John Swinburn

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 One that superceded it may be gone by now, too, so there’s that…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?

Once again, my oncologist decided against administering chemo treatment, based in part on a low blood pressure measurement and my ongoing and worsening congestion. She prescribed an antibiotic and steroids and said she agreed with our plan to go to the urgent-care clinic in the same unit, which we did. The noises in my ears…the sounds that only I can hear…with every inhalation…continue. I took my first doses of the prescribed pills this morning, despite not following the advice to eat breakfast. My preparation for this morning’s PET-scan included skipping any foods or liquids (except water) until after the scan. For some reason, I decided the advice not to eat or drink before the scan should supercede the recommendation to eat before taking the new prescriptions (the advice to eat was made because the new meds can cause gastrointestinal upset). I probably should have asked one of the medical professionals to weigh in on which competing advice I should follow; it’s a bit late now, though.

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This morning’s distressing dream involved trying to find my room in a terribly confusing hotel. The confusion was exacerbated by elevator banks that added to the confusion. And the reason for my presence in the ghastly complex hotel involved a client association whose policies about registration refunds were irrational, at best. The rest of the dream was fuzzy…in its clearest moments.

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I lack the energy and inclination to shower before I leave for my PET-scan. I need to leave in less than thirty minutes, but all my motivation is directing me to return to bed for the few minutes available to me for a tad more sleep. I have never skipped a PET-scan or CT-scan before, but I’m leaning toward making today a first.  The day looks and feels dull and cold. It’s the sort of day designed specifically to make confronting the world’s demands almost impossible. Ach. Warmth and sleep call out to me. But the chilly fingers of reality reach around my neck and squeeze in reply.

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.