua franca. Ultimately (from my perspective), though, there is nothing intrinsically good, nor bad, about which language(s) are spoken and by whom. It’s just a matter of curiosity. Of course, people tend to gravitate toward the familiar, so there may be linguistic conflicts along the way about what we say and how we say it.

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Something woke me. So here I am. Wondering what to do and why. There are at least two sides to me—probably many more. But the two most distinct are the loner and the poseur; the guy who keeps to himself and the fellow who readily exposes himself (mentally) as loner’s unrelated twin. My decisions and preferences, therefore, are naturally predisposed toward antipathy, conflict, discord, and their opposites. There is little room for the middle road in this…

The world is a very dark, lonely place disguised to look like a carnival midway under periodic attack by armed shooters. Reality is hidden beneath a vibrant mask, crackling with lively sounds, sizzling bright lights, and strewn with every color of the rainbow, and then some. People who refuse to wear their midway makeup are ostracized and targeted for emotional dissection. Yet no one knows who picks the targets. If, in fact, anyone does. Maybe the ugliness, too, is a ruse? Rumors tease and belittle and soothe with the same energy that propels sleep. You remember sleep, don’t you? Ah, but you were younger then, so your memory may not have yet developed. One that superceded it may be gone by now, too, so there’s that…

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“The philosophers and intellectual dreamers have had their day. It’s time for the practitioners and realists have a go at it.”  Maybe that’s the driving foundational concept of today’s far-right conservatism. That is not to say I fully agree with it; yet I think that perspective is the propellant of what is, in my opinion, largely a reaction to perceived dismissal. The more I observe, hear, and read from those practitioners and realists, the better I  think I understand their point of view. For years and years, continuing education beyond high school…college and beyond…have been sold as the stairway to heaven. Implicit, in the promotion of the extreme value of college and professional careers, is the debasement of people who earn by doing, instead of just by thinking. I see that. Whether it is intentional or not, it is what happens. And it should not.  Reacting to that perceived scorn, some (many?) right-leaning people either consciously or unconsciously adopt characteristics or traits that illustrate the contrast between them and the philosophers and intellectual dreamers. One of dozens (or more) of possible contributors to the dark and dangerous divide that exists today in our society. Both ends of the spectrum have considerable value. But both ends also have flaws that can diminish or even destroy the value. Compassion. Empathy. Openness to new ideas. Willingness to admit our mistakes. Prioritization of people over power, politics, and profit.

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The barely audible hum—distant and somewhere far beyond the immediately adjacent cricket-sounds of tinnitus—is more than sound. It accompanies a constant vibration; a physical sensation that for some reason makes me feel tense and anxious.  For the briefest second, when I first felt it, my mind immediately decided it was somehow connected to an authoritarian or alien takeover or invasion. That kind of thought sounds nothing even remotely like me. But it was there. Since it started, I have listened intently in the hope I can determine its source and purpose. I suspect it is not even real, though. I think I hear and feel that dull buzz, but it may be entirely in my imagination. That is more than a little concerning.

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Strike while the iron’s hot. That was my intent yesterday when yesterday afternoon, after being infused with steroids for several days, I had a much-higher-than-usual (lately) level of energy. So, I finally finished tackling the electric smoker, which had been sitting on the back deck for two years, uncleaned and unattended. I scraped the interior of the smoker, removing coatings of dirt, grease, and rust. I scrubbed the smoking cabinet and tested the smoker. Success! Very soon, provided my energy boost lasts long enough, I will smoke a couple of pork tenderloins. Perhaps smoke a burger. And whatever else I can persuade myself to do. I might grill some zucchini, some onions, and a few jalapeños to go with the protein.

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For breakfast, so far: 3 Oreo cookies; 4-5+ Taralli Rosmarino Round Breadsticks with Rosemary, 1 Ensure, espresso, and water. 2000 calories, probably…The breadsticks, alone, must have 1000+ calories.

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I have never regretted being filthy rich, but I would be willing to give it a shot—you know, see what good I could do with it.

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Let your blog readership grow organically, they said. Oh, I see. I think I have been focusing on composting, alone.

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It’s just barely 6:00 a.m. I’ve been out of bed for close to three hours, probably because of the steroids. But I’m tired, anyway, so I may give it another shot.

The “right” combinations of managing both production and consumption could solve many—perhaps most—of the nagging problems facing humankind and every other species on the planet. In both cases, the underlying challenge is the management of human behaviors. I am convinced other animals’ behaviors are generally self-leveling in Nature; if animals eat too much off the land’s riches, subsequent animal visitors either starve or move on. The gluttons either shrink or die. The land recovers. Humans have found ways to overcome the restrictions and corrections imposed by Nature, bypassing the natural leveling that would otherwise take place. Except for the fact that human behavior is so capricious and greed is so prevalent, parity is possible. The rich want more, or at least to stay rich. The poor want enough to escape the horrors of poverty and live in reasonable comfort. Most of the rest skip back and forth between greed and generosity, with a few from all three camps actively seeking equality in all areas. We’re all destined to fail, eventually, because the iron fists necessary to enforce universal equality would resemble an all-powerful benevolent dictatorship that is a slap in the face to collective, self-governing equality. The first time I used marijuana, with a friend when I was still in college, we spent several hours one evening smoking several bongs-worth. Our conversations led to the perfect solution to all the world’s problems; every single one of them using precisely the same approach. Unfortunately, we did not document it and neither of us could recall it later; not even in broad terms. If only my memory had been better, Planet Earth would be a more pleasant, happier, cleaner, more productive, nicer, friendlier, healthier, gentler, and generally better place.

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The radiology plan was not scrubbed, only modified just a tad. My first day of whole-brain radiotherapy with hippocampal avoidance was to be yesterday, but was put off until Monday. The radiology folks had good and valid reasons for the delayed start and I understand entirely. So, I will enjoy a brief reprieve from daily trips into town for a short few days; then, ten treatments over a 10-weekday period. After I begin the radiology treatments, I can expect to lose my hair again (have I already mentioned this?), either entirely or considerably thinner. I am sure I can cope; I did it before.

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Last night, as I was attempting to drift off to sleep, the scope and composition of the universe was on my mind. Again. Lately, I have been preoccupied with thought about just how enormous (or, perhaps, endless) the universe is…and whether there is just one universe, a few, or countless others. If the impossible were possible and we were to travel away from Earth at a speed of 100 billion light years per second, for the equivalent of 100 Earth years…where would we be? In this universe? Another one? Outside? I’ve heard or read or otherwise encountered the idea that there may be “nothing” beyond the limits of the universe.  My tiny brain’s logic cannot fathom “nothing.” Unless, of course, “nothing” as we have come to define it is not a reflection of a reality we can comprehend. Perhaps “nothing” comprises something we have never imagined; not having any material, physical composition; just an incomprehensible stretch without—some other expression that might explain the absence of anything we know.

And the whole issue of “creation.” What? Before “creation,” how do we define what existed? If nothing existed, is it even possible for us to understand such a concept? Perhaps even “beginning” and “ending” are absurd, irrational ideas that we impose on the scope of something we cannot and will never understand—both time and space simply could be imaginary boundaries we place around us to help minimize our immeasurable confusion and ignorance. These things were so much on my mind that I did something I rarely do: I got up, grabbed my cell phone, and send myself a message to remind me to think more about these things today. I’m still thinking.

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After waking for an hour this morning at 4, I returned to bed for awhile at 5; waking almost 3-¹⁄₂ hours later, just an hour before my appointment at the oncology lab. While getting my IV fluids and a couple of injections, another patient experienced a reaction (anaphylactic shock?) to his treatment, exhibiting some stroke-like symptoms. His speech became unintelligible, his lower lip swelled, he vomited, and seemed to be extremely confused. The medical care team converged on him instantly, quickly determining that an ambulance should be called. While that was happening, a member of the team went to get the doctor, who came in; she participated in the treatments and made some decisions, but left the lead nurse in charge as the primary caregiver. I was impressed by the entire team; especially the lead nurse and the doctor, the latter who provided strong but unintrusive leadership. The patient responded quickly, physically, to the medical intervention. He did not want to go to the hospital, but the medical staff and ambulance personnel were firmly but gently insistent that he needed to go for observation, at least, and treatment if necessary to keep him alive. Ultimately, he (and his wife, who was summoned from walking their dog in the parking lot) agreed to go. The ambulance attendants, both rather slight young women (who were obviously stronger than they looked, considering how heavy the guy must be), were impressive, as well.

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It occurred to me that—though not necessarily an epiphany—every time I focus intently on a personal memory, I experience myself as another person. Essentially, I become the person I was at the time the memory was recorded; my present self standing by as a non-participant observer. Assuming this recent perspective/realization to be true, to one extent or another, that means we (I, anyway) have the potential of seeing the world through another’s eyes. Admittedly, this “semi-epiphany” does not necessarily mean I have empathy for others. But maybe I have the capacity to have empathy for myself?

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Theory and practice sometimes collide in spectacular ways. In theory, killing a human being, even one who is mindlessly sending other human beings to slaughter, is immoral. In practice, the same act might well be a supremely moral one, especially under the same conditions. Vengeance, mercy, and justice can overlap in extraordinarily complex ways, making judgments extremely difficult, convoluted, and uncertain.

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It happened to dinosaurs. It happened to passenger pigeons. It happened to the Sicilian wolf. It happened to the Great Auk. The Whooping Crane is still struggling. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (the IUCN Red List), more than 47,000 species presently are threatened with extinction. One million more are likely to be threatened in the coming decades . Scientists estimate that nearly 1 million species face extinction in the coming decades, with rates of loss 1,000 to 10,000 times higher than the natural background rate due to human activities. It can happen to us. And perhaps it should.

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I have not yet heard back to confirm an appointment for my first new radiotherapy treatment, tentatively scheduled for tomorrow.  Assuming it’s on for tomorrow, I’ll not have chemo for the next two weeks. If not…who knows?

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The steroids I am on seem to have caused my cheeks to puff up a bit, so I look a little more like my old, fat, puffed-up self. I noticed that just this morning. That may last for awhile, as I’ll probably be on steroids for a while during and after my treatments with hippocampal avoidance, during whole-brain radiotherapy. All these recent cancer treatments and the terms used to describe them seem increasingly constricting; suffocating. One of the most maddening aspects of it all is that I have no idea whether the treatments truly are lengthening my life or just intruding on the remaining tranquility I might otherwise have had. I know, this is just a mood I’m in. I’ll get over it and will return to my usual only-moderately-grumpy self. But when I’m in this place, I get mad. Mad at myself for having smoked so much of my life (more than half, as it stands) away with cigarettes. Mad that I allowed myself to expose others to the dangers of second-hand smoke. And I get mad at suddenly and with no discernable reason getting weepy over things that do not merit such emotional reactions. And then I realize my problems pale in comparison to so many others; mine are not just “first-world” problems to make fun of; they are “first-person” problems that deserve no more than mockery.

The costs associated with obtaining news and entertainment that are both informative and interesting can be nothing short of prohibitive. But if they were prohibitive, the money would not be spent. Let’s just say, then, the costs are high. The issue then becomes one of value; that is, function divided by cost. Despite my incessant grumbling to the contrary, the money I spend on or contribute to fulfilling the functions I want to fill is, usually, money well spent. That is not to say those functions are necessary; but they are sufficiently desirable for me to ante-up for Netflix, Acorn, NPR, a monthly online subscription to the New York Times, and various other news and entertainment resources. For me, the easiest and most fun information source among the online “news” outlets is the NYT website, which is structured in a magazine style with appealing graphics and sufficient introductory information on the “front page” that links to more depth on additional pages.

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Yesterday, I was outfitted with a custom plastic face mask which will be fitted to me to keep my head in place during each of my upcoming external beam radiation therapy treatments (called stereotactic surgery). During the course of treatment, I can expect to lose some, if not all, of my hair as a result of the radiation. At the very least, I was told to expect it to thin considerably. (I lost my hair for a while during chemotherapy treatments, but it has come back, albeit much, much thinner.) Prior to the mask fitting, I had a brain CT scan. The time on the CT table was excruciatingly painful; my back hurt like hell while I was on that hard steel tray where I was placed. From here on, I will take pain-killers before I go in for treatments in the hope I can avoid more of the same. It’s not the cancer; it’s my f***ing back). If all goes according to plan, my first treatment will take place in a couple of days.

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One of the  first things I did after sitting at my desk this morning was to breeze through the NPR website. Not for news—but for relief, instead. Relief from the onslaught of reminders that our home planet has become a cauldron of ever-more-distressing turmoil and purpose-built misery. The first piece I read was an article entitled “6 Design Tricks to Transform Your Home, According to a Feng Shui Expert,” in the Life Kit section. I will readily admit that I have never placed any confidence in, or much respect for, feng shui, but some of the points the author made “feel” right to me. Reducing clutter, making good use of light to enhance the atmosphere, furniture placement, and other areas the writer mentions made good sense to me. And, then, I looked around my study. Once again, as is too often the case, it is a sea of clutter. The desk, the bookcases, and the cabinets on one side are littered with not-even-close-to-neat stacks of paper, books, knick-knacks, and miscellaneous other intrusions to peace and simplicity. I have allowed my “retreat” to return to its old habits (blaming the place, you see, instead of the occupant), becoming a cramped cell that looks a bit like it was decorated to create at atmosphere of tension and discomfiture. Today being Tuesday, a rare day in that I have no medical appointments or other such obligations, I will spend part of it improving the environment in my own little domain. But I will put no pressure on myself to “finish” the job. I will let the process flow as slowly or as quickly as I like. The idea is for the space to have a calming effect, rather than letting it cause my worries and anxieties spike. I shall see how this early morning intention plays out during the remainder of the day. Oh, I started by lighting a cone of incense to put me in the mood for an easy adjustment to the day.

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There was a time when humans’ modes of “transportation” were essentially limited to walking or floating in a water-craft. Later, our species rode on the backs of animals. And, then, we advanced to riding on wheeled platforms pulled by those animals—like horse-drawn buggies. Since then, humans have sprinted through a dazzling array of means of transportation: cars, buses, trucks, airplanes, jets, rockets, balloons, etc., etc., etc.  No matter what the mode, the function was transportation.  There’s a connection between transportation and communication, by the way, with respect to progression and transformation. I often lament the decline in the number, scope, and quality of newspapers; fretting over the reduction in the depth and intensity of the information they deliver. I am attached to newspapers. I have an emotional attachment to the way they feel and smell—and to seeing their ink on my fingers—when I read them. Like the transition from walking to rocket-based transportation, though, the fundamental replacement of newspapers with other forms of communication is simply an evolutionary process. And, like transportation, the availability of planets and cars and rockets has not eliminated the need for walking; just reduced it.  However, I remain concerned that replacing the aggregation function of newspapers with piece-meal availability of information online may restrict or inhibit exposure to broad areas of education and information. Newspapers jam it all in one easy-to-access place, so one has instant access to an enormous variety of topics; whereas online allows us to bypass the “other” in favor of only that which we want or need (or know we need). Without that consolidated access, I worry that we may allow ourselves to filter the limitless information available online to such an extent that we miss an important side-benefit of reading newspapers. These thoughts bounce around in my head while I contemplate what, if anything, we (humans) should do to maintain the value of newspapers while adapting to the convenience and speed of technologies.

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I still haven’t come close to finishing my book on the subject of Breakfast Around the World (after literally years of agonizingly slow or interminably paused work). That endeavor was shelved, temporarily, with my cancer diagnoses, thanks to breakfast limitations or requirements or adjustments associated with the disease and its treatment. Today, my breakfast consists of: Tomato juice (enhanced with a few drops of Tabasco). Clementine. Ensure. Espresso. Water.  Yesterday, returning from the radiation preparatory process, I had an apple fritter and a sausage klobasnek. I suspect that was an illegal deviation from good, healthy nutrition, but at this stage in my life, I feel well within my rights to eat what I want, when I want. Within reason, of course.

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It’s nearly 7 a.m. Time, perhaps, to stop typing words that ultimately have absolutely no value to anyone, including myself. At least I keep my fingers busy.

Viewing or hearing or touching pieces of art, whether painting, sculpture, writing, and other outcomes of the creative process, can unleash insightful contemplation. Sometimes, musical lyrics or tunes  can summon emotional reactions that can prompt us to ask: why we react as we do and what, specifically, about the art is the trigger? Depending on one’s mental and emotional state of mind and other circumstances, the same piece of art can extract very different perceptions. By exploring, on a purely personal and individual level, how a piece of art is able to provoke contradictory senses, the consumer of art can continue learning about oneself. In that sense, the audience controls the message of art; to a far greater extent than does the artist. Yesterday afternoon, for example, we listened to an online music “station” that offered music by, and similar to, Italian composer and pianist, Ludovico Einaudi. That gentle, relaxing music had a way of reducing the day’s stresses—smoothing the edges of some rough emotions. At other times, the same music can inject into my emotions a softness that is upbeat and vibrant. Paintings can do the same thing—but as I’ve said, it’s not just the artist who controls the message of a piece of art, it’s the context of the recipient of the art. That’s the way I see a piece of the world, at the moment.

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Until quite recently, I thought concerns that Trump would start World War III were overblown and unfounded. It’s simply panic fomented by people who cannot fathom such ghastly behavior actually reaching that horrible outcome—right? Surely, I thought, enough members of Congress will realize what he is doing and will firmly clamp down on him, using the powers readily at their disposal. That will teach me to think. A weak, subservient Congress, a power-hungry sociopathic/psychopathic president, greed beyond measure, and religious fanaticism of every stripe in every direction, have come into an ugly alignment, I am afraid. Together, they oil the skids toward widespread war, economic crash, social collapse, and all sorts of other hideous prospects. Powerful pubic recognition of the very real dangers to Nature at the hands of humankind has diminished. Environmental concerns helped keep economic greed at bay (barely) for a while. But it has waned considerably since.  War and the power and money it generates (or permits to be stolen) are today resurrecting something undefinably ugly in the human spirit. Though Trump has aggressively and vindictively removed many of the barriers to such decay and deterioration, he is not solely to blame. Roughly half the voting population of the U.S. is equally responsible. And much of the rest of world is joining the madness. There is so much more to be said and done. But I fear nothing but a welling-up and release of unstoppable rage is the only possible avenue of avoidance.

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Update on Medical Matters

The upshot of the hospital and post-hospital tests last week is this: the scans confirmed a one-inch circular lesion on the right precipital lobe of my brain. The consensus of the doctors was that the lesion was likely to indicate metastasis and should be addressed radiologically. After consulting with a radiology oncologist about the procedure, we chose to address the issue with a procedure called hippocampal avoidance, during whole-brain radiotherapy. That will involve pre-procedure creation of a face-mask to hold my head firmly in place during 10 radiotherapy sessions (2 next week, 5 the week after, and 3 the next). In addition, I will be on a drug called (I think) memantine for 5 months. So, a new defense begins today, against a new assault by the second cousin of the original attacker: lung cancer, diagnosed roughly 7 years and 3 months ago. During the first almost-five years following chemotherapy and radiation treatment treatment, it was in remission. But it returned and I have been undergoing chemotherapy for most of the time sense, plus a bit more radiation treatment. And here I go again. I am extremely grateful that I have wonderful friends and family for support if, and almost certainly will, I need it. My cancer is a terminal diagnosis, but the timing of how long it plays out is entirely unknown. I am proceeding under the theory that, for the moment, cancer will not be the one to take me out. Instead, I assume the natural decay of aging finally will get me before cancer can. My hope is to last for several years, rather than just weeks or months. Of course, the matters I mentioned in the section above may have a lot to do with that.

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Waking in darkness, which is how I want to wake each morning (and how one should wake each day), allows me to collect the energy I saved during sleep. Finally, with the return to Daylight Saving Time, I may be able to return to my habit of waking in darkness. (I have mixed feelings about the change in the way we manipulate time, though.) That energy enables me to begin thinking afresh—either about the contents of my own world or about others’ ideas and philosophies. Or both. In fact, of course, others’ thoughts often spur my own or provide opportunities to adapt mine to the wider world. This morning, the quotation extracted from his essay, “A New Refutation of Time,” by Jorge Luis Borges was one of several triggers. The Borges extract I read was included in The Marginalian’s weekly digest, published by Maria Popova: “Time is a river that sweeps me along, but I am a river…Time is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire.” These words give me much to ponder; time—a precious concept—fascinates me. As I’ve said before, I am enamored with the ideas contained in the Lebanese Arabic word: Soubhiyé, “the whisper of dawn, when the house is still in slumber, allowing one to savor the stillness before the day begins.” That word describes to me peace, tranquility, and a sense of comfort with the world as it is…at least for a time.

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Now, after just having asserted that waking in darkness enables me to think afresh, my brain has decided to contest that contention. At the moment, I have a thousand things on my mind, but they all seem cloudy; indistinct. One thought slides into another, blurring the first one, then drifts into yet another. None of them reach any conclusions or destinations before they spin off in another direction, taking my focus with them. For some reason, an analogy comes to mind: it’s like trying to count the contents of a jar of coins while listening to someone else count backward from 2021, but skipping every third number.

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The first shot of expresso this morning was nothing short of awful. Something must have gone wrong during the short brew cycle. Either that or a long-dead mouse was somehow mixed in with the grounds.  So, my next step is to try again, this time without the mouse. Because my potassium levels have been bouncing around (too high, mostly), I should reduce its intake, so so bananas for me for the moment. Instead, a baby-sized cup of apple sauce had to suffice. And a baby can of tomato juice. I’m thinking about the possibility of taking a road trip to the donut place that has spectacular apple fritters to supplement the sauce. Or maybe a jalapeño klobasnek (AKA kolache). But, since I’ve already eaten, could that be considered gluttony? My weight has skyrocketed from its low near 140 pounds to something in the neighborhood of 160. This cannot continue, at least not the point that it reaches the unpleasant point at which I cannot look down and see my feet.

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Tonight’s the night to Spring forward. In yet another attempt to control Nature’s affects on us, we pretend to control time. Every Spring and Fall, we artificially lose an hour or gain an hour in defiance of the natural order. When both adjustments are made for the year, we have nothing to show for them—no net loss, no net gain—just a feeble effort to exercise control over something about which have none.

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In my most recent post, I wrote “Shadows coexist alongside the light that creates them.” Since writing that, though, I have reconsidered what I said. Perhaps, instead, I should have said “Obstacles to light create the darkness of shadows, which coexist with both.”  Regardless of which statement is closer to reality, I stand by another assertion I made: “We cannot expect light to fill all darkness.” These kinds of competing thoughts or perspectives fascinate me. Freed from the limitations of physics and physical reality, the mind can do somersaults and back-flips. But absent the incorporation of adequate amounts of reality, those gymnastics can lead to dangerous breaks, both mental and physical.

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Last night’s storms were loud;  shook the house and filled it with brilliant blue flashes of light with every crack of thunder. If I go outside this morning (or the rest of the day, for that matter), I will wear clothes that are not warming enough to keep the little bit of chill in the air off of me. But they will be too warming for real comfort. Clothes in my closet are not able to meet me at that midway point between hot and cold. Such clothes do not exist, in fact. Perhaps I will buy a loom to weave a new fabric. It will combine magic threads that act symbiotically with one another to adjust to one’s preferred temperature preferences. And it will automatically adjust as appropriate to account for relative humidity, amount of sunlight, mood, and phase of the moon.

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This time around, my brief hospital stay was not quite as confining as in the past, inasmuch as I was not tethered to wires and tubes that shackled me to my bed. Needle jabs and frequent intrusive visits by people paid to torment me detracted from my relative freedom, but as always the irritations and inconveniences were tolerable. The hospital stay was largely “for observation,” which included a CT scan, an MRI, and short conversations with a swarm of doctors, nurses, and technicians. I’m home now and feeling all right. The usual string of follow-up appointments, scans, etc., etc. begin again Monday.

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The acceptance of death gives you more of a stake in life, in living life happily, as it should be lived. Living for the moment.

~ Sting ~

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And thus pauses my thought-frenzy for the moment…

Unexpected circumstances or communications can derail one’s mood, redirecting it for better or worse. Or, in some cases, both. For example, I was feeling positive, looking forward to a regularly scheduled wine dinner with friends tonight, followed by an afternoon meet-up another a friend tomorrow, when an unexpected ambulance trip to the ER yesterday morning intervened. The hospital visit erased those happy experiences from my calendar;  they both will happen eventually, just not as scheduled. A message and its attachment, though, softened the disappointment by calling my attention to insightful perspectives about filling the voids between emptiness and fulfillment. But even when the changes wrought to replace emptiness are positive, they can drag negativity along. Yet… We cannot expect light to fill all darkness.  Shadows coexist alongside the light that creates them.

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Travel-plans for scenic routes go awry in the face of detours—detours that lead down unpaved paths littered with potholes, nails, and carjackers. When the passenger is left at the gas station after a stop to re-set the “check-engine’ light,  he is at the mercy of attendants. Especially when the attendants might be better prepared to change the oil or vacuum the vehicle’s interior. Things can get particularly dicey when the “gas station” turns out to be a dentist’s office and the “attendants” are dental hygienists.

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Strings and wires may look alike, but their relative degrees of rigidity, among other attributes, set them apart. Wrapping a string around a wire, while not necessarily easy, is not as difficult as wrapping a wire around a string.

Acorns, scorn, and crayons are a lot alike, but in different ways.

Flames can be beautiful, but they can transform beauty into hideous ash, as well. Governments can replace chaos with structure, but they also can convert structure into compartments;  compartments into cubicles; cubicles into cells; and cells into cages. Nature can replace caterpillars with butterflies…if we let it happen. That’s transfiguration. Metamorphosis, too.

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The death of school children in the recently-launched aggression against Iran echoes some of the circumstances and the emotional chaos portrayed in the Netflix television series Homeland, which we recently began watching (I watched it, or at least some of it, before, when it was originally released, in 2011 through 2020). It’s not just the killing of the school children that seems eerily omniscient or predictive; the paranoia that feeds much of the series’ energy is like the paranoia that is so evident in U.S. society today. I strongly suspect that today’s reality, if presented without any “spin” in either direction, would reveal the fundamental decency of people on both sides of the philosophical and physical battles between the warring cultures. Similarly, that “spin-free” presentation would unveil the core cruelties and the reliance on lies that unnecessarily fuel the conflicts. Neither “we” nor “they” are free of blame or guilt, but neither can legitimately be said to be solely to blame, either. But religion of every stripe is too deeply involved, across the board, to be absolved of responsibility. Religion and bigotry, I think, plant the seeds, nurture their growth, and then pour gasoline over the crops…both their own and their neighbors’.

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Last night, I learned a friend—who recently underwent a hysterectomy for removal of a large abdominal mass—was told her excised tumor is malignant. She is scheduled soon to begin a 3 to 6 round series of treatments with chemotherapy, aimed at eliminating or at least controlling her clear cell carcinoma, which is a a rare and often aggressive type of cancer. Everywhere I turn lately, it seems, someone in my social or familial circle is suddenly forced to deal with some form or expression of cancer. The person with the diagnosis is not the only one to suffer through the experience, of course. Family members, friends, caregivers, and countless others, too, find themselves in a difficult and demanding confrontation with a cruel and complex enemy that floods their lives with challenges no one can be adequately prepared to face. Cancer is not the only such beast, of course. Any serious physical or mental illness or injury has the same capacity to upend lives and wreak havoc on undeserving victims…both participants and bystanders.

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I heard from another friend last night, who offered a book recommendation: Breaking Clean, a series of autobiographical essays by Judy Blunt, a writer with roots in Montana. Though I have not yet read Blunt’s work, the little I have read about her this morning brings to mind another writer with some background in the same part of the country, Annie Proulx, author of The Shipping News and several other fiction works I like very much. Proulx, born in Connecticut, also wrote Close Range: Wyoming Stories, Accordion Crimes, Postcards, and several other novels and collections of short stories I appreciate. The two writers are very different in some ways, but they make me think they could be the same person—just configured in slightly (or completely) different ways to fit their unique contexts. The recommendation of Blunt’s book was made, my friend said, because she thought “…you would appreciate it as much as I do. Not for the plot (it’s non-fiction) or the story. But for the writing.” I find such a recommendation especially compelling.

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It’s not the actions…we do not fear the actions; their consequences create the fear. The potential outcome of the actions cause the distress. That is, our anticipation of what might follow the action, if it is taken, is what disturbs us. Conversely, we might have greater fear of the consequences of inaction. What might happen if we do not act? Perhaps someone else will, instead. But perhaps not. What consequences can we expect if we act? What might we expect if we don’t? If we wait for—or ask—someone else to act, will their actions result in the same consequence that our actions would yield? And if their actions are not those we would have taken? Or if they opt not to act, instead? To revolt or not to revolt? To resist or to endorse? To tolerate or to reject?

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The man standing on the bridge is clutching a detonator in his left hand. If he compresses his thumb on the detonator’s button, the bridge will explode, sending ten busloads full of kindergartners to their deaths on the jagged rocks one hundred feet below. A skilled negotiator might be able to convince the man to surrender, thus saving the kids’ lives. But you are not that skilled negotiator. In fact, in tense situations such as this, you tend to become paralyzed with fear. Your options are limited. 1) You can wait for the arrival of a skilled negotiator, who is just five minutes away, in the hope she will arrive in time to talk the man out of triggering the explosion—but there is no guarantee she will get there in time, and no guarantee she will be successful, even if she does. 2) You can use the rifle in your hands—aimed at the man—to eliminate his ability to blow up the bridge…but if you do, the shot will not only kill the potential bomber, it will cause one of the busloads of children to careen off the bridge, killing every child on the bus—saving all the others. Or, 3) you can wave your hands to get the bomber’s attention, which will cause him to raise his right hand, which is holding a pistol, and fire at shot at you. The jolt of that shot will knock him off balance, sending him off the bridge to his death on the rocks. You, though, will be hit by his bullet and will die within a few minutes—but all the children on all the buses will be saved by your sacrifice. Quick! Decide! Which option will you choose?

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Am I a butterfly or a buffalo? An icepick or a feather? Cupcake or kudzu? We know how complex we are, yet we attempt to classify ourselves and others in overly simple and often contradictory or utterly absurd ways. Hard or soft. Smart or stupid. Good or bad. We compare apples to oranges, when we should instead be contrasting architecture with brevity or dogs with toasters. The fact that Hitler followed a largely vegetarian diet in his latter years competes with the reality that he was a bloodthirsty authoritarian monster. Trump’s unhealthy diet of KFC and McDonald’s fast-food (washed down by Diet Coke) contrasts with his somewhat healthier habits of avoiding alcoholic beverages and getting plenty of sunshine on the golf-course. The DNA of authoritarians may well be less a mosaic and more a stark, homogenous conglomeration of smudged beige. But I digress. Those among us who really are simple, one-dimensional, dull, and hideously dangerous are conspicuous in a kaleidoscopic field of energy and color and appealing contradictions.

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It’s far too early for a margarita, but that does nothing to cramp my craving for one—freshly-made from scratch, using the highest quality ingredients and accompanying a bowl of perfect guacamole ‘salad’ (precisely ripe avocadoes, fresh lime juice, finely-diced jalapeños, finely-diced onions, and salt) with still-warm totopos. The last ‘real’ margarita I drank was served at Taco Mama in Hot Springs. Margaritas made from mixes are only barely tolerable; almost undrinkable. I seem to be losing my taste for many other alcohol-based beverages; even good whiskey no longer has the appeal it once did. And some wines I used to like quite a lot now have a somewhat odd flavor that makes a single glass seem like waaay more than enough. Single malt Scotch is not longer as delightful as it used to be. I suppose chemotherapy has done something inappropriate to my taste buds. Or maybe it’s just the cancer doing its thing. I may check to see whether we have triple sec. If so, I may make margaritas this evening. I’ll need plenty of limes. I have plenty of tequila and coarse salt. I shouldn’t be drinking the stuff, I imagine, but I will disregard any admonitions to that effect in favor of pleasure-seeking and the laughter that seems to be in good supply in the presence of tequila.  It’s only 8:30 a.m., though. My tequila craving cannot be quenched for HOURS yet… 🙁

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Wars arise from the minds of people whose brain-spurs cause the rest of us to suffer. I think it’s say past time to perform a pre-emptive lobotomy…actually, a whole series of them.

I was confronted with an assertion I found troubling, but possible; likely, in fact. The purpose of wakefulness is to provide fodder for our dreams. Reality exists only in unconsciousness. Sleep is actuality. Our imagination takes us to the only place that is real. A diet of unalterable facts leads us to an artificial existence that can never be more than pretense. Awareness is endless emptiness; vapor so dense it flows like frozen light.

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Yesterday, I stumbled on an article on Facebook that differentiated between so-called (and self-styled) “Christian Nationalists” and people who adhere to more traditional Christian values and who claim to more closely follow the real teaching of Jesus. The comments that responded to the article (and to other comments) were far longer than the article itself. And they seemed to me to be more firmly grounded in the teachings of the Bible than did comments by the nationalists (admittedly, though, I am thoroughly unqualified to judge the degree to which a statement reflects the “real” messages that book contains). Both the traditionalist commenters and the nationalist respondents often justified their positions with references to interpretations of passages in the Bible. They insisted their understanding was based on the “truth” contained in the Bible—their interpretation of the “truth,” anyway. Some of the other commenters, though, were outliers; they identified either as atheists or agnostics who dismissed both traditionalists and nationalists as misguided or delusional. They did not necessarily dispute the “morality” of either group; only the claims that moral positions are valid only to the extent that those positions conform to their individual interpretations of the Bible. And, yes, of course, many of the disagreements between them were based on the proposition that the source of all morality is the Bible; though, some claim other religious texts (e.g.,  Quran,  Torah, et., etc., are equally valid. Only a few comments, as I recall, suggested morals are essentially social contracts crafted to reflect and conform to rules that may differ—in some cases, dramatically—between societies. That is to say rules, and the morals that drive them, are contextual. From that vantage point, abortion is perfectly acceptable. Or it is not. And, from that perspective, homosexuality is an abomination. Or it is not. And killing another human being is permissible—in certain contexts. In others, it is strictly forbidden, regardless of the circumstances. In other words, right and wrong is situational. Our definitions of right and wrong are parochial. So, therefore, are our religions. As are our morals. Our beliefs. Our ways of viewing the world. Certainty is an admission of hypocrisy. Doubt is a willingness to attempt to fully comprehend everything that cannot be universally understood.

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Bewilderment steps with an endless stride.

Long ago, I stopped assigning subject categories to my blog posts. I now wish I had not quit doing that, because I can no longer sort posts by subjects. The ability to collect posts according to topics/subjects was useful when I wanted to explore how my thoughts about certain topics changed over time. This post, for example, might have joined many others assigned to the category I called ‘Dreams.’ It would have shared other categories with earlier posts, as well. ‘Life.’ ‘Death.’ ‘Religion.’ ‘Science.’ That is why I stopped, I suppose; Too many topics with too little ‘meat.’

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The Jerusalem Post reports that the U.S. and Israel have dropped 1200 bombs. The same newspaper give Israel the credit/blame for killing Ayatollah Ali Khamenei in an air strike. It also reports that the Iranian Labor News Agency says former Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was killed in a U.S./Israeli strike on his home in Narnak, northeast Tehran. The same U.S. president who said, not long ago, that Iran’s nuclear capabilities had been ‘obliterated’ in 2025 by U.S. strikes launched another round of ‘pre-emptive’ attacks on the country. This is the same guy who claims to have ‘ended’ eight wars and who, in January this year, announced the formation of the Board of Peace, after his pleas to be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize (and who labeled himself the Peace President) went unrewarded. His actions suggest he is either a hypocrite (…you think?…) or is inviting (and might be a cheerleader for) a retaliatory response from Iran and its allies.

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The very idea of death seems to me just as impossible as the idea of life. Efforts to comprehend either of them are futile; mental energy spent on preposterous, unattainable, absurd, unthinkable, endeavors. Can life simply “end?” Religion tries (unsuccessfully, in my book) to treat life and death as mere transitions, one to the other and vice versa. Science, too, attempts to identify what constitutes life and death. Neither religion nor science offer answers satisfactory to me. That suggests, to me, that reliable answers cannot be found; or that the searches are occurring in the wrong places, or with the wrong tools. Or, perhaps, the unfulfilling answers are based on asking the wrong questions. If not wrong, then perhaps the questions science and religion ask are irrelevant.

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A bizarre dream, to say the least, inhabited my head last night and this morning. In it, I went out the back door of my house (a place I’ve never lived…nor been) very early one morning. I noticed standing water and freshly-overturned earth from  a trench which had been dug near the hose bib protruding from the wall. Concerned about the source of the water, I approached the faucet, which I discovered was leaking profusely. Just then, I saw two children, who lived next door, in the back yard of the adjacent house. I asked whether they had seen or heard anyone who might be responsible for digging the trench. They responded that some men had come during the previous to begin installing a swimming pool. Their parents, who were away on vacation, the children said, had forgotten to tell me about the project; but they had asked the kids to ask me to deal with the pool installation in their absence. As the lunacy of the request sunk in, four men appeared, carrying stacks of paperwork they said contained details of the project.

Somehow, the scope of the project had changed, though. The men said they had given my neighbors an extremely low-priced bid, but only if a contract for the project was signed and the required down-payment was paid in full immediately. Additional conversation revealed the scope of the job had changed again; the pool was to be installed in my backyard, not my neighbors’. I went back inside my house, where my late wife was waiting, to get my phone; I wanted to call my vacationing neighbors. My next memory of the dream involved the arrival of several members of the board of a local association chapter client. The client was willing to supply the funds for the project, but I was concerned the entire story was a scam. Even the four men representing the pool company warned me to conduct due diligence…just for my protection. But I was suspicious the men’s advice/warning was part of the scam.

The dream was much more involved, but I do not recall enough detail to make any sense of it. Even the parts I can recall were non-sequential and irrational. Somewhere in the dream I was furious with my late wife for her actions or inactions…I do not know which. And I got into an argument with my sister, who took my wife’s side on the matter of action or inaction. The rest of the dream is just as confusing and nonsensical. Whatever took place is beyond my ability to remember, but it must have been extremely tense and disturbing. I woke cold and drenched in sweat.

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What a terrible era in which the idiots govern the blind.

~ William Shakespeare ~

Can I withdraw from an ugly world, a world outfitted with animosity and cruelty, hidden behind a mask of fictitious empathy? Can a refusal to participate in this despicable theatre serve as a stern assertion—that suffocating the innocent beneath a blanket of the ashes of human decency and compassion is inexcusable and a miserable deviation from kindness and tolerance? Or is my desire for withdrawal just another complaint, an  empty repetitive whine that places me behind the same mask that hides insensitivity and apathy?

It is widely said that Mahatma Ghandhi said “Be the change you want to see in the world,” though that sentence is probably a paraphrase of Gandhi’s philosophical admonitions and his teachings, rather than a direct quote. Ghandi did not advocate withdrawing from an intractable world. But by suggesting that we should “be the change,” he implies that change is possible, one citizen of the world at a time. I think he saw a different world, not one in which citizenship is used as a cruel cudgel of control. Only when I feel vestiges of hope do I dare to think I can “be the change.” Otherwise, I can admit only to wishing fairy tales were based on reality.

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A blind and aggressive nation follows its flaws as if they were directives from the divine. We either watch and weep or sacrifice in the name of salvation.

Crickets making artificial cricket noise. Crickets all around me. Crickets in the walls. Crickets in the ceiling. Crickets beneath my feet. Crickets inside my head. Crickets that seem deaf to stern warnings. Crickets unwilling to refrain from making the sounds crickets make. Crickets making a devious plan. Crickets immune to thought-cast poison. Crickets behaving as if they think belong…no matter where they are. Miserable little crickets grabbing pieces of my patience in their tiny little vice-like cricket jaws. Crickets doing all they can, in their wicked cricket power, to destroy any semblance of tranquility. Crickets doing all they can to shatter the tattered fabric of what’s left of my peace of mind.

Evil little bastard crickets attempting to drive me out of my mind.  Crickets, the spawn of Satan, making significant progress toward their objectives. Perhaps I should allow birds and reptiles, spiders and mice, other predatory beasts with a hunger for cricket flesh, into my house. Or maybe I should start bathing in insecticide. I may need to begin drinking Round-Up. I may become a living, breathing, laser-focused cricket hunter, bent on murdering crickets and silencing the other deviant criminal noisemakers that refuse to let me hear only the beautiful sounds of silence.

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My misgivings about keeping yesterday’s PET-scan appointment notwithstanding, I went through the procedure yesterday. A hard metal table, even covered with fabric, is uncomfortable; when one’s back takes umbrage at what feels like an instrument of torment, a half-hour period seems more like torture intended to break one’s spirit and elicit screams of agony. I did not scream, though. That would have been inappropriate in a context of medical “treatments and tests.” The results, which were available on my patient portal less than an hour after the procedure, did not strike me as extremely bad, but they were not what I would consider good, either. I may go to my oncologist’s office today for an IV fluid infusion (they called yesterday afternoon to ask if I would like to come in today to for an infusion and to have the oncologist explain the results; or wait until my scheduled appointment, next Wednesday). I told them I would wait. But I might change my mind (they said I could…just drop by). As much as I’d rather sleep, I might go and learn that the results,  delivered by my oncologist personally, are a bit more uplifting. Or I could be devastated to hear that the increases in “lesion” size and their SUV (standard uptake values) are nothing to celebrate. We’ll see.

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Thinking can be a disagreeing activity; one that creates more stress than it relieves. For that reason, the introduction of a device or a medication that would enable a person to shut off all brain functions (except for those necessary for life…e.g., breathing, blood flowing, etc.) would be a truly wonderful thing. You think?